I don’t know what happens once I do, but I’ll figure it out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I must have fallen asleep on the floor of Purgatory, because that’s where I wake up, lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, with the sound of my phone ringing, my body stiff and cold. I reach for the incessant-ringing beast and roll to my side to grab it, pictures of dead bodies and note cards now crumpled beneath me. Grabbing the phone, I sit up, a note card stuck to my hand that I shake off, and eye the caller ID, only to realize it’s not a call. It’s my alarm. I actually decided to sleep here because I had no energy to find my way to bed. I sit up and
put my hand in the remainder of the strawberry pie, which is basically crumbs and whipped cream.
“Fabulous,” I say, licking whipped cream from the side of my pinky finger before checking my phone app to confirm I have no calls, and indeed, I have no calls. Which does not please me, considering I’ve called my brother, Eddie, and Alexandra numerous times about this Woods situation. They’re territorial. I get that. It’s a fairly normal reaction when the feds show up, except that I’m not just any agent. I’m flipping family. I also get that my father now wants to be a big-time politician and that he wants the case closed with as little press as necessary.
What I don’t understand is that phone call to Alexandra that makes me think she knows Woods, or why that call would be grounds for anyone to assume Woods’s guilt. Lord help me, this smells bad, and people I love are in the middle of it, which is why I need to get to Manhattan and try to expand my view before someone tampers with it.
I glance at the time on my phone: 4:40 a.m., otherwise known as too damn early. Unless, of course, you haven’t arranged a chopper and don’t want to drive three hours to Manhattan to investigate a murder, and therefore need to make one of the only morning trains out of this place, and I do. I push to my feet, grabbing a note card now stuck to my sticky hand and reading it: KAREN ADAMS—WOODS’S EX-GIRLFRIEND. Of course, I won’t be the first one to go and see her, but I am the first one who can bond over an ex with an unwanted relationship with law enforcement.
I set the card on the desk and hurry to the bedroom, pausing just a moment in the doorway when the scent of my mother’s perfume touches my nose. It’s crazy, of course, or maybe it’s not. This place feels and smells like her, no matter how long she’s gone, and that’s too long. I think of that night and how the truth of who, and what, her daughter has become would have destroyed her. She couldn’t have saved me. I can’t save me either, but there is always someone else who needs saving, and right now, that’s Woods.
Pushing forward, I hurry to the shower and then dress in all black—black jeans, a black sweater. My Chanel boots again. Because black is not only a Goth thing but also a New York thing, which could be one and the same. I manage to throw on some makeup and flat-iron my hair, the same plain-Jane brown it was yesterday, all in an impressive forty-five minutes. I head back to Purgatory, where I gather my work from the floor, including a stack of note cards with addresses and names of people, places, and things I think might lead me to Woods. Of course, the one of most interest is the girlfriend, and I rubber-band that one on top of the stack. Everything, including the notes Junior left me, goes in my bag, and I’m about to leave when I glance at the white boards filled with more information from last night’s pie session. Since Junior seems to be snooping around, I grab an eraser and clear all my writing.
My gaze falls on my computer, and I walk to the desk and sit down, reaching for the removable drive Kane had given me last night. I’m irritated that watching Samantha enter Kane’s house and exit hours later bothers me as much as it does. I remove the drive and stick it in my bag, then just decide to take my entire computer. The footage showing Junior putting the note on my car had been less than helpful, but I can spend time on the train ride home reviewing the recordings again.
Standing, I survey the office to make sure I’ve left nothing behind before heading to the garage, dumping my stuff in my car, and then hunting for batteries, which I find. They’re old, probably low in juice, but they’re better than nothing. I quickly find my way back inside, install them in the cameras, and decide to be sneaky this time. I stick one camera under a pillow on the couch, with a view of the sliding glass door. It’s not a grand plan, but at this point, Junior has access to the house, and I’m not letting that run me off. Tonight, I’ll find a way to make that work for me and play Junior’s game my way.
I grab my coat, head back to the garage, and get on the road, dialing the NYPD by memory on the way to the train station. “This is Agent Lilah Love with the FBI,” I tell the woman who answers. “I need to speak to Marcus Rick,” I say, a transfer-in from Chicago I unfortunately don’t know.
“One moment,” I’m told, and it’s more like three minutes later when she says, “Detective Rick is on a leave of absence.”
“Leave of absence,” I repeat, finding the loss of the detective on this particular case more than a little concerning. “Who took over the Emerson case?”
“Let me look.” Fingers click on a keyboard before she says, “Nelson Moser.”
And in a moment, Rick is replaced by a detective who hates me. If this is an accident, the universe hates me more than the locals.
