From modern-day New York to Victorian London, one thrilling mystery brings together two passionate souls-for all time . . . Homicide detective Mick Giovanni has seen lot a strange things in the NYPD-but nothing like Miss Lettitia Merryweather. Waltzing into his precinct dressed like some actress on Masterpiece Theater, the stunning British beauty implores Mick to find her missing sister. The strange part is, she disappeared in London-in 1888. Of course, Mick doesn't believe Lettitia. Until he steps through a time portal onto a gaslit street-and sees a newspaper headline that reads: Jack the Ripper Still At Large. . . For Mick, it's the dream of a lifetime-a chance to hunt down the most notorious killer in history. But for Lettitia, it's all too personal, and Mick is her only hope. The tough, handsome cop has only seven days to solve the world's greatest mystery before he loses his chance to go home. But the closer Mick gets to the truth, the deeper his feelings for Lettitia grow. Even if he solves the case, can these two soul mates say goodbye to a love that was meant for all time?
Release date:
September 2, 2014
Publisher:
Forever Yours
Print pages:
368
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“Hey, Micky. The lieutenant wants to see you in her office. Pronto.”
Glancing toward the closed office door on the other side of the homicide department, Mick Giovanni muttered a few choice words under his breath. His shift had ended two hours ago. The only reason that he was still at the precinct was to finish the paperwork on the Paco Rivera collar. Resigned to his fate, he shoved himself to his feet, unable to shake the feeling that the gangbanger’s earlier arrest was exactly what Lieutenant Wanda Chu wanted to speak to him about.
Squaring his shoulders, Mick strode toward the closed door, giving it an obligatory knock before entering. His supervisor had a well-deserved reputation as a ball-breaker, and he wasn’t about to let her take a cattle prod to any of his private parts. If it hadn’t been for him, Rivera would still be hanging at Delgado’s Cantina instead of jockeying for elbow room at Central Booking.
Believing that the ends justified the means—at least when it came to murdering gang-bangers like Paco Rivera—Mick beat his hard-nosed supervisor to the punch. “You’re going to ream me over the Rivera collar, aren’t you?”
“I’m impressed. You’ve just added mind reader to your super-hero résumé.”
“Glad I caught you in a good mood,” Mick deadpanned as he plopped into one of the two chairs situated in front of Chu’s desk.
“You do know, Giovanni, that your badass cop routine is starting to wear thin.”
“All right. So the Powers-That-Be won’t be giving me a commendation for the collar.” Mick gave a disinterested shrug. “That still doesn’t take away from the fact that I nailed our man.”
“The way I heard it, you were one step away from smashing a beer bottle over his head.”
“Hey, all I did was pour the beer onto his head.” And, yeah, maybe he did then make a few bellicose threats with the empty Bud bottle that, in hindsight, were a little over the top.
“Let’s hope that Paco Rivera doesn’t get the bright idea to file a lawsuit against you.”
Mick snorted, letting her know what he thought about that idea.
To his consternation, Wanda Chu’s glacial expression suddenly softened. “I’m worried about you, Mick. Lately, you’ve been displaying the classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Post-traumatic stress disorder? Battling a strong urge to bolt from the office, Mick said, “I think you’re blowing the bust at the cantina way out of proportion.”
“Bullshit,” she shot back, proving what Mick knew all along—there wasn’t a meek bone in Wanda Chu’s 5’2” body. “Your behavior is getting more erratic with each passing month. Look, I know that Tommy O’Fallon’s death was hard to take, and your divorce didn’t help matters. If those were the only two things you had to contend with, you probably could have grieved the losses and moved on with your life. But while the rest of New York was watching the Kingsborough Massacre unravel on their big-screen TVs, you were right there amidst the carnage. That’s a painful cross for any man to bear.”
Lieutenant, you have no freakin’ idea just how heavy that particular cross is.
