Page 2 of Murder Notes

I turn and press my hands to the sink, showing the white ceramic more interest than it deserves, while his naked body might deserve more than I can afford to give it right now. “Everyone has their fetishes, I guess.”

“You don’t like dead bodies. Why do you say shit like that?”

Because I want to scare you off, I think, and I might actually really freak him out if I insist I do have a fetish for dead bodies. Of course, as logical as Rich is, he’d know it’s because they help me catch killers. Instead, I just say, “I’m getting dressed.” Hoping he takes a hint and does the same, I turn to walk into the closet. Thankfully, his sound of frustration is followed by a shift in the air that tells me he’s finally gone to dress. Wishing for the shower I don’t have time to take, I yank a pair of faded jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt from their hangers, get dressed, and then lean on the wall to pull on black combat boots.

All of three minutes later, I reenter the bathroom to find Rich back in the doorframe, and while he’s not naked, his low-slung black jeans aren’t doing much to cover his assets, which I really want covered right now. I toss him his shirt, which he catches and pulls over his head. Seizing the momentary distraction I’ve created, I head back to the sink to wash my face, brush my hair, and contemplate how washed-out my pale skin is without the makeup I’d prefer to be wearing right now. I’m a girl. I like being a girl despite this job, and I pretty much fucking love how that, mixed with my “potty mouth,” as my mother would call it if she were alive, confuses the hell out of people.

Ready to get out of here for more reasons than one, I step to Rich and he doesn’t budge, his big body blocking my petite one. “So about that apartment,” Rich says. “You’ve been in Cali for two years. This place is the size of a Cracker Jack box, and it’s a dump, Lilah. It’s time to make a change.”

“You’re right. This place is tiny, a point driven home by the fact that you’re presently suffocating me. I need something bigger, and if it came with a toilet that doesn’t require me jiggling the handle every time I use it, that would be a plus.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

He’s glad I agree? Okay. That didn’t go as planned. He’s not registering what I’m telling him. I see it in his face, and I need to shut up before I dig myself in deeper. “Move, Rich. I need to go.”

Still, he blocks my path. “I have a long-term lease and a toilet that doesn’t need to be jiggled,” he says. “It’s not your fancy Hamptons place of old, I’m sure, but it’s a step up from this shit hole. Move in with me. I want to wake up and look into those gorgeous brown eyes of yours every morning from now on.”

Yep. Officially screwed this up big-time. “Did I mention I have a dead body waiting on me? And Murphy?”

His brow instantly furrows. “Murphy’s meeting you?” He backs away. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m clueless,” I say, walking to the chair in the corner of the bedroom and slipping the satchel I carry to all my crime scenes over my head and chest.

“If Murphy’s at the crime scene,” he says, “we’re taking over.”

“Most likely,” I say, and not about to invite more conversation, I leave it at that and make my way to the door for my escape. But frustratingly, Rich steps in front of me.

“Move in with me,” he repeats, his hands coming down on my shoulders. “I’m crazy about you.”

“I’m not a relationship kind of girl.”

“What do you call what we’re doing?”

“Sex. Friendship.” I’m confusing him and I think me, too. I should have left out the friendship part, except I do like him. Quite a lot actually. Frustrated at myself, I add, “I don’t know.”

“You just described a perfect relationship, Lilah. That’s what we all want. Sex and friendship in one place.”

Note to self: friendship is a really bad word with men. “Look. Rich. I mean, you’re like the perfect Cali surfer dude: gorgeous and sweet, but—”

“Surfer dude and sweet? Holy fuck.” He drops his hands from my shoulders and scrubs one of them through his longish, curly blond hair. “That’s how you see me?”

I hold up my hands. “No. God no. I’m sorry. See? I suck at this stuff.” I toughen my voice to make sure he knows how serious I am. “You’re an all-American G.I. Joe badass. You would die for just about anyone. You are amazing, Rich. Absolutely fucking amazing. Too good for me. I’m the one that’s the problem. I have issues. Big issues. That’s why I don’t do commitment.” I shove a strand of hair from my face. “And I can’t do this now. You know I can’t do this now.”

His jaw sets hard and he gives me a disgruntled, reluctant nod. “Go. Deal with Murphy.”

I don’t argue. I step around him and dart for the living room, pausing in the doorway long enough to say, “Lock up when you leave. Sick fucks love me.” I take off for the front door.

“What the hell does that make me, Lilah?”

“The exception,” I call out, and he has no idea how true that statement rings.

Thanks to that early-Wednesday-morning jogger getting us all out of bed at the crack of dawn, I travel from my Los Feliz neighborhood to Santa Monica in thirty minutes, which would be unheard of any other time of the day. Parking my gray Ford Taurus in a lot near the beach is just as easy. I step out of the car, slip my FBI badge over my neck, fight a gust of September seventy-something wind, and head down the sidewalk toward the pier. Weaving my way through the now-sleeping perpetual carnival of the boardwalk, I make a beeline for the Ferris wheel certain to lead me to the end of the pier. Turns out, the growing crowd around the yellow tape on the nearby beachfront does the job just fine.

I approach several uniforms and show them my badge. “Who’s the detective in charge?” I ask.

“Oliver,” one of them tells me.

Great, I think, moving on along the sidewalk. That man hates me. I’ve made it all of ten feet across the sidewalk, about to hit the sand, when I hear, “Special Agent Love.”