Murder Notes (Lilah Love 1)

Pulling around to the side of the house, I park under a willow tree, not too far from a Jaguar XK120 Alloy Roadster that is an easy cool half a million, if I know my cars, and I do. I’d have that puppy in the garage, but then I’m not looking for attention. Whoever bought that car and left it in plain sight is. A thought that leads me back to the assassin I’m hunting. He got in and got out. He wasn’t looking for attention, and he was smart enough not to get it. He’s a pro. These weren’t his first kills. Kevin Woods, and his bad-ending encounter with his cougar’s husband, says sloppy and inexperienced to me. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t killed someone. It just reiterates my thoughts that he’s not my man. Tonight I plan to find out why he’s Eddie’s.

Rounding the corner toward the front yard, my fingers trail along the ivy my mother had planted to climb this side of the house. Her memory is alive and well in this place. Reaching the stone steps, I climb a dozen up to the wide porch, where two heavy wooden rocking chairs frame the entrance, left and right. More memories threaten to turn me mushy, proving that I might have a human side, and I frankly don’t like it. That’s exactly why I walk right past those damn chairs and straight for the door, at the same moment that it abruptly swings open.

A thin, tall man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair appears in the doorway, an air of arrogance and authority to him, which he wears like a second skin. And while I don’t know him personally, I just know of him, my instant inclination is still to hate him in a really big way—a reaction I actually hand out more infrequently than some might believe.

“Lilah,” he greets me, as amicable as I’ve heard him to be, in that snake-in-the-Garden-of-Eden kind of way. “Nice to finally meet you.” He offers me his hand, and the irony of the cross on the expensive black ring his pinky is sporting doesn’t escape me. “I’m Ted.”

“Pocher,” I supply, my hands sliding inside my coat pockets in rejection of fake niceties. “The head of Pocher Industries,” I add. “The billionaire CEO of the world’s fifth-largest privately held conglomerate, with diverse interests that include oil and politics.”

“Of course you know who I am,” he says, pushing the hemline of his expensive blue suit jacket back to shove his hands in his own pants pockets. “Kane Mendez and I have had some business dealings. And, of course, I know from your father that you two are close.”

“And I know that you and Kane are not,” I say, letting him know that I know his business as well as he does mine, and knowing that power fights power, also keeping Kane in my corner.

“Kane dove into oil after his father’s death,” he said. “I admired the direction he was taking the family business and saw a good partnership to be had. He did not.”

Because Kane didn’t like the bastard. “And you didn’t like that, I hear.”

“No man likes to be turned down.”

But this one doesn’t take no for an answer and lashes out when rebuked. Except that Kane, whose family ties are to a drug cartel, scares the shit out of most sane people, which apparently includes Pocher. “What political agenda are you working with my father?”

He laughs. “I heard you were direct. I see it’s true. Your father and I have been friends since I bought a house down the road a few years ago now. Right before you left for LA, I believe.”

My family just keeps on giving and giving with the surprises. “And your political agenda with my father?”

“To support any agenda he might have himself,” he assures me. “He’s a good man. We need more like him.” He redirects the conversation. “How long are you in town for, Lilah?”

“Until I’m ready to leave.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Please tell me your visit doesn’t represent a township-safety crisis.”

“My father and brother are in charge of township safety, and they’re quite capable, as you know.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I wasn’t aware my visiting home was cause to call out the National Guard,” I say dryly.

“Of course not,” he agrees, and after studying me a beat too long to suit me, he adds, “I’m headed to the city for the next few days. If you get out that way, call my office and I’ll take you out for a meal.”

When pigs fly, I think, as an old man I’d tried, and failed, to interview a few months ago had said, but I keep that thought to myself, choosing to instead back up and allow him to exit. His lips quirk, eyes alight with interest, not irritation. “I take it you won’t be calling me for that meal,” he comments.

“No, I will not,” I confirm.

“You can change your mind at any time. It’s an open invitation.” He walks past me and heads down the stairs. “Have a nice visit, Lilah,” he calls out.

I step into the doorway and watch him leave, wanting him to feel the weight of my stare, to know that I am not intimidated by his money or reputation. To know he is in my family circle and I have eyes on him. His presence in this house tells me that Kane was right. My father has dived into waters not meant for the likes of an honest man.

Pocher never turns. He keeps walking and I stand my ground until I see that fancy-ass, attention-grabbing Jaguar drive away. Pocher is trouble and I don’t like the fact that he’s involved with my family at a time when they seem to be willing to cover up a murder. Murder, I mentally repeat, a thought hitting me. I step back onto the porch and shut the door, removing my phone from my pocket and texting Tic Tac: Look for a connection between the victims, Woods, and Ted Pocher.

Tic Tac replies instantly. The Ted Pocher?

I respond with: The one and only.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and think, who better to hire a hit man than one of the richest men on the planet? A man who was just in my family home.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It’s time to find out how close my father is to drowning in trouble, and maybe my brother right along with him. I enter the house, stepping into the half-moon-shaped foyer. The stairwell directly in front of me is made of the same gray wood that is beneath my feet and leads upstairs to a cluster of rooms, one of which is the bedroom I’d once called my own. The glistening teardrop lights of a chandelier dangle from the ceiling high above me, another of my mother’s personal touches to the house, proving she still dwells within these walls. But there is more than my mother here right now. Pocher is gone, but not absent.

Shutting the door firmly behind me, I slip off my coat and hang it on the steel coatrack designed to look like the Eiffel Tower. To my left is an archway revealing the library. To the right, sealed white double doors leading to my father’s office, where I am certain he would have met with Pocher, and I resist the urge to charge in there and make demands. As much as I like demands and often find that they shock people into reactions that tell more than their words, they have to be properly timed. In other words, bitch that it is when I’m feeling as impatient for answers as I am tonight, I’ll start the night out with observation and restraint. Not quite as exciting as the alternative, but in this case, necessary.

I head toward my father’s office, the doors opening as I approach. He joins me in the foyer, his black slacks and white shirt fitted, expensive, and endearingly rumpled. And as most fathers would, be they good or bad at parenting, he reacts to my presence, his blue eyes alight as they fall on me. “Lilah,” he greets me, closing the small space between us and pulling me close, his big arms wrapping around me.

This, I think, as he hugs me tight and I hug him as well, is a good-parenting moment, and I find myself transported back, at least momentarily, to a gentler place and time, to my youth when I’d thought him able of saving me from the monsters in the closet. But now I know those monsters are not dragons and trolls but serial killers and rapists. And no one can save me but me.

Done with fairy tales, pretty much now and forever, I pull back, but my father doesn’t let me escape, his hands settling on my upper arms the way my brother’s had last night, while he, as Andrew had, gives me a fast once-over. “You look g

ood, baby girl,” he declares.

The thing about my father is that he’s charming, a perfect politician, even before he held office. Everyone looks beautiful to him, even if they aren’t. Even when they look too thin, as everyone has told me that I do. “Thank you, Dad,” I say, despite the certainty he doesn’t mean the compliment, and moving past that, I stroke the hair at my temple to indicate his hairline. “I do believe you’re going gray by your ears.”

“Indeed I am,” he says, releasing me to touch the offending areas with his fingertips. “I’m getting old,” he adds, the laugh that follows low, warm, as inviting as always, and part of the reason people like him so damn much.

“You’re fifty-seven, Dad,” I say. “That’s not old. And you look great.” I pat my flat belly. “Fit and trim. Not even a beer belly for me to tease you about.” And digging for what influences are in his life now, I wiggle a brow. “Does that mean there’s a lady friend about?”

“No one worthy of my daughter,” he assures me, dodging that question, but with as much charm as I expect from him, of course.

“He means no one that can handle his daughter.”

At the sound of Andrew’s voice, Dad and I rotate to find him joining us. Andrew’s dark jeans are now paired with a black New York Giants tee rather than his uniform shirt. “He’s dating,” he informs me. “But no one seems to make an appearance beyond a few dates.”

Dad rubs his always-clean-shaven chin. “Being mayor of this town isn’t as easy as it looks. It’s small, but it packs one hell of a punch.”

Seeing an opening, I take it. “With men like Pocher coming around for favors, I imagine it does and he does.”

“Pocher doesn’t ask for favors,” he replies a little too quickly in my not-so-humble opinion. “But plenty of others do,” he adds but doesn’t give me a chance to ask any of the ten questions that come to my mind, motioning me toward the hallway to the right of the stairs. “Let’s head on to dinner. Katie should be ready to serve.” His cell phone rings and he digs it from his pocket, giving it a glance. “I’ll meet you both in there.” He disappears into his office, shutting the door resolutely behind him. Shutting us out.

“Katie?” I ask, returning my attention to Andrew. “What happened to Jennifer?”

“Married and no longer in New York,” he replies, motioning for us to walk.

I fall into step with him, stunned by his explanation, considering Jennifer is sixty-something and has been with this household since we were children. “Who in the world did she marry?”

“No idea,” he says. “She just was gone one day. Didn’t even say goodbye.”