The Vanishing Angle

Book 5: Will Novak Novel

by Linda Ladd

Genres: Private Investigators; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

A DAY ON THE WATER

A lazy cruise up the Atlantic Coast is all ex-Navy SEAL turned private investigator Will Novak has in mind until thugs ambush him. Novak is kidnapped, drugged, and hauled out of town . . .

A NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY

Taken to a horse farm deep in Virginia, Novak finds himself at the center of the most dangerous kind of family affair. Irina Blackwood, pregnant and desperate, begs for Novak's help to escape. All that stands in their way is her adoptive father—retired Senator Charles Blackwood, one of the most ruthless power brokers in the nation.

A RUN FROM THE MONEY

Given his tastes for espionage, drug trafficking, and corruption, Blackwood's not interested in a fair fight. And with the police on the payroll and a private gang ready to set Novak up for murder, the odds of justice prevailing—or Novak surviving—are getting slimmer by the minute...
 
Praise for Linda Ladd's Claire Morgan Thrillers
 
“One of the most creepy, crawly, and compelling psychological thrillers ever.” —Fresh Fiction
 
“Chilling, compelling suspense...be prepared to lose sleep!” —Eileen Dryer
 
“Exciting, thrill-a-minute!” —Midwest Book Review
 
“Plenty of suspense and surprises.” —Publishers Weekly

Release date: December 24, 2019

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 240

Sample

Chapter 1

One late afternoon on the ides of October, Will Novak tied up the Sweet Sarah, the forty-foot Jeanneau Sun Odyssey sailboat that he had ordered custom-made several years back. Novak was a big man at six feet six inches and two hundred and forty pounds, and needed everything aboard to accommodate his size, at least as much as could be done in the confines of a sailboat. He’d made sure he got a bunk long enough for his legs, which had been his main objective.

Novak had put in earlier that morning at the big marina on the Potomac River several miles south of Washington, D.C. He’d spent a couple of hours scrubbing the salty brine from the blue-and-white hull and battening things down nice and tight before he showered and dressed for his dinner date with Lori Garner. They’d been together for a while now, but she had recently taken a job with the Department of Defense, so he had sailed east to spend some time with her.

Securing the cover of the hatch, he shivered from the chill wind sweeping in off the river. He pulled on a black windbreaker over his blue dress shirt, not yet used to East Coast autumn weather. The temperature had been in the seventies when he’d sailed down the wide and sluggish Bayou Bonne that edged the back of the old Louisiana plantation house he’d inherited from his mother on the day he was born. He had sailed the deep royal blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico in sight of the white beaches before he’d turned and entered the Intracoastal Waterway to Norfolk, Virginia, and then out into the magnificent Chesapeake Bay. Motoring up the Potomac took forever, but it was a beautiful experience with mile after mile of wooded shores, the dark scarlet of giant oaks, and the golden splendor of maples, all glorious to behold, a vivid patchwork quilt that glowed brilliant under the bright sun.

Zipping his jacket, he looked up at the buildings above him, now lit up in the growing darkness and bustling with tourists. He was in National Harbor, Maryland, just south of Washington, a favorite spot for tourists to stay outside the crazy traffic and expensive hotels inside the Beltway. He glanced around the boat, giving it one last visual check. It was battened down tight, all his homemade alarm systems in place, a habit he’d found necessary after he’d become a private investigator and made some enemies that harbored long memories. Novak walked across the dock, glad to be back on solid ground again. They were to meet at a steakhouse he’d suggested to her, one not too far away in northern Virginia. He’d found it when he had spent some time working at the Navy Yard in D.C. That was before he’d joined his SEAL team and been deployed to the Middle East. The Back Alley Grill would take about an hour’s drive, but it would be worth it. They served the biggest and best T-bone steaks that he’d ever eaten in that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He and Lori had met not long ago on a case where they’d worked to put a crooked Galveston judge in prison. They had liked each other instantly, becoming friends and then lovers.