For nearly fourteen months, Mick had been Monday-morning quarterbacking. Imagining, again and again, what he could have done differently on that fateful day. For starters, he would never have chased after the second gunman. Because, as he discovered three minutes after he’d rushed from the library lobby, the male student menacingly dressed in black tactical attire had been clutching a cell phone in his hand rather than a semi-automatic handgun.
In those three lost minutes, a lone gunman had slaughtered thirty-one people and wounded another twenty-four in the northeastern stairwell of the Robert J. Kibbee Library.
The gunman, a twenty-three-year-old male student who suffered from anxiety disorder and had an obsession with violent video games, had meticulously plotted the massacre. Not only had the murderous bastard purchased a locksmith’s master key online—which he’d used to access the library’s electrical circuit box—but he’d purposefully blown out the windows on the fifth floor, inciting a wild stampede of students into the stairwell. And because the gunman had used his master key beforehand to lock the stairwell doors leading to the second through fourth floors, he was then able to stand at the top of the stairs and gun down the terrified mob of students with a semi-automatic rifle outfitted with a 100-round drum magazine. Like shooting fish in the proverbial barrel.
Tommy O’Fallon had been trapped in that panic-stricken crush. Although he managed to fire fifteen rounds, fatally wounding the gunman, Tommy didn’t make it out alive; he died a bonafide hero, having made the ultimate sacrifice. One that didn’t have to happen. If Mick had done things differently that day, if he’d been there to back up his partner, maybe Tommy would have lived. Had Mick immediately ascended the other stairwell, he could have snuck up on the gunman from behind and taken him out, saving an untold number of lives.
Instead, Mick had lost his best friend, best man, and brother-in-arms. In the massacre’s aftermath, he also eventually lost his wife and, according to some people, his youth. But Mick figured that was bandied about simply because his dark hair had gone salt-and-pepper over the last year.
“Okay, so I’m suffering from a mild case of burnout,” Mick said, hoping to pacify the Lieutenant. “If I cut back on the longer shifts, will that you make you happy?”
“If I thought it was nothing more than a ‘mild case of burnout,’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I can’t keep making excuses for you, Mick. This past year you’ve been Satan’s gift to law enforcement.”
“I’ve also closed more cases this past year than anyone else in the department,” he argued in his defense.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Christ, this was worse than having an argument with his ex.
Holding his gaze, Chu slid a small white card across the desk, motioning that she wanted him to pick it up. When he did, Mick audibly groaned.
“This group therapy shit is for wusses.”
“And being Rambo cop is going to get you thrown off the force. Face it, Giovanni, you’ve become an adrenaline junkie. You’re living from high to high in order to suppress the emotional pain of having witnessed the city’s worst atrocity since 9/11.”
Trying to ignore the acid churning in his gut, Mick said, “No disrespect, Lieutenant, but I don’t see Ph.D. printed on your nameplate. Whoever said we were supposed to treat these sleazeballs with kid gloves?”
“You’re a professional. That means following protocol when making an arrest.”
“I always do the paperwork.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Mick. Somewhere along the line, you got it into your head that you’re judge and jury all rolled into one. And just so you don’t get it into your head to become the executioner, I want you to take some time off to reflect on where your career is headed. You’re long overdue for a vacation. I don’t want to see your face in this office for another two weeks.” That said, Wanda Chu shuffled through her inbox, signaling that the conversation-slash-inquisition had concluded.
Feeling every one of his thirty-eight years, Mick wearily got to his feet. He had to hand it to the Lieutenant—she sure knew how to throw her punches. In fact, she’d hit him so hard, so fast, he’d never had time to duck.
God, I need a Tums.
With that thought in mind, Mick slunk back to his desk. Halfway there, he stopped in his tracks. While he’d been undergoing the third degree with the Lieutenant, the latest crime scene photos from last night’s homicide on Larimer Street had been posted in the briefing room. Pulling a ragged breath of air into his lungs, he stared through the glass wall at the gruesome display. Even for a seasoned homicide detective, the pics were hard to swallow; some sick bastard had butchered a young prostitute. In his haste to escape, the killer had left various eviscerated organs scattered across the murder scene.
