“When was that?”
“Three years ago,” he says. “That’s when Kevin managed to land a job for a Hollywood type, and the business took off from there.”
“What does Hollywood type mean?”
“Keith Miller.”
A powerful film director who worked with my mother. “Where does Keith Miller own property?”
His fingers click on the keyboard. “LA, Southampton, and New York City. But hold on.” More clicking of the keyboard before he says, “Woods has had five Hollywood-type clients in the past five years. Two with homes in the Hamptons and Los Angeles. Three with places in New York City and LA. They all have a link to both states.”
“And the locations of similar murders,” I state, any hope that Miller is my singular connection now gone. “I need—”
“A full list of everyone in the Hamptons with that crossover. You told me.”
“I actually think I e-mailed it to you.”
“All right, smart-ass. Whatever the case. It’s a big list. You need information. I need time.”
“Fine,” I concede. “What about Woods’s arrest last year sometime?”
“There’s no record of an arrest.”
“Huh. Dig deeper on that.” I move on. “I need to know if the newest victim connects to any of the previous victims.”
“No. I checked.”
“What about a connection to one of Woods’s clients? Look there and look fast. Like I said, Woods is a—”
“Jurisdiction issue. I’ll get you what I can by bedtime.”
“That works. Does Woods have living family?”
More clacking of keys before he says, “None.”
“Send me everything you can find on him. And I mean everything, no matter how insignificant. I want to know who the man’s hairdresser is.”
“I know how you work. Again. Give me until bedtime. My bedtime, Lilah. I’m still on LA time even though you’re in New York, and I have a meeting I’m headed into.”
“Find me a connection between these victims that isn’t Woods, and I swear I’ll bring you doughnuts every day of the rest of your life, even when you’re in a retirement home, forgotten by everyone but me.”
“Oh, well, now I’m motivated.” He snorts and hangs up, and I immediately begin scribbling notes.
—KEVIN WOODS: FALL GUY—MEANT TO KEEP THE FEDS OUT OF TOWN OR SOMETHING BIGGER?
—EDDIE WANTS ME OUT OF TOWN. EDDIE WANTS TO ARREST WOODS. IS HE JUNIOR?
—WHERE WAS EDDIE LAST NIGHT AND THEN TODAY WHEN NOTES WERE LEFT FOR ME?
—WHY IS KANE SO DAMN ADAMANT I DON’T ASK QUESTIONS ABOUT THAT TATTOO?
—WHY DID I LET HIM GET AWAY WITH NOT TELLING ME?
—KANE CAN’T BE THE MAN BEHIND JUNIOR, AND YET, I’M THINKING IT AGAIN, OR I WOULDN’T BE WRITING THIS DOWN.
—BUT EDDIE. EDDIE. EDDIE. AND KEVIN.
My list grows into a complicated thinking process, and I down another cup of coffee to rev me up, adding a side of greasy, perfect French fries with lots of ketchup to the mix as well. I have a cheeseburger with those fries and then order one of the diner’s famous whole strawberry pies that, despite winter’s fast approach, Rose swears is amazing and famous. Since this place really isn’t even on East Hampton’s society map, I’m not sure who it’s famous with, but hey, I did see Jack Leroy here. And since he’s all about his star shining brightly, maybe this spot is hotter now than I remember, and if Rose says the pie is famous, I believe her. A choice I make because a love for strawberries is one of the only fetishes I have that reads a bit like that of a normal person. And every once in a while, a ten-minute window in which I shovel food in my face and play that game is the difference between acceptable insanity and cutting-myself-or-someone-else insanity. Fortunately, I’ve never cut myself. Someone else? Well, yes. I have cut someone else, but that was because I didn’t have a gun to shoot the bastard. I leave the diner and decide this afternoon needs to be about planning. And food. I need groceries. First things first, though. I need to set a trap for Junior.
It’s a strategy that takes me fifteen minutes up the beachfront to an all-glass contemporary house, where I will find a long-dormant favor owed to me, one that I plan to collect on now. I park in the driveway and walk to the door, aware that like most things in this town, the lax security is a façade. I’m setting off alarms of some sort at this very minute. An assumption that’s proven true when I reach for the doorbell only to have the door fly open, and Lucas Davenport stands in the doorway, his six-foot-four frame filling the archway.
“Why don’t you return phone calls?” he demands.
“How can you still look like a preppy Tarzan?” I demand in turn, ignoring his question. “No wonder you’re still single.”
“How do you know I’m still single? You don’t return phone calls.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, my advice to you is this: grow some manly hair on your pretty-boy face and put on something other than one of about a hundred pairs of khaki pants you own.”
“You know,” he says. “I was certain I missed you until this moment.”
“Well then, see? We’ve already had a productive visit. Now you know that you didn’t, in fact, miss me.” I push past him and walk down the white tiled hallway. Everything in this place is white. The walls. The curtains. The light fixtures. He calls it elegant. I call it sterile. I turn into the kitchen where there are white counters and cabinets, walking to the white-paneled stainless steel fridge and opening it.
“You do know women are quite impressed with my khaki pants and my clean-shaven face. No razor burn. Lots of pleasure.”
I grab a bottle of water and find him on the opposite side of the bar that, much like mine, divides the kitchen from the living area. “I see you’re still not lacking in the arrogance department,” I say, walking to the counter directly in front of him.
“Arrogance?” he snorts. “I’m defending myself. You basically just told me I’m not worthy of a woman, and since the one time I tried anything with you, you put an elbow in my gut, I’m not beyond believing you mean it.”
“I’m pretty sure that was Kane who put the elbow in your gut.”
“He wasn’t there. I’m not that stupid.”
“He has eyes everywhere. He was there and I did what he would have.”
“Are you telling me I had a chance otherwise?”
“No. My God, we’re cousins.”
“Your father is my father’s stepbrother, Lilah. We are not cousins.”
“We are. And I need something, cuz.”
“You always need something, cuz.”
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”
“Then maybe you should take that to mean you’re demanding as hell.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Unless a woman is naked at the time, most men don’t like demanding.”
“I don’t remember ever trying to impress a man in my life, so I’m not getting the point. I need something. Someone vandalized my outdoor furniture. I need to get cameras up before I leave, and the security company is going to take forever.”
“I’m an investment banker, Lilah, not a security expert.”
“Who has a secret addiction to hacking.”
He scowls. “Lilah,” he warns.
“I won’t remind you if you don’t make me remind you. You owe me and I need this. And I know you know how to help me.”
“By taping your mouth shut?”
“Ha ha. You’re funny.”
He scowls. “I’ll come over and install it.”
“Thank you, but no. I really don’t want—”
“Kane to know.”
I was thinking more of Junior, but his assumption works just fine. “Can you write it all down for me? And I need something that won’t be obvious. I want to catch whoever did this, not scare them away.”
“What’s wrong with scaring them away?” He holds up a hand. “Never mind. I’ll
show you.” He rounds the bar and joins me in the kitchen, pointing to the garage door, and walking in that direction. I follow him inside where he leads me to a wall of built-in cabinets and opens one of them. It’s not long before he has a variety of gear on a long table to show me.