Page 22 of Murder Notes

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He scowls. “I want an answer.”

“Dead bodies make me nervous,” I lie, though they obviously don’t. Puddles of blood and brain splatter are another story. It’s illogical, of course, that a corpse is fine but other matter is not, but it’s just my reality, one I don’t share with anyone.

“You’ve investigated at least a dozen murders. How can that be possible?”

He’s way off on that number, but correcting him seems counterproductive to my agenda to dodge and weave. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

He narrows his eyes on me. “If you were here—”

“I am home and I still have my shotgun in my hand.”

“Family delivers security.”

His phone rings and he gives me another scowl like I’ve conjured up the interruption. He snatches his phone. “We’re not done talking about this.” He turns and opens the door before I can stop him.

“We need to talk about—”

He shuts it in my face, and I add, “Samantha, Andrew. The woman who fucked Kane this very night.” I take a step and fully intend to talk some sense into him right here and now. Logic prevails, though, and I cradle Cujo, lock the door, and then reset the alarm. Calling him the idiot he’s being wouldn’t go over well, and that’s exactly what I would do. Neither, likely, would me telling him that Samantha is a skank, a bitch, a ho who likes Kane naked as much as she does him. I lean on the door. Samantha Young? How can he be dating Samantha-freaking-Young? This is insanity. The woman fucked Kane. A detail he will find out when presented with Kane’s alibi, which I suddenly need to confirm.

I reach for my phone in my pocket and realize it’s upstairs. Another save I need because I would have called Kane, and I’m not sure that is the right move in this moment. Besides, I know Kane. No matter what he knows or doesn’t know about my brother and Samantha, he’ll tell me he did Andrew a favor by showing him who Samantha really is. But doesn’t my brother already know who she is? Her family’s corrupt. She’s corrupt. What am I missing here? A lot, obviously, that I can’t change right now, which means I need to focus on what I can. Finding my Junior and my assassin.

I push off the door and head down the hallway toward the office. Once I’m up the stairs and back in the heart of Purgatory, I reposition Cujo on the desk and face the wall where I’ve pinned the cards, hands settling on my hips again. My gaze lands on the card that reads SAMANTHA YOUNG. My attention then shifts to the card that says KANE. Then to the one that says ANDREW LOVE. Brow furrowing, I walk to the steps, climb up, and reposition the cards to have Samantha in the center of Andrew’s and Kane’s. I then place my card under Samantha’s.

I’m the common dominator that binds the two men in her life.

I frown, a thought occurring, and I hurry down the step stool and back to the desk, where I sit down and reach for my case file. Opening it, I grab head shots of each victim and several note cards, shoving a pen into my pocket. Walking to the bulletin board again, I pull the step stool with me, and move to the far right to get plenty of naked board space. Climbing the stool, I pin the photos on the board, one row for the LA murders and one row for New York. I climb back down and stare at the problem brewing in my mind and now on my board. Andrew and Kane have Samantha in common. The murders have the assassin in common. But that’s not what is on my mind right now. I am.

I am the only common denominator to every single thing on that board.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I’m not the common denominator, I tell myself, pacing the space in front of the bulletin board. I mean, yes, I’m certainly a common denominator between my idiot, horny brother and my arrogant, dirty-in-every-way ex. But Samantha is a common denominator as well. And yes, the murders connect to Los Angeles and New York, and I could be the link, but so could any one of dozens, or even hundreds, of Hamptons residents with dual residences or business connections to both places. Myself. Samantha. Kane. My father. We all have some dual link. And officially, I’ve now reasoned away my personal involvement in the murders beyond coincidence, something my cranky-ass ex-mentor would say doesn’t exist. Roger would say chance doesn’t happen except in fairy tales. I don’t agree with him. I mean, tell Emma Riley, the college student who just happened to pick the bar where a serial killer was on the hunt, that chance doesn’t become a calculated factor in life and death. And yet there is a nagging voice in my head that says I’m missing something obvious.

I stop pacing and face the board, staring at the words without fully seeing them, arms folded in front of me, and I’m not thinking about Samantha and her man-candy sex triangle. I’m thinking of the killer I’m hunting. Once again, I think that maybe my killer is Junior. Maybe they are the same person, but no. No. That’s ridiculous. The killer is calculated. Clean. Someone who gets the job done and leaves nothing of himself behind. I have a note and fake blood. The killer would not leave those things behind.

I walk to the desk and sit down, grabbing my phone and noting the 1:00 a.m. hour. I need four hours of sleep to function as an effective human being, let alone an investigator. It sucks, but God ordained it, thus it’s unchangeable. I’ll seal myself in Purgatory once I’ve put some interviews and investigations behind me. Once I’ve data-collected. But I can’t rest quite yet. I grab a pen and paper and start forming a strategy to work the case, not just the suspects. Because the devil is always in the details.

