Wicked Little Secret (Paranormal in Manhattan 3)

by Lotta Smith

  While he mentally dissed Washington Heights, he completely forgot about his own social status as one of the least important actors in off-Broadway theater scenes. He also conveniently forgot the fact that, if it weren’t for the tiny apartment in Brooklyn, which he inherited from a late great-aunt, and financial assistance provided by Ruth, he couldn’t even keep a roof over his head.

  He jumped and let out a girly yelp when a rat the size of an obese Chihuahua ran up the stairs from behind and went ahead of him.

  “What kind of miserable excuse of an unknown artist lives here?” he muttered to himself after some cussing—again, completely forgetting the fact he happened to be one of those miserable excuses himself.

  As he approached the third floor where Ivan lived, John remembered his last exchange of words over the phone with his enemy, and being annoyed so greatly that he almost felt like his blood flowed backward.

  About thirty minutes ago, he received a strange phone call from Ivan.

  Getting a phone call from him was a rare event, mostly because the feeling of hate between the two of them was mutual. Both were Ruth’s kept men, and both were trying their best to convince her that the other guy wasn’t worth her time—or money.

  “Hey, John the loser, I’ve got bad news for you,” Ivan declared as soon as John picked up the call. He sounded like he was drunk, but there was something in his voice that made John nervous.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m calling to deliver a piece of special news to you. Now that I’ve acquired something to make me the El Greco of the twenty-first century, you’re so out of sight to Ruth and out of the picture. She is going to choose me, and she’ll dump you like a piece of garbage. Ha! Why don’t you curl up in the corner of your tiny apartment and cry like a little girl?” Then the line went dead.

  Immediately, John rushed from his apartment and took a cab to Washington Heights. He was determined to confront the SOB and beat him till he cried like a baby.

  As soon as he reached apartment 312, he banged on the door.

  “Who’s there?” Ivan’s voice demanded from inside.

  “It’s John. Open up.”

  “No way.”

  “I have something to say to you. Open up!” John banged on the door even louder.

  “Stop bothering me. Just leave!”

  “No, I won’t. I won’t ‘just leave’ until I get to talk to you face-to-face.”

  “I have nothing to say to you. You have to leave, or else I’ll call the cops and have you—”

  It seemed Ivan was about to say “arrested,” but his words stopped short.

  Instead of menacing words, he let out an agonizing moan. It became louder and escalated to a high-pitched shriek.

  Then came silence.

  “Hey, Ivan, what’s going on?” John asked as he switched from banging to knocking on the door.

  No reply.

  “Come on, Ivan. Open up. You can’t fool me!” John yelled at the door, but again, no reply.

  “Guess what, Ivan? You’re all words and no action. You’re just running away from me because I’m stronger than you. Ha!” John yelled at the door and turned on his heels to leave. After taking a couple of steps, he went back to his love opponent’s door.

  “Loser!” Yelling, he jumped and kicked at the door. He was just trying to make his point, but the worn-out door made of a thin veneer wood panel broke easily.

  John lost his balance and fell onto the cold concrete corridor.

  “Crap,” he groaned.

  Lying on the hard, cold floor, John was half expecting Ivan to come out of hiding, yelling at him, but no one came from inside. Instead, a twentyish Asian guy stormed out from next door.

  “What is the matter with you?” he demanded.

  John mumbled an apology and the guy went back to his room.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He got up and reached for the now-broken door. It was locked, but he could put his hand inside to unlock the door.

  Getting inside was a piece of cake.

  “Hello?” John said. “Ivan? Um… Sorry about the door.”

  As he opened it, dim light came into his eyes.

  “Ivan…?”

  There was no one in the room.

  “What the hell…?” he muttered.

  It was a tiny, one-bedroom, matchbox-sized apartment. In the living room / dining room / workroom was a 30” x 40” painting sitting on an easel. It was nothing fancy. The whole background was painted in an assortment of dark, boring, and depressing colors. The only part that caught his attention was the large blank area in the canvas. It looked as if whatever was portrayed had run out of the canvas and vanished.

