Murder Notes (Lilah Love 1)

Beth glances up at me, her stare blank a moment, her attention clearly still on the crime scene, until recognition and awareness flood her face. “Lilah Love,” she says, her lips curving. “FBI agent by day. Stripper by night.”

I laugh at her use of my familiar, combative reply to those who love to taunt me as I squat down to her eye level. “Beth Smith,” I say. “Newly crowned medical examiner by day, and—”

“Alone by night,” she supplies. “Playing with dead bodies isn’t a great way to get dates. And in answer to your question: no tattoos—at least, none that I’ve located thus far.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Why are you in on this one? What don’t I know?”

“I’ll let you know when I know,” I say, reminded of Director Murphy pushing me to take that chopper and get here sooner rather than later, which leads me to a critical question. “What’s the time of death?”

“I’m officially marking it down as six o’clock, which is three hours ago.”

“Broad daylight,” I note. “Any signs of a struggle?”

“None,” she states. “The kill was clean and fast.” She indicates the bullet hole between the victim’s eyes. “One bullet. One moment in time that she was alive, and the next, she simply was not.”

“Was she naked when she was killed or stripped afterward?”

“Based on the condition and position of the body, before,” she says.

“Did we locate her clothes?”

“My understanding is that Sergeant Rivera is looking for them.”

“Eddie Rivera?” I question, wishing like hell I didn’t have to. “He’s a sergeant now?”

“And reminding us daily for about three months now.”

“Of course he is,” I say dryly. “And he’s leading this case?”

“Yes. He is.”

At the sound of the familiar male voice, I clamp my jaw, turn on my heel, and stand to face the man in question, his brown hair buzzed short. His brown suit is well pressed, a symptom of his anal-retentive disorder that, while effective on duty, makes him a pompous pain in the ass the rest of the time. “Congrats on your promotion to sergeant,” I greet him. “I’d be happy for you, but you were an arrogant ass before the promotion. You must be an unbearable arrogant ass now.”

“I am,” he agrees, his blue eyes lighting in challenge, the way they often had at the many family dinners he’d attended at my father’s request. “But you like arrogant asses, so I’m in luck.”

“Right,” I say dryly, and because I’ve learned not to pull punches, I throw one instead. “Good to see your opinion of yourself hasn’t suffered over the years.” And having no desire to play verbal dominoes with a man who has always had a sick desire to both fuck me and become the second son my father never had, I move on. “Did you find our victim’s clothes?”

His lips tighten. “Why is the FBI on my crime scene, asking questions?”

Because we’re about to take jurisdiction, asshole, I think, but I say, “Ask the chief. He requested my presence. Did we find the clothes?”

“No.”

“Have we ID’d the victim?”

“Her name is Cynthia Wright. Twenty-eight. A lawyer who leased the property six months ago and works for her landlord.”

“Kane Mendez,” I say.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Kane Mendez.”

“Excuse me,” an officer calls from the doorway, drawing both my and Rivera’s attention before adding, “Kane Mendez is here to see you.”

At the announcement, adrenaline surges through me.

“I’m sure he is,” says Rivera. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Sorry, Sergeant. It’s Agent Love he wishes to speak to.”

Rivera raises a brow at me. “He wants to speak to you. Why does that not surprise me?”

“I’m sure there’s not much that surprises you,” I reply dryly, keeping a cool exterior while my heart is about to explode from my chest. “Is there anything I need to know before I speak to him?”

“Don’t fuck him and compromise my case, or I’ll have your badge.” He turns and walks away.

God, how I love being back home, but hey. Maybe I should change my strategy. Instead of waiting until tomorrow for the happy reunions, I’ll kick over the entire bucket tonight. I head for the door and exit into an ocean-chilled wind that is now just as chilly as this meeting will be if I do my job right. I start down the steps and make it to the sidewalk when Shirley steps to my side, matching my pace. “Why are you beside me, Officer Rogers, in my personal space?”

“The chief said—”

I stop walking and turn to him. “My brother said,” I amend.

“He’s my boss, Agent Love. I’m just doing what I’ve been ordered to do.”

“Which is what exactly?”

His face reddens and irritation rolls through me, but not at him. At me. I know his orders without being told. I’m stalling, avoiding, hiding from Kane-fucking-Mendez. Officer Rogers mumbles something to me, and I tune it out, clamping down on the rush of adrenaline pouring through me and willing myself to calm the hell down. I start moving again.

