Page 35 of Murder Notes

“No.” She frowns. “And you asked about that last night. What’s with you and the tattoo? Is there a connection you’re looking for?”

“I’ve found body markings tend to tell a story,” I say without missing a beat. “I look for them.”

“Well. None in this case to help you out. Frankly, this is as clean as it gets. Unless there’s a witness, the body isn’t telling us this story.”

And yet, it is, and she is. Clean. Professional. Planned. These things tell me about our killer. “Is there any way this can be twisted into a suicide?”

“One does not put a bullet through one’s eyes at a full foot away, which is what forensic evidence supports. Nor do you do so and have the gun disappear.”

“In other words, they were trying to calm everyone the fuck down to get some distance from this thing.”

“You’re here. You’re FBI. And you were at the crime scene.”

“Is there a question?”

“It’s the same observation the public was making before that press conference, which is exactly why they inferred suicide. To calm everyone down.”

“Are you saying you now support them misleading people?”

“I don’t support it, but I understand it. Let’s face it, Lilah. You being here in time to make that crime scene leads to the conclusion that you were tipped off to this murder.” She gives a brittle laugh and adds, “Or you were in on the murder.”

I don’t laugh. I sure as hell don’t tell her I think she might be closer to the truth than not. “Again,” I say. “Is there a question?”

“The same one I asked when I sat down. What the hell is going on?”

“I told you—”

“Tell me,” comes a male voice. Rivera’s voice.

He appears beside us, already setting a chair at the end of the table before joining us. That he’s managed to sneak up on us when I have a clear view of the door, something that doesn’t happen to me, makes me think he was hovering somewhere close, possibly listening to our conversation. “What the hell is going on?”

“You tell me,” I say. Noting the scar on his right jawline that wasn’t there when I left, I turn the tables on him. “Start with that knife wound on your face. Who cut you?”

“Start with why you’re here,” he counters.

“I like the coffee,” I reply.

“You know,” he says dryly. “People who are smart-asses hide behind a bad attitude. That, and the few thousand miles you’ve kept between you and this place, really makes me wonder what you’re hiding.”

He’s hit a little too close to home for comfort, and it’s my turn to counter. “People who change the subject and redirect when asked about a knife wound usually didn’t get it honorably.”

His lips quirk. “Let’s not play games, Lilah.”

“But then you wouldn’t be you and I wouldn’t be me, and what kind of homecoming would that be?”

He leans in toward me, ignoring Beth, his plump finger jagging on the counter in front of me, his voice low, tight. “If you want to meet with my medical examiner, you come through me.”

“Your medical examiner?” Beth objects. “I don’t work for you.”

“For a big man,” I say, still focused on him, since he’s in my fucking face, “you’ve always operated with little-man syndrome. I’d be careful about that. It really makes a girl doubt what’s under the hood. But hey. If you want to be a part of this conversation, of course I’ll fill you in.”

He lingers close to me, his breath brushing my cheek, and I’m pretty sure he’s not buying my easy compliance any more than I am. In fact, I’ve just pulled my foot back, with his shin as the target to prove that point, when he settles into his seat again and orders, “Talk.” Like I’ve ever been one to do as told, especially by him.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll bring you up to speed on what you missed. So here we go. My best friend in the agency is gay. And hot. So fucking hot. I’ve been trying to turn him but I’m failing miserably. From a male perspective, can it be done?”

His face turns a Christmassy shade of red that is my new favorite color. “I know you’re here on agency business.”

“You know what they say about assumptions,” I reply. “They make an ass—”