Mick was grateful he hadn’t shagged the call. From what he heard, they’d canvassed the area and hadn’t come up with a single lead.
“Slice ’em and dice ’em, eh, Micky?” Len Walkowski, the detective who’d caught the case, smiled ghoulishly as he walked past.
Mick simply nodded. That kind of gallows humor was par for the course in a homicide department. If they didn’t make light of the senseless tragedies, they’d all go freakin’ mad.
Back at his desk, Mick grabbed a pack of Tums from the top drawer and unrolled two tablets.
“What’s the matter, Giovanni? Did the Lieutenant hurl a few choice body parts into that meat grinder she keeps hidden in the supply cabinet?”
Glancing at the detective who was sprawled at the adjacent desk, Mick shot Jay Daugherty a wry grin. “Nah. She begged me to run away with her to Tahiti. Of course, as popular as I am with the ladies, I told her I’d have to check my calendar and get back to her.”
“A real silver fox, aren’t you?”
Before Mick could lob a comeback, Sergeant Gail McBride nudged him in the ribs. “Oh, Michelangelo. You’ve got a lady friend waiting to see you.” She nodded toward the wooden deacon’s bench positioned against the far wall.
Mick craned his neck in that direction.
“You cannot be serious,” he muttered under his breath.
Although he knew it was rude, Mick couldn’t help but stare. Obviously, someone had forgotten to tell his “lady friend” that Halloween had come and gone.
“Who’s she supposed to be, Mary Poppins?” Daugherty snickered. “Jeez, man, I know you’re hard up for a date, but you could have done better than the Disney dating service.”
“Maybe she’s someone’s idea of a birthday gag,” his partner Jermaine Greer chimed in as he slapped a manila envelope on Mick’s desk. “Any minute, she’s gonna jump on top of a desk, whip off the hat, the gloves, and the long black skirt, then do a little bump and grind while she sings, ‘A Spoonful of Sugar.’ ”
“My birthday was last month. Not that you remembered,” Mick added, taking a swipe at his partner.
“Since we’re taking a poll, I read in today’s paper that they’re filming a movie at that big Victorian mansion over on Hancock Street,” Gail remarked, clearly eager to put in her two cents. “Some kind of costume drama. What do you wanna bet she’s an extra?”
“Instead of taking bets, how about I just go over and find out what she wants? Sound like a plan?” Mick reached for the sports jacket on the back of his chair. Noticing the torn sleeve, he gave a resigned shrug. Earlier in the day, he’d ripped out the armhole when he tackled Paco Rivera to the ground. If the lady wanted GQ, she should have asked for Jermaine.
As Mick approached the strangely clad woman sitting on the visitor’s bench, he started to get a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, the kind of feeling that no amount of Tums could cure. The lone woman was a study in black—black hat, black clothes, black hair pulled onto the top of her head. Daugherty wasn’t kidding. She really did look like Mary Poppins.
Correction. As Mick got closer, he could see that she looked like Angelina Jolie dressed like Mary Poppins. Man, talk about a pair of world-class lips.
“Can I help you?” Mick inquired, realizing too late that he sounded more curious than courteous.
The woman glanced up at him, a startled look in her gray eyes. “You are Inspector Giovanni?”
The dulcet tones of a well-bred English accent took him aback.
“Um, actually, I’m Detective Giovanni. What can I do for you?”
Visibly nervous, she cleared her throat. Just before she licked her lips. Oh, man. Seeing her pink tongue dart across that lush mouth caused another wave of acid to churn up in Mick’s belly. And a wave of something else to burn a little lower down. He’d obviously been without a woman far too long if he could get turned on by someone wearing a goofy costume.
“I need to speak to you regarding a personal matter of some urgency,” the woman informed him in her clipped Masterpiece Theatre accent.
“Listen, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Do you mind if we take this conversation across the street to the diner? We’ll also have more privacy over there,” he added, not wanting to give Jermaine and Company more fodder.
