“Sick and fucking tired.”
I eye the whiskey bottle by the bed. Usually he sips wine like a girl trying to lose two pounds she can never lose. “What the hell is going on?”
“IA is what’s going on. They’re up my ass and taking my career through the dark hell of my colon.”
“Gross and why the hell would IA be up your anything? I mean, you? Mr. Rogers himself.”
“No one knows who Mr. Rogers is anymore, Lilah, unless they are sixty.”
“Opie then.”
“Him either.”
“Stop,” I say. “What the hell is going on? You’re one of the good guys.”
He sits up and scrubs a hand through his unruly dark-brown hair. “Yeah. Well, apparently not good enough.”
I sit next to him. “Talk to me. What happened?”
“I finished up a drug bust. A big one. I was proud as hell over that case. I bled for that takedown. Next thing I know, there’re accusations of someone dying, of me taking bribes. It makes no sense.”
“And your partner?”
“Nelson was my partner.”
My blood runs cold. “Nelson? Since when is Nelson your partner?”
“We were matched up two weeks ago when my old one died.”
“Died? How did he die?”
“Undercover on the same job I was working.”
“Tell me you aren’t being blamed for that.”
He gives a grim nod. “I am.”
I stand up and walk away, hand on my forehead. This happened two weeks ago. It can’t be connected to the murders or me. No one knew I was coming here then. I didn’t know. Unless . . . were they, whoever the hell they are, trying to get me here? Did they kill someone here to draw me in? That’s insanity. I’m thinking crazy now.
“I guess I could become a PI, right?” Greg says. “If I don’t end up in jail for murder.”
I face him. “Stop it. Neither scenario is going to happen. I’m going to fix this.”
“No,” he says, standing up. “You are not getting involved, Lilah.”
“My boss—”
“No. No. Fuck no. Do you understand?”
“Why is me helping you a problem?”
“The feds bailing me out? I’ll look like a snitch.”
“And you’re snitching on who?”
“I don’t know, but my career might not be all that is over in that scenario. Snitches die. Promise me you won’t do this.”
“Greg—”
“Lilah. No. Promise me.”
“Fine.” I slide my hands behind my back and cross my fingers. “I promise.”
“Oh hell. You did that behind-your-back crossed-fingers thing that keeps you from feeling guilty about a lie. You’re going to do this, aren’t you?”
“No.”
He charges at me and grabs my hand, but not before I uncross my fingers and give him the bird. “No crossed fingers.”
“You’re going to do this, aren’t you?” he repeats.
“I’ll make sure it’s off the record. I’ll protect you.”
He scrubs his jaw, whiskers rasping. “Damn it. I should have left the door shut.”
“But you have to shave in exchange for the favor.” I sniff. “And shower. You’ll never get a woman like this. Okay? Plus I might need one more favor.”
“Favor. I’m a drunk slob and you want a favor?”
“You’re one of the best detectives on Planet Earth,” I say, “and that’s not an exaggeration.”
“Yeah, yeah. Skip your normal build-me-up routine. What do you need?”
“The Emerson case. Nelson Moser is now handling it because the lead detective was injured on the job.”
“Moser, huh?”
“Yeah. Moser, who I hear is dirty.”
“He is. Believe me. I saw things.”
“Anything you can prove?”
“No. But he’s dirty.”
“He’s part of what I believe is a setup. A poor guy named Woods is being wrapped with a bow for a series of murders, including your Emerson case. I don’t know who might be helping Moser, or who is involved, but I need to know what you can find out about him and the case without anyone finding out.”
“Holy fuck. Yes. I know who’s involved. Try IA.”
“What?”
“Think about it, Lilah. An innocent man being set up. It’s one of my hot spots. I’d never let that happen. And with me on the chopping block, if anything comes out of this, I’ll take the fall for it. I’ll already have the dirty reputation.”
