“When was that?”
“Three years ago,” he says. “That’s when Kevin managed to land a job for a Hollywood type, and the business took off from there.”
“What does Hollywood type mean?”
“Keith Miller.”
A powerful film director who worked with my mother. “Where does Keith Miller own property?”
His fingers click on the keyboard. “LA, Southampton, and New York City. But hold on.” More clicking of the keyboard before he says, “Woods has had five Hollywood-type clients in the past five years. Two with homes in the Hamptons and Los Angeles. Three with places in New York City and LA. They all have a link to both states.”
“And the locations of similar murders,” I state, any hope that Miller is my singular connection now gone. “I need—”
“A full list of everyone in the Hamptons with that crossover. You told me.”
“I actually think I e-mailed it to you.”
“All right, smart-ass. Whatever the case. It’s a big list. You need information. I need time.”
“Fine,” I concede. “What about Woods’s arrest last year sometime?”
“There’s no record of an arrest.”
“Huh. Dig deeper on that.” I move on. “I need to know if the newest victim connects to any of the previous victims.”
“No. I checked.”
“What about a connection to one of Woods’s clients? Look there and look fast. Like I said, Woods is a—”
“Jurisdiction issue. I’ll get you what I can by bedtime.”
“That works. Does Woods have living family?”
More clacking of keys before he says, “None.”
“Send me everything you can find on him. And I mean everything, no matter how insignificant. I want to know who the man’s hairdresser is.”
“I know how you work. Again. Give me until bedtime. My bedtime, Lilah. I’m still on LA time even though you’re in New York, and I have a meeting I’m headed into.”
“Find me a connection between these victims that isn’t Woods, and I swear I’ll bring you doughnuts every day of the rest of your life, even when you’re in a retirement home, forgotten by everyone but me.”
“Oh, well, now I’m motivated.” He snorts and hangs up, and I immediately begin scribbling notes.
—KEVIN WOODS: FALL GUY—MEANT TO KEEP THE FEDS OUT OF TOWN OR SOMETHING BIGGER?
—EDDIE WANTS ME OUT OF TOWN. EDDIE WANTS TO ARREST WOODS. IS HE JUNIOR?
—WHERE WAS EDDIE LAST NIGHT AND THEN TODAY WHEN NOTES WERE LEFT FOR ME?
—WHY IS KANE SO DAMN ADAMANT I DON’T ASK QUESTIONS ABOUT THAT TATTOO?
—WHY DID I LET HIM GET AWAY WITH NOT TELLING ME?
—KANE CAN’T BE THE MAN BEHIND JUNIOR, AND YET, I’M THINKING IT AGAIN, OR I WOULDN’T BE WRITING THIS DOWN.
—BUT EDDIE. EDDIE. EDDIE. AND KEVIN.
My list grows into a complicated thinking process, and I down another cup of coffee to rev me up, adding a side of greasy, perfect French fries with lots of ketchup to the mix as well. I have a cheeseburger with those fries and then order one of the diner’s famous whole strawberry pies that, despite winter’s fast approach, Rose swears is amazing and famous. Since this place really isn’t even on East Hampton’s society map, I’m not sure who it’s famous with, but hey, I did see Jack Leroy here. And since he’s all about his star shining brightly, maybe this spot is hotter now than I remember, and if Rose says the pie is famous, I believe her. A choice I make because a love for strawberries is one of the only fetishes I have that reads a bit like that of a normal person. And every once in a while, a ten-minute window in which I shovel food in my face and play that game is the difference between acceptable insanity and cutting-myself-or-someone-else insanity. Fortunately, I’ve never cut myself. Someone else? Well, yes. I have cut someone else, but that was because I didn’t have a gun to shoot the bastard. I leave the diner and decide this afternoon needs to be about planning. And food. I need groceries. First things first, though. I need to set a trap for Junior.
