“I didn’t need—”
“You would have lost your badge.”
“I was drugged.”
“You would have lost your badge.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Damn it, Lilah, you know what happened.”
“You shouldn’t have made decisions for me,” I hiss, shoving away from him and reaching for my seat belt.
He grabs my arms, holding me in place. “We’re lifting off,” he shouts. “Stay where you are.”
I inhale and let it out, flashes of that night ripping through my mind. The ocean crashing on the shore. The wind. The heavy body on top of mine. The sweat. The sound he made and that damn tattoo. That Virgin-fucking-Mary. I grab Kane’s arm where it holds mine. I rotate to face him and our eyes collide, igniting a new wave of anger and heat between us. I grab his tie and pull him to me again, his head lowers to mine, our cheeks colliding again, but this time it’s my lips immediately pressed to his ear. “The tattoo,” I say. “Tell me about the tattoo.”
“It’s buried with that man.”
I jerk back, furious now, and I turn away, reaching below the seat to grab my bag, no hesitation in my action. I remove my file, opening it and finding the photo of the tattoo on the victim from Wednesday morning. I hold it out in front of Kane. He goes completely still, stone in the shape of a man, seconds ticking by before he takes the photo from me and stares down at it. I can feel the waves of anger and shock rolling off him. And I know, then, that he knew about the victim, but he didn’t know about the tattoo. Time seems to stretch before he hands the image back to me. I take it and place it back in my bag, actually calmer now. Closer, I think, to real answers than ever before.
Kane doesn’t look at me, though. He leans his head back and shuts his eyes. There is a coldness about him, a darkness, that I’ve seen only hints of in the past. I’ve sideswiped him and he doesn’t like it. I don’t know what that means, but I intend to find out before this encounter is over. I place my bag under the seat and then lay my head back. But I don’t shut my eyes. I don’t like what I might see when I do. Instead, I start recapping every detail of that file. The victims’ names, ages, careers. I look for something, anything, that connects them, other than me as the investigative agent.
Neither of us moves until we’re on the ground; both of us wordlessly gather our things. Both of us clearly aware that the conversation we need to have does not belong in a place with a pilot and a now-silenced engine. The door opens and I head for it, and endure a few greetings from strangers. I can hear Kane giving directions to whoever he’s talking to.
“No later than ten,” is all I make out of his response, which I assume is related to his departure time.
I’ve cleared the last step, and I’m walking toward the terminal when my phone rings. I dig it from my purse to find Tic Tac calling. “Why are you awake at four in the morning LA time?” I ask, answering the call.
“I got up to pee and saw you’d called five times.”
“Just once,” I say.
“Four last night and one this morning.”
“Right,” I say. “Five times. I need you to find out why Marcus Rick is on a leave of absence, no matter what it takes to find out. And I need to know everything good, bad, and ugly about Nelson Moser.”
“Seriously, Lilah?” Tic Tac demands, while Kane steps to my side, close but not quite touching me, as if he’s ready to grab me before I dart away. But I’m not going anywhere without answers.
“Seriously,” I confirm.
“You do know Rick’s data will be in sealed Human Resources files?” Tic Tac says.
“And?”
“It’s personnel files, Lilah. That’s a big deal.”
“I thought I recommended you as a point man because you had a big set on you.”
“Don’t go there. I have balls. You do not.”
“Or maybe,” I continue, “you do, but just not the skill to do this?”
“God how I hate it when you push my buttons, and I know you’re doing it, and yet still I let you get away with it. I’ll call you back.” He hangs up and the sliding glass doors part, allowing Kane and me to enter the airport, but he doesn’t speak, a theme he does well, but he might as well be screaming his energy is so damn intense. We walk a few feet, clearing the crowd, and I expect something from him but get nothing, and I’m not letting that fly.
I speed up and step in front of him. “Talk to me.”
He gives me a hooded stare, his expression hard, unreadable. “I told you,” he says. “I don’t—”
I poke his chest. “Do not tell me you know nothing. Because the man I knew back then—”
“Knew how to get rid of a body?”
