Page 9 of Murder Notes

“Nothing,” I say, and it’s the truth, at least as I know it in relation to this case and my job. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Do that,” he orders. “And watch your back.” He ends the call.

I refocus on the rental car agent before I turn and exit the line to find Shirley waiting on me. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a dead body?”

“I tried.”

“Try harder next time. What’s the address?”

“Montauk,” he says.

“I need an address.”

He grabs his phone from his pocket and recites the street and zip code.

“Who owns the property and who lives at the property?” I ask, knowing that area to be laden with seasonal rentals.

“I don’t know.”

“Find out,” I say, motioning to his phone. “Put my number in your address book and text me when you know.” He does as ordered and I hold up my rental key. “I’ll meet you at the crime scene.”

I turn away and start walking, keeping my head low to avoid chance encounters that too easily happen in an airport catering to rich fucks coming in and out of the city. Right now, I need to think. Who knew I was coming? How do they connect to that tattoo and those murders? Am I in danger? My answer is a resounding yes. I exit into the glow of streetlights and a starless, moonless night, finding my way to the parking lot where I locate my basic white rental, and that yes I’ve just given myself is still in my mind.

Exactly why I waste no time dropping my bag in the trunk and unzipping it. I then remove my shoulder holster and slip it on over my simple black T-shirt that matches my simple black jeans I’ve paired with my Converses. I then insert my service weapon, a Glock 23, standard FBI issue, otherwise known as my best friend in this world, into the appropriate location, a message in my actions. Whoever might be watching me, or even coming for me, needs to know that I have a buddy on board who knows how to blow holes in nasty people.

I’ve just settled inside the car when my phone buzzes with a text from Shirley: The property is rented by a Cynthia Wright. It’s owned by Kane Mendez.

The devil—or prince—of the Hamptons depending on who you’re talking to. And since it’s me, he’s the devil.

I pull the rental out of the airport and onto the highway, driving toward Montauk, a popular beach escape for tourists and a residence to many locals. I’m on the road all of five minutes before Shirley’s squad car appears in my rearview mirror. I tune him out, focusing on the turn of events before me, namely just how accurate Director Murphy’s conclusions were: this murder I’m about to investigate is either a “Welcome home” gift for me or at the very least a reaction to my visit. But what Murphy doesn’t know is that I told no one I was coming. The only alerts about my arrival were given by him and most likely by way of law enforcement. I steer myself away from the obvious assumption that one of our own is dirty. I didn’t announce my expected arrival for a reason: I’m an old-school local, the daughter of what some might call royalty in these parts. One word about my visit will travel like wildfire and reach a wide horizon and do so quickly, an idea that gives my brain plenty of fodder, beyond the murders, to play with for the rest of the drive.

Thirty minutes later, my drive has been filled with a dozen memories I could do without, all of which remind me why I don’t do the holidays in the Hamptons. Exactly why I welcome arriving at the crime scene, a white, wood-paneled cottage on a strip of beach with another half a dozen homes sprinkled over a several-mile radius, all with the rear side facing the water. I park at the first open spot behind a row of marked and unmarked vehicles. By the time I’m at my trunk, sliding my crime scene bag across my chest to rest at my hip and my badge over my head, Shirley pulls in behind me. Irritated at his presence, despite the fact that I told him to meet me here, I shut the trunk and ignore him for one reason and one reason only: I know the chief well enough to bet my entire inheritance now rotting in the bank that Shirley is my babysitter. In other words, the chief has ensured the poor guy gets a good, firm spanking he probably won’t deserve. But I’m still going to give it to him to get him the hell off my ass.

I hike toward the yellow tape, where Ned, one of the longtime local uniforms, is standing guard, still looking tall and fit despite his graying hair. “Lilah Love,” he greets me. “How you doing, little girl?”

“I’m not so little anymore, Ned,” I say, ducking under the tape.

“I’ve known you since you were in diapers. You’re always a little girl to me, which is why I hate seeing ya here today, wading into the thick of a murder. But then, I guess it’s in your blood, with your family history and all.”

“Right,” I say, the words in your blood grinding through me for about ten reasons he wouldn’t understand, and my lips tighten around my agreement of, “Yes. I suppose it is. I better get inside.” I offer him my back and begin traveling a path up a sidewalk with one thing certain in my mind. Had I stayed here, I’d never have survived the “murder” that’s in my blood.

I reach the porch and show my ID to a uniformed man I don’t know. A novelty in this town three years ago that I hope isn’t a novelty at all now. Tourism has increased the population of the towns and hamlets known as the Hamptons, and perhaps I’m more a pebble in a pond than a rock on the shoreline now. One can only hope.

Climbing the steps, I walk into the house, pausing in the doorway to catalogue what I find. It’s a large, open-plan living space with a half dozen men in various modes of attire, attending to investigative work. There are no signs of a struggle. No random smears or puddles of blood to wade through. There is, however, a naked female body lying on top of a coffee table, the centerpiece of the white tiled floor and brown leather furnishings.

I walk that direction, wasting no time stepping to the table beside the body. Beth Smith, the medical examiner, one of many who work from the Hempstead main office, is kneeling next to both, her blonde hair pulled back from her face. But it’s not her I’m focused on. It’s on both the bullet hole between the victim’s eyes and her red hair and freckles, which now divides our four victims in several distinct ways: two males and two females. One is Mexican and three are white. “Are there any tattoos on the body?” I ask, removing a pair of gloves from the bag at my hip and pulling them on.

Beth glances up at me, her stare blank a moment, her attention clearly still on the crime scene, until recognition and awareness flood her face. “Lilah Love,” she says, her lips curving. “FBI agent by day. Stripper by night.”

I laugh at her use of my familiar, combative reply to those who love to taunt me as I squat down to her eye level. “Beth Smith,” I say. “Newly crowned medical examiner by day, and—”

“Alone by night,” she supplies. “Playing with dead bodies isn’t a great way to get dates. And in answer to your question: no tattoos—at least, none that I’ve located thus far.” She narrows her eyes on me. “Why are you in on this one? What don’t I know?”

“I’ll let you know when I know,” I say, reminded of Director Murphy pushing me to take that chopper and get here sooner rather than later, which leads me to a critical question. “What’s the time of death?”

“I’m officially marking it down as six o’clock, which is three hours ago.”

“Broad daylight,” I note. “Any signs of a struggle?”