by Lisa Regan
“Ffffffffffff……” was all he said, but she knew what he meant.
They tried to get a crime lab team, but when that failed, settled for documenting the scene as best they could with Skip’s little digital camera. Along with the bad-quality, half-assed recordings they had, it might or might not do any good when the case went to court—if it ever did. But nothing was by the book this week. They made up procedure as they went along, piling Weber into the trunk, instead of processing the crime scene. A temporary morgue had been set up in St. Gabriel. They’d have to see that he got there.
And Elvis was just going to have to wait a little longer to pee. Taking their cue from Kirk, they broke into Weber’s garage, but there was no stash there. None in his house either. Of course, he was walking away…he’d already double-crossed the Dirtbaggs and was probably planning to kill them. “You can’t make anything up any more,” Skip grumbled. “The worst thing you think is probably true.”
“Life,” noted Abasolo, “imitates art.”
The only thing left to do was rescue Elvis and process him into the temporary jail.
Ollie was in the room with him, staring intently, looking as if her eyes could produce lasers that would cut him in two if he tried anything. It was actually really scary.
But she was elated once they’d removed Elvis and thanked her. “No. No, I need to thank you,” she said. “Because now I know I did one thing. Wait, maybe two. I got the Eighty-Second to take Dickie’s body somewhere. Anywhere, just out of the street. They promised, anyhow.
“This is the worst goddam thing I’ve even seen—neighbors dying in the street, people on rooftops, everybody looting, no water to shower, Cheetos for dinner, nutcases all around…damn, you should have seen Arnold Acrobat this morning—he egged the Eighty-Second. Said they didn’t belong here. God knows where he got the eggs.
“Everybody’s a nutcase. This has gotta end somewhere. Somewhere, it’s gotta end. But I’m good now. I can die or anything else. I don’t care, I did one thing. Maybe two.”
She meant it too. Skip could tell.
“She needs to get out of here,” she said on the way to Camp Greyhound.
“Yeah,” Abasolo said. “Who doesn’t?”
~The End~
About the Author
Edgar-winner Julie Smith is the author of more than twenty mysteries, most set in New Orleans and starring one or the other of her detective heroes, a cop named Skip Langdon, and a PI named Talba Wallis. (Both female, both tough and wily.) She also has two series set in San Francisco.
Her novel, NEW ORLEANS MOURNING, won the Edgar Allan Poe award for best novel.
She changed direction in 2010, with her start-up digital publishing company, booksBnimble (www.booksBnimble.com), beginning with four books by friends. She later added other authors and got the rights back to her own books, Then in 2015 booksBnimble spun off bbnmarketing (www.bbnmarketing.com), with the aim of helping self-published authors find their audience and backlist print authors find their way back into the game.
Twelve years after Hurricane Katrina; Skip Langdon returned last year in MURDER ON MAGAZINE. But so many readers have asked--what did she do when Katrina struck? That story's THE BIG CRAZY.
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Skip Langdon Series
NOPD Detective Skip Langdon burst like fireworks onto the mystery scene when NEW ORLEANS MOURNING won the coveted Edgar Award for Best Novel, making Julie, already a USA TODAY-best-selling author, the first woman to receive that honor in thirty-odd years! Eight more action-packed, critically acclaimed Skip Langdon novels followed in quick succession and Julie also spun off the four-volume Talba Wallis PI series.
You'll find the Skip series hard-boiled but filled with plenty of humor, great characters, and spot-on dialogue. Plus New Orleans, America's favorite city, with all her loveable, crazy quirks.
The Skip Langdon Series
Edgar-Winning Female Cop Series
New Orleans Mourning (I) Axeman's Jazz (II) Jazz Funeral (III) Death Before Facebook (IV) House of Blues (V) Kindness of Strangers (VI) Crescent City Connection (VII) 82 Desire (VIII) Mean Woman Blues (IX) Murder On Magazine (X)
Talba Wallis Series
A Funny and Action-Packed PI Series
Louisiana Hotshot (I) Louisiana Bigshot (II) Louisiana Lament (III) PI On A Hot Tin Roof (IV)
Rebecca Schwartz Series
Fun, Slightly Zany Cozys Featuring a Delightful Lawyer Sleuth
Death Turns A Trick (I) Sourdough Wars (II) Tourist Trap (III) Dead In The Water (IV) Other People's Skeletons (V)
Not Really Dead
A Tess Winnett Novella
Leslie Wolfe
1
The touch of his warm fingers still sent shivers through her body, although she felt a knot in her throat, threatening tears and a ruined end to the evening. She tried to paste a smile on her face and squeezed his hand, hoping he wouldn’t sense how sad she really felt.
“Danielle, we talked about this,” he whispered, while the limo took the exit heading for her house.
She nodded, not trusting her voice enough to say anything.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and somehow that made things a little better. She craved his presence like an insatiable addict, wanted to share every waking moment with him and fall asleep in his arms at the end of each day. She’d fallen for him hard, beyond repair, beyond any of her wildest dreams.