“As you wish.”
Despite his best intentions not to look, Mick couldn’t help but notice that the strangely clad woman had a truly magnificent pair of breasts and a waist no bigger than those embroidery hoops that his ex-wife used to leave around the house. Now that’s one helluva body. Like the lips, it was world-class. And completely at odds with the weird get-up.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Mick remarked as he gestured toward the stairs that led to the street. “You know my name, but—”
“Dear me. How could I have been so remiss?” Coming to a standstill, she extended a gloved hand in his direction. “I am Miss Lettitia Merryweather.”
He stared at the elegantly gloved hand. Rather than hold it out as one would to shake hands, she held it palm downward. Knowing that there were at least three pairs of eyes watching his every move, Mick grabbed her hand and gave it a firm, impersonal shake.
“Nice to meet ya, um, Miss Merryweather.” He’d almost said, “Nice to meet ya, Lettitia,” but thought better of it at the last minute. She was, after all, the one who’d affixed the “Miss” to her name.
Because of her Masterpiece Theatre costume, they garnered more than a few stares as they left the precinct and made their way across the street.
Mick held open the door to the diner, allowing her to enter ahead of him. “I take it that you’re an actress.”
“An actress!” Lettitia exclaimed, clearly appalled. “Whatever would make you think such a thing?”
For starters, how about the costume and the phony English accent?
“I just thought, what with this being New York, that, um…” his voice trailed off as he motioned her toward an empty table in the corner.
The diner boasted a retro fifties decor that was worse for wear, having seated several generations of cops from the Nine-four. While the joint wasn’t for the discriminating gourmet, if you overlooked the ripped vinyl seats and gouged Formica tabletops, you could imbibe strong coffee and wolf down the best damned coconut cream pie in the borough.
“So about this urgent personal matter that you need to speak to me about?”
Lettitia primly folded her gloved hands together. “I really don’t… don’t quite know how to explain matters in a way that… that you could comprehend.”
About to tell the lady that he wasn’t a moron and that he could even do higher mathematics on occasion, Mick said instead, “The beginning is usually a good place to start.”
For several moments, Lettitia stared at the tabletop. Then, taking a deep breath, she raised her head, looked him squarely in the eye, and said, “There have been a number of murders, most foul, committed against the unfortunates in the East End. That is why the Metropolitan police will pay no heed to my queries. With a murderer on the loose, they claim they cannot be bothered investigating my sister Emmaline’s disappearance. Out of sheer desperation, I’ve come to you, Detective Giovanni.”
Wearily, Mick pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. If there’d been “a number of murders, most foul,” committed anywhere in the boroughs, he would have already heard about it. Which meant the lady was a complete nutzoid. One of those eccentric types who hung out with the winged bats in the belfry.
Christ. I need this like I need a hole in my head.
Mick flipped to a blank page and uncapped his pen. “Okay, these supposed murders in the East End, I take it that you’re referring to some place in Brooklyn?”
“Oh, dear, I am making a muddle of this, aren’t I?” She wrung her gloved hands together. “I was referring to the East End of London.”
“London? As in the capital of Merry Olde England?”
She nodded.
With a flip of the wrist, Mick closed his notebook.
“Just so I’m clear: You made a trip all the way from London, England, to talk to me about your sister’s disappearance from the East End?”
“That is precisely what I did. Although the trip was not as long as one would imagine. Because of the time portal, the journey was rather brief in duration.”
Mick bit his lower lip, barely able to keep a straight face.
“You haven’t been taking your medication, have you, Miss Merryweather?”
* * *
“Do not mock me, sir.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Highness.”
Lettitia stared at the man seated across from her. The ripped jacket and stubbled face clearly distinguished him as belonging to a lower social class. No man of her acquaintance would dare show himself in such unseemly attire. True, his features were handsome in an exotic Mediterranean sort of way and, yes, he had a tall, manly physique, but she’d had all she could take of his oafish behavior.
“I was informed that you were a gentleman. Evidently, I was led astray.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart,” he said with a dismissive shrug.
