“Lilah Love,” she says, greeting me.
“Agent Love,” I state, indicating my badge, which she may or may not give a glance to, since I can’t see her fucking eyes. “I’m sure, since you’re fucking my brother, you know there was a murder last night.”
“The whole of the Hamptons knows.” She hugs herself. “It’s unnerving.”
Like her doing dirty deeds with my brother. And Kane, damn it. “Where were you last night?”
“Last night? Why in the world would it matter where I was? I wasn’t at that woman’s house.”
“Where were you, Samantha?”
“With your brother.”
“Really?” I ask, imitating Kane’s classic and highly arrogant arch of one single brow. “That isn’t what I was told.”
She removes her glasses and looks at me, her stare unblinking. “Ask him,” she says, and with no acknowledgement of my comment about her whereabouts, she adds, “I was with your brother.”
“From what time to what time?” I ask, since Andrew was in Southampton when I got into town, the idea that she was with Kane and Andrew the same night turns my stomach.
“I don’t know. I was here, working, and then I was at his place. I don’t know the time.”
I’ve found that two “I don’t knows” in one sentence means a person knows and doesn’t want to say. “Perhaps your staff can help us with that,” I suggest. “Or the log on your security cameras?”
“I . . . perhaps.”
“Good,” I approve. “Let’s go talk to your staff.”
“I’ll get you the security log, but talk to your brother.”
“I will. And your staff.”
“I have business going on today. The log and your brother should clear me. And this is really ridiculous. I might be many things, Lilah, things that you don’t like, but I am not a killer.”
“You are indeed many things,” I state. “Some quite easy to confirm, but as it stands, being innocent of murder is not one of them any more than guilty might be. I need proof of your alibi.” I turn and start walking.
“Lilah!”
I keep walking.
“Agent Love!”
I stop and turn to face her. “Yes, Ms. Young?”
“If you choose to make this personal, you will not like the results.”
My lips curve. “Spoken like every suspect that has something to hide, even if it’s not the crime I’m investigating,” I say, and this time when I start walking, I don’t stop until I’m sitting inside my car and have shut the door. Glancing up at the rearview mirror, I note Samantha has yet to move, which means her car has yet to move out of my way. I shift to Reverse and give a small pump of the accelerator that has her hands flying in the air, and she is apparently shouting something at me. I hold the brake and rev the engine, and she turns around and stomps back to her car.
From there, she is speedy to back up and pull off to the side of the drive to allow me to pass. I do so quickly, my mind already chasing conclusions from this meeting and the one with Kane—many I do not like. I’m just beginning the process of dissecting them when my cell phone rings. Snatching it up, I glance at the caller ID and note my boss’s number.
“Director Murphy,” I greet him. “You’re early.”
“That’s called good work,” he states. “Talk to me. Do we have a serial killer?”
My jaw clenches. “I told you. I think—”
“An assassin. Back that up with facts.”
“Different ages, races, lifestyles, jobs, sexes, do I need to go on?”
“One killer?”
“I’m not ready to say that.”
“Did they die the same way?” he presses.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s one killer,” he concludes.
“Or one execution style.”
“That’s a reach.”
He’s right, but I’m trying really damn hard here not to claim jurisdiction.
He reads my mind. “You don’t want to claim jurisdiction.” He doesn’t give me time to argue. “This isn’t personal, Special Agent Love. This is your job.”
“Which I’m doing properly. I haven’t even been here twenty-four hours. We can’t shake up two police departments in New York in less than twenty-four hours and with an incomplete investigation. And how do we know that’s not what our killer wants, considering I had a murder here waiting on me?”
He’s silent for a few beats. “Forty-eight hours from now, we’re claiming jurisdiction unless you convince me otherwise. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“What do you need from me right now?”
“Space.”
“All right then. Space. You know how to reach me.” He hangs up.
