“A Detective Moser from the NYPD was just here with an NYC FBI agent named Smart.”
“Really?” I ask, aware that this is the power play Murphy expected. “How’d that go for you?”
“I told you to get your ass here and close this case. They’re on their way to Kane’s office to talk to him.”
That earns my laughter. “Really? They think that’s going to work for them, do they?”
“What part of this are you not getting? They’re going to claim jurisdiction based on him, and we’re all fucked. There’s no telling where this will lead and what kind of press will follow.”
He’s pissed and obviously distressed, which means that either the FBI in NYC isn’t in bed with Pocher and helping my father, or my brother just doesn’t know, and therefore isn’t as dirty as I’d feared. “There’s no evidence against Kane,” I assure him. “None. And showing up at his office is going to make them an enemy they can’t beat.”
“You really think they can’t beat him?” he demands, his tone incredulous.
“You really think they haven’t tried before now? Relax. The only one you have to battle for jurisdiction is me. Just stay away from the flame. Let them burn themselves. Did you get that information over to Murphy?”
“I got it to him, and we both know how that looks. We need to have a sit-down. Where the hell are you?”
“The medical examiner’s office in Long Island.”
“Why the hell are you there?”
“Murphy wants me to make my case, just like you have to make yours.”
“I could say about ten things about your case and what you’re doing right now, but I won’t. Just get your ass back here.”
“Okay,” I say before ending the call, and my agreement stems from one place: I do plan to get my ass back there. When I’m ready.
Right now, though, I’m working on my communication skills. I dial Murphy. “Agent Love,” he greets, because he’s really the only person who doesn’t greet me as Agent-fucking-Love.
“The NYC FBI is headed to Kane’s office to question him.”
“And?”
“And . . . I’m just doing that communication thing you seem to love.”
“And you want to do what in response?”
“Depends. What’s your position on Woods’s guilt?”
“There is no proof that Woods is guilty, and before you ask, I’ve stated our intent to claim jurisdiction to my counterpart in NYC. He requested that we hold, and I moved my request to a higher level that’s waiting on approval. That said, how likely is it Kane goes down tonight or connects himself to the murders?”
“Zero.”
“All right. You’re confident. I’ll run with that. How will Kane respond to an FBI probe?”
“A probe done professionally is one thing. He won’t be humiliated at his office and do nothing.”
“That’s what they’re counting on. That he lashes out or makes a move they can use to burn him.”
“The man has a degree from Yale and graduated top of his class. He’s not stupid. He’ll defend his reputation, but he won’t give them leverage against him, which means he won’t be their excuse for pushing us out.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’d bet your firstborn,” I say.
“My firstborn?”
“People like me don’t have kids. When can I expect an answer on jurisdiction?”
“Tomorrow, if you’re right on Kane.”
“I am.”
“You better be.”
He hangs up, and I don’t even consider calling Kane. He can handle himself, and besides: a surprised Kane is a pissed Kane. I have a crazy kind of kinky attraction to the pissed-off Kane that always does me right when it does everyone else wrong. Sometimes I think that’s a problem. This isn’t one of those times. This isn’t going to work out badly for me. It will for them. And that means we get to catch a real killer, not blame an innocent dead man.
With that certainty and my field bag on my shoulder, I exit the car and head toward the medical examiner’s building. Once I’m inside the lobby, I announce myself to the receptionist. She buzzes Beth, and it’s two minutes at the most before Beth appears in the lobby, her black pantsuit accented with a hot-pink silk blouse. Her blonde hair tied at her nape.
“There’s a coffee shop on the second level,” she greets as we move to the rear of the lobby.
“Actually,” I say, “I need a place to join a conference call that’s private.” I don’t try to be apologetic. It’s just not my thing. And it’s not necessary anyway. Shit happens in this job.
“Oh,” she says, giving me a curious look. “Yes. Sure. You can use my office.” She motions me forward and we enter a hallway. “Anything you can talk about?”
“To summarize: a demanding boss, a crazy ex who isn’t Kane, a killer I haven’t caught, and this call is a prelude to me having to skip our coffee.”
“God, no wonder I like you. You just replayed my life. No. I need a life.”
“Would you settle for old times? Weekend yoga with pizza as a reward for surviving.”
“In other words, I do yoga and you watch and eat pizza?”
“Right. Like old times.”
She laughs and stops at an office door. “Call me for the yoga-pizza party,” she says. “I have an autopsy I was waiting to start until you left.” She unlocks the door and gives me a knowing look, like she knows this is all a setup. “You can let yourself out.”
“Thank you, Beth.”
“Catch that killer,” she says. “Because we both know Woods isn’t the one.” She turns and starts walking away.
I enter her office for show and shut the door, leaning against its wooden surface, to take in the mahogany desk and the corner table. There is a picture on the wall of the building I’m in. It’s a sterile environment that infers she’s emotionally detached. The office of a woman who spends more time with the dead than the living. I wonder if that detachment is innate or learned. One certainly could reason that it’s a necessary skill for people like her and me. A skill Beth and I share with the assassin. A skill Kane shares with us and the assassin.
But Kane aside because, well, Kane is fucking Kane, and I’ve already considered him and marked him off the list. I’m back to Beth, and I don’t like where I’m l
eading myself right now, which is to add a suspect to my list, one I don’t want to add. But I have no choice. She lives and works near here, yet she was in the Hamptons the night of the murder. She was one of the first people at the crime scene.
Okay. This is insanity. It’s not Beth. She is not an assassin. She is not Junior. She did not hire an assassin. This is one of those times when my mind takes me one place to go another. It has to be.
This craziness has to wait, at least momentarily, while I focus on the real reason I’m here: Laney’s brother. I pull out my phone and arrange not one but three strategically placed Uber pickups. Only then do I return to Laney and where my thought process about her guides me. I call Tic Tac.
“Lilah,” he greets me, his voice a tight ball of awkwardness and anger.
“Okay,” I say. “Clearly you have your panties in a wad. Un-wad them now. We got bitch-slapped by Murphy. It’s done, and I have a killer to catch before I lose jurisdiction. Look for anyone inside the system who had contact with the victims’ cases. Obviously, there is you, me, and Murphy. Look deeper. Medical staff. Technicians. Clerks.”
“You think there’s an insider?” he asks, that tightness in his voice easing.
“Just look. If you find anything, text me, don’t call me. I’ll call you.” I hang up and look around the office again. Damn it. This place is as sterile as her procedure room. However, it’s reasonable to believe that she quite possibly can’t deal with those she loves in a place where she deals with those who’ve died. But did she have any connections to Laney Suthers? We were close then. She knew I was on the case. “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.” I need to know.
With few options, I dial Tic Tac again. “It’s too soon, Lilah,” he says. “I haven’t even typed ten words. I’m good, but not that good.”
“Ha ha,” I say, but I suddenly have second thoughts about where I was about to lead him. If I connect this case to Laney, I need a reason that isn’t me killing a man with the same tattoo as a victim.
“What do you want, Lilah?”
“Just making sure you un-wadded those panties.”