“Otherworld, Lilah,” I whisper, forcing myself into the place I normally reserve for crime scenes but aware that I need to step back and away from the personal side of my investigation. I need to be Agent Love: cold, thoughtful, calculating, and driven. I inhale again, slowly letting the air flow back out of my lungs and over my lips. “Otherworld,” I repeat as I turn away from the photo and exit the bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later, after fighting an urge to confine myself to my office, my self-declared Purgatory, the place I confine myself until I find the answers I need, I settle in the living room. It’s the only way I can keep the doors in view. I turn the living room into my new workspace, my temporary Purgatory. Once I have note cards, pens, coffee, and cookie slices within reach, I get to work. And as my trips to Purgatory always begin, I alternate between pacing and cursing, with random time at my computer and scribbling on note cards. At three in the morning, I summarize the points in my mind and discussed with Kane up to this point:
JR. AND ASSASSIN—THE SAME PERSON? UNCERTAIN
MY RETURN TO NEW YORK COULD BE A BY-PRODUCT OF THE MURDERS, NOT NECESSARILY PLANNED
OR THE ASSASSIN WAS TOLD TO HUMILIATE THE VICTIMS BY UNDRESSING THEM BEFORE KILLING THEM, BUT I’M EXTRASPECIAL: I GET TAUNTED FIRST
At four in the morning, I wake up in the center of the floor with a cramp in my leg, note cards scattered everywhere. I have a cookie. It helps. At five, I repeat this process, but this time I wake up with my arm so asleep that I have a panicked moment when I think it might not ever wake up. Because, you know, bad guys and bodies don’t scare me, but not being able to control my arm scares the fuck out of me.
At six, when the same arm is asleep, I’m done with this hellish cycle. I give up on sleep and do so despite the fact that I have a minimum four-hour sleep bar. Without it I’m a bitch, which really wouldn’t worry me, considering all the enemies I have biting at my heels, except for one thing: it also means that my brain gets stupid. I can’t be stupid today. I head to the shower, and with hot water running over me, I devise a plan to stay on my game today, which includes extra coffee and real food that is not laced with sugar. Once I’m out of the shower, I dress in brand-name everything, because that’s what this fucking town likes: Black slacks. A pink blouse, because as bitchy as I am I need something to soften me the fuck up, if that is even possible. High-heeled boots that I can use as weapons to complete my outfit. My gun goes to my hip, and with a blazer in my hand, I’m ready for the bed everyone is going to wish I was in.
By eight, I am sitting at the island in the kitchen with the news on subtitles, coffee in my cup, and a slice of cold pizza, my version of wholesome, being shoveled down my throat. By eight fifteen I’ve finished up a spreadsheet of the crew for every movie the Chinese production company has ever done. Finally, after hours of work last night and early this morning, I sort it by like names. A few more key punches, and I have several hits:
ROBERT NEIMAN, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER OF FIVE OF THE TEN FILMS. TWO WITH MY MOTHER AND ONE WITH LANEY.
GUY SANDS, PRODUCER OF THREE OF THE TEN FILMS. HE WAS ON LANEY’S FILM.
KELLI PEARCE, ACTRESS ON FOUR OF THE TEN FILMS. SHE WAS ON FIVE OF GUY SANDS’S FILMS.
I dial Kane.
“Did you sleep?” he asks.
“Two hours. I’m a bitch. I can’t help myself.”
“I know how to fix that.”
“Chocolate,” I say.
“Me,” he says.
“A knee,” I offer.
“For Pretty Boy?” he counters. “I approve.”
“Stop while you’re ahead. I’m texting you three names. They all have strong ties to the Chinese investors connected to Laney’s movie, and now two of my mother’s. Two producers and an actress. I know nothing more at this point.”
“I’ll find out the rest. What else?”
My gaze catches on the television above the bar, which is showing an image of my father. “I’ll let you know. Something just came up.” I hang up and push the Volume button on the remote to hear: “Mayor Love will host what is expected to be a celebrity-riddled crowd at the Children’s Museum today, and all in the name of a good cause: the battle against children’s cancer.”
