That’s debatable, but I don’t tell him that. “I’ve seen the tattoo that’s on the arm of the victim before,” I say instead.
“Where? And in what context?”
; “It wasn’t in a professional capacity, and it was many years ago. Back home in the Hamptons, actually.”
“That’s Mendez Enterprises territory,” he says. “A family and empire based in the Hamptons. Notoriously legit and yet not legit at all. Very soap opera–ish. I read up on them when you joined our team.”
A frisson of unease slides through me. “Why would you read up on them when I joined the team?”
“I like to know where my people came from and what influences them, directly or indirectly.”
I’m not sure what to make of that comment, but he doesn’t give me time to try to figure it out, already moving on. “I understand the son, Kane, took over after his father was murdered a few years back. Do you know him?”
“If you researched as you say, then you know that you simply can’t grow up in the Hamptons and not know the Mendez family,” I say, remaining as noncommittal as possible. “We all knew them. And yes, I knew him.”
“Word is he’s a smooth operator, but then, so was his father.”
“I would say that description fits,” I agree, thinking that Kane is that and much more, which I won’t elaborate on at this point.
“Always squeaky-clean when investigated, too, from what I understand. The kind of person who gets others to do the dirty work. Like perhaps the assassin you feel we’re dealing with. That, along with a tattoo that connects the body to the Hamptons, sounds like a connection to investigate.”
“I certainly think there’s a connection to the Hamptons, and we should have it checked out.”
“So go,” he says. “Check this out.”
I blanch. “What? No. With all due respect, Director Murphy, I left that place for a reason.”
“And you’re going back with a bigger one. Your job. Go pack.” He looks at his watch and then me. “It’s not even seven yet. Call the office on your way home. With luck, our team can have you in a bird by noon.” He starts walking and I stare after him, seeing nothing but an ocean of blood. I’m going back to where those nightmares started. And back to him.
CHAPTER TWO
First class to New York City, my pre-Hamptons destination, is full of two types of people: rich, pompous asses who look down on everyone in coach and people who want to get sloshed and go to sleep with leg room. I kick off my shoes and stretch out my jean-clad legs, hoping the seat next to me remains as empty as it is right now.
“Drink, Miss Love?”
I glance up at the sound of the question laced with a Texas twang to find a middle-aged, bleached-blonde flight attendant, her hair puffed and frozen with excess hairspray. “Bloody Mary, heavy on the Mary,” I say.
“Pardon me,” she says, “but what does ‘heavy on the Mary’ mean exactly?”
Is she fucking serious? “Mary,” I repeat. “Heavy on the Mary.” This earns me several mascara-laden blinks, and I grimace. “The bloody is obviously the tomato juice, which means the Mary is . . .” I hold a hand out, certain she will be amazed by my brilliance, allowing her to reply with awe, but all I get are another few blinks. “Vodka,” I say. “Just bring me vodka on the rocks. The rocks would be ice.”
She laughs nervously. “Of course. Coming right up.” She hurries away and my cell phone buzzes from the pocket of my brandless black backpack that will soon be scandalously unacceptable. I reach down and grab it, glancing at the message from Director Murphy: Why haven’t you booked a flight?
I type my reply and hope it ends the conversation: I’m on a plane about to take off.
Him: What? Why didn’t you book through the department?
Me: Because incompetence kills and the clerk helping me clearly wanted me dead, which would make solving this case difficult.
Him: You’re creating a paperwork nightmare.
Me: For someone else. I have to turn my phone off.
Him: Did you alert the locals you were coming?
Me: No.
My phone rings. “Damn it,” I whisper, tapping the Answer button. “Agent Love,” I say.
“Agent Pain in My Ass, at the moment. The Hamptons might be home to you, but we have procedures to follow. When do you arrive?”
“I land in New York City at seven. I’m taking the train into the Hamptons from there.”
“I have higher powers all over me about our dead body. Take a chopper.”
“That’s expensive.”
“So is bad press and a community in panic. I want you there now, not later. Get me answers. I’ll e-mail you reservations and have the locals waiting on you when you land. And I expect to hear from you tonight.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, Director Murphy. I will call you once I make contact with the locals.”
“That’s more like it. Have a safe flight, Agent Love.” He ends the connection.
I shove my phone back in my backpack just in time to be handed a glass of vodka. I down it and grimace. Damn, it sucks without the tomato juice. What the hell was I thinking? “Now I’d like a Bloody Mary,” I say to the attendant.
“Extra . . . Mary?”
