Love Me Dead Page 12

  “That’s it. You’d run from me and Kane? Because you don’t seem to get it. Kane will kill you.”

  “And you wouldn’t?”

  “Are you going to give me a reason?”

  “That certainly isn’t the plan. Back to today.”

  “Today was a test. Today was staged. No one but me and Tic Tac knows that.”

  “I’ll trust your reasoning on that, but I hope that you choose to tell Houston. I won’t. Read his file. And stay safe, Agent Love. I have big plans for you.” He disconnects.

  I toss my phone down and pull off the gloves, tossing them on the table next to it. I intend to look at Houston’s file, but Murphy’s words come back to me: Kane is a powerful man who frankly scares the shit out of me. My gaze goes to that painting of the cove, memories rushing back at me. It was there, with nothing but the ocean to hear us, that Kane first told me who and what the Mendez name meant, what rumors had already told me. It was there that he told me about killing a man who planned to kill him for being his father’s son. It was there that he confessed so much to me. It was there when I’d told him about my first kill. No. Not my first kill. It was there that I told him about the first time I could have cuffed and arrested, but I pulled the trigger on the monster instead. He’d raped a little girl and he’d dared me to shoot him, and I just—I did. It was wrong, but it felt necessary. And Kane’s reply had been: Next time, let me do it for you. And he’d meant it, even if, at least back then, I’d told myself he didn’t.

  But he had meant it. He’d kill for me. He wouldn’t even ask why. He’d just do it and feel no regret. It’s what he learned. It’s how he survived, in ways no one but me and the cove will ever know. Because that cove holds many a secret we told each other. I could destroy Kane. But he could destroy me, too. What concerns me isn’t Kane. It’s the way Murphy seems to understand us. It feels like he knows more than he should, but then Kane said there’s more to Murphy than I know. Is there a history between them that Kane hasn’t told me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  That question about Kane and Murphy will be answered by Kane, right here in this very apartment.

  With that decision made, I set my concern aside and head down a hallway and into the kitchen, which is, of course, big and glorious, with a giant gray stone island fit for an Iron Chef who is not me or Kane. He has, however, hired a chef to cook for us a few times, and I enjoyed every minute of that eating. The rest of the time, I microwave with excessive skill, even Kane agrees.

  Spying the fancy coffee pot on the corner of the counter, I head in that direction and grab the canister next to it and inhale. Oh God. He has the French bean I adore so much. God, I’ve missed this stuff. I start a pot and open the fridge to find a big container of strawberries, which Kane knows I love. The man buried a body for me, and he even buys me strawberries. It’s hard not to see that devotion as just a little appealing. I open the freezer and there is Haagen-Dazs strawberry ice cream. I grab it. “My God, I think I’m I love with this man again.” Those words are out before I can stop them, and I set the ice cream on the island.

  “Okay, Kane,” I call out to his many recording devices, “if you’re listening or watching me right now, which I’m sure you are because that’s the kind of sick fuck you are, I didn’t mean that literally. I’m not sure where we are right now. I might still hate you. I do still hate you.” I open a drawer and pull out a spoon. “The coffee and ice cream are pretty nice touches, though, I do have to admit, but you always did do that Latin, smooth operator stuff. I know how you are. I know who you are, and it’s not all strawberries and ice cream.” I grimace. “And Jesus, I’m talking to a camera like it’s fucking Kane.”

  I set my ice cream and spoon aside and walk to the coffee pot, starting my brew, and with my ice cream melting and my coffee percolating, I head back to the living room, grab my bag and the file and head upstairs to the third level, which is Kane’s bedroom. I step inside, and I don’t even think about stopping to look at that massive gray-framed bed. I know he records this room. He won’t be watching me stare at the bed we used to fuck in. Often. We did that often. I miss that, too, but I get a lot more work done when I’m not always distracted by being naked with Kane Mendez.

