Fifteen minutes later, I bring the police and emergency crews into view. Some might think they’d be freaking out right about now because they don’t get much action around these parts. They’d be wrong. Money feeds greed. Greed feeds murder. These are the lands where people love Gucci and Chanel but secretly hate each other. The only difference between me and the rest of these dweebs is that I don’t secretly hate people. I’m upfront about it. You can assume I hate you, too.
The house comes into view, a white beachfront two-story number that faces the beach with a winding porch that in some cities would be impressive. In the Hamptons, it’s a five-million-dollar starter house much like the one I’d inherited from my mother. This would be what we call young money. Or in my mother’s case, a second home, a weekend retreat away from her primary residence. Her place to escape from my fucked-up, control-freak father. More and more though, I wonder if their situation wasn’t far more complicated. My mother knew more about my power-hungry, money-grubbing father than any of the rest of us ever did. At least back then. And that knowledge might have been what got her killed.
With that thought, it’s all I can do to park on the side of the street behind Andrew, rather than turn around and head on over to see my father. But Andrew and Jay and all those assholes are right. I’m trying not to go to jail tonight. I’m not going to jail for killing monsters that need to be dead. I’m smarter than that. And what the hell does this murder have to do with me and Kane, if anything?
I retrieve my badge from my pocket and slide it around my neck. I need it easy to grab and shove at people. If done without words, it tends to avoid conversation. Avoiding conversation is good, especially tonight. I exit the Mercedes with a brisk wind off the nearby ocean, shivering and thanking the good Lord that I’m still in my dress slacks and a long sleeve blouse under my coat.
I meet Andrew at the front of the car. We don’t speak. I approve. We start walking, falling into step together. We make it all the way to the yellow tape around the property when Officer North appears in our line of sight, heading in our direction. I’m instantly sour at the sight of him, a man who worked for my father’s security detail for six months and then transferred to work for my brother. He’s dirty. I know he’s dirty, but then, that’s why I don’t walk away from him.
He steps in front of us and greets my brother. “Chief.” His attention shifts to me. “Special Agent Love.” His eyes bore into mine.
“Someone thinks eye contact is dominance,” I observe. “Do you know what they say about men who try too hard, North?”
Andrew elbows the fuck out of me and says, “What do we have, Officer North?”
North’s teeth grit and I know he wants to know what I was going to say, but like a good little boy, he focuses on my brother. “The victim is Rip Vaughn.” He glances at me. “Yes, ‘Rip,’ Agent Love. It’s not a nickname and I don’t pretend to understand his parents’ decision-making skills, but they are billionaires, so they must know something about what’s what.”
“Predictably responding to my potential snark,” I say. “We’re back to an overactive need to show dominance. And since Andrew doesn’t want to know what they say about those people, people like you, why don’t you tell us more about Rip?”
North scowls and seems to bite back a rebuttal before he says, “Forty-two. Vice president of Star Bank for the past two years.”
“And he was getting married to who?” I ask.
“He’s in a tuxedo,” he replies dryly. “Men wear tuxedos for things that do not involve a ball and chain. Dude just went through a nasty divorce. And in this case, the tuxedo was to attend a fundraiser. I’m working on the details.”
“I was told he was a groom,” I say, glancing at my brother. “Why?”
“Dispatch relayed information,” he replies, eyeing North. “Find out why Mary in dispatch told me he was a groom.”
“Who called in the murder?” I ask.
“Anonymous,” North comments. “I’ll find out the content of the call.”
I move on. “Where’s the body?”
“In the bedroom.”
“Is the ME here yet?”
“Forensics is on the scene,” he replies. “The ME is not, but it’s just like the previous case. The neck appears lacerated from the inside out.”
I’m not surprised at this news.
I start to step around him, but hesitate, smirk, and say, “Officer North, they say men with control issues have the same defect as men with small hands. If you don’t know what that means, meet my friend Google.”