Page 5 of Murder Notes

“Typical turf war when we take over. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I’ll handle it,” he promises and then, thankfully, moves on. “New York has a case that has enough similarities to these two here that we may be looking at a serial killer who’s crossed state lines. That makes this our baby.”

“This isn’t a serial killer,” I say, repeating what I told Detective Oliver. “It’s an assassination.”

“Or a serial killer obsessed with assassination-style murders. Profile the victims, then talk to me.”

I hesitate but can’t let this go. “You said New York?”

“That’s right. Your home state, which, aside from your profiling skills, makes you the right match for this case.”

That’s debatable, but I don’t tell him that. “I’ve seen the tattoo that’s on the arm of the victim before,” I say instead.

“Where? And in what context?”

“It wasn’t in a professional capacity, and it was many years ago. Back home in the Hamptons, actually.”

“That’s Mendez Enterprises territory,” he says. “A family and empire based in the Hamptons. Notoriously legit and yet not legit at all. Very soap opera–ish. I read up on them when you joined our team.”

A frisson of unease slides through me. “Why would you read up on them when I joined the team?”

“I like to know where my people came from and what influences them, directly or indirectly.”

I’m not sure what to make of that comment, but he doesn’t give me time to try to figure it out, already moving on. “I understand the son, Kane, took over after his father was murdered a few years back. Do you know him?”

“If you researched as you say, then you know that you simply can’t grow up in the Hamptons and not know the Mendez family,” I say, remaining as noncommittal as possible. “We all knew them. And yes, I knew him.”

“Word is he’s a smooth operator, but then, so was his father.”

“I would say that description fits,” I agree, thinking that Kane is that and much more, which I won’t elaborate on at this point.

“Always squeaky-clean when investigated, too, from what I understand. The kind of person who gets others to do the dirty work. Like perhaps the assassin you feel we’re dealing with. That, along with a tattoo that connects the body to the Hamptons, sounds like a connection to investigate.”

“I certainly think there’s a connection to the Hamptons, and we should have it checked out.”

“So go,” he says. “Check this out.”

I blanch. “What? No. With all due respect, Director Murphy, I left that place for a reason.”

“And you’re going back with a bigger one. Your job. Go pack.” He looks at his watch and then me. “It’s not even seven yet. Call the office on your way home. With luck, our team can have you in a bird by noon.” He starts walking and I stare after him, seeing nothing but an ocean of blood. I’m going back to where those nightmares started. And back to him.

CHAPTER TWO

First class to New York City, my pre-Hamptons destination, is full of two types of people: rich, pompous asses who look down on everyone in coach and people who want to get sloshed and go to sleep with leg room. I kick off my shoes and stretch out my jean-clad legs, hoping the seat next to me remains as empty as it is right now.

“Drink, Miss Love?”

I glance up at the sound of the question laced with a Texas twang to find a middle-aged, bleached-blonde flight attendant, her hair puffed and frozen with excess hairspray. “Bloody Mary, heavy on the Mary,” I say.

“Pardon me,” she says, “but what does ‘heavy on the Mary’ mean exactly?”

Is she fucking serious? “Mary,” I repeat. “Heavy on the Mary.” This earns me several mascara-laden blinks, and I grimace. “The bloody is obviously the tomato juice, which means the Mary is . . .” I hold a hand out, certain she will be amazed by my brilliance, allowing her to reply with awe, but all I get are another few blinks. “Vodka,” I say. “Just bring me vodka on the rocks. The rocks would be ice.”

She laughs nervously. “Of course. Coming right up.” She hurries away and my cell phone buzzes from the pocket of my brandless black backpack that will soon be scandalously unacceptable. I reach down and grab it, glancing at the message from Director Murphy: Why haven’t you booked a flight?

I type my reply and hope it ends the conversation: I’m on a plane about to take off.

Him: What? Why didn’t you book through the department?