Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
I turn away from Jay and start walking. “What just happened?” he asks. “Did I—”
“No. You didn’t upset me or piss me off.” I glance over at him. “You made me think, but right now, we need to focus on the crime scene. We’re the final voice the victim has. We don’t just see dead people. We see their killers.”
He gives me a short nod, understanding in his eyes, compassion too, something no one finds in my eyes. But it’s a good trait for someone else to own. The kind of trait a good detective possesses. Jay would be a good detective, one with an understanding of the criminal world with a view from inside. But he’d still end up dead. He’d follow the rules, and the rules would kill him.
Whoever tried to kill Kane didn’t follow the rules. Nor will they follow the rules when they come for Kane again, and they will. Through me, it seems. At least, that’s what Kane seems to believe. He forgets though, that I’m not exactly a rule follower myself. In fact, if the sign says left only, I go right. And I will. Right to the door of his enemy. I think I’ll pay his uncle a visit.
After I go talk to my dead person.
Chapter Six
The townhome has a small, gated garden where a uniformed officer monitors those who enter and exit. I flash my badge and then force Jay into the gloves and booties I remove from my bag. “Put these on.”
He curses under his breath in Spanish. I know the language. I just don’t use it. I’d rather people be confused about what I do and do not understand. I’ve also noticed that Jay speaks with a heavy accent when he wants to. Other times, not so much. Maybe I’m not giving him credit for how smooth an operator he can be.
A dead body might not get rid of him, but based on his cursing, my style sense might. Whatever the case, he complies, and wears the gear. I enter the garden, scan for anything that looks off, but find nothing, and therefore move forward, walking up three steps and opening the door.
The entryway of the townhome is a narrow walkway, with no signs of forced entry, but as I pause in the foyer, I note the sparkling tile and lack of debris that frequents such areas. Either the killer cleaned up, or the victim is a neat freak. I walk on ahead and find the living area and open dining room, my next destination. The furnishings are black leather. The tables are marble. The rug beneath is cream streaked with caramel and black. Everything is in perfect order with no clutter. My gaze is drawn to the bookshelf—also a caramel color—the homeowner, who may or may not be the victim—is meticulous about the color scheme. Unsurprisingly at this point, the spines of books on the shelf are perfectly aligned.
The killer didn’t clean up.
The homeowner is anal, which can be irritating as fuck, though I’m not sure enough to get you killed. I don’t know though. Maybe. It’s really irritating as fuck.
How the hell does anyone live like this?
Carl, a cop I worked with when I was at the NYPD, and a forty-year veteran that should be retired at this point, exits the kitchen to greet me. He is in his sixties, his head shiny bald, his face lined heavily. And in true, old-school cop formula, he’s in a wrinkly suit with a loose tie. His shirt is light green. His tie is gray. I’m pretty sure the green is his attempt at style. “Lilah fucking Mendez,” he greets.
“Lilah fucking Love,” I amend, and not because I have an aversion to the Mendez name. Because there is an identity that is me that comes with respect for me, not Kane. “If you make me pull out the Mendez name, it’ll be an ugly day.”
He holds up his hands. “I’m not getting in the path of that bullshit. Lilah Love, it is. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I heard there was a serial killer and no one wanted to call me. You know that only makes me want to force myself on you.”
He chuckles. “Yes. Yes, I do, Lilah. Well, force away. I don’t mind. The detective in charge might be a different story, but I’m sure you can handle him. Just tell him one of your awful jokes or say fuck like a dozen times and he won’t know what hit him.”
“I’m getting boring if you know my routines.”
“Never boring, Lilah. Never boring. In fact, I think I’ll cancel retirement just to sit back and watch how this plays out.”
“Are you finally retiring?”
“Not anymore.”
“Well, then I should introduce you to Jay,” I say. “He’s my sort-of assistant, I guess you could say. I brought him here to convince him to quit, but maybe you’d both like to chat about your plans to be killed with stupidity? Perhaps if you pool your resources you can speed up the process.”