Lori Garner was a veteran like him, having worked as an MP in battle zones and later as a sniper because of her skill with a rifle. But it was her experience and training in IT work that was most in demand. After she’d opted out, she and Novak had worked some cases together while his PI partner, Claire Morgan, was off on maternity leave. A few months ago, she had given birth to the most beautiful little girl whom she and her husband, Nicholas, had christened Olivia Rachel Black. He’d spent the last few months there with them at Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri while recuperating from a gunshot blast to his side that had nearly killed him. Lori had stayed in a cabin with him on that beautiful quiet cove, nursing him back to health and putting up with his foul moods at being confined so long. She had taken this new job almost a month ago.

Now as he climbed the path to the street, he realized how excited he was to spend time with her. The job at the Pentagon had been unexpected. Her training and expertise with computers and programming had made her invaluable to her former Commander. When he had been promoted to a one star and assigned to the Pentagon, he’d immediately requested her to re-opt and work for him, if only temporarily while he got acclimated to his new position. She had agreed to help him set up a new office, but only planned to stay until things evened out.

Novak hoped that was still her plan, but wasn’t so sure it would be. She loved the new work. Her voice was always eager and excited when she told him about her day. Novak was fairly certain she would stay on. That decision was good for her career, but bad for Novak. His gut told him that she would hit him with that news tonight. He couldn’t and wouldn’t stand in her way. She was good at what she did, and she was a woman who knew her own mind. That’s what he liked most about her.

Novak passed lots of tourists, mostly families with young children running out ahead of them. Everyone seemed to be having a great time. He was ready to do the same. The street was lined with bustling restaurants and pricey boutiques. There were several condominiums up on the hill above the river. On his left, a giant Ferris wheel was silhouetted against the darkening dusk, flashing red and blue and green geometric patterns against the night sky. He could hear distant screams from those in the swinging cars stopped up top. They could probably see the Washington Monument from that high, maybe even the Capitol dome.

Novak did not plan on going into the city while there, no way. He’d had enough of the traffic in that place to last him a lifetime. He hoped Lori had picked out a nice quiet Bed and Breakfast somewhere out in Virginia near the steakhouse. Two weeks out there with Lori all to himself sounded damn good.

The Uber driver was waiting inside a black Cadillac at the next intersection. The woman was an African-American who looked about forty but was probably older. When he tapped on her window, she climbed out in a hurry and greeted him in a friendly but professional manner. She identified herself as Mrs. Betsy McClelland. She asked him about luggage, but he held up the black nylon backpack that he always carried with him in case of emergencies. It had his clothes for the weekend, as well as burner phones, water, energy bars, GPS vehicle trackers, and medical supplies. He’d learned to always be prepared while with the SEALs and later as a PI. That little precaution had saved his life more than once. He never left home without it. He climbed into the front passenger seat and placed his bag on the floor at his feet.

McClelland asked for his destination and read it into her vehicle’s GPS. Novak waited, rubbing absently at the thick scar tissue across the left side of his waist. The wound was practically healed now but still ached some. The cooler temperature didn’t help. Briefly he relived that existential moment in the Guatemalan jungle when the man he’d tracked there had pulled the trigger on a .357 magnum. The slug had knocked Novak off his feet, and he hadn’t remembered much after that until he’d regained consciousness in a hospital bed in Guatemala City. He’d been lucky. A few inches higher and the bullet would have exploded his chest cavity. Yep, Novak was lucky to be alive. That kind of near-death experience made a man consider his life choices. The recovery had been a long, hellish ordeal, but he was better now, almost back to his old self.

Novak didn’t encourage conversation on the drive, and the lady didn’t force any. She did tell him that the Back Alley Grill was the best place around and their T-bone steaks melted in your mouth like butter. He told her that he already knew that, and then asked her about the six little kids in the photograph on the dash. She said they were her grandchildren—a seventh was on the way. He told her she looked too young for grandchildren, to which she scoffed and then laughed. She asked no questions about his life, and the rest of the drive was silent. He liked her immensely.

