I text Andrew: Someone sent naked pictures to last night’s victim. I need her name and address.
“Women send naked photos,” Lucas points out, as I set my phone on the bar. “It means nothing.”
“Yes,” Kane says dryly, his eyes warm with mischief, “Lilah, women send naked photos to men.”
“You get the real thing, Kane Mendez. If that’s not enough, fuck you.”
He laughs while Lucas shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I think I need that drink.” He holds up a hand. “Not really. I haven’t even gotten to the point of why I risked my life by coming over here to see you.” That obvious reference to Kane is glossed over as he adds, “The Pro Bowl site lists its accomplishments. Of interest, considering Rip Vaughn had a medical license, are three medical start-ups, and one pharmaceutical company, which could arguably be medical as well. But the site has no direct connection to Rip.”
“Can you email me details on those companies you mentioned?” I ask.
“I already did,” he says. “I emailed you everything I have. And as for those companies on Woodard’s website, I didn’t dig deep into any of them. There wasn’t enough time.”
“Bottom line,” I say. “I need to talk to Neal Woodard like now, before someone else, including himself, ends up dead. Where can I find him?” I grab my bag.
“He’s got a home and office in South Hampton,” Lucas says. “But you can’t go see a billionaire investor in leggings and a pink T-shirt.”
“Sure, I can,” I say, sliding my badge over my neck. “I have pretty jewelry to show off.” I run my hand over my badge and then give him a stern look. “Go home and sleep. After you text me the address. In fact, why don’t I have someone drive you home safely?”
“I’m fine,” he insists, shutting his computer. “You have the address.” He stands and sets his coffee cup in the sink before giving me a nod and Kane a salute. “King Kane. Thank you for allowing me to visit your castle.”
Kane just looks at him.
Lucas shifts awkwardly and heads for the door.
My lips curve and I eye Kane. “I think you’re starting to like him.”
“He wants to fuck you, Lilah. I am not starting to like him.”
“He’s my cousin.”
“Step-cousin. Stop using that argument.”
I decide we’re done with the topic of Lucas. “Walk me to the car?”
He stands up and we head toward the garage, neither of us saying much.
Because the truth is, that while I’d like to think we know who tried to kill Kane last night, for some reason, in the morning light, it doesn’t seem quite as clear.
And I know Kane well enough to know that he agrees.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Men.
I swear there’s a monster in their pants with an alpha complex that controls their brains, for at least fifty percent of their lives.
I grab my coat on the way out of the door and pick Jay up at the front gate. He immediately bulldozes a path to the driver’s side of the BMW instead of the passenger side, knocking on the glass. I roll down the window. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m driving.”
“No. You’re standing in the road. I’m driving. And you need your hands free to shoot someone if they need to be shot.”
He sighs and looks me in the eyes. “Please.”
I smile. “Well, since you put it that way. I’m a better shot than you anyway.” I put the car in park and get out.
Once I’m in the passenger side, I check my messages and read out the address Lucas has given me to the GPS. Once we’re on the road, with my super-duper mighty bodyguard, who doesn’t understand he can’t protect me while driving, I dial Tic Tac.
“First,” he answers, rudely skipping the greetings, “is Kane all right?”
“He’s great.”
“And you?”
“Kane’s here. I’m perfect.”
“Then why, Lilah,” he demands in a high-pitched voice that resembles an angry duck quack, “are you giving everyone my phone number? I do not work for them. I work for you.”
“And rather than tell you what they told me, I chose to stay home and get naked with my future husband, who almost died. I’m sure you can understand.”
Jay shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I love it.
For his part, Tic Tac is silent a moment. “Okay, I could do without the get-naked part of that explanation, but I was perhaps overreacting. I’m sorry.”
“What was that? You’re what?”
“Lilah,” he growls.
I laugh and say, “I need stuff.”
“I have to say, this feels normal. And normal is good. Bring it on.”
“Neal Woodard,” I say. “He’s a big venture capital mogul and he’s been talking to Rip Vaughn off and on the past month. He was also at the charity event. I’m on my way to see him. I need to have you see if Woodard has a connection to the Banking the Billionaire game, though I understand that’s a near-impossible feat.”
“About that,” he says, “we can’t get those records. Not when the server is in Russia.”
“Tell Murphy we need to pressure Russia to get us those records.”
“You want me to tell Director Murphy? He doesn’t take orders from me.”
“Suggest, Tic Tac. Suggest. I’ll tell him if I have to. I’m also going to forward you an email from one of my sources. It has the details on the last person Rip Vaughn talked to before he died. Dig around on her. See if you see a connection to anyone in the mix before I go see her.”
“What else? Because we both know you always want more.”
“A bunch of rich people are playing Banking the Billionaire. Why? There’s more to this game. Play it. Get in there and find out firsthand.”
“I’ve got one of our techs doing that already,” he says. “More soon.”
“Is the tech good enough to do more than make your peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” I ask because Tic Tac lives on that combination.
“You know, why do you have to get personal? I bring peanut butter and jelly because I like it. What’s wrong with that? And I don’t eat it on bread. So nobody is making me a sandwich.”
“Aside from the fact that eating both out of the jar just doesn’t fit your prima donna personality, you can’t talk when you eat it, at least not in a language humans understand. The fact that you try also doesn’t fit your prima donna personality. Just make sure your ‘tech’ doesn’t miss anything and knows how to speak the language of the snobby rich.” My cellphone beeps. “Text me if you need me. Email on the way.” I hang up.
My incoming shows Andrew, and I answer with, “Morning, brother.”
“It’s three o’clock, Lilah.”