It’s a strategy that takes me fifteen minutes up the beachfront to an all-glass contemporary house, where I will find a long-dormant favor owed to me, one that I plan to collect on now. I park in the driveway and walk to the door, aware that like most things in this town, the lax security is a façade. I’m setting off alarms of some sort at this very minute. An assumption that’s proven true when I reach for the doorbell only to have the door fly open, and Lucas Davenport stands in the doorway, his six-foot-four frame filling the archway.
“Why don’t you return phone calls?” he demands.
“How can you still look like a preppy Tarzan?” I demand in turn, ignoring his question. “No wonder you’re still single.”
“How do you know I’m still single? You don’t return phone calls.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, my advice to you is this: grow some manly hair on your pretty-boy face and put on something other than one of about a hundred pairs of khaki pants you own.”
“You know,” he says. “I was certain I missed you until this moment.”
“Well then, see? We’ve already had a productive visit. Now you know that you didn’t, in fact, miss me.” I push past him and walk down the white tiled hallway. Everything in this place is white. The walls. The curtains. The light fixtures. He calls it elegant. I call it sterile. I turn into the kitchen where there are white counters and cabinets, walking to the white-paneled stainless steel fridge and opening it.
“You do know women are quite impressed with my khaki pants and my clean-shaven face. No razor burn. Lots of pleasure.”
I grab a bottle of water and find him on the opposite side of the bar that, much like mine, divides the kitchen from the living area. “I see you’re still not lacking in the arrogance department,” I say, walking to the counter directly in front of him.
“Arrogance?” he snorts. “I’m defending myself. You basically just told me I’m not worthy of a woman, and since the one time I tried anything with you, you put an elbow in my gut, I’m not beyond believing you mean it.”
“I’m pretty sure that was Kane who put the elbow in your gut.”
“He wasn’t there. I’m not that stupid.”
“He has eyes everywhere. He was there and I did what he would have.”
“Are you telling me I had a chance otherwise?”
“No. My God, we’re cousins.”
“Your father is my father’s stepbrother, Lilah. We are not cousins.”
“We are. And I need something, cuz.”
“You always need something, cuz.”
“You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”
“Then maybe you should take that to mean you’re demanding as hell.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Unless a woman is naked at the time, most men don’t like demanding.”
“I don’t remember ever trying to impress a man in my life, so I’m not getting the point. I need something. Someone vandalized my outdoor furniture. I need to get cameras up before I leave, and the security company is going to take forever.”
“I’m an investment banker, Lilah, not a security expert.”
“Who has a secret addiction to hacking.”
He scowls. “Lilah,” he warns.
“I won’t remind you if you don’t make me remind you. You owe me and I need this. And I know you know how to help me.”
“By taping your mouth shut?”
“Ha ha. You’re funny.”
He scowls. “I’ll come over and install it.”
“Thank you, but no. I really don’t want—”
“Kane to know.”
I was thinking more of Junior, but his assumption works just fine. “Can you write it all down for me? And I need something that won’t be obvious. I want to catch whoever did this, not scare them away.”
“What’s wrong with scaring them away?” He holds up a hand. “Never mind. I’ll
show you.” He rounds the bar and joins me in the kitchen, pointing to the garage door, and walking in that direction. I follow him inside where he leads me to a wall of built-in cabinets and opens one of them. It’s not long before he has a variety of gear on a long table to show me.
“For an investment banker, you sure know your cameras,” I comment. “The big ones can stay here. I need something discreet.”
“The big ones should go inside the house,” he says. “That way, if anyone makes it inside the property, you’ll be sure and get them on film. The more discreet equipment can go outside, and no one will know they’re being filmed.” He lifts a round device the size of a watch. “I’d suggest you put it on an artificial hanging plant.” He gives me a knowing look. “We both know you kill anything that requires attention, and based on your comments thus far, you won’t be here long enough to pretend to prove me wrong.”
It hits me, then, that he knows me a little better than I give him credit for, which is exactly why I say, “You clearly don’t know me at all. I had a goldfish for ten years.”
