Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

—BUT EDDIE. EDDIE. EDDIE. AND KEVIN.

My list grows into a complicated thinking process, and I down another cup of coffee to rev me up, adding a side of greasy, perfect French fries with lots of ketchup to the mix as well. I have a cheeseburger with those fries and then order one of the diner’s famous whole strawberry pies that, despite winter’s fast approach, Rose swears is amazing and famous. Since this place really isn’t even on East Hampton’s society map, I’m not sure who it’s famous with, but hey, I did see Jack Leroy here. And since he’s all about his star shining brightly, maybe this spot is hotter now than I remember, and if Rose says the pie is famous, I believe her. A choice I make because a love for strawberries is one of the only fetishes I have that reads a bit like that of a normal person. And every once in a while, a ten-minute window in which I shovel food in my face and play that game is the difference between acceptable insanity and cutting-myself-or-someone-else insanity. Fortunately, I’ve never cut myself. Someone else? Well, yes. I have cut someone else, but that was because I didn’t have a gun to shoot the bastard. I leave the diner and decide this afternoon needs to be about planning. And food. I need groceries. First things first, though. I need to set a trap for Junior.

It’s a strategy that takes me fifteen minutes up the beachfront to an all-glass contemporary house, where I will find a long-dormant favor owed to me, one that I plan to collect on now. I park in the driveway and walk to the door, aware that like most things in this town, the lax security is a fa?ade. I’m setting off alarms of some sort at this very minute. An assumption that’s proven true when I reach for the doorbell only to have the door fly open, and Lucas Davenport stands in the doorway, his six-foot-four frame filling the archway.

“Why don’t you return phone calls?” he demands.

“How can you still look like a preppy Tarzan?” I demand in turn, ignoring his question. “No wonder you’re still single.”

“How do you know I’m still single? You don’t return phone calls.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, my advice to you is this: grow some manly hair on your pretty-boy face and put on something other than one of about a hundred pairs of khaki pants you own.”

“You know,” he says. “I was certain I missed you until this moment.”

“Well then, see? We’ve already had a productive visit. Now you know that you didn’t, in fact, miss me.” I push past him and walk down the white tiled hallway. Everything in this place is white. The walls. The curtains. The light fixtures. He calls it elegant. I call it sterile. I turn into the kitchen where there are white counters and cabinets, walking to the white-paneled stainless steel fridge and opening it.

“You do know women are quite impressed with my khaki pants and my clean-shaven face. No razor burn. Lots of pleasure.”

I grab a bottle of water and find him on the opposite side of the bar that, much like mine, divides the kitchen from the living area. “I see you’re still not lacking in the arrogance department,” I say, walking to the counter directly in front of him.

“Arrogance?” he snorts. “I’m defending myself. You basically just told me I’m not worthy of a woman, and since the one time I tried anything with you, you put an elbow in my gut, I’m not beyond believing you mean it.”

“I’m pretty sure that was Kane who put the elbow in your gut.”

“He wasn’t there. I’m not that stupid.”

“He has eyes everywhere. He was there and I did what he would have.”

“Are you telling me I had a chance otherwise?”

“No. My God, we’re cousins.”

“Your father is my father’s stepbrother, Lilah. We are not cousins.”

“We are. And I need something, cuz.”

“You always need something, cuz.”

“You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”

“Then maybe you should take that to mean you’re demanding as hell.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Unless a woman is naked at the time, most men don’t like demanding.”

“I don’t remember ever trying to impress a man in my life, so I’m not getting the point. I need something. Someone vandalized my outdoor furniture. I need to get cameras up before I leave, and the security company is going to take forever.”

“I’m an investment banker, Lilah, not a security expert.”

“Who has a secret addiction to hacking.”

He scowls. “Lilah,” he warns.

“I won’t remind you if you don’t make me remind you. You owe me and I need this. And I know you know how to help me.”

“By taping your mouth shut?”

“Ha ha. You’re funny.”

He scowls. “I’ll come over and install it.”

“Thank you, but no. I really don’t want—”

“Kane to know.”

I was thinking more of Junior, but his assumption works just fine. “Can you write it all down for me? And I need something that won’t be obvious. I want to catch whoever did this, not scare them away.”

“What’s wrong with scaring them away?” He holds up a hand. “Never mind. I’ll show you.” He rounds the bar and joins me in the kitchen, pointing to the garage door, and walking in that direction. I follow him inside where he leads me to a wall of built-in cabinets and opens one of them. It’s not long before he has a variety of gear on a long table to show me.

“For an investment banker, you sure know your cameras,” I comment. “The big ones can stay here. I need something discreet.”

“The big ones should go inside the house,” he says. “That way, if anyone makes it inside the property, you’ll be sure and get them on film. The more discreet equipment can go outside, and no one will know they’re being filmed.” He lifts a round device the size of a watch. “I’d suggest you put it on an artificial hanging plant.” He gives me a knowing look. “We both know you kill anything that requires attention, and based on your comments thus far, you won’t be here long enough to pretend to prove me wrong.”

It hits me, then, that he knows me a little better than I give him credit for, which is exactly why I say, “You clearly don’t know me at all. I had a goldfish for ten years.”

“Do goldfish even live ten years?”

“Yes,” I say. “How do I see the footage the camera films?”

He hands me a small silver box. “This will allow you to view the feed from your computer. Call me when you’re ready and I’ll walk you through setting it up.”

“Perfect. Do you have a bag I can put these things in?”

He reaches under the table and produces a couple of brown cloth grocery bags and helps me fill them. We’re both still facing the table when he says, “I know why you left.”

I freeze in place and for once, nothing snarky comes to my mind. “What?”

“It gets easier to be here,” he says. “I promise. You know I know.”

And now I know what he’s talking about. Because I wasn’t the only one who lost something the night of my mother’s plane crash. For some reason unknown to all of us, his father was with my mother. He thinks that’s why I left. Everyone does, and I need them all to keep on thinking that. I grab the bags and settle them on my shoulders, before turning to face him. “I don’t want it to get easier.”

“Cuz—”

“I need to go. I’m having dinner with my father tonight. I’ll call you when I’m setting up the equipment.” I start walking.

“Damn it, cuz! You didn’t even tell me why you’re in town. When you’re leaving. When—”

A thought hits me and I stop abruptly, turning around to face him. “Is there anything I need to know about my family before dinner tonight?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Anything you think I should know?”

“I don’t, but I’ve been out of the loop. I’m back and forth between here and Manhattan. I don’t look for gossip and therefore, I don’t find it.”

“Right. I like that about you.” I turn and start walking again.

“And yet I’m an arrogant ass,” he calls out.