Murder Notes, Page 2

  “Go. Get me answers this time,” he says before showing me his back.

  Grinding my teeth, I face forward and walk, pushing through the layer of personnel to find Joe, the redheaded forensic guy—which is actually what everyone calls him—leaning over the victim, his thick-rimmed glasses inching down his nose. “Hiya, Agent Love.”

  “Hi, Joe,” I say, but it’s not him that has my attention at present. It’s the dead, naked male body in the sand, water washing over his bare feet, and the chill racing down my spine, and not because I’m squeamish. Because this is exactly how we found another victim only two nights ago, and we never found the victim’s clothes. I don’t expect to now either. The absence of clothes on the body, or anywhere to be found, is assumed by most on the scene to be an effort to hide evidence. But not by me. My gut said there was more to it two days ago, and it most definitely does now as well.

  I step closer and Joe moves to the dead man’s head. “Bullet between the eyes,” he says, glancing up at me and indicating the clean hole in the center of the brows. “Look familiar?”

  “All too familiar,” I say, removing plastic gloves from my bag as I squat in the sand and inspect the remains.

  “Clean entry,” Joe adds. “Perfect precision, no mess, no fuss.”

  “Were the clothes taken off before or after the murder?”

  “Before.”

  I don’t ask his reasoning. He’ll detail it in his report.

  “And the case two days ago?”

  “Also before, and pending blood-splatter analysis and confirmation, of course, this case is a virtual clone to that one.”

  “Only that was a woman,” I say, looking for any signs of struggle he might have missed, while I struggle myself with my hair that I should have tied back in this damn wind.

  “But that doesn’t rule out a serial killer, right?” he asks, sounding a bit too excited about the prospect.

  “Serial killers and assassins are different breeds,” I say. “And we’re at two victims, which does not equate to a serial killer, at least by definition.”

  “Assassin? You think this is an assassin?”

  “Yes,” I reply simply.

  “What kind of assassin takes off the victim’s clothes?”

  “This one,” I say absently, my gaze catching on the tattoo on the man’s arm, the arm not shoved half under his body and into the sand, a foreboding knot forming in my stomach. “Can I see that ink?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “I wanted to look at that, too. It looks interesting.” He moves to the side of the man, shifting the arm, and the ease of movement says I’m right: the guy is practically still warm. “I’m thinking of getting a tattoo myself,” he says.

  “Time of death?” I ask, focusing on the case.

  “He’s fresh,” he says. “I’m estimating three a.m., maybe three thirty.” He changes the subject. “I’m thinking Superman. Do chicks dig Superman?”

  “What?” I say, looking at him.

  “I was thinking I’d get a Superman tattoo.”

  “If you’re trying to embrace your resident geek status, it works.”

  “Who says I’m the resident geek?”

  “Everyone except you, apparently. Embrace it. It works for you.”

  He glowers. “Seriously, Agent Love. Could you just—”

  “The tattoo, Joe,” I say, feeling that knot in my stomach growing.

  “Right. Tattoo. His. Not mine.”

  He flips the arm just enough that I get the full view of the tattoo, and I hear nothing else he says. I see the Virgin Mary with blood dripping out of her mouth, and suddenly I am back on another beach. My lashes lower and I’m living the exact moment I was grabbed from behind. I had twisted around and thrown an ineffective defensive move. The ineffective part, and the punishment I’d received for being that weak, is the reason that I now train just as hard in my physical combat skills as I do on constantly honing my profiling abilities. I’d gone down hard on the sandy ground with a heavy male body on top of me, big, muscular arms caging me. One of his beefy forearms had been etched with a tattoo, moving and flexing with his flesh while he assaulted me. A tattoo of the Virgin Mary, bleeding from her mouth. Praying to her or anyone else did nothing to save me.

  “Special Agent Love.”

  At the sound of my name, I snap back to the present to find Detective Oliver standing behind Joe, glowering at me, not the dead body. “Are you sleeping or getting me my answers?”

