Love Me Dead (Lilah Love 3)

at lead to him. “Can we trade case files?”

“Considering you’re working what should be my case, yes. It’s way past time we solved a case together, kiddo. Text me a secure email address.”

“Will do.”

“And Roger, this feels off. You need to be careful. I can approve protection—”

“Hell no. If some killer finally gets this old man, I’ll go out doing what I love to do.”

“You aren’t the guy that fights off a criminal and shoots them. You profile them.”

“I can handle a gun and myself, woman. Enough.”

He hangs up.

I tried, and I leave it at that. I shift back to the case, processing what I know. I’m really not sure if this is the Society or a straight up killer fucking with me. My gaze lifts to the window in hopes of a view of the crime scene, in hopes that a light bulb will turn on and answers will follow. What I find is a person in a trench coat holding a red umbrella, blocking my view. There are no coincidences. This is not an accident. Adrenaline surges with the certainty that I’m being fucked with all over again, taunted, even baited to go outside. Most people would say don’t go, but I’m not most people. My hand goes to my weapon, and I stand up and head for the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I don’t actually pull my gun. Not with Donna around, not because I’m afraid of scaring Donna, but because I wouldn’t put it past her to chuck a coffee pot at me. No. My hand shoves up the hem of my hoodie that I’m wearing over my holster, and I grip my weapon, ready for a quick pull and discharge should it become necessary. I exit to the sidewalk, and the umbrella is gone. Any sign of a human on this side of the street is gone. My own umbrella, that wasn’t my umbrella at all, is also gone. The rain, not fucking gone at all.

I could run out into the rain chasing a ghost while amusing some asshole watching, or I could go back inside and drink my pumpkin latte. I go back inside the diner and sit down, waving to Donna. “More whipped cream. Oh hell. Just bring me another latte.” I slap another bill on the table. I’m done shying away from my family money. I’m done pretending I’m not my mother’s daughter. That was all about forgetting things I no longer want to forget. I want to remember. I want the Society to know that I fucking remember.

Donna arches a brow from behind the counter. “You want another pumpkin latte? Are you serious?”

“Just bring the damn latte,” I say, dialing Jeff, otherwise known as Tic Tac, my go-to tech guy back at the bureau in LA, the city where half my belongings still preside though I do not. And as for that nickname, I don’t know why we call him that, but it irritates him; therefore, I like it.

“Lilah,” he answers because, unlike Roger, Tic Tac knows my number. “I just want to start this conversation by saying that I will not secretly help you behind Director Murphy’s back, literally behind his back. He’s back in LA, you know? His office is around the corner from mine. I will not get fired.”

I might have gotten him in a little trouble recently, but Murphy got over it. “Eat a donut,” I say. “We both know that’s your comfort food. And then take some notes. I need stuff.”

“I am eating a donut. I’m at Hurts Donuts with a date. And you don’t work for the LA division anymore.”

“But I work for Murphy. Call him. He’ll confirm, and then we can actually get some work done.”

He sighs. “Text me what you need.”

“You don’t have your computer with you?”

“Date, Lilah. I’m on a date.”

“And I have a dead woman. She was blonde. Pretty. Her whole life before her that is now gone. She was naked with an umbrella posed in her hand, but get this, the blood that was in the Tupperware container that was attached to the ceiling fan before it was turned on was someone else’s.”

“Thank you, Lilah, for ruining my donut.” He murmurs to someone else, a muffled tone now, but I still hear him say, “Hold on, Mike. Just one more minute.”

“Mike?” I ask incredulously. “You’re on a date with Mike?”

“Yeah, Lilah. You ruined women for me. Happy?”

“I didn’t ruin women for you. You were born that way. If I inspired you to embrace the real you then you owe me a donut.”

“Just text me the information,” he snaps. “We’re going to leave and head to my place.”

“There’s a connection to that problem we’ve been dealing with, so be careful.”

“Another dead woman and a connection to them. Wonderful.” He hangs up.

Donna sets my coffee in front of me along with a slice of pumpkin pie. “Try it.” She points to the whipped cream on top. “I added that just for you.”

“Fine, but you’re still a bitch. Get something other than pumpkin in this place.”

She smirks and walks away. She likes me, too. I take a bite of the pie. Yep, it’s pumpkin, but my taste buds have temporarily accepted this as their evening fate. I begin my text message to Tic Tac, sharing everything I can on an open line:

Roger Griffin. Is he really in Connecticut? When did he get there? I need details on the case he’s presently working. Actually, I need a complete history but focus on the past year. Next. The woman is Mia Moore. Twenty-eight. Former model turned advertising executive. Get me everything you can on her and her family, love life, you know. All that shit you dig up for me. The detective running the case is a woman, last name Williams. I need to know all about her, too. More soon.

