I pull out my trusty camera from my bag, the one I use on the clusterfuck crime scenes like this one; aside from preserving the evidence these idiots might destroy, shooting pictures keeps me from shooting said idiots. And while the latter would be far more satisfying, as is the case with eating a half gallon of ice cream, indulging the inner demon that says “do it” has consequences. Which takes me back to pictures. My brow furrows, my mind trying to grab onto something I can’t quite reach. My mind flashes back to one of the first cases that I’d worked with Roger. We were in Brooklyn, and the murder scene was painted black. Roger had known the paint hid a secret. He’d known there was a message somewhere in that paint, and he’d been right.
I glance down at my camera. It’s creating a story I can visually read later, the way our killer created a story in this room for me to read right now. What if the blood splatter isn’t a mess to sensationalize the crime scene? What if it’s a well-crafted story?
Shoving the drawer shut, I lift the camera and shoot a good fifty shots of the walls, circling and shooting, circling and shooting. “Are you done in here?”
At the sound of Detective Williams’ voice, my gaze jerks to the doorway where she stands, still too damn prissy to put on a jumpsuit. “I need to bring in the team to bag the evidence,” she adds.
“They can wait,” I say, as my attention lands on the wall in front of me, and I notice what I should have noticed before now. The splatter pattern stops in a perfect line a few inches from the corner. That line isn’t an accident. I look up and then down, where I spy something lodged between the carpet and the wall.
“Agent Love,” the bitch in charge snaps, but I ignore her. I do that with bitches. It works for me.
I close the space between me and that wall and kneel, trading my camera for a pair of tweezers and a baggie. Leaning in, I inspect the item I’ve discovered and pluck a used cigarette stuffed in the hole where the wall doesn’t quite meet the carpet. A Marlboro. The same kind my mentor smokes. There are no coincidences. This is not an accident. This is a message. This is a warning.
CHAPTER FOUR
I want to stand up, drop the cigarette, and grind it under my foot, a little fuck you for whoever left it for me. Of course, I won’t do that, not at a crime scene, but a girl can fantasize. Instead, I’ll wait this out and stick the cigarette up whoever’s ass is trying to mess with me right now. Considering the Society just staged a series of murders to cover up their wrong doings, and I just vowed to stay out of their shit in exchange for my life, this is starting to look dirty. This is starting to look like them daring me to come at them again, like them telling me they will hurt people I know—Roger, Beth, who knows who else—if I don’t look away from this. Well, fuck them. I’m not looking away from shit.
“What the hell is it?”
At Detective Williams’ demand, I bag the cigarette and stand up. She’s hovering in the doorway as if she can’t enter the bedroom in her street clothes, as if this is the only part of the apartment that’s a crime scene. The entire building is a fucking crime scene in my book, but apparently my standards are too high for this woman. “Agent Love,” she bites out.
I close the space between me and her, simply because getting closer to Detective Williams is the only way to get the hell away from her. Or punch her. Showing rare restraint, I stop in front of her, rather than barrel over her, a strong hint for her to move, when I don’t give a lot of hints, before I push past her. She doesn’t move, but considering the really nasty vein bubbling up in her forehead that might be smart. It would suck to have to save her life while fantasizing about killing her. “What is it?” she demands, when I know she saw me studying the damn cigarette.
“A message,” I say, shoving the bag at her, forcing her to grab it. “To me,” I add. “It’s a message that was meant for me, which is why I’m here.”
“What?” She frowns, her forehead crinkling with deep lines as she does. “What message?” she demands. “In the cigarette?”
She’s genuinely confused. I believe she spends a lot of time genuinely confused, but in this case, it helps me rule her out as a part of the Society. She’s just too damn stupid to be one of those assholes. “I told you,” I say. “The message is for me. Now step aside.”
“Agent Love,” she snaps. “This crime scene is mine and—”
“It is yours,” I say. “Which is a good reason for me to leave.”
Her lips purse. “I need a profile. If this murder is personal to you in some way—”
“They’re all personal to me. Get me the data collected from the crime scene. Then we’ll talk about a profile.”
“You don’t even know her name.”
“Mia Moore. Twenty-eight. A former model turned advertising executive. I need the files on the other two victims as well.” I reach in my bag and hand her my business card. “Email me all the relevant facts and details.”
“There are no other victims.”
What the fuck is this woman talking about? “I was told there was a serial killer and that there were three victims.”
“Obviously, you weren’t listening well,” she bites out.
