Murder Girl (Lilah Love 2)

“Otherworld, Lilah,” I whisper, forcing myself into the place I normally reserve for crime scenes but aware that I need to step back and away from the personal side of my investigation. I need to be Agent Love: cold, thoughtful, calculating, and driven. I inhale again, slowly letting the air flow back out of my lungs and over my lips. “Otherworld,” I repeat as I turn away from the photo and exit the bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later, after fighting an urge to confine myself to my office, my self-declared Purgatory, the place I confine myself until I find the answers I need, I settle in the living room. It’s the only way I can keep the doors in view. I turn the living room into my new workspace, my temporary Purgatory. Once I have note cards, pens, coffee, and cookie slices within reach, I get to work. And as my trips to Purgatory always begin, I alternate between pacing and cursing, with random time at my computer and scribbling on note cards. At three in the morning, I summarize the points in my mind and discussed with Kane up to this point:

JR. AND ASSASSIN—THE SAME PERSON? UNCERTAIN

MY RETURN TO NEW YORK COULD BE A BY-PRODUCT OF THE MURDERS, NOT NECESSARILY PLANNED

OR THE ASSASSIN WAS TOLD TO HUMILIATE THE VICTIMS BY UNDRESSING THEM BEFORE KILLING THEM, BUT I’M EXTRASPECIAL: I GET TAUNTED FIRST

At four in the morning, I wake up in the center of the floor with a cramp in my leg, note cards scattered everywhere. I have a cookie. It helps. At five, I repeat this process, but this time I wake up with my arm so asleep that I have a panicked moment when I think it might not ever wake up. Because, you know, bad guys and bodies don’t scare me, but not being able to control my arm scares the fuck out of me.

At six, when the same arm is asleep, I’m done with this hellish cycle. I give up on sleep and do so despite the fact that I have a minimum four-hour sleep bar. Without it I’m a bitch, which really wouldn’t worry me, considering all the enemies I have biting at my heels, except for one thing: it also means that my brain gets stupid. I can’t be stupid today. I head to the shower, and with hot water running over me, I devise a plan to stay on my game today, which includes extra coffee and real food that is not laced with sugar. Once I’m out of the shower, I dress in brand-name everything, because that’s what this fucking town likes: Black slacks. A pink blouse, because as bitchy as I am I need something to soften me the fuck up, if that is even possible. High-heeled boots that I can use as weapons to complete my outfit. My gun goes to my hip, and with a blazer in my hand, I’m ready for the bed everyone is going to wish I was in.

By eight, I am sitting at the island in the kitchen with the news on subtitles, coffee in my cup, and a slice of cold pizza, my version of wholesome, being shoveled down my throat. By eight fifteen I’ve finished up a spreadsheet of the crew for every movie the Chinese production company has ever done. Finally, after hours of work last night and early this morning, I sort it by like names. A few more key punches, and I have several hits:

ROBERT NEIMAN, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER OF FIVE OF THE TEN FILMS. TWO WITH MY MOTHER AND ONE WITH LANEY.

GUY SANDS, PRODUCER OF THREE OF THE TEN FILMS. HE WAS ON LANEY’S FILM.

KELLI PEARCE, ACTRESS ON FOUR OF THE TEN FILMS. SHE WAS ON FIVE OF GUY SANDS’S FILMS.

I dial Kane.

“Did you sleep?” he asks.

“Two hours. I’m a bitch. I can’t help myself.”

“I know how to fix that.”

“Chocolate,” I say.

“Me,” he says.

“A knee,” I offer.

“For Pretty Boy?” he counters. “I approve.”

“Stop while you’re ahead. I’m texting you three names. They all have strong ties to the Chinese investors connected to Laney’s movie, and now two of my mother’s. Two producers and an actress. I know nothing more at this point.”

“I’ll find out the rest. What else?”

My gaze catches on the television above the bar, which is showing an image of my father. “I’ll let you know. Something just came up.” I hang up and push the Volume button on the remote to hear: “Mayor Love will host what is expected to be a celebrity-riddled crowd at the Children’s Museum today, and all in the name of a good cause: the battle against children’s cancer.”

“A good cause, my ass,” I say, turning off the television, wishing I could believe this was about the charity, not politics, but I can’t. Not with everything that’s come to light about my family this past week. Whatever the case, my father needs a visit from me, but first things first.

I dial Rich. “I need to see you.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“I’ll come to you. Where are you staying?”

“Apple Cove Inn,” he says.

“I know it.” And because the location might send the wrong idea, I add, “This isn’t a naked meeting in a hotel room. Meet me in the lounge.” I hang up and then write the three names down on a piece of paper, along with the details on the Chinese investor, before pulling on the black blazer I’ve draped over a chair. And because nothing about my research stays in this house for prying eyes, I walk to my newly minted version of Purgatory, the room others call the “living room,” and load my field bag with every note card and scribble I’ve made. For good measure, I check the sliding glass door. It’s locked. It better stay that way.

It’s nine fifteen when I arrive at the Apple Cove Inn, where Rich is staying, and park near the door, locking my field bag in the trunk. I walk across the short, graveled parking lot and up the wooden steps to find Rich sitting on the wide wraparound porch in one of about a half dozen wooden chairs. He stands to greet me, his hands settling under the thin tan leather jacket, exposing his badge and gun at the waistband of his jeans. “What’s going on?”

“I need a favor,” I say, moving to join him.

“Not ‘I need stuff’ but ‘I need a favor,’” he says as I sit next to the seat that he reclaims. “That sounds serious,” he adds, his elbows on his knees. “I’m all ears.”

“I need you to go back to LA.”

He makes a frustrated sound and straightens, running his hand through his longish blond hair. “No. I’m not leaving.” He grimaces and then gives me a dead-on look. “Murphy wants me here. I want me here. You’re going to have to deal with it.”

I hand him the piece of paper. “This is why I need you to go back.”

His lips thin, but he reluctantly accepts it, glancing down and then up at me. “What is this?”

“Three people who live in LA who might have answers I need. Off the record, Rich. This is potentially tied to my family and corruption. I can’t trust anyone else to do it.”

His spine softens and he leans closer. “Explain.”

“The Chinese financier I’ve written on the paper is my focus. I need to know who is behind them, off the books. The people who hide behind other people. All these names I’ve given you are individuals who have been on multiple projects for them and who might know something. Unfortunately, the two producers are both out of the country, filming separate projects. But that doesn’t mean digging around their backyard won’t produce answers. And the actress is working on an independent film in LA. You can talk to her.”

He studies me for several beats. “This is important to you.”

“Very.”

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“It can’t be on the books, and Murphy is too smart not to know you’re back in LA. It’s a lie I don’t want you to get caught telling. You have to request removal from this case. And you have to do it urgently.”

“What corruption, Lilah?” he says softly.

“I don’t want you to be able to answer that question. You need to be able to say ‘I don’t know’ if you’re asked.”

“Damn it, I want to push. You know that, right?”

“Yes. But don’t.”

He seems to struggle with that but thankfully moves on. “If I leave,” he says, “and you claim jurisdiction, your family is going to lash

out at you.”

“The answers you’re trying to get will help me deal with them.”

He runs his hand over his perpetually clean-shaven face, as if the man carries around a razor blade. “I’ll call Murphy,” he says.

“Now. Call him now.”

“He has that conference call.”

“Try,” I press.

“You never get less pushy, do you?” he asks, but he does it. He dials Murphy, only to shake his head. “Voice mail,” he says before he leaves a message. “I’ll book a flight,” he says after he sets his phone aside. “Where are you going now?”

“Research stop,” I say. “Call me when you talk to Murphy.” I stand up and start walking.