Love Me Dead Page 11

  “Name dropping irritates the fuck out of me,” I snap.

  “Being judged unfairly irritates the fuck out of me,” he replies, “especially when it’s not deserved. Call Murphy. I was put here for a reason, Lilah Love.”

  Houston could be leading me into a trap, baiting me to find out what Murphy wants by placing me here in New York City, which is why I answer him with as direct of a fucking answer as possible. I turn away and enter the apartment again, leaving him in the hallway.

  This time, I look at the room with new eyes, and the first thing I focus on is the desk in the corner. I walk over to it and do a visual scan. The top is clear, clean, freshly polished. I open the center drawer. It’s nearly empty with a few neatly placed pencils and a notepad inside. I move to the side drawer and pull it out. The files inside are neatly lined up and labeled. I kneel and look through them to find basic categories like taxes, warranties, and receipts, all of which seem to be what she says they are. She uses H&R Block, and she did her taxes late and recently. I take a picture of the accountant’s information who worked with her, as well as the receipts that might lead me somewhere, though none of this feels relevant. There is a birthday card, too, from “your sister forever.” She doesn’t have a sister. I shoot a photo of the return address and send it to Tic Tac with a message: find out who this person is to Williams.

  I scan the room again and come to a bottom line: the anal nature of the files fits the setup that I found at the station in her office. It fits what I know of the killer. I have to consider that she might be the killer, but my gut still tells me that’s not the case. I stand up and shut the drawer, turning to move on when I all but run into Thomas, who is actually quite big and tall. And while his stance might seem unassuming and accidental, that’s bullshit.

  “Personal space. What the hell?”

  He stares at me for a few beats. “I didn’t expect you to run into me.”

  “And yet you walked up behind me?”

  “It’s a small space.”

  “So is the place between your legs where I’ll put my knee if you don’t take a step out of my personal space.”

  His eyes narrow, and he steps back. I step forward right back into his space. “Next time I’m this close to you, you’ll feel it for all the wrong reasons. Did you need something?”

  He doesn’t back away. Neither do I. “To make a general comment.”

  “Which is what?” I ask.

  “She didn’t strike me as being as neat as this apartment. Her sheets are perfect. Her towels are perfect. Her drawers are perfect.”

  “And yet?” I prod.

  “Her hair was usually a mess. She spilled her coffee often. Something was usually hanging out of her purse.”

  And he noticed. Why did he notice? Innocent observation? Maybe, but I don’t think so. “What’s your relationship with Detective Williams?”

  “I observe people. That’s all.”

  “And what did you observe?”

  “I told you. She’s not this organized. It feels off. So off that I felt like she wasn’t fit to oversee the investigation.”

  “What else?”

  “I saw her get frazzled a few times during the past month after taking a call. She’d go into her office and shut the door.”

  “Was that abnormal?”

  “I didn’t work with her directly before this case,” he says.

  “And yet you mentioned it.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “What about it?”

  “Would it surprise you to hear that her office is just as organized as her apartment?”

  “It just doesn’t fit what I saw when she was in front of me, but hell, maybe she’s a contradiction or maybe she overcompensates for one thing with another.”

  Or maybe, I think to myself, she didn’t organize any of this herself. Maybe it’s all the Umbrella Man. It’s a crazy thought but then crazy is what I do.

  “Gather evidence,” I order. “Let me know what you find.” But he won’t find any. Because the Umbrella Man doesn’t want us to find anything. This entire scene is staged.

  I think about every crime scene involved in this case and find myself questioning if all of the girls were actually scattered and disorganized until Umbrella Man arrived. What if the he cleaned them up or even made them clean up? I can almost picture them all cleaning desperately to stay alive. Would it have happened during a kidnapping before the murder? Every part of me wants to leave this apartment and do what I have to do to follow my thought process right now, but I blink and find Thomas staring at me, something in his eyes I don’t like.

  “Go work,” I order.

  “Yes, ma’am, Agent Love.” He turns away from me, and I swear I heard a hint of a laugh in his voice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Where is Detective Williams?

  It’s the question of the day. It’s the question Chief Houston asks when he catches me at the front of the apartment before I leave. “If not here, where?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re the profiler. If she’s dead, where is she now?”

  “If she was dead—” I stop myself short, because unlike a lot of irritating people on this case, I don’t have foot to mouth disease. “We don’t know if she’s dead.”

  He studies me hard and heavily. “Tell me where your head is right now. What the hell can I possibly do to help you catch this asshole if I don’t know what rabbit hole we’ve fallen inside?”

  “I like to travel my rabbit holes alone rather than with a wolf that might eat me.”

  “You’re no rabbit, Lilah,” he snaps, folding his arms in front of his chest. He’s big like Thomas, but he stays the hell in his own personal space. I still don’t trust him. “You still don’t trust me,” he comments, like he heard what I thought. Hell, maybe I said it out loud.

  “Nope,” I say, sticking to the less is more idea.

  “Okay then. At least you’re honest. I’m assigning Detective Carpenter to take over as lead for Williams, reporting to you, of course. You know him. You worked with him. He knows Williams.”

