Page 55 of Murder Notes

“Is Greg Harrison in by chance?” I ask, hoping my old partner can zoom right past this problem for me.

More clicking of keys. “Not at the moment.”

“Right. Of course not. I’ll try back.” I end the call and bring the car to an idle at a stoplight while punching in Greg’s cell phone number. His voice mail picks up before it even rings, and I grimace but leave a message, leaving out details I’d rather not have recorded. “Greg. It’s Lilah. I’m in town. I need everything you have on the Trey Emerson case, and I need it to be off the record. It’s urgent. Call me.”

I dial Tic Tac and get his voice mail, because apparently two-something in the morning his time is too early for him. “I need to know why Detective Marcus Rick of the NYPD is on leave. Pull whatever strings you have to pull. I need a real answer.” I end the call as the light changes, and I pass through it, making a quick turn into the train station before parking among a cluster of cars. Killing the engine, I glance at the time on the dash that reads 5:45, which can be translated to late, or more accurately, really close to screwed. I grab my purse and briefcase, sliding the straps over my head and across my chest before opening the door.

Stepping out of the car, I’ve barely straightened when a man appears in front of me. “Ms. Love,” a tall man in a tan suit says, his camera people behind him. “Can you tell us why the FBI was on the scene of Wednesday night’s murder?” He shoves a microphone at me.

“Because apparently I can’t come home and just have mac n’ cheese waiting on me. My brother makes me work for it. It was a favor.”

Another reporter appears. “Was the death a suicide?” a blonde, twentysomething woman demands, shoving yet another microphone at me. “Or murder?”

“Yes, Ms. Love,” yet another man says. “Was it murder?”

I hold up my hands. “I’m not involved and I have no comment,” I say, charging forward and forcing the crowd of at least ten, now, to part while they continue to shout my name.

I clear the pile of people and head toward the station when a black Mercedes pulls up beside me, the window down to reveal Kane. “Get in. I have the chopper fired up and waiting.”

“How are you here?” I demand.

“How are they here?” he asks, motioning behind me at the same moment that I hear, “Ms. Love,” from at least three different people and microphones are shoved at me again, my departure by train this morning pretty much dust in the wind at this point. I start double-stepping, trying to break away from the crowd but without much luck. Kane pulls his car to a halt a few feet in front of me, offering me an escape and assurance that I will get to Manhattan. He’s dangerous. He’s temptation. He’s trouble. He also knows things about my family and my past, and perhaps these murders, that I need to know.

“Ms. Love,” comes a shout from I-don’t-know-how-many people, and that’s it—I make my decision. I start running, darting forward and past the cameras, while somehow managing to loop around the front of Kane’s car, and I don’t stop until I’m inside the car and in the passenger seat.

“Buckle up, Agent Love,” he says, putting us in Drive, a satisfied look on his face.

“Have I told you your stalker tendencies are creepy?” I ask, slipping the belt into place.

He laughs, that low, deep laugh of his that I used to love and now I hate, mostly because I could easily love it again. “And here I thought I was the hero saving the day,” he says.

Flashes of that night flicker in my mind. Me naked. Me covered in blood. Him entering the house from the patio, his jacket and tie missing, blood soaking his shirt. “There are many things I’d call you, Kane,” I say. “But hero isn’t one of them.”

“And what exactly would you call me, Lilah?” he asks, pulling us out onto the main road.

“Usually the devil.”

“Well you know what they say. The devil you know is better than the one you don’t. And you do know me, Lilah. Like no one else.”

He’s right. I do. I just spent a lot of our relationship pretending I didn’t. “How is it that I’m going to Manhattan on the same day you’re going to Manhattan?”

“The first Friday of every month I hold an executive meeting in the city,” he says. “And as for how I knew you’d be going? Your next logical and necessary move was a trip to the city and the NYPD. As was taking the early-morning train.”

“I could have taken a chopper.”

“I checked. You had no reservations.”

“I could have driven.”

“You hate to drive and how would you work if you were driving?”

“And you’re going to let me work in the chopper?”

He glances over at me. “I’ll be a perfect angel.”

It’s something he used to say when he intended to be no such thing. “Kane—”

“The devil you know, Lilah.” He glances in the rearview mirror. “And we have reporters following us.”