“And he’s in the field,” she adds. “Shall I put you through to his voice mail or have him call you?”
“Is Greg Harrison in by chance?” I ask, hoping my old partner can zoom right past this problem for me.
More clicking of keys. “Not at the moment.”
“Right. Of course not. I’ll try back.” I end the call and bring the car to an idle at a stoplight while punching in Greg’s cell phone number. His voice mail picks up before it even rings, and I grimace but leave a message, leaving out details I’d rather not have recorded. “Greg. It’s Lilah. I’m in town. I need everything you have on the Trey Emerson case, and I need it to be off the record. It’s urgent. Call me.”
I dial Tic Tac and get his voice mail, because apparently two-something in the morning his time is too early for him. “I need to know why Detective Marcus Rick of the NYPD is on leave. Pull whatever strings you have to pull. I need a real answer.” I end the call as the light changes, and I pass through it, making a quick turn into the train station before parking among a cluster of cars. Killing the engine, I glance at the time on the dash that reads 5:45, which can be translated to late, or more accurately, really close to screwed. I grab my purse and briefcase, sliding the straps over my head and across my chest before opening the door.
Stepping out of the car, I’ve barely straightened when a man appears in front of me. “Ms. Love,” a tall man in a tan suit says, his camera people behind him. “Can you tell us why the FBI was on the scene of Wednesday night’s murder?” He shoves a microphone at me.
“Because apparently I can’t come home and just have mac n’ cheese waiting on me. My brother makes me work for it. It was a favor.”
Another reporter appears. “Was the death a suicide?” a blonde, twentysomething woman demands, shoving yet another microphone at me. “Or murder?”
“Yes, Ms. Love,” yet another man says. “Was it murder?”
I hold up my hands. “I’m not involved and I have no comment,” I say, charging forward and forcing the crowd of at least ten, now, to part while they continue to shout my name.
I clear the pile of people and head toward the station when a black Mercedes pulls up beside me, the window down to reveal Kane. “Get in. I have the chopper fired up and waiting.”
“How are you here?” I demand.
“How are they here?” he asks, motioning behind me at the same moment that I hear, “Ms. Love,” from at least three different people and microphones are shoved at me again, my departure by train this morning pretty much dust in the wind at this point. I start double-stepping, trying to break away from the crowd but without much luck. Kane pulls his car to a halt a few feet in front of me, offering me an escape and assurance that I will get to Manhattan. He’s dangerous. He’s temptation. He’s trouble. He also knows things about my family and my past, and perhaps these murders, that I need to know.
“Ms. Love,” comes a shout from I-don’t-know-how-many people, and that’s it—I make my decision. I start running, darting forward and past the cameras, while somehow managing to loop around the front of Kane’s car, and I don’t stop until I’m inside the car and in the passenger seat.
“Buckle up, Agent Love,” he says, putting us in Drive, a satisfied look on his face.
“Have I told you your stalker tendencies are creepy?” I ask, slipping the belt into place.
He laughs, that low, deep laugh of his that I used to love and now I hate, mostly because I could easily love it again. “And here I thought I was the hero saving the day,” he says.
Flashes of that night flicker in my mind. Me naked. Me covered in blood. Him entering the house from the patio, his jacket and tie missing, blood soaking his shirt. “There are many things I’d call you, Kane,” I say. “But hero isn’t one of them.”
“And what exactly would you call me, Lilah?” he asks, pulling us out onto the main road.
“Usually the devil.”
“Well you know what they say. The devil you know is better than the one you don’t. And you do know me, Lilah. Like no one else.”
He’s right. I do. I just spent a lot of our relationship pretending I didn’t. “How is it that I’m going to Manhattan on the same day you’re going to Manhattan?”
“The first Friday of every month I hold an executive meeting in the city,” he says. “And as for how I knew you’d be going? Your next logical and necessary move was a trip to the city and the NYPD. As was taking the early-morning train.”
“I could have taken a chopper.”
“I checked. You had no reservations.”
“I could have driven.”
“You hate to drive and how would you work if you were driving?”
“And you’re going to let me work in the chopper?”
He glances over at me. “I’ll be a perfect angel.”
It’s something he used to say when he intended to be no such thing. “Kane—”
“The devil you know, Lilah.” He glances in the rearview mirror. “And we have reporters following us.”
I turn to spy the van and look at him. “I can’t be filmed flying off to Manhattan with you, Kane. It’s bad enough I got into your car.”
“At this point, that’s irrelevant. Woods is Chief Love’s man.”
“For now,” I say. “That’s subject to change at any point.”
“Regardless,” he says. “You have proof of my alibi.”