Murder Notes (Lilah Love #1)

Thirty minutes later, my drive has been filled with a dozen memories I could do without, all of which remind me why I don’t do the holidays in the Hamptons. Exactly why I welcome arriving at the crime scene, a white, wood-paneled cottage on a strip of beach with another half a dozen homes sprinkled over a several-mile radius, all with the rear side facing the water. I park at the first open spot behind a row of marked and unmarked vehicles. By the time I’m at my trunk, sliding my crime scene bag across my chest to rest at my hip and my badge over my head, Shirley pulls in behind me. Irritated at his presence, despite the fact that I told him to meet me here, I shut the trunk and ignore him for one reason and one reason only: I know the chief well enough to bet my entire inheritance now rotting in the bank that Shirley is my babysitter. In other words, the chief has ensured the poor guy gets a good, firm spanking he probably won’t deserve. But I’m still going to give it to him to get him the hell off my ass.

I hike toward the yellow tape, where Ned, one of the longtime local uniforms, is standing guard, still looking tall and fit despite his graying hair. “Lilah Love,” he greets me. “How you doing, little girl?”

“I’m not so little anymore, Ned,” I say, ducking under the tape.

“I’ve known you since you were in diapers. You’re always a little girl to me, which is why I hate seeing ya here today, wading into the thick of a murder. But then, I guess it’s in your blood, with your family history and all.”

“Right,” I say, the words in your blood grinding through me for about ten reasons he wouldn’t understand, and my lips tighten around my agreement of, “Yes. I suppose it is. I better get inside.” I offer him my back and begin traveling a path up a sidewalk with one thing certain in my mind. Had I stayed here, I’d never have survived the “murder” that’s in my blood.

I reach the porch and show my ID to a uniformed man I don’t know. A novelty in this town three years ago that I hope isn’t a novelty at all now. Tourism has increased the population of the towns and hamlets known as the Hamptons, and perhaps I’m more a pebble in a pond than a rock on the shoreline now. One can only hope.

Climbing the steps, I walk into the house, pausing in the doorway to catalogue what I find. It’s a large, open-plan living space with a half dozen men in various modes of attire, attending to investigative work. There are no signs of a struggle. No random smears or puddles of blood to wade through. There is, however, a naked female body lying on top of a coffee table, the centerpiece of the white tiled floor and brown leather furnishings.

I walk that direction, wasting no time stepping to the table beside the body. Beth Smith, the medical examiner, one of many who work from the Hempstead main office, is kneeling next to both, her blonde hair pulled back from her face. But it’s not her I’m focused on. It’s on both the bullet hole between the victim’s eyes and her red hair and freckles, which now divides our four victims in several distinct ways: two males and two females. One is Mexican and three are white. “Are there any tattoos on the body?” I ask, removing a pair of gloves from the bag at my hip and pulling them on.

Beth glances up at me, her stare blank a moment, her attention clearly still on the crime scene, until recognition and awareness flood her face. “Lilah Love,” she says, her lips curving. “FBI agent by day. Stripper by night.”

I laugh at her use of my familiar, combative reply to those who love to taunt me as I squat down to her eye level. “Beth Smith,” I say. “Newly crowned medical examiner by day, and—”

“Alone by night,” she supplies. “Playing with dead bodies isn’t a great way to get dates. And in answer to your question: no tattoos—at least, none that I’ve located thus far.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Why are you in on this one? What don’t I know?”

“I’ll let you know when I know,” I say, reminded of Director Murphy pushing me to take that chopper and get here sooner rather than later, which leads me to a critical question. “What’s the time of death?”

“I’m officially marking it down as six o’clock, which is three hours ago.”

“Broad daylight,” I note. “Any signs of a struggle?”

“None,” she states. “The kill was clean and fast.” She indicates the bullet hole between the victim’s eyes. “One bullet. One moment in time that she was alive, and the next, she simply was not.”

“Was she naked when she was killed or stripped afterward?”

“Based on the condition and position of the body, before,” she says.

“Did we locate her clothes?”

“My understanding is that Sergeant Rivera is looking for them.”

“Eddie Rivera?” I question, wishing like hell I didn’t have to. “He’s a sergeant now?”

“And reminding us daily for about three months now.”

“Of course he is,” I say dryly. “And he’s leading this case?”

“Yes. He is.”

At the sound of the familiar male voice, I clamp my jaw, turn on my heel, and stand to face the man in question, his brown hair buzzed short. His brown suit is well pressed, a symptom of his anal-retentive disorder that, while effective on duty, makes him a pompous pain in the ass the rest of the time. “Congrats on your promotion to sergeant,” I greet him. “I’d be happy for you, but you were an arrogant ass before the promotion. You must be an unbearable arrogant ass now.”

“I am,” he agrees, his blue eyes lighting in challenge, the way they often had at the many family dinners he’d attended at my father’s request. “But you like arrogant asses, so I’m in luck.”

“Right,” I say dryly, and because I’ve learned not to pull punches, I throw one instead. “Good to see your opinion of yourself hasn’t suffered over the years.” And having no desire to play verbal dominoes with a man who has always had a sick desire to both fuck me and become the second son my father never had, I move on. “Did you find our victim’s clothes?”

His lips tighten. “Why is the FBI on my crime scene, asking questions?”

Because we’re about to take jurisdiction, asshole, I think, but I say, “Ask the chief. He requested my presence. Did we find the clothes?”

“No.”

“Have we ID’d the victim?”

“Her name is Cynthia Wright. Twenty-eight. A lawyer who leased the property six months ago and works for her landlord.”

“Kane Mendez,” I say.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Kane Mendez.”

“Excuse me,” an officer calls from the doorway, drawing both my and Rivera’s attention before adding, “Kane Mendez is here to see you.”

At the announcement, adrenaline surges through me.

“I’m sure he is,” says Rivera. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Sorry, Sergeant. It’s Agent Love he wishes to speak to.”

Rivera raises a brow at me. “He wants to speak to you. Why does that not surprise me?”

“I’m sure there’s not much that surprises you,” I reply dryly, keeping a cool exterior while my heart is about to explode from my chest. “Is there anything I need to know before I speak to him?”

“Don’t fuck him and compromise my case, or I’ll have your badge.” He turns and walks away.

God, how I love being back home, but hey. Maybe I should change my strategy. Instead of waiting until tomorrow for the happy reunions, I’ll kick over the entire bucket tonight. I head for the door and exit into an ocean-chilled wind that is now just as chilly as this meeting will be if I do my job right. I start down the steps and make it to the sidewalk when Shirley steps to my side, matching my pace. “Why are you beside me, Officer Rogers, in my personal space?”

“The chief said—”

I stop walking and turn to him. “My brother said,” I amend.

“He’s my boss, Agent Love. I’m just doing what I’ve been ordered to do.”

“Which is what exactly?”

His face reddens and irritation rolls through me, but not at him. At me. I know his orders without being told. I’m stalling, avoiding, hiding from Kane-fucking-Mendez. Officer Rogers mumbles something to me, and I tune it out, clamping down on the rush of adrenaline pouring through me and willing myself to calm the hell down. I start moving again.

Officer Rogers is slow to join me, but I give him credit for having the balls to stay the course despite my obvious displeasure. He does have orders. He does have a job to do. Just like I have a foot to insert in an ass that rightfully should be my brother’s, not his. There is good news to this little distraction I’ve created, though. I’ve kicked my own ass in the process, finding my zone and readying myself for the cat-and-mouse game Kane Mendez will try. And I won’t be the damn cat if he has his way.

Nearing the end of the sidewalk, I glance at Officer Rogers. “Where’s Mendez?”