I don’t ask how he knows. “That’s right.”
“I’d say welcome, but there’s nothing welcoming about today.” He motions to an open apartment door. “We appreciate the feds loaning you to us today. I’m Detective Smith.” He shakes my hand.
“Happy to help,” I say.
He grimaces. “I doubt you’ll say that after you see the scene.” He motions to the apartment next to us. “Suit up in there. You need to be in hazmat gear.”
This is a first. “Hazmat? Why?”
“You’ll know when you get there.” He turns and walks away.
I grimace and enter the apartment, to be greeted by a guy in jeans and a T-shirt with red hair who looks me up and down. “Who the hell are you?”
“Lilah Love,” I say. “I’m supposed to suit up.”
“Lilah Love,” he repeats. “Who wanted you to grow up and be a stripper?”
“That joke is about as original as a teenage boy thinking a green M&M makes him horny.”
“M&M’s make you horny?”
Great. He doesn’t know that common teen joke. I really hate when no one but me gets my jokes. “No. They make you happy. And fat if you eat too many. Just like how bad jokes make you stupid.”
His extremely thick brows twist into a furry glower. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” He reaches to a rack just behind him, grabs a hazmat suit, and shoves it at me. “Put it on. Don’t worry. You can leave your clothes on.” He wiggles a brow. “Unless you don’t want to.”
I give him a deadpan stare. “You’re so funny,” I say, my tone intentionally flat.
“And horny, sweetheart,” he says, tossing rubber boots next to me. “Those really get me hot.”
Pretty sure I’m losing brain cells every moment I participate in this conversation, and desperate to save the ones I have left, I give him my back and step into the all-white suit. Once I’m covered up to my shoulders, I zip up and leave the hood and mask dangling. I then pull a pair of rubber boots over the tops of my black Converses, their color masking the dirt from numerous sandy crime scene visits. The choice of brand masks my normal penchant for Louis Vuitton in all forms, including sneakers. Feet covered, I ignore the redheaded asshole and walk outside, immediately heading toward the crowd.
Detective Smith greets me with a command. “Hood and mask on. And good luck.” He steps aside and clears a path that leads me to a tarp walling off an investigative area and another apartment. I start moving again, and there is the clawing sense of dread in my belly that is always there just before I see a body, those moments before death whispers my name. And it does. Every day and every night. Blood rushes in my ears. Adrenaline pours through me. I pause and pull my hood and mask into place. Another few steps, and I barely register the moment I pass through the opening in the tarp, or the moment when I see the plastic sheets on the floor covered in bloody footsteps that warn of what is waiting on me at the actual murder scene. Or even the cop by the door who mouths, “Good luck,” before motioning me forward.
I step into the room, liquid sloshing at my feet. Everything slows down then, and my tunnel vision forms. My feet are plopping into a pool of red, so much red. My gaze swims past my feet to search for the body that isn’t there, catching on another person in a suit that points upward. I look to the ceiling, and my throat goes dry. There is a body anchored there, and it’s not in one piece. The limbs are detached and reconnected in odd places: the legs where the arms should be. The hands where the feet should be. The arms where the legs should be.
My gaze jerks back down to the blood that has started to congeal around my boots, and suddenly the room is spinning and my stomach is knotted. I rush for the door and exit, walking as fast as the tarp allows, and then turning and leaning against the walled area behind it. My knees go weak and I sink low, pulling away the face mask I’m wearing and gasping for air, my lashes lowering.
“You okay?”
I blink and open my eyes to find a man squatting in front of me. “Fine,” I say. “I’m fine. I’m going back in.”
“Everyone who’s gone in has come out just like this,” he promises. “Take a minute to catch your breath.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“I’m Rich,” he says, giving me this Ken-doll smile that reaches his pretty-boy blue eyes. “I’m here if you need me.” He’s coddling me. I do not need to be coddled.
“Yeah, well, fuck you,” I say, pushing to my feet. “I don’t need to breathe, and I don’t need you.” I pull my mask back into place and charge for the door.
Everything goes blank then. Everything is just black space until I am suddenly in another memory. I’m in the Hamptons. I’m at a fancy restaurant with him. He’s staring at me with those damn brown eyes. He reaches up and touches my face, then my leg. I was young and foolish. He was older and not even close to foolish.
I shove aside the memory and I’m immediately on that beach, that hellish night again, and he is there. I am trembling all over, blood at my feet, all over my body. “Go inside,” he orders. “Take a shower.”