And she was being unreasonable. She blinked away the tears, willing herself to remember Stephen belonged to her; they were engaged, soon to be married, and the engagement ring on her finger stood testimony to that. She counted the days until the wedding, set for October 19.
Set by others, not by them.
The most important date of her life had been chosen after several days of arguing and meetings and negotiations among Stephen’s father, his campaign manager, and his countless advisors, publicists, and media experts.
Her future father-in-law was running for president, in one of the most heated races for the White House in the history of the United States.
The moment Stephen had proposed to her, after a fabulous dinner followed by champagne served in tall flutes on a gold tray, her life had started spinning out of control.
She’d known who she was saying yes to. The love of her life, true, but also a man who was going to be at the center of media attention for the next few months, or even years, if his father won.
Secretly, she hoped he’d lose. She wanted to marry Stephen the lawyer, the one overwhelmed by student loan debt just like her, not the president’s son with everything that statement entailed. Somewhere between the day she met Stephen and the day he proposed, his father had emerged from the ranks of anonymity and shot all the way into earning a Democratic nomination almost overnight.
She wanted their old life back; but what she wanted no longer mattered that much. Except for Stephen… she could still marry him, but even that came at a cost.
She’d known every inch of her background would be examined under a magnifying glass by investigators who wanted to dig up any speck of dirt before it could cause real problems for the man they already called “Mr. President” in private. She cringed when she recalled her high school flings, her first frat party, the first time she drank a little too much; they would find out about it, in every sordid little detail. Her fiancé would read about all that in a report.
She’d known that their schedule would be set by others, and the moments alone with Stephen would become treasured gems, difficult to find but even more gratifying as their scarcity increased their value.
She’d known all that and she’d said yes, with a swelling heart full of love and a slightly trembling voice.
Yet she had no reason to feel so sad, so needy, just because he had to leave her side a few nights a week to help with his father’s campaign efforts. The man sitting by her side on the leather backseat of that lim
o was every woman’s dream and deserved better than a clingy, tearful drama queen.
“Danielle,” he whispered, then kissed her hand, their fingers intertwined, their heads close together.
“Yes, I know you have to leave. I just wish you could spend the night with me, that’s all,” she pleaded, unshed tears coloring her voice, untrue to her own commitment to show him the support he deserved. “Tonight, more than ever.”
“Not tonight, my love,” he replied, searching her eyes with a worried glance. “I’m really sorry, I can’t. I have that early morning flight with everyone on the team. But tomorrow, when I get back, I’m coming straight here.”
The driver pulled up at the curb in front of her house, the second on a small Palm Beach street tucked behind the parking lot of a bar, one of those old-style places with the owner’s living quarters on the second floor.
“Can you forgive me?” Stephen asked, his voice only a hint louder, getting ready to say goodbye.
She nodded again, then gently pulled her hand out of his, regretful when their fingers parted. She wanted those fingers to rip the clothes off her body and explore every inch of her skin, while she begged for mercy.
The driver held the door for her, waiting patiently. She turned toward Stephen, and he didn’t hesitate. He cradled her face in his hands and pressed his lips against hers, tasting her, building a sense of urgency inside her that made her entire being shiver with desire.
Then he let go.
She pulled away reluctantly but managed a smile, then walked the short distance to her door and unlocked it. She turned toward the car one more time, smiled and waved, and saw Stephen waving back.
The limo driver closed the door and took his place behind the wheel.
By the time she reached the living room window and looked outside, the limo was gone.
Silence and a sense of dread, of inexplicable angst, overwhelmed her. The house she’d decorated with so much enjoyment seemed cold and unwelcoming, as if shadows were lurking in every corner, ready to pounce.
She shrugged off her fears and checked the thermostat. It was the south of Florida, but she didn’t care. If it felt cold, she needed heat. She switched it to heating and added a few degrees on the setting, then rubbed her hands together to warm them.
She poured herself a glass of red wine, took a sip, but didn’t feel any of the warmth she was hoping for. Instead, the wine seemed sour and cold. Disappointed, she abandoned the glass on the counter and took out her phone, searching for some music to play, to lift her spirit. Between browsing playlists, she texted Stephen, “Miss you already.”
A chime came immediately after. “Me too. Sweet dreams, baby.”
Then Adele’s vibrant voice broke the silence, sharing rumors with anyone who wanted to listen, an older song Danielle loved since her heydays in high school.
Better.
The thought of a shower seemed appealing, the warmth from the water jets promising to soothe her and deliver a good night’s sleep in the bed that now seemed too large for only her. She went back into the living room and unbuttoned the turquoise blouse that matched her eyes, then slid off the tight, black pencil skirt. Both items landed on a nearby chair, followed quickly by her lacy underwear. She slipped on a sateen robe she’d dropped on the couch that morning and started walking toward the bathroom, the distance too short to be worth tying the sash around her waist.
She never made it that far.
She sensed him before she saw him, a rise in the hair on the back of her neck, primal fear unfurling in her gut, a scream emerging from her throat that never reached her lips. The unfamiliar smell of a stranger, the barely audible sound of approaching footfalls muffled by the music, a sense of impending doom urging her to run for her life.
