Fallen Five

by Erica Spindler

  She thrummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Dr. Rene Blackwood had not somehow magically transformed herself into a completely different person. Of course, she hadn’t.

  She retrieved her cell, called Zach. “Hey, where are you?”

  “Still at Central Evidence,” he said, sounding frustrated. “They misplaced the watch. I’m going to wait around a little longer. How’s our report coming?”

  Amusement colored his tone. Usually she would play along, but Carmine’s advice rang in her ears. “I had to run up to headquarters, but am returning now. When you get back, we need to talk.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Something my old partner, Carmine, said.” He didn’t like being put off, obvious by his long silence. “It’s about an old case.”

  “The one you mentioned earlier today? The Three Queens?”

  Of course he would guess it, right off. “Yeah, it’s about that case.” Another call beeped through. “I’ve got a call coming in. I’ll see you back at the Eighth.” Micki clicked through. “This is Dare.”

  “I can’t believe you’re letting her get away with it.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Mercedes King. Porsche is here with me. Chief Howard called. Suicide? Really?”

  “The pathologist’s report—”

  “I don’t give a damn what that idiot says. She killed him!”

  Micki heard Porsche murmur something. Probably admonishing her sister to calm down. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Ms. King, there’s nothing to even suggest your stepmother—”

  “Don’t call her that. She was his wife. That’s it.”

  “The coroner classified your father’s death a suicide based on the pathology report. We’ve uncovered nothing to contradict their conclusions. If new evidence emerges, the coroner can reclassify. I’ll stay on it, I promise you that.”

  “What about the five-million-dollar life insurance policy she took out on him? She may have had a prenup, but she’s profiting big time from his death.”

  Micki felt the words like an electric spark. “She took out a policy on your father? When? Nothing came up in our search.”

  “It was taken out through the corporation and she’s the sole beneficiary. I found out this morning.”

  “When was the policy taken out?”

  “It activated the day they got married.”

  “A year ago?”

  “That’s right. Proof she’s been planning this from the beginning.”

  In the mind of an angry, grief stricken daughter, but hardly a smoking gun. “Who authorized the purchase of the policy?”

  For a long moment the other woman was silent. “My father authorized it, but that’s only because—”

  “Ms. King, I would love to help you, but I need something to work with.”

  “We’re talking about five million dollars! That’s something!” Again, Micki heard what sounded like Porsche trying to calm her sister.

  “It is a lot of money,” Micki said, “no doubt about it. And if you told me she took a policy out on his life a week or a month ago, yeah, I’d bring her in right now. But your father authorized his corporation to buy the policy the day they married. Sounds like a wedding present to me.”

  “You have to do something. You’re the police, for God’s sake! It’s your job.”

  Micki counted silently to ten before replying. “I know what my job is, Ms. King. I’m a sworn officer of the New Orleans Police Department. I made an oath to protect and serve the people of this city and uphold the law. Without evidence suggesting otherwise, I have to accept that your father’s death was a suicide. I’m sorry.”

  “She’s moving out. Natalie is moving out.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. The bellman told me a representative from a moving company met with her this morning. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

  “If my husband jumped from the balcony of our home—”

  “He didn’t jump. She drove him to it!”

  “—I’d probably move out, too. I’m sorry, Ms. King, but—”

  “She got in his head, Detective. Somehow, she got in his head and made him do it!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  2:45 P.M.

  Micki drove aimlessly, the rumble of the Nova’s powerful engine a backdrop for Mercedes King’s words, ringing in her head.

  “Somehow she got into his head and made him do it!”

  Just like Rene Blackwood had gotten into her patients’ heads and made them “do it.”

  Micki flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. But Natalie King wasn’t Rene Blackwood. She had to remember that.

  This case was, essentially, closed. It had been ruled a suicide; it was time to move on. No one, from the Chief on down, would support her spending one more minute on it.

  “She’s moving out.”

  Who could blame the woman? Her husband had taken a swan dive off a twenty-first floor balcony, his children despised her and were determined to make her life a living hell. What reason did she have to stay?

  But once she left, she was gone. Out of reach.

  The same as Rene Blackwood had been.

  Micki shook her head. Not necessarily. Natalie King had no reason to leave the country.

  Unless she was hiding something. Unless she had—somehow—helped her husband over the balcony.

  Hank’s advice sounded in her head. The medal warmed.

  “Trust your instincts, girl.”

  Micki rolled to a stop at the traffic light. Up ahead she saw the jewel that was 2 River Tower and Hotel. It rose above the cluster of other buildings, seeming to beckon her.

  Maybe she hadn’t been driving aimlessly, after all. Maybe she should take one last crack at Natalie King.

  Bounce it off Zach, she thought. If he bought into the idea, she’d do it. Maybe he’d even want in?

  The light changed. She simultaneously inched forward and dialed Zach. It rang several times, then went to voicemail. “Hey, partner, just talked to Mercedes King. She told me the widow King is moving out. I’m thinking of taking one last crack at her. Just because. Call me back.”