“No,” I say. “No, I—”
He grabs my arms. “Go the fuck inside. Do as I say.”
“No, damn it. No!”
“Miss Love. Miss Love!”
I blink and sit up, realizing Texas is leaning across the seat and grabbing my arm, looking quite mortified. “Oh God,” I murmur. “Did I scream out?”
“Yes,” Texas confirms. “Quite loudly.”
“Fuck me,” I gush out and then hold up a hand. “I mean. Sorry about that. Are we about to take off?”
“We’re about to land. You slept through the flight.” She gives me a disapproving look and moves away.
I shift in my seat, and the file falls to the ground, the contents spilling out. Bending over, I reach for it, stuffing the contents back inside, and the tattoo photo catches my eye. I stare down at it and flash back to me lying on that beach, with my attacker on top of me, my gaze on his arm etched with the Virgin Mary, blood dripping from her mouth. I never knew who he was or why he came for me. I’d run instead, but I can’t run now, and I don’t want to, anyway. I have a killer to catch. One that seems to have more than one connection to me and my past.
CHAPTER THREE
Once I’m on the ground in New York, I check my messages, which include details on the chopper service I need to locate to get to the Hamptons. Clearly Director Murphy’s really damn eager to spend the money on this chopper service, and the more I think about that, the more uneasy I am with his willingness to spend $600 to speed up my progress into the Hamptons. What does he know that he hasn’t told me? I dial Murphy’s number as I head to the cab line to make my way to the private airstrip that will be my lift-off location, the call going straight to voice mail. Grimacing, I end the call, climb into the cab, and tab through my messages, deleting not one but three recordings from Rich, and I do so without guilt. He’s a good guy and I absolutely suck at being good to him. He needs to hate me and I need to make sure he does sooner than later. Why the hell doesn’t he already?
An hour later, I’m on a chopper, flying over Long Island, and my mind tracks back to the bloody scene in LA that I’d remembered on the plane. And I know exactly why my mind had taken me there. It wasn’t about escaping my past, or finding Rich that day, or rather him finding me. It was about how that day had led to me finding my zone, a place in my mind that I enter where blood and death are not real. I call it “Otherland,” and when I mentally step into that world, I don’t feel anything. I just process. I just profile. It’s sanity. It’s peace. It’s survival. And on that plane, my mind was telling me to make the Hamptons a part of my Otherland. A comical idea really, considering the Hamptons is an Otherland in and of itself. An alternate universe, where the rich and famous live the high life and shun those who don’t meet preordained standards that are known but not spoken. A universe that once owned me, controlled me. And I can’t let that happen again. I can, and will, survive by making thi
s trip a visit to one of my Otherland crime scenes, not a visit home.
Easier said than done, I decide as we approach the village of Wainscott, flying over the now-shadowy silhouette of the graveyard where my mother is buried, and a million memories—good and bad—erupt inside me. By the time the pilot sets us on the tarmac, I’ve wrestled them into submission, but I just want off this bird and out of this airport. I exit the chopper, grab the small bag I’ve brought with me, and head across the tarmac. My plan is to pick up my rental car and get to the cottage in Sag Harbor that I’ve booked for the night. Once I’m there, safely out of my family’s direct line of fire, I’ll try to recover the evening off the radar of everyone involved in this case, which I’d planned to do before Director Murphy announced my visit. I’ll let the local officials know I’m here, I’m tired, and I’ll see them tomorrow. And then I’ll dig around before anyone has real eyes on me.
It’s a good plan that goes bad in all of two steps inside the terminal when I find a tall, lanky police officer holding a sign with my name on it. And since I know the police chief’s territorial nature, I’m not mistaking this greeting as a welcome, but rather as his establishment of his control.
Crossing to the man, I stop in front of him. “I’m here,” I say. “I’m Lilah. Who are you?”
“Officer Rogers. Shirley Rogers.”
I blink. “Your name is Shirley?”
“Yes, ma’am. Named after my father. He was a 9/11 hero.”
“Oh,” I say. “That certainly makes Shirley a marvelously unique name. Thank your father for his service.”
“He’s dead,” he blurts out awkwardly.
“Well then,” I say again. “Thank you and your family for his service. And tell your chief I’m here in the flesh and that I’ll see him in the morning.” I start walking toward the rental car booth.
