Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

She enters the diner, and I watch her approach, sizing her up the way I do everyone old and new in my life, every observation one I might draw on in comparison with another person in an investigation one day. In Beth’s case, she’s tall, thin, and alert as she scans the diner before spotting me, lifting a hand, and heading in my direction. Her black, pinstriped pants she’s paired with a matching jacket are definitively masculine, while the black, silk, long-sleeved blouse she wears softens her. This tells me she feels her femininity works against her for some reason, but she’s also not willing to completely emasculate her womanhood either. I get it. Thus my loose use of the F-word that I wear as easily as I do my pink lipstick.

She closes the remainder of the space between us with long strides, the confidence I’ve always admired in her still alive and well, unlike the naked woman who’d become our shared specimen the night before. That Beth manages to detach herself from death as readily as I do perhaps says a lot about why we connect. This probably makes her the closest thing to a friend I will ever have, and since I haven’t talked to Beth in years, friend can’t be placed in the context of literal any more than the claim that chocolate is better than sex. At least, not good sex.

Beth slides into the seat across from me and sets her oversize Gucci bag beside her, the expensive brand name a reminder that she, like most around here, comes from a family of money. In her case, real estate investors who’d rather she play with decorations than with dead bodies.

Rose stops beside us, eyeing Beth, a pot in her hand. “Coffee?”

“The whole pot please,” she says, turning over her cup. “But I’ll start with this.”

Rose fills her cup and looks between us. “Something to eat?”

Beth and I shake our heads, and the minute Rose is gone Beth lowers her voice and leans in closer. “What the hell is going on?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’m here in East Hampton,” she says, as if that explains everything.

“You live here,” I say, and a light bulb goes off. “But . . . the medical examiner’s facility is in Hauppauge, and you just said you finished the autopsy this morning. There can’t be proper facilities here for that.”

“I’d call the facility I used early this morning acceptable at best.”

“Then why do it here?”

“Exactly what I said when I got the request, and I insisted that it be done in Hauppauge. Thirty minutes later, my boss—”

“As in the Suffolk County medical examiner director,” I confirm.

“Yes. Bridget Johnson. She called me and told me she was keeping this off the books for forty-eight hours. I needed to do the autopsy here.”

“I’m not even sure that’s legal.”

“You and me both.”

“Why do this?”

“She said Hauppauge is heavily staffed and filled with people who might talk too much. That point was made after she reminded me that East Hampton was filled with powerful people who don’t want to end up with news crews in their front yards.”

“My father did a press conference today. I think she’s misguided. The news is out.”

“A news conference in which he all but inferred there was a suicide, not a murder, last night.”

“Fuck me. Tell me he didn’t do that.”

“I wish I could.”

I slide my coffee cup aside. “What the hell is he thinking? He’s going to look like a liar.”

“He’ll say he was misinformed.”

“By you,” I supply, the quickness of her answer making me wonder whether this is a repeat offense.

“I do believe I’m the likely fall guy, especially since your brother backed him up.”

“Did you confront them?”

“I never got the chance. They made sure of it.”

“What’s the endgame here?”

“Rivera came to me this morning, hovering until I completed the autopsy report.”

“Which told you what?”

“Aside from what you and I both surmised from the crime scene, distance and height of the shooter, and the normal, random data you’d expect. No DNA. No trace evidence. No sign of struggle.”

“Tattoo?”

“No.” She frowns. “And you asked about that last night. What’s with you and the tattoo? Is there a connection you’re looking for?”

“I’ve found body markings tend to tell a story,” I say without missing a beat. “I look for them.”

“Well. None in this case to help you out. Frankly, this is as clean as it gets. Unless there’s a witness, the body isn’t telling us this story.”

And yet, it is, and she is. Clean. Professional. Planned. These things tell me about our killer. “Is there any way this can be twisted into a suicide?”

“One does not put a bullet through one’s eyes at a full foot away, which is what forensic evidence supports. Nor do you do so and have the gun disappear.”

“In other words, they were trying to calm everyone the fuck down to get some distance from this thing.”

“You’re here. You’re FBI. And you were at the crime scene.”

“Is there a question?”

“It’s the same observation the public was making before that press conference, which is exactly why they inferred suicide. To calm everyone down.”

“Are you saying you now support them misleading people?”

“I don’t support it, but I understand it. Let’s face it, Lilah. You being here in time to make that crime scene leads to the conclusion that you were tipped off to this murder.” She gives a brittle laugh and adds, “Or you were in on the murder.”

I don’t laugh. I sure as hell don’t tell her I think she might be closer to the truth than not. “Again,” I say. “Is there a question?”

“The same one I asked when I sat down. What the hell is going on?”

“I told you—”

“Tell me,” comes a male voice. Rivera’s voice.

He appears beside us, already setting a chair at the end of the table before joining us. That he’s managed to sneak up on us when I have a clear view of the door, something that doesn’t happen to me, makes me think he was hovering somewhere close, possibly listening to our conversation. “What the hell is going on?”

“You tell me,” I say. Noting the scar on his right jawline that wasn’t there when I left, I turn the tables on him. “Start with that knife wound on your face. Who cut you?”

“Start with why you’re here,” he counters.

“I like the coffee,” I reply.

“You know,” he says dryly. “People who are smart-asses hide behind a bad attitude. That, and the few thousand miles you’ve kept between you and this place, really makes me wonder what you’re hiding.”

He’s hit a little too close to home for comfort, and it’s my turn to counter. “People who change the subject and redirect when asked about a knife wound usually didn’t get it honorably.”

His lips quirk. “Let’s not play games, Lilah.”

“But then you wouldn’t be you and I wouldn’t be me, and what kind of homecoming would that be?”

He leans in toward me, ignoring Beth, his plump finger jagging on the counter in front of me, his voice low, tight. “If you want to meet with my medical examiner, you come through me.”

“Your medical examiner?” Beth objects. “I don’t work for you.”

“For a big man,” I say, still focused on him, since he’s in my fucking face, “you’ve always operated with little-man syndrome. I’d be careful about that. It really makes a girl doubt what’s under the hood. But hey. If you want to be a part of this conversation, of course I’ll fill you in.”

He lingers close to me, his breath brushing my cheek, and I’m pretty sure he’s not buying my easy compliance any more than I am. In fact, I’ve just pulled my foot back, with his shin as the target to prove that point, when he settles into his seat again and orders, “Talk.” Like I’ve ever been one to do as told, especially by him.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll bring you up to speed on what you missed. So here we go. My best friend in the agency is gay. And hot. So fucking hot. I’ve been trying to turn him but I’m failing miserably. From a male perspective, can it be done?”

His face turns a Christmassy shade of red that is my new favorite color. “I know you’re here on agency business.”

“You know what they say about assumptions,” I reply. “They make an ass—”

“Your brother told me.”

I quickly decide that a conversation with Andrew, in which I call him an idiot to his face, is not a bad idea after all. “What is the point of this powwow, Eddie?” I demand, having no choice but to assume Andrew repeated every word I shared with him last night. “Cut to the chase.”

“Whatever you’re after, it isn’t here,” he says. “I have a suspect in last night’s case. I expect to bring him in in the next few hours.”

“Who?” Beth asks.