They started walking again. Past Vivace’s and the aroma of garlic and warm bread made Maggie’s stomach groan. She tried to remember the last time she had eaten. A doughnut that morning in the rental car. No wonder she was running low on energy. She sipped the rest of her hot chocolate.
“And there’s another sorry ass,” Pakula pointed to the homeless man in the ragged long black coat at the corner. “What am I going to do with these people?”
But as the man turned, both she and Pakula recognized the man at the same time.
“What the hell are you doing here?” It was Maggie who posed the question.
Nick Morrelli spun around to face them. With a five o’clock shadow and a torn felt hat with the brim pulled down, he looked like a street performer instead of the homeless man he thought he was portraying.
He simply shrugged at her and said, “You’re not the boss of me.” Then he jumped out into the street causing cars to brake and honk. He ran down the other sidewalk without looking back.
6:15 p.m.
He had the knife with him, the cold metal tucked up into his sleeve.
The old woman had the cart with her again. Damn! But she was so cute. Pulling crap like that on him. In weeks past it would have made him angry, but his confidence was soaring again. And it didn’t really matter. He had ruled her out in just the last hour. He had a new target.
The guy reminded him of himself. A pathetic shadow of himself. That long dirty black coat that once upon a time was probably his power coat. Good looking guy, young. In good physical shape. Or at least he had been. Maybe he had been on the fast-track to success. Not anymore. Somewhere along the line he had stumbled big-time.
He followed the guy for a while and knew the man was plastered or flying high. He’d listened to him talk to several people. He made less sense than the old woman with her imaginary friend. No, this guy would probably be thanking him for doing him the service of putting him out of his misery.
Even earlier when the couple stopped him. They recognized him. Or thought they did. The man danced around. Slung out some curses. Then he ran off, almost getting run over in the street. He was hilarious. A total loser. Nobody would miss this fool.
He watched him. Studied him. The streets were filling up with people. On one corner there was a four-piece band, or rather four teenagers with instruments, clanging out their version of Christmas songs. Horse-drawn carriages were keeping busy, too. Police horse patrol was back. Same as last night. The lighting ceremony had taken place about fifteen minutes ago and everywhere he looked he was bedazzled by tiny, twinkling white lights.
It was frickin’ beautiful. What a lovely night to die.
He stepped out of a doorwell and found his target leaning against a rail, his back to an alley.
He’d have to do him from behind. Not a problem. He knew where to insert the blade. Not in the middle. It’d ram against the spinal cord. It would need to be off to the side. Down below. He’d keep the same angle up. The back tissue would require more pressure but the blade was long enough. He’d still puncture the heart. The only thing he’d miss was meeting the guy’s eyes. Seeing the realization there.
Oh well. Sometimes he had to change up a little.
He headed in the other direction where he knew he could go around and come up that alley. Soon, buddy. I’ll take you out of your misery.
6:18 p.m.
Pakula had to leave Maggie after a phone call from one of his officers. He thought he may have found the Night Slicer. A desk clerk at the Embassy Suites claimed she recognized the driver’s license photo when the officer showed it to her. She said it looked a lot like the guy she checked in on Thursday.
She remembered him because she had complained about her bursitis and he gave her instructions of how long to keep a heat pad on it, followed by ice. His remedy really worked and she was pretty sure he must be some kind of doctor. According to the clerk, he was booked through tomorrow morning. The officer was waiting for Pakula before they paid him a visit.
Pakula promised to call her. She wanted to be there if this was their guy. But it seemed too easy. Was it possible he’d be sitting in a hotel suite within ten blocks of where he’d killed Gino?
Maggie decided to backtrack and see if she could find Nick and talk some sense into him. She saw the old woman with her shopping cart set aside. The woman was staring at something in the snow along the side of a building. She seemed fixated on it even to the point of shooing people to take a wide circle around.
Then Maggie saw Nick. He sat on a rail that in warmer weather probably allowed bike riders to chain up their bikes. His feet dangled. His head wobbled to the music from the street corner behind him. Sometimes the foot traffic got too close and brushed against him, sending his whole body teetering. No one seemed to notice him. Even when they jostled him or bumped him. He was playing his role very well.
She knew if she waved at him he’d ignore her even if he saw her. So instead, she started to walk toward him, going against the flow. She weaved her way through, taking her time and putting up with the occasion bump.
This is how he does it, she thought. And suddenly she knew he was here. She could feel him. Gut instinct. It had never failed her.
She looked at the faces coming toward her. Her arms came up across her chest and she walked like she was chilled and not paranoid that a knife would find its way into her chest. The flow of the crowd continued. She found herself pushed along the wall. And suddenly she felt a stab in her back. She spun around. Then she realized it was an elbow, not a knife.
Paranoid. She needed to stop.
Through a hole in the crowd she could see Nick, smiling, singing with the music. He was still sitting on the rail. Only now she saw a man coming out of the alley behind him. Well dressed. Alone. White ballcap. Focused on Nick. Walking directly toward Nick. His right arm down at his side.
Oh, God, she could see the flash of metal.