Lettitia clenched her hands together in an effort to curb her anger. “You are an officer of the law. Does it not interest you that my sister Emmaline may be the victim of a dastardly deed?”
One side of his mouth quirked upward; her comment obviously amused him.
“ ‘A dastardly deed,’ huh? Maybe you should have contacted Dudley Do-Right.”
“I am unacquainted with this Dudley person. Madame was certain that you would—”
“Hey, Micky. What’ll it be?” A woman dressed in a grease-splattered frock stood at the side of their table. Like the other females of this day and age, her garment was shamefully abbreviated, the hemline stopping just above her knees.
“I’ll have the meatloaf, but hold the corn and give me an extra serving of potatoes,” Detective Giovanni replied. “And don’t forget the coffee.”
“You got it, sugar. How about you?”
Several seconds passed before Lettitia belatedly realized that she’d been addressed. “I’m not certain that my money—”
“Order whatever you want,” Detective Giovanni interjected. “It’s on me.”
“In that case, I shall have a cup of coffee.” She smiled shyly at the detective. “Thank you, sir. You are most kind.”
“I take it she hasn’t known you very long,” the other woman chortled before taking her leave.
“So, tell me, Morticia, how often do you travel through this time portal of yours?”
“My name is Lettitia,” she corrected. “Which is beside the point since I did not give you permission to address me as such. And to answer your question, this is the first time that I have traveled through the time portal. Although Madame Mazursky has frequently—Dear me, I did not think to ask: do you recall meeting Madame Mazursky?”
“Er, to be honest, no.”
Lettitia’s heart sank. If he did not recall the promise that he had made to Madame Mazursky, how could she ever convince him to come to her aid? Madame had assured her that Detective Giovanni would help her locate her missing sister.
“Although I worked in vice for a few years, I don’t remember meeting a madam named Mazursky.”
“It has been many years since you made her acquaintance,” Lettitia informed him, hoping to jar his memory. “Fifteen years, to be precise. She, too, traveled through the time portal.”
“If I’d ever met anyone claiming to have traveled through a time portal, trust me, I’d remember.”
“Then you w-won’t help me?” To Lettitia’s chagrin, her voice noticeably shook.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” Detective Giovanni replied, not unkindly. “You just caught me on a bad day. And that wisecrack about not taking your medication… I’m sorry. I was totally out of line.”
His apology and unexpected offer of assistance caused her to smile.
“Truly, you do not know how happy I am to—” Lettitia stopped in mid-sentence as the serving maid approached their table with a tray laden with food.
“Careful, the coffee’s hot,” the woman warned as she set two plain white cups on the table.
Lettitia waited until the serving maid was out of earshot. Still euphoric over his offer of assistance, Lettitia couldn’t keep from beaming as she said, “Madame Mazursky thinks that you are a knight in shining armor.”
No sooner was the compliment paid than Detective Giovanni burst out laughing, his head, shoulders—indeed, his entire upper body was shaking with mirth.
“ ‘Knight in shining armor’… that’s a good one,” he remarked, still laughing. “Obviously, you’ve never met Lieutenant Chu. She’s convinced that I’m the devil incarnate.”
Unable to stop herself, Lettitia surreptitiously appraised his smiling visage. To her mind, Detective Giovanni looked more like a fallen angel, his handsome countenance most unsettling, unkempt attire notwithstanding.
As the detective commenced to eat his meal, a drawn-out silence ensued.
Lettitia, anxious to return to the matter of her sister’s disappearance, said, “It has been three months since my sister vanished without trace from Whitechapel. I fear a dreadful fate has befallen her.”
“This white chapel, is that where you’ve been staying? I know of a few churches in the area that operate shelters for the homeless. I’d hate to think that you were living on the street.”
“I do not comprehend your meaning, sir.”
“The shelter where you’ve been staying; is it located near a white chapel?” he prompted. “Just give me the street address and I’ll be happy to give you a lift.”