“Ms. Love. Wait. Please.” He catches up with me as my cell rings. I reach for it while he attempts what he doesn’t understand as of yet to be a destiny of futile communication. “Ms. Love—”
“I’m renting a car,” I say, cutting him off and pulling my phone from my bag and noting Murphy’s number. “I don’t need a ride.” I walk up to the rental car counter. “Lilah Love,” I say, answering my call and bypassing “hello,” I add, “I’m at the airport.” I slide my ID onto the counter in front of a tall, dark-haired female I thankfully don’t know, when I know most everyone on the east side of the Hamptons.
“Good thing,” Murphy says approvingly, “because you have a gift waiting on you. A dead body that fits our killer’s MO.”
“What?” I say, accepting a form from the attendant, who seems unfazed by my conversation with someone other than her. “Are you sure?”
“Just got word from the chief, who’s in Southampton for a meeting of some sort. By the way, he sent a man to pick you up.”
“He’s here,” I say, my mind chasing this new development while he’s already moving on. “What did you tell the locals about my investigation?”
“You mean your brother?”
Smart-ass. “Yes,” I say. “Him.”
“When it became clear you’d told him nothing, I kept it vague. He believes you have a loose link to a series of murders you’re investigating. I’ll leave the rest to you, but I need to be kept abreast of the tone you’re keeping.”
“Understood.”
“And I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that this body shows up right when you get there.”
“Yes,” I say, already thinking the same thing. “I have to agree.”
“Either someone left you a gift,” he adds, “or someone knew you were coming and did an emergency silencing. In which case they have access to your inner circle, be it professional or personal. And with either conclusion, you’re the common denominator. Clearly, someone thinks you’re a threat. What haven’t you told me, Agent Love?”
“Nothing,” I say, and it’s the truth, at least as I know it in relation to this case and my job. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Do that,” he orders. “And watch your back.” He ends the call.
I refocus on the rental car agent before I turn and exit the line to find Shirley waiting on me. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a dead body?”
“I tried.”
“Try harder next time. What’s the address?”
“Montauk,” he says.
“I need an address.”
He grabs his phone from his pocket and recites the street and zip code.
“Who owns the property and who lives at the property?” I ask, knowing that area to be laden with seasonal rentals.
“I don’t know.”
“Find out,” I say, motioning to his phone. “Put my number in your address book and text me when you know.” He does as ordered and I hold up my rental key. “I’ll meet you at the crime scene.”
I turn away and start walking, keeping my head low to avoid chance encounters that too easily happen in an airport catering to rich fucks coming in and out of the city. Right now, I need to think. Who knew I was coming? How do they connect to that tattoo and those murders? Am I in danger? My answer is a resounding yes. I exit into the glow of streetlights and a starless, moonless night, finding my way to the parking lot where I locate my basic white rental, and that yes I’ve just given myself is still in my mind.
Exactly why I waste no time dropping my bag in the trunk and unzipping it. I then remove my shoulder holster and slip it on over my simple black T-shirt that matches my simple black jeans I’ve paired with my Converses. I then insert my service weapon, a Glock 23, standard FBI issue, otherwise known as my best friend in this world, into the appropriate location, a message in my actions. Whoever might be watching me, or even coming for me, needs to know that I have a buddy on board who knows how to blow holes in nasty people.
I’ve just settled inside the car when my phone buzzes with a text from Shirley: The property is rented by a Cynthia Wright. It’s owned by Kane Mendez.
The devil—or prince—of the Hamptons depending on who you’re talking to. And since it’s me, he’s the devil.
I pull the rental out of the airport and onto the highway, driving toward Montauk, a popular beach escape for tourists and a residence to many locals. I’m on the road all of five minutes before Shirley’s squad car appears in my rearview mirror. I tune him out, focusing on the turn of events before me, namely just how accurate Director Murphy’s conclusions were: this murder I’m about to investigate is either a “Welcome home” gift for me or at the very least a reaction to my visit. But what Murphy doesn’t know is that I told no one I was coming. The only alerts about my arrival were given by him and most likely by way of law enforcement. I steer myself away from the obvious assumption that one of our own is dirty. I didn’t announce my expected arrival for a reason: I’m an old-school local, the daughter of what some might call royalty in these parts. One word about my visit will travel like wildfire and reach a wide horizon and do so quickly, an idea that gives my brain plenty of fodder, beyond the murders, to play with for the rest of the drive.
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 h
ell 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.