I step outside to a downpour, rivers of water running along the curbs, a shower for a dirty city, and a disaster for a sensitive crime scene. “How bad was it?” Carl asks, still holding his spot by the door.
“Lots of blood and assholes, Carl,” I say, eyeing an item on the ground by the door that I’d missed earlier, of course, so did everyone else. And why wouldn’t they? To this crew, this isn’t part of the crime scene. I reach in my field bag and snag a small baggie. Sticking my hand inside it, I squat down and pick up another damn cigarette, this one unused, and flip the bag the opposite direction to secure it.
“Whatcha got there?” Carl asks.
Pushing to my feet, I close the small space between me and him, shoving the baggie at him, the way I had the one earlier with Detective Williams. “Log it into evidence.”
“That’s probably from the crew.”
“It’s not,” I say, and I don’t explain my reasoning, nor do I bother to lecture him on proper crime scene procedures this go around. No one seems to care, and if I wallow in their crap much longer, I’ll be the one with a vein bursting in my head.
Carl looks like he wants to fight me on this, but his lips press together, and he gives a nod. “I’ll log it.” I keep looking at him, and he adds, “Right away.”
That’s what I was looking for. I don’t wait for him to do what he’s agreed to do. Carl’s reliable. He follows orders. His pal Reggie is a different story, and for all of Reggie’s attitude, he has just disappeared. Another curious thing among too many tonight.
I grab my rain jacket that’s still by the door, slip it on, pull my hood back up, and eye the twenty-four hour diner across the street and to the right. It’s a perfect spot for a killer to have coffee and watch the mess unfolding near the crime scene. Works for me. The downpour does not. I eye an open umbrella next to the wall, grab it, and start a jog across the closed off street. Once I’m under an overhang in front of the diner, I drop the umbrella. Whoever it belongs to can come and get it.
Pulling open the door, bells chime, and I scan the rows of red booths. I’m the only person here. I’m the only killer here. It’s a little disappointing. “Sit anywhere!” A plump black woman from behind the counter shouts at me.
I choose a seat by a window that allows me to see the fuck-up of a mess across the street, and shrug out of my dripping rain jacket. Once “Donna,” per her name tag, joins me at the table, I ask for strawberry pie. “We’ve got pumpkin and pecan.”
“It’s October,” I remind her.
“Fall flavors,” she replies.
“I don’t do fall flavors,” I say. “I’ll take coffee.”
“Pumpkin, hazelnut, or plain?”
I grimace. “If you had to bet your life on my answer, what would you say?”
She smirks, a really good, Lilah Love quality smirk, and asks, “Pumpkin?”
“Don’t be a bitch. I’m not in a good mood.”
“Neither am I,” she replies. “You cops closed off the street. No one is here to tip tonight.”
“I’m not a cop.”
She motions to the badge hanging around my neck. “Close enough. You have to order something other than coffee if you want to take up space.”
I glance around the diner and then at her. “Because you’re so damn busy?”
“You ordering or not?” Donna snaps back.
I pull out a twenty and slap it on the table. “That’s my order.”
“That’ll get you a nice Pumpkin latte.” She turns and walks away.
“Bitch!” I yell.
She lifts her hand and waggles her fingers at me. Damn, I think I like this woman. I chuckle to myself and then scan the street, but I can’t see shit for the rain. I grab my phone and dial Director Murphy. He answers on the first ring. “Agent Love, how did you do on your first New York City case under my new task force?”
My. He’s so self-focused and of course, the boss, so whatever. I guess it is his task force. “I came,” I say. “I saw, I investigated one dead woman. Where are the other two?”
“I assumed you’d have extracted that information from those in charge of the scene.”
“They said you were mistaken. There’s one woman. That’s all.”
“Agent Love,” he drawls, “what do you know about me?”
Besides his prickly bitch attitude, I think. He was with my mother while she was with my asshole of a father. He loved my mother. He believes she was murdered by Pocher and his Society, the same Society launching my father’s political career. Oh, and he doesn’t make mistakes. “Roger told you three women and a serial killer.”
“Yes, and it’s interesting that he would tell you otherwise. Perhaps Roger was willing to give up control to the FBI but Detective Williams was trying to keep your role as a consultant only.”
“Perhaps, but I can tell you right now that Detective Williams is a f—joke.” I leave out the word fucking because he’s my boss. I also skip over my extreme desire to bitch slap a bitch, because he’s also a director. I can be professional like that, if forced. “That crime scene was a mess,” I add instead. “I wanted to claim jurisdiction, but, of course, we have no grounds to do so. And for the record, Roger Griffin doesn’t call in help. He is the help. This smells bad.”
“I’m certain you’re resourceful enough to call Roger Griffin and take this where it leads.”
I grimace at this suggestion that may or may not be innocent, but I wonder if he knows I’m avoiding Roger. Murphy’s smart. He’s observant. This man seems to know things about me that he shouldn’t know, and he pushes my buttons. He pushes me to prove myself for reasons I don’t even understand, and this has me thinking back to just last week when I’d agreed to join this task force.
“I want what you want,” he says.
/>
“Which is what?” I ask.
“The wrong people who are presently in power, out of power. You’ll work for me, but live in Manhattan. You’ll be part of a task force that I’m being assigned to head up. Together, we’ll solve cold cases around the country, but you’ll be assigned to the New York state region since it’s your home turf. You’ll consult locally and still travel to aid other regions if your skills are needed.”
“And this does what for me and you?”
“In time, that will be clear. For now, you keep your badge and my protection, but you’ll reside and work in New York state.”
“Agent Love.”
I blink back to the present. “What aren’t you telling me about this case?” I ask.
“What haven’t you told me, Agent Love?” he counters.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t trust this man, perhaps the part that doesn’t like how much he seems to know about me and my family, even more, it seems, at times, than I do. “There might be a situation we need to discuss. Right now, I can’t say. I’m working the case. That means I know very little.”
“Very little,” he says. “That’s not very impressive.”
“Yet,” I add.
“Then it seems you need to make a phone call. Get your answers and then communicate, Agent Love. You’re deficient in that area as this call proves once again.” He disconnects.
Donna sets a cup of coffee in front of me with whipped cream on top. I grab a spoon and scoop up some of the sweet cream. I might not like the pumpkin that I’m certain is beneath it, but sugar, sugar is good to me. Of course, I’m putting off the inevitable in the call that Murphy expects me to make. He really does seem to be testing me, trying to see if I can really handle taking on the Society. They had me raped. I could kill them all and be happy, but maybe that’s the point. If I want to keep this job, I have to be better at pretending I’m like everyone else.
“Damn you, Murphy,” I mumble as I pick up the ridiculous pumpkin coffee. My lips find the lip of the white mug, and I take a swig, grimacing with the odd spicy taste of pumpkin. I set said ridiculous pumpkin coffee back down and pluck another twenty out of my pocket and slap it onto the table.