Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

I grab the plastic bag holding the note from the seat and reject that idea. No. It’s not Kane. He’s not the note-writing, scary-tactic kind of guy. He’s about power. Directness. Demand. Proven by his demands directed my way today and even that night. Not to mention the man tried to keep me from leaving town with a rock the size of Texas. And yet, I think, he never called me. It’s odd, but I reasoned it away as his bruised ego. Only now do I consider there was another reason he distanced himself from me. He inferred as much. But what reason? And how does it connect to Junior? And why the hell am I not in on this secret?

Pissed off, I make a decision. I will find Junior and I will have my answers about that night. How I approach that will depend on how long this case keeps me in town and how much opportunity I have to fade into the shadows without really going away this time.

I do a search on my phone and find the Hempstead medical examiner’s office, retrieving Beth’s work cell phone number and then getting her on the line. “Agent Love,” she greets me. “I thought I was going to see you at the press conference this morning.”

“Yeah. Right. No. Can we meet?”

“When?”

“You went to the news conference, which means you’re still in the village. Now.”

“Obviously you still don’t believe in giving people a heads-up,” she states dryly.

“A heads-up gives people time to make up stories that waste my time.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t just infer I’d make up stories if you didn’t rush me to this meeting.”

“Can you do it?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, Beth,” she says in a singsongy voice that, coming from her, is cute. Coming from me, and inclusive of at least one F-word, it would be a different version of cute. The kind of cute that isn’t cute at all. “I trust you, Beth,” she continues. “We’re friends, Beth.”

“Okay,” I say. “All that. Can you . . . ?”

“Yes. I just finished the autopsy, so I’m free. Where?”

“Micki’s Diner. I’ll grab us a table.”

“See you in fifteen,” she says, hanging up and proving it’s only the men in my life who don’t bother with a departing remark.

I slide the note inside my bag, not about to give Junior a chance to clean up again. With it sealed away, I exit the vehicle and make my way to the diner. I reach the door right about the time it’s opening, and Jack Leroy is just exiting. “Lilah Love,” he says, giving me a big hug.

Most people who are not me would love the chance to be hugged by a famous, once-hunky movie star. But the thing is, most people, including my mother, believe that he killed his very famous wife, and therefore I’d rather he hug a street pole with cuffs holding him in place. “How you doing, kiddo?” he asks, thankfully releasing me and giving me a once-over. “As stunning as your mother.”

“You say that every time you see me,” I say to the familiar compliment, which I brush off for one reason and one reason alone: I’m not as stunning as my mother, and I’m okay with that. “How long are you here?”

He laughs. “Why? Do you think I killed that woman?”

I don’t even try to hide the sneer, which I hope I wear as poorly but obviously as I do bright-red lipstick. “That’s not a funny joke,” I comment, “if it’s a joke at all.”

His expression tightens and he looks uncomfortable. “Lighten up, Love.”

“Agent Love,” I correct, and fully enjoying that sourpuss look on his face, I press onward. “Did you know Cynthia?” I ask, calling last night’s murder victim by her first name.

“I did not.”

“And yet you know who I’m talking about?”

“I watched the news conference this morning.”

It’s a reasonable answer but I’m not done making him uncomfortable. “Where were you last night?” I ask, because, you know, once a murderer always a murderer. Which actually isn’t true. Once a murderer is statistically once a murderer, but I don’t like him and choose to think he might just be the anomaly.

“At a movie screening in Southampton.”

“What movie?”

“The new Star Wars release,” he answers and immediately changes the topic. “You can’t seriously think I’m involved in this?”

“I don’t ‘think’ anything. I gather facts. And this alibi you’ve provided can be confirmed and how?”

“The screening was high-profile. I signed in. There were cameras. There were many guests I chatted with.”

“Call the organizer,” I order. “Get them to send the logs and statements to Andrew.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” I say. “Embrace it and get this behind you and me.” I grab the door to enter the diner and pause. “Scratch that. I need to know who else was at the screening. I’ll call myself.” I don’t wait for a reply, entering the diner, where a sign says WAIT TO BE SEATED. I don’t wait to be seated. I make a beeline to the corner booth that I’d sat in earlier and sit down, putting my back to the wall, giving me a clear view of the door.

The waitress, Rose, a sixtysomething Hispanic woman who served me earlier returns to my side, no doubt pleased that I’d tipped ridiculously high. You’d think everyone in this town would throw some dough at the help, but sadly, most are cheap, rich asswipes. “More coffee, or you want some food with that caffeine now?”

“Coffee,” I say. “I’ll get some grease to go with it after my friend arrives.”

“Grease and coffee.” She laughs. “Sounds yummy.”

“I highly recommend it,” I assure her, quite serious despite her amused giggle before she departs. A tingling sensation lifts my gaze, which lands on the table to my left and in front of me with a heavy thud. Sitting there, staring at me, is Alexandra Harris, a pretty brunette and the assistant district attorney. She’s also my ex–best friend, though the ex part wasn’t her doing. She simply met the same demise as my mentor: the illness called “knowing me too well and seeing too much” that she’d contracted by being with me that night.

I reach for my coffee but never pick it up. Suddenly—unwillingly—I am back in time.

“Bloody Mary,” I tell the bartender.

“Oh no,” Alexandra says, grabbing my arm and looking at the man who’s just taken my order. “The most expensive bottle of champagne you have.” She turns to me. “It’s your birthday.”

“Tomorrow is my birthday.”

“And tonight you’re mine.” Her expression softens. “I know you and your mother used to spend your birthdays together and this is only the second year since you lost her. We need to keep you busy.”

“We did spend it together,” I say, my chest tight, my laugh sad. “My father would hand me an expensive gift and send me on my way while she made a big deal out of it no matter how old I was. Chocolate cake. Coffee. Shopping. I looked forward to it every year.”

“Oh good Lord. I’m focused on your father here. I hope Kane is more sentimental than your father.”

“Everyone is more sentimental than my father,” I say. “It’s being in law enforcement, all these years, I assume. Not here as police chief as much as his years in the NYPD. It roughened his edges.”

“Is that what your job as NYPD is doing to you?”

“Rough as a drunk sailor.”

“Foul-mouthed as a drunk sailor,” she jokes but sobers quickly. “I hope that Kane makes up for the bad stuff and seduces you until midnight.”

“More like at midnight. He’s in Houston and won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“Oh?” she says. “Why?”

“He’s closing a deal with a bank down there for his father.”

“His father? I didn’t think he worked for his father.”

“He works for Mendez Enterprises. Of course he works for his father.”

“Yes, but his father—”

“Don’t go there,” I warn, irritated that she, like so many, would travel down this path with me. “Kane is an attorney with a degree from Yale and runs a nationwide conglomerate that employs thousands of people.”

“I know. I do. I just worry about you.”

“Kane is—”

“He’s a catch, Lilah. The man is smoking hot and filthy rich. Every starlet that hits this town is after him, but he only has eyes for you.”

Because we understand each other. I accept a glass of bubbly from the bartender and hand it to Alexandra. She takes it from me and lifts it to her lips while a glass is filled for me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Alas, I think I’m just jealous. You know this Larry thing has messed with my head.”

“Your ex was an asshole who doesn’t deserve another thought.”