Sweet Dreams Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  Her commander had sounded choked. Really off. She hoped to hell she wasn’t walking into PID ambush. The Public Integrity Division investigated claims of abuse against NOPD officers. Not that she had anything to hide, or had done anything she hoped stayed hidden, but shit happened every effin’ day.

  Inside headquarters, she took the lobby to the third floor. The receptionist directed her to the war room down the hall. Feeling more than a bit queasy over the turn of events, she headed that way.

  Micki reached the room and stepped inside. Something was definitely up. Too many suits in the room. Some of them looking at her strangely. Very strangely.

  She immediately found her superior officer. “Major Nichols, I apologize for not getting here sooner.”

  “Actually, you’re right on time. You know Captain O’Shay?”

  “Of course.” She nodded in the woman’s direction. “Captain.”

  He ran through the introductions: Krohn, the Deputy Chief; Richards, community relations point man; and Roberts, FBI Special Agent in Charge of the New Orleans office.

  Okay, nobody from PID. But the Bureau? WTF?

  Nichols motioned the chair across from his, though he didn’t meet her eyes. “Take a seat. Chief Howard should be here any moment.”

  She sat. Nobody spoke. A strange energy crackled in the air, and every so often she’d catch one of them looking speculatively at her.

  What the hell was about to happen?

  Chief Howard arrived, striding into the room—polished, confident and oddly exuberant. “Where’s Detective Dare?”

  “Chief Howard,” she responded, standing.

  He smiled broadly. “There you are. Perfect.” He crossed to her, hand out. “This is a big day for you. We’re thrilled. Absolutely ecstatic.”

  She took his hand. “Thank you, Chief.”

  Instead of the brief handshake she expected, he pumped her hand, then clasped it between both of his. “I want you to know, we’re expecting great things.”

  “Yes, Chief. I just wish I knew for what.”

  He laughed loudly and released her hand. As expected, he took the head chair. He looked directly at her. “Law enforcement is changing, Detective Dare. Starting today. And you’re going to be a part of it.”

  He paused a moment as if waiting for a response, so she gave him the B.S. he expected. “Happy for the opportunity, Chief. I won’t let you down.”

  He leaned forward with unconcealed glee. “The government has officially acknowledged the existence of a sixth sense. In conjunction with the FBI, they’ve initiated an experimental program called Sixers. This program—”

  “Excuse me, Chief. Did you say a sixth sense? As in, I can read your mind or move stuff just by thinking about it?”

  “Yes, Detective, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  She had expected him to laugh. Had expected everyone else to join in. She had been prepared to be the butt of a joke for clarity’s sake.

  She hadn’t been prepared for this. She did her best not to look comically thunderstruck.

  “As I was saying,” he continued, “the Bureau has assembled a team of these Sixers, evaluated their—”

  Chief Howard stopped, as if uncertain what to call their qualifications. Gifts? Talents? Superpowers?

  “—abilities,”—he finished, after a moment—“then trained them at a specialized police academy. The first crop of recruits has graduated—”

  “It isn’t my birthday,” she interrupted. “Y’all know that, right?”

  “Excuse me, Detective?”

  “I mean, I don’t know who put you up to this, or how they managed to get you involved, Chief Howard, but—”

  “This isn’t a gag.”

  He looked dead serious—they all did—but no way this wasn’t a gag. Sixth sense? Specialized police academies? It had to be bullshit.

  “It’s one of those TV shows, isn’t it? That’s how they got you involved. They’re probably makin’ a big donation to the department and I hate to ruin all that, but the gig’s up.”

  She stood and turned in a slow circle, looking for the video cameras. “C’mon out. You can bring in the next sucker.”

  She expected a smiling show host and camera crew to magically appear. Maybe theme music to sound or confetti to fall.

  Something other than this toilet-paper-stuck-to-the-bottom-of-your-shoe silence.

  Major Nichols broke the silence. “You’d better sit back down, Micki. This is the real deal.”