“Do goldfish even live ten years?”
“Yes,” I say. “How do I see the footage the camera films?”
He hands me a small silver box. “This will allow you to view the feed from your computer. Call me when you’re ready and I’ll walk you through setting it up.”
“Perfect. Do you have a bag I can put these things in?”
He reaches under the table and produces a couple of brown cloth grocery bags and helps me fill them. We’re both still facing the table when he says, “I know why you left.”
I freeze in place and for once, nothing snarky comes to my mind. “What?”
“It gets easier to be here,” he says. “I promise. You know I know.”
And now I know what he’s talking about. Because I wasn’t the only one who lost something the night of my mother’s plane crash. For some reason unknown to all of us, his father was with my mother. He thinks that’s why I left. Everyone does, and I need them all to keep on thinking that. I grab the bags and settle them on my shoulders, before turning to face him. “I don’t want it to get easier.”
“Cuz—”
“I need to go. I’m having dinner with my father tonight. I’ll call you when I’m setting up the equipment.” I start walking.
“Damn it, cuz! You didn’t even tell me why you’re in town. When you’re leaving. When—”
A thought hits me and I stop abruptly, turning around to face him. “Is there anything I need to know about my family before dinner tonight?”
“What does that even mean?”
“Anything you think I should know?”
“I don’t, but I’ve been out of the loop. I’m back and forth between here and Manhattan. I don’t look for gossip and therefore, I don’t find it.”
“Right. I like that about you.” I turn and start walking again.
“And yet I’m an arrogant ass,” he calls out.
I pause at the door leading to the kitchen and glance over my shoulder. “Just arrogant. Not an ass.”
I exit the house and keep walking. Like the day I left this town. And like the day I’ll do it again.
I stop at the local IGA grocery store on the way home, despite the fact that they offer delivery and I really hate shopping. But letting strangers into my private space right now seems like a fairly stupid invitation to make, though if they brought pizza . . . I might be willing to wear that badge of shame. I make the stop fast, stocking up on the essentials: several varieties of chocolate, several containers of strawberries, coffee, diet Sprite, and toilet paper. And Cheetos. I almost forgot the Cheetos. Armed with everything I need to trap myself in Purgatory when the time is right, I exit the store and half expect to have a note waiting on me outside, and while my windshield is dirty, it’s bare.
Returning home, paranoia wins and I do a sweep of the house, ensuring I’m as alone as I intend. Once I’m certain I am, I unload the vehicle, stock my groceries, and tuck my pie away in the fridge, with one intention: solace for the soul after my family dinner. I’m going to binge on that damn pie. It’s now three o’clock and time is getting away from me. Especially since I assume dinner will be at seven, as is my father’s customary mealtime, and I fully intend to arrive early and confront him. I mean, chat with him. And since technology and I get along but don’t consider ourselves friendly, I start unpacking the security equipment I’ve set on the counter.
Almost two hours later, I’ve driven Lucas as crazy as he has me, but I have cameras and they’re live. Or so we hope. I head upstairs to Purgatory, set up my computer, and with Lucas on the phone, a tub of strawberries on the desk next to me, I dial in to the cameras. “Bingo,” I say as I bring the back patio into view.
“Check all views,” he orders.
I shove a huge bite of a strawberry into my mouth and punch a few more keys. “We’re good. All views are live.”
“Are you eating in my ear?” he asks incredulously.
“How do you even know that? It’s a strawberry. It doesn’t crunch.”
“I have a date. I’m hanging up.” And that’s exactly what he does.
I sigh and reach for my diet Sprite when my phone buzzes with a text from Andrew. Dinner at seven. Don’t make me come and get you. Confirm or I’ll come and get you anyway.
I reply with: Yes, asshole. I’ll be there.
His reply: Love you, too, Lilah.