  He’s right. I know him. I’ve worked with him. He’s an old geezer with a bald head. “Knowing him doesn’t mean I trust him. It doesn’t even mean I like him.”

  “He knows Williams.”

  “You said that.”

  “You don’t. He can offer insight into where she might be right now.”

  “Fine. Have him call me.” I turn to walk away.

  “Agent Love.”

  I grimace and pause, turning on my heels. “Yes?” I ask.

  “Who can I give you that you will trust? Who do you want on this case?”

  “Greg,” I say of my old partner. “He’s on leave because Moser set him up to take the fall for something he didn’t do. Payback because Greg knew he was dirty and wasn’t going to put up with it.”

  “If I get him back?”

  “Get him back. We’ll talk a bit more if you get that done.”

  “You’re riding me like I’m a drunk fool, Lilah.”

  “Agent Love to you, asshole, until you prove you’re not a drunk fool.”

  “Call fucking Murphy and the ‘fuck’ in that sentence is me trying to relate to you because nothing else is working.”

  Umbrella Man has a better chance of relating to me, but that’s my little secret. “Did you want a cookie or a proper lesson on pronunciation? Because you need to emphasize the F or the K in appropriate moments.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “I’ll get your man back.” He presses his hands to his hips. “We have an issue though. The press got hold of all of this. They’re breathing down my neck. What am I giving them?”

  “You have a suicide in a courtroom. Leave it at that.”

  “I have two dead women. They know.”

  “That, to the public eye, don’t connect.”

  “The attorney general wants this case solved before panic sets in,” h
e counters.

  “And let me guess, you told him that Ralph Redman is our killer?”

  “Someone told him. It wasn’t me. And he has a reporter threatening him with a serial killer headline.”

  Someone told him. The Umbrella Man told him. Killers want attention. He wants my attention, and he wants pressure on me to give it to him. Somehow, someway that bastard relayed the message to the press that he wanted to get out to the public.

  “Give him what he wants,” I say, and I’m not talking about the attorney general, though I’m certain that’s what Houston will think. I’m talking about Umbrella Man. He wants it. Let him think he gets what he wants. For now. Until I get him.

  I turn away and skip the Uber, despite the long walk ahead of me to Kane’s apartment, considering the sensitive calls I need to engage. I try Tic Tac and get his voicemail. I dart into a Starbucks where I order a mocha with a triple shot. My agenda with that caffeine high is to make myself a little less approachable than everyone has seemed to find me the last twenty-four hours. I’ve just exited to the street again when my cellphone rings with my returned call from Tic Tac.

  “I need—” I begin.

  “You always do,” Tic Tac replies. “First, before I forget, the sister you asked about is a sorority sister.”

  I check that question off the list. “What else?”

  “Ralph Redman. I assume he’s your killer?”

  “If only it were that simple, but this is far more evil than a man who did his dirty work and offed himself when he was done. Consider Redman a victim.”

  “He killed himself.”

  “Like I said, consider Redman a victim. And somehow, someway, all of these cases connect to someone in law enforcement. There’s no other conclusion when we have someone calling themselves Roger getting to key supervisors and evidence missing. Look at everyone connected to me or Williams for the past year.”

  “What the hell is this? Redman killed himself.”

  “Okay, Tic Tac, let me be clear. If someone was holding a gun to Mike’s head and told you to shoot yourself or they’d shoot him, what would you do?”

  “I guess it comes down to if I actually believe the person holding the gun really will shoot.”

  “You believe him. What do you do?”

  “Shoot myself,” he says. “That’s Evil.”

  “The kind you don’t underestimate. The kind Stephen King makes up in his books and is never real, except it is.” I don’t give him time to reply. I need stuff. Now. “I need you to do an interview for me.”

  “Me? I don’t do interviews. I’m the tech guy.”

  “I can’t trust anyone. I trust you. I need you to make calls yourself. Find out from the family and friends of Mia and Shelly if they had OCD. Find out from medical records. Find anyone close to them who are.”

  “Where is this headed?”

  “Just find out. I need to make another call.”

  “Lilah—”

  “Jeff,” I say, making this personal. “He’s going to kill again. Most likely Detective Williams, who I predict to be a prisoner right now. Make the calls. Make them quickly. And get me a timeline for the victims. Did they disappear before they were killed? When were they last seen? Who last saw them?”

  “Has the local law enforcement found out nothing?”

  “I had evidence disappear that I personally bagged on scene. So, have they found out anything? I have an entire file they put together, but I trust nothing I’m told by them. Am I going to tell you what it says, no. I want what we do to be untainted by what they do.”

  “Aren’t people going to be irritated that I call again, after they already heard from the police?”

  “And you know what you say to them if they do? You say, so sorry to irritate you with a murder. Did the victim irritate you as much when she was alive? That’ll shut them up.” There’s a tingling sensation down my spine. I’m being watched. “If you need help, call Murphy. I need to go.”

  I hang up and pause at a corner by a light, discreetly scanning the area. “Are you here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So is he. I feel him.”