  Stunned, she sank back to her seat. “My apologies, Chief,” she said. “But I’ve got to be honest, y’all are starting to freak me out.”

  He chuckled. “I reacted the same way. In fact, it took a bit longer for them to convince me my wife wasn’t behind it.” He leaned forward, hands folded on the table in front of him. “This is some pretty far-out stuff, but it’s happening. The first crop of recruits has graduated. An even dozen.”

  He paused as if for dramatic effect. She wanted to tell him to get on with it, but figured that’d go over as well as a fart in church.

  “The NOPD has been selected as one of the inaugural PDs to receive a recruit. He’s being assigned to the Eighth. Congratulations, Detective Dare, you have a new partner.”

  Micki stared at him. No way he meant—

  “You’ll be meeting him shortly. Detective Zach Harris.”

  She shot to her feet. “With all due respect, Chief, hell no. Absolutely not.”

  “It’s done, Detective. I suggest you consider it an honor.”

  “An honor,” she repeated. “I don’t see how—”

  “You have the opportunity to make history here,” Howard said. “As do we all. You’ll not jeopardize that.”

  Nichols spoke up. “Sixers are being paired with tough, experienced cops. Part of your responsibility will be to keep your Sixer safe from harm. The government’s spent too much time and money training him to have him killed by some street thug.”

  Retorts jumped to her tongue, ones about being a glorified babysitter. The look in Major Nichols’s eyes told her to keep them to herself.

  “What kind of cop is this guy?” she asked. “What’s his service record?”

  “He has no service record, Detective.”

  “I don’t understand. If he has the rank of—”

  Then she did. “He graduated from his hocus-pocus academy with the rank of detective. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

  She saw from their expressions that she’d guessed correctly. It pissed her off. Big time. She, like every other sworn officer in the room, had worked for their rank, paying their dues by putting their lives on the line every stinking day.

  “Son of a bitch, does he even know how to use a firearm?”

  Chief Howard ignored her question. “The Sixers program is top secret. Beyond this room, Detective Harris is just like every other officer on the force. It leaks out and we have a media circus on our hands. I think you’d agree, Detective Dare, it’s damn difficult to effectively do your job in that kind of environment.”

  Micki considered the ramifications. Difficult wouldn’t begin to cover it. Fricking impossible was more like it. “What about Carmine?”

  “Promotion. Cold case squad.”

  “Let me get this straight. Carmine’s promoted. But instead of replacing him with someone from within, you’ve imported this Harris dude. Who, by the way, may or may not be able to use a firearm, and I’m supposed to protect.”

  “Correct.”

  She shook her head. “There’re going to be some mighty pissed-off folks. Off the top of my head, I can name a half dozen deserving candidates in the Eighth alone.”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “With all due respect, Chief Howard, this blows.”

  A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Welcome to the Sixers program, Detective Dare. We’ll give you an hour to familiarize yourself with your role. The real party starts then.”

  “The real party?”
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  “When your Sixer arrives.” He stood. “Congratulations. The future begins now.”

  About Erica Spindler

  Erica Spindler is the New York Times and International Chart bestselling author of thirty-two novels and three eNovellas. Published in twenty-five countries, she has been called the “The Master of Addictive Suspense” and “Queen of the romantic thriller.”

  A Romance Writers of America Honor Roll member, she received a Kiss of Death Award for her novels FORBIDDEN FRUIT and SEE JANE DIE, she won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence for her novel BONE COLD, and is a four-time RITA® Award finalist. In 1999, Publishers Weekly awarded the audio version of her novel SHOCKING PINK a Listen-Up Award, naming it one of the best audio mystery books of 1998. Her newest romantic thriller, THE FIRST WIFE, is out now.

  RANDOM ACTS is the prequel to Erica’s exciting new series The Lightkeepers. The first book in the series, THE FINAL SEVEN, debuts February, 2016.

