“My cell phone battery went dead,” he says. “I left my charger in the hotel room.”
“You’re an FBI agent and you don’t have a fucking backup phone battery?” I demand. “Jesus, Rich. You don’t belong in the field.”
“And the woman who wants to fuck Kane Mendez, when Kane Mendez could be involved in all of this, should be?” he snaps.
“Holy fuck. Did you fight with Kane?”
My brother’s hand comes down on my arm. “Easy there, little sis. He’s not the enemy.”
I ignore him and keep that wrath aimed at Rich. “What happened?” I bite out.
“Kane and I hate each other’s fucking guts,” he says. “But we were civil, Lilah.”
“Then you both get a damn cookie.”
“I sure as hell deserve more than that,” he says, giving me a direct look. “And I know you know what I mean.”
“Hey,” Andrew says. “Not in front of me. She’s my sister, fucktard.”
Rich snaps a look at him. “And I’m not Kane.”
“Good point,” Andrew says. “Continue.”
“About the case,” I say sharply, while considering something else sharp, as in an elbow to my brother’s ribs. “Tell us about the meeting with Kane,” I add.
“Those New York assholes made a completely unprofessional scene in Kane’s office.”
“What kind of scene?” Andrew asks.
“Nothing like throwing things around or shoving Kane against the wall,” he says. “But they loudly announced themselves, flashing badges in the lobby. It drew attention.”
“And Kane did what?” Andrew presses.
“Kane was surprisingly gracious. He invited us to his office, but as hard as they pushed him, he owned the office and the meeting.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Observed everyone involved,” he says. “Everyone in that room, Kane included, was new to me. But it was fast. We were out of there in thirty minutes.”
“And then what?” Andrew and I say at the same time.
“I followed them to a restaurant in the Seaside Hotel in South Hampton,” Rich says. “I thought they were staying at the hotel they were there so long, but they left an hour ago. I followed them until I was certain they were headed back to the city.”
“Did you figure out what they’re after?” I ask.
“It seemed like they were laying groundwork,” he says. “They asked him about Woods. They seemed to be connecting people he knows to people Woods knew. It was a weak angle, but they hit him hard about it.”
“But they’re going to use it to claim jurisdiction,” Andrew says. “How did Kane handle the questions?”
“Like I said,” Rich replies. “He owned the meeting.”
“That’s it?” I press.
“No,” Andrew says. “That’s not it. We all know where this is headed. Close the case. Let them deal with Kane on their own.”
“And then an assassin goes free,” I say, “because Woods and Kane are innocent.”
“Are you sure about that?” Rich asks, and he’s not asking about Woods or playing a role.
“I’m going to leave now,” I say, looking at Rich. “Call Murphy.” I look at my brother. “Don’t call me.”
I walk to my car, get in, and drive away, pretty fucking done with men for the day. My brother is willing to let Woods take a fall for my father’s campaign. Rich wants Kane to go down. And if Kane decides he wants to, he can take them all down. And I’m the one who has to keep peace and sanity in place. No wonder I’m so damn comfortable with dead bodies. They’re a hell of a lot less complicated than the men in my life.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It’s a short drive to my cottage. I resist calling it home, but for reasons I can’t quite name, or maybe I just don’t want to name, my apartment in LA doesn’t feel like home either. The truth is, it never felt like home. Nothing has since my mother’s plane crash except Kane, and that worked for me for a while until I started to resemble him far more than felt acceptable. Maybe I already resembled him. Maybe that’s why we get each other, why we connect. And we did and do. We always will, I think, but I don’t think it’s healthy for either of us to feed those things in each other. Those things. What the hell are those things? I think I’ll avoid naming them on a night I was responsible for a man’s faked suicide. I’ll find a vice and drench myself in it instead. Chocolate, or perhaps . . . chocolate.
I pull into my driveway, the yard etched in darkness too thick for shadows, the stars covered by clouds. Obviously, I need to set a motion detector on the outdoor lights and perhaps even install more. Though I hope like hell I catch a killer and get the hell out of here before I have time to make that change. The garage door lifts, the light inside flickering to life, and I am more than aware that I’m being stalked, and that this is where someone can follow me inside. But leaving my car outside allows someone to tamper with my vehicle. I pull into the garage and allow the door to close before I even unlock my doors. I slip my field bag back across my shoulder and unlatch the door, my hand on my weapon as I kick it open and stand up.