  He advanced closer to the painting.

  On the side of the canvas, the title G.H.O.U.L. was written in pencil.

  Glancing down, John gasped as he spotted an assortment of men’s clothes, including underwear, heaped on the floor, as if someone stripped off those garments and left.

  Or whoever had those garments on had disappeared like smoke.

  “Hey, Ivan?” Not grasping the situation, John searched the apartment for his rival, but he couldn’t find any signs of him.

  John glared at the heap of clothes in front of the canvas for a while. Then, out of the blue, he kicked the garments. As the shirt, pants, and underwear scattered, something like pebbles of stone rolled over the floor.

  “What the…?” John picked up a piece. It looked like a tooth—small, white, and hard, with a metal bolt on the base.

  As an actor, he liked to play the role of a tough guy, but in reality, he wasn’t. Startled, he dropped the tooth on the floor. When it hit, he caught a glimpse of several other pieces. Each was about the size of a chick pea, yellowish white with dark brown stains.

  The moment he realized the stains might be blood, John passed out and dropped on the hard floor.

  CHAPTER 1

  Green and purple… Seriously? Who had the deciding vote in determining the color schemes of this hideous building? USCIS? Or FBI? I wondered as I stood in front of 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan, my new workplace.

  It was my first day of work at the FBI’s New York Field Office, and I wasn’t sure if I was happy or unhappy about my new career as an FBI special assistant.

  If this were a book, movie, or TV show, I would be a budding FBI special agent or something really badass.

  In that case, I would be ready to protect and defend the United States as I fought menacing terrorists or a group of evil aliens trying to invade Earth. In addition, if it were fiction, I would look like Jennifer Lawrence and have a really flashy educational background under my belt, such as having graduated from an Ivy League school at the top of my class. Not to mention I would be driving a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, or a Mercedes at least.

  Unfortunately, none of the above characteristics applied. After all, I was talking about my life, and lately, it kind of sucked.

  My name is Amanda Meyer. I’m a twenty-five-year-old American with Italian, English, and a little bit of Romanian heritage.

  I’m an American woman in my mid-twenties, but that’s all I have in common with The Hunger Games star. I stand at 5’4”, and I’m a size or two—or maybe three—larger than her dress size.

  I don’t have an Ivy League education under my belt, mostly because Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and all other such schools rejected my application. As for the car, I don’t even own one. I used to drive a relatively new Toyota Camry, but I sold it. I was trying my best to convince myself I didn’t need to have a car anymore now that I moved back to my parents’ home in Queens, New York.

  About a month ago, I was a medical student in North Carolina. I was in my third year—busy studying for exams, memorizing all the medical and surgical knowledge, and doing clinical rotations—until I got kicked out of medical school.

  Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a bad student.

  So I didn’t hold high hopes of graduating at the top of my class, or
someday becoming a Nobel laureate. Then again, my academic performance wasn’t that bad. I was usually at around the top 50-60 percent of the class. At a place where the majority of your classmates have an IQ of 180 and up, even being a mediocre student took lots and lots of hard work.

  Anyway, the odds of my finishing medical school and becoming a doctor or getting some cushy job with some pharma/biotech/insurance company were pretty high. Back then, I used to picture myself in the future driving a nice car and vacationing in beautiful resorts.

  Generally speaking, doctors are highly regarded in today’s society. Sometimes, people talked about the top-notch physicians in comparison with God. On the other hand, I was held in comparison with the Grim Reaper and the Angel of Death. And as a result, I got kicked out of medical school, saying good-bye to my life plan as a doctor.

  Oh, did I mention getting kicked out of medical school didn’t offset my larger-than-life student loan?

  So, there I stood, with no degree under my belt and a huge debt up to my eyeballs. To rub salt in the wound, Justin, my now ex-fiancé, had called off our engagement. We went to the same med school. He was two years my senior and was already in his first year of residency training. Obviously, he had assessed the pros and cons of staying with me and concluded that staying with a woman called the Grim Reaper wasn’t likely to boost his value as a surgeon.

