Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
A Capital Mistake
Kennedy Cross
Contents
About This Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
About the Author
About This Book
I held back when I could’ve helped. And now I can’t even do that.
Sophia Bell is a homicide detective who only loved her work. But when that same love gets her suspended from the department, she finds herself lost and broken. Agreeing to a night out only makes things worse until someone steps in at the perfect time. All of a sudden, her life seems to turn around. Noah’s an art dealer by day and an artist in the bed by night, and Sophia thinks she's finally found her dream guy.
However, Noah's life is the last thing she should get involved in. Desperately trying to afford his nephew's expensive medical treatment, it's clear that selling art isn't his only source of money. Little does Sophia know, there are secrets behind every corner of Noah's life, extending even to the people Sophia considers friends. When Noah is pegged for a crime he didn't commit, the secrets of Marvel County could destroy them both. With their lives on the line, only together can they expose the conspiracy and make it out alive.
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Chapter One
Noah
The weight of my gun is tight against my waist. A .38 caliber snub nose revolver. It’s the first thing I grab before every heist, but I still drop my hand to reassure myself as we turn into the parking lot.
My expression is firm but calm. Everything about me is calm. I’ve done this too many times to be nervous. Nerves lead to mistakes and mistakes lead to prison.
Confidence is much more effective.
Most of the parking lot is empty, which means so is the bank. Exactly as planned. It’s 10:19 on a Wednesday morning, the time in which Florida Imperial Bank operates with the least amount of traffic. The only three cars in the lot are parked together around the side of the building, most likely belonging to the three tellers scheduled today.
Owen parks the van in a spot along the left side of the lot, out of view from the bank’s large glass doors.
“The tellers?” He gestures at the parked cars.
I nod, reaching for a duffel bag from the back seat. I unzip the top and remove a plastic Bill Clinton mask before handing the bag to Owen, who pulls a mask of Richard Nixon over his head and tosses me an empty pillowcase.
Eventually he removes the Remington 870 Express from the bottom of the bag and pushes five shells into the chamber. He turns to me. “Ready?”
Without answering I pull the mask over my head and throw open the car door. The two of us round the side of the building, make a spit second of eye contact, then bound through the front doors.
Owen immediately raises his shotgun. “Down! Everyone get down now!”
I turn around and use a zip tie to bind the door handles together.
He kicks over an empty desk and points his shotgun toward a young female employee. “Out from behind the counter,” he orders. “All three of you. Hurry!”
“Let’s go!” I echo. On my way to the registers I step over two of the tellers crawling across the floor before propelling myself over the counter.
Owen has every employee in sight. I pull a pillowcase out from my jacket and duck under the granite counter to ensure that none of the panic alarms have been flipped.
And they haven’t.
“Throw your phones,” Owen yells. “All of you, throw them in the middle!”
There’s a whimper before the sound of several phones clattering across the floor.
One by one I punch open the row of registers, flip through their bills to check for dye packs, then toss the cash into the pillowcase.
“Shut up,” Owen barks at a young female crying against the ground. He collects one of the phones off the floor and throws it at the wall.
I toss in the last clean stack of bills and launch myself back over the counter. “Which one of you is the manager?” I ask.
There’s nothing but silence until Owen racks his shotgun. It makes a loud click and ejects an unspent round onto the floor. “Who’s the fucking manager?” he yells.
“I am,” cries the young woman lying at his feet.
I draw my revolver for the first time and order her up. As she rises, I gently press the nose of my revolver against the small of her back to guide her across the bank to the safe door.
She walks with caution in every step. When we finally reach the door, I steal a glance at the nametag pinned to her chest. “All right, Jessica, you’re the manager?” I whisper.
She nods.
“Is that your friend?” I point and she follows my finger as Owen kneels down and aims his shotgun at the head of a man on the ground.
She whimpers and a tear runs down her cheek. But she nods.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “We’re not going to hurt him. But I need your help, all right?”
She nods again. I give her a second to compose herself and, as I hoped, her terrified expression slowly becomes focused.
Bank tellers are trained to comply completely in the event of a robbery. The bank itself would rather lose a few hundred grand than battle the publicity of a murdered employee. But a little extra motivation never hurts.