Lettitia shook her head, unable to make sense of his gibberish. To her further bewilderment, Detective Giovanni reached over and gently patted her hand several times.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to confuse you. Since you can’t remember the name of the shelter where you’ve been staying, how about I take you to the New Life Women’s Shelter? From what I understand, the beds are clean and the water is hot. Sound like a plan?”
Not certain what she was agreeing to, Lettitia hesitantly nodded her head.
“Come on, then. My truck is parked in the lot down the street.” Detective Giovanni rose to his feet. He then tossed several green and white bills onto the table. “We need to get you settled before they lock down for the night.”
Noticing that she remained seated, the Detective’s brow furrowed.
“I thought that you were ready to leave.”
“I am,” she replied calmly. “I was merely waiting for you to assist me from the table.”
“Oh… right.” Somewhat awkwardly, he pulled back her chair.
Pleased that she’d secured his cooperation, Lettitia allowed the brash American to lightly clasp her elbow so that they could take their leave of the establishment.
“Over the years, I’ve taken a couple of women to this particular shelter,” the detective remarked a few moments later as he shepherded her down the crowded pedestrian walkway. “I think you’ll like it. They’ve also got a great social worker who can get you into a rehab program.”
Lettitia came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the pavement, beginning to surmise that they were at cross purposes. “I have not seen nor heard from my sister Emmaline since August,” she reiterated.
“Listen, Lettitia, there’s something that you need to get straight: I’m a New York City cop. That means that I can only help you with crimes committed in the five boroughs. Capiche?”
“But if we travel through the time portal, we can return to London. Once there, you can help me search for my sister.”
“No can do, sweetheart. Traveling through time portals makes me seasick.”
“Do not mock me, sir!” At hearing her raised voice, several passersby turned to stare at them. “We must travel through the time portal before day’s end.”
Rolling his eyes, the detective addressed an unseen third party, “God Almighty, how did such a gorgeous woman ever get so messed up?”
At hearing that, Lettitia’s heart beat an erratic tattoo. While she had no idea what he meant by being “messed up,” she did know the meaning of the word “gorgeous,” and never did she think to hear such an extravagant compliment. She’d always been the ugly duckling, the Merryweather sister who was too long-limbed, her nose, mouth, and bust, all too large. Only her eyes, which had once been described as being the color of an English storm cloud, were thought to be passingly attractive. But situated as they were between her turned up, retroussé nose and broad forehead, her eyes rarely received any notice.
Ignoring the accelerated pounding of her heart, Lettitia strove for an air of ladylike dignity. “Sir, I have need of your assistance. What must I give you to take me to Larimer Street?”
“What business do you have on Larimer?” Detective Giovanni inquired, his gaze narrowing.
“That is where the time portal is located.”
“Are you aware of the fact that there was a murder committed today on Larimer just before dawn?”
Good heavens! She had no idea.
Lettitia was about to admit as much when Detective Giovanni said, “Did you see anything?”
Realizing that she’d just been handed a trump card, Lettitia affected what she hoped was a suitably mysterious air. “I saw a great many things whilst on Larimer Street. Moreover, if you take me there, all will be revealed.” Unable to hold his gaze, Lettitia nervously glanced away. Subterfuge did not come easily to her.
Reclaiming her elbow, Detective Giovanni continued down the street. When they finally reached their destination, he removed a ring of curiously fashioned keys from his trouser pocket. Extracting one of them, he inserted it into the door of a red horseless carriage.
“Hop in.”
She eyed the contraption with no small amount of trepidation. “I am perplexed as to how one ascends such a conveyance.”
Shaking his head, Detective Giovanni exhaled a weary breath; the only warning he gave before he placed his hands around her waist and unceremoniously deposited her inside the carriage. He then strapped her into the chair, his arm brushing against her bosom as he did so.
Seating himself beside her, he maneuvered the large conveyance onto the street. To Lettitia’s consternation, the vehicle quickly picked up speed.
A few minutes later, Detective Giovanni b. . .
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