Chapter 3

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 voicemail. 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 this 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:

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 hell 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.

Beth glances up at me, her stare blank a moment, her attention clearly still on the crime scene, until recognition and awareness flood her face. “Lilah Love,” she says, her lips curving. “FBI agent by day. Stripper by night.”

I laugh at her use of my familiar, combative reply to those who love to taunt me as I squat down to her eye level. “Beth Smith,” I say. “Newly crowned medical examiner by day, and—”

“Alone by night,” she supplies. “Playing with dead bodies isn’t a great way to get dates. And in answer to your question: no tattoos—at least, none that I’ve located thus far.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Why are you in on this one? What don’t I know?”

“I’ll let you know when I know,” I say, reminded of Director Murphy pushing me to take that chopper and get here sooner rather than later, which leads me to a critical question. “What’s the time of death?”

“I’m officially marking it down as six o’clock, which is three hours ago.”

“Broad daylight,” I note. “Any signs of a struggle?”

“None,” she states. “The kill was clean and fast.” She indicates the bullet hole between the victim’s eyes. “One bullet. One moment in time that she was alive, and the next, she simply was not.”

“Was she naked when she was killed or stripped afterward?”

“Based on the condition and position of the body, before,” she says.

“Did we locate her clothes?”

“My understanding is that Sergeant Rivera is looking for them.”

“~Eddie ~Rivera?” I question, wishing like hell I didn’t have to. “He’s a sergeant now?”

“And reminding us daily for about three months now.”

“Of course he is,” I say dryly. “And he’s leading this case?”

“Yes. He is.”

At the sound of the familiar male voice, I clamp my jaw, turn on my heel, and stand to face the man in question, his brown hair buzzed short. His brown suit is well pressed, a symptom of his anal-retentive disorder that, while effective on duty, makes him a pompous pain in the ass the rest of the time. “Congrats on your promotion to sergeant,” I greet him. “I’d be happy for you, but you were an arrogant ass before the promotion. You must be an unbearable arrogant ass now.”

“I am,” he agrees, his blue eyes lighting in challenge, the way they often had at the many family dinners he’d attended at my father’s request. “But you like arrogant asses, so I’m in luck.”

“Right,” I say dryly, and because I’ve learned not to pull punches, I throw one instead. “Good to see your opinion of yourself hasn’t suffered over the years.” And having no desire to play verbal dominoes with a man who has always had a sick desire to both fuck me and become the second son my father never had, I move on. “Did you find our victim’s clothes?”

His lips tighten. “Why is the FBI on my crime scene, asking questions?”

~Because we’re about to take jurisdiction, asshole,~ I think, but I say, “Ask the chief. He requested my presence. Did we find the clothes?”

“No.”

“Have we ID’d the victim?”

“Her name is Cynthia Wright. Twenty-eight. A lawyer who leased the property six months ago and works for her landlord.”

“Kane Mendez,” I say.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Kane Mendez.”

“Excuse me,” an officer calls from the doorway, drawing both my and Rivera’s attention before adding, “Kane Mendez is here to see you.”

At the announcement, adrenaline surges through me.

“I’m sure he is,” says Rivera. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Sorry, Sergeant. It’s Agent Love he wishes to speak to.”

Rivera raises a brow at me. “He wants to speak to you. Why does that not surprise me?”

“I’m sure there’s not much that surprises you,” I reply dryly, keeping a cool exterior while my heart is about to explode from my chest. “Is there anything I need to know before I speak to him?”

“Don’t fuck him and compromise my case, or I’ll have your badge.” He turns and walks away.

God, how I love being back home, but hey. Maybe I should change my strategy. Instead of waiting until tomorrow for the happy reunions, I’ll kick over the entire bucket tonight. I head for the door and exit into an ocean-chilled wind that is now just as chilly as this meeting will be if I do my job right. I start down the steps and make it to the sidewalk when Shirley steps to my side, matching my pace. “Why are you beside me, Officer Rogers, in my personal space?”

“The chief said—”

I stop walking and turn to him. “My ~brother~ said,” I amend.

“He’s my boss, Agent Love. I’m just doing what I’ve been ordered to do.”

“Which is what exactly?”

His face reddens and irritation rolls through me, but not at him. At me. I know his orders without being told. I’m stalling, avoiding, hiding from Kane-fucking-Mendez. Officer Rogers mumbles something to me, and I tune it out, clamping down on the rush of adrenaline pouring through me and willing myself to calm the hell down. I start moving again.

Officer Rogers is slow to join me, but I give him credit for having the balls to stay the course despite my obvious displeasure. He does have orders. He does have a job to do. Just like I have a foot to insert in an ass that rightfully should be my brother’s, not his. There is good news to this little distraction I’ve created, though. I’ve kicked my own ass in the process, finding my zone and readying myself for the cat-and-mouse game Kane Mendez will try. And I won’t be the damn cat if he has his way.

Nearing the end of the sidewalk, I glance at Officer Rogers. “Where’s Mendez?”

“Parked on the road across from your car.”

“Stay here,” I order and don’t wait for his compliance. I start walking and to his credit, he has the common sense to listen. He stays behind the way common sense says I should have fought to stay in Los Angeles and even welcome Rivera pushing me aside. But there are too many links between me, a secret I need to ensure stays buried, and these murders for me to ignore. And one of those links is Kane Mendez.