Murder Notes

by Lisa Renee Jones

  I approach the front door to find a less-than-impressive operation, especially after some of the high-end, salon-style places I’ve visited. The front desk that was a shiny gray horseshoe number at the last place is a simple, glass-encased cabinet not more than ten feet long here. Behind it, four reclining leather chairs are occupied while artists work on customers, while a fifth sits empty. The walls are papered with overlapping, thumbtacked, eight-by-eleven-inch sheets with tattoo designs on them.

  A twentysomething chick with bright-purple hair and a nose ring and ink everywhere on her pale skin approaches the counter to greet me. “What’s up?” she asks, giving my Chanel coat, a choice I’ve regretted more than once since hitting the parlors, a once-over. I have, however, made it work for me.

  I approach the counter and smile. “I’m nervous,” I say when I’ve never been nervous a day in my life. “I’m a tattoo virgin.”

  “No kidding?” she says, smacking her gum.

  “I’m ready to dive in, though. Be a rebel. That kind of thing.”

  “Yeah. Well, rebel that you are. We have a three-month wait.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay. They say you should wait for the best and all, but I just want to find the right artist. I heard there was a guy named Mel that’s really good.”

  “Mel!” she shouts so damn loud I cringe. “Mel!”

  “Jesus,” a tall, fortysomething man with blond dreadlocks says, appearing beside her. “Mel isn’t here. How have you been here all day and don’t know that?”

  “Sorry, Reggie.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You’re Reggie.”

  “I am, sweetheart. What can I do you for?”

  “I heard Mel does amazing Virgin Mary tattoos. Does he have samples you might show me?”

  “Any tat he’s done is duplicated on one of those pages on the wall. His is the last booth. Feel free to give his work a look.” He motions me behind the counter, and I waste no time darting around the counter and making my way to that corner. I start scanning artwork, lifting pages, and searching high and low, but I cannot find a Virgin Mary.

  “You can look at this book, too,” Reggie says, walking over to me and setting a binder down. “You might find it there.”

  He walks away, and I pick up the book and start flipping pages. Halfway through the book, I glance up to find an old man with long, gray braids and sunburned skin standing against the far wall, his gaze locked on me. “Why do you want a Virgin Mary?” he asks.

  “It means something to me.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Does she bleed for you when no one else does?” He smirks and then turns away, disappearing down a hallway.

  Adrenaline surges through me and I stand up, setting down the book to follow him down that hallway. I round the corner just in time to watch the alleyway door open and shut. I rush toward it but when I push the door, it jams, like it’s being held from the other side. “Damn it,” I say, rushing back into the salon. “Who was that man?”

  “Who?” Reggie asks, looking up from a tattoo he’s giving.

  “The old guy with the braids,” I say.

  “Didn’t see him.”

  “Anyone know him?” I ask.

  They all give me blank stares. I rush out the front door and cut right, turning down the tiny walkway leading to the back of the building and rushing toward the back alley. Pausing before I round the corner, I remove my weapon from my ankle holster and insert it into my coat pocket. Cautiously, I turn the corner, my path now illuminated by a streetlight and paved with uneven stones, a dumpster to the left.

  I start walking, making my way toward a connecting alleyway, cautiously approaching that dumpster and then another, when suddenly the old man steps out from behind it. “You want me?”

  My hand flexes on my weapon. “Yes. I do. What do you know about that tattoo?”

  “It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It bleeds because they are dangerous.”

  “Who?”

  “The people they work for.”

  “What people?”

  “Go home before you bleed. Before your family bleeds.”

  He turns and starts to run away. I start running after him, but we both stop abruptly when a black sedan squeals to a halt in the roadway in front of us and just beyond the alleyway. In a blink, two men are out of the passenger-side doors, both in ski masks and all black. Both pointing guns at me.