“Just a Bloody Mary,” I say, letting my head sink back against the cushion and hoping like hell a little more booze is enough to put me to sleep. I have enough to deal with when I get home. I don’t need to deal with it on the way there as well. My damn cell phone rings again. I pull it out of my bag, note Rich’s number, and turn it off. He probably just found out I’d left, and I can’t focus on his misplaced outrage right now. I grab my case file, which now has the data from the local murders inside and the assumed-to-be-connected case in New York, as well as my MacBook. I pull down the tray table and flip open the file. I’m immediately staring at the image of today’s victim, a man who shares two things in common with my attacker from years before: he’s Mexican, and he’s got the same ink on his arm. I thumb through the photos and find a shot of the tattoo, confirming that, yes, it’s the exact same image I remember: the Virgin Mary, bleeding from the mouth. And since I’ve googled and researched that image many times, I know that there is no documented gang or organizational affiliation, despite my certainty there is one.
I move on to our first victim, a white female, also in her thirties. Also killed with a bullet between the eyes, her clothes missing when we found her. But there’s no tattoo on her body, and her career as an investment banker doesn’t exactly scream gang. A cult, maybe? Yes. No. I’m back to a solid maybe. Flipping to the next case, I’m now looking at the New York victim, a white man, fortyish, with no notes on his career. Sure enough, the body’s been stripped naked as with our local cases, and the cause of death is a bullet between the eyes. Other than the MO of the murders, these people have nothing in common, which to me reaffirms my instinct that this isn’t a serial killer. This is a hit list. I know it. I feel it.
My drink appears beside me, and I glance up to find the flight attendant, “Texas,” I decide to call her, standing beside me, rambling on about something in a sticky-sweet voice. I really hate sticky sweet. It reminds me of the Hamptons. I nod, having no idea what I’m agreeing to, and then down my drink. And thank the Lord above, she responds by walking away.
Certain perhaps beyond logic that the tattoo connects all these victims, I tab through the New York victim’s photos, scanning the body shots for ink that I don’t find. Either the New York officials screwed up and didn’t document the tattoo, screwed up and didn’t give me all the shots, or there simply wasn’t a tattoo. From that I surmise that either the method of murder is coincidental, or it’s not a coincidence. I grimace. Wonderful. Compliments of the vodka, I’m a rocket scientist. Texas and I might even be able to communicate now, which is not a good thing.
Shoving the documents back into the file, I shut it and stuff it in the side of my seat, letting my head settle on the headrest behind me, my lashes lowering, as I wish I were on a jog, which is where I do my best thinking. Execution-style does not mean assassin, but every instinct and piece of training I own tells me it does. This could be a hit lis
t, and some—or maybe just one—of the victims could just happen to be a part of a gang or group that the tattoo represents. My mind goes to the tattoo on this morning’s body, and then instantly I am back on the beach, back underneath that man. I shove the bitch of a memory aside and do what I’ve learned rescues me from me: I force myself into my first gruesome crime scene memory—its horror making it more vivid than any crime scene memory prior to it—and suddenly, I’m two years in the past.
The emergency and police vehicles tell me I’ve found my crime scene. I park at the curb just outside the apartment building’s parking lot and slide my leather bag over my head before popping the door open. I step outside my gray Ford Taurus and shut the door. It’s new and basic, because new and basic is what I’d hoped to find when I arrived here a few weeks ago. I cross the parking lot, walking toward a crowd gathering outside the yellow tape. I trip on my own feet, irritated that I’m anything less than cool and confident, but the reality is, my new department isn’t exactly welcoming me with open arms. The whole “young, female, and damn good at profiling” doesn’t work for the men in my department.
Weaving through the crowd, I approach the line and a uniformed officer. “FBI,” I say, pulling my badge out from underneath the black sweat jacket I’m wearing over a black Garfield T-shirt that sports my favorite reply to idiots, “Whatever.”
The gray-haired, potbellied asshole gives me a once-over. “Since when do twelve-year-old interns get badges?”
My irritation is instant. “I have two pet peeves, Officer, and you’ve managed to hit them both,” I say, ducking under the tape to face him. “Ignorance with a mouth hole and a cop who stuffs too many doughnuts in said mouth hole and can’t touch his toes let alone do his job justice.”
“Bitch.”
My lips curve. “Damn, I like that name. Have a good day, Officer.” I start walking, lifting my hand and wiggling my fingers in departure.
A man in a suit greets me, his detective badge hanging on his chest. “You’re Lilah Love,” he says.