Page 83 of Murder Notes

Because he didn’t, I think, but I keep my mouth shut and climb into the chopper, with Andrew on my heels, claiming the seat next to me. I’ve just buckled in when Rich steps on board. “What are you doing, Rich?”

“I volunteered my services.”

“You’re a tech guy.”

“And a damn good detective.”

He sits down and buckles up directly across from me. I toss the headset I was about to put on and rest my head on the seat, shutting my eyes.

I’m officially in man-hell, and the one across from me is trying to get killed.

CHAPTER THIRTY

We land in New York without a word between the three of us. Exiting the chopper, I head toward the car waiting on us, just past the runway, and Rich chases me down. “Lilah—”

“Working, Rich,” I say, as he steps to my side. “This is not the place for personal shit-kicking.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t be on this case.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t be here.”

My phone buzzes with a message, and I don’t even think about looking at it while he’s hovering. We reach the vehicle and he opens the back door for me. I walk to the front passenger side instead and climb inside, a local police officer in the driver’s seat, I give a barely there nod. Andrew and Rich end up in the back and cuddling for all I care. I glance at my phone and read the text from Kane: I would never leave a calling card. Not that he would never do this. But that he’d never get caught. Which I believe.

For the next forty-five minutes that it takes to make it to the crime scene, I process the implications of that message. Who would set Kane up? The answer goes back to Pocher and Romano. But would a Romano kill a Romano to pull that off? Maybe, but most likely Pocher is trying to damage Kane and ensure Romano is loyal. Or I’m completely chasing the wrong people.

I’m in deep thought when we pull up to the apartment building that is our destination, police vehicles and fire trucks congesting the street. I exit the car and freeze with realization. The tattoo parlor where I met the old man is one block down. There is no such thing as a coincidence, and this is not one.

“Lilah-fucking-Love.” I glance to my left to find Mitch Gibson, a graying forty-year veteran who’s still one of the best damn detectives in the city, walking my way. “Spreading the love everywhere she goes.”

“Right,” I say, and because he expects it and because it feels right, I add, “Fuck you, Mitch.”

“Same ol’ Lilah,” he chuckles.

Andrew and Rich step to my sides, and I introduce them. “I’d prefer to stick to two of you up there. The scene is pretty messy.”

“I’ll hang back,” Rich offers, which is what he should have said back in the Hamptons.

“What’s your take on the case?” I ask Mitch.

“I’ve met Kane Mendez on four occasions and all for business or charity events. No way that man left a calling card like this one. But that’s my opinion.”

“Isn’t this the Mendez signature kill?” Andrew says, clearly not happy with the direction this is going.

“Maybe in Mexico,” he says. “Not here, but hey. I suppose if someone really pissed him off, maybe he wanted to send a strong message. There’s a first.” He motions to the door. “Go on up.”

Andrew and I enter the building, and we’re handed booties and gloves before being directed to the sixth floor. We start the climb. “I suppose you think that means someone set him up,” Andrew says, falling into step with me.

“I didn’t say a word.”

Several cops appear in our path, sparing me his further comment, and by the time they pass, we’ve reached our destination, where we are greeted by an officer who clears us for entry. “Showtime,” I say, slipping my purse and briefcase straps across my chest and then putting on my booties, while Andrew does the same.

“You know why I wanted you to see this, right?” Andrew asks, pulling on his gloves.

“You want to tear down Kane,” I say, slipping on my gloves as well, “and prove that he’s brutal and scary while providing an alternative with Rich because I’m a girl and always need a man. I get it. And for the record, I know Eddie helped you come up with the Rich idea.” I reach for the doorknob, and knowing that he’s a Hamptons police chief with a rather sheltered service, I add, “Good thing we missed breakfast.” I enter the apartment, and an officer directs me through an archway. Andrew joins me and we enter the next room where the bloody nightmare has unfolded. There are two bodies, not one, a man and a woman, both tied to chairs and facing the TV, but, of course, their heads are sitting in their laps, and there are puddles of blood around the chairs.

“Son of a—” Andrew begins before he turns away and someone shoves a bag at him, where he proceeds to heave up what sounds like his lungs and someone else’s. Brutal indeed.

I motion to a cop who’s busy bagging evidence. “Has the medical examiner been here?”