More like she doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. My boss doesn’t make mistakes. Roger doesn’t make mistakes. They both said there were three dead women. That means there are three dead women. The question is, why doesn’t the detective in charge know? Oh right. She’s stupid. “Get me everything you have on Mia Moore,” I say, done with her for now and always, if I get my way, and I’m going to get my way.
She snatches the card. “Obviously you’re going to read the same crime data I will and tell me what I already know.”
“I’m wearing an orange jumpsuit, and you aren’t. I’m Frosted Flakes. You’re Fiber Bran. I’m tequila. You’re Kool-Aid. We didn’t see this crime scene the same way from inception. We’ll never see anything the same.”
“Jesus help me,” she growls, but she doesn’t move.
“A religious person, are you?”
“Yes,” she says. “I am. Is that a problem for you, Agent Love?”
“Do you know that story about the man who stayed in his house despite a vicious flood because he knew Jesus would protect him?”
“No, I don’t.” She folds her arms in front of her. “And please don’t tell me.”
“Well, the flood came, and it was bad. A fireman stopped by to help. The man turned him away. Jesus would save him. Later, a boat came by, and the man onboard offered to help. Again, this man turned down the help. Jesus would save him. The water swallowed his house, and he was on the roof about to drown. He looked skyward and asked, ‘Jesus—why didn’t you save me?’ Jesus answered him. You know what he said? He said, ‘Holy Mother of mine. I sent you a fireman and a boat. You ignored the help.’ The man drowned.” I narrow my eyes on her. “Do you know the moral of this story?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Yes. I am. This is Jesus helping you right now. Move or be moved.”
She glares at me, but thank fuck, she backs up and allows me to pass. And so, I do—quickly. I head down the hallway toward the only door in this place. “Was that long ass story necessary?” she calls after me.
It kept you from talking, which kept me out of jail, I think, so yes, yes it was. I step into the living room, and the forensic team is gone. Of course, they are. Why would anyone do the right thing for Mia Moore? Clearly, she was on the bad side of the Society. I exit to the hallway, and there’s still no one guarding the door. I strip out my orange gear and then head down the stairs, right as a familiar cop in uniform is headed up my way.
“Lilah fucking Love,” he greets.
“Nick fucking on my nerves,” I say, because yes, he’s tall, dark, inked, and good looking, but he also hits on anything that moves, including me. “Got a wife and kids now?” I ask, passing him by without stopping.
“Not yet,” he calls after me, and I can feel the way he’s turn
ed to watch me as he adds, “Want to try out for the job?”
I pause at the bottom of the steps and give him a once over. “Nope. Still not my type. I don’t like guys who like themselves as much as you do. They’re assholes. You’re an asshole, but you’re a good cop. Or you were when I left. Why aren’t you a detective yet?” A perfectly self-serving question. I’m in town now. I’d rather deal with common sense. The last I remember, Nick qualified, and Detective Williams certainly doesn’t.
“I failed the test.”
“Try keeping it in your pants the night before. That was a serious remark. Get focused on the right things.”
“Why don’t you study with me? Come on over and get me focused.”
I sigh at his incessant flirting. “Whatever. You could matter. Obviously, you don’t want to.”
“You think I don’t matter now?” His tone is sharp, a whip that was a feather.
“I think you’re below your pay grade. As far as I’m concerned, you’re holding a spot some new fresh talent should hold.” I turn to exit.
“Do you have an umbrella? You’ll need it. It’s still raining cats and dogs out there.”
I freeze and whirl on him. “Do I have a fucking umbrella? Are you serious right now?”
“Yeah, Murder Girl,” he says, using a nickname that started in LA when my team got creeped out by how comfortable I am with the dead; a name I didn’t think he’d know. “It’s supposed to rain for like two weeks solid,” he says. “Some kind of monsoon overflow.”
I stare at him, and suddenly, I don’t like what I see in this man. He’s in his late thirties, a player, who couldn’t pass the detective test. He’s smart enough. He just doesn’t want to pass. Why? What’s he hiding from? He winks, a fucking wink that makes me want to poke his damn eye out before he turns and starts walking up the stairs. It hits me then that he didn’t even ask me why I’m here. He didn’t act surprised that I’m here at all. I’ve lived in California for years. There’s no way Nick thought my presence was to be expected. He wanted my attention. He has it. I am, after all, looking for a location to shove that cigarette left for me upstairs.
CHAPTER FIVE