Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

An hour later, I’m on a chopper, flying over Long Island, and my mind tracks back to the bloody scene in LA that I’d remembered on the plane. And I know exactly why my mind had taken me there. It wasn’t about escaping my past, or finding Rich that day, or rather him finding me. It was about how that day had led to me finding my zone, a place in my mind that I enter where blood and death are not real. I call it “Otherland,” and when I mentally step into that world, I don’t feel anything. I just process. I just profile. It’s sanity. It’s peace. It’s survival. And on that plane, my mind was telling me to make the Hamptons a part of my Otherland. A comical idea really, considering the Hamptons is an Otherland in and of itself. An alternate universe, where the rich and famous live the high life and shun those who don’t meet preordained standards that are known but not spoken. A universe that once owned me, controlled me. And I can’t let that happen again. I can, and will, survive by making this trip a visit to one of my Otherland crime scenes, not a visit home.

Easier said than done, I decide as we approach the village of Wainscott, flying over the now-shadowy silhouette of the graveyard where my mother is buried, and a million memories—good and bad—erupt inside me. By the time the pilot sets us on the tarmac, I’ve wrestled them into submission, but I just want off this bird and out of this airport. I exit the chopper, grab the small bag I’ve brought with me, and head across the tarmac. My plan is to pick up my rental car and get to the cottage in Sag Harbor that I’ve booked for the night. Once I’m there, safely out of my family’s direct line of fire, I’ll try to recover the evening off the radar of everyone involved in this case, which I’d planned to do before Director Murphy announced my visit. I’ll let the local officials know I’m here, I’m tired, and I’ll see them tomorrow. And then I’ll dig around before anyone has real eyes on me.

It’s a good plan that goes bad in all of two steps inside the terminal when I find a tall, lanky police officer holding a sign with my name on it. And since I know the police chief’s territorial nature, I’m not mistaking this greeting as a welcome, but rather as his establishment of his control.

Crossing to the man, I stop in front of him. “I’m here,” I say. “I’m Lilah. Who are you?”

“Officer Rogers. Shirley Rogers.”

I blink. “Your name is Shirley?”

“Yes, ma’am. Named after my father. He was a 9/11 hero.”

“Oh,” I say. “That certainly makes Shirley a marvelously unique name. Thank your father for his service.”

“He’s dead,” he blurts out awkwardly.

“Well then,” I say again. “Thank you and your family for his service. And tell your chief I’m here in the flesh and that I’ll see him in the morning.” I start walking toward the rental car booth.

“Ms. Love. Wait. Please.” He catches up with me as my cell rings. I reach for it while he attempts what he doesn’t understand as of yet to be a destiny of futile communication. “Ms. Love—”

“I’m renting a car,” I say, cutting him off and pulling my phone from my bag and noting Murphy’s number. “I don’t need a ride.” I walk up to the rental car counter. “Lilah Love,” I say, answering my call and bypassing “hello,” I add, “I’m at the airport.” I slide my ID onto the counter in front of a tall, dark-haired female I thankfully don’t know, when I know most everyone on the east side of the Hamptons.

“Good thing,” Murphy says approvingly, “because you have a gift waiting on you. A dead body that fits our killer’s MO.”

“What?” I say, accepting a form from the attendant, who seems unfazed by my conversation with someone other than her. “Are you sure?”

“Just got word from the chief, who’s in Southampton for a meeting of some sort. By the way, he sent a man to pick you up.”

“He’s here,” I say, my mind chasing this new development while he’s already moving on. “What did you tell the locals about my investigation?”

“You mean your brother?”

Smart-ass. “Yes,” I say. “Him.”

“When it became clear you’d told him nothing, I kept it vague. He believes you have a loose link to a series of murders you’re investigating. I’ll leave the rest to you, but I need to be kept abreast of the tone you’re keeping.”

“Understood.”

“And I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that this body shows up right when you get there.”

“Yes,” I say, already thinking the same thing. “I have to agree.”

“Either someone left you a gift,” he adds, “or someone knew you were coming and did an emergency silencing. In which case they have access to your inner circle, be it professional or personal. And with either conclusion, you’re the common denominator. Clearly, someone thinks you’re a threat. What haven’t you told me, Agent Love?”

“Nothing,” I say, and it’s the truth, at least as I know it in relation to this case and my job. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Do that,” he orders. “And watch your back.” He ends the call.

I refocus on the rental car agent before I turn and exit the line to find Shirley waiting on me. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a dead body?”

“I tried.”

“Try harder next time. What’s the address?”

“Montauk,” he says.

“I need an address.”

He grabs his phone from his pocket and recites the street and zip code.

“Who owns the property and who lives at the property?” I ask, knowing that area to be laden with seasonal rentals.

“I don’t know.”

“Find out,” I say, motioning to his phone. “Put my number in your address book and text me when you know.” He does as ordered and I hold up my rental key. “I’ll meet you at the crime scene.”

I turn away and start walking, keeping my head low to avoid chance encounters that too easily happen in an airport catering to rich fucks coming in and out of the city. Right now, I need to think. Who knew I was coming? How do they connect to that tattoo and those murders? Am I in danger? My answer is a resounding yes. I exit into the glow of streetlights and a starless, moonless night, finding my way to the parking lot where I locate my basic white rental, and that yes I’ve just given myself is still in my mind.

Exactly why I waste no time dropping my bag in the trunk and unzipping it. I then remove my shoulder holster and slip it on over my simple black T-shirt that matches my simple black jeans I’ve paired with my Converses. I then insert my service weapon, a Glock 23, standard FBI issue, otherwise known as my best friend in this world, into the appropriate location, a message in my actions. Whoever might be watching me, or even coming for me, needs to know that I have a buddy on board who knows how to blow holes in nasty people.

I’ve just settled inside the car when my phone buzzes with a text from Shirley: The property is rented by a Cynthia Wright. It’s owned by Kane Mendez.

The devil—or prince—of the Hamptons depending on who you’re talking to. And since it’s me, he’s the devil.



I pull the rental out of the airport and onto the highway, driving toward Montauk, a popular beach escape for tourists and a residence to many locals. I’m on the road all of five minutes before Shirley’s squad car appears in my rearview mirror. I tune him out, focusing on the turn of events before me, namely just how accurate Director Murphy’s conclusions were: this murder I’m about to investigate is either a “Welcome home” gift for me or at the very least a reaction to my visit. But what Murphy doesn’t know is that I told no one I was coming. The only alerts about my arrival were given by him and most likely by way of law enforcement. I steer myself away from the obvious assumption that one of our own is dirty. I didn’t announce my expected arrival for a reason: I’m an old-school local, the daughter of what some might call royalty in these parts. One word about my visit will travel like wildfire and reach a wide horizon and do so quickly, an idea that gives my brain plenty of fodder, beyond the murders, to play with for the rest of the drive.