“Regrettably,” I say, easing a knee onto the foot of the bed to grab his attention, “considering your current state of undress and the fact that I want to know what is in your head right now, Kit is on his way over. I had him break into the mail center and grab the contents of Marilyn’s lockbox.”
“I heard,” he comments. “A regular felon, Lilah Love,” he says. “And as for Kit, of course, he is. I’ll get dressed.” He stands up and starts the hunt for his clothes. “I told him not to show up without food. Let’s see if he came through. I don’t trust anyone else to feed us right about now.”
“Good point,” I say, starting to get dressed again myself as well. “Why is it you trust Kit so much? Not that I don’t. I do. It’s just rare for someone who isn’t me to have your trust.”
He’s in his pants and he pulls his shirt over his head. “I helped his family years back. Since then, he’s been loyal in so damn many ways, we’d need a bottle of wine for me to begin to get into details.”
“How’d you help his family?”
“His mom had cancer. They didn’t have the money for treatment.”
I finish dressing and study him. “Is she alive now?”
“She is. She’s doing well.”
I cross and stand in front of him. “You did a good thing, Kane.”
“I’m not my father.”
“You don’t have to keep telling me that.”
“Don’t I?” he queries.
“No. You just have to tell me who you are.” I press my hand to his chest. “I don’t want to fight with you, and I don’t want to leave you.”
He catches my hip and leans in and kisses me. “I wasn’t going to let you.”
I decide right then that the day he replies any other way, will mean we’re in real trouble.
My cellphone buzzes with a text and I groan. “My wish for a honeymoon is that everyone leaves us alone.” I back away from him and grab my phone from my pocket to find a group text that includes Lucas and Tic Tac. The two of them are comparing notes and bringing me along for the irritating ride, which includes about a hundred messages. None of which are helpful.
Thank fuck, the doorbell rings.
Maybe there’s something in the data Kit’s bringing me that will help.
Turns out Kit not only has the folder he found in the lockbox, but enough tacos to feed an army. The three of us settle in around the kitchen island with the intent of eating. For me, though, I’m more into the data drive in the folder than the tacos. I did have two donuts.
“Any problems getting to the lockbox?” I ask, powering up my MacBook.
“The mail center won’t even know they had a break-in,” Kit assures me. “How are you going to handle already having whatever that is in the folder?”
“I have a plan,” I say. “And if she backs out of handing over the info, I’ll say it was dropped off for me anonymously.”
“Who gives two fucks about the badge, right?” he jokes, referencing what I said to Miguel.
I scowl at him and Kane laughs, but I’m already dismissing them, sticking the data drive inside my Mac. I do a quick scan of the data, but something about it all looks a little too perfect. There is literally a list of people labeled “fake investors.” Would Rip be that stupid?
“Why are you frowning?” Kane asks. “Not what you expected?”
“It feels like it was created, not copied.” My eyes catch on a name and I groan. “Damn it. Pocher is on the list.” I eye Kane. “If I give this to the police, they’ll warn him to watch his back.”
“You warn him first,” he says. “It makes you look good. Like you’re protecting him.”
“He’ll know better.”
“Which is just another reason we need to go to your father’s fundraiser. Keeping the peace between us and the Society is advised. And Pocher isn’t a fool. He knows it as well.”
“You really don’t think he tried to kill you, do you?”
Kit snorts. “That wasn’t Pocher.”
In other words, it was the cartel. That’s what they’re telling me. And my questions about those details will be directed to Kane and Kane alone.
“When is the fundraiser, exactly?” Kane asks, clearly steering the conversation in another direction as well.
“I think mid-month. I’ll ask Andrew, but that doesn’t mean I’m going.” I pick up my phone from where it rests on the island and find the text message stream between Lucas and Tic Tac continues. Now, instead of the case, they are talking about banana pudding. I don’t want to know why. I reply to them and say: My version of hell is now banana pudding and you two. Take me off this hellish thread of messages. I just want the bottom line. Tic Tac, I’m about to send you both some data provided by a witness, who might actually be our killer. Share with Lucas as you see fit. See what you can both do with it. And I need more on Marilyn Lennox. Get me everything from the day she was born until now. If she sucked her ugly thumb, I want to know. Do the same for Ann Casey. Call Andrew. He’ll explain who she is and why she matters.