Murder Girl (Lilah Love 2)

I start the car, ready to get out of here, and I’m not even sure where I’m going. I just need to be moving. And damn it, I didn’t get my pie and I gave up my doughnuts. I kill the engine. I need to eat and think, but I don’t get out of the car. My fingers thrum on the steering wheel, my mind going back to Laney’s case. I know that case is connected to my attack. And my attack is connected to the current murders by way of the tattoo. And the old man’s clue led me to Jensen Michaels and to Laney, who connect by way of the film company. Pocher, or someone just as powerful, has to be connected to that film company.

I grab my phone and start to dial Tic Tac, then think better of it. Murphy is watching over him, and this all connects to me and to the night that I stabbed a man twelve times. I should never have asked Tic Tac to look into the film company, and yet I did. I practically invited him and Murphy to discover I’m a killer hunting a killer. That means I’m dependent on myself and Kane to figure out the connection between that film company, my attack, Laney’s case, and the murders. Actually, there is one more person who might just know something. The person who was working the Laney case with me but didn’t end up raped and nearly killed: my ex-partner, Greg Harrison.

CHAPTER TEN

I dial Greg and, of course, I get his voice mail. “Greg,” I say. “It’s me. You know. Me. The one whose calls you never fucking take. And I don’t know. Maybe you have a good excuse for ignoring me. Like you’re drunk and feeling sorry for yourself. Or maybe you’re naked with that party-planner chick I saw you cuddling up to at the party the other night. I wouldn’t want to interrupt you while you’re getting a good piece of ass because Lord knows, based on the way you looked and smelled last week, you aren’t getting much. Maybe—” The voice mail buzzes. “Damn,” I murmur. “I wasn’t done.” Especially since that party planner is a Romano.

I disconnect the line only to have my cell ring again, and assuming that it’s Greg, I answer without looking at the number. “Screening your calls?”

“What the hell, Lilah?”

Not Greg. “I don’t know, brother of mine,” I answer at the sound of Andrew’s voice. “What the hell?”

“Why are you harassing Alexandra over Woods?”

“Friendly questions over doughnuts does not constitute harassing. And if she needs you to fight her teeny-tiny battles, I know why she didn’t end up with a corner office in Manhattan.”

“Unlike you, she’s invested in this community and our father’s future.”

I’m officially bordering on angry. “You know, Andrew, even for a brother, that was low. Especially since I’m the only one who seems to have the common sense to see beyond shortsighted decisions.”

“Whatever the hell that means, Lilah, I don’t care. We need to end this Woods situation here and now.”

“And there it is. The shortsighted decision.”

“I should have dragged you to the station this morning. Where are you now?”

“Have you gotten Murphy the paperwork on Woods that he requested?”

“We both know he’s pushing for proof Woods is guilty at your encouragement. You can end this.”

“That’s a no. You have not gotten Murphy the paperwork that he wants. I can’t do anything to help you until he finishes his evaluation. Believe me. I tried to get him to make a decision now, not later.” My phone beeps. “I need to take this call.”

“We need to finish this conversation,” my brother argues.

“I’ll come to the station.”

“When?”

“Soon,” I say.

“Today,” he insists.

“I’ll try.” I end the call and answer the next line, this time a little more cautiously. “Agent Love,” I say.

“Aren’t we formal, Agent Love?” Greg says. “Where’s Ms. Fuck-fuck-fuck?”

“Where are you?”

“Still in East Hampton,” he says. “Are you?”

“Why are you here?”

“You know the ex-supermodel Misty Morgan?”

“Yes. I know her. She and my mother were friends. Why?”

“I’m doing security for her book tour that launches tomorrow. And holy hell. Did you just say that she was your mother’s friend?”

“Frenemy. Misty’s attacks on my mother were so frequent that Misty might as well have been a Vegas hooker in a five-and-dime.”

“Great. This just got weird.”

“You’re fucking her and the Romano chick? Jesus, Greg. She is old enough to be your mother. And to think we used to say you were the normal one.”

“She’s hot. She’s famous. Life is short.”

“And that mentality gets a lot of people in trouble. You know it. I know it. We need to talk in person.”

“Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

“Meet me and look me in the eyes and answer every question I have,” I say. “Make me believe you.”

“Bring it,” he says, accepting my challenge. “When and where?”

“Now. A diner ten minutes from Misty’s.”

I give him the address and we disconnect, my fingers thrumming the steering wheel. He was with the Romano woman. Now he’s with Misty. I’m not sure what to make of Greg’s recent behavior, but I’m not ready to write him off as bad. I exit the car and walk to the trunk, grabbing my briefcase from inside before locking up. Rounding the front of the building, I see there are now open parking spots, which I hope equate to open tables. I need that second cup of coffee, right before I have a third.

Entering the diner, I find that my luck has returned. There are several open tables, and one of them is my favorite corner booth. The hostess, a forty-something woman with her hair clipped at the back of her head so tightly I think she might pop a seam, greets me. I point to my table. “That’s my reserved seating.”

She frowns. “Reserved?”

“Yes. They didn’t tell you?”

She doesn’t laugh. She looks confused. Either she really is about to pop a seam, or I’m clearly really bad at fitting in and making small talk. Either is highly possible, which leads me to believe that I need coffee. Or booze. Maybe both. “I’ll grab my seat,” I say, heading in that direction, and the good news is that she doesn’t stop me. I’m also pleased to note that of all the people in the place, I recognize absolutely no one. That’s hard to do in this town, and yet this place has continually overperformed in that aspect. And it has good pie.

Win.

Win.

I settle into the booth, my back to the wall and my eyes on the front door. Rose, my waitress from my prior visit, is quickly beside me, filling my coffee cup—proof that good tips to good people pay off. Which is a nice change of pace, since in my business, good tips often come from bad people, and good tips sometimes go to bad people. I’ve just opened my computer to start digging into some research on the Chinese production company on my own, but I find myself staring blankly at the monitor, my mind going back to the past: six days after my attack and the night Laney died in her Manhattan apartment while out on bail.

Greg and I step into the elevator, and I hit the button for the thirtieth floor of the Central Park apartment building, then head to the $20 million apartment Laney owns. A luxury her nickname, “the Princess of Call Girls,” has allotted her.

“What’s wrong with you, Lilah?” Greg asks

the minute the doors seal us inside the car.

That’s a loaded question he doesn’t really want answered. I don’t look at him. “I’m two candy bars shy of my chocolate quota for the week. That kind of shit fucks with a girl.”

“At least I got a smart-ass reply out of you. That’s the first time in days.”

“Fuck you,” I say, glancing over at him. “How’s that?”

He punches the button on the elevator to halt us at floor five. “Talk to me,” he demands.

I whirl around to fire back. “What the hell are you doing, Greg? We don’t have time for this.”

“Why? Because Laney is going to run off to Brazil before we talk to her? She’s under house arrest. What the hell is going on with you? What is wrong?”

“You, right now. My job is to work the case, not entertain you with my attitude.”

“Your attitude is who you are, and if that part of you isn’t present, you aren’t present, and that’s dangerous to us both. Are you and Kane having problems?”

“What the hell is it with you men? You think that if a woman’s upset, a set of balls is to blame?” And because he’s still staring at me, I give him a nibble, and it’s not a lie. At least not fully. “It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death. And I’m like this every year around this time, so I really don’t know why you chose to be less self-absorbed than usual and actually notice. But don’t. Go back to being your regular insensitive self. I like you better like that.” I punch the button to start the elevator moving, facing forward again.

He faces forward, too. “When is the anniversary?”

“Just drop it,” I say, and thankfully he does. Right now, we both need to focus on our case and our boss’s directive to reveal Laney’s entire client list.

Floors tick by, and as I have many times in the past few days, a flashback of me driving a knife into my attacker’s chest is shoving its way into my mind. And damn it. I don’t think it’s supposed to be a memory that calms the storm inside me, but it does. It’s a good memory.

We arrive on Laney’s floor and the elevator opens. I shove aside everything but this case and step into the corridor beyond the car. I’ve met Laney several times while she was in custody. I fought to get her home, where I could actually break down her walls, and I’m hoping today is that day.