The missed call is from someone named Jamie. I try to return the call and get a generic voicemail. I decide not to leave a message. If Jamie calls back, he or she most likely believes Emma to be alive. If not, maybe Jamie knows she’s dead. I switch to Emma’s text messages and begin scrolling through the messages.
There’s a text from “Baby” that reads: Look Emma, sweetheart. I know you’re upset right now by the extended trip, but wrapping up this deal before the wedding is good for us. I can’t wait to get home. I really can’t wait to make you my wife.
You left me alone for Thanksgiving, reads Emma’s reply.
And I will never do it again, he promised in return.
She didn’t reply to him. Instead, she sent a text to someone else labeled as “Jamie” with: One more time for the history books.
When? was his or her only reply.
Now, had been Emma’s response.
All prior messages with Jamie are deleted.
That’s affair behavior, which could make this cut and dry the way I suggested it was to Andrew—a jealous lover or husband who didn’t act in rage but calculated revenge. Still, something feels off. Jealousy tends to be violent and brutal. There was nothing brutal about this crime scene. This was more like a calculated revenge killing, but then, I don’t actually know how she died to make that a serious assessment.
My attention returns to the phone. There’s a break in the messaging, a full hour with no communication with anyone before “Baby” messages Emma again with: I got a flight out tomorrow afternoon. We can have dinner together.
I check the call log and “Baby” called her five times before that text, but she didn’t take the calls. Obviously, there was trouble in paradise, and how interesting that the fiancé was gone when she died. I have to wonder if he was already in her will or on her life insurance policy. And something tells me she was busy with Jamie, who never sent another text message. Jamie, who may or may not have been happy about the wedding. I shoot photos of the text messages for myself and key several into my phone before I scan her camera roll. There are photos of her in lingerie that were taken in the mirror tonight. She sent them to no one, at least not by way of her regular text messages. Of course, she could have deleted messages. The short thread with Jamie suggests that she may have made a habit of deleting their exchanges. I flip through her apps and find no other messaging app. I lean back on my haunches and contemplate how this night might have gone, but the wedding dress that wasn’t her actual wedding dress just doesn’t fit.
I call Jamie from her phone. He doesn’t answer. I call “Baby” from her phone. He doesn’t answer.
I bag the phone and then the dress, and just as I stand up, North appears, “I guess there’s a reason why they call you special, Agent. You found the phone and her clothes.”
“And I don’t even need a donut to prove I’m special like all you officers do.” He scowls and I shove the bags at him. “Read her text messages. She was fighting with the fiancé tonight and someone she named Jamie. I tried to call them both from her phone. Neither answered.”
“Jamie,” he repeats and it’s not a question. There’s recognition there in the depths of his flat eyes and tone.
My eyes narrow. “Who is Jamie?”
“No idea,” he lies.
“Special Agent Love,” someone says from the door.
“Who is Jamie?” I repeat, ignoring the request for my attention.
“No one,” he repeats.
“Special Agent Love?” someone says more urgently now.
“You’re lying,” I say and add, “I need a full name and address for Jamie now, tonight,” before I step out of the hallway to find one of the CSI guys at the bedroom door. “Yes?”
“There’s something you need to see in the kitchen.”
“I see you already have control established,” North grumbles.
Only I don’t. I haven’t claimed this crime scene and the very fact that CSI is asking for me sets off alarms. I motion the CSI guy onward and follow him down the stairs, to end up in the kitchen where my brother, and Emma, are waiting on me. “Yes, brother love,” I say sarcastically, a tone necessary for proper sisterly queries, but also breathing easier now that I know this is just Andrew flexing his muscle. “What can I do for you?”
North steps to my side, waiting for the answer with me. Andrew eyes him. “We need a minute.”
North scowls and looks to argue, but his newbie status, or wimpy backbone, perhaps both, has him backing out of the room. Now certain this call to aid was more serious than a sibling command, I wait about twenty seconds to give space between us and North, and then ask, “What is it?”
His expression tightens. “You need to see this.” He’s holding the refrigerator door and somehow I’m certain he’s about to ruin my taste for Cheetos or anything resembling food, for at least tonight.
I close the space between me and him, and always the drama boy, he pauses before he opens the door he says, “If you doubted this was about you, doubt no more.” He opens the door and sitting on the top shelf is a jar of blood that has a label on it that reads, “Lilah Love.” Not Agent Love, but Lilah Love. This isn’t just about me. It’s personal.
CHAPTER NINE
“Well, isn’t that polite,” I say dryly, picking up the jar to look for any further markings, and glancing at Andrew. “It’s labeled with my name and everything. There’s a reason they call me Special Agent Love. I guess I really am special.”
“Lilah,” Andrew bites out, his voice low, taut.
“Andrew,” I reply, setting the jar down and shooting a photo.
Of course, the jar of blood is from Pocher. He’s alive. He’s angry. He’s trying to fuck with my head and probably Kane’s as well. And the appropriate response to such a gift would be fear and shock, which he no doubt expected from me. He too easily forgets, or perhaps has yet to learn, that I am not appropriately anything. Ever. It’s not by intention, either. I was just born this way. And so was Kane.
“Damn it, Lilah,” Andrew snaps. “What is this?”
“Pig’s blood,” I say, speaking of the blood in the jar when he’s, of course, speaking far more broadly. “Test it and confirm I’m right, but I’d bet my favorite red heels that used to be Mom’s, and I really love those heels.” I turn and start walking.
“Damn it, Lilah, wait,” he bites out.
“Damn it, Lilah” seems to be on autoplay, thus it becomes less effective. “Wait.”
I don’t wait.
The answers we need won’t be found in this house. After seeing that blood, I know better. They’re with Pocher, who Kane might not be willing to kill, but I damn sure am, and tonight sounds like the night to me. Find him. Kill him. End this hellish cycle of him killing people once and for all. He’s a serial killer of a whole different breed than Roger and no bars will ever hold him. He’s too powerful.
I charge through the house, intent on getting out of here before I’m stopped when North is suddenly in my path. He doesn’t want to be in my path right now. Not when I’d bet those red heels all over again that he’s on Team Pocher.
“Lilah, damn it,” Andrew calls out roughly again, and it’s right then that North’s attention shifts to my right, where Andrew has appeared.
“Chief,” he says, sidestepping, and then he’s in Andrew’s path. He gets brownie points for saving me. Since he’s dirty, that won’t get him far with me, but it gets me the hell out of here.
By the time I’m back in my coat, and have removed my gloves and booties and stepped back into the cold snow and wind, I’ve calmed down enough to know that killing Pocher, at least right now, is a fantasy. Besides, I’m not an assassin that hunts and kills people. That’s not how I kill, that’s not who I am, no matter how Roger made me doubt myself, I know it’s not, but this man, Pocher, makes me want to make an exception.
I exit the house, the cold, crisp air a welcome blast of relief. Already logic finds m
e. I have Pocher on the brain right now. Nothing about this case reads like a Pocher setup. The pig’s blood was in the news. The Umbrella Man was in the news. Even I was in the news. I need to calm the fuck down and think like Special Agent Love not someone who hates Pocher.
I’m down the steps of the house, with snow falling like rain, my hood up, when Andrew catches up with me, still pulling on his coat, a brown ugly thing that looks like some kind of new animal breed. “Lilah. Stop walking now or I will forcefully make you.”
Growling low under my breath, I turn to face him. “Do you really want to find out how well that will go for you, Andrew? I’m guessing I can protect myself better than you can muscle me.”
He holds up his hands. “You’re a part of this case whether you like it or not. And that wasn’t my doing. It had your name all over it, quite literally.”
“I can read, Andrew.”
Snow pelts down on him and he yanks his hood up. “Pig’s blood, Lilah? The Umbrella Man is dead.”