He doesn’t reply. He must be sucking face with Mike and trying to make this alright with him. I sympathize, but there are lives on the line. Oh crap. I have a thought. I dial Tic Tac again. “Lilah. You do know I have to drive to get to my computer, right?”

“I left out details that I can’t put in a text. It’s too much.”

“No kidding?”

“Murphy got a call tonight that was supposedly from Roger Griffin asking for me on this crime scene. Roger says that call didn’t come from him. We need to know who called Murphy.”

“I am not hacking my boss’ phone.”

“It’s possible that a serial killer called your boss and may well think he’d make a tasty treat. We need to know who contacted Murphy and said they were Roger.”

“I’m calling Murphy,” he growls.

“Good. Then I don’t have to.” This time, I hang up.

I sigh and consider leaving the diner, but the storm just won’t let up. Instead, I finish off my pie and coffee, and by the time I’m done, finally, the rain has eased to a sprinkle. It’s also one in the morning, and my view of the crime scene across the street is now blocked by a blue plastic wall that’s been put up. I’d like to think that it’s to protect the evidence, but I believe it’s more about staying dry.

I slip in my earbuds to free my hands for a walk home, stand up, and wave at Donna. “Get some damn strawberry pie, and I’ll be back.”

“Well, as long as it gets you back, we’ll get the strawberry pie. We’ll change up the whole menu for the likes of you.”

“Smartass. I’m a good tipper.” I don’t wait for a reply. I slip on my jacket and then pull up the hood. Wasting no time, I step outside and walk toward my apartment.

I’ve just gotten past the barricades, that weren’t present before, when the prickling at the back of my neck begins. I’m being watched, and I don’t like it. My hand shifts under my jacket, lifting my hoodie, settling on my gun. This could be Kane’s man and lord knows this isn’t the first time he’s had me followed, but I’m on edge. I don’t like what I feel.

My cellphone rings, and I grab it from my pocket to find Kane’s number on my caller ID. “What’s happening?” he asks when I answer.

“There was a dead body posed with an umbrella with someone else’s blood in a Tupperware container attached to a ceiling fan.”

“And?”

And this man knows me. Those details don’t equal me asking him to return. “Murphy got a call from Roger requesting me on this crime scene, but Roger didn?

??t make the call. If that isn’t enough, Beth was called in as well. Beth who only works in Long Island. If that’s not enough, the scene was staged for me.”

“Staged meaning what?”

“I found two Marlboro cigarettes.”

“Roger’s brand.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that.”

“I make it a point of knowing everyone in your life, beautiful.”

“If this didn’t mean you know things I now need to know about Roger, I’d remind you that you qualify as a stalker.”

“I protect what’s mine,” he says as I pass an alleyway and feel something, really fucking feel something.

“I’m not yours,” I say, but I stop walking.

“Lilah—”

“Wait,” I warn softly, and I turn to the dark as fuck alleyway.

It’s not empty. Standing there, under a beam of a lone light, as if in a spotlight, is a woman, in a dress and heels, holding an umbrella. “Oh fuck,” I murmur.

“What does that mean?” Kane demands. “Lilah what does ‘oh fuck’ mean and where are you?”

I can’t listen to him in my ear right now. I disconnect the call, and for the third time in an hour, reach for my weapon.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kane immediately tries to call me back, and I swear I’d rip those earbuds out of my ear if I dared use my hand for anything but the Glock I’m now holding. The woman—or the person dressed as a woman, I can’t be sure in the shit show of a wet, dark alleyway—doesn’t move. I ease forward, and the rain decides to be a perfect little bitch by way of a torrential downpour again. The ringing in my ear stops only to start again. I’m going to throttle Kane when I see him. Or shoot him. I really think I need to shoot someone tonight.

With my weapon in front of me, finger on the trigger, I reach in my bag and grab a flashlight, and holy fuck, I can’t seem to put my hand on it. Screw it, time is everything when a life is on the line—mine or someone else’s—so I move toward the person holding that damn umbrella. It’s a red umbrella just like the one I left by the diner door. Holy hell, she’s holding the umbrella I left behind. And that umbrella is shaking. The closer I get, the more it seems to shake. I don’t assume to know why. It could be fear. It could be part of a game.