Officer Rogers is slow to join me, but I give him credit for having the balls to stay the course despite my obvious displeasure. He does have orders. He does have a job to do. Just like I have a foot to insert in an ass that rightfully should be my brother’s, not his. There is good news to this little distraction I’ve created, though. I’ve kicked my own ass in the process, finding my zone and readying myself for the cat-and-mouse game Kane Mendez will try. And I won’t be the damn cat if he has his way.

Nearing the end of the sidewalk, I glance at Officer Rogers. “Where’s Mendez?”

“Parked on the road across from your car.”

“Stay here,” I order and don’t wait for his compliance. I start walking and to his credit, he has the common sense to listen. He stays behind the way common sense says I should have fought to stay in Los Angeles and even welcome Rivera pushing me aside. But there are too many links between me, a secret I need to ensure stays buried, and these murders for me to ignore. And one of those links is Kane Mendez.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ready to get this homecoming with Kane behind me, I follow a line of four vehicles in my path, mine being the fifth. I cut between my front bumper and the rear of a pickup, and I stop dead in my tracks when I bring Kane into view. As expected, he’s parked his sporty black Mercedes on the opposite side of the road, across from my rental, letting me know that he knows it’s mine. He doesn’t see me, and I watch him, assess him, and take in the sight of him in his suit, gray and custom-fitted to his long, leanly muscled body. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and he has one foot over the other. Cool. Casual. Seemingly relaxed, but there is an air of a predator to him—a beast waiting for dinner, waiting for me. Or so he thinks. It’s my job to make sure he knows dinner is not served.

His attention shifts in my direction as if he senses me watching him, and that’s when I feel the punch in my chest, the familiar awareness for this man that I don’t want to feel. Emotions explode inside me, ones that I refuse to name and fiercely reject. He’s a tall drink of poison that I’ve already swallowed and felt the repercussions from. I’m not stupid enough to take another drink. And me standing here, staring at him, is a blink he could read in a million ways that I can’t afford for him to read.

I start walking, and his eyes, which I know to be intelligent and so dark brown they are nearly black, track my every step. He’s watching me the way he’s always watched me, the way he watches everyone. Like they’re all that matters. Like he cares about nothing else. It’s the way he seduces people. It’s the way he destroys people, but everyone who destroys eventually gets destroyed, as proven by the murder of his father. I don’t walk quickly. I walk slowly, steadily, and completely calculated. I don’t let myself feel anything. Finally, then, I stop in front of him, close enough to say I’m fearless, but far enough to stay out of his reach, to ensure he doesn

’t touch me.

I expect him to push off the vehicle, to tower over me and attempt to intimidate me, but he doesn’t. “Agent Love,” he greets me, his voice refined, the smallest hint of an accent to his words. “Still in the murder business, I see.”

“I hear the same might be true of you.”

“If you’re inferring that I’m my father’s son,” he says, “you of all people know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’m not him any more than you are your father.”

“Why are you here, Kane?”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Because your tenant, and employee, is dead,” I state.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

He’s here for me. I pretend he’s not. “What can you tell me about—”

“Nothing,” he says. “I don’t know her. My leasing agent handles my property management.”

“She’s an attorney at your company.”

“Who I’ve never met.”

“You know I’ll find out if you’re lying.”

His lips quirk. “Of course you will, Agent Love, but I have never lied to you. I’m not going to start now.”

“You just don’t tell me what you don’t want me to know.” It’s a reference to the past, to my secret, our secret, that’s out before I can stop it, and I swallow the dryness in my throat.

He knows it, too, of course, and his eyes narrow, darkening. “Ask a question if you want an answer, Lilah.”

Lilah. Not Agent Love, but Lilah. And again, here we are talking about the past, not the present, and it has to stop. Now. This moment. “How did you know to come here tonight?”

“How did I know you were here or how did I know there was a murder?”

“Both.”

“The police contacted my real estate agent, who called me about the murder,” he says. “And I always know where you are.”

“That’s fucking creepy, Kane.”

“Creepy?” He laughs. “You do have a way with words, Lilah.” He pauses, his mood shifting, darkening, something in his face I can’t quite read before he says, “This is where you belong, Lilah Love. You’ve been gone too long.”

“This is not where I belong.”