  As I stood in front of the East German-style building, I felt so depressed, I almost started sobbing.

  Look at the bright side, Mandy… I tried to convince myself.

  At least I was going to have a job, and their offer wasn’t bad. I would be able to make monthly payments on my student loan and make a decent living. Maybe I could even move out of my parents’ townhouse in a year or so.

  Actually, I wasn’t eager to take this job when I received the offer, but Mom and Dad insisted I should. They were not very keen on spending the rest of their lives paying off my student loan.

  “Miss, you’ve been standing here for a long time.” Frowning, the guy in a guard’s uniform gave me an accusing glare.

  “Um… I’m sorry. I got a little bit distracted. I’m supposed to start working here today,” I said, but based on his deep frown, I was positive he didn’t believe me.

  “Oh, I’m running late. I’ve got to go….” I attempted to walk away, but he grabbed my arm.

  “What is the purpose of—?” the guard started interrogating me, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence.

  “Good morning, Stanley,” a male voice boomed from behind us. It was a deep, smooth baritone—clear, calm, and confident. Without turning back to see him, I found myself picturing a tall guy with a certain level of sexiness. He continued, “For your information, you don’t want to mess with her. Guess what? So far, she’s killed three men just by touching them. In addition, it’s her first day working as my assistant. If you convince her to leave without even starting the job, Hernandez will be so pissed.”

  I had a remote knowledge that the head of the FBI’s New York Office was named Hernandez.

  “Mr. Rowling!” The guard’s response sounded more like a surprise than an acknowledgement.

  When he straightened himself, he was no longer grabbing my arm, too busy saluting Mr. Rowling.

  “I am awfully sorry for my rude behavior. I didn’t know she was your new assistant.”

  Then, turning to me, he apologized profusely. “I’m awfully sorry, ma’am.”

  If eyes could speak, his were saying, ‘Why didn’t you mention you worked for him?’

  “Okay, so we’re all cool,” said Mr. Rowling.

  I turned back to thank and greet him, but words failed me.

  He was tall, athletic, and had broad shoulders. He had flawless fair skin and dark hair styled in a conservatively messy ‘do. His mesmerizing green eyes looked almost blue, and his cheekbones were prominent. His nose and jaw were sculpted to perfection.

  In a nutshell, he was drop-dead gorgeous.

  But that wasn’t the only reason I was at a loss for words.

  “You are the—” Clenching my teeth and fists, I searched for words.

  Though I didn’t remember his name, I did recognize him, in an ‘I am so going to kill him if I ever lay my eyes on him again’ way.

  “Yeah, I’m Rick Rowling.” He flashed his perfect set of pearly whites. Obviously, he didn’t read my mind. “Hi, Mandy. Nice meeting you again.” He extended his right hand toward me.

  I took a deep breath. I had no fucking idea why this guy was so familiar with me to call me by the nickname I’d used since kindergarten. Before today, we had met only once for just a couple of hours, and during that short period of time, he killed my future as a doctor.

  I took his hand, half wishing he’d drop dead on the spot.

  After all, he was the one who convinced the Chapel Hill Police Department and my medical school that I’m the Grim Reaper.

  Book 2: W is for Wicked: http://amzn.to/29s5SLj

  Murder investigation is tricky—especially when the deceased threatens to kill you...

  FREE on Kindle Unlimited!

  Former medical student turned FBI special assistant Amanda Meyer isn’t thrilled about her new gig as a ghost whisperer, especially now that she has the spirit of a departed drag queen following her around.

  But having a pal on the other side may just come in handy when a billionaire’s widow meets her untimely demise and Amanda and her oh so sexy boss, Rick Rowling, head of the Paranormal Cases Division, are called in to find the killer.

  With nine scandalous suspects, nine questionable motives, one dead witness and one cryptic clue, the bureau’s dynamic duo should be able to solve this case by the numbers, but the victim’s restless soul wants revenge while the clock is ticking. What’s the girl nicknamed The Grim Reaper to do? M may be for Murder, but W is for Wicked.