  Therefore, I can’t move back in here; I won’t. It doesn’t matter that Murphy already thinks I have. This is far more complex than what Murphy wants. I walk right past that very big, very comfortable bed and head straight to the door on the far wall, entering the room that Kane built for me—my Purgatory, the place that I exile myself until I solve a case. He wanted it here, so I’d be closer to him. I scan the perfect version of the same room I have setup at the beach house. It’s round, the walls covered in a film-like material that I can write on. There are pushpins and moveable boards in various places. Of course, there’s a desk and a chair, but there are also two more chairs and a wall of the best forensics books in existence that Kane gifted me. Books that I read when I either had a brain freeze, I’d never admit to anyone, or I just needed inspiration. Kane reads them too. I try not to think about that being inspiration for him, too.

  I sit down at the desk, and there is a brand-new MacBook waiting for me. I know it’s brand new because the box is sitting beside it. Opening the lid, I find a screensaver of our painting downstairs, and I instantly know the password, as Kane knew that I would: The Cove.

  Ready to analyze all my case data, something long past due, I head back downstairs to arm myself with my snacks. Once there, I fill a huge insulated mug with coffee, punish it with cream and sugar, in a way that would make Kane cringe, before snapping up my ice cream. Soon, I’m behind my desk, keying up my email and sipping my coffee, while my ice cream softens even further. I don’t want to have to work for it when I eat it. In fact, I’ll drink it over fighting it like it’s a concrete block. I do enough fighting without fighting my ice cream, too.

  Soon, I’m staring at my inbox, which is my business email, merged with my personal email, and apparently, Viagra can make all my troubles go away. It certainly gives you a lift. If only Umbrella Man would have gotten this email and tried it. I scan through all the junk and find the messages from Tic Tac and Roger. Roger’s subject line references his now closed case. I’m not sure I can write off anything to do with Roger, considering he was used to get me to the scene of the first known murder, but for now, it’s right to the back burner for him. With that decision, I begin going through Tic Tac’s notes, even printing them out. There’s a stack of notecards on the desk, and it’s time to do my thing. I need a card for every person involved in this case. I start with victims:

  Mia Moore

  Shelly Willit

  Detective Williams

  Ralph Redman

  I have notes from Tic Tac on who saw each person last, and for all but Ralph it was a co-worker. I write those names down as well. For Ralph, the last person is complicated, considering his open courtroom suicide.

  From there I move to anyone with a connection to the case. Of course, all family members who I know of get a card, now, and as they are discovered. That isn’t many people which is probably intentional. Killers don’t like complications. Big families mean complications. I have a list of friends and close co-workers not already indexed that all get cards. For now, I also include Mia’s boyfriend, North Madison, Thomas Miller, our creepy forensic guy, and every person on our team, even the meek little girls. Then there’s Houston, Murphy, Roger, Kane, and even me, as all of us have something to do with this case and might connect a dot. Kane through me. Perhaps me through Roger.

  I pin them all up on the board and pick up my ice cream, staring at the names, which usually triggers ideas and revelations, but I get nothing. I do have a moment when I consider Murphy’s worries over my ex-partner, and I consider giving him a card, but right now, he’s not yet involved. As for him being a suspect, he knows me well. He’s well connected to me, and he even knows Roger, but Greg is in his early thirties, and I reject him as a po
ssibility. He’s not this guy. I know him.

  Greg is not the Umbrella Man.

  The end.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Setting Greg aside as a suspect, I consider others. And I keep considering. I’m a whole lot of blank space. I wonder how the dumb people in the world survive the blank space. It’s fucking suffocating. I need to make something happen. I write out another card: The Umbrella Man.

