***
Thirty minutes later, I’ve left my raincoat at the door, pulled on gloves and I’m inside Miller’s apartment that is as sterile as a hospital room. Miller is dead on his couch, blood all over the cushions, nothing clean about it. No clean freak shoots himself.
It’s too messy. I walk the apartment, which doesn’t take long. Like so many city apartments, it’s a pair of moving boxes with the kitchen in one of them and the bathroom in the other. If there’s a clue left for me, I can’t find it. I go through his desk in the corner, but there isn’t so much as a light bill.
I stand in front of the body and dial Tic Tac, studying the body as I listen to the rings. He was a nice-looking guy, probably got women. There has to be a girlfriend. Of course, he might have beat her out of his life.
“Lilah,” Tic Tac answers. “Let me guess—”
“I need stuff. Yes. How long has Miller, who’s dead by the way, lived at his residence?”
“Three years,” he replies, “and holy wow, Batman.”
I grimace. “I don’t communicate with people who speak in such language.”
“Agent Love.”
I glance up to find Houston striding into the room. I hang up on Tic Tac, “Chief,” I greet since we’re being all formal and shit.
“Anything I need to know?” he asks.
“I need to know if he was a neat freak.”
“We’ll do the necessary interviews,” he says. “But the mayor is ready to hold a press conference tonight. He’s already put out the notice to the press.”
“And say what?”
“It’s him,” he says. “It’s over. You did your job, and you did a kickass job. Nobody had him on our radar but you.”
“And the minute I did, he’s dead, Houston.”
“Coincidence.”
“There’s no such thing as—”
“Coincidence,” a familiar male voice says from the doorway.
I look up to find Roger standing in the doorway. “I agree, Agent Love.” He glances around. “It’s too clean, quite literally. Neat freaks don’t shoot themselves. It’s too bloody. He would have taken the poison.”
“Look, Roger,” Houston says, “I respect the hell out of you but don’t come in here and try to turn my crime scene into another jungle. He’s dead. It’s over.” He looks at me. “Are you in or out on the press conference?”
“I hate lies, Chief, but if you want me there—”
“Don’t be a bitch, Lilah,” he snaps. “People are terrified. Scared shitless. We have extra patrols out, and the call volume is up one hundred percent for safety checks. We need to calm people down. We need to give them peace. And the fucker is dead. I’ll handle the press conference.” He turns and walks away.
“Alone on a deserted island,” Roger says. “No one is going to believe us until another body shows up. They’ll apologize soon.”
I glance over at him, and I realize then that I’m not like him at all. Sure, I hate stupid people. I hate stupid actions. I like dead bodies more than the living, most of the time, but he’s an example of why. The living are so damn self-serving, and I’m done always serving him. That’s why I struggled with my cases with him. I was serving him, not the victim. “I don’t want them to apologize, Roger. That means someone else dies. I want to be wrong. Something you’ve never been good at.” I walk out of the apartment and toss my gloves and boots in the trashcan the CSI team has set up. And I don’t look back. Roger belongs in my rearview mirror, and the glass is so damn broken I can’t even see him anymore.
“This isn’t over, Lilah,” Roger says from that rearview, but I don’t turn back.
He’s right. This isn’t over, but I’m going to end it. And I do that best without him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The minute I’m back in the SUV, I dial Kane. He doesn’t answer. Fuck. Fuck “Fuck!”
“Holy fuck,” Kit says next to me. “What the hell is going on?”
“Why isn’t he answering?”
“He said he’d be offline for a few hours.”
“That’s unacceptable.” I text him: Call me. Now.
He doesn’t call.
I text him again: Miller, the reporter—he’s dead. They made it look like he was the guy, and he killed himself to end it. It’s not him, but you know they want us to let down our guard. Keep yours up.
I text Tic Tac: Is Brandon Carmichael on duty at the hospital right now?
