“To tell you to go away. My sister is dead. It’s over.”
“Someone killed her.”
“She killed herself. She was weak. I am done. Respect that or I will report you for harassment.”
He’d shut the door.
He’d been scared. He’d been afraid to talk to me. And he’d called my boss the next day. I’d conveniently been sent to LA to consult on a double homicide shortly after, and that had led to my introduction to the FBI. I’d walked away then, but I can’t do that now.
I head down the steps again and around the side of the house to find his gray Ford Focus in the driveway. A bad feeling slides through me, and I head to the fenceless backyard. The only door I can find is at the bottom of a set of steps that seem to lead to the basement. I hurry down them and again find a locked door. I really don’t contemplate my next move. I go with my gut, and my gut says I need inside that house. Now. I grab a brick and knock the side window out just enough to slip my hand through the glass, unlock the door, and open it.
I enter through a laundry area and shut the door behind me. My hand settles on my gun, and I hurry through the unfinished concrete room and up a set of wooden stairs. I pause at the open doorway, where I find the lights on, but there are no active sounds. No voices. No television. No footsteps. Just a clock ticking somewhere. A chunk of ice falling from the ice maker into the freezer a few feet from where I stand just off the kitchen. A foreboding knot forms in my belly and I call out, “Mr. Suthers? Rick? It’s Lilah Love. Agent Lilah Love. We met about your sister, Laney.”
I wait for a reply and get nothing.
No words.
No steps.
No sound.
I check my phone and ensure it’s on vibrate, despite checking it in the last Uber, and then pull my weapon, easing into the kitchen. The hardwood floor creaks beneath my feet, and I pause, waiting for some replying action that doesn’t come. I’m still sheltered by the stairwell, but at this point, a sink and a window above it sits directly in front of me. A small hallway is to my left and right. I take the final step and ease into the doorway, now able to see a full U-shaped kitchen before me. I look right to a hallway that leads to a front door and a stairway to the second level. I look left to another hallway that leads to an archway, which I assume is the living area. I head that direction with the intent of circling back to the stairs. I check a small bathroom and then ease into a sitting area that leads directly into a living area. I pass through it, and I’m at the front door. There’s an office directly in front of me that I check as well and find it clear.
That brings me to the bottom of the stairs, where I call out again. “Rick? Are you up there?”
I listen again, and there’s a creaking sound that is followed by a swish. This repeats. And repeats. That knot in my gut tightens and grows. I start up the steps, and the sound continues, becoming a little louder as I approach. I take a few more steps and pause, but I don’t call out again. I ease forward and repeat the process of pausing, listening, pausing, listening, until I reach the top level. The sound is coming from the room to my left. There are two more rooms to my right and one directly across from me that appears to be a library with no obvious occupant, but I can’t see every nook and cranny.
I turn toward the sound and enter the room, quickly placing my back to the wall, gun in the air. And that’s when I find Rick Suthers hanging from the closet that sits immediately to the left of the door I’ve just entered, with a bedsheet around his neck in the exact way I’d found his sister, the tug and sway of the body creating the swooshing sound. And I’m back with Laney for just one minute:
“Did your mother find an escape?”
“Only in death,” I’d said. “Don’t let that be you. I’ll protect you. I’ll make sure the information you give me doesn’t come from you.”
Only I didn’t protect her. I didn’t save her. She’s dead. I found her, and the fact that I’m standing here looking at her brother’s dead body—that I found him, too—is no coincidence. It’s my enemy’s plan.
I know dead bodies, and Rick Suthers is dead, and I don’t plan on joining him. I exit the bedroom and search the remainder of the upstairs before I harness my weapon, open the field bag that’s at my hip, and pull out a pair of gloves. I slip them on but I don’t touch anything. I step closer to the body and study it first, noting the jeans and white T-shirt that appear neatly pressed. The face is blue, lips and cheeks swollen, eyes bulging. His skin is still pink and that, along with the limited rigor mortis, tells me that he hasn’t been hanging there long. I skip by the implications of that realization, considering my visit, and focus on what I believe to be a crime scene. There’s a double stack of books at his feet, as there had been with his sister. And just like then, I question a person’s ability to stand on those at all without them tumbling. I simply don’t believe it’s possible.
I close the space between me and the body, kneeling down and doing just what I did at Laney’s feet. I look through the titles of the books. Looking for a message, like the one left for me with the beheaded bodies. With Laney, I’d found nothing significant. That’s how this begins. I search titles, reading each, considering the content. The bottom book freezes me in place: the unauthorized autobiography of Laura Love, a Hollywood legend. My mother.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I have a moment of shock at the presence of that book, and then it’s over. I set it aside and mentally step into my Otherworld, my name for my emotionless zone where I focus on facts and the necessary tasks at hand. I grab the book and thumb through the pages, finding no message or note, but then again, the book itself is a message. I hunt down another book to replace it and then stick my mother’s biography in my bag. I’ll analyze the implications and content of the message it’s meant to deliver, along with who could be behind it, later and alone. Right now, I need to search the house and deal with the crime scene, which is going to be called a suicide. The chance anything is found to prove otherwise is next to zero. This killer is that good. I learned that when I tried to prove murder with Laney. As good as that assassin, and it wouldn’t surprise me at this point if they are one and the same.
I start a methodical search of the house, starting with the body, checking his pockets and his wallet, and the closest thing to interesting is the odd way he’s folded a dozen or so Starbucks receipts with his cash. That tells me he’s a man of habit and he doesn’t let go of things easily, and yet, he pushed me away. He let go of Laney.
Moving on, I check drawers, mattresses, pillowcases, underneath the bed. Next, I hit the library, searching books, chair cushions, a small desk. Every room is checked, but there is nothing to be found. Peculiarly, not even a photo of Laney. Note to self: make it clear to Andrew that if I die, I don’t want a shrine, but a good “Fuck you” coffee mug in his cabinet would feel like love.
I’m finally done with my search, and I walk back to the bedroom and stare at the body, waiting for one of those random deep ideas to come into my head, but there is just one word: murder. And that leads me to contemplate my next move. I could leave. No one would know I was here. No one would know that I broke the window. Unless, of course, a neighbor reported seeing me, and that could get complicated. So could explaining my presence here, but I decide it’s better than explaining my absence. And at this point, all my role-play as 007, along with three Ubers and a walk, is for nothing. I’m exposed. I’m here. It’s known by my enemies, and it didn’t protect Rick, a part of this equation that I can’t let myself linger on right now or it will fuck with my head.
I dial the locals and the reply is quick. “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“This is Federal Agent Lilah Love from the LA bureau in town on official business. I have a probable suicide. A man hanging by a sheet with no pulse. The address is 345 Plainview Drive, Westbury. To clarify: I’m on scene and will remain on scene and meet them at the front door.”
“Backup is on the way.”
; I end the call and walk down the stairs to the front door, opening it and stepping onto the porch as the sun sinks rapidly on the horizon. With no time to spare, I dial Murphy. “Agent Love. Do you have news?”
“I have a situation outside my brother’s territory.”
“Where?”
“Westbury, Long Island. A suicide that I’ve called the locals on. I’m on scene now.”
“And this relates to our investigation how?”
I stick to a shortened version of the truth. “I stopped by to check on the brother of a woman who died on my watch. She killed herself. When I got here, the brother had killed himself in the exact same manner as his sister.”
“And you just happened to show up when that happened?”
“Apparently I did,” I say.
“And how exactly did you end up in the house?”
“His sister killed herself. He wasn’t at his office. He’s not overly social, and I had a gut feeling. I have no other answer.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“You’re highly suspicious by nature, aren’t you?”
“I have one hell of a bullshit detector, Agent. Need I remind you of our earlier conversations on this very day?”
“You just did,” I say, one dead body and a book too far gone to bite my tongue, “but I get it. Bosses get to be assholes.”
“Glad we’re on the same page. Now. What aren’t you telling me?”
“I could make a smart-ass remark, but I don’t want to get fired,” I say as sirens sound in the not-so-far distance.
“You just made about three smart-ass remarks,” he snaps.
I open my mouth to argue the definition of smart-ass, but he’s already moved on. “We both know you’re wading knee-deep in bullshit,” he says, his tone thunder that borders on a roar. “But,” he continues, “that bullshit story is the one you need to stick with for everyone but me. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say, deciding that if I want to stay on assignment, and employed for that matter, right now might not be the time to add any additional dialogue.