“A good cause, my ass,” I say, turning off the television, wishing I could believe this was about the charity, not politics, but I can’t. Not with everything that’s come to light about my family this past week. Whatever the case, my father needs a visit from me, but first things first.
I dial Rich. “I need to see you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Where?”
“I’ll come to you. Where are you staying?”
“Apple Cove Inn,” he says.
“I know it.” And because the location might send the wrong idea, I add, “This isn’t a naked meeting in a hotel room. Meet me in the lounge.” I hang up and then write the three names down on a piece of paper, along with the details on the Chinese investor, before pulling on the black blazer I’ve draped over a chair. And because nothing about my research stays in this house for prying eyes, I walk to my newly minted version of Purgatory, the room others call the “living room,” and load my field bag with every note card and scribble I’ve made. For good measure, I check the sliding glass door. It’s locked. It better stay that way.
It’s nine fifteen when I arrive at the Apple Cove Inn, where Rich is staying, and park near the door, locking my field bag in the trunk. I walk across the short, graveled parking lot and up the wooden steps to find Rich sitting on the wide wraparound porch in one of about a half dozen wooden chairs. He stands to greet me, his hands settling under the thin tan leather jacket, exposing his badge and gun at the waistband of his jeans. “What’s going on?”
“I need a favor,” I say, moving to join him.
“Not ‘I need stuff’ but ‘I need a favor,’” he says as I sit next to the seat that he reclaims. “That sounds serious,” he adds, his elbows on his knees. “I’m all ears.”
“I need you to go back to LA.”
He makes a frustrated sound and straightens, running his hand through his longish blond hair. “No. I’m not leaving.” He grimaces and then gives me a dead-on look. “Murphy wants me here. I want me here. You’re going to have to deal with it.”
I hand him the piece of paper. “This is why I need you to go back.”
His lips thin, but he reluctantly accepts it, glancing down and then up at me. “What is this?”
“Three people who live in LA who might have answers I need. Off the record, Rich. This is potentially tied to my family and corruption. I can’t trust anyone else to do it.”
His spine softens and he leans closer. “Explain.”
“The Chinese financier I’ve written on the paper is my focus. I need to know who is behind them, off the books. The people who hide behind other people. All these names I’ve given you are individuals who have been on multiple projects for them and who might know something. Unfortunately, the two producers are both out of the country, filming separate projects. But that doesn’t mean digging around their backyard won’t produce answers. And the actress is working on an independent film in LA. You can talk to her.”
He studies me for several beats. “This is important to you.”
“Very.”
“All right. I’ll do it.”
“It can’t be on the books, and Murphy is too smart not to know you’re back in LA. It’s a lie I don’t want you to get caught telling. You have to request removal from this case. And you have to do it urgently.”
“What corruption, Lilah?” he says softly.
“I don’t want you to be able to answer that question. You need to be able to say ‘I don’t know’ if you’re asked.”
“Damn it, I want to push. You know that, right?”
“Yes. But don’t.”
He seems to struggle with that but thankfully moves on. “If I leave,” he says, “and you claim jurisdiction, your family is going to lash
out at you.”
“The answers you’re trying to get will help me deal with them.”
He runs his hand over his perpetually clean-shaven face, as if the man carries around a razor blade. “I’ll call Murphy,” he says.
“Now. Call him now.”
“He has that conference call.”
“Try,” I press.
“You never get less pushy, do you?” he asks, but he does it. He dials Murphy, only to shake his head. “Voice mail,” he says before he leaves a message. “I’ll book a flight,” he says after he sets his phone aside. “Where are you going now?”
“Research stop,” I say. “Call me when you talk to Murphy.” I stand up and start walking.
“He’s dangerous, Lilah.”
I stop in my tracks with that warning, which is obviously about Kane, my lashes lowering with the realization that despite how much Rich wants to stay here with me, he’s in fact leaving for me, to help me. And I do trust him, which means he deserves honesty from me. I turn to face him. “You see what I wish I was, Rich. He sees who I am. I will never live up to your expectations, but I wanted to. I tried. But I will always live up to his expectations, when I wish I wouldn’t. But I’m me. I can’t be something I’m not.”