“Pocher might not have created the Umbrella Man, but he used him, he hired him to do his dirty work. Roger was eager and willing. And Pocher isn’t dead.”
“Then he knows about Roger, about what happened.”
“Does he know I killed him and you got rid of the body? Maybe. I don’t know. Let me go now and deal with this, Andrew. We’ll talk at dinner tomorrow.”
“If he saw me—”
“He’s not going to turn you in,” I say and I know he’s really worried. I know I’ve been hard on him. I worried for my badge after my beach attack, too. “That’s not how this works. If you’re a problem, he claims leverage over you or he kills you.” I lay my hand on his arm. “If he knows, if he believes he has leverage over you, you get to keep breathing. That’s a good thing.”
Worry, not relief, etches his face. “And what about you, Lilah?”
“There are reasons he can’t leverage me.”
“Kane,” he says tightly.
“Yes. Kane.”
“And if he starts killing brides until you bow down, then what? Because that feels like leverage and Kane can’t do shit about that.”
“Don’t go climbing up a cliff and jumping off just yet, Andrew. There’s one dead bride. Two birds. One stone. If this is Pocher—”
“If?”
“If this is Pocher, he declared war tonight. On me. Not you.” I change the subject because this one is going no place good. “Who is Jamie?”
He frowns. “Jamie? I don’t know. Why?”
“That’s who the victim was texting with tonight. A man, I assume, but it could be a woman.”
“Right,” he says. “I don’t know who that is, but I’ll find out.”
“You don’t have to work at it too hard. North already knows. He’ll tell you he doesn’t, but he does. And don’t ask how I know. I read people, just like Mom did.”
“Which we can assume got her killed, Lilah. You need to be careful.”
“For once I won’t argue,” I say, shifting back to why we’re here tonight. “Find Jamie and call me. I told North I need his or her full name and address tonight.” I turn to depart, but hesitate, twisting back to face him long enough to add, “Be careful with North and Danica Day. I don’t trust either one of them.” And then I’m moving down the stairs before he can turn that into some kind of debate I might enjoy another day and time.
“You don’t trust anyone,” he calls out, and I cup my hand behind me and shoot him a finger. He knows that’s not true. I trust him. Mostly. And I trust Kane.
Once I’m in the Mercedes, I crank the air and shrug out of my wet coat. Something is bothering me beyond the obvious and I just sit there—processing information. Andrew’s suggestion that Pocher is going to start killing off innocent women to get to me is unpalatable. The very idea cuts and the only good part of that sensation is that I’m reminded that I am human, that I do care about the people who’d died and need my help to find justice. That is who I am. That is why I do this job. I was wrong earlier. I’m still human. I’m still me.
And I was right when I said nothing about what Pocher does is simple. He’s also not stupid. To kill just to kill would be a path to doom. No. He’d have a reason to kill that woman. Maybe a reason he doesn’t want me to see. I can’t focus on Pocher. I have to focus on solving the crime. I grab my badge and pull the photo of Kane and I out that I keep there. I turn it over and look at the matchbox marks I’ve marked there, every person I’ve saved, or found justice for, to repent for those I’ve killed. No, those I’ve been forced to kill. And I focus on one thing. My goal has to be another mark for Emma. I need, and I will, deliver justice for her murder.
That’s what comes next.
And what if—I frown—what if the jar of blood isn’t from Pocher? I’m slightly obsessed with him right now. I did just get the news that he’s alive tonight. So, if this isn’t Pocher, then who? My brows dip and I start to process. The pig’s blood was in the news. I was in the news. Roger tried to take all the credit for the Umbrella Man case, but ultimately, I was mentioned. Maybe, this is another one of his protégés or even another enemy, a new enemy, a new killer with a fixation on me. As Kane said, and I know too well, killers are drawn to me.
And me to them.
CHAPTER TEN
I hate stupid and I hate slow.