  I pin that on its own board. I then start writing a card for every word that comes to my mind about this monster; it’s what I call my rapid-fire process, freeform, wild in the wilderness. If I write it, it stays. Whatever comes to mind, no matter how illogical it may seem, stays on the list. And so, I begin:

  Asshole

  Stalker

  Creep

  Smart

  Genius

  Manipulator

  Evil

  Law enforcement

  Small dick

  Short man

  Big ego

  Control freak

  Insecure

  Confident

  Lean

  Fit

  Strong

  Skilled with weapons

  Knowledge of the press

  Little bitch, not to be confused with little dick

  Single white asshole

  No tattoos

  Good looking but short (this would rule out Thomas and Houston, but I still want both on the list)

  Over forty

  Educated

  OCD

  The OCD reminds me of Tic Tac’s assignment to find out about the victims, so I finish off a bite of ice cream and call him. He doesn’t answer, and I toss down my phone.

  I grab all the papers from the printer and make stacks by name on the floor. That’s what I do. I make a lot of stacks. I make a lot of lists. I pace and stare at the stacks and lists. And I eat, in this case, I eat ice cream and stare at the stacks. Frustrated, I end up just eating ice cream because I can think of nothing. Nothing. Holy fuck, I have nothing. I’m blank. I sit down on the floor in front of the stacks, ice cream still in route from the pint to my mouth, pint to mouth. Repeat, repeat—why the hell am I thinking of nothing helpful?

  I rotate and look at the names on the board, and there are only two over forty: Murphy and Roger. It’s not either one of them. I lay down, and I repeat those names: Murphy and Roger. This mental block is about Roger, I decide, being objective about myself. I don’t want to deal with him. I don’t want to face him. I don’t want him to see the killer I see when I look in the mirror but I have to find a way to remove him from the picture, at least mentally.

  There’s a sound downstairs, and most likely, it’s Kane, but for good measure, I grab my weapon and set it on my belly, trying to stay focused but ready to shoot anyone who isn’t Kane. Umbrella Man clearly has a fixation on me. He went through Murphy and Roger to get to me. Logically, this could be about Roger or even Murphy, but the common denominator is me.

  There’s a sound by the door, and I glance over to find Kane crossing the room. I sit up, and he kneels in front of me, his jacket and tie gone, those brown eyes so black they could drag me to hell, and I’m pretty sure I’d burn there willingly.

  “Are you planning to shoot me this time, Lilah?”

  “Are you planning to give me a reason?”

  “I thought I already did?”

  “True. Very true.” I set the gun aside. “But not now. Now, I’m thinking. This case is all about me, Kane. Whoever this is has to be in law enforcement. They know things about me that makes that assumption logical. This person must have watched my career. This person knows forensics. And they managed to get rid of evidence I bagged at a scene. It just didn’t make it to the station. They know me. That means they know you.”

  “What if it’s not law enforcement at all? Who else has been watching you just like they watched your mother?”

  “Pocher? You think he hired someone to do this?”

  “You did when you called me after the first murder.”

  “I know, but I can’t let the Society become my fall guy for all cases.”

  “And you can’t ignore them in this one, not right after I threatened them. Not when I targeted Pocher’s brother.”

  “You had him kidnapped and then played hero and saved him. He knew you had him kidnapped. You wanted him to know. He can’t prove it but he knew.”

  “Your point?”

  “Which was supposed to back them off, not ignite another attack. He’s afraid of you, Kane. The more I think about this being the Society, the less likely that feels.”

  “It’s a game of chess. We can’t assume to know their next move. That’s dangerous.”

  A thought hits me. “What about Pocher’s brother?” I scoot to my knees, facing him. “Who is he? What is he? Could he be crazy and being kidnapped sent him over the edge?” I hold up a hand. “No. It doesn’t matter. Don’t answer. I’m losing it. I’m reaching. I don’t have my head in the game. I’m all over the place right now.” I catch myself on his knees and try to get up, but I never make it. Kane catches my legs.

  “You have Roger in your head, Lilah,” he accuses, because Kane knows me, he knows my fears. “Did you see him?”

  “He’s still in Connecticut handling another case.”

  “He can’t see what’s not there.”

  “It is there. I’m there for him to see.”

