Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

Andrew leans back into his seat fully, and Samantha, like a good little soldier who wants something from her target, does his obvious bidding. She stands and announces, “I’m going to grab some bakery items to go.”

“I need to go to the office and catch up on some work,” Alexandra says, kissing Eddie’s cheek and standing, her pleading gaze touching mine and asking for forgiveness, and there is guilt in her eyes. Guilt that wouldn’t exist if I was the one who shut her out for no reason.

“I’ll walk you out,” Eddie says, and the way she looks at him at that offer, all doe eyes and sweetness, it’s clear his fifty shades of assholery makes him her version of tall, dark, and good-looking.

Alexandra and Eddie depart, and I refocus on my brother. “Quickly, while we’re alone. My team in LA has had a few developments that lend some doubt to the cases all connecting.”

“And I’m sure you told them you think otherwise.”

“I shared my concerns. If I’m right, though, you’re wrong and so are they, and that doesn’t please the powers that be that want these cases closed.”

“I understand that dilemma.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah. This kind of trouble is bad for his political aspirations.”

“How do you feel about him running for New York governor?”

“It’s flipping killing me. Everything is about that to him, but you know. Politics is all he has since Mom died. I’m not sure how we fault him for finding something to live for.”

“You’re right, but I’m concerned about his involvement with Pocher.”

“Pocher is a rich asshole. He’s not a gangster.”

“There are opinions otherwise,” I point out.

“I’ve been around the guy. He believes in Dad and wants the best for our country. He’s not a bad person. In fact, there’s a big charity event tonight. Come. He’ll be there and maybe he’ll win you over.”

I’m shocked at the invite I was certain wasn’t intended, suddenly questioning my worries about Andrew and even my father. Which is a good thing.

“I’ll e-mail you a ticket, though I’m going to have my hands full with security.”

“You do have your hands full,” I say, not feeling overly motivated to mention Lucas or anything that distracts from the case right now. “Let me lend you FBI resources to get Woods.”

“FBI resources get attention we don’t need. The NYPD is helping.”

“The longer he’s gone, the less chance you have of finding Woods.”

“We’ll find him. And for the record, after that chat we had on the phone about Woods not fitting the profile, I’m going to enjoy out-profiling the profiler.”

“You will never out-profile the profiler,” I assure him.

“Uh-huh. Game on, sis. I’m right on this. And we’re going to get Woods and prove it.”

I know him and he really believes what he’s saying, and, despite how misplaced that belief, his conviction is music to my ears. I decide that he might have been fed Woods as a suspect, but I can stop worrying that he was a part of setting him up. Which means if we get Woods, he’ll see the truth and support a proper outcome of this case.

His phone beeps, and he pulls it from his pocket and glances at it and then me. “I need to get back to the station.” He sticks his phone in his pocket and instead of getting up, focuses on me. “You know. I haven’t been to Mom’s grave in a while. How about we have breakfast tomorrow and go by there?”

I inhale and straighten. “You know how I feel about that.”

“I get it. She’s in the ocean. It’s a memorial, Lilah. I need to do this. Go with me.”

“Why does going to an empty shell with a tombstone help you cope with losing her?”

“Why does shutting me out and never visiting her or me help you cope? You’re going.” He stands. “Breakfast at our favorite waffle stop at seven.”

“I don’t do seven on Sundays.”

“Tomorrow you do.”

He leaves and I sigh. The grave. I should have known that was coming with him. Resigned to his inevitable stubbornness, I slip on my coat and gather my bags to follow him outside, eager to review the Emerson case file and watch Take Me to Church for clues about that tattoo. I exit the restaurant and walk to the side of the building, weaving through cars to get to mine, when I notice Samantha and Alexandra standing just at the corner leading to the back of the building, and they don’t look happy. In fact, they look like they’re about to have a girl fight.

I step behind a vehicle, watching them, wishing I could hear them, and just when I think blows might come down, Eddie shows up and parts them. In a blink of an eye, they are walking to their cars and climbing inside. It’s all rather anticlimactic. I turn away and walk to my car, opening my door and setting my things inside when I look down and realize my back tire is flat. I’d curse out a reaction, but there’s a note attached. I walk to the tire and squat beside it, snatching the note and opening it to read:

W is for Warning.

I don’t like to be taunted.

My lips curve. “No, you don’t, do you?” And as far as I’m concerned that’s a good thing. It’s a sign of a short fuse and a weakness I can manipulate. I just have to decide how. I’m almost certain this place, in this cozy town, won’t have a parking lot security feed, and even if it does, Junior will be covered head to toe. Interesting timing, though. Andrew, Eddie, Samantha, and Alexandra were all here when this happened and in this parking lot, and everyone but my brother is apparently quite angry. Maybe I pissed one of them off enough for them to make a mistake.

And if I haven’t pissed Junior off enough to do so yet, I’m going to soon.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I stuff the note in my pocket, peel away my coat, despite what is becoming a cold October day, and get to work on my tire. Or that’s the plan. I have my spare and a jack, and I’ve just squatted down to do the job, when boots crunch next to me. My gaze travels the tan work boots and jeans to lift and find Greg standing there. “Greg?”

“Get the hell up,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me to my feet. “I’ll do it.”

“I don’t need you to change my tire. FBI agent, remember?”

“And a chick. Translation. No self-respecting man would let you freeze your ass off and change your tire.” He indicates his navy puff jacket. “I’m armed and ready.”

He’s also combed his hair and his face is clean-shaven, his all-American good looks restored. He even smells kind of Old Spice–like, which isn’t a great scent, but it’s his thing. “Why are you here?”

“Would you believe Moser called me to work security at an event tonight? And I came for a little booty and breakfast with an old flame.”

“Moser? Are you crazy? This has to be some sort of setup.”

“Yeah well, I need the money and the job. Blink Security is top-notch. And who knows? Maybe this is our in to find out what the hell is really going on.”

“I tried to call you yesterday.”

“Yeah, sorry. I was still sleeping off the self-pity. I got nothing helpful right now. Maybe after tonight I will.”

I hug myself against a cold gust of wind. “What about your contact?”

“Still working it. Put your damn coat on.”

I don’t argue. I open the door and grab my coat. “Ah, Lilah,” Greg says as I button up.

I glance down to see him flipping open his Smith & Wesson police-issue tactical knife, which he holds to the slice in my tire, before glancing up at me. “Who’d you piss off?”

“Who don’t I piss off?” I say.

“That’s true,” he says, returning his knife to his belt. “And these are your people here, which means nerves and egos are bruised ten times faster. There’s a reason it’s usually someone you love who kills you.”

Someone I love.

Who kills me.

Six words that mean so much.