The Back Alley Grill was in a nondescript huddle of buildings not far past White Oak, Virginia. The rural highway where they ended up was practically deserted, all the work-weary commuters on the Interstates headed out of D.C. Lori had texted on the drive with news that she’d booked them into a private cottage at a B&B south of Fredericksburg so it would be an easy drive after dinner. Apparently, Betsy McClelland knew the route by heart, and in no time the little cluster of red-bricked buildings around the famous restaurant appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It was an old center that had catered to farmers in the old days. The street was lined by those ancient two-storied buildings that looked to be from the Civil War era, with raised wood sidewalks and tattered awnings and big plate-glass front windows. It appeared most shops were now empty. He hoped the steakhouse was still in operation.

Last time he’d visited, the same street had been bustling with people eating ice cream and playing video games in the arcades. Now it looked like a ghost town. They passed little traffic and no pedestrians until Betsy turned into the narrow alley that led to the restaurant. That’s where the excitement began. Five vehicles were lined up between the brick buildings. People were walking up from the parking lot down at the far end of the alleyway. A group of diners crowded under the canopied entrance while others formed a line against one wall.

An attendant stood at the door, no doubt shooing away disappointed people without reservations. He was a big guy, maybe six feet and one or two inches, stocky and muscular but with a pudgy belly where anybody fighting him would punch him first. He was dressed like a trendy nightclub bouncer, wearing a black leather jacket with lots of unnecessary zippers and tight black jeans with leather boots. He was blond and used a lot of gel to make his hair stand up straight in a widow’s peak. He was God in that alley, with his own red velvet rope suspended between metal posts to reinforce his power to choose.

Betsy braked and inched along with the other cars until they reached the doorman under his canopy. Novak thanked her, grabbed his backpack, and exited the car, and Betsy drove away, job well done and with a sizable tip. The minute he got out, his olfactory senses were hit with a smell that could only be described as heaven-sent. After weeks on the water enjoying his own cooking, his stomach reacted violently to the aroma of perfectly seasoned grilled beef. He’d had nothing to eat since that morning, and that was a bowl of cornflakes. His mouth watered.

Unlucky people who thought they could get a table without reservations stood subdued and patiently waiting, probably owing to the size of the bouncer. He eyed Novak and frowned. Tough guys gave Novak attitude because he was usually bigger and stronger than they were. This guy acted as if he were manning an official White House gala for important dignitaries. Novak ignored him and glanced around for famous faces out of the Beltway. He’d never eaten here without at least one or two politicians, lobbyists, or news anchors at nearby tables. He didn’t see anybody of note. All Novak wanted was to get a table and order his steak.

The bouncer had to look up to Novak. He didn’t like that, either. His plastic nameplate said Jack Casinger. Jack had broad shoulders and bulging arms that he kept folded across his chest. He looked Novak up and down as if gauging whether Novak was going to start a brawl. Novak hoped he didn’t try to search him, as he was carrying concealed, a Kimber .45, just like he always did. Novak waited politely, then gave the guy the name on the reservation. Lori had been given permission to use her new boss’s influence, which appeared to have significant pull with this guy. He acted suitably impressed and quickly swung open the door, standing back for Novak to enter.

The restaurant interior was more impressive than the alley outside. It was old-fashioned, a shabby-chic decor. It looked like an old tintype of some elegant restaurant where Abraham Lincoln would court Mary Todd at dinner. The lighting was subdued with replicas of gas-flamed chandeliers. Maroon-flocked wallpaper that looked soft to the touch festooned the walls behind booths covered with worn black leather. About twenty tables were positioned in the main room, each covered with pristine white linen and a flickering oil lamp. Most were full of customers, and the people looked happy. Two rooms opened off on each side, and could be glimpsed through velvet-curtained arches. The long mahogany bar at the back was crowded. Behind the bar, murals made of beautiful stained glass depicted scenes inside a turn-of-the-century New York saloon.

