Page 77 of Murder Notes

At exactly seven, I pull my ridiculously out-of-place rental car through the gates of the hundred-thousand-square-foot, sixty-two-acre property of billionaire Wade Montgomery, a lighted drive guiding me to a private parking area. The house itself is aglow in majestic glory, attendants directing me to a spot among a good fifty cars. And this place is exactly why people here in East Hampton never even blinked at my family owning two houses while I grew up, which we frequented, within miles from each other. We look like peasants compared to Montgomery with his bowling alley, swimming pool, tennis courts, and a full-size theater. The man even has a small power plant on the property to juice it all up.

An attendant motions for me to pull into a spot between a Porsche and a Jaguar, and I laugh as I think of how appalled both owners of the cars will be to be parked next to the likes of me. If only I could see their faces. Killing the engine, I hear a knock on my window, and I look up to find Lucas standing there. I unlock my door and he pulls it open for me. “My lady,” he says, looking quite handsome in his tuxedo and giving me a grand bow. “May I?” He offers me his hand.

“You’re such a dork,” I say, accepting his palm and letting him help me to my feet.

“Does anyone still say the word dork?” he asks.

“I’m someone,” I point out.

“You are someone,” he agrees, lifting my black cape-style coat to give me a once-over, his eyes lighting on my Italian-made red dress. “Stunning,” he approves.

“It is, isn’t it?” I say, not just because it was my mother’s but because it’s this incredible off-the-shoulder number with cascade sleeves and a dramatic side slit.

“You are,” he says. “And the dress is nice, too. You remind me of your mother.”

I don’t take compliments well, but this one is always one that makes my heart swell and peels away a layer, if just for a moment. “Thank you, Lucas,” I say. “She was special.”

“She was. Her fans and family alike adored her.” He laces his arm with mine and sets us in motion. “Don’t you miss dressing up, Agent Love?”

“I love the clothes,” I admit. “Not the politics of it all.”

“Ah, well, politics makes the world go round.”

“I thought it was chocolate?”

“Chocolate is how we survive politics when we aren’t having sex.”

“You’re crude,” I chide, walking the mile-high staircase.

“And you love it.”

“Yes,” I admit. “I do.”

We chitchat and laugh all the way to the door, where men in fancy guardsmen uniforms open the towering, arched wooden door for us. We enter the foyer, where the floor is a work of floral art, and I check my coat but refuse to check my sparkling black purse. “We’ll need to check your purse,” a security person states.

Lucas looks at me. “This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

“Of course not,” I assure him as we’re guided behind a small curtain that forms a half circle, a table and a guard waiting inside.

I offer him my purse and he unzips it, his eyes going wide as he removes a small pistol. “Holy hell,” Lucas curses. “Not a problem, eh?”

“What is this, miss?” the guard demands.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a gun,” I say, “though I saw a lighter that looked just like this once. Check the ID inside the purse.”

He reaches for it and removes my phone and FBI badge. He lifts the badge. “Is this real?” he asks.

“And it’s fake why? Because I’m a chick in a red dress? Or because . . . ?”

“It doesn’t look real,” the man says.

Greg steps into the small space with us, making us officially four sardines in a two-sardine can. “Problem?” he asks.

“Why yes, my dear, sweet dapper-looking Detective Harrison,” I say, eyeing his tux. “Seems the guard doesn’t know what an FBI badge looks like. Can you confirm it’s real?”

Greg snorts. “Dapper? The things you say, Agent Love.” He eyes the guard. “She’s the real deal. I’d give her back her shit before she arrests you.”

The poor guy pales and quickly returns my items to my purse and offers it to me.