Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

Of course, the restaurant had no cameras, and I’m no closer to finding Junior than I was before the tire incident. But I’m determined to find another piece of the puzzle I face before the party. I part ways with Greg by noon, and an hour later, I’m home, in sweatpants, sitting on the bed while thumbing through old case files on my computer. Take Me to Church is playing on the big screen on the left-hand wall, which is proving to be a truly horrific B movie, one Jensen obviously did before he hit it big. It’s giving me nothing to go on, and I’m coming up with nothing on my cases. Neither does the Emerson case file and autopsy report, which confirm the absence of body markings or tattoos, which has me back to reviewing my case files. This continues for an hour before I order Chinese food. I’m on egg roll number two when finally, a plot I thought really didn’t exist happens on-screen. The Church is a group of devil worshippers who silence anyone who crosses them.

I set down my egg roll and hit Pause, considering this idea. Not the devil worshippers, per se, but the idea of a group of people who silence those who cross them. It fits a hit list and an assassin, and despite my father’s career, both political parties rank right up there with devil worshippers to me. Thus why I haven’t voted in well, ever. I’ve never voted. I figure the dead bodies I play house with are my public service.

I sigh and decide this really isn’t getting me anywhere. Romano represents a crime organization, as does Mendez. Pocher is his own kind of nastiness. I already know this. These types of groups eliminate enemies all the time. What I need is a clue to who is involved. I hit Play again and pick up my egg roll, focusing on my case files, and start looking for people who might have clients or relatives who connect to the Mendez or Romano families, or to Pocher himself.

I’ve just finished off my lo mein and set my takeout box aside when I glance at the TV and immediately grab the remote control, hitting freeze-frame on the image of a familiar face. “Laney Suthers,” I say, tabbing through my case files to find her file, not sure why I didn’t think of her before now. Clearly aside from being a high-end Manhattan call girl, she was an aspiring actress. Back when I was in the NYPD, we’d arrested her after several clients gave her up, but she refused to do the same to save herself. We were close to turning her. We never got the chance, though. She was killed in her home while out on bail, and we never found who did it. I inhale a sharp breath. One week after I was attacked. It seems pretty clear. I survived, so she did not.

I pull up IMDb on my computer and type in Take Me to Church, looking for the executives on the film and the casting agents. I compare the list with the guest list for tonight’s party and, of course, I get a big whopping nothing. Another thought hits me, and I do some digging, looking for who funded the movie, with no luck. I get Tic Tac to work on it. Looking for one of three names: Mendez, Romano, or Pocher. And after hesitation over my secret, I dare to get him looking for connections to Laney. The call girl whose life was quite possibly taken instead of mine. I owe her justice.



I don’t get answers about the movie investor before the party. Turns out the party involved is some Chinese operation with a US back door Tic Tac didn’t want to explain. He just wanted space to work. So I do what I do. Promise to give him space and then call him several more times with more questions. Lucas, on his part, calls me four times, to ensure I’m dressed and on time for the party. And so I dress and I’m on time for the party.

At exactly seven, I pull my ridiculously out-of-place rental car through the gates of the hundred-thousand-square-foot, sixty-two-acre property of billionaire Wade Montgomery, a lighted drive guiding me to a private parking area. The house itself is aglow in majestic glory, attendants directing me to a spot among a good fifty cars. And this place is exactly why people here in East Hampton never even blinked at my family owning two houses while I grew up, which we frequented, within miles from each other. We look like peasants compared to Montgomery with his bowling alley, swimming pool, tennis courts, and a full-size theater. The man even has a small power plant on the property to juice it all up.

An attendant motions for me to pull into a spot between a Porsche and a Jaguar, and I laugh as I think of how appalled both owners of the cars will be to be parked next to the likes of me. If only I could see their faces. Killing the engine, I hear a knock on my window, and I look up to find Lucas standing there. I unlock my door and he pulls it open for me. “My lady,” he says, looking quite handsome in his tuxedo and giving me a grand bow. “May I?” He offers me his hand.

“You’re such a dork,” I say, accepting his palm and letting him help me to my feet.

“Does anyone still say the word dork?” he asks.

“I’m someone,” I point out.

“You are someone,” he agrees, lifting my black cape-style coat to give me a once-over, his eyes lighting on my Italian-made red dress. “Stunning,” he approves.

“It is, isn’t it?” I say, not just because it was my mother’s but because it’s this incredible off-the-shoulder number with cascade sleeves and a dramatic side slit.

“You are,” he says. “And the dress is nice, too. You remind me of your mother.”

I don’t take compliments well, but this one is always one that makes my heart swell and peels away a layer, if just for a moment. “Thank you, Lucas,” I say. “She was special.”

“She was. Her fans and family alike adored her.” He laces his arm with mine and sets us in motion. “Don’t you miss dressing up, Agent Love?”

“I love the clothes,” I admit. “Not the politics of it all.”

“Ah, well, politics makes the world go round.”

“I thought it was chocolate?”

“Chocolate is how we survive politics when we aren’t having sex.”

“You’re crude,” I chide, walking the mile-high staircase.

“And you love it.”

“Yes,” I admit. “I do.”

We chitchat and laugh all the way to the door, where men in fancy guardsmen uniforms open the towering, arched wooden door for us. We enter the foyer, where the floor is a work of floral art, and I check my coat but refuse to check my sparkling black purse. “We’ll need to check your purse,” a security person states.

Lucas looks at me. “This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” I assure him as we’re guided behind a small curtain that forms a half circle, a table and a guard waiting inside.

I offer him my purse and he unzips it, his eyes going wide as he removes a small pistol. “Holy hell,” Lucas curses. “Not a problem, eh?”

“What is this, miss?” the guard demands.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a gun,” I say, “though I saw a lighter that looked just like this once. Check the ID inside the purse.”

He reaches for it and removes my phone and FBI badge. He lifts the badge. “Is this real?” he asks.

“And it’s fake why? Because I’m a chick in a red dress? Or because . . . ?”

“It doesn’t look real,” the man says.

Greg steps into the small space with us, making us officially four sardines in a two-sardine can. “Problem?” he asks.

“Why yes, my dear, sweet dapper-looking Detective Harrison,” I say, eyeing his tux. “Seems the guard doesn’t know what an FBI badge looks like. Can you confirm it’s real?”

Greg snorts. “Dapper? The things you say, Agent Love.” He eyes the guard. “She’s the real deal. I’d give her back her shit before she arrests you.”

The poor guy pales and quickly returns my items to my purse and offers it to me.

“I would never arrest you,” I assure him. “Unless you killed someone. Or violated Code 111. Then I would.”

“I would never violate Code 111,” the man says, having no idea there is no such code.

“Relax,” I say, once again telling a joke no one but me seems to get. “There is no Code 111.”