“Oh. Fuck. Yes. This makes sense.” A really nasty thought hits me, and I almost don’t want to ask the question to get the answer, but I make myself. I man up. “What was the drug bust you did? Who were the targets?” I hold my breath, praying the answer isn’t the Mendez Cartel.
“A top tier in the Romano family,” he says. “A damn good notch on the detective bedpost I should be celebrating.”
Romano. The name offers both relief and an icy chill, considering this is the family who’s been at odds with the Mendez Cartel for generations on end and an enemy to Kane. If they were behind the murders, if they killed on his territory, it could mean war, and this could get really damn bloody before it’s over.
“Lilah?” Greg says. “Hello?”
I blink and realize he’s been speaking and I have no clue what he’s said. “What can you find out for me about the Emerson case without getting caught?” I ask.
“I have a source that can help.”
“How long do you need?”
“Could be an hour. Could be a day.”
“You still have my number?”
He presses his hand to his chest. “Embedded in my heart.”
“Okay then. I’d give you a hug, but you stink. Go take a bath.” I head for the door.
“Lilah.”
I turn to face him. “Yes?”
“You never told me what happened between you and Moser.”
“I wish I could give you some heroic story about how I stopped him from hurting some innocent person. But the truth is, he tried to kiss me and I kneed him rather dramatically in the groin.”
“What does ‘rather dramatically’ mean?”
“He was on the ground, rolling around, panting, and doing some funny thing with his hips.”
He gives me a deadpan look. “I’d laugh, but Moser’s six feet tall with a short-man complex. Be careful out there.”
I give him a nod and leave, starting down the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The minute I’m on the street again, suffocated by the Manhattan crush of bodies, I start walking toward the subway, aware that I’m being followed, the weapon at my ankle like a cozy, cuddly blanket on a November eve. I weave through the crowd, aware of a figure to my right rear side. With a turn of a corner, I gain a glimpse of him: average height, dark hair, unattractive, and rather hard-looking from a distance. I don’t have a handle on nationality, but since I have a feeling he’ll be my shadow for the rest of the day, I’m sure I’ll get my chance to figure it out. Kane, no doubt, is behind this, but then again, his employee died the night I arrived. Someone is afraid of the path I’m leading law enforcement—and perhaps Kane—down.
That someone could easily be a member of the Romano family, who’d have access and resources to hire an assassin, but like Kane, I’d think they’d have their own people. Unless . . . Fuck. I stop walking. Both the Romanos and Kane himself might hire an outsider because it’s not what would be expected. It’s not Kane, I remind myself. He was sideswiped by those photos this morning, but I’m damn sure not going to start that war I feared when I first heard the Romano name by telling him they could be in the mix.
I start walking again, removing my phone from my purse and dialing Murphy. “Talk to me, Agent Love.”
“There’s something big going on here.”
“Big is a vague term used for things like food and generalization. Big Mac. Big deal. Big—”
“I think so
meone hired an assassin and now they’re covering it up. Maybe the Romano family. Maybe someone I have yet to identify.”
“Why do you think Romano?”
I go through the details of the case and then dive in for the save. “I need to help Harrison. What can we do?”
“He’s now your informant. We’ll protect him.”
“Informant cops die.”
“Not if it’s never known. We’ll protect him and clear his name if you prove he’s been set up.”
“Great. So while I’m dealing with an assassin and numerous setups, I should prove he’s innocent.”
“You might be surprised how solving one crime makes everything else collide in a brilliant way.”
I really hate him right now. “Tic Tac has full authority to do whatever I need him to do, correct?”
“Tic who?”
“Jeff,” I say. “He has authority to get me what I need.”
“He does, within reason.”
“Within reason?” I ask, knowing that translates to hands tied with a ball in your mouth, and not for pleasure.
“It’s not a limitation, Agent Love. If you need something he can’t give you, call me. I have to get to a meeting. Stay in touch and stay safe.” He hangs up, and my phone immediately rings with Tic Tac on the caller ID.
“What do you have for me?”
“The detective you asked about—”
“Was shot and is on leave.”
“So much for my kudos.”
