Love Kills (Lilah Love 4)

with three new autopsies and a serial killer to deal with. How does that even happen? Oh fuck. The same way Williams disappeared in the middle of an investigation. I stop walking and tab through my phone to find Melanie’s number. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message. “Call me now, Melanie.” I don’t want to scare her, but hell, fuck it. “I need a wellness check now.”

Disconnecting, I decide that Melanie has fifteen minutes before I have Houston send a team to her house. I text her for good measure and get no reply. Her silence is worthy of attention. She might not be a victim, but Beth was headed in that direction. I start walking again and can’t connect with real worry over Melanie. I’m feeling Melanie as an intentional replacement for Beth, rather than a victim. In which case, her time away is my time to play in her files. However, losing a detective and a medical examiner to the same killer would be a blow to the case and the city.

He likes that kind of attention.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I know my way around the medical examiner’s facility and waste no time taking the stairs up several flights. Reaching the lab door, I test the knob to confirm it’s locked. I then dig in my bag, pull out a tool I carry with me, one I bought from the shopper’s network while eating strawberries and drinking some kind of Smore’s martini recipe that inspired me to cook. Mixing a drink is cooking to me. It’s an effort in the kitchen, which requires more than one ingredient. There might have been a voodoo doll, that looked like Kane, purchased that night, too, but I burned it, and the devil doesn’t burn, so he was just fine.

The door is open in under twenty seconds, proving that booze and shopping are never bad, except that I’d bought a dress, too, thinking about Kane. Which is why I burned the doll. I enter the lab and shut the door, scanning for any sign of trouble that I don’t find. Not that I’d likely find trouble here. Umbrella Man makes his victims’ act of their own free, but manipulated will. For now, silence and an empty office is a ticket to me looking around, starting with Melanie’s office, which appears to be in the back of the lab.

Hurrying that way, I enter, turn on the light and sit down behind the glossed wooden desk, pulling my small camera from my bag. I begin opening drawers and pulling out documents, shooting random pictures: bank accounts, memos, charity organizations, and much more. I’ll analyze it all later. There’s nothing on the drugs in inventory. There’s a copy of her intake notes for the three victims, which, upon a cursory glance, appear basic and noneventful.

I think about the male DNA found at two of the crime scenes. If the killer is in forensics or law enforcement, he wouldn’t leave that behind. That has to belong to someone working the case, someone who isn’t the killer. Or the killer isn’t connected to law enforcement at all, is not as smart as I think, and we’re all stupid for not catching him yet.

I reject my own stupidity.

He, she, or them is connected to law enforcement.

I can’t rule out a group funded by the Society, in which case, one stupid fool could fuck around and leave DNA, a “yes” man, who did more harm than good for the Umbrella Man persona. That feels right. God, I need to just sit down and put all these thoughts on cards. I search for an inventory of drugs in the lab but find nothing. I stand up to leave, and that’s when I realize that Melanie has no personal items in her office. Not even her diploma. That reminds me of the first crime scene, though, last night, the soap star had personal items. Actually, no. She had Hollywood propaganda, which may or may not qualify as personal items.

I text Tic Tac: Melanie Carmichael. She’s the ME on this case. I need everything you can get me on her.

I think of Beth who has family and isn’t in entertainment. Beth isn’t a typical victim, but she was in the way. She’s my friend. I believe she was in danger.

I reach for Melanie’s trashcan and grab a magazine. It’s Soap Opera Digest. Is she reading about the victim rather than looking for the answers we need in an autopsy? Or did she buy this before she died? I bag it and shove it into my field bag.

Standing up, I plan to hunt down that inventory of chemicals on hand and then call for a wellness check as Roger steps into the doorway. “We should have shared a cab,” he says, blocking the doorway, his piercing blue eyes meeting mine.

He wants me to explain why I didn’t invite him. He can want away. “Do you know where she is?”

“Obviously, not in her office, but you are.”

“Wellness check. She’s not answering her calls or text messages.”

“You should have just asked me. I was coming by to take her to lunch anyway.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and dials her number. He also stays in the doorway. He doesn’t move. He’s always played these power games when we were questioning people, which I get. I fuck my way into their heads. I do me. He does him. He’s just not doing it to me. He never could. He knows that, too, and I’m not sure he likes it anymore than I’ve decided I like him. But then, like isn’t really my thing.