  PROLOGUE

  “There are some men who enter a woman’s life and screw it up forever.”

  —Janet Evanovich, One for the Money

  My name is Stephanie Plum, and for me, the man who takes pleasure in periodically screwing up my life is Joseph Morelli….

  No, that’s a downright lie—I mean, I’m kidding—for the most part.

  I’m not the world’s most famous, most popular, or perhaps, the richest female bounty hunter. As for Joseph Morelli, I haven’t even met him, much less got screwed by him. Um... don’t misunderstand me, I’m talking conceptually, not physically or carnally.

  Okay, so I know it’s wrong to impersonate a total stranger, but excuse me, you need to cut me some slack.

  My life sucks way worse than Stephanie’s. Sometimes, I’m oh-so-desperate to fool myself that I have a life somewhere, anywhere but where I’m stuck.

  My name is Amanda Meyer. Most of the time, I’m called Mandy, and that’s the acceptable part—I can live with this nickname. Like Stephanie, I work in a law enforcement field, except I’m with the FBI instead of a bonds office in New Jersey. Unlike her, I’m not filthy rich. She’s described as constantly struggling for money in her books, but I know she’s rich.

  Okay, so she goes on about how she’s stuck with a dead-end job forecasted as mostly cloudy with chances of raining bullets and dead bodies and exploding vehicles, how she ended up selling her electronics, and how little food she’s left at home—but that’s just her words. On second thought, it’s impossible to stay poor when you’re the star of a megahit series. She probably has her millions stashed somewhere, such as a private bank in Switzerland. In my previous life, I was anticipating a decent life for my future, if not being obscenely rich. I was going to become a doctor, but that career option is now gone, baby, gone. Thanks to getting booted out of medical school with no degree and a humongous student loan, I’m deep in debt up to my eyeballs.

  And, believe me, there actually are some men who pop into a woman’s life from out of nowhere—like some kind of a genie, leprechaun, or ghost—with the sole purpose of messing with it.

  By the way, did I
mention that I have not just one, but two men, hexing my life?

  For starters, there’s Rick Rowling. He’s the head of Paranormal Cases Division at the FBI’s New York City field office. He became my boss by practically butchering my medical career before it even started. Standing at 6’2” with lean, hard muscles in all the right places, he’s hot, sexy, and comes with intense green eyes. He happens to be the only heir to the huge, multi-billion, security conglomerate USCAB—United States Cover All Bases—which means he’s ridiculously rich. Unfortunately, he also happens to be an outrageous, egotistical smartass who’d kill to generate trouble and mayhem just for the sake of his own pastime.

  I’m not exaggerating. During the investigation of our first case, we were close to being eaten by a bunch of unperishable, monstrous creatures. So I’m trying my best to keep a good distance from him, but he tends to pop in to dinners with my folks at my parents’ home.

  And there’s another guy, Jackie, also known as Jackson Frederick Orchard, who was a budding Broadway actor.

  It all happened last November when Rowling and I were walking Pier 26 in Tribeca, where I saw something—no, someone—who should be absolutely discernible…

  “Cool!” Rick Rowling grinned while walking in the same park where we met Jackie the day before.

  “I know! It’s totally fab!” Jackie agreed contently.

  They were acting like a couple of nine-year-old boys admiring a new toy. Except, their focus wasn’t on a new Xbox or hoverboard that actually lets you float and fly in the air. Also, technically, the two of them weren’t communicating with each other.

  Jackie could see and hear Rowling, but things didn’t work out the other way around, because Rowling couldn’t see or hear Jackie, which meant he couldn’t see Jackie’s revealing, skintight outfit in neon green and hot pink, the big hair like Shakira, or the snow-white boa headdress. Not that my boss had impaired vision or hearing, though… it’s complicated. He couldn’t even see the huge necklace spelling ‘FESTIVE’ hanging from Jackie’s neck.