“Kudos,” I say. “Who shot him?”
“Some nobody thug with a list of at least ten arrests.”
“And Nelson Moser?”
“Shot one of his partners who got in the line of fire in a shootout. Nasty stuff. Other than that, he looks squeaky-clean.”
“He’s not. Dig deeper. And see if you can connect the thug you mentioned to the Romano family.”
“I tried. No go.”
“Of course not. Where are we on finding Woods?”
“His phone still doesn’t ping. He still hasn’t touched his credit cards or touched his bank accounts. He’s either dead, or he’s well funded and smart. Oh, and I got those fingerprints in an early delivery and ran them immediately. The only hits were you, a Maria Rodriquez, your brother, and Kane Mendez. Is that what you expected?”
Considering Maria is my maid, who I remotely buzzed inside each visit, and my brother and Kane had been there often before I left . . . “Unfortunately, yes,” I say. “All can be explained.”
“Back to Woods. I can’t connect him to Cynthia, but he has an ex-girlfriend, and in her case, there are plenty of phone records. She’s also on a cruise. Interestingly, she left yesterday.”
“Of course she did.”
“Find out if she has any connections to Romano or Nelson Moser.” I fight mixed loyalty but remind myself I have a job to do, and now Greg’s job is on the line, too. “Check for connections to the Pocher family or anyone working for Pocher.”
“The billionaire? No. Not the—”
“Yes. Him. I know this is a big job so start with the man himself and work backward from his closest confidants down. And Kane Mendez as well.”
“The Mendez whose fingerprints I ran?”
“Yes.” I inhale and let it out. “That one.”
“The Mendez of the Mendez Cartel?”
“Technically Kane hasn’t been proven to be a part of the cartel,” I say, unable to stop myself from doing what I always did in the past: defend him when I’m not sure he deserves that gesture. “Focus on him and his business,” I add. “I need any connection you can find between him, Woods, law enforcement, the victims, you name it.”
“Pocher, Romano, and Mendez.” He whistles. “What are we in here?”
“I’m not even sure any of these families are involved, but if these murders were done by an assassin, it makes sense to look at the two largest crime families in the area.”
“One of the victims worked for Mendez. It makes perfect sense, but Pocher is an odd addition to the list.”
Any comment I make to that could incriminate my father and brother, so I move on. “That list of people who connect to all three cities is too big. I need you to narrow it down. Do your tech thing. Probability. Crossing paths. That kind of thing.”
“Thanks to Murphy, I got help, so I’m on it.”
“Interesting,” I say. “Maybe we aren’t tied and gagged.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Get me stuff.” I hang up and double-step toward the subway, my shadow still on my heels, my destination the expected: every place Woods has ever set foot, and while yes, I will find what has been set up for me to find, I’m a profiler. I’ll use that skill to build a picture of his life that I can use to support or reject him as an assassin and the guilty killer.
Heading down the stairs, I head to a row of machines to buy a pass for the day. My man goes to another terminal to buy a pass for himself, his longish black hair hiding his face, his skin tone covered by an army-style green jacket. I grab my ticket, moving forward and through a gate, and I don’t stop until I’m on the lower platform where my train will arrive. I know the moment the man arrives, and I wonder if he really thinks he’s discreet. I wonder if there is someone else in the crowd, an additional tag who is discreet, who I’m missing by hyperfocusing on this guy.
The train arrives, and a pack of about twenty riders rush off the car while another thirty, including me, replace them. I move to the end of the car where I have a view of the entire compartment and lean on a wall while my new stalker remains a few feet away, holding on to a bar. He’s an odd bird who doesn’t scream any nationality. He could be white, Italian, Mexican. He could work for anyone.