  “Get in the car,” one of the masked men grunts at the older man, who does as he’s told, while my hand closes around my gun and I hope for an opportunity that never comes. The two masked men back away and slide into the car, which starts moving before one of the doors is even shut. I race after it, determined to get a license number, and round the corner in time to watch it speed away, but there is no plate on the bumper.

  The old man’s words replay in my mind: It’s a blood tattoo. It bleeds because you bleed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I walk the streets after that old man disappeared, going from establishment to establishment, asking questions, trying to figure out who he was, and come up with a big, whopping zero at every turn. By the time I accept temporary defeat and hail a cab, I’m ready to be out of this city. I’m just about to slide into a car when my cell phone rings, and a glance at the caller ID tells me it’s Alexandra. “I need a moment,” I tell the driver, who scowls. “Hey,” I say. “I tip huge. I’m worth the wait. Or I can give it to someone else. What’ll it be?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  I nod and shut the door, leaning on the car and hitting the Answer button. “Alexandra,” I say.

  “I would have called sooner, but I’ve been in court today.”

  “That’s why I return calls on the way to court,” I say.

  “I was prepping. Do we have to do this awkward thing we’re doing?”

  “Yes,” I say. “We do. Why would Woods call you of all people?”

  “It had to be random. Maybe he picked the only female at the DA’s office. It’s very odd and frankly, scary.”

  The woman has Eddie in her bed and this is scary? “And you consider that message a confession?”

  “I told Eddie I would need more for a conviction,” she says, pretty much avoiding the question before saying, “He’s here. Do you want to talk to him?”

  I shudder with a made-up image in my head of those two naked and going at it. “No,” I say, feeling like this communication is as much a setup as everything else. “I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

  “That’s it?” she demands. “No questions about Eddie? No conversation about us?”

  “Nope. None of that.”

  “None of that,” she repeats.

  “You got it the first time.”

  “Fine. Fine then. None of that.” She hangs up and right now, it’s music to my ears.

  I slide into the cab and give the driver the airfield information before sinking back into the seat. We weave through hellish traffic, and by the time we finally hit the highway, the calm after the storm of an insane day allows my morning encounter with Kane and that damnable walk down memory lane to finally sink in. It happened. We talked about that night. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad just yet. I’ll decide later. Or never.

  Once I’m at the airport, I face an ordeal over my service weapon, and since it worked with the cab driver, I throw cash at the problem to hurry things up instead of attitude. I figure in my mood this is safer for everyone, but I’m wrong. I’m not good at throwing cash at people, thus it goes incredibly wrong, and it turns out, my badge and that attitude I’d benched save the day. Finally, I claim my private chopper, settling into a cushy leather seat, worth every dime I paid for it and privacy. I’m pissed all over again at Kane. I didn’t kill him, he’d said. You know what happened.

  “Yes, you bastard,” I whisper. “I know what I did and I also know what you did.
”

  The doors to the cabin shut and I inhale a breath, and anyone who says that it is calming is full of crap and I’d tell them so. I allow my head to rest on the cushion behind me, telling myself to shut my eyes, but my mind is racing, adrenaline still pulsing through me. Alexandra. Kane. The old man. The tattoo. If I were an optimistic person, which I’m not, I’d think maybe that old man was warning me of trouble, helping me, even, but it feels more like an extension of Junior. A head game. A problem I can talk to only one person about, and that person is Kane, who I might throttle if he says “I don’t know” to me one more time.

  The engine on the chopper roars to life, and I grab my coat from the seat next to me and cover myself with it. It’s been a long damn day, and right now, I do not feel like Lilah-fucking-Love. I feel like Lilah. Just Lilah. And that is a person I don’t like to show myself. She’s weak. She feels things and when she feels things, she’s not a badass. Badasses stay alive and don’t end up under a two-hundred-pound man on a beach. Damn it. I’m too tired. That’s my problem. Beyond exhausted, both mentally and physically. Once I sleep, I’ll be better. I’ll deal with Kane tomorrow when I find out what lines and dots Tic Tac connects to him, Pocher, and Romano. I just need . . . to . . . sleep . . . Sleep, Lilah. Take a nap.

