Murder Notes (Lilah Love 1)

Thirty minutes later, a driver drops me at my rental, and just when I was thinking Junior was sleeping late for the weekend, I find a note on my car. The impact is not dread but a deep sigh of not again, and I wonder if Junior knows the impact is diluted at this point. I don’t even bother with gloves. I snatch the damn thing up and read:

B is for Body.

B is for Buried.

And I know where.

Do you?

Junior followed Kane and therefore knows more than me. This irritates me rather than scares me. I’m going to make my brother feel like a king, but Junior is another story. Certain I’m being watched, I crumple the note in my hand, open the car, and toss the paper onto the back seat. I hope my message is clear. I’m not going to cower.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Turns out my brother isn’t at the police station but rather at Goldberg’s Famous Bagels, a hopping weekend breakfast spot not far from the station. And because what’s a sister for if not to show up unannounced, I decide to surprise him and drive that way. Since a white, generic rental doesn’t exactly scream Laura Love’s daughter, I park at the side of the building, and it’s still packed with cars. I head inside, and as much as I don’t want to lug my briefcase with me, I don’t dare leave it behind with all my case notes, and, of course, the sex tape. It goes with me.

With it and my purse in tow, I enter the weekend hustle and bustle of the restaurant, most of the wooden tables filled, a selection of famous faces in the crowd to include DiCaprio and two of the Real Housewives of someplace. I know the Botoxed faces but not the places. The hostess greets me and I spy my brother, and the company he’s keeping tells me why I didn’t get an invite. Samantha is on his left, while Alexandra is in front of her and Eddie across from Andrew. At least I’ve told Alexandra we won’t be playing nice; therefore, my hostility won’t be suspicious. She’ll never know I now have reason to believe she could have been a part of a plot to rape and kill me.

I motion to their table, and the hostess nods. I start walking that direction, silently cheering myself on as I do. You will not hit anyone, punch anyone, kick anyone, and most definitely, you will not armbar Alexandra and demand she spill her secrets, secrets she might not even have. That would be very un-FBI-agent-worthy behavior. And no matter what my sins—or fetish for an off-limits man—are, I love the honor of the badge. I will be good, I vow one last time as I pull up a chair and sit down at the table between Eddie and Andrew.

“Damn, Andrew,” I declare, setting my bags on the back of my seat. “I’m your sister. I can’t get an invite for a bagel?”

Andrew, in uniform, as is Eddie, fixes me with a mock-stunned look, his lips barely containing a smile. “She eats. She talks. She can be social. Are you my real sister?”

“I thought you knew me,” I chide, shrugging out of my coat. “I do those things on Saturdays. On Sundays, however, it’s all about sleeping late, cursing at strangers, drinking booze, and smoking cigarettes, in case you want to join me.”

“You always curse at strangers,” Samantha offers, flipping her long, blonde hair. “And everyone else.”

“She likes the F-word,” Alexandra says. “It’s really all she ever says, and that’s not even cussing in New York City.”

In moments like this, when Alexandra manages to look and sound every bit the brunette schoolgirl next door, it shows that she didn’t make assistant DA for no reason. She uses her sweet persona against people. Maybe even to convince people they’re her friends before she helps get them murdered.

I tune her and Samantha out and focus on my brother. “How bad was the press spin on what I said yesterday?”

“We answered more calls in person and on the phone about it than any real work,” Eddie says, his blue eyes locked on me.

“Sounds more interesting than the standard keys-locked-in-cars calls you get here,” I say dryly, and watching the table carefully, I add, “Thankfully M is not for Murder often in this town.”

Eddie bristles under the nerve I’ve hit. “Protecting the security of the high-profile residents of this town does not equate to keys locked in cars,” he states, while no one else blinks at my murder note reference.

“Though,” Alexandra offers, “Riley Aster did lock her keys in her car last night.”

Eddie looks at her. “What the hell, Alexandra?”

And I swear, I almost give Alexandra the satisfaction of laughing, but then she pats his cheek and does this baby-talk voice and says, “You were so good to help her,” and those Cheetos start churning in my stomach.

“M,” Andrew says, “is for mac n’ cheese. Mrs. Smith called and offered to bring you mac n’ cheese after you accused me of depriving you of that necessity on camera.”

Laughing, I say, “Score for me. There’s a reason her show competes with Martha Stewart. I’ll stay an extra day just to take her up on that.”

“Well, get it fast,” Eddie says. “Turns out we’ve connected Woods to the case you were looking into in New York as well. Detective Moser called this morning with compelling evidence.”

I cut him an irritated look and then eye Samantha and Alexandra. “I wasn’t aware that we decided who was privy to our casework based on who gets naked with who.”

“She’s right,” Andrew says. “This is internal business.” He leans over to Samantha and whispers in her ear, his head low to hers, intimate, and I swear, seeing my brother with this woman, I think day and night could be switched at any moment. It’s just unnatural.

Andrew leans back into his seat fully, and Samantha, like a good little soldier who wants something from her target, does his obvious bidding. She stands and announces, “I’m going to grab some bakery items to go.”

“I need to go to the office and catch up on some work,” Alexandra says, kissing Eddie’s cheek and standing, her pleading gaze touching mine and asking for forgiveness, and there is guilt in her eyes. Guilt that wouldn’t exist if I was the one who shut her out for no reason.

“I’ll walk you out,” Eddie says, and the way she looks at him at that offer, all doe eyes and sweetness, it’s clear his fifty shades of assholery makes him her version of tall, dark, and good-looking.

Alexandra and Eddie depart, and I refocus on my brother. “Quickly, while we’re alone. My team in LA has had a few developments that lend some doubt to the cases all connecting.”

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“And I’m sure you told them you think otherwise.”

“I shared my concerns. If I’m right, though, you’re wrong and so are they, and that doesn’t please the powers that be that want these cases closed.”

“I understand that dilemma.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah. This kind of trouble is bad for his political aspirations.”

“How do you feel about him running for New York governor?”

“It’s flipping killing me. Everything is about that to him, but you know. Politics is all he has since Mom died. I’m not sure how we fault him for finding something to live for.”

“You’re right, but I’m concerned about his involvement with Pocher.”

“Pocher is a rich asshole. He’s not a gangster.”

“There are opinions otherwise,” I point out.

“I’ve been around the guy. He believes in Dad and wants the best for our country. He’s not a bad person. In fact, there’s a big charity event tonight. Come. He’ll be there and maybe he’ll win you over.”

I’m shocked at the invite I was certain wasn’t intended, suddenly questioning my worries about Andrew and even my father. Which is a good thing.

“I’ll e-mail you a ticket, though I’m going to have my hands full with security.”

“You do have your hands full,” I say, not feeling overly motivated to mention Lucas or anything that distracts from the case right now. “Let me lend you FBI resources to get Woods.”

“FBI resources get attention we don’t need. The NYPD is helping.”

“The longer he’s gone, the less chance you have of finding Woods.”

“We’ll find him. And for the record, after that chat we had on the phone about Woods not fitting the profile, I’m going to enjoy out-profiling the profiler.”

“You will never out-profile the profiler,” I assure him.

“Uh-huh. Game on, sis. I’m right on this. And we’re going to get Woods and prove it.”

I know him and he really believes what he’s saying, and, despite how misplaced that belief, his conviction is music to my ears. I decide that he might have been fed Woods as a suspect, but I can stop worrying that he was a part of setting him up. Which means if we get Woods, he’ll see the truth and support a proper outcome of this case.