Bloody Love (Lilah Love 6)

Andrew curses, but I’m already stepping around North, walking the line of the tape toward the perfectly manicured lawn, my phone already in my hand as I call Kit. He doesn’t answer. My next call is Jay.

“Where the fuck are you?” he demands.

“Ask Enrique,” I say. “Where is Kane?”

“No news yet,” he says tightly.

I draw in a breath and hang up, sliding my phone back into my pocket. I’m now at the front of the house, where several officers guard the entry point to more intimate parts of the crime scene. I flash my badge and manage to get past the line without irritating conversation. I start walking up the concrete steps. My field bag is at my hip, I realize, and I don’t even remember how it got there. I’m fucked up and I’m about to try to solve a murder. That’s a bunch of unfair bullshit. Rip, no matter who he is, deserves better, at least until I find out he doesn’t.

I stop walking.

I’m not focused on this case, I repeat in my mind, but not to beat myself up, but rather to bring clarity to the situation.

I’m distracted and maybe that’s the entire point of at least some of what is happening right now. Someone wants me rattled.

Someone wants me to think this is about me and focus on the wrong things.

Someone thinks I’m not good enough to work through my shit and figure theirs out, too.

Someone is stupid. And it’s not me.

CHAPTER THREE

The games idiots play, I swear.

I’m not sure our killer had anything to do with Kane’s chopper going down, but then again, around these parts, everything has something to do with Pocher. All of this could be one big circle.

Determined to find whatever it is that someone doesn’t want me to find, I force myself to set aside my fears over Kane’s safety. With a deep breath, I ground myself in my Otherland, that place where only the crime scene exists, reach into my bag, and glove up. Once I’m on the porch, I slip booties over my boots and then slide out of my coat, which can be cumbersome while I work, and hand it off to Andrew as he joins me. He curses. I love when I make Captain America curse.

Heading on inside, nothing is unexpected. There are shiny floors and dangling shiny lights above, as well as a modern glass-framed staircase—very young money comes to the Hamptons. I flash my badge at a police officer who points me up the stairs. I head up and take two cuts, one right and one left before I’m on the top level. The double doors tell me I’ve found the king of the castle’s bedtime bungalow. I step inside a room with a California king bed and leather headboard that sets the tone for the rest of the room. A room that screams a man lives here, and there’s no female in his life to offset his dominance.

There’s an officer at the door. “Anyone inside?”

“Not yet. ME wants the room clear for her.”

I flash my badge. “Keep it clear for me, except the chief and I guess North can come in.”

He nods and steps aside.

I claim his spot in the doorway, I pause there, taking in the scene. The victim is to my left in front of a corner bar, on his back, his glass of whiskey lying on the floor, the amber liquid blending with the hardwood floor. I reach into my bag, grab my camera and start shooting photos. First impressions matter. They’re meant to be savored, but time is critical when solving a crime. Therefore, I try to preserve every moment I can to experience again later, on my timeline, not that of CSI’s processing or the speed the crime scene demands.

I do a flash review of the room.

The nightstand is clean and neat. The bed is made. Everything is tidy, indicating the victim wasn’t hanging out here and getting comfortable before he died and there was no struggle. If there was a visitor, the visitor left no obvious indication they were here. It’s not been clear in any of the past two murders if anyone was present at the homes of the victims. I make a mental note to follow up on camera footage that might shed light on that question in any of these murders.

Closing the space between me and the victim, I shoot a few photos, and then a few extra, facing the body, near his feet. His throat is cut from the inside out, the same as the last two victims, which seems to indicate, he too, ingested the murder weapon. And as expected, he is, in fact, in a tuxedo, but his tie is loose as if he’s ripped it free, exhausted from whatever niceties his event demanded. Or perhaps as he was choking to death on what we now believe is some sort of expanding blade, ingested by way of drugs or food.