From there, I stand with my back to the wall as I search my surroundings and clear my path. I reach inside the interior door and flip on the kitchen light and then scan the room before stepping inside and shutting the door. I arm the system and start a search of the house. Ten minutes later, I’ve cleared the entire place and returned to the kitchen with my shotgun, Cujo, in hand. I set him down on the counter next to my cell phone and my field bag.
Hands pressed to the counter, my mind flickers with an image of Rick Suthers’s body hanging from that doorframe. “Shit,” I murmur, dragging my hand through my hair and shoving aside the claws of guilt ripping through me. That thinking serves no purpose but to weaken me and give the enemy what they want.
Right now, I need food and then to dig into my work. I open the fridge, where I’m reminded that any real grocery shopping has not occurred in a number of years as it relates to this particular house. Or to me, actually. I’ll need to order pizza again. Again. Fuck. The pizza box and the note. I was drugged and in chaos today, or I would have thought about it sooner. I walk back to the counter and grab my phone, dialing the same pizza place I called last night. “Pizza Jacks,” a man answers.
“I want a large pineapple and Canadian bacon with medium crust,” I say. Then, considering breakfast, I amend, “Make it two larges and what do you have for dessert?”
“Chocolate chip—”
“I’ll take one of those. And is there any chance you could send the same driver as last night? I forgot to tip him, and I want to make it right.”
“Hold on one moment.” He punches computer keys and then, “Odd. I don’t seem to have a driver’s name.”
“He was short, with brown curly hair.”
“Mick,” he says. “Yeah. He’s here tonight. He’s your guy anyway.”
“Oh good. Great. Thanks.” I end the call and set my phone down, a memory surfacing of Rich accusing me of not saying please and thank you. Asshole, I think. I say please and thank you. I walk to the living room and the cut-out bar and bring a barstool to the island, removing my computer from my bag and cranking it to life. I set the book I’d retrieved from the crime scene on the counter as well, a reminder to me of how personal this case has become. Another flash in my mind of Rick hanging in his closet door and I turn to the coffee machine and get a good chocolate-flavored pod of caffeine brewing. Because who doesn’t need caffeine when they’re wired and on edge?
Once it’s doctored up just right, I sit down at the island and drink my first boost of chocolate for the night, which will not be the last. It’s also the closest thing to food I’ve had since the pure sugar of the cinnamon roll earlier today, which explains why I’m feeling light-headed again. I set the cup down, intending to turn my attention to my computer, when my gaze lands on the cover of the book—on my mother—and my heart squeezes. I love this picture of her. A pink gown and her hair brown,
not blonde. She looks beautiful and natural, more like the person I knew than the one Hollywood knew. My throat thickens, and my mind throws me into the memory of the night of her death. I’d been in the law school library, studying for a debate the next morning, when an official-looking man in a suit had suddenly appeared, standing over me.
“Come with me please, Ms. Love,” he says.
“Why? What’s happened?”
He’s tall and stone-faced. “You need to come with me.”
I shut my books and shove them in my backpack, and I can almost feel part of my heart bleeding. Something is wrong. Very wrong. My knees are wobbling and I think someone calls my name as I follow the man through the hallway, but I don’t hear them. I barely remember how I end up in an office of some sort. “Call your father,” the man directs and shuts me inside.
I dial the number, my hand trembling. “Dad?” I say.
“Your mother’s helicopter has gone down.”
“What? When?”
“An hour ago. There are search-and-rescue teams.”
I blink back to the present, shake off the memory. “Fuck. What are you doing to yourself, Lilah?” I reach for the book to move it out of sight, when my gaze catches on the Barnes & Noble sticker on the top right edge. There’s a Barnes & Noble a few miles from Rick’s house. There will be cameras and sales records, but without going to Tic Tac, it’s going to have to be part of that illegal activity I’ve anticipated in the form of a favor. A favor from someone who owes me one. I plan to call it due tomorrow morning.
I open the drawer next to me and pull out a pad of paper to begin a list of things I need hacked.
BARNES & NOBLE SALES RECORDS
LIST OF BOOKS THAT WERE AT THE SCENE OF LANEY’S MURDER
LIST OF PERSONNEL AT LANEY’S MURDER VERSUS RICK’S