I roll my eyes and am shoving another strawberry into my mouth when my phone buzzes again. “Oh great,” I murmur when Tic Tac’s number shows up. “Hello,” I manage, trying to chew as fast as I can.
“Are you eating?” he demands.
“Yes. Hold on.” Damn it. I manage to swallow without choking. “All right. Go. Talk to me.”
“I won’t ask.”
“I didn’t want to miss your call,” I snap. “Go. Talk.”
“I can’t find any proof Woods was dating your new victim. At all. Nothing.”
“Did you look at banks? Schools? Churches?”
“Give me some damn credit,” he snaps. “There’s nothing that connects last night’s victim and Woods, at least, not electronically.”
I change directions. “That director that brought Woods into this circle.”
“I’m looking into ways he connects dots. I’m cross-checking Woods’s client lists. I’m on this.”
“Got it. What else?”
In any other case, I’d tell him to include local law enforcement in his checks, but considering they are my family, I move the fuck on. “I have a meeting tonight. Text me if you get anything, and I’ll call you back when I can.” And because I’m really damn tired of being hung up on, I end the call before he can, setting my phone on the desk.
I punch a few keys on my MacBook, scanning the camera feed, wishing like hell I’d been smart enough to have had this in place before now because there simply is no guarantee Junior will show back up here. He, or she, could stick to public places or just go away altogether. It’s then that a thought hits me and I straighten. Kane has cameras all over his properties. I grab my phone to dial Jeff again, fully intending to have him hack Kane’s corporate security system, but stop myself. Junior knows my secret. I can’t risk exposing that to the FBI. I also can’t risk leaving Junior as an unknown, and there is no guarantee that he’ll return here. I consider my options and I have only one.
I dial Kane and I’m not even a little surprised when he picks up on the first ring. Nor am I surprised that his “Agent Love,” hints at a gloat, as if my call is a victory.
“I’m going to need the security footage from your house and your corporate office for the past twenty-four hours.”
“Samantha didn’t back up my alibi,” he concludes.
“No, she did not, and as long as you’re a suspect, my role here is compromised.”
“I thought you wanted to leave.”
“I prefer to do things on my terms, not everyone else’s.”
He gives a low chuckle. “Indeed. Though I did find you to be amenable after some convincing. What happens when your brother sees the footage?”
“I told you. I’ll deal with my brother.”
“How do you know Samantha came here to my home?”
Because everything is on his terms and on his territory. “Did she?”
“Yes, which leads to the question, why ask for the office footage?”
“I believe in covering all bases. Now can I—”
“Yes, Agent Love. You can. I won’t have the office footage until tomorrow. I can bring you a partial disc tonight.”
“No. I have someplace to be. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
I hang up before he can. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have my first look at Junior in some way, shape, or form. The problem is, so will Kane. Because there is no way he’s going to hand me that footage and not know exactly what’s on it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I intend to be early to dinner, but good ol’ Tic Tac is on the ball and sends me a computer-generated list of hundreds of people that have connections in LA, New York, and East Hampton Village to look over while he’s cross-checking Woods and his client list. And since I learned a long time ago that people can surprise you, I never wipe anyone, no matter how seemingly innocent, off a list of possibilities. Instead, I start highlighting names of people I know and researching those I do not. Looking for anyone who strikes some kind of nerve. I intend for it to be a fast process, but it turns out that’s just not possible, and I lose track of time. When I finally check the clock, I curse when I realize it’s nearly seven. Grabbing my purse, I make a fast track to the closet to pull on my Chanel trench coat and head for the door.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to my old family home and punch in a code at the gate. Entering the grounds, I drive a path hugged by bushes on one side and low-lying trees on the other. It’s not a short path, but soon I bring the sprawling white mansion into view, its giant porch running the length of a place where memories were born for me. It was there that I read with my mother as a child. There that I fought with her as a teen. There that I kissed my first boy, thinking my father wouldn’t know, only to end up grounded for eternity, it had seemed. But I’d still kissed that boy again.