“I see more than you think I see, Lilah.”
“Part of me wishes that were true. The other is really fucking happy it’s not.” I turn, and this time I hurry down the steps and don’t look back. Once I’m at my car, I’m aware of the absence of a note. Junior has disappeared. I settle into the driver’s seat of my rental, and I decide it’s good that Rich is leaving. I can’t be around him right now, not when this investigation has turned to my mother, who may very well have been murdered. I don’t want the pressure of being good. In fact, I want to let myself be really damn bad.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve just pulled into the driveway of my father’s sprawling white mansion and parked under the willow tree, with no other vehicles in sight, when Murphy calls. “What happened with Rich, Agent Love?” he asks.
“I don’t speak for Rich.”
“I asked you, not Rich.”
“It’s not safe for him here.”
“Are you suggesting Kane Mendez would kill him?”
“I don’t remember bringing up Kane’s name at all, and frankly, I’m the one who wanted to put a knee in his groin and grind it a few times before repeating.”
He’s silent. “Agent Love.”
I’m pretty sure that’s a reprimand, but I’m not feeling all that willing to accept it right now. “I didn’t sleep last night. That comment was my version of nice today.”
“Pretend you’re undercover and the person you’re pretending to be has slept and get a better attitude.”
I bite back a smart reply about preferring my role-play to end in the pleasure this conversation is not giving me. “Did you have the conference call?”
“Yes. I did. And Kane gave us an asset by filing a lawsuit against the NYPD along with our New York City bureau, while leaving us, you, out of the picture. Therefore, you have two options: claim jurisdiction today or come home today and let the New York City bureau claim jurisdiction. There is no in-between. There is no extra time.”
“I have balls in the air I can’t let fall. I need until tomorrow to do this right.”
“You have until midnight to either tell me, or I expect you on a plane back here tomorrow. Don’t argue. You won’t win. Understand? Say ‘yes, Director’ or say ‘yes, asshole.’ Say no. It still changes nothing.”
“Yes, Director,” I bite out.
“Ah, submission. Oh how sweet it is.” He disconnects.
I grimace and slide my phone into my jacket pocket, exiting the car and crossing the yard, my fingers brushing my mother’s ivy on the exterior of the stucco as I pass. “Otherworld, Lilah,” I whisper, trying again to force myself to live in that mental zone beyond a short, intense crime scene.
I climb a dozen stone steps to reach the wide porch, where two heavy wooden rocking chairs frame the entrance left and right. Once I’m there, I reach for the door handle and hope it’s unlocked, but I hit a roadblock when it doesn’t budge. I ring the bell. A twentysomething pretty blonde in a lilac-colored velvet sweat suit and a cleavage-dipped T-shirt answers the door. “Lilah,” she greets.
“You know me?”
“I’ve seen tons of pictures. I’m Katie, the new house manager.”
“House manager,” I say, nearly choking on the laughter I hold back. “I won’t ask what that job description entails. Step aside.”
“Your father isn’t here.”
“And?”
“And I can’t—”
I step forward and come toe to toe with her, crowding her to the point that she instinctively backs up. I enter the half-moon-shaped foyer and turn to her. “Where is Jennifer, by the way?” I ask of the house manager who preceded her and practically raised me and my brother.
“I have no idea. She was gone when I started.”
“Right. I’ll just wait for my father in the other room.” I ignore the stairwell directly in front of me, which is made of the same gray wood that is beneath my feet, and cut right, walking into my father’s office. I turn and Katie is rushing toward me. “Sorry. I need to make some calls and need privacy. FBI business.” I shut the double doors and lock them.