His reply is: Checking, and then sixty seconds later: Yes. He’s in surgery. Fifth floor.
Send me a photo, I reply, and he does.
“Take me to the hospital,” I say to the driver, sinking back into my seat. It’s time to get an in-person look at Melanie’s brother.
I sink back into my seat and shut my eyes, letting the rain thrum on the window, going to my Otherworld, here and now. It feels like a lifetime has passed since this started, but it’s only been days. Only days since Junior left me a note. I’ve forgotten Junior could be a part of this. That means this started on Long Island, but that doesn’t feel right.
Detective Williams is in the center of this. She didn’t expect to die. She was the insider at the force or at least one of them. Where there’s one gnat, there’s an infestation. Someone knew I knew about Miller. Houston knew, but he told his people to take action. Houston seems to be trying to do a hellish job. He needs to grow some balls that fit a man his size, but overall, I don’t think he’s dirty. But, then again, I thought my father was Mr. Rogers, and he turned out to be Michael Myers, and he even has the mask and the knife he shoved in my hand.
The SUV pulls up to the hospital, and I start to get out. Kit grabs my arm. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m potentially having your hand for dinner.”
He jerks his hand back. “I’m just trying to protect you.”
“That went well for Jay. Are you trying to get a roommate situation? Because you do have good timing?”
“Lilah, please.”
“Please,” I say. “Please works. Hands do not. I’m visiting Jay to see if he’s well enough for me to throttle him while observing a suspect. You’re welcome to come, but if you screw up my surveillance, I can’t be responsible for my actions.”
He laughs. “I’ll stay with Jay and protect him.”
“Whatever toots your horn, but don’t show me the horn. I never ever want to see that shit.”
He laughs again. I might like him, too, but that could be short-lived. I liked Zar for about five whole minutes, though Kit is showing longevity.
I pull up the hood of my rain jacket, and Kit does the same. We exit the SUV and dart to the front of the hospital, swiping the rain from our bodies as we enter.
A few minutes later, we’re at Jay’s doorway watching him flirt with a pretty redhead. “He’s a loser,” I say. I’d walk away.”
Jay glances up. “Ding dong the bitch has arrived. But she saved my damn life. You stubborn bitch.” Kit steps into the doorway and Jay adds, “You’re next, man. Look out. She’s trouble.”
The nurse approaches, and Kit and I enter the room. I glance over at her. “He’ll die for you unless you save his life.”
Jay curses in Spanish, and the nurse leaves in a bout of laughter, while I join Jay by his bed, giving him a once over. “You look pale like you’re not even Mexican.”
“So do you,” he says.
“Good one,” I say. “I might have said it myself. Oh, and by the way, there’s a doctor here who might be a killer who uses poison stocked in the hospital lab. It’s not really poison, but misused, it works dandy.”
“What the fuck? Are you serious?”
“As a nun scolding you about your sexual preferences. I’m leaving Kit here with you to talk about how to protect yourself.”
“That’s it,” he says. “They’re discharging me tomorrow. I’m out of here now.” He sits up.
“Bullshit,” Kit says. “They weren’t letting you out tomorrow.”
/>
“I’m leaving tonight,” Jay snaps.
“Good idea,” I agree, and it is, which is why I came here. Well, one of the reasons.
“Meet you both in the SUV,” I say, exiting the room.
I take the stairs for a reason, aside from the gabbers. It’s expected that I might visit Jay. Visiting Brandon is another story. I take the stairs down three levels and exit to a waiting room. I sit down and study the photo and then wait. An hour later, Brandon walks in, and the couple in the corner hops out of their seats. I proceed to watch him cry with the couple as he shares bad news. Holy fuck, I need a drink.
That man is not the man. I don’t think he could even be a part of this. I am so far from knowing what I’m doing right now that I’m like that two-year-old kid who’s been all over the Internet lately with blow-up floaties on his arms. He tries to shove food in his mouth and he can’t reach his mouth, but he still keeps trying. He doesn’t see that he needs a new approach. I need to take off the floaties. I need a new approach. I quietly disappear into the stairwell and text Kit: Headed to the SUV.