And one thing I know about the locals is they move about as fast as butter melting in a blizzard. If I wait for the locals to process the evidence, I’ll be dead before I solve this case. It’s still early in Cali and I grab my phone to call Tic Tac, my tech guy out of the L.A. office. I’m about to push his auto-dial when my last conversation with him replays in my head:
“My mother is coming in for Thanksgiving, Lilah,” he’d said. “I’m not strong enough to deal with her and you in the same week. Please, I beg of you, at least give me this four-day weekend off.”
“Okay,” I’d said, “but only if you send me one of those cinnamon rolls she makes.”
“Done,” he’d promised. “I’ll send two.”
I sigh and move my finger off the call button. I want those cinnamon rolls. And I did promise. I might be a bitch, but a promise is a promise. Besides, I need someone a bit more cunning than his boy scout routine. Therefore, and despite the wrath of Kane, who hates my cousin, I dial Lucas, who swore he’d stick to investment banking and quit the bullshit hacking, but we both knew he was lying. And that I’d at some point be a bad influence despite my efforts to be the opposite.
He answers on ring number two. “Before you say a word,” he greets, “I’m drinking. Don’t hold anything I say against me.”
“Is it fruity and girly?” I ask because I tease him about his love for piña coladas.
“No,” he says, “she already left.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re crazy.”
“Proven by the fact that I still talk to you despite Kane Mendez hating my guts.”
It’s true. Kane hates him and the reasons are many. First, it’s important to note that technically Lucas isn’t a blood cousin. His father was the step-brother to my father. His father was also in the chopper with my mother when they were killed, which has always been curious to me and Lucas. Second, he’s got those blond, surfer-dude good looks that favor my ex, Rich, who I was with during the break Kane and I took. As for why Kane hates him, all of the above, plus Lucas has hit on me more than once. That’s true, but he’s also a dysfunctional mess who always comes through for me.
Which, contrary to the belief my heart is cold, even by me, I can’t leave him alone for the holiday. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“More drinking. And I ordered one of those turkey pot pies Micki’s diner makes every holiday. And cake. I got a whole fucking cake for myself. Coconut cream. They made a pie a cake.”
“Okay, then dinner is at five. Bring that fancy laptop you only use for naughty things. And I’ll need you to go ahead and look up a few things toni
ght. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”
“You? Waiting until tomorrow? Since when do you wait for anything?”
“Since I can’t speak some things on the phone and if I go to your place, Kane might kill you before we ever eat dinner tomorrow. Oh, and bring the pie that’s been made into a cake.”
“Hell no. I’m not going to eat dinner with Kane. Every time he looks at me, I’ll know he’s trying to decide where to bury my body.”
“Like I said. Four o’clock. Be early and bring an expensive bottle of booze to go with the pie cake. That’ll put him in a good mood. You got a pen handy to take some notes?”
“Lilah—”
“Lucas.”
“No,” he says.
“Okay then, I’ll come over there. I’ll just text Kane and tell him I’ll be late.”
“You always get your way, don’t you?”
“Only when it’s life and death. And this is. Did you know Emma Wells?”
“No,” he says. “Should I?”
“She owns a house here in town. She bought it a few years back.”
“I don’t stay connected to the town happenings. You know that.”
“Her husband was Gibson Wells.”
“Oh right,” he says. “He was an accountant. Big shot, too. I saw him around. I do think I remember her, too. Why?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, well fuck,” he grumbles. “When and how?”
“Tonight. And before you ask, I can’t discuss the cause of death.”
He snorts. “Right. Because we do everything by the books?”
I move on. “What about her fiancé, Morgan Rockport? Do you know him?”
“I know Rockport. He’s a big powerhouse attorney. He’s done some business with my firm, but I actually met him at a party. In fact, it was that event fundraiser for your father that Pocher put on. The one where you wore that red dress.”
I ignore his reference to the red dress. I’m focused on the connection which is not welcome but also not unexpected. “Does he do work for my father or Ted Pocher?”
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