“You wouldn’t have stopped looking until you found out who that man was. You saw the tattoo. You wouldn’t have ignored that as a clue. Either that or you never really loved me.”
He grabs my arm and pulls me close. “Never really loved you? Are you really even saying that to me?”
“I’m saying I know you looked into this.”
“Yes. I did.”
“And yet you found nothing? You don’t fail at anything.”
“I didn’t exactly fingerprint the guy before I got rid of him, Lilah.”
“Did he have ID?”
“You’ve asked me this before. You know the answer.”
“He didn’t.”
“He didn’t.” He surprises me by changing the subject. “And I’ll save your boy Tic Tac some trouble and tell you what I know. That is what you call your tech guy, right? Tic Tac?”
“You really are a stalker, Kane.”
“I prefer to think of myself as informed. Back to what I know.”
“Too much,” I say.
He ignores that remark and moves on. “Marcus Rick, the detective you mentioned on the phone, was in a corner store when a robbery took place and tried to help. He ended up with a bullet in his gut. Nelson is known to be low-down and dirty, as in he would shoot his partner in the back and did once. And since I remember him to be unfriendly to you, I’d say it’s interesting that he ended up on this case.”
My mind goes to Greg. “Shit.” I dig for my phone and pull it out, dialing his number only to get his voice mail. “Don’t ask about that case I told you to ask about until you talk to me.” I look at Kane. “I need to go.” I start to turn away and he grabs my arm.
“Turning me into a monster doesn’t make your guilt go away.”
“Pretending you’re my hero won’t make it go away either.”
“I didn’t kill him,” he reminds me. “I just cleaned it up.”
“You bastard,” I say.
“You needed a reminder.”
“I have them every night, I promise you. I can’t believe I ever—”
“Loved me?”
“Fucked you.” I yank my arm away and start walking.
And I don’t look back. I can’t think about Kane or myself. All I can think about is K
ane’s words about Nelson being so low-down and dirty that he would, and has, shot a partner in the back.
My father’s involved in this. Kane is involved in this. I have the protection of being my father’s daughter, and like it or not, Kane’s perceived woman. Greg does not, and I’m worried I’ve just put a target on my ex-partner’s back.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I call Greg a half dozen times during the taxi ride to his shitty apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, and he never answers. Once I’m at his building, the same applies to the buzzer I need him to hit to allow me up to his floor, but I’m resourceful and simply follow someone else in the door. I trek up the ten narrow floors, for a good morning workout, and reach his door, hitting the buzzer a few times before I start pounding.
Five minutes later, the door opens and some alternate version of Greg stands there. Yes, he’s still linebacker huge, both tall and wide. Yes, he’s still the good-looking, thirtysomething guy that I have absolutely no sexual chemistry with at all, which only makes me love him more. And yes, he’s wearing Greg’s standard white T-shirt, but this one has a stain on it, and his favorite faded jeans have also been replaced with plaid pajama bottoms. Not to mention this guy standing in front of me has unruly hair and all kinds of scruff on his face, when my Greg is always clean-shaven and well groomed. “Where did you put Greg?”
“What the hell are you doing here, Lilah?”
“Nice to see you, too, sweets. Are you sick?”
“Sick? I’m sick all right.” He turns and walks away, leaving the door open behind him.
“O . . . kay,” I say, entering his apartment that is one big, usually clean, room that now has pizza boxes on the kitchen table, as well as random trash, while he has now plopped on his back in the center of his unmade bed.
Shoving my hands in my coat pockets, I move to the end of the mattress by his big-ass bare feet that I’m guessing stink right now. “I repeat,” I say. “Are you sick? Do you need soup?”
“And you’re gonna make me soup, Lilah? Ms. Get Your Own Fucking Takeout?”
I crinkle my nose. “I’m offended. I got you takeout often when we were partners. I just don’t like stupid people who can’t order right. So if you’re sick—”