She started pushing her way through the crowd.
“Nick, behind you.”
But her voice got drowned out in the noises of the street, the music, the crowd, the traffic. She shoved at bodies. Got shoved back a couple of times.
“FBI,” she yelled but nobody moved out of the way for the crazy woman in the red Huskers ballcap.
She tore at her jacket’s zipper and yanked at her revolver. Ripped at the clasp to her shoulder holster. Damn it!
The man was within three feet of Nick.
She waved her arms at him and finally he saw her. He waved back. Smiled. Then he tumbled forward, face down in the snow with the man falling on top of him. Even before she got there she could see the snow turning red.
“Oh God, no.”
Then she saw the old woman. She pointed to the stiletto knife clutched in the man’s hand.
“That’s the bastard that killed Gino,” was all she said.
That’s when Maggie saw the wide end of an icicle sticking out of the man’s back.
>
10:00 a.m.
Monday, December 5
Embassy Suites
Maggie had gotten five hours of sleep. For once she felt more than rested. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a favorite warm, bulky sweater and headed down to the lobby. Pakula already had a table. She saw him through the glass elevator. The same elevator John Robert Gunderson had used for the last four days.
“I ordered our coffee,” Pakula said, standing when she came to the table and pointing to the can of Diet Pepsi in Maggie’s spot. She was impressed that he remembered her wake-up drink.
He had file folders piled up but pushed to the side of the table. She added one to his stack, information Tully had faxed to her late last night.
“So is Gunderson his real name?” Pakula wanted to know.
“Yes.”
They had found a small case inside his hotel suite that contained about a dozen driver’s licenses and credit cards with various aliases. All the same initials.
“He’s a traveling salesman,
” she said, taking a sip of the Diet Pepsi. “One of Bosco Blades' top salesmen.”
“Blades.” Pakula shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“He flunked out of med school. I suspected he might have a medical background. He knew too much about where to stab. I just talked to Lieutenant Taylor Jackson this morning. Turns out one of his victims was a classmate of his. Heath Stover. He killed him in Nashville. We think he probably didn’t want anyone to know he’d flunked out.
“Also, we now know he was in Nashville for a medical conference. Was supposed to do a presentation but canceled. Detective Killian told me there was a medical convention going on in New Orleans when he killed his two victims there. Kansas City was a conference for surgeons. And in Omaha—”
“The sales conference at the Qwest Center,” Pakula said, making the connection. “For medical devices or something, right?”
She nodded.
“How could he get away with it? Wouldn’t his co-workers suspect something?”
“He worked out of a home office. Had a secretary at Bosco that he communicated with by phone, text and email. He met with his boss once a month. And he made all his travel arrangements on his own, so he could be whoever he wanted to be when he was on the road.”
“He looked like an ordinary guy,” Pakula said. “Best disguise there is.”
“What about the old woman? You’re not going to press charges are you?”
“Hell no. She did us a favor. I did get her off the streets.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I know a guy who handles security for about a dozen buildings in the downtown area. Seems he was able to find a nice little apartment for her in one of them.”
Maggie smiled. Of course Nick Morrelli would want to take good care of the woman who saved his life.
“And what about Lydia?” she asked.
“Yeah, it appears this building even takes cats.”
No one realized until last night that the old woman had an old calico cat that she kept bundled up and warm in the shopping cart.
“I’ve got to head out,” Pakula gathered up his file folders and Maggie stood to walk him out before she went back up to the room. “Sure you can’t stay for a day or two? My wife makes some of the best kolaches you’ll ever eat.”
“Maybe next time.”
He shook her hand then muttered, “Aw the hell with it,” and gave her a hug.
Just as he got to the door, Nick Morrelli came in. The two men exchanged greetings and then Nick’s eyes found her.
He was clean-shaven this morning and dressed in crisp trousers and a bright red ski jacket. She stood in the archway to the restaurant area where only a few tables were occupied at this time on a Monday morning. She waited for him, watched him stride across the lobby. Last night when she thought he had been stabbed she had such a mix of emotions. Nick had a way of doing that to her.
He wasn’t relationship material, she reminded herself as he got closer and she couldn’t pull her eyes away from his. He had called early this morning, asking if they could spend some time together. Maybe go ice skating. Take a carriage ride. She had agreed. Now as she got a whiff of his aftershave she wondered if perhaps that wasn’t such a wise decision.
He pointed to something over her head.
“You’re always giving me mixed signals, Maggie O’Dell,” he said.
She looked up to see the mistletoe hanging in the archway and before she could say a word he was kissing her. And suddenly she found herself thinking it might just be too cold to leave the hotel.
GET TO KNOW THE AUTHORS
Friends for several years, the authors have long wanted to work together on a project. When Alex approached Erica and JT with the idea of a series of short stories with each author’s protagonist chasing the same serial killer, they jumped at the chance. The result is SLICES OF NIGHT: a novella in 3 parts.
ERICA SPINDLER – The Missing And The Gone
(Detective Stacy Killian, NOPD)
In the heart of the New Orleans French Quarter, a homeless young woman is found stabbed to death. The simple ambush killing proves to be anything but, and NOPD Detective Stacy Killian finds herself in a life-and-death race against the clock. She's willing to risk everything to win. And she's willing to risk it all to do so.
A New York Times and International bestselling author, Erica Spindler's skill for crafting engrossing plots and compelling characters has earned both critical praise and legions of fans. Published in 25 countries, her stories have been lauded as “thrill-packed page turners, white- knuckle rides and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”
Raised in Rockford, Illinois, Erica had planned on being an artist, earning a BFA from Delta State University and an MFA from the University of New Orleans in the visual arts. In June of 1982, in bed with a cold, she picked up a romance novel for relief from daytime television. She was immediately hooked, and soon decided to try to write one herself. She leaped from romance to suspense in 1996 with her novel Forbidden Fruit, and found her true calling.
Her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence. A Romance Writers of America Honor Roll member, she received a Kiss of Death Award for her novels Forbidden Fruit and Dead Run and was a three-time RITA® Award finalist. 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.
Erica lives just outside New Orleans, Louisiana, with her husband and two sons and is busy at work on her next thriller. Become a fan of Erica's at her website: http://www.ericaspindler.com or follow her on Facebook at Facebook/EricaSpindler.
Questions for Erica Spindler
What is your favorite indulgence, treat or reward?
I’m going to be completely honest with you, I believe in indulging myself. I have my favorite Starbucks drink everyday. I keep good, really dark chocolate in the pantry and break off a chunk daily. I also make time for Pilates because it just makes me feel so good. Oh, and did I mention red wine? I must because it’s my favorite way to reward myself after a productive day writing. Ahh . . . enjoy.
Do you watch TV and if so, what do you watch?
I do - and for the most part the shows I watch have nothing to do with crime and punishment. I adore Mad Men and True Blood. The Office and 30 Rock always make me laugh, and I watch them with the family. We’re also American Idol junkies and have a party every week during the season with equally addicted friends. And if I need a bit of dependable, brain-numbing, stare-at-the-tube time, HGTV is my go-to fave.
Is there something you can share that readers might not already know about you?
I’m sort of a klutz. Not the trip over myself while I’m walking kind, but the any kind of sports, mechanical device kind. Some illustrious examples from my past: First time I tried to ride a bicycle, I went careening into a ditch. Got on my brother’s mini bike, confused accelerating for braking. It wasn’t pretty. Tried horseback riding with grim results. The first time I drove after I got my license, I nearly caused a fifteen car pile-up. Most recently, I dropped a Kettlebell on my foot. I’d thought I’d outgrown it, but the Kettlebell incident made me realize I’ve only learned to compensate. The safest place for me, it seems, is sitting in front of my computer!
When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?
When I was about ten years old I wrote a story about a woman whose husband was trying to kill her. They lived in a big house at the top of a mountain. The husband’s dastardly plan for delivering death? A big rock placed under her brake pedal. When she started down that mountain and went to brake--careening over the side she would go! Even with that, I didn’t realize I wanted to be a writer until twenty years later. My killers have gotten a lot more clever since then, but their hearts are still in the same place. And so, apparently, is mine.
What inspires your muse?
Life. Being out among people. Sneaking off to a movie in the middle of the day. Eavesdropping on conversations
. The quiet. A coming storm. Prayer. Being alone. Walking. Christmas lights. It may sound like a lot, but you should see the list of things that shuts her down! (Yes, my muse is a she.)
Do you ever scare yourself?
Absolutely. My pulse will race right along with my character's! I also find myself cringing, holding my breath and wincing. Since I do alot of my writing at a coffee house, I've caught people looking at me strangely. I'm sure they think I am a complete nut job.
Who is Detective Stacy Killian?
My readers first met Stacy Killian in SEE JANE DIE. Jane’s sister, a homicide detective with the Dallas, Texas police force, was tough and testy, loyal and smart, with a chip on her shoulder the size of a boulder.
As I wrote SEE JANE DIE, Stacy kept trying to take the story away from Jane. Finally, after I promised Stacy I’d write her story, she quieted down. I kept my promise, brought her to New Orleans and paired Spencer Malone, bringing back the Malone family who I’d created in BONE COLD.
Until Stacy, I’d only written stand alone novels. And although I still write stand alones, Stacy and the Malones pop up every few books, demanding their stories be continued.
More Titles from Erica Spindler
*indicates a Stacy Killian/Malone Series
2013 DON’T LOOK BACK* (coming June, 2013)
2011 WATCH ME DIE*
2007 LAST KNOWN VICTIM*
2005 KILLER TAKES ALL*
2004 SEE JANE DIE* (re-released 2009)
2001 BONE COLD* (re-released 2010)
Stand Alones Novels:
2010 BLOODVINES
2009 BREAKNECK
2006 COPYCAT
2003 IN SILENCE (re-released 2009)
2002 DEAD RUN (re-released 2011)
2000 ALL FALL DOWN
1999 CAUSE FOR ALARM
1998 SHOCKING PINK
Slices of Night - a novella in 3 parts Page 8