It didn’t take long for an effusive, eager-to-please, but tired young hostess to come running, vellum menus in hand. At his request, she led him to a quiet table for two sitting inside a shallow alcove near the front door. Novak took the chair that placed his back to the wall and gave him a clear view of the room and front door. Old habits died hard, but they’d also kept him alive despite a few close calls. As he watched the other diners, an incoming text vibrated inside his pocket. He pulled out his cellphone. It was Lori, apprising him that she’d been delayed by a meeting lasting longer than expected. She told him to go ahead and order without her; she’d get there within the hour. Novak was hungry enough to go ahead, so he scanned the red-tasseled menu and ordered the biggest T-bone they had, medium rare and topped with the delectable butter-sautéed onions he remembered so well. The girl scribbled it all down in a hurry and smiled at him, as if she’d known what he wanted before he opened his mouth. Novak spent the wait studying the patrons sitting around him. He saw no familiar faces, but lots of couples and family units. Nobody paid attention to him, so he watched the outside door for Lori, his eagerness to see her embarrassing him somewhat.

The giant steak came out, covered with those onions and still sizzling on a hot metal serving dish, along with a second text from Lori telling him to go ahead and eat. She was about thirty minutes away. The place was still loud and busy with new groups continually being seated. Each time the front door opened, he looked up, expecting to see Lori.

This time it wasn’t his date standing at the entrance. It was a young woman, quite young, probably not yet twenty. She had bleached her hair to a bizarre stark white shade with maybe four inches of jet-black roots showing. Her hair boasted the kinky, coiled-up kind of curls, like Shirley Temple’s. It fell around her shoulders in a big bushy, unkempt mass. She was impossibly skinny, which of course was the fashion of the day, and she wore a pair of white jeans so tight that nothing was left to the imagination. She had either bought them ripped apart at the knees, or attacked them with scissors herself. Novak often wondered about the intelligence of the youth.

She had black tights underneath her jeans and brown fuzzy boots he vaguely recalled as “Uggs.” Lori had a pair, or he wouldn’t have had a clue. The woman’s red-and-black, buffalo-plaid flannel shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open over a white T-shirt. More noticeably, she was absolutely strung out on some kind of illegal drug. It looked to Novak as if she were in the last stages of opioid withdrawal. Her eyes looked teary and tired and bloodshot, and she kept wiping her runny nose on the back of her shirtsleeve. She kept shivering and holding her stomach as if she had cramps. Her movements were jerky, and she looked ready to come apart at the seams. Novak put down his knife and fork, watching her for whatever was going to happen next, because something was definitely going to. Her eyes darted around nervously. She came off as frantic. He felt that if she didn’t get a fix soon, she would start screaming and overturning tables.

There were two men with her, both also clad in flannel, one in green plaid, the other in blue plaid. They looked a bit older than her. They hemmed her in tight on both sides and looked like twin lumberjacks in a Paul Bunyan tale. Neither was tall, maybe around five feet nine or ten. Their brown hair was shaggy and uncut on their back of their necks, and they looked as if they were trying to grow beards, but without much luck. Their faces were tanned brown, and they both wore I’ll-slit-your-throat expressions. He had a feeling they were well-acquainted with bar brawls and drunk tanks. They were either guarding her or controlling her—it was hard to tell.

Novak decided fairly quickly that it was the latter. He would also bet both those guys had concealed weapons, probably handguns in belt holsters tucked under all that worn flannel. The three young guests looked out of place beside the other patrons of the elegant eatery, in dress, demeanor, and state of mind. No one around seemed to notice the trio except for Novak, all continuing to eat and talk and sip wine. Novak wondered why the bouncer had let them in. She was obviously in bad shape and about to lose it. Novak’s instincts for impending danger flamed up bigtime. These three young people were not there for a cut of steak. They were trouble waiting to happen.

