CHAPTER THREE
The games idiots play, I swear.
I’m not sure our killer had anything to do with Kane’s chopper going down, but then again, around these parts, everything has something to do with Pocher. All of this could be one big circle.
Determined to find whatever it is that someone doesn’t want me to find, I force myself to set aside my fears over Kane’s safety. With a deep breath, I ground myself in my Otherland, that place where only the crime scene exists, reach into my bag, and glove up. Once I’m on the porch, I slip booties over my boots and then slide out of my coat, which can be cumbersome while I work, and hand it off to Andrew as he joins me. He curses. I love when I make Captain America curse.
Heading on inside, nothing is unexpected. There are shiny floors and dangling shiny lights above, as well as a modern glass-framed staircase—very young money comes to the Hamptons. I flash my badge at a police officer who points me up the stairs. I head up and take two cuts, one right and one left before I’m on the top level. The double doors tell me I’ve found the king of the castle’s bedtime bungalow. I step inside a room with a California king bed and leather headboard that sets the tone for the rest of the room. A room that screams a man lives here, and there’s no female in his life to offset his dominance.
There’s an officer at the door. “Anyone inside?”
“Not yet. ME wants the room clear for her.”
I flash my badge. “Keep it clear for me, except the chief and I guess North can come in.”
He nods and steps aside.
I claim his spot in the doorway, I pause there, taking in the scene. The victim is to my left in front of a corner bar, on his back, his glass of whiskey lying on the floor, the amber liquid blending with the hardwood floor. I reach into my bag, grab my camera and start shooting photos. First impressions matter. They’re meant to be savored, but time is critical when solving a crime. Therefore, I try to preserve every moment I can to experience again later, on my timeline, not that of CSI’s processing or the speed the crime scene demands.
I do a flash review of the room.
The nightstand is clean and neat. The bed is made. Everything is tidy, indicating the victim wasn’t hanging out here and getting comfortable before he died and there was no struggle. If there was a visitor, the visitor left no obvious indication they were here. It’s not been clear in any of the past two murders if anyone was present at the homes of the victims. I make a mental note to follow up on camera footage that might shed light on that question in any of these murders.
Closing the space between me and the victim, I shoot a few photos, and then a few extra, facing the body, near his feet. His throat is cut from the inside out, the same as the last two victims, which seems to indicate, he too, ingested the murder weapon. And as expected, he is, in fact, in a tuxedo, but his tie is loose as if he’s ripped it free, exhausted from whatever niceties his event demanded. Or perhaps as he was choking to death on what we now believe is some sort of expanding blade, ingested by way of drugs or food.
He’s tall, with dark hair and good looks, very John Kennedy, Jr. The kind of man women want and men want to become. Well, until he’s murdered. I squat down beside him and examine the blood on his neck. I shoot photos of the wound. Based on rigor, he’s probably still warm. Someone wanted us to find him quickly. If he drank the weapon that killed him or swallowed it in a pill, an Advil, or whatever it might be, then someone had to know when it happened to call it in. So maybe he did have a visitor. Unless there are cameras in the house that were hacked. A kinky bedroom camera, maybe?
I dig for his phone and find it in his inside jacket pocket. I hold it to his face, unlock it, and scan his text messages. Sure enough, there’s a message to Rip that reads: One more for the history books.
Interestingly enough, Rip replies with; We’ve had this conversation. No.
The next message reads: That’s what I thought you’d say —J
J.
The killer leaves his signature. He wants it to be known he did this.
I scan the rest of the messages. There are a few exchanges with a woman that includes a photo of her breasts, and a view between her legs with a question: Want some?
And yikes. He replied with one word: No.
Jesus her breasts aren’t that bad.
She replied with: Bastard.
His answer is: Once was enough.
All right then, I think. There will be a list of women on the suspect list, that’s for sure. Except he wasn’t killed by one of those women. It was a man, someone angry with him. Someone he treated like a little bitch, unworthy of this time.
“And that makes three,” Andrew states, stepping over the top of me. “Sounds like a serial killer to me.”
“I’d be careful how I define this particular killer,” I warn, standing up.
“He’s killed three people,” Andrew argues. “Two makes a serial killer.”
“Which is ridiculous,” I say, without explaining all the ways that statement doesn’t work, regardless of what the books technically state. “That’s a narrow view with a reach that is too wide,” I say instead. “These are revenge killings. Find out what these people did and to who, and you’ll have your killer.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I read the crime scenes. They were playing a game together that I’d venture to guess led to sex, money, and volatile relationships. Someone got pushed out. And then that led to murder. Revenge murder. Why was I told he was a groom?”
“I talked to Mary in dispatch. The male caller said, quote ‘He’s dead. He’s still in his tuxedo. I told him not to say yes. Now he’ll never get married,’ and then he gave the address and hung up.”
“Was Rip at a wedding tonight?”
“A charity event for a children’s cancer society.”
I tuck away that information for later use. “I assume the call is untraceable?”
“Made from a public phone in a bar,” he says. “I have officers chasing that lead.” He lowers his voice. “Kane’s chopper going down is on the news, Lilah.”
There is a sharp pain in my belly. “And what does the news say about it?”
“That a search and rescue mission is underway. The killer didn’t call in the past murders. He was anxious this time. He wanted you here. You know it. I know it.”
I don’t think he’s wrong. I just don’t think it’s for the reason he might think. I’m not personal to the killer. I am, instead, an agent who just found out her mentor is a serial killer, who’s engaged to marry the notorious Kane Mendez, and who is now afraid he’s dead. I’m not focused enough to see the real answers in front of my face. Or so the killer thinks.
“Lilah,” Andrew says, snapping my attention back to him and lowering his voice. “If you know something about what’s going on that I don’t, speak up now. What kind of fucked up game are we playing? And what does it have to do with Kane’s chopper going down?”
“It doesn’t,” I say. “The killer is opportunistic. He wanted me to read the scene while under duress. We need to stay focused. Connect the dots, Andrew. Find the revenge circle because there is a revenge circle.”