“This thing,” I repeat. “Well yes, Samantha. Everyone you fuck is a real fuck. I guess it’s extraspecial, though, when you buy pie instead of cigarettes afterward. Enjoy the pie. We both know it won’t last.” I step around her and find a clear path to the door, quickly exiting the diner. Pausing just outside, I scan for Greg but realize now that he was a subway rider in NYC. I don’t even know what kind of car he’s driving.
Cutting left and then around the corner, I find most of the cars now gone, no sign of Greg, and my car in view. I hurry in that direction, and as I approach, I spy the white piece of paper flapping in a gentle breeze. Samantha, I think. Someone must have spotted her, and she needed an excuse for being here, one I myself would validate, thus the strawberry pie.
I stop at the car and pull the note that actually seems to be on a napkin, which is new for Junior, from the windshield. Flipping it open, I read:
Strawberry pie, my ass. WTF was that all about?
Dinner. Soon. —Greg
He’s right. Strawberry pie, my ass, especially since my brother hates all things strawberry. That encounter felt very stalkerlike, very Juniorlike, and yet it was Greg who left me a note on the car. Which leaves me with only one clear-cut conclusion: I can’t ever eat strawberry pie again without thinking about Samantha, which means she’s ruined it for me forever. And with a killer and Junior on the loose, if that’s all I’ve got right now, I’m in trouble.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I don’t know why Samantha showed up and disrupted my personal space. Though unlikely, maybe she really is Junior. Maybe she hired someone to be Junior. Maybe she’s just a crazy, whacked-out bitch who is obsessed with everything me for God knows why. I’m sure as hell not. Or maybe she is part of a bigger picture, a minion of Pocher who spies on Kane and tries to control my family from the inside out. That means keeping an eye on me. Or I’m back to that maybe she really is just a whacked-out bitch. Whatever the case, I start my car with no intention of lingering to watch Samantha exit with a pie my brother won’t eat. I’m not even going to ask him about it because come on. She’ll take it to him to cover her story. She’ll flash her boobs and pretend she thought he wanted it. And he’s so balls to the wall for that woman, he might even eat it. What the fuck has happened to my brother?
I back out of my parking spot, driving toward the exit, where I glance at the short handwritten sign on the curb that reads OUR STRAWBERRY PIE IS FAMOUS. Those were Samantha’s inspired words, an advertisement she latched on to when she had nothing better to say. I’d dismiss that if I wasn’t concerned she was going to cut my brother’s heart into pieces after dragging him into corruption. For now, though, I set that problem aside and scan for the familiar and unfamiliar, for those who are following, of which there are at least two: Kane’s person and the doughnut-chasing fool. Hell, maybe the assassin is watching me, too, and this is one big fucking Lilah Love porn show, only with clothes. I’ve never liked being the show. I like ending it, and that’s what I have to do now. I need to find answers before another dead body shows up and I end up being pulled back to LA, powerless to end this once and for all.
I pull onto the main road, and while I see no one in my rearview mirror, I still believe that Laney saw too much and that got her killed. And since dead bodies are the only clue I have right now, and they aren’t exactly talking to me, I decide to go to the one man who might actually have something to say: Laney’s brother. He’d had influence over her. He’d known things, and at one point I’d thought he’d help me. Then he clammed up, and that didn’t change when Laney ended up dead. I need to have another talk with him, and this time, I’m not leaving without answers.
That said, the last I knew, Laney’s brother was in Westbury, Long Island, which is two hours away, and not a drive I want to take without a plan. I pull up to a stoplight and dial a guy I know from high school who is now at the DMV here in New York. We dated one time, way back then, and somehow, we don’t hate each other. “Nicolas,” I say when he answers, scanning my rearview for followers that still haven’t appeared.
“Lilah-fucking-Love.”
“I need stuff,” I say.
He lets out a bark of laughter. “Believe it or not, I miss hearing that. Are you here?”
“I am.”
“Then you owe me dinner, remember? You said if I helped you again—”
“That I’d buy you a slice of pizza. That’s not dinner.”
“Steak. It was a steak, but what do you need?”
“An address for a Rick Suthers. Should be in Westbury.”
The keyboard clicks and my light turns green. “345 Plainview Drive,” he says as I accelerate and pull away from the light.