  Micki ended the call and waited. She circled the blocks on either side of the hotel complex. Five minutes became ten. Then fifteen. Screw it, she decided. What would one quick visit with the woman cost her?

  Chapter Eighteen

  3:05 P.M.

  Zach gazed at the Rolex, lying on the table in front of him. It hadn’t been misplaced, simply moved for pick-up by the family.

  His hands were gloved. They still tingled from handling the timepiece. His ears felt hot and his lips numb.

  No chaotic energy had clung to it. No jumbled thoughts or panic, no sounds at all.

  Only the image of the dark-haired woman.

  Smiling almost slyly, motioning him to follow her. That smile had promised secrets shared, and he’d felt psychically drawn to her. No, more than that, drawn into her.

  The feeling had been bizarre, at once intimate and abhorrent. And he’d jerked his hand away.

  Who was she? And what did she want from him?

  He had to try again.

  Zach reached out, floated his hand over the watch, then lowered it until he curved his fingers around the gold case. Nothing. No heat, no tingle. As if it had never existed—or he was just an ordinary human being without any extraordinary abilities.

  He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, forcibly opening the psychic channel.

  I know you’re there, he silently called. Come out so we can play.

  He waited a moment. When nothing happened, he tried again. You want to play with me, don’t you?

  With an audible crackle, energy gathered, then exploded in his palm and raced up his arm. And there she was, the amber-eyed woman, motioning to him to come closer.

  With his mind, he did, picturing himself walking toward her, taking her outstretched hand. As he did, the woman transformed. Mick was the seductress now. Mick
from that night at the bar, her mouth hungry under his.

  Once he steeled himself against that memory, another took over. Mick transformed into the woman from the other day, trembling in his arms. Open and totally vulnerable.

  Her mouth clinging to his.

  He felt her inhibitions fall away—and with them, all the reasons they shouldn’t be together.

  She didn’t want to play it smart.

  And neither did he.

  Give yourself to me, Zach.

  You want to . . . you know you do . . .

  “Detective Harris?”

  He opened his hand and sprang away from the table. He pulled himself together and glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?” he managed, voice thick, the word slurred slightly.

  “Sorry to startle you, Detective. I wondered if you were going to be much longer. Mr. King’s widow is here to collect his things.”

  “I’m done,” he said, sliding the timepiece back into the bag, hoping the officer didn’t notice the way his hand shook. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  3:35 P.M.

  Despite Thomas King’s gruesome death, 2 River Tower and Hotel had opened on schedule, not delayed by even one day. Thomas King, his board of directors had announced, would have wanted it that way. Judging by the number of people coming and going, the grisly publicity hadn’t hurt business.

  Micki sat on a bench with a clear view of both the building’s entrance and the Tower attendant’s desk. She’d been waiting forty-five minutes and wasn’t giving up. Not yet anyway. This could be the only opportunity she got.

  While she waited, the blue sky had become gray, then turned black. Rain had been in the forecast, coming ahead of a cold front, but Micki had hoped they were wrong.

  They hadn’t been, she acknowledged, wishing for rain gear as the skies opened up and the rain came down in sheets.

  That’s the moment Natalie King swept in, looking ridiculously glamorous in a shimmery, hooded raincoat.

  At the sight of the woman, a sensation like cockroaches scurrying across a tile floor slid up her spine.

  It wasn’t the only time in her life she’d felt this way. At most of the others, however, she’d been much younger and way more vulnerable.

  Micki stood. I’m on to you, Natalie King.

  As if the woman had heard her thoughts, she looked directly at her. And smiled.

  “Game on,” the smile seemed to say.

  Micki crossed to her. “Hello, Mrs. King.”

  “Detective Dare. This is a surprise.”

  “I was hoping we could chat a moment.”

  “Chat? That sounds fun. Like a couple of girlfriends getting together. Come on up.”

  They stepped onto the elevator. Natalie used her key card to access to the twenty-first floor. They didn’t speak again until they were in the luxurious apartment.

  Natalie slipped off her raincoat and laid it over the back of the couch, seemingly unconcerned about the wet coat on the velvet. She was a vision in a black jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a wide, red patent leather belt.

  “I just saw your partner.”

  “Did you?”

  “I was retrieving Thom’s effects.”

  Natalie King positively glowed. Maybe losing the “love of your life,” old fart husband had the same effect as a spa day? Who knew?

  “Not much in there.” She slid a manila envelope from her bag and tossed it to Micki. “Take a look if you like.”

  “No thanks.” She tossed it back.

  The woman caught it neatly and dropped it onto the coffee table. “Glass of wine? I have a fabulous French rosé.”

  “I’m working.”

  The widow cocked a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Surely not? If so, you wouldn’t be here “chatting” with me.”

  She crossed to the kitchen and the wine cooler, a sleek affair that matched the slick gray cabinets. She selected a bottle, then fetched two glasses.

  “You’re handling your grief very well.”

  “Why, thank you. You’re so sweet.”

  Giddy, Micki thought. On top of the world—and completely in control of it.

  The image of Rene Blackwood, her dark eyes devoid of emotion as she discussed her patients’ psychotic breaks, popped into her mind.

  “You seem so familiar to me,” Micki said. “We must have met before the other night.”

  “Impossible. I’m not from around here.”

  “Where are you from, Natalie?” she asked.

  “I spent a good bit of my youth in Trinidad. My father was in the oil industry.” She handed Micki a glass. “What about you?”

  “Mobile.”

  “Alabama?”

  Micki set aside the wine. “You sound surprised.”

  “There’s nothing soft about you.”

  “And you seem older than twenty-six.”

  “I’ve been told that before.” She sipped her wine, made a sound of appreciation. “It’s one of the things Thom loved about me.”

  “Makes sense. That face and body without the silliness of youth.”

  “The total package.” She winked. “A dream come true.”

  “Or a fantasy come to life,” Micki murmured.

  “I like that even better.” She held her glass up in a mock toast, then took a swallow of the wine. “To Thom.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Enjoying what, Detective? Certainly not poor Thom’s death. That would make me a . . . monster.” She carried her wine to the wall of windows and gazed out at the sweeping view. “So wet, so dreary. I hate this time of year.”

  “Where are you planning to go? Someplace sunny, I presume.”

  Natalie looked over her shoulder at Micki. “Mercedes called you, didn’t she?” She smiled and brought the glass to her lips, but didn’t sip. “Or was it Porsche?”

  “Mercedes.”

  “And so you raced right over, like the dedicated civil servant you are.”

  She left the window for the couch and sat on one end, curving her legs under her. She set her glass on the coffee table and scooped up the manila envelope.

  She opened it and peered inside. “As I said, not much here. His wallet.” She drew it out. “His wedding ring.” She held the gold band up to the light, then tucked it into her pocket. “Such a lovely memento of our time together.”

  A chill raced up Micki’s spine. Not a memento, a trophy.

  “How many others do you have?”

  “Wedding bands?”

  “Trophies.”

  Something changed in her eyes. A flicker. Like a ripple in a dark pool.

  Micki’s mouth went dry. She had seen eyes like that before.

  The truth of that would have knocked her to her knees if not for her steel will. She held tightly to it, grateful the woman had turned her attention back to the envelope.

  “Ahh,” she went on, retrieving the Rolex, “his watch, the thing that drew him back up here that night.”

  “I thought you didn’t know what he came up for?”

  “You and your yummy partner told me, remember?”

  Then Micki realized that the widow King was enjoying playing with her. Like a cat, toying with a terrified mouse for a moment before it tore it apart.

  But she was no scared, little mouse. She hadn’t been in a very long time.

  “You enjoy playing with people’s minds, don’t you?”

  “Head games. Yes, very much.”

  “And do you always come out on top, Mrs. King?”

  She smiled serenely. “Of course I do. Silly detective.”

  “You’re so confident. To a fault, I think.”

  “Actually, I’ve earned it.” Natalie King reached for her wine. “I’m gifted in that area.”

  “What area would that be? Fucking with people’s heads?”

  “Your description, not mine.” She held up her glass in a second toast. “Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler. Let the good times roll, Detective Dare.”

&n
bsp; Micki cocked her head. “Which are you? A narcissist or a sociopath?”

  The woman laughed lightly and tapped her chin with her flawlessly manicured finger. “Let’s see, the narcissist believes the whole world revolves around them and the sociopath will do whatever it takes to get what they want. Do I really have to choose?”

  Evil, Micki realized, suppressing a shudder. Natalie King was pure evil.

  Micki narrowed her eyes, motioned toward the watch. “Tell me about the Rolex.”

  “It was his wedding gift from me. I had it engraved on the back.” She turned it over and read the inscription. “Our love. A dream come true.”

  Her exact words from a moment ago. Young, beautiful, and composed beyond her years, this woman had been Thomas King’s dream come true.

  “Another memento?” Micki asked.

  “Oh no. I’ll have it cleaned and sell it.” She carelessly dropped it on the stone table top.

  She was as much as telling her she was guilty, baiting her with the truth—and her inability to do a thing about it.

  Time to strike back. “Has the insurance paid out yet?” There it was again, that liquid shift in her irises. “Five million dollars,” Micki went on. “That’s quite a payday.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m very thankful for Thom’s generosity.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You have something to say to me, Detective Dare?”

  Go for broke, Micki decided. Lay all her cards on the table. “I met a friend of yours.”

  Those eyebrows lifted slightly. “A friend of mine? Really?”

  “Mmm, a shrink. Her name’s Rene Blackwood.”

  Micki waited, praying she took the bait. A moment later, she did.

  “A talented therapist can be a woman’s best friend, don’t you think?”

  “I try to stay away from them.”

  “Don’t want someone poking around in that head of yours, do you? Wouldn’t want someone to know all your secrets?”

  “I think you’re the one with secrets, Natalie. How’d you do it? Hypnosis?”

  “Do what?” She drained her wine and stood to go for a refill.

  “Get your husband to leap off the balcony.”

  The widow laughed, the sound bright, like the tinkle of wind chimes. “You’re delusional, Detective. Thom committed suicide. Everyone knows that now.”