An hour later, my morning to-do list is complete and includes finding out how the victims connect to each other and to the Hamptons, even if they were killed in Los Angeles. I’ll also need a list of everyone who has property, business activity, or family in both places as well. It’s a lot of work, and fortunately I’ve brought a lot of jelly doughnuts to one of our tech experts in LA for just this reason. The devil is in the details, and the favors needed to find them come a whole lot easier once you’ve fattened up your target helper. Plan in place, I stick my phone in my pocket and then slip my bag over my shoulder before reaching for Cujo, the only bed partner I plan to have while I’m here.

Armed for bed, quite literally, I walk down the stairs, and while I fully intend to head to the bedroom, I find myself pausing in the hallway again, a chill racing down my spine. Unease is heavy in my belly, and I don’t know whether it’s the past or the present haunting me in this moment, but I’m not taking a chance. I cut right toward the living room and do a quick sweep of every room, closet, and door in the house, and even a check on the security panel. Once I’m done, I’m less on edge, but that uneasy feeling isn’t gone. I don’t like you being there alone, Kane had said. Neither do I, which is why I was often at his house and we both know it.

I snag a bottle of water from the otherwise barren fridge and make my way to the bedroom. I stand in the doorway, lights on from my security check, listening to that ticktock of the grandfather clock for several moments. My gaze sweeps the comfy, oversize steel-colored chairs framing the arched window, which is covered with heavy gray curtains. This is my sanctuary, where I never take any of my cases, a luxury I didn’t have in my tiny LA apartment. It’s a place I don’t let the blood flow. But it did. Once, it did. And that changed everything. It changed me.

Inhaling, I walk to the king-size bed to my left that is draped in the angel white that has always represented my mother to me, and I set Cujo on top of the coverlet, my bag following. I don’t linger, walking to the bathroom to my right, where I flip on the light. Entering the room, I take in the white-and-gray-checkered path between a sunken tub and a wall lined with countertops. I stop next to the shower and in front of the closet, again flipping on a light. I walk inside and step into a room so large there are two long benches side by side in the center, rows of my expensive clothes hanging in the rectangular shelving units surrounding me now.

Unbidden, I’m remembering that night on the beach and the minutes after Kane had left me with a command to change clothes and shower. I’d run to the closet, naked and covered in blood, my clothes in my hands. I’d tossed them to the closet floor, yanked a pair of jeans and a tank top off their hangers, and pulled them on. When I’d been done dressing, I’d stuffed my clothes in a trash bag, and freaked out when blood remained on the carpeted closet floor. I blink now and look at the tiles beneath my feet I’d replaced that carpet with, and to this day, years later, my perspective on the right or wrong of that night changes several times a week.

Shaking off the memory, I walk to the dresser at the back of the closet and open a drawer, ignoring my many silky gowns, and snap up a black two-piece flannel PJ set, setting it on top of the dresser. I reach for my gun, and the idea of taking anything off tonight doesn’t sit well. In fact, I’m not changing clothes at all. Which probably confirms that I’m a crazy person, but crazy is way better than stupid. Shutting the drawer, I walk back into the bathroom, pausing as my eyes land on the tub. I’d sat down in that tub fully clothed that night, the details of which I refuse to think about. Bottom line: I’d lost my damn mind that night. I hate who I was then. How unprepared I was for what came at me. I’m so glad I am not that person anymore.

Inhaling sharply, I walk on through the bathroom and into the bedroom, my feet sinking into the cushy, cream-colored carpet. Everything about this room is cushy for a reason. My mother. She designed it. She decorated it. She loved it. It’s all about her and that hasn’t changed. I made sure of it. I stop at the foot of the bed and stare up at the massive painting of her in her iconic, Oscar-winning role as Marilyn Monroe, her brown hair dyed blonde. Her dress iconic white and her jewels expensive. She’s stunning, and the most amazing thing about my mother is that while she became her characters so completely, she always knew who she was as a person. She didn’t lose herself to her roles. I can’t say the same.

I sit down on the bed, and my phone beeps in my pocket. Rich for sure this time, I think, grabbing it. I glance at the text message to find Kane’s number, and his message reads: A pretty lawn ornament?

Despite myself, I find my lips quirking, because the truth is, Kane’s the only person on this planet who ever really gets my offhand little remarks. I think he knows this, though. I think he’s reminding me how much he gets me and I get him. What he doesn’t understand is that I already know this, and I don’t like it. I type a reply: A pretty lawn ornament is better than an ugly lawn ornament. I told you you’re a person of interest and this is what worries you?

Kane: I don’t worry.

I lie back on the mattress and reply with: Maybe you should.