Kane sets his phone aside and reaches for his cup.
“What if it is all connected?” I propose.
“Meaning what?” he asks, sipping from his cup.
“There was more on top of more yesterday. I got the note, your chopper went down, and then there was another murder. More keeps happening because it’s about money.”
“And me,” he says. “Where do I fit into this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, here’s a thought,” he says. “It’s all Pocher, Junior included. I would not put it past him to use some mystery note writer to play with your head.”
“Junior gave me leads to catch several killers.”
“Which may well have served Pocher in some way. Don’t underestimate his level of deviousness.”
“But why would Pocher kill you and leave me alive? That’s stupid. He’d know I’d come after him.”
“Pocher is many things, Lilah, but not stupid. He was ready for you last night. And he would have had an excuse to kill you. Self-defense.”
I digest Pocher’s possible murder scheme with a sip of coffee. “Seems legit,” I say and set my coffee down. “Which means he can’t be in the killer’s hitlist or he wouldn’t want you or me dead.”
“I didn’t know you thought he was.”
“I’m apparently obsessed enough with Pocher to see him everywhere. But in this case, if I’m dead, I can’t catch the killer. And let’s just face it. He can’t prove it but he knows we killed his brother. He’s pissed and that’s why he came at you, or rather, us.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.”
“But we both agree Pocher was behind your crash, right?”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.”
My lips press together and I want to scream. “Never assume,” I supply. “In other words, you’re telling me we have no clue what the hell is going on.”
“Not yet,” he says. “But we will.”
“We have no clue what the hell is going on,” I repeat, and then I do exactly what this situation demands.
I walk to the fridge, grab the strawberry pie, and set it between us. I hand him a fork and grab one for myself. We both take a bite of the pie. Kane laughs. “I heard you got pissed about this pie.”
“Fucking Jay. I thought he was consoling me over your death with a damn pie.” I take another bite and say, “Just to point out what seems obvious. Whoever wanted you dead, and possibly me, failed. They’ll try again. I suggest we set that date night quickly.”
CHAPTER TEN
Kane and I shower.
Together.
It takes me a while to finally get dressed, but eventually, I end up comfy in black leggings, my Converse, and a pink T-shirt, sprawled out on the floor of Purgatory. I’m busy writing out notecards, trying to piece together the murders while Kane is downstairs with a team of his men, talking through last night’s events.
Right now, I’m taking inventory of what I know. I already have cards on my wall for any number of people involved in this case, but I need to write them out again, just to get my mind processing. I find each time I go through this process I write something different about each person and that “something” is often my mind telling me to look here or look there.
My murder victims include:
Emma Wells
—Interior designer
Naomi Wells
—Career unknown, but per her landlord, comes from money, but died broke?
Rip Vaughn
—VP of a bank and an MD.
I write out a card with all three names and then one for each victim.
Emma also had a dead ex-husband. I write a card out for him.
Gibson Moore
—Accountant to the rich and famous.
—Died of a heart attack at 45.
—Note: Emma didn’t keep his last name. Why?
Emma’s fiancé also gets a card.
Morgan Rockport
—Attorney to the rich and famous
Naomi’s ex, Emma’s brother, died before they could divorce. I don’t know his name or his career, and since Naomi died in New York City and I’m not in the mood to deal with the detective Chief Houston assigned lead to on this case, I text Chief Houston directly. He replies quickly and says: Lawrence Wells. Corporate Attorney. How the hell is Kane?
I ignore his question and ask another of my own: Any chance he catered to the rich and famous?
Big corporations, he replies, and adds, you do remember I assigned Marco Rollins to this case, right?
I ignore him and write out another card:
Lawrence Wells
—Corporate Attorney
—Died of an aneurysm six months ago
I text Houston again: Tell Marco Polo I need to know what Naomi did for a living, and if the landlord was right. She had money and died broke. And why that happened. And yes, you can give him my cellphone number. Tell him to text. If he calls me right now, I swear I will call him nasty names that will offend even the most seasoned detective.
I set my phone down and grab a card and write GAME followed by one more time for the history books.