  Erica lives just outside of New Orleans with her husband, son, and Roxie, the wonder retriever.

  For more information about, or to buy Erica’s books visit: http://www.ericaspindler.com/bookshelf/?page=bookshelf

  To get social with Erica, join her on:

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EricaSpindler

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  Without Malice

  A Thriller-Suspense Novel

  by Jo Robertson

  Without Malice

  Copyright 2015 Jo Robertson

  McKay Lewis Publishers

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all people who suffer from diabetes, including my wonderful son-in-law, Michael D. Love you, Mikey!

  Chapter 1

  Rosedale, California, Present Day

  Parole Officer Santiago Cruz pulled a tee shirt over his head and adjusted his shoulder holster. A bagel clamped between his teeth, he slipped his feet into dependable size-twelve work shoes and laced them tightly.

  In the small kitchen area he gulped down the last of his coffee and looked around the studio apartment, thinking for the hundredth time that he needed to get friendlier living quarters. For a six-foot four-inch former college quarterback, he felt like he was living in a box most of the time.

  Cruz was tall, large, and dark – mixed race – white on his mother’s side, Native American and Mexican on his father’s side. His familiarity with street Spanish was probably why the Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation had hired him in the first place.

  He patted himself down. Cuffs, keys, clipboard, jacket – check.

  Another shift of chasing down his parolees, most of whom hung out at the weathered shelter Jesus Saves on Sheldon Avenue in Rosedale. This morning his first appointment – he grinned at the loose term for a meet with a parolee, his teeth flashing white in his bronzed face – was with parolee Dickey Hinchey.

  Not only had Dickey missed his last check-in time, but he’d failed his pee test the week before. Dickey was about to be returned to jail.

  Some people never learned, and Cruz was betting this guy was one of them.

  He parked his jeep by the left side of the convenience store which fronted the shelter. Catching the parolee unaware was always a good tactic. They had a tendency to run, and although the injury that’d ended Cruz’s football career was a torn rotator cuff, he hated the running.

  It was the principle of the thing. Running down ex-cons was embarrassing for a man his size. Like a huge tabby toying with a mouse.

  He strolled into the convenience store, glanced around, and lingered over the coffee dispenser. Syed, the East Indian owner of the store, nodded courteously to Cruz, grateful for the presence of an officer of the law in the dicey neighborhood.

  Ten seconds later all hell broke loose.

  Although Santiago Cruz worked for the county, he wasn’t the kind of officer who dealt with the general public. Keeping up with his parolees was time-consuming enough.

  But the instant the punk-ass kid walked into the store, Cruz recognized the signs. His eyes all hip-hoppy beneath the beanie pulled down to his eyebrows, he was someone high as a kite and ready to do something really stupid.

  The next second the teenager pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and jabbed it at Syed as he stood behind the counter. “Gimme all the cash, mother-fucker!”

  Clearly the kid didn’t see Cruz waiting beside the coffee dispenser. He outweighed the would-be thief by almost eighty pounds and had eight or nine inches in height over him. Cruz sighed heavily.

  Damn!

  Cruz stepped into the aisle, drawing the kid’s attention. The sixteen-if-he-was-a-day boy jerked his head back and forth, up and down, like a manic bobble head. If Cruz used a gun, the take-down would be quicker, but talking down a hopped-up meth addict with a knife took time.

  Time Cruz didn’t appreciate taking for a job that local police had responsibility for.

  Syed’s face remained impassive, not a twinge of alarm. He’d seen Cruz take down far more threatening targets than a skinny kid.

  Cruz held his hands up in a non-threatening, gentling manner. “Okay, kid, just relax. Put down the knife and we can talk about this.”

  “Shut up! No talking.” He turned back to Syed, swinging the knife closer to the owner’s throat. “Get the money! Hurry up.”

  “This is not a good idea,” Syed said to the thief. “It will end badly.”