“Take a breath,” I murmur with my lips inches from her ear. “Now… let’s open this thing.”
The girl’s thin fingers begin twisting at the lock. Just as I’m about to tell her to slow down and go carefully, there’s a click from behind the door.
Wordlessly I push us into the next room. “Now the vault.”
She obeys, twisting the large steel handl
e with the same urgency as before. Once it’s open, she follows my directions to lay with her face to the floor.
I fling open the steel door of the vault and begin sifting through the bills to search for dye packs, incendiary devices, and marked bills. At least seventy-five percent of the stacks are clean, which I shove into the pillowcase.
My watch reads 10:25.
I throw the pillowcase over my shoulder and step over Jessica into the main lobby of the bank.
Owen’s standing in the center and wielding his shotgun.
I nod at him. “Let’s go.”
He nods back and kneels between the two tellers lying at his feet. “You might’ve heard our voices, but we’ve seen your faces,” he murmurs. “Don’t forget that.”
I holster my revolver, draw a knife from my pocket, and cut through the zip ties holding the door handles. Owen bounces up and shields the Remington under his jacket as he strides out the door.
As we sprint, I dig a burn phone out from my pocket, select its only contact, and call. It only rings once.
“Are you clear?”
“Yeah,” I blurt, leaping into the passenger seat. “Which way out?”
Owen thrusts the key into the ignition and twists.
“East,” directs the voice in the phone. “Go left on Fairview. Feds responding from the south on I-95.”
“East on Fairview,” I repeat out-loud before flinging the pillowcase into the back seat.
The van’s tires skirt against the pavement as Owen throws his foot down on the gas pedal and cranks the wheel.
I punch off the call as we skid out of the parking lot, then tuck Owen’s shotgun into the duffel bag and toss the phone in on top.
He merges onto the highway and revs to speed. We pull off our masks and I’m instantly flooded with a rush of fresh air against the beads of sweat on my face.
I toss in the masks, zip the duffel, and throw it behind me. Owen punches the roof of the car and hoots victoriously.
He rolls down the window and I slap his chest as the air sweeps across my face.
The feeling of success.
Chapter Two
Sophia
My legs are slick with sweat when I finally kick my feet out from the comforter. I roll over and force myself into thirty seconds of slow and focused breathing, but it’s no use. I can’t sleep.
I push my comforter to the end of the bed, allowing cold air to rush over me. Then force myself into thirty more seconds of breathing. Deep and slow.
Before reaching twenty I steal a glance at the clock.
It’s 4:23 a.m. My alarm should go off in just over and hour and I should arrive at the department a short hour after that. That’s how it would go any other Monday. But not today.
Not tomorrow.
And not the twelve days after that, either.
For two weeks I’m banned from the Marvel County Sheriff’s Department, which means I’m banned from my one purpose in life: solving murders and throwing killers behind bars.
And it’s destroying me.
Homicide detective is the only thing I’ve ever known. Sure, I had a childhood, a few awkward adolescent years, college at the University of Florida. But immediately after graduation I joined the department and actually began my life.
My career is my everything. I’ve promised every family that I’ll bring them the justice they deserve. And to this day, I’ve never failed. Never left a single case open. Zero cold cases and zero innocent arrests. Never once have I broken my promise.
Not until now.
Not until Quincy Walters. The one killer I’ve ever improperly arrested. Legally speaking, at least. Certain arrest warrants require a judge’s signature, but I believe a good detective can feel ‘probable cause’ in the pit of their gut. Sometimes the two align, sometimes they don’t. But there was never an ounce of doubt in my mind.
And now he’s walking free. Quincy Walters is free. Never mind that he was wearing the murder weapon when I apprehended him. Say hello to a legal loophole. The fact that I arrested him at his residence without a formal warrant allows for that piece of evidence to be thrown out in court. It’s not right and it’s the furthest thing from justice. But it’s my fault.
Quincy Walters is free, and I’m imprisoned in my own house.
My eyes are open but it’s still so dark that they might as well be closed. The sun won’t even rise for another few hours. I debate retrieving my laptop to peruse Netflix, but it’s charging on my dresser across the room and making the trek will all but eliminate my chances of falling back asleep.
“Sherlock.” I snap my fingers and whistle into the dark. “Sherlock.”