Then she felt his hands on her body, grabbing her and slamming her down to the floor so hard it knocked the air out of her lungs. She thrashed, kicking and hitting the man as best as she could, but her gasping efforts only brought a grin to his face. She managed to push herself away from him a little, sliding on the hardwood floor, and started to get up, but he caught her with one hand, while with the other he pulled out a knife, the 6-inch blade reflecting the lights coming from the chandelier. He seized her neck and started squeezing, slowly, his face closer to her inch by inch, the coldness of the blade burning her skin.
Darkness drew closer as his fingers tightened around her neck. She gasped, desperate for air, while thoughts whirled through her head. Stephen… she’d never see him again.
She was going to die.
“Not yet,” the man hissed, then cackled loudly after licking his lips, his pupils dilated with loaded anticipation. “You and I are not done yet.” He let go of her throat and drove his hand lower. “I promise you’ll love it.”
She drew gasps of air, filling her lungs over and over again, desperately thinking of a way out. She lunged for the door but felt the blade slicing against her side and hesitated. The man raised his hand, and the blow came down hard across her face, sending her tumbling across the floor, seeing stars.
Everything turned dark.
2
Tess entered the federal building at two minutes after eight, rushing up the stairs with a tall coffee in one hand and her briefcase in the other. Her scramble soon took its toll in the form of a rebel coffee drop that escaped the confines of the cup lid and stained the sleeve of her starched, white shirt, bringing a groan of frustration to her lips.
She placed the paper cup on her desk and dropped the briefcase on her chair, then noticed a yellow Post-it note affixed to her monitor. “Come see me ASAP,” the note read, lacking a signature, but only one person in the building had the nasty habit of leaving handwritten sticky notes instead of using the phone, like the rest of the world did.
Her boss, Special Agent in Charge Pearson.
“Ugh,” she groaned again, not eager to face him. She had a good idea what the invitation was about. She’d just closed a case, but she knew he wasn’t calling her in to congratulate her.
She stepped into the hallway and checked to see if the light was on in his office, then groaned again and started walking down the hall. A moment later, she rushed back, picked up her coffee, then resumed the earlier course toward her boss’s office.
The door was open, but she knocked twice against the doorframe and waited. Pearson’s eyes stayed riveted on a couple of forms he was perusing, on occasion making scribbled notes on the edges of the paper. She recognized her signature at the bottom of one form and repressed a sigh.
She must’ve screwed up the paperwork again.
Pearson gave no sign he was aware of her presence, but she wasn’t that easily fooled. If she would’ve knocked again, he would’ve given her a long stare. He was quite predictable, at least to her.
But then again, most people were. That was the norm for behavioral analysts.
She started studying the man, lacking anything else to do and unwilling to let her mind wander further away. She could tell he’d been preoccupied that morning, because he’d thrown his jacket sideways across a chair, instead of draping it on the chair’s back to keep it from wrinkling. He was also in a sour mood, because he kept rapping his fingertips against the desk’s walnut finish in an irritating, impatient rhythm, and every now and then he ran his chubby hand across his shiny scalp, as if he still had hair. If he had, he’d probably be pulling it right now.
Tess frowned, a little worried, and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She wondered exactly what was causing those deep trenches ridging Pearson’s brow.
Without a word and without looking at her, he waved her in, leisurely pointing at the chair in front of his desk. She obliged quietly and waited, coffee cup still in hand.
SAC Pearson let the papers fall from his hand and leaned back in his chair.
“You closed the Pacheco case,” he said, speaking slowly, his concern transparent.
No, he hadn’t called her in to congratulate her.
She nodded. �
��Yes, I did.”
“By shooting the unsub as he fled the scene,” Pearson added calmly. “In the back.”
“Um, yes, sir. But this particular unknown subject—”
“There were civilians present. Twenty-three, to be exact, including four children.” He looked straight at her, his gaze loaded with disappointment and frustration. “Some of these people stated they heard the bullet whistling by as it passed within inches of their heads.”
“No one was hurt except the unsub,” she reacted, but quickly fell quiet when Pearson glared at her.
“There will be a formal review,” he added, then removed his thick-rimmed glasses and rubbed the root of his nose between his left thumb and index finger. “You always do this, Winnett. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Silence fell heavy and uncomfortable, filling the room like a toxic gas.
“Do what, exactly?” she eventually asked.
“Screw things up at the end.” He picked up the report and read from it for a few seconds, then let it drop again. “What happened at Biscayne and Little River yesterday, Winnett? Why did you pull the trigger?”
She cleared her throat quietly. “Pacheco was making a run for it and was about to catch a departing bus. My car was two blocks away, and we had no one else in pursuit. We would’ve never caught him again, sir.”
“We have procedures for a reason, Winnett. There’s no excuse for opening fire on a fleeing suspect in the middle of a crowd.”
“It wasn’t a crowd, sir. No one was close. And that bastard raped and killed five preteen girls. I wasn’t about to let him escape. Under the fleeing felon rule, if it’s in the interest of public safety, it’s acceptable—”