Novak had been an NYPD detective for a couple of years before he’d joined the military. Now he had gone private. Those experiences made him savvy to the street. Something bad was about to happen. The young woman was in trouble. She looked ready to collapse as she scanned the tables, obviously looking for someone. Those big watery eyes were heavily blackened with eyeliner and eye shadow, reminiscent of the stark Cleopatra look. They darted from table to table, definitely searching for someone or something.

Novak pushed back his chair and got ready. Something would happen in the next few minutes. When her drug-addled eyes fixed on him, he met her stare and watched all manner of emotions flit across her face. There was fear behind that look, and what else? Shame? He lifted his glass and took a sip of beer without breaking eye contact. The other diners sat and ate, blithely unaware. The hostess was nowhere in sight; maybe she knew something about those three kids that Novak didn’t. A lifetime of facing felons and criminals told him to be poised to act. Then the kinky-haired blonde junkie lifted her arm and pointed a forefinger directly at Novak.

Novak put down his glass and waited. The two men approached him. The girl remained standing beside the door, looking terrified. That wasn’t good, either. The Paul Bunyan clones stopped on either side of Novak’s chair in a play to intimidate him. They kept their backs turned to the other customers. Two pairs of big brown eyes pinned him to the chair. Their pupils looked normal. They were not using drugs, at least not at the moment. The guy on his left carried a SIG M17. The other man had his hand resting on the butt of a Glock 19. Both weapons were outfitted with small silencers that looked homemade, yet another bad sign. Hick bullies and rednecks did not use silencers. They reveled in loud bangs.

“You don’t have to get hurt or play the hero,” the guy in green plaid finally said. He sported some patchy black scruff on his cheeks. His eyes, the color and size of black marbles, riveted on Novak’s face. “Just come along outside with us, nice and quiet-like. Nobody gets hurt.”

Novak sat unmoving. He felt it highly unlikely they would shoot him down inside a steakhouse in front of fifty witnesses, but they looked quite stupid, so they might. “Why don’t you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t finish my steak? What’s your problem? I don’t know you and I don’t want to.”

Novak’s calm reply annoyed the second guy, the one with no facial scruff and a black knit watch cap pulled down over his ears. It looked out of place inside. His voice was low and gravelly, like Louis Armstrong’s. “You stay in that chair, mister? Somebody’s gonna get hurt bad.”

“And that would be you two.”

His remark appeared to startle them. They hazarded nervous glances at each other. Watch Cap tried to look tough. “See that pretty little girl standing over there by the door? Her life just might depend on what you do right now. Put that in your pipe, mister.”

Novak shifted his attention to the strung-out teenager in the tight white pants. She was watching them, fingers fidgeting together, eyes darting everywhere as if expecting all hell to break loose. She needed a hit in the worst way. He didn’t know her, was certain that he’d never laid eyes on her before. But she was in trouble, he knew that much.

Novak weighed his options. There weren’t many. Things could go bad fast inside a crowded dining room, could escalate and explode in gunfire and collateral damage that might include small children. These young men were not mental giants, but they could bolster each other’s courage and cause major injuries at the surrounding tables. “Okay, fellas, I’ll bite. What’s this all about?”

Scruff said, “Get up and walk outside with us. We don’t want to hurt anybody.”

Novak didn’t really believe that. His own wellbeing was definitely in no man’s land. Still, they were being civil, and he could take them both on any day of the week, especially if they didn’t want to shoot up the place. They couldn’t disarm him, anyway. He could disarm them both before they blinked. That’s how green they were. He clicked off a mental list of possible outcomes. At the best, their altercation would escalate into a two-against-one knockdown-drag-out with overturned tables and broken bottles. He was used to odds like that. It would be really nice if Lori showed up about now. She carried, too, and she knew how to use her weapon and fight better than most men. This had to be a case of mistaken identity. He didn’t know them or the girl. Maybe they could work out a peaceful solution to the misunderstanding without anybody getting hurt or ending up dead.