  “Shut the fuck up, old man!” His pupils dilated and his forehead sweaty, the kid swung the knife back and forth between Cruz and Syed.

  “Look, dude, you can still get out of this,” Cruz cajoled, taking one step forward. “Just put the knife down and you can walk away.”

  “You think I’m afraid of you?” the kid yelled. “I’m the one’s got the knife.”

  Cruz shook his head slowly, a resigned look on his face. “No, man, I think you’re a stupid kid who doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.”

  The take-down was pathetically easy. The boy didn’t stand a chance and the victory felt hollow and annoying. Cruz subdued and cuffed the thief, and called local police for a pickup for attempted armed robbery.

  Dumb jackass. Cruz would probably have him as a parolee in another five years or so.

  The confrontation put him behind schedule by several hours. After a patrol car picked up the suspect – one Joey Johnson, sixteen, of Sacramento – Cruz made his way out of the store.

  “You just can’t stay out of police business, can you, San-tee-AG-o?” Detective Andrew Flood emerged from his department-issued unmarked car. He was a detective who’d made his way through the ranks the hard way, and for no good reason, hated Cruz’s guts. He looked for the worst in people and usually found it.

  Cruz grinned at the taunt. “Just making your life easy, Flood. All part of the county service.”

  Flood scowled. “One day someone’s gonna knock you off that cocky pedestal you put yourself on, Cruz.”

  “Who? You?”

  Flood entered the store and grabbed a Styrofoam cup of coffee – without paying, Cruz noticed through the window – and returned to his vehicle. “Later, Santiago. Us big boys have a homicide to go to.” He laughed as if investigating death was an honor.

  Cruz headed for Jesus Saves, just around the corner. Dickey Hinchey had better show up. He was ready to unleash his already frayed temper on the parolee.

  Chapter 2

  Pelican Bay State Prison, Crescent City, California, Present Day

  Anson Stark was a gray man.

  From his receding hairline to his slight build, from his stooping shoulders to his soft, mild voice, the inmate was all shades and shadows. A ghost of a man. Hardly noticeable, although he’d been a college professor in the world outside of prison.

  A man easily forgotten. For all his precise language and polite manners, he was the picture of mediocrity. But one look into his pale, unearthly eyes and ev
ery officer in the Security Housing Unit knew why Anson Stark was the white shot caller at Pelican Bay State Prison.

  The Lords of Death, the white gang called themselves, and their leader was “The Professor” – Anson Stark. In Correctional Officer Luca Jimenez’s opinion the Lords and Anson Stark were as deadly as all the other gangs put together.

  Luca shook his head in bewilderment. Dios! Six months on the job, and gang politics inside the prison still baffled him. The white shot caller looked like an accountant or a teacher. In fact, he’d been an unknown, untenured community college teacher who earned less money than Luca did.

  Despite wild speculation, no one knew the crime that had landed Stark in prison. Some said he’d embezzled college funds or dealt drugs to his students. Others, that he’d slept with underage pupils. Others whispered that he’d murdered his wife of twenty years.

  Luca Jimenez only knew that within five years at Pelican Bay, the Professor had organized one of the tightest prison gangs in the state, ousting the Inland Empires and the White Supremacists in the power hierarchy of white gangs. The prison brass figured he ran a gang of over three thousand members outside the prison, along with his efficient minions inside northern California prisons.

  ‘Effing crazy, especially in the mind of a poor Mexican immigrant like Luca. But his job with the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation was hella good, with benefits and hazard pay for working in the SHU – the Security Housing Unit – which housed the deadliest of Pelican Bay’s inmates.

  Even though he felt like he entered a war zone during each twelve-hour shift, he wouldn’t complain.

  Meal time was the most dangerous part of a SHU correctional officer’s job. Twice a day he had to open the metal compartments of the cells and insert the food trays through the portals. An inmate could toss anything through the ten-inch-wide food port – urine they’d saved up, even feces, or worse, a hand-made dart dipped in shit.