  I inhale and stand up, turning to find Assistant Director Murphy a good twenty yards away. Yanking my gloves off, I start walking in that direction, only to have Detective Oliver catch up with me. “Hold on there, sweetie.”

  Anger officially ignited, I whirl on him. “Sweetie? Well, look here, honey. Unless you want me to shove that sock you have in your pants in your mouth, back off, Detective Oliver. I get it. This is your turf and I’m just some twenty-eight-year-old kid, while you’re the seasoned vet. But I’ve been in and around law enforcement since I was in diapers, and I’m damn good at my job.”

  He arches a brow. “Are you done?”

  “No,” I say, “but you are. We’re trying to catch the same damn monster, so back the fuck off.”

  He stares at me long and hard, to the point that I move to leave. He gently shackles my arm and turns me around. “Don’t touch me,” I snap.

  He holds up his hands. “Understood.” His eyes narrow. “You want to talk about what set you off back there?”

  “Aside from you,” I lie, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He slides his hands to his hips under his jacket. “I challenge you every damn time you come onto my crime scene—”

  “Challenge? Is that what you call it?”

  “Every time you come onto my crime scene,” he repeats, “and you never let me rattle you. What got you back there? Because it wasn’t me.”

  “That’s an assassination,” I say, moving away from the topic of me. “And this is an opinion and a working theory, not a fact, but I say he takes their clothes off at the directive of a client.”

  “None of that answers my question. What set you off?”

  The sound of footsteps has us both looking up to find my boss approaching, and there is something about his full-on gray hair, which is as perfectly groomed as his tan suit is fitted, along with his carriage, that radiates authority and control. His control, not that of Detective Oliver.

  “Special Agent Love, Detective Oliver,” he greets, stopping in profile to us and glancing between our warring expressions. “Do we have a problem?”

  “You and I should talk, Director Murphy,” Detective Oliver states.

  “After I talk to my agent, who graciously got out of bed yet again to aid one of your cases.”

  “The case you took over,” Detective Oliver reminds him.

  “Oh, I did, didn’t I?” my boss replies and then says more firmly, “I did. I need to talk to my agent. Alone.”

  Detective Oliver scowls and leaves while Director Murphy looks at me. “What was all that about?”

  “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?

  Me: Because incompetence kills and the clerk helping me clearly wanted me dead, which would make solving this case difficult.

  Him: You’re creating a paperwork nightmare.

  Me: For someone else. I have to turn my phone off.

  Him: Did you alert the locals you were coming?

  Me: No.

  My phone rings. “Damn it,” I whisper, tapping the Answer button. “Agent Love,” I say.

  “Agent Pain in My Ass, at the moment. The Hamptons might be home to you, but we have procedures to follow. When do you arrive?”

  “I land in New York City at seven. I’m taking the train into the Hamptons from there.”

  “I have higher powers all over me about our dead body. Take a chopper.”

  “That’s expensive.”

  “So is bad press and a community in panic. I want you there now, not later. Get me answers. I’ll e-mail you reservations and have the locals waiting on you when you land. And I expect to hear from you tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, Director Murphy. I will call you once I make contact with the locals.”

  “That’s more like it. Have a safe flight, Agent Love.” He ends the connection.

  I shove my phone back in my backpack just in time to be handed a glass of vodka. I down it and grimace. Damn, it sucks without the tomato juice. What the hell was I thinking? “Now I’d like a Bloody Mary,” I say to the attendant.

  “Extra . . . Mary?”

  “Just a Bloody Mary,” I say, letting my head sink back against the cushion and hoping like hell a little more booze is enough to put me to sleep. I have enough to deal with when I get home. I don’t need to deal with it on the way there as well. My damn cell phone rings again. I pull it out of my bag, note Rich’s number, and turn it off. He probably just found out I’d left, and I can’t focus on his misplaced outrage right now. I grab my case file, which now has the data from the local murders inside and the assumed-to-be-connected case in New York, as well as my MacBook. I pull down the tray table and flip open the file. I’m immediately staring at the image of today’s victim, a man who shares two things in common with my attacker from years before: he’s Mexican, and he’s got the same ink on his arm. I thumb through the photos and find a shot of the tattoo, confirming that, yes, it’s the exact same image I remember: the Virgin Mary, bleeding from the mouth. And since I’ve googled and researched that image many times, I know that there is no documented gang or organizational affiliation, despite my certainty there is one.