  The engine continues to roar, and I focus on it, feeling the lift-off of the chopper. I start to fade, but my mind won’t stop working, images taking shape. Feeling captive to a place I don’t want to travel, I try to pull myself out of the haze, but I’m too far gone, too tired. Almost as if I’m drugged all over again, and that sensation throws me full-fledged into the past, back to that night and the moments when I’d exited the bar.

  The cold night air of the parking lot helps me breathe, but something is not right. I don’t feel right. I walk toward my car, but I sway again, a wave of confusion taking hold. I reach the driver’s side of my BMW, or what I think is my BMW. Whatever the case, I catch myself on the hard steel. I’m losing reality. I’m fading and some part of my mind knows that I’ve been drugged, and that I need to get in the car and lock the doors. And help. I need to call for help.

  I shove my hand into my pocket, digging for my keys, and my fingers touch the cold steel, but I can’t seem to grip it. I lower my head to the side of the car, drawing in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. It doesn’t help. There are sounds behind me. Voices. Laughter. “Alexandra?” I whisper, certain I hear her, but she doesn’t reply. “Alexandra?” Still no reply. More voices sound, and I think I hear Andrew now, but no. No. It’s another voice. It’s familiar. “Kane?”

  I sway and someone catches me, someone big and strong. Unfamiliar. “Bitch is hot,” the man says. “A good fuck.”

  “Stop,” I say. “Stop. Let me—”

  “Her fucking phone is ringing again.”

  My phone is ringing? Why can’t I hear my phone ringing?

  “It’s Kane,” another man says. Or no. Is it a woman?

  I lose the moment. Everything is black. And then I’m in a car. I can feel it moving, and I blink, trying to focus, starting to process my surroundings. Lights flicker in the glass of the windshield. I’m in a car, my car, in the passenger seat. I want to look at who is driving, but I can’t seem to lift my head.

  The images shift yet again, and I’m standing on the beach, the wind blowing in my hair, salt on my lips. And then there is a man grabbing me. I can’t see his face. I can’t see his face. I start to fight, shoving and kicking. I need my gun. Where is my gun? I can’t get my body to work. I can’t get him off me. My shirt rips and sand is at my back. His body is on top of me.

  “I’ll kill you!” I shout. “I’ll kill you!”

  His mouth presses to my ear. “You’ll be too dead to kill anyone,” he promises, his voice low, gravelly, accented. “But not until I’m done with you, which won’t be soon.”

  “No! No!”

  “No,” I whisper, jolting awake to realize the door of the chopper has just opened, and I’m panting, drawing in air.

  “How was your flight?” a man in a uniform asks me.

  “Fell asleep,” I say. “Trying to wake up.”

  “Understood. I’ll give you a moment or two.”

  I shut my eyes, willing the adrenaline rushing through me to calm. Never, in all my nightmares have I heard that monster’s voice, but I did tonight and now I have to get it out of my head. I unbuckle myself and stand up, needing out of this metal cage. Grabbing my coat that is now on the floor, I pull it on and gather the rest of my items. There’s a storm brewing inside me, an emotional avalanche with it, that I’ve lived before but thought I’d pushed past. Not even my nightmares have triggered it since I moved to LA. But then, that’s the point. I wasn’t in this hellhole of memories.

  Hurrying out of the chopper, I make a beeline for the exit and hire a car to take me home. I’ll deal with picking up my rental tomorrow. I just want to get home and get a damn grip on myself. Thankfully the ride is short. I exit the back seat of the car, and I’m half tempted to pull my gun from my ankle holster where I’d returned it at the airport but decide better. If Junior shows up, I might just put a bullet in him, or her, and then I’d never have a chance to share a cup of my attitude.

