Love Me Dead (Lilah Love 3)

Donna laughs from behind the counter, a deep amused chuckle. “Plain coffee coming up.”

I return my attention to the call I need to make. If I drank that nasty ass coffee, I can call my old mentor. It’s not like he’s going to look into my eyes over the phone and see what I’ve become. He won’t know that I’m not like everyone else. He won’t know how easily I can kill. Only Kane knows. Only Kane understands. I inhale and dial a number, but it’s not Roger that I call: it’s fucking Kane.

“Ah, beautiful,” he murmurs in that deep rich voice of his. “Finally, you call me back. We’re making progress. You actually did call me back.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Miss me?”

“Kane,” I warn.

“Lilah?”

“That problem you thought you solved; it’s not solved.”

He’ll know what I mean. He’ll know that I’m talking about the Society because here’s the thing about the man I both love and hate: he dangerous and he’s smart. “I’m coming back now.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Okay.”

“Holy fuck. You never say okay.”

“Maybe I know when to call in a drug kingpin.”

“I’m not a fucking drug kingpin. I am not my fucking father.”

And yet, Kane sure used that connection to back Pocher off when he thought the man was going to kill me. “You never say okay,” he repeats. “What do I need to know right now?”

“To come back. That’s all right now. And for the record, the next time I don’t say okay, you should fucking listen because, clearly, it means I don’t need help.”

“Are you really taking this moment in time to lecture me about being protective?”

“No. I’m taking this moment in time to lecture you about being overbearing and intrusive.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” he refutes.

“Kane,” I warn again.

“Where are you?”

“In a diner, watching the crime scene I just left.”

He doesn’t ask questions, but I know Kane, and he knows me. He’ll read between the lines. That crime scene led to this call. “I’ll call you back once I make arrangements. And I’m sending someone to look after you.”

“If you do, you’ll pay the price.”

He lowers his voice. “I do love the way you do angry sex, Lilah.”

“Kane, if you send someone to watch me, and I mistake them for a problem, I will shoot them.”

“Then I’ll send someone I don’t mind losing.”

He hangs up.

CHAPTER SIX

I don’t bother to call Kane back. We fight each other, and everyone else, better in person.

I take another drink of the pumpkin concoction in the white mug, and lord help me, maybe it’s not that bad. Either way, I’m not becoming a seasonal pumpkin groupie. It’s gingerbread or nothing for me. And it’s this phone call and walk down memory lane with my old mentor or nothing for me. Murphy made that clear.

I tab through my contacts to find Roger Griffin’s number. I haven’t spoken to this man in years. I don’t know why I still have his number, but I do, and I’m using it now. I have no choice. That crime scene was staged for me, and he knows how that originated. I have to know why he called me in on this one. I punch the damn Call button and hold my breath.

“Roger Griffin here,” he answers in his gravelly smoker’s voice, and the fact that he doesn’t know who’s calling—I never gave him my LA number—gives me just a minute to picture him, sun and smoke damaged, behind his old wooden desk. The one he used to have me sit at across from him, while he made me analyze a case, just before he told me to try again but do it right this time. And I did.

“Hello?” he says.

“It’s Lilah.”

“Lilah Love?” He sounds shocked, which is ten kinds of off since he’s the one who called me to this crime scene.

“Yes. Yes, it’s me. Long time no talk.”

“Ya think? Crazy. I just watched a movie with your mother in it the other night, back when she went blonde to play Marilyn Monroe. I can’t get my head around her being gone, not that I ever had the pleasure of meeting her, but seeing her on screen and knowing she’s gone, I can’t imagine how that makes you feel.”

Oh, stop fucking talking, I think. Stop. He takes me back to Ted Pocher’s billion-dollar tell-all comment when I ran into him at my father’s house last week: You remind me of your mother a little more than I thought. In other words, I’m a problem to be disposed of, and if not for his fear of Kane, I’d probably be dead right now. Pocher would be dead right now, too, if not for Kane. Kane and I need to have a conversation about that topic.

“Even with that brown hair of yours,” he continues. “you look just like her. It’s uncanny. Of course, you’re a gruff, rough cussing machine. Hard to imagine that on-screen beauty saying fuck all the time. Anyway, watching her had me thinking about you and here you are calling.”

“I was actually shocked to get called into this case tonight,” I add, moving on, “and even more so when you weren’t there.”

“What case?” He coughs that smoker’s cough of his, and I can almost see his weathered skin, dark and wrinkled. “Wait,” he adds, clearing his throat. God, I hate the way he clears his throat, to the point that I can’t even allow myself to describe it in my mind. “Are you here in New York?”

“Yes. Of course, I’m here. I’m confused. I thought you knew? I was called to a crime scene tonight at your request.”

“Not at my request. I’m in Connecticut doing a law enforcement consultation. Maybe someone heard you were in New York and decided to get you on the scene, which was smart. I trained you right and all.”

My fingers thrum on the table, and Donna sets a coffee carafe and cup beside me, filling it with steaming hot brew. I guess I finally tipped her enough to get what I wanted. “You didn’t call me in?” I ask, glancing out at the rain that just keeps falling and with it, more shit. The shit just keeps coming.

“Not me. Definitely not me.”

“My boss was told that you called and that there were three female victims and a serial killer on the loose that you were having trouble catching up with on your own.”

He snorts. “You ever known me to call in back up? And, you know how damn much serial killers intrigue me; I wouldn’t give that one up.”

No. No, he would not. I knew that.

“Is that what you got on your hands?” he asks. “A serial killer?”

“I don’t know enough to confirm anything at this point. I have one dead female who was posed by the asshole who killed her.”

“One victim, not three? Didn’t I hear you say three?”

“The detective on the case insists this is a singular case. Williams. Do you know her?”

“Yeah. Piece of work that one.” He doesn’t elaborate, moving on to the puzzle. He loves the puzzle. He always told me to work the problem you can solve. “Where the hell did the number three come from?” he asks.

“Where did the call come from?” I counter. “My boss really believes he spoke to you.”

“That was a mix up of some sort. He didn’t speak to me, and I’m here for a bit now. I’ve got two dead women in two weeks.”

One plus two equals three. “Posed?” I ask.

“Yes, posed.”

“Any props?”

“High heels,” he says. “This one likes high heels. You think mine and yours equal the three?”

“Mine was posed with an umbrella.”

“Hair color?”

“Blonde,” I say.

“Mine are brunette,” he says. “Age?”

“Late twenties.”

“Thirties here. It doesn’t sound like a match.”

And yet, I repeat in my mind, one plus two equals three, and someone wanted me to connect the dots th