  “You aren’t me, Lilah, I won’t ever let that happen.”

  “We both know I’m already there.”

  “No. You’re not already there. Trust me.”

  “Because I now know that you’ll bury a body for me if I need you to?”

  “Yes, Lilah. And it’s time we both said that out loud. Because I will bury a fucking body for you.”

  “Are we really going to fucking go there, Kane?”

  “It’s about damn time we did, don’t you think?”

  My cellphone rings. “That’s going to be Tic Tac and—”

  “He can wait, but I can’t. I’m not waiting. Not this time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Kane and I sit there on our knees in the middle of Purgatory, two people who go to our knees for no one, and yet, here we are now together. That night is between us, and he’s right; we can’t dodge this. I knew that last night. My mind goes there now, and I can almost feel the ocean air washing over me. Kane is holding my attacker. Blood and sand clump in my mouth from where my teeth have bitten into my tongue while my face has been shoved into the dirt. The drugs I’ve been given are blurring everything, except Kane holding that man, Kane who hasn’t killed him yet. He’s talking to him. My God he’s talking to him. And then there’s the blade in his belt, the one that I’m certain would have been used to kill me if Kane hadn’t shown up. Everything just fades into desperation and anger, and somehow, I’m stabbing my attacker over and over and over again. I just can’t make myself stop.

  I snap back to the present and grab Kane’s shoulders. “I know you saved my life. In more ways than one. I don’t know what I would have said or done if I would have called the police that night. I don’t know what I would have become. Probably everything I don’t want to become, but you know I could.”

  “No.” He strokes my hair from my face and tilts my gaze to his. “I didn’t let that happen.”

  “I’m still angry at you for that night.”

  “I didn’t get there in time. I didn’t stop him from raping you. I didn’t get him the hell out of there fast enough. I didn’t kill him fast enough. I will never let you down like that again.”

  “So is that what we’re doing? Blaming you?”

  “I’m okay with the blame, Lilah. I’m not okay without you.” His mouth closes down on mine, and suddenly, there is nothing but me and this man. We tug at our clothing. We tug at each other’s hair. We end up naked in the middle of the floor on top of all of my paperwork, and it’s as it used to be with Kane. There are
no more walls. There are no more barriers. We have no inhibitions. We roll to our sides. He rolls to his back. We end up in the chair with me on top of him, and I swear I yank a chunk of his hair out and that man moans like it’s pleasurable. When it’s all said and done, somehow, we’re back on the floor, naked, side by side, and leaning on the chair we were in a few minutes before.

  I lay on his shoulder, and somehow, a part of my life that almost destroyed me, is a softer shade of ugly, at least the part that affected me with this man. But with that dulling, another knife has been sharpened. “In the back of my mind,” I say, “there’s been this question I haven’t wanted to speak out loud.”

  “About your father?” he asks, and we turn to face each other.

  “Yes. I keep thinking about that moment when I told him the Society had me raped, and he told me I was lucky they didn’t kill me. The plan was to kill me. I knew it was, I believed it was.”

  “As did I.”

  “Did my father know? And did he know they were going to kill my mother? Because Kane, I know they did. I know it.” I don’t give him time to answer. “If I find out that he did, I’m going to need you to kill him for me. I’ll have to ask you to kill him for me.”

  His expression hardens, and he grabs the blanket on the chair and pulls it around me. “He’s your father. We won’t come back from that. Don’t ask me to do something we can’t survive.”

  “If you don’t do it, I will, and I won’t come back from that. You know I won’t.”

  “We’ll get the truth, and we’ll make decisions when we do, together.”

  “Maybe we can just have him drugged and raped.” My cellphone rings, and I jolt. “I forgot it was ringing earlier. I have to get it.” Kane stretches to grab it from the desk before handing it to me.

  We share a look that punches with history before he stands and starts pulling on his pants. I glance at Tic Tac’s number and answer. “Oh, thank God. I called you three times.”