The car starts to move, and I remove my phone from my coat pocket and debate texting Kane and asking him if this guy is with him. But if he’s not, Kane will send backup I don’t need or want. And if he is, I’ll just find a new reason to be pissed off. I stick my phone back in my pocket, my mind on Kane’s reaction to those photos. These cases are connected to that night. They’re connected to me. There is something in front of my face that I’m missing. Something that must have been there all those years ago. My mind goes back in time, to the bar where it all seemed to take place. Kane was supposed to be gone, but Kane came home. I have wondered many times whether I’d be alive today had he not. My gaze lifts to my stalker again, but he, of course, refuses to make eye contact, and I flash back to the bar, to that night.
The bartender offers me another drink, but I have a bottle of champagne and a Bloody Mary I’ve hardly touched. Alexandra is still at the end of the bar, cozying up to her movie-star fuck while I watch over her, like she needs a guardian angel to get her laid. I grab an olive off the bar and down it, eyeing the dark-haired man at the end of the bar who’s been there the entire time I’ve been here. He’s not from around here, and something about him bothers me. He’s not looked in this direction, though I have a sense of him being aware of me. I don’t like it. I will him to look at me, and suddenly he does, his dark eyes meeting mine, the absence of any emotion in his chilling. He stands up and tosses money on the bar and then leaves, but I am left with the lingering sense of discomfort, almost foreboding.
I blink back to the present, my stalker still where he was, my mind on that man at the bar. He wasn’t the one with the tattoo, but could he be Junior? And now that I know Greg is safe, I’m reminded of my morning with Kane and his obsession with the note on my window. Why is he so damn obsessed with that note? It’s a thought I don’t get far with as the subway car stops, the doors opening, and to my surprise, my stalker exits before me. I follow him, but he disappears into the crowd, and like that night, I have that sense of discomfort. A sense of déjà vu.
The day ticks on, and the sense of being followed never leaves me, though there are no obvious offenders, nor has my dark-haired stalker reappeared. Also notable in my book is that my phone has remained silent from those who should be behind making some noise: Ed
die doesn’t call me. Alexandra doesn’t call me. Neither does anyone in my family, or Kane. It seems to me that no one likes the questions I’ll ask or the answers I’ll demand. But I charge onward, traveling from address to address, looking for people who knew Woods, with random calls from Tic Tac as we dig for clues.
By four, I’m sitting in a Starbucks, feeling really fucking frustrated. It’s clear at this point that whoever is behind all of this prepared well for investigators. No one who knew Woods seems to be around. Even the tenants that rented office spaces near him are either closed or gone on vacation. At this point, there’s no profile I can create on Woods beyond a generalized surface outline. I grab my file sitting next to me, and I open it, staring down at the image of the tattoo. Thinking of how Kane had stared at it, the stony man he had become.
The tattoo is the answer to every question I’ve asked. I believe that, and if I wasn’t too close to this, I’d be at tattoo parlors right now. And why am I hiding from the tattoo, anyway? If I’m doing what everyone expects me to do, then tattoo parlors are exactly where I’d go. In fact, holy hell. I have an excuse for going to them now that won’t bring attention to my past that I didn’t have before.
I google “top ten tattoo parlors in NYC” and pull up a list, keying each address into my phone. I have four hours until I have to be at Penn Station for a three-hour ride home. I decide this is a time to spend some of the money I inherited and never spend. I dial a charter service and book my own chopper for nine o’clock at a different airport than Kane uses. I ask them to list my reservation under a fake name that won’t allow Kane to find me. His people might follow me, but it will be too late when I get there to allow him to intercept. Though his silence is deafening today. I rattled him and Kane rarely gets rattled.
Once my ride is secure and my bank account is guaranteed to be $4,000 lower by the time I leave the city, spent on a private flight sans any other passengers, I gather my things, push to my feet, and head for the door.
It’s place number eight that directs me to a place off West Twenty-Eighth that sits next to Scores Nightclub, a topless bar. The neighborhood, once a bit rundown, is now peppered with shopping, but the side street where Reggie’s Tattoo Parlor sits has side alleyways and riffraff here and there. The kind of area a girl gets looked up and down and readies her knee for placement. And, of course, it’s just past dark, because what fun would it be to go to a place like this in the daylight?