Page 44 of Murder Notes

“Had you showed up to the press conference,” he points out. “I would have already told you.”

Doubtful, I think, but I say, “Tell me now.”

“After dinner,” he counters.

Since I won’t be eating with Eddie and his playmate Alexandra, I make a demand I manage to phrase as a question. “Do you have any real evidence on Woods? Otherwise, it looks like your detective is on a witch hunt to me.”

Andrew scrubs a hand across his jaw, light stubble rasping against his palm. “So much for ‘after dinner.’” He presses his fingers to the table. “Woods confessed but refused to turn himself in.”

“Confessed,” I repeat, finding this news a little too convenient, but I’m just not sure for who yet. “When, and to who?” I ask, proud of myself for remembering to include the question mark.

“I can answer that,” Alexandra surprises me by interjecting, drawing the room’s attention. “He left a message on my office voice mail. It was just before midnight last night.”

“And he said what?” I ask.

“He was rambling like a crazy person,” she says. “Talking like we were going to kill him.”

“Kill him? How so?”

“He talked about the murder and then said he wasn’t going to give us a chance to kill him,” she supplies.

“Is there a transcript of that call?” I ask.

“I’ll e-mail it to you,” Andrew offers.

“Tonight?” I press.

“Yes, Agent Love,” Andrew says. “Tonight.”

I smirk at the smart-ass. “Thank you, Chief Love,” I reply. “And where are we on locating Woods?”

“We,” Eddie says, “are doing this by the book and covering every possible base. And if you were going to be difficult tonight, why even come to dinner? I mean, we’re regulars here. You are not. You’re the outsider.”

I could react to this. I could tell him he’s a small-minded, small-dicked—if that is even a word—wannabe-good detective. And it would feel good. Really damn good, but I’m struck by the way he seems to be baiting me here at my father’s house, where he is normally well behaved. I mean, we insiders all know about my father’s lethal temper, easily provoked by disrespect and disorder. Two things he cannot tolerate. And where was Eddie’s car outside? And why would my father, or even my brother, who swears he wants me to return home to live, invite these two here tonight, knowing they would push me away, not pull me closer? Plus, why the hell didn’t Andrew call me about Woods today? It’s as if I was intentionally sideswiped tonight, my attention directed, if not forced, in one direction: Kevin Woods. Why is the question.

My conversation with Kane returns to me:

“There are rumors about your father but not your brother.”

I blanch. “What? My father? What about my father?”

“His run for a higher office and favors promised to the wrong people.”

I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that my father doesn’t want me to dig into his business. He wants me focused on Woods, not him. It might not be the case, but my gut, my best friend in times like these, says that’s exactly what is going on right now. My lips thin and I push off the table, and turn, walking toward the door my father has yet to enter. “Lilah,” Andrew calls out. “Where the hell are you going?”

I don’t stop walking. I enter the hallway and head toward my father’s office, only to have him meet me halfway. “What’s wrong?” he asks, looking concerned, but that’s a practiced skill for my father, and that’s exactly what his reaction strikes me as—practiced.

I stop in front of him. “Is Pocher backing you for a run as New York governor?”

To his credit if I’ve sideswiped him as I believe he did me, he doesn’t blink, and his reply is fast and easy. “Pocher seems to think the five years I spent in the higher ranks of the NYPD is a good launchpad for a run.”

“That’s a yes,” I say. “And I assume murder, especially one taken over by the FBI, isn’t going to please Pocher or help your aspiring political career. Tell me Woods isn’t an election-launch fall guy.”

“For God’s sake,” my father growls, that temper of his flashing in his eyes. “Why must you be difficult?”

“Difficult” is what he has called me all too often as I grew up, usually when I didn’t fit into his preferred mold for me, which was most of the time. It cut then, and it cuts now, but then he knows that. Because those close to him know that if he so chooses, he can use words with exceptional skill to hurt you, and do so with the precision of a killer with a deadly blade.

“It’s called doing my job,” I reply. “And I’m good at it.”