  I move on to our first victim, a white female, also in her thirties. Also killed with a bullet between the eyes, her clothes missing when we found her. But there’s no tattoo on her body, and her career as an investment banker doesn’t exactly scream gang. A cult, maybe? Yes. No. I’m back to a solid maybe. Flipping to the next case, I’m now looking at the New York victim, a white man, fortyish, with no notes on his career. Sure enough, the body’s been stripped naked as with our local cases, and the cause of death is a bullet between the eyes. Other than the MO of the murders, these people have nothing in common, which to me reaffirms my instinct that this isn’t a serial killer. This is a hit list. I know it. I feel it.

  My drink appears beside me, and I glance up to find the flight attendant, “Texas,” I decide to call her, standing beside me, rambling on about something in a sticky-sweet voice. I really hate sticky sweet. It reminds me of the Hamptons. I nod, having no idea what I’m agreeing to, and then down my drink. And thank the Lord above, she responds by walking away.

  Certain perhaps beyond logic that the tattoo connects all these victims, I tab through the New York victim’s photos, scanning the body shots for ink that I don’t find. Either the New York officials screwed up and didn’t document the tattoo, screwed up and didn’t give me all the shots, or there simply wasn’t a tattoo. From that I surmise that either the method of murder is coincidental, or it’s not a coincidence. I grimace. Wonderful. Compliments of the vodka, I’m a rocket scientist. Texas and I might even be able to communicate now, which is not a good thing.

  Shoving the documents back into the file, I shut it and stuff it in the side of my seat, letting my head settle on the headrest behind me, my lashes lowering, as I wish I were on a jog, which is where I do my best thinking. Execution-style does not mean assassin, but every instinct and piece of training I own tells me it does. This could be a hit lis
t, and some—or maybe just one—of the victims could just happen to be a part of a gang or group that the tattoo represents. My mind goes to the tattoo on this morning’s body, and then instantly I am back on the beach, back underneath that man. I shove the bitch of a memory aside and do what I’ve learned rescues me from me: I force myself into my first gruesome crime scene memory—its horror making it more vivid than any crime scene memory prior to it—and suddenly, I’m two years in the past.

  The emergency and police vehicles tell me I’ve found my crime scene. I park at the curb just outside the apartment building’s parking lot and slide my leather bag over my head before popping the door open. I step outside my gray Ford Taurus and shut the door. It’s new and basic, because new and basic is what I’d hoped to find when I arrived here a few weeks ago. I cross the parking lot, walking toward a crowd gathering outside the yellow tape. I trip on my own feet, irritated that I’m anything less than cool and confident, but the reality is, my new department isn’t exactly welcoming me with open arms. The whole “young, female, and damn good at profiling” doesn’t work for the men in my department.

  Weaving through the crowd, I approach the line and a uniformed officer. “FBI,” I say, pulling my badge out from underneath the black sweat jacket I’m wearing over a black Garfield T-shirt that sports my favorite reply to idiots, “Whatever.”

  The gray-haired, potbellied asshole gives me a once-over. “Since when do twelve-year-old interns get badges?”

  My irritation is instant. “I have two pet peeves, Officer, and you’ve managed to hit them both,” I say, ducking under the tape to face him. “Ignorance with a mouth hole and a cop who stuffs too many doughnuts in said mouth hole and can’t touch his toes let alone do his job justice.”

  “Bitch.”

  My lips curve. “Damn, I like that name. Have a good day, Officer.” I start walking, lifting my hand and wiggling my fingers in departure.

  A man in a suit greets me, his detective badge hanging on his chest. “You’re Lilah Love,” he says.