“Hands in the air,” I shout. “Drop the umbrella.”
“I can’t drop the umbrella!” a woman shouts, her voice muffled in the rain, but the desperation is there, raw and real. She’s either a good actor or a victim. Hell, I’ve seen good actors play victims before. “It’s glued to my hand!” she calls out. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot!”
It takes me a few seconds to fully process the implications of her words. Another second to decide that I hear real fear in her voice. And only one more to say fuck it and decide I’m gambling on this woman being the real deal. I’m risking my life to save this woman’s life. The light that was shining on her goes off. That’s my cue.
Running forward into the dark abyss of that alleyway, I close the space between me and the woman. The minute I reach her, I grab her, scanning the black hole beyond her with my gun raised, fighting the urge to shoot, because while I don’t mind killing someone, I want to pick that someone. I don’t trust the asshole behind all of this not to have another innocent woman standing there waiting for my bullet.
Still facing the unknown darkness, I place the woman’s back to my back and start pushing her forward, out of the alley, keeping my gun on the unknown, expecting a threat to be launched at me at any moment. The woman starts screaming, reacting to something in front of her—holy fucking hell. I know this could be a trap—someone coming at me from both directions—but I do the only thing I can, what my instincts tell me to do.
I rotate and step in front of the woman, my gun aimed at whoever or whatever is making her scream. A man in a rain jacket stands there all but toe to toe with me now, his gun at his side, mine pointed at his chest. “I’m with Kane,” he declares as the street light illuminates his sharp, high cheekbones. “I’m covering you.” He doesn’t wait for agreement. He cuts around us and damn if he doesn’t bravely trek into the unknown.
“Help,” the woman gasps from behind me. “Help.”
I turn, and she falls to her knees toward me. I drop with her, holding her up and that damn umbrella slams into my back. I grunt through the pain. “Help,” she gasps, her head falling forward onto my shoulder as she starts making gurgling sounds.
Poison. This is poison.
Aware of a ticking clock, I don’t think about the risk to myself. Struggling with her weight, I lay her on her side, a position meant to open her airway and keep her from choking if she vomits, all but poking my eye out with the umbrella in the process. My phone rings again, and this time, I answer. “Lilah,” Kane says urgently.
“Call 911,” I order, already pulling a rubber glove from my bag. “Woman down,” I add. “Possible poisoning. Now Kane. Now.” He disconnects without asking for an address, but then he knows my location and thank God for it. I yank my soaked hood back from my soaked hair, and because I believe we’re dealing with a toxin and my hand has to go into her mouth, I pull the glove onto my left hand. The gun stays in in my right, the hand that gives me the most accuracy, and somehow, I still manage to roll her onto her back before shoving my fingers into her mouth, searching for a foreign object.
“We’re clear from the rear,” Kane’s man announces as he kneels beside me. “No way to get to you from there or above.” His voice is heavily accented, an ugly scar ripped down his cheek, and I swear if he’s from the cartel, I will thank them both and then beat them when this is over. “What the hell is the deal with the umbrella?” he asks.
“It’s glued to her hands. Don’t touch it. She’s been poisoned. Don’t make yourself next. I promised Kane I’d kill you myself.” I pull my hand from her mouth. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing I can fix. I shove her back to her side. Sirens sound nearby, thank God, and with Kane’s man present, I shove my gun in my holster and lean in to check the woman’s breathing. She starts to convulse. I can’t do anything but grab the umbrella with my gloved hand to keep it from hurting her. I can’t even order Kane’s man to hold her down without risking a toxin affecting him. As it is, I’m already exposed, but I’m the only one, and it needs to stay that way.
A beam of light flares down the alleyway, lights from a fire truck, and three firemen rush our way. “Agent Love, FBI,” I call out, and as one of the men approaches, I quickly add, “I suspect a toxin, and this isn’t a singular incident. Protect yourselves.” The woman stops convulsing and goes stiff, no sounds coming from her mouth. “Fuck,” I murmur, eyeing the fireman in front of me, my hands settling on my knees. “No obstruction in her mouth. That’s all I know.”
He nods, and I stand up, giving the other men joining him room to work. Rain starts to fall again. I’m not sure it ever stopped, but I don’t have time to let it slow me down. The little bitch who did this is somewhere nearby. I hurry toward the street where I meet two police officers now approaching. I grab my badge and step in front of them, flashing it. “FBI. Agent Love. Possible toxin. Suspect on the loose. No description. Block off the street and start canvasing now. One of you get on the air now.” I grab a baggie from my bag and use it to remove my glove and then hand it to one of the officers. “Evidence. Have it tested.” I unzip my hoodie and let it fall to the ground. “That too. Use gloves.”
One of the officers is already on his walkie talkie, ordering the barricades and the search. I turn to the other as two more officers and a fireman join us. The fireman is my focus. “We don’t need anyone that isn’t already active on scene. Protect your men. Send everyone you can back to the station.” He nods and hurries away. I look at one of the officers. “You block off the alleyway and get a forensics team in here now.” I look between them. “This is now a crime scene directly connected to the Mia Moore murder two blocks down. I’m taking control. Tell Detective Williams that if she wants to fight me on this to talk to my superior, Director Murphy. Understood?”
