Murder Notes (Lilah Love 1)

“And you love it.”

“Yes,” I admit. “I do.”

We chitchat and laugh all the way to the door, where men in fancy guardsmen uniforms open the towering, arched wooden door for us. We enter the foyer, where the floor is a work of floral art, and I check my coat but refuse to check my sparkling black purse. “We’ll need to check your purse,” a security person states.

Lucas looks at me. “This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” I assure him as we’re guided behind a small curtain that forms a half circle, a table and a guard waiting inside.

I offer him my purse and he unzips it, his eyes going wide as he removes a small pistol. “Holy hell,” Lucas curses. “Not a problem, eh?”

“What is this, miss?” the guard demands.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a gun,” I say, “though I saw a lighter that looked just like this once. Check the ID inside the purse.”

He reaches for it and removes my phone and FBI badge. He lifts the badge. “Is this real?” he asks.

“And it’s fake why? Because I’m a chick in a red dress? Or because . . . ?”

“It doesn’t look real,” the man says.

Greg steps into the small space with us, making us officially four sardines in a two-sardine can. “Problem?” he asks.

“Why yes, my dear, sweet dapper-looking Detective Harrison,” I say, eyeing his tux. “Seems the guard doesn’t know what an FBI badge looks like. Can you confirm it’s real?”

Greg snorts. “Dapper? The things you say, Agent Love.” He eyes the guard. “She’s the real deal. I’d give her back her shit before she arrests you.”

The poor guy pales and quickly returns my items to my purse and offers it to me.

“I would never arrest you,” I assure him. “Unless you killed someone. Or violated Code 111. Then I would.”

“I would never violate Code 111,” the man says, having no idea there is no such code.

“Relax,” I say, once again telling a joke no one but me seems to get. “There is no Code 111.”

He just stares at me.

“It was a joke,” I say. “You know. Ha ha. Laughter. You were supposed to relax.”

He still looks like death warmed over, and I decide I just need to give the guy some curtain space to breathe. I step into the foyer of the house again with Greg and Lucas on my heels, the two of them acquainted and chatting it up. “That was your fault,” I chide Greg.

“Just keeping this boring-ass party interesting,” he says, someone catching his eye in the distance before he looks at us. “I need to go. Happy schmoozefest.” He disappears into the crowd.

“Do I have to worry about you shooting someone tonight?” Lucas asks.

“Very unlikely,” I assure him.

“Very unlikely,” he repeats. “I need a drink.” He motions me forward, and we cross through a hallway with an arched ceiling before entering the main room, a round ballroom with painted tiled floors, a bowl ceiling, and fancy, white-railed stairs winding left and right to the second level. Another set of stairs is a straight line up. About a hundred people are scattered here and there, all tuxedos and sparkly dresses, many of the faces famous. Almost all the faces are known to me.

One of many waiters working the floor passes by, and Lucas grabs us two glasses of champagne, handing me one. “To Lilah Love’s return,” he salutes.

“To Lilah Love leaving again,” I retort. “My father’s desire to be the New York governor only makes me all the more eager to get the heck out of Dodge. I did the press and the paparazzi for enough years.”

“Think about the platform you could have as first daughter, though.”

“Is the governor’s daughter the first daughter?”

“Whatever you will be called. You can initiate a stop-crime-in-New-York-City platform.”

“I’ll stop crime with a badge, thank you very much.”

I barely get the word out when Mrs. Smith appears, promising me my mac n’ cheese and raving about my dress and how much I look like my mother. This spirals, and then it’s one person after another, each a little more famous, and they all want to talk about me looking like my mother and how much they miss her. I can’t stop the onslaught of people or the emotions I don’t like to feel, feelings that just won’t stop stabbing me in the damn heart. I’m about to make an escape to the bathroom when my father and Pocher come into view, the two men in deep conversation. My father, looking like the handsome eligible bachelor that he is in his tuxedo, suddenly stops talking to Pocher, his gaze shifting and falling on me.

His expression tightens, a look of anger settling on his face rather than the joy a daughter hopes to see in her father’s face. But then, I wouldn’t know about that firsthand. He wanted boys. He got me. He steps away from Pocher and crosses toward us. “What the hell is wrong with him?” Lucas asks.

“Just his way of showing love,” I say, handing him my glass and taking a few steps forward to meet my father.

“Why are you wearing your mother’s dress?”

I barely contain my recoil. “Nice to see you, too, Father.”

“Let me be clear. If you are asked about the murder investigation, you will defer to your brother and downplay a problem. If you do not, I will go to your superior. Smile. Support me. Or leave.”

Pocher joins us. “Lilah,” he greets me, inclining his regal chin at me before looking at my father. “Mon

tgomery would like to discuss policy questions with you.”

“Of course,” my father says, eyeing me. “We’ll talk later.” He turns and leaves.

“Good to see you supporting your father,” Pocher comments, a snide look on his face. “I hope we can count on that continuing.”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“You know what they say. The company we keep.”

“I don’t believe I follow,” I say, when, of course, he’s talking about Kane.

“You’re an FBI agent, and if I support your father, you’re also the future New York governor’s daughter. Kane Mendez is an inappropriate choice for you, and your father.”

“You mean the same Kane Mendez you tried to do business with and failed?”

“I am not you or your father. Make smart decisions. It’s in everyone’s best interest. You should keep your family in mind.” With that obvious threat, he turns away.

“Pocher,” I say, and even though softly, I gain more than a few head-turns.

He rotates to face me, his brow arching in silent question, anger in the depth of his narrowly set eyes.

“No,” I say.

“No?” he inquires.

“No,” I repeat, closing the space between us and stopping in front of him. “I will not be your little bitch, and no, I am not afraid of you. But then, the company I keep says a lot about me, as you said. About what I’m capable of and willing to do. And I have a badge to go with that attitude. Maybe you should keep that in mind.”

I step around him and I don’t even consider leaving. I find a familiar face to approach. It’s time to chitchat. I will not cower. I will not be controlled. If Pocher, or whoever it might be, wants to send someone else after me, they’ll be reminded that I’m no easy target. And I don’t have a problem with dead bodies.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT