Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

My hand flexes on my weapon. “Yes. I do. What do you know about that tattoo?”

“It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It bleeds because they are dangerous.”

“Who?”

“The people they work for.”

“What people?”

“Go home before you bleed. Before your family bleeds.”

He turns and starts to run away. I start running after him, but we both stop abruptly when a black sedan squeals to a halt in the roadway in front of us and just beyond the alleyway. In a blink, two men are out of the passenger-side doors, both in ski masks and all black. Both pointing guns at me.

“Get in the car,” one of the masked men grunts at the older man, who does as he’s told, while my hand closes around my gun and I hope for an opportunity that never comes. The two masked men back away and slide into the car, which starts moving before one of the doors is even shut. I race after it, determined to get a license number, and round the corner in time to watch it speed away, but there is no plate on the bumper.

The old man’s words replay in my mind: It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I walk the streets after that old man disappeared, going from establishment to establishment, asking questions, trying to figure out who he was, and come up with a big, whopping zero at every turn. By the time I accept temporary defeat and hail a cab, I’m ready to be out of this city. I’m just about to slide into a car when my cell phone rings, and a glance at the caller ID tells me it’s Alexandra. “I need a moment,” I tell the driver, who scowls. “Hey,” I say. “I tip huge. I’m worth the wait. Or I can give it to someone else. What’ll it be?”

“I’ll wait.”

I nod and shut the door, leaning on the car and hitting the Answer button. “Alexandra,” I say.

“I would have called sooner, but I’ve been in court today.”

“That’s why I return calls on the way to court,” I say.

“I was prepping. Do we have to do this awkward thing we’re doing?”

“Yes,” I say. “We do. Why would Woods call you of all people?”

“It had to be random. Maybe he picked the only female at the DA’s office. It’s very odd and frankly, scary.”

The woman has Eddie in her bed and this is scary? “And you consider that message a confession?”

“I told Eddie I would need more for a conviction,” she says, pretty much avoiding the question before saying, “He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”

I shudder with a made-up image in my head of those two naked and going at it. “No,” I say, feeling like this communication is as much a setup as everything else. “I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

“That’s it?” she demands. “No questions about Eddie? No conversation about us?”

“Nope. None of that.”

“None of that,” she repeats.

“You got it the first time.”

“Fine. Fine then. None of that.” She hangs up and right now, it’s music to my ears.

I slide into the cab and give the driver the airfield information before sinking back into the seat. We weave through hellish traffic, and by the time we finally hit the highway, the calm after the storm of an insane day allows my morning encounter with Kane and that damnable walk down memory lane to finally sink in. It happened. We talked about that night. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad just yet. I’ll decide later. Or never.

Once I’m at the airport, I face an ordeal over my service weapon, and since it worked with the cab driver, I throw cash at the problem to hurry things up instead of attitude. I figure in my mood this is safer for everyone, but I’m wrong. I’m not good at throwing cash at people, thus it goes incredibly wrong, and it turns out, my badge and that attitude I’d benched save the day. Finally, I claim my private chopper, settling into a cushy leather seat, worth every dime I paid for it and privacy. I’m pissed all over again at Kane. I didn’t kill him, he’d said. You know what happened.

“Yes, you bastard,” I whisper. “I know what I did and I also know what you did.”

The doors to the cabin shut and I inhale a breath, and anyone who says that it is calming is full of crap and I’d tell them so. I allow my head to rest on the cushion behind me, telling myself to shut my eyes, but my mind is racing, adrenaline still pulsing through me. Alexandra. Kane. The old man. The tattoo. If I were an optimistic person, which I’m not, I’d think maybe that old man was warning me of trouble, helping me, even, but it feels more like an extension of Junior. A head game. A problem I can talk to only one person about, and that person is Kane, who I might throttle if he says “I don’t know” to me one more time.

The engine on the chopper roars to life, and I grab my coat from the seat next to me and cover myself with it. It’s been a long damn day, and right now, I do not feel like Lilah-fucking-Love. I feel like Lilah. Just Lilah. And that is a person I don’t like to show myself. She’s weak. She feels things and when she feels things, she’s not a badass. Badasses stay alive and don’t end up under a two-hundred-pound man on a beach. Damn it. I’m too tired. That’s my problem. Beyond exhausted, both mentally and physically. Once I sleep, I’ll be better. I’ll deal with Kane tomorrow when I find out what lines and dots Tic Tac connects to him, Pocher, and Romano. I just need . . . to . . . sleep . . . Sleep, Lilah. Take a nap.

The engine continues to roar, and I focus on it, feeling the lift-off of the chopper. I start to fade, but my mind won’t stop working, images taking shape. Feeling captive to a place I don’t want to travel, I try to pull myself out of the haze, but I’m too far gone, too tired. Almost as if I’m drugged all over again, and that sensation throws me full-fledged into the past, back to that night and the moments when I’d exited the bar.

The cold night air of the parking lot helps me breathe, but something is not right. I don’t feel right. I walk toward my car, but I sway again, a wave of confusion taking hold. I reach the driver’s side of my BMW, or what I think is my BMW. Whatever the case, I catch myself on the hard steel. I’m losing reality. I’m fading and some part of my mind knows that I’ve been drugged, and that I need to get in the car and lock the doors. And help. I need to call for help.

I shove my hand into my pocket, digging for my keys, and my fingers touch the cold steel, but I can’t seem to grip it. I lower my head to the side of the car, drawing in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. It doesn’t help. There are sounds behind me. Voices. Laughter. “Alexandra?” I whisper, certain I hear her, but she doesn’t reply. “Alexandra?” Still no reply. More voices sound, and I think I hear Andrew now, but no. No. It’s another voice. It’s familiar. “Kane?”

I sway and someone catches me, someone big and strong. Unfamiliar. “Bitch is hot,” the man says. “A good fuck.”

“Stop,” I say. “Stop. Let me—”

“Her fucking phone is ringing again.”

My phone is ringing? Why can’t I hear my phone ringing?

“It’s Kane,” another man says. Or no. Is it a woman?

I lose the moment. Everything is black. And then I’m in a car. I can feel it moving, and I blink, trying to focus, starting to process my surroundings. Lights flicker in the glass of the windshield. I’m in a car, my car, in the passenger seat. I want to look at who is driving, but I can’t seem to lift my head.

The images shift yet again, and I’m standing on the beach, the wind blowing in my hair, salt on my lips. And then there is a man grabbing me. I can’t see his face. I can’t see his face. I start to fight, shoving and kicking. I need my gun. Where is my gun? I can’t get my body to work. I can’t get him off me. My shirt rips and sand is at my back. His body is on top of me.

“I’ll kill you!” I shout. “I’ll kill you!”

His mouth presses to my ear. “You’ll be too dead to kill anyone,” he promises, his voice low, gravelly, accented. “But not until I’m done with you, which won’t be soon.”