I glance up to find I’ve pulled back into the parking lot of the same diner I’d caffeinated at this morning. I kill the engine, my fingers tightening around the steering wheel, several conclusions hitting me like a WWE Smackdown: If Samantha wasn’t with Kane last night, neither has an alibi for the murder. However, if they were together, which is my gut instinct and also probably why she didn’t want to tell me, Andrew’s sister, the truth, then I have a bigger problem. Because if she is the true whore she seems to be, with Kane and then with my brother on the same night, there’s no way she was at my house. That would mean Samantha can’t be my note writer. Not unless she hired someone to play the role. Translation: no matter how I look at this, someone I have yet to identify knows my secret. And while Samantha knowing my secret wasn’t ideal, the other people I know control her to a certain degree. Most certainly Kane could control her. That spelled control of my own. What don’t I know about that night? And who is motivated to get me out of town? Could it be Kane himself?
I grab the plastic bag holding the note from the seat and reject that idea. No. It’s not Kane. He’s not the note-writing, scary-tactic kind of guy. He’s about power. Directness. Demand. Proven by his demands directed my way today and even that night. Not to mention the man tried to keep me from leaving town with a rock the size of Texas. And yet, I think, he never called me. It’s odd, but I reasoned it away as his bruised ego. Only now do I consider there was another reason he distanced himself from me. He inferred as much. But what reason? And how does it connect to Junior? And why the hell am I not in on this secret?
Pissed off, I make a decision. I will find Junior and I will have my answers about that night. How I approach that will depend on how long this case keeps me in town and how much opportunity I have to fade into the shadows without really going away this time.
I do a search on my phone and find the Hempstead medical examiner’s office, retrieving Beth’s work cell phone number and then getting her on the line. “Agent Love,” she greets me. “I thought I was going to see you at the press conference this morning.”
“Yeah. Right. No. Can we meet?”
“When?”
“You went to the news conference, which means you’re still in the village. Now.”
“Obviously you still don’t believe in giving people a heads-up,” she states dryly.
“A heads-up gives people time to make up stories that waste my time.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t just infer I’d make up stories if you didn’t rush me to this meeting.”
“Can you do it?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that, Beth,” she says in a singsongy voice that, coming from her, is cute. Coming from me, and inclusive of at least one F-word, it would be a different version of cute. The kind of cute that isn’t cute at all. “I trust you, Beth,” she continues. “We’re friends, Beth.”
“Okay,” I say. “All that. Can you . . . ?”
“Yes. I just finished the autopsy, so I’m free. Where?”
“Micki’s Diner. I’ll grab us a table.”
“See you in fifteen,” she says, hanging up and proving it’s only the men in my life who don’t bother with a departing remark.
I slide the note inside my bag, not about to give Jun
ior a chance to clean up again. With it sealed away, I exit the vehicle and make my way to the diner. I reach the door right about the time it’s opening, and Jack Leroy is just exiting. “Lilah Love,” he says, giving me a big hug.
Most people who are not me would love the chance to be hugged by a famous, once-hunky movie star. But the thing is, most people, including my mother, believe that he killed his very famous wife, and therefore I’d rather he hug a street pole with cuffs holding him in place. “How you doing, kiddo?” he asks, thankfully releasing me and giving me a once-over. “As stunning as your mother.”
“You say that every time you see me,” I say to the familiar compliment, which I brush off for one reason and one reason alone: I’m not as stunning as my mother, and I’m okay with that. “How long are you here?”
He laughs. “Why? Do you think I killed that woman?”
I don’t even try to hide the sneer, which I hope I wear as poorly but obviously as I do bright-red lipstick. “That’s not a funny joke,” I comment, “if it’s a joke at all.”
His expression tightens and he looks uncomfortable. “Lighten up, Love.”
“Agent Love,” I correct, and fully enjoying that sourpuss look on his face, I press onward. “Did you know Cynthia?” I ask, calling last night’s murder victim by her first name.
“I did not.”
“And yet you know who I’m talking about?”