Page 33 of Murder Notes

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I know, of course, that Alexandra is oblivious to how that night changed me, though she’s certainly aware of the fact that we were never close from that point forward. Her need to see me the next morning, to share details on her recovery fuck, was expected and understandable, even. But also expected was her ability to look in my eyes and know one night had changed me. She’d have asked questions I didn’t want to answer. Exactly why I never let them happen, despite the awkwardness that ensued and lingered until I took the FBI job. And right now, with Alexandra looking at me and me looking at her, I’m experiencing that awkwardness all over again. That very special kind of Saturday-night-drunk-and-pretending-not-to-be-bad kind of awkward.

She stands up, and reading her intentions to come to me, I quickly stand as well, immediately walking in her direction, because no way in hell am I going to get trapped at my table with her overstaying the welcome that doesn’t exist. Unfortunately, she charges forward, rather than hesitating or waiting on me, her navy heels, which match her navy suit dress, clicking on the tiled floor as she continues her approach.

“I heard you were here,” she says, meeting me in the center of the diner with a number of guests sprinkled at various tables that are thankfully out of hearing range.

“After that press conference this morning,” I say, “I’m pretty sure that even Jane Wise’s pet cow knows I’m here.”

“She still has that cow,” Alexandra tells me with a strangled kind of laugh. “Lucy is her name. And she’s famous, you know. That cow—”

“Was on Farmland,” I say of the now-defunct kids’ show. “I know. And she also handled her fame better than most of the human residents in this town.”

“Of that, you will get no disagreement from me,” she assures me, swiftly changing the topic. “Have you seen Kane?”

The question doesn’t surprise me. If anyone other than Kane knows how inseparable we once were, it’s my ex–best friend. “He showed up at the crime scene last night.”

“And?” she asks, lowering her voice, as if this is some big secret. It’s not.

“And I had a dead body on my mind.”

“A dead body,” she repeats. “Not his hot body?”

“Dead and hot are not two words I often use together.”

“Not often, but sometimes?”

“Yes,” I agree, thinking of one particular serial killer whose good looks got him into six dead girls’ pants before he brutally murdered them. “Sometimes.”

“This would be one of those times we’d get drunk and you’d explain what the hell you are talking about.” Once upon a time, I think. But not now, and she must see that in my eyes, because she clears her throat and adds, “What’s the word on that murder last night? Are you handing me a killer to convict, or what?”

“That’s a question my brother, the police chief, can answer.”

“Oh come on, Lilah. You’re FBI and you showed up with a dead body.”

“The only body I showed up with is my own, which I assure you is not dead.”

“You went to the crime scene,” she points out.

“I was here and I did what I do for many law enforcement agencies. I went. I evaluated and I shared my evaluation with the real man in charge: my brother.”

“If you didn’t come for that case, which I guess is obvious, since it was waiting on you when you arrived, then why are you here?”

“Personal business,” I reply, and when she reaches up and swipes her chin-length, blunt-cut brown hair behind her ear, the ring on her finger tells me she’s now married and I don’t know for how long or to who.

Her dress starts ringing and she shoves a hand in her pocket. “I just need—”

“Take the call,” I say, giving her my back and returning to my seat, her eyes heavy on me, but my waitress and my coffee save me on my return to my table.

I claim my seat, chat a minute with Rose while doctoring my coffee with lots of cream and Splenda. I’m aware of the exact moment that Alexandra has claimed her seat, which is the same time that Beth chooses to make her appearance.

She enters the diner, and I watch her approach, sizing her up the way I do everyone old and new in my life, every observation one I might draw on in comparison with another person in an investigation one day. In Beth’s case, she’s tall, thin, and alert as she scans the diner before spotting me, lifting a hand, and heading in my direction. Her black, pinstriped pants she’s paired with a matching jacket are definitively masculine, while the black, silk, long-sleeved blouse she wears softens her. This tells me she feels her femininity works against her for some reason, but she’s also not willing to completely emasculate her womanhood either. I get it. Thus my loose use of the F-word that I wear as easily as I do my pink lipstick.

She closes the remainder of the space between us with long strides, the confidence I’ve always admired in her still alive and well, unlike the naked woman who’d become our shared specimen the night before. That Beth manages to detach herself from death as readily as I do perhaps says a lot about why we connect. This probably makes her the closest thing to a friend I will ever have, and since I haven’t talked to Beth in years, friend can’t be placed in the context of literal any more than the claim that chocolate is better than sex. At least, not good sex.

Beth slides into the seat across from me and sets her oversize Gucci bag beside her, the expensive brand name a reminder that she, like most around here, comes from a family of money. In her case, real estate investors who’d rather she play with decorations than with dead bodies.

Rose stops beside us, eyeing Beth, a pot in her hand. “Coffee?”