  “You want to try and trap him?”

  “If only he were that stupid. He doesn’t know you’re there. Make sure he doesn’t. I’m going to Kane’s.”

  “I figured that out, and I think that’s smart.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what I needed: your opinion. Because if you didn’t think it was smart—”

  “This part of you is inbred, isn’t it?”

  “My really funny jokes? Yes.” I move on. “Kill him if you see him. I’ll take the blame. You have my word.”

  “I don’t need to be told twice.”

  I disconnect and dial my old partner, Greg. The light changes as I leave him a voicemail. “I got your job back on a big case. Call me. Now.”

  I disconnect and dial Kane. “Lilah.”

  “Watch your back. This asshole wants me. He could come at you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way to Purgatory.”

  He’s silent a moment, digesting the fact that I’m really going to go to his place. “I have some business to finish up, but I’ll be there soon.”

  “Good. Someone has to protect you.”

  “But who’s going to protect you from me, Lilah? Isn’t that always your question?”

  “I do believe I’ve proven myself quite capable where you’re concerned, Kane Mendez. You can test me tonight, if you so please.”

  He laughs, low and deep, and disconnects. Fuck. I love that man’s laugh. If Umbrella Man comes for him, he’ll be sorry, because if he touches Kane, I’ll stop pretending I don’t like killing assholes like him. I’ll embrace my inner Dexter. Who am I kidding? If Umbrella Man goes at Kane, Umbrella Man will end up in a corner sucking his thumb, suffering until Kane hands him to me in pieces.

  What does it say about me that I know this about Kane and still Kane remains the only person in my life who knows and understands me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I walk into the Madison Avenue building where Kane lives, where we both used to live, and I swear to myself I’m not going to make a big deal out of being here. It’s not a big deal. I need to use Purgatory. I’m not moving back in. I’m not getting that serious with Kane again, but even as I have that thought and step onto the stone floors of the lobby, memories crash over me, impossible to escape. So is the security desk to the right of the door, where the security guard, Kit—a tall, brooding, fit Mexican man who smiles big and kills easily—greets me. I like him, and it’s not for his smile.

  “Lilah fucking Love,” he greets. “I heard you were back.”

  “I’m certain that wasn’t Kane, considering he wouldn’t presume that I’m back just because I’m in the same city.”

  He laughs. “No comment.” He winks. “Glad to have you in the building.” He sets a long yellow envelope on the counter. “This came for you.”

  I take it and glance at him. “From who?”

  His attention sharpens. “A courier delivered it. Problem?”

  “I’ll let you know after I look at it.” I lower my voice. “I have an enemy. A dangerous enemy. The kind that might scare someone like say you, and with good reason.”

  “Kane informed me of the situation. I’ve taken precautions.”

  “Even when you’re not here?”

  He arches a brow but doesn’t ask a question. “Yes,” is all he says. But then, this is Kane’s man, after all. He’s seen far more than I can probably imagine.

  “Okay then. Power on.” I don’t wait for agreement, I start walking, but I don’t even think about opening the envelope here in the middle of the lobby. Without hesitation, I punch in a code in the elevator, certain it will work. The car moves and carries me to the seventeenth floor. The doors open, and I step into a small foyer that’s nothing more than stone floors and glass walls to allow Kane to se
e who has entered. The panel next to a silver door that lifts requires fingerprint entry—that’s how careful Kane is—and that’s how present I still am in this apartment. I walk to the panel, stick my finger on the pad, and the sliding silver doors before me open.

  Kane will now be notified of my presence.

  I enter the apartment, and I try not to let the room affect me. I see it, I do, but it’s just a room of towering ceilings and windows, with gray wooden floors. There above, connected by three levels of glass and tiled stairs to my left, are just rooms. It’s all beautiful. It’s stunning. It’s dripping with money, but none of this defines me or Kane. Blood defines us. Murder defines us. I can’t forget how we came to be and how we divided.

  I walk to the main living area distinguished by a gray rug and a distinct accent wall, with a massive painting of the cove where we used to go to talk. He had that painting custom made when I moved into this place with him. I sit down on one of the light gray chairs, accenting the gray couch and coffee table, and focus on the envelope.

  I set it on the coffee table and slide my bag onto the couch, pulling out a pair of gloves, before I open it and find a file with a note on top:

  Agent Love:

  Houston is with us. His file is included for your review. We align. Trust him. Your friend, Greg, I vetoed his involvement. He is not what he seems. Call me after you read the file.

  —Murphy

  Irritated, I grab my phone and call him now. “How do you know where I’m at? Are you having me followed?”

  “Agent Love, I don’t have to have you followed to know that you’ll be with Kane Mendez.”

  “Kane and I—” I hesitate. “Did you give me this job because of Kane?”

  “You are what matters, but yes, you’re a complete package, and yes, Kane is part of that package. Does that bother you?”

  “Kane is a complicated man.”

  “Kane is a powerful man who frankly scares the shit out of me, Agent Love, but I don’t run from what scares me. If I did, I’d run from you. What do I need to know about today?”