“Yes ma’am,” one of the officers says, followed by the next, and everyone launches into action.
Someone brings me a police jacket that I accept. I’m pulling it on when Kane’s man steps to my side, and I turn to him. “We need to figure out where the piece of shit who did this is right now. He or she is here. You go right. I’ll go left.”
“No,” he says. “My orders are to stay with you.”
“Two choices,” I reply. “I have you arrested or you follow my orders.”
He grimaces. “You live up to your bitch reputation.”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the compliment. “Now go.”
I glance behind me to find tape being pulled across the alleyway. That’s all I need to see. I draw my weapon and my flashlight, heading down the street, a calm overtaking me. He wants to rattle me. He wants me to overreact, to do something stupid. Too bad he picked the wrong agent. I won’t overreact. I won’t arrest him. I’ll kill him. I ease into the shadows, checking out every dark corner, looking up, right, left, behind, and forward. I pass law enforcement. I give orders. I give answers. I stop at alleyways and even dare to make tracks behind buildings. I’m not going to get the kill I crave tonight.
I return to the alleyway as Beth arrives and seeing her tells me what I’d already assumed. “She’s dead,” I say as we both step to the line of tape.
“Yes. She’s dead. What the fuck, Lilah?” And this time, she doesn’t say pardon my French. “There’s two dead women now. I’m back to what is this?”
Two dead women.
The killer said there were three.
That means someone else is about to die.
CHAPTER NINE
Kane’s man stalks toward Beth and me, clearly done with his search for Umbrella Man and ready to talk. A conversation I don’t want to have with Beth present. “Don’t leave without talking to me,” I tell her, stepping away from her to motion my newest stalker off to the side under an overhang. I’m so done with rain right now and really, truly, I could shoot someone.
“Anything?” I ask.
He gives a grim shake of his head and pulls his hood down, his thick, dark hair
soaked, that scar on his cheek ugly. “Nothing,” he says, “but the bastard’s here. I can feel him watching us.”
He’s right. Umbrella Man is watching. I feel him, too. And yes, he’s a man. Every time I think of him, he’s a man. I’d be willing to bet my badge on it. For now, I move on to the stranger before me. I don’t like strangers, even when they’re Kane’s strangers. “Who are you?”
“Call me Jay,” he says, which translates to that’s not my real name.
“Who do you work for?”
“You know who I work for,” he counters without missing a beat.
“Who is Kane to you?”
“My boss.”
Now he’s just trying to irritate me. “Who is Kane to you?” I press.
“A rich, powerful man. Who are you to Kane? Some might call you his weakness. I call you the trigger.”
I don’t ask what he means. I know. Kane would do anything for me, even kill. Some might think that’s a romantic notion, but this is Kane Mendez we’re talking about. He really would kill for me, and he’ll feel no regret when it’s done. I know this about him. I understand him, perhaps too well.
Irritated that this man is about to take me down a dangerous rabbit hole where Kane is concerned, I want him gone. “Make me think you disappeared,” I say, already walking away, placing several feet between me and the general mass of law enforcement leaning on the germ-infested New York City wall next to a closed restaurant. I’m brave like that. I keep proving it over and over tonight.
Snatching my phone from my pocket, it’s Kane that’s on my mind, but I dial Director Murphy. Kane, I’ll deal with when he gets back from one of his “don’t ask any questions” kind of business trips that always piss me off.
“Agent Love,” Murphy answers, alert and awake, despite what has to be the early morning hour at this point. “I hear you took jurisdiction. On what grounds?”
“That wasn’t Roger Griffin who called you and requested me on that murder scene tonight. A scene no one in law enforcement connected to any other murders or a serial killer.”
“If Griffin didn’t call me, who did?”
“Considering the messages left for me at the crime scene, I’d say someone who wants to play cat and mouse with me.”
“You think it was the killer.”
“I know it was. He killed twice tonight. I was called to murder number one. He setup number two in an alleyway that I had to pass to get home, and then waited on me to find her.”
“I heard. That’s two women dead. The caller said three. Is there a known third?”
“Technically,” I say, as realization hits me, “we only have two murders, however, the initial crime scene had an excess of blood that didn’t belong to the victim. I suspect the owner of that blood is the third victim.”
“That would mean the crimes don’t fit a pattern. Two suspected poisonings, from what I understand with no blood loss. The third being a completely different kind of kill.”
I consider that but not for long. “Oh fuck. I mean—”
“Speak freely, Agent Love.”
“The blood was mimicking rain. He didn’t need blood for the second woman. He had rain.”
“I see. Interesting. A reasonable assumption I doubt few would immediately conclude, but does that mean we have two or three victims?”
“He’s a drama queen. He wouldn’t miss the chance to claim a kill. Three. We have three murders but that doesn’t mean he won’t stage more.”
“Agreed. What do you need from me?”
“Beth Smith was called to the scene, too. She’s—”
“The coroner who worked the cases with you that connected to our dear friends.”