“No answer,” he says, putting his phone away. “Have you called downstairs to find out where she is?”

“I was told she’s not in the building.” I leave out Beth as my source. I want her out of the picture, though the fact that she’s the one who discovered the toxin is going to be hard to do.

“Hello! Who’s here? Hello?!”

“There she is,” he says. “And you had her dead and in the morgue already.”

That word “already” doesn’t sit well, and I shove it down but not away for reasons I’ll analyze later. Roger steps out of the room, and I round the desk. We greet Melanie, side by side, just outside her office. “Was my door unlocked?” she asks, shoving her hands in a lab coat. “Because I swear I locked it. There were reporters everywhere this morning.”

“I unlocked it,” I say. “Wellness check. You weren’t answering your phone.”

Her eyes go wide. “Wellness check?” She looks between me and Roger. “And yet, I’m not in danger?”

“It was a precaution,” I say. “Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

“I dropped my phone in a puddle last night. It won’t work. My assistant is getting it replaced.”

“The receptionist said you weren’t even in the building,” I reply.

“I came in early to do the autopsies,” she explains. “Before she arrived. I couldn’t sleep. You know I watched Karen on two different soaps growing up. Katy’s the spitting image of her. Twins are always quite incredible that way.”

In other words, she could have picked up Soap Opera Digest this morning, reliving those memories. But why throw it away?

She looks between us again. “I hate that I made you both rush over here.”

“Roger came for your lunch date,” I comment.

She frowns. “Date?” She glances at Roger. “We have a date?”

“Lunch,” Roger amends, offering nothing more.

“Oh well, I can’t,” she says, sounding frazzled. “I need to get my reports done for law enforcement.” She touches his arm. “But you know I’d love to go. I love our little chats.”

Little chats.

Roger chats?

Maybe at you but not with you. If she managed to change that, she has mad skills, but I’m not here to ponder his dictatorial breakdown. “I need to head out,” I say on that note. “What do I need to know before the reports are ready?”

“I don’t have much to offer but confirmation of the crime scene data,” she says, turning her attention to me. “The two women with umbrellas were posed and poisoned. Detective Williams was not. She was shot, as was one of the woman who was in the alleyway with her, but she was poisoned as well.”

“That woman” is the soap opera star she just beamed about and called by name, which is interesting. The name usage is more common when the speaker knew the deceased but then some people really start thinking they know television personalities. Maybe she’s that kind of freak.

“The bullets were in the hearts, placed with precision,” she cont

inues. “Those are not easy shots to make in the dark and rain.”

“Sounds like a highly skilled marksman,” Roger interjects. “Law enforcement or military.”

Because it was Ghost.

And this conversation is a reminder of how easily he could put a bullet in Kane’s heart. That asshole needs to take that threat more seriously.

“There’s not much else,” Melanie adds quickly, saving me any further discussion about those assassinations. “No DNA this time. The rain damage was just too extensive. Of course, the blood from the ceiling fan, as you might guess, was once again pigs’ blood. I’m afraid we’re still struggling to find that toxin.”

Melanie could be the Society, and once they know we’re getting close, they’ll end this. They’ll come for me and Kane before we can come for them. They could come for Beth. “Beth thought she found the toxin,” I say, launching into a lie like a chip off my politician father’s shoulder. “She left you a message, but she was mistaken.” It’s out. It’s spoken. Now I just need to get to Beth before she does. And hope like hell she didn’t leave the name of the toxin in that message.

Melanie’s brow furrows. “That’s odd,” she says. “I’ll call her. Maybe she’s closer than she thinks. If you’ll both excuse me, I need to call from my office.” She gives a laugh. “Forced into using a landline. How did we survive without cellphones?” And, with that, she walks away.

“Why do you suppose he shot the one who was poisoned?” Roger asks.

“To save me from the booby traps.”

He’s not done asking, “Then why set them?”

“To show off his skills and taunt me with what comes next.”

“And what comes next, Lilah?”

A drink, I think, and maybe a few voodoo dolls. Voodoo dolls are underrated.

“I’m coming down with you,” Melanie says, rushing back into the lab with her purse on her shoulder. “My assistant can’t get my phone. They won’t give it to her.”

I end up in the hallway with her and Roger. They head to the elevator. With no explanation, I head for the stairs.

“Oh wait. Agent Love!” At Melanie’s shout, I breathe out and then turn.