There’s a sudden jingle from the bell around his neck, but nothing follows. I whistle once more before giving up. Stubbornness is that cat’s defining quality, and without food, I don’t have a chance.
I lay flat on my back and stare up at the ceiling. I’ve never felt so restless, and I’m just getting started.
Forty-eight hours.
It’s only been two days and two sleepless nights, and already it feels like ten.
Maybe I’ll drive over to Barnes and Noble and buy the thickest book they have in stock. Something absurdly long. Or perhaps I can reread the Sherlock Holmes series sitting on my shelf. One by one.
But reading is a lot more enjoyable as a hobby and not the defining activity of your day. Though I guess I’ve never had many hobbies to begin with. I have one hobby and one interest, and that’s solving murders. I’ve never needed anything else to supplement my time. But I’ve also never been suspended. Or rather, placed on paid administrative leave, to be proper. As if it matters that I’m being paid to sit in time-out.
My bedroom is nearly pitch-black and all I can see is a figment of the sheriff’s face floating above me. His pudgy cheeks puffed up in anger, furious with me for not waiting to make the arrest. But Quincy Walters would’ve been off to Mexico or Canada or Cuba or God knows where if I’d waited. It would’ve been too late.
Evidently a flawless career doesn’t excuse one misstep. That’s because I work under an uncompromising, authoritarian asshole.
And that’s why I’m suspended.
The buzzing of my cellphone pulls me out of a thick dream. It feels more like I blinked than fell back asleep, but there’s sunlight seeping through the blinds. Still, as I reach for my phone, I glance at the alarm clock for reassurance.
11:43. Holy hell.
I would say it’s been years since I’ve slept this late, but that implies remembering the last time it happened, which I don’t.
I turn over my phone and instantly the screen causes my heart to skip a beat.
Son of a bitch.
Almost on queue, the doorbell rings. Then rings again. Then again as if someone’s angrily punching it over and over.
As I sprint down the stairs the repeated ringing turns into a pounding knock that continues all the way until I open up.
“Nora, I’m so—”
Nora storms into the house before I can even get out a full sentence. She drops her purse, sheds her jacket on the sofa, and spins around with her hands on her waist.
“I am so so—”
“This was supposed to be your breakfast,” she interrupts. Her brown eyes are burning holes through me. “We also had a nail appointment. At North Village Spa. And now I—” she huffs out a dramatic breath.
“I’m so sorry,” I plead. “I really am. I just… I couldn’t sleep last night and I—”
“I can’t stand seeing you like this.” Her sudden shift from anger to disappointment throws me off guard. “It’s not like you to be late, let alone not even show.”
“Nora,” I begin without knowing how to continue. “It’s only… I’m—I’ll be fine. I promise.” I take a breath to search for a little something more, but nothing comes. “I’m sorry I missed our breakfast.”
She glares at me.
“I really am. I appreciate—”
“You can stop apologizing,
I’m not mad at you,” she interrupts again. “But I’m also not going to allow you to sit and mope around in your own gloom for the next two weeks. That’s how long they gave you, right? On your suspension?”
“Administrative leave,” I correct in spite of myself. “But yes, it’s two weeks. Starting today.”
“So...” She looks at me like the wicked substitute teacher her mother had been. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m…” I can’t fend off the blank expression that grows on my face as I search for an answer.
“I’ve never seen you like this before. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with more than five minuets to spare. But this….” She shakes her head, full substitute-teacher-mode. “This is a whole new level.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, Sophia. You know I can’t lie to you.” She rakes a hand through her tidy blond hair. “You look awful. And it’s been what, two fricken days? Two weekend days, nonetheless. I mean, come on. Go look in the mirror. You can’t be a slug for the next two weeks. I won’t let it happen.”
“I won’t, Nora.” I tighten my expression. “You know me, I’ll be fine.”
“No I don’t,” she says. “I know detective-Sophia pretty well, but I don’t know suspended-Sophia at all. And right now, I’m not sure that she’s going go be so fine.”
Now my expression slips into a glare. Yes, I missed our breakfast date. But she’s beginning to make me glad that I did. If it was intended to be one big pity-party than I would’ve declined the offer upfront.
A Capital Mistake Page 1