Still, he was irritated because he didn’t finish the T-bone. He rose and dropped enough cash on the table to cover his meal and a tip. The flannel twins stepped back in tandem like two well-trained footmen, but showed a bit of surprise when he stood taller and had about eighty pounds on them. They motioned him to precede them, still in polite fashion. He did so. At the door, the stricken young woman stared up at him. She was a tiny little thing, five feet, maybe less. She looked so terrible and even younger than he’d thought, maybe not more than sixteen or seventeen.

“I’m really, really sorry, mister,” she whispered. Her voice was as shaky as the rest of her.

Then she turned away from him, pulled open the front door, and went out fast. Once in the alley, it was evident that he’d been wrong. She was not the one in trouble with the two thugs. They ignored her. When Novak stepped out, they moved up close on both sides. There was nobody left waiting in line now, no cars dropping off customers, the alley completely deserted. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Lori Garner, either.

Two vehicles were waiting for them, their motors still running. The first car was a brand-new white BMW convertible; the second was a nondescript black Volkswagen van with dark-smoked windows. That would be his ride. On the ground to his right, Mr. Casinger, the burly security guard lay face down on the bricks. The back of his head was a bloody mess.

“Get your hands up,” Watch Cap growled.

Novak obliged him by punching him in the face as hard as he could. He went down on top of the bouncer, blood spewing out of his nose and mouth. Novak got the other kid by one arm, swung him around and jabbed him in the ear with a doubled fist. He staggered sideways and fell drunkenly against the van. That’s when two other guys, older and better trained, jumped out of the black van. Both had weapons pointed at him. Novak raised his hands. These men looked like professionals. They were dressed in camouflage, and their holsters were strapped low on their thighs beside their Ka-Bar knives.

“Get down on the ground. Now!”

Novak obliged. The guy held his weapon on the back of Novak’s head and placed his knee in the small of his back. He frisked him, quickly and expertly, and pulled out Novak’s Kimber 1911 .45 caliber. He took it, put it inside Novak’s backpack, and threw it into the van.

“Okay, you got me. What’s this all about?”

One of the camo guys barked orders. “Get up, you two losers, and get back in the van. Irina, you’re riding in that Beamer.” Then he stood back and held the gun on Novak’s face. “Okay, get up. Don’t try anything stupid.”

The little blonde junkie hurried over to the white car and got into the back seat. The BMW drove away while Novak was muscled toward the van. Even with his side nearly healed, he wasn’t sure he could take down all four of these guys at once. Not when they all had pistols trained on him. Now he was curious. He wanted to stall to give Lori time to show up and save the day, but she didn’t appear. He hated it when she was late.

Novak considered things for a moment. If these guys had wanted him dead, this dark, deserted alley wouldn’t be a bad place to put him down. Scruff opened the door for him, Mr. Polite, all of a sudden. Nobody said anything. They pushed Novak inside. He was not bound, which was their first big mistake. They were still asking for cooperation instead of pistol-whipping him. But the moment he was inside, they jerked a black hood over his head, and he felt the jab of a needle in the side of his neck. He felt the burn of whatever had been injected, having about three seconds to get angry before the drug hit his conscious mind like a weighted baseball bat.

Chapter 2

Novak tried to force open his eyelids, instantly felt dizzy, and shut them. His mind was spinning thoughts like a spider on crack. He couldn’t remember much. There had been a black hood over his head, he thought he remembered, but it was gone. That made him anxious. He knew he was disarmed and outnumbered and shot full of some drug. The girl, she’d had that kinky blond hair. She’d gotten him into this thing. He stayed still and tried to clear up the blurry recollections. The men had worn flannel shirts, different colors.

When he realized he was inside a car, he sat up and felt people close beside him. He opened his eyes and saw them clearly. The one on his right smelled like blood, and had a tissue stuffed up his nostrils. The other guy kept rubbing his ear. Two more men rode in the front seat. They were the bad ones. The van was quiet. Nobody said anything. He could hear the tires on the pavement,. . .