“Is that what we’re calling them now?” I ask because I know good and well that he means the Society. Beth and I literally just wrapped up an investigation of a series of assassinations that were directly linked to the Society covering up their existence. Assassinations pinned on someone close to my father, but not so close as to screw up his Society-sponsored run for New York governor.
“On an open line, yes, Agent Love. They are our dear friends. That’s what we’re calling them. In person, we’ll speak frankly, preferably in your language.”
“I’m speaking that language in my head right now.”
“And I can hear you,” he assures me. “Is Beth’s situation linked to the killer’s game or our dear friends?”
“I don’t know, but she looks like the victims. Is this all a staged threat by our ‘dear friends’ or is a killer just playing with me? Either way, I’m worried about her.”
“Consider that problem solved.”
“How?” I press.
“You’ll know when it happens. I’ll remove her from reach.”
“Soon,” I press.
“Immediately,” he assures me. “What else can I do to help right now?”
“Tic Tac—”
“Is at your disposal.”
“I told him to look into that Griffin call you received.”
“As you should have. And he told me. What else, Agent Love?”
My brows dip. “Why exactly are you being so agreeable?”
“Because, for once, you’re communicating. It works. Keep making it work. What else?”
He’s such a smartass and the only way to handle a smartass is by being a bigger smartass. “I’ll communicate if I need anything.”
“Excellent decision. I’m going to bed. Tic Tac’s also in bed, Agent Love. Let him sleep. I’ll tell him to contact you after noon your time.” He disconnects.
I dial Tic Tac. He answers on the first ring. “Director Murphy said you’d be calling me.”
Of course he did. He knew I’d call even when he told me not to call. I’m perhaps becoming too predictable for my own good. “Just give me what I need to know. Did Old Man Smokey make the call to Murphy?” I ask, giving Roger an overdue nickname though Gruff Old Fuck might be more appropriate.
“If you mean Roger Griffin, I can’t say. The call came in from a number assigned to a disposable phone that I traced back to Brooklyn. And before you ask, no, I don’t know who bought it. That store’s been closed for five years.”
“I’m too tired right now to even say fuck to that with proper emphasis.” And I don’t even know why this question keeps coming to mind, but I need the answer. “Is Old Man Smokey in Connecticut?”
“Yes.”
“And he got there when?”
“Per his hotel and travel arrangements, last night.”
I should feel relief that Smokey is telling the truth, but I don’t. The killer is watching him, the killer knew where he was and planned tonight’s events accordingly, but also on a rainy night. That just seems like a damn near impossible feat. “Is there anything else I need to know right now?”
“Is there anything else you want to know? Yes. Is there anything else you need to know right now before we all sleep? No.”
Suddenly a laser to a gun is pointed at my chest. I freeze, and damn it, my heart starts to race, a reaction I don’t like to give any piece of shit killer. “Lilah?”
At Tic Tac’s prodding, I decide that I can’t alert him to my present shit circumstances without risking a trap that ends with someone else being shot. “Go to bed,” I order.
“I don’t need to be told twice.” He hangs up.
The minute he disconnects, I decide that if this entire situation is a staged event by the Society to scare me then fuck them. If they want to kill me, then I’m already dead. If this is a crazy fucker and a serial killer, he wants to play, which means he won’t kill me. I lift my hands and fire off two middle fingers in the direction of the laser. It immediately disappears. I push off the wall and start walking back toward the rest of my crew. The laser doesn’t reappear and sending someone chasing its location will be futile. The asshole who pointed it at me gets a game point but not a win.
Beth is waiting on me when I arrive back
to the alley, huddling deeper into a NYPD jacket and shivering. “What don’t I know?”
“You know nothing, Beth Smith,” I say in my best Ygritte Game of Thrones’ voice and accent.
She glares at me. “Did you really just make a Game of Thrones joke at a murder scene?”
“Yep. Sure did. And you got the joke. You watch Game of Thrones?”
“What I get is that I worry about you sometimes. How can you go through this hell tonight and joke around?”
“Should I cry? I’ve practiced that for certain situations. Would you like to see?”
She positively glowers. “Lilah—”
“I want you to stay at a high-end hotel for a few days, one with lots of security until I get you reassigned out of town for a while. I’ll pay.”
Her eyes go wide. “You think I need to leave town?”
“Yes. I do.”
“I—God—holy hell. I don’t need the hotel. I’ve got a new man, believe it or not. I’m officially dating an FBI agent here in the city. I’m staying with him. I’ll be safe for now.”
This news delivers a laundry list of possibilities:
1) I know from working with Murphy that the local FBI has a connection to Pocher and the Society. That could confirm that this is all indeed a way for the Society to keep me busy and remind me how easily they can hurt those I love.
2) Her boyfriend got her on this job to be closer to her.
3) Her boyfriend is the Umbrella Man.
Not to mention she wasn’t dating him two weeks ago, when she told me she was destined to be single forever. I frown. “What’s his name?”
“Jess Monroe. Do you know him?”
“No,” I say, but I wonder if he knows me.
I’m sure about to know him, especially since I don’t know how to keep her away from him. “I’ll still get you a room at the Ritz. Take him with you. I’d feel better if you were in a controlled situation.”
Love Me Dead Page 5