A few minutes later, I’m in the backseat with Jay, and Kit is upfront. “Take Jay to our place,” I say, “and then drop me at the precinct.”
And that’s what happens. We pull up to our apartment, and Kit takes the wheel. The driver, I don’t know his name, comes around to help Jay out. “We have Rice Krispies,” I say before he exits into the rain. “The snap, crackle, pop will make you feel better.”
“Catch this asshole,” he says. “Then I’ll feel better. And yeah, well, I’ll eat some Rice Krispies, too.”
He gets out, and I’m shut inside the back of the SUV on my way to the station to reexamine the evidence, to find what I’ve missed, but I can’t help but try Kane again. I punch his auto-dial. His phone goes to voicemail. Kit eyes me in the mirror, a question in his look.
I shake my head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It’s nine when I arrive at the station, hours after Kane left me at the apartment, and he’s still silent. I’m about to lose my flipping mind, and I cannot deal with people right now. I might be arrested, which is exactly why I go straight down the stairs to the evidence room in the basement. Once there, I discover that the security desk for that room is presently unmanned, and I can’t get in. I walk down the hallway to a row of offices and flash my badge at an old man behind a desk. “Where’s the person running the desk?”
He takes a bite of a donut and says, “Lunch,” with his mouth full as if displaying why they keep him in the basement.
“When does that person get back?”
“Just left,” he says with another mouthful of donut. “Any time now. She had some dinner something or another to go to.”
Just left and any time now. Brilliant. “I’ll wait,” I say, and I snatch a donut.
“Hey!” he growls all fierce and stuff like he might throw a donut at me or something. Which works. More for me.
I snatch a napkin, too—because a girl needs a place to set her donut and wipe her mouth—and then I head back toward the security desk. Once I’m at the old steel dinosaur, grab a pad of paper, and I write two names side by side: Pocher and Detective Williams. I draw a circle around their names and connect them. They’re connected. I take a bite of the donut that is a sugary orgasm. Thank God I don’t work here anymore. I’d eat them all. How does anyone expect us to sit around late at night and not eat them? Nothing else is open or fresh. How are we going to shoot bad guys without donuts? I take another bite, and I add another name and another circle. My father. I connect all three. Finally, I write Umbrella Man and repeat.
Detective Williams wasn’t Umbrella Man, but she’s at the core of his attacks, perhaps to help him control the setup of the victims?
My mind starts throwing out ideas, playing mental basketball to see what lands where:
Umbrella Man is an assassin.
He’s Ghost.
No.
He’s not Ghost.
I try to call Kane again and get his voicemail. I try Zar as well. I also get his voicemail.
“Umbrella Man is not Ghost,” I murmur, which I don’t know why this comforts me. The Society hired Ghost to kill Kane.
I transition that thought to a broader one: they also hired Umbrella Man.
My brow furrows.
What if the Society, through Williams, was stupid enough to think they could really turn a serial killer into an assassin? In which case, they have no real control. Any they think they have is a façade. He’s smart. He’ll eventually turn on them. A killer who enjoys the game. I’ve said that. Kane has said that. All of this tonight, the entire Miller scene, was just him playing a game with law enforcement and me, testing me to be worthy enough to continue playing.
I finish my donut while staring at all of the names I’ve written down. They’re all the Society. Detective Williams must have had some level of authority. Maybe she even found Umbrella Man through her work. Tic Tac sent me her cases. I’m just going to have to go through them one by one. I circle her name again and write: Redman and Morris. Her ex who is dead, and her other ex who is a cop.