  I enter through the front door, keying in the code for the security system and entering, and to my relief the lights come right on. It hits me that I could have checked the cameras remotely from my computer, but at this point, I’m not sitting at the computer and tabbing through hours of footage. I lock the door and hit the button on the security panel. “Has my system been unarmed at any time since five this morning?”

  “Let me check on that, Ms. Love.” There is a short pause. “You’ve been armed since four forty-five this morning. Can I do anything else for you?”

  “No. Thanks.” I release the button and re-arm the system, walking toward the living room, where I hit the switch and light up the room. I scan for anything out of the norm and then somehow end up staring at the sliding glass doors. Just beyond that door, my life changed. I changed. That storm begins to thunder inside me again, images of that man on top of me, touching me, kissing me. I press my hand to my face. I need to run this off. And I need to do it on this beach. I need to own this beach. I need to face this place and what happened there.

  I turn away, heading down the hallway, flipping on every light in my path. I don’t stop until I’m in the closet, ripping away my clothes and replacing them with a pair of workout leggings, an exercise bra, and a T-shirt. Socks and tennis shoes follow, along with a heavy hoodie.

  I stare at my weapon where it now rests on the nearby shelf, and I fight the urge to reach for it. This is supposed to be my home. My safety zone. My place of comfort. People run on this beach without guns all the time. I’m not taking the gun, but I’m no fool either. I’m not going empty-handed. I walk to a set of built-in drawers against the wall and open the third one from the top, removing a small container of mace and a Taser, both of which I attach to a small belt around my waist, under my jacket. If Junior or anyone else wants to play, I’m still ready, willing, and able without the weight of a loaded weapon.

  My phone goes into my jacket pocket, my headphones plugged in, and I make my way to the living room and then to the sliding glass doors. Disarming the security system and flipping on the exterior light, I step outside, thunder rumbling in the not-so-distant sky, echoing over the water, as if in answer to the craziness in my head right now. I shut the door, and I don’t give myself time to let the past control me. I take off running through the sand, a fierce workout that forces me to think of nothing else and leads me momentarily over the exact spot of my attack. I keep moving and hit the wet sand with my lungs on fire, stopping for a moment to turn and face my house, looking for something, but I don’t know what.

  I reach for my phone and turn on the song “The Bottom” by Staind, a dark, gut-wrenchingly gritty song. It won’t block the memories, but that’s not what I want right now. I have four murders to solve, and that n
ight, that man with his tattoo might very well be a piece of the puzzle. It’s time to live it again. It’s time to face what I keep driving away.

  I start running, the song playing in my headphones: You suffocate, you cannot wait for this to just be over. Those words have always spoken to me. They speak of everything I felt that night and since. My mind flashes back to those events. I can see and almost feel that man on top of me. He’s ripping my clothes, and the drug, the damn drug is wearing off just enough for me to experience every touch of his hands, but I’m still too weak to fight him off. He yanks at my shirt. I elbow him. He snarls and bites my lip. My instinct is to stop. To block this out, but I make myself keep reliving it. I make myself replay every graphic, horrible detail I can remember, up until the moment when he’d suddenly been gone, the weight of him lifted off me. When Kane had arrived and yanked him away.

  I stop running, hands on my hips, and I suck in air. The beach ahead of me is a black hole, like the place I’m about to take myself. This next part of that night is the part that rips me apart every time I think about it. It’s the part that I can’t explain to myself. The part that guts me with guilt and makes me question who and what I am.

  A single drop of cold rain splatters on my nose, the wind lifting. I rotate and start back toward the house, toward the location it all took place. I need to be in that spot now, I realize, to truly face the past, and I quicken my pace, running harder, faster, until finally I’m there. I stop by the edge of the water and turn toward the beach and that place where I swear I can still see my imprint. I walk forward, into the sand, halting when I know I’m at my destination. That’s when a shadowed figure appears just beyond the patio of my house. I am no longer alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE