My brother is rude enough to leave me hunting for a dead body by myself when most would say for the Love family, such a thing should be a family affair. But I handle it. I flag down one of the CSI guys, who points me through a squared archway. The fact that CSI is here, in from Hauppauge, a trip that with communication and travel would take at least two hours, and I was in the air only forty-five minutes ago, may or may not tell me that my brother hesitated before he called me. I’m not sure that tells me much about his motives, but I will find out. He can bet his ass I’ll climb inside that pretty little head of his and rip everything I need right out. Keeping him in line is my sisterly duty.
Setting aside Andrew for now, I enter what looks like a basic high-end den. The décor theme seems to be ridiculously expensive leather furnishings that look just like the less expensive alternative brand that in this town would be shunned around these parts.
The Hamptons is all about judgement.
This room is about judgment.
What it’s not is the keeper of the body. Voices lift from just beyond yet another archway and I begin following them. What hits me in that moment is my complete absence of anticipation. Not that long ago, the moments before I’d set foot in the presence of a dead body, adrenaline would surge with the certainty that death would soon consume me. That feeling is gone and I don’t even remember when that happened. For a moment, I’m back on that beach from years ago now, drugged and insane with emotion, stabbing my attacker as Kane tried to question him.
I changed that night. I tried to run from it, but I never had the chance. Maybe because I didn’t actually change at all. I simply lost the ability to fully contain what was already inside me. But that is for later. For now, I enter a large kitchen and hit the motherload.
Right there between the kitchen table and a granite island lies the deceased, a thirty-something woman in a wedding dress: brunette, obviously tall, even in a fetal position, with blood staining her mouth, neck, and the front of her dress.
I flash my badge at the two people standing over her: a tall, dark-haired man I age to about thirty-six, in a Officer’s uniform and a pretty, also thirty-something, blonde female.
“Special Agent Lilah Love,” I say, and I don’t always say the special. It just feels too special, but what the hell. “I’m here at Police Chief Love’s request,” I add.
“The big time Special Agent Love, profiler and sister to the police chief,” the man says. “Yes. We expected you.”
I glance at his name tag that reads North. So far I don’t hate him. “What do we know?” I ask, but I’m far more eager to let that woman on the floor talk to me than these two.
He motions for me to join him back in the den. In other words, I was too optimistic about not hating him. We’re about to play politics and egos. I really fucking hate politics and egos.
“Let’s not,” I say. “I have plans that don’t include staying long. I’m here as a favor. Tell me about the victim.”
His lips press together and he motions to the other room again. I sigh and just do it. I play the game, the one where he makes sure I know he has the bigger cock, even though I don’t have a cock at all. I back into the den and he’s right there, towering a good foot over me. “I’m wondering what you know that I don’t know,” he says. “Why are you in on this one?”
The wedding dress, I think. Or my brother doesn’t trust him. Actually, I’m not sure my brother even trusts me. “Did my brother warn you that I get along with dead people better than most officers?” I ask.
“He did, actually.”
“Then we can agree it’s in our best interests that I interact with the woman on the floor, not you. That said, let's get what we have to out of the way. What do we know about the victim?”
His lips tighten but he answers. “Emma Wells,” he says. “Thirty-eight-year-old interior designer. She and her husband, Gibson Wells, bought this house right after you moved to L.A. He’d become the ‘it’ accountant for the rich and famous. They’d been here six months, and he’d really just hit big in his career when he died of a heart attack at only forty-five.”
Young, I think, but more common than most want to believe. “How long ago was that?” I ask, because yes, I could guess based on when I left and returned, but you never guess or assume in police work. Too often expected timelines don’t connect.
“A year ago.”
“She moved on fast,” I comment. “Who’s she marrying?”
“Morgan Rockport,” he replies. “His dad is Barry Rockport. He was a big banking executive before he passed a few years ago.” Morgan isn’t familiar, but Barry stirs a memory I can’t quite catch. For now, I focus on the more important Rockport. “What else do we know about Morgan?” I ask.
“Morgan apparently went to some prep school and then Harvard. And now he’s an attorney for the rich and famous. Yes, there is a theme here, but as you know, perhaps irrelevant, as it’s a common one in East Hampton.”
I still don’t know how I know Morgan Rockport, but I move on. For now. “Where is Rockport now?”
“San Francisco on business. We haven’t been able to reach him. Agent Love—”
“Why’d you leave a city of opportunity to come to a small town?”
“I left the city of corruption to work with your brother,” he says and adds, “He’s a good man.”
“And the son of the future governor?” I challenge.
There’s a flash of something in his eyes I can’t quite identify and he says, “If he wins.”
“Do you know my father?”
His lips press together. He does that a lot. It’s like a poker tell. Something I won’t like is coming. Something he doesn’t want to tell me. Or maybe he needs some Chapstick. “I was on his security detail for six months.”
It’s definitely a poker tell.
“Of course you were,” I say, and that look is back in his eyes, the one I can’t quite identify.
“Officer North,” someone says from behind me. “We need you.”
He lifts a hand over my shoulder. “I’ll be right there,” he calls out, but his attention is on me. “I respect your father and your brother. I’m not sure what to make of you.”
“Don’t you?” I challenge.
He studies me long and hard and then mumbles, “I’ll be back,” and steps around me.
I rotate and stare after him and decide I still don’t actually hate him, which surprises me. That’s rare. But something is off with him.