I pull up an email from Tic Tac and check the list of people who donated to my father’s campaign and are connected to this case. Redman is not on the list. That would suggest he was not Society. Maybe he was just a victim Williams was setting up. What if she and Morris plotted against Redman together? Maybe they never broke up. Williams just lured Redman in and made him love her. Really that doesn’t make sense. Maybe Morris was just jealous and that made Williams the center of attention, the center of the spiral of death.
I’m officially a nutcase because either way, that would make Sergeant Morris, the little bitch baby, Umbrella Man. I have a hard time going there, but Morris was pissed at the crime scene last night, and the only three people in that alleyway who know he didn’t kill Williams is me, Ghost, and him or her. What if he wasn’t upset about Williams dying but rather having his kills challenged by another killer?
Could he really be a cold, calculated killer who hides behind his job? Could Williams, while dating him or otherwise, have found out and recruited him for the Society? I keep assuming she’s the Society but maybe he really did force her into all of this. When considering his skills, the man is working with Roger. Roger must see skills in him that I have not, but he doesn’t see Umbrella Man. Roger has clearly stated that he thinks the killer is a woman.
Something stirs in my mind, and I’m back in the lab with Roger:
My eyes meet Roger’s, and he says, “You still think this has nothing to do with me?” he challenges.
I step to him. “Are you telling me you’re the killer, Roger?”
“Do you think I’m the killer, Lilah?” he challenges.
“I think you’re an asshole, Roger. You know that was a threat. You know what he was telling me.”
“Tell me. What was he telling you?”
“Eventually, he’s going to kill the people close to me and then kill me.”
“That’s right,” he agrees. “That’s exactly what he’s telling you.”
He repeatedly called Umbrella Man, him, not her. In the past, when he believed we were dealing with a woman, he said “her.” Is he covering for him? Or maybe he doesn’t want to see him as who he really is? He damn sure doesn’t see me clearly. Or, maybe he’s trying to catch him on his own to take credit. But at the expense of lives? The more I think about his connection to Roger, the more Morris is feeling like a suspect.
I stand up. I need to get home and go through his case files and look through Morris’ cases as well. I need to look for people he killed and covered up. But I also need in that evidence room. If I can just look at what was there last night again, maybe something will click. I walk back down the hallway, and now, everyone is gone.
I take the stairs several floors to the main desk that operates in the evenings and shove my badge under the gate between me and the officer there. “I need in the evidence room
.”
He glances at my badge and then says, “Oh, right. Agent Love. I have a package for you. The guy who came in said you’d want this tonight. I was about to try and reach you.”
He shoves an envelope under the gate. “But I don’t have the evidence room key. You have to check-in in the basement.”
It’s me. I’m the little bitch right now; because as I hold that package, some part of me instinctively knows it’s from Umbrella Man, and I’m all but shaking. Kane hasn’t answered my calls, and I’m terrified, yes, terrified, that I’m about to find out why.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I walk to the bathroom and shut the door. I don’t bother to lock it; I won’t be in here that long. I open the envelope and toss the contents in the sink. A badge wallet falls out. I glove my hands and pick it up, flipping it open, and I am instantly brittle with cold. Detective Williams’ ID is inside, but there’s also a plastic badge with a slice of paper across the center that reads: East Hampton. Where my brother is chief of police. Andrew. Mother of God, my brother is next. We didn’t talk after I warned him to be careful. I didn’t check on him. Why the hell didn’t I check on him? With a quake to my hand, I shove the badge in the bag again and then dial my brother.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Voicemail.
“Call me now, Andrew. It’s urgent.” I text him the same message.
I grab the envelope, exit the bathroom and walk to the guard behind the gate again. I shove it under the bottom. “Bag it and send it for fingerprints and do it now. Call me if there’s a match. And I mean now.” I’m all about now right now, and I don’t wait for confirmation. I turn and start walking.
I hurry outside and thank fuck, it’s not raining. By the time I’m down the steps. Kit’s pulled the SUV to the curb. I climb in the backseat, and Lord help me, I still have on the gloves.
Love Kills Page 16