Certain I only have a few minutes before my brother storms over here at my father’s demand that I be removed, of course, I hurry forward, round my father’s heavy mahogany desk, and sit down. My gaze lifts to the bookshelves framing a sitting area full of big, comfy furniture, and I have a mental flash of my mother curled up on one of the chairs reading while my father worked. I shake it off and reach for a drawer, only to find it locked. Knowing my father more than most might think, I stand up and walk to the bar in the corner, open the leather case that holds an expensive-ass bottle top, and remove it to grab the key. Returning to the desk, I open the drawers and start going through files, using my phone to take photos of various financial transactions, contracts with vendors, and pretty much anything I’ll want to analyze in more detail. I even take photos of all the business cards he has stuffed in a top drawer, as well as a few numbers scribbled on a pad of paper.
At twenty minutes, I know that I’ve pushed my luck, and I lock the desk and return the key to the leather box at the bar. I’m about to leave, but the forty-year-old bottle of scotch sitting on the bar works for my plan for the rest of the morning. I grab it and head for the door. Katie is sitting on the stairs and jumps up when I exit. She places herself directly under my mother’s teardrop chandelier, which bothers me for personal reasons that are likely misplaced and ridiculous. I have many things to worry about other than who my father is bending over his desk.
I walk past her and exit the door, pulling it shut behind me. I hurry down the steps and turn to the sidewalk only to find the billionaire asshole himself, Pocher, walking toward me, his Jaguar Roadster parked next to my piece-of-shit rental. “Lilah,” he greets with a smug look on his face that makes me want to punch him.
“Pocher,” I say, his navy-blue suit fitted perfectly to his slender frame, his salt-and-pepper hair sprayed to an unmovable freeze. “Do you know what they say about suits as perfect as yours?”
“They wish they could afford one?”
“Money mobsters,” I say. “At least that’s what we call you people at the agency.”
“You people? Like Kane Mendez.”
“Kane isn’t as gentle as your kind. You know that. Why are you here?”
“Your father left a file he needs for today’s charity auction here, and he’s tied up preparing for his speech. Are you joining us?”
“Since I wasn’t invited, and since I have dead bodies and money mobsters to contend with, no.” I start to step around him.
He steps in front of me. “What brings you here, Lilah?”
“I wanted to roll around on my old bed and see if I could smel
l my mother’s perfume. You remember her, right?”
His eyes narrow. “Yes. I do. You are more like her than I realized.”
“You need to step aside,” I say.
“Of course.” He rotates to allow me to pass, and I walk to my car, feeling him watch me every step of the way. I open the door and turn to find him standing in the center of the sidewalk, just staring at me. “I forgot,” I say. “I came for this, too.” I lift the bottle. “My father owed me this.”
“That’s an expensive bottle of scotch. Why’d he owe you that?”
“For putting up with you, but it’s only going to take the edge off. The pain will be right back in the morning.” I climb into the car, seal myself inside, and drive the fuck away.
Asking for favors when I feel like a bitch who wouldn’t mind having a baseball bat in hand—because my gun would be a little too extreme—isn’t easy, which is why I show up at Lucas’s door bearing gifts. I ring the bell and wait for about thirty seconds for him to answer before I start knocking. He yanks the door open, his preppy Tarzan good looks in full force today, complete with a sunburn across his nose, a snug white T-shirt, and ripped jeans.
“Must be nice to work from home and investment-bank or whatever you do,” I say.
“Or whatever I do?” he snaps. “I make a shit-ton of money for most of this town and beyond.”
“Right. Money. Lots of it.” I hold up the scotch but don’t fully allow him to see the bottle, and I step toward him. “I bring gifts, well, a gift.” He backs up and allows me to enter, and I pause in the foyer in front of him. “It’s a really good gift,” I say, presenting the front of the bottle.
He glances down at it. “Holy fuck. Forty-year single malt. You brought me a fifteen-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch?”
“Yep,” I say, heading down the hallway. “I brought us a fifteen-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch.”
The door shuts behind me. “Is there a body you want me to bury?” he calls out as I enter the living room framed by windows, the curtains drawn to display his massive egg-shaped pool. I head to the white stucco bar in the corner, grab two crystal glasses, and turn to look at him.