“Got it,” I say. “That’s what I remembered.”
“When do I get that steak?”
“Pizza,” I say, “and it’s coming.” I hang up and note the black sedan that pulls in behind me several blocks back. My very special doughnut-loving stalker. In response, I turn right and into town when I’d planned to turn left toward the highway. And since it’s obvious that this investigation ties to my attack, I’m done fighting Kane’s role in this investigation, which is why I dial him now.
“Yes, beautiful?” he answers.
“My tail is back. I need the license plate number. Have your guy text it to me.”
“I’ll text it to you,” he says, not even bothering to deny he has someone following me. Neither of us is big on games.
“Whatever,” I say. “I just need it. And I need the tail to go away without ending up dead or hurt. I’m following up on a lead, and I don’t need it to get back to the wrong people.”
“Where and what lead?”
“If your Lilah stalker is good, he or she will find me. Just make sure they’re the only one that does.” I hang up. He calls back. I don’t answer.
I turn my car down a country road that I know will lead me back to the main highway. Whoever is tailing me will expect me to exit at a certain location a few miles away. Instead, I do a U-turn, pull to the side of the road, and wait, planning to exit the way I came from. My phone beeps with a text. I glance at the screen and, to no surprise, discover Kane is my messenger.
What the fuck happened to ‘being in this together’?
I think he might need some clarification on what “being in this together” means to me, and feeling generous, I give him some: If you can keep up, I type, you’re in this with me.
You doubt me? is his instant reply.
I snort and type: What do you think?
No, he replies. You don’t doubt me. But you think it would be easier if you did.
I grimace. He’s right. It would be easier to doubt him because as an FBI agent, that’s what I’m supposed to do. Doubt people like Kane. And I do. Everyone but Kane. Which is why I don’t reply. And it’s also why I know that my doughnut-loving stalker will be handled. This is Kane. He’s good at being bad. I glance at the clock and count down five minutes. On the fifth, another text message beeps, and I glance at the screen to read Kane’s newest message: Your rogue stalker is detoured. And don’t fret, beautiful. He’s alive, unharmed, but most likely irritated. License plate number AXL-285 New York.
I don’t reply. I don’t ask details. I dial Nicolas again on speaker. “I need stuff,” I say, even as I pull back onto the road.
“When you’re back, you’re back. Hit me with it.”
I give him the plate number. Listen to his keys clacking before he says, “Martin Walker. Albany, New York. Eighty-nine years old. Sounds stolen to me.”
“Got it. Expect something from me tomorrow.”
“Do I even want to know what that means?”
“It’s from me. You know it’s wonderful.”
“You mean I know it’s fucked up.”
“Maybe,” I say, laughing and hanging up with a mental note to order the man a stripper and a steak lunch.
I pull to a stop sign and glance right and left, looking for trouble and finding none, though I
know Kane’s person is nearby but obviously damn good at hiding. Cutting right, I reenter the main road and take it slow and easy through town until I hit the highway. While watching my mirrors, I formulate a plan that ensures no one, not even my invisible stalkers, knows my next move. I need cover, a place to disappear.
I dial my pal Beth at the medical examiner’s office in Suffolk County, which just happens to be a short drive to Suthers’s work and home. “Lilah Love,” she greets.
“I’m headed in your direction,” I say. “Can we meet?”
“Why? What’s happening?”
“We’re friends.”
“Why? What’s happening?” she says again as if I haven’t spoken.
“Seriously, Beth. I just want to catch up.”
“Okay. I give up. Of course, we both know this is about the murders you’re investigating and the body I autopsied, but you’ll admit that when you get here. When do you want to meet and where?”
I glance at the clock to read one o’clock. “Three thirty and I’ll come to the medical examiner’s office.”
“I’ll see you then,” she says before ending the call.
And yes. She will see me and so will everyone else, which is my plan.
I arrive at the eighty-five-thousand-square-foot Suffolk County medical examiner’s office fifteen minutes early and park at the front of the building. I’m just about to open the car door and exit when my cell phone rings. “Yes, brother of mine,” I answer.
“We have a problem.”
“We? As in you and me? Because it can’t be just one. For starters—”
“Lilah,” he bites out.
“Yes, Andrew?” I ask sweetly.