Witness Betrayed

Book 3: Will Novak Novel

by Linda Ladd

Genres: Private Investigators; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

NO FRIENDS Mardi Gras whips New Orleans’ French Quarter into a whirlpool of excess, color, booze, noise, motion. So the woman in the sights of Will Novak’s binoculars stands out. She’s bruised, barefoot, wearing a man’s raincoat. And she’s looking right at him. NO FAITH In a moment she’s fleeing into the crowd, but Novak knows she’s not gone for good. When she comes back, it’s with a gun to his head—and a story about crony politics, a crooked judge, a kidnapped whistleblower, and children in deadly danger. Novak can’t let this one slide. NO FURY Through the grit of Houston’s underbelly to the grime below Beverly Hills’ glamor, a trickle of rot connects the powerful to the desperate and corrupts the men and women who are supposed to stand against it. Deceit is everywhere. If he’s going to do right, Novak is going to have to do it alone . . . 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: October 2, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 262

Sample

Chapter 1

Below Will Novak’s balcony, the final day of Mardi Gras was in full swing. Crowds walked along the narrow width of Bourbon Street, laughing and talking and enjoying the famous New Orleans celebration. The French Quarter was alive with excitement and good cheer, which put police on alert for inevitable drunken altercations. That’s why Novak was watching. From where he sat in a chair drawn close to the wrought-iron rail, he could see several drunks stumbling around inside the crowd and others who looked well on their way to inebriation. His apartment was at the top end of Bourbon Street, so the riotous mass moved down the street in one direction like ants headed to a piece of pecan pie. Across the street, a jazz band was playing, filling the late night with the sounds of saxophone, piano, and bass fiddle.

Novak enjoyed the music, thinking the band was pretty good, as he swept his binoculars over the boisterous crowd as it moved along the ancient street with its old-fashioned lampposts and multitude of bars and novelty shops. The New Orleans Police Department had hired him on a temporary basis to spot probable troublemakers and report their locations to street cops. He’d been at it for a long time. Glancing at his watch, he found it was almost midnight. Eventually all the fun going on now would wane and the people would gradually disperse, but not yet. Maybe in another hour or two. He hoped so. He was dead tired.

Late February in south Louisiana was sometimes chilly; he had put on a leather jacket because of the nip in the air. The cold was not bothering anybody else, who kept warm by drinking beer and the sheer exhilaration of the moment. Unfortunately, nobody was calling it a night yet. Pushing, shoving, and hair-trigger, testosterone-fueled fistfights had been a regular occurrence all week long. At such occasions, Novak always watched first for the glint of steel. Knives were easily hidden under coats. This late hour was when either guns or knives were apt to be whipped out and innocent passersby hurt. Novak wasn’t the only observer on the street. There were many others just like him with bird’s-eye views of the action. He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his earpiece and microphone headset.

Loud shouts caught his attention, and he swung the glasses to a commotion starting up right across the street. A young woman stood high on a second-floor balcony opposite him. She looked as if she was smashed but didn’t know it yet. She was having a good old time, giggling and waving at the men below her on the street. A crowd had already gathered, mainly because she kept pulling up her sweatshirt and showing her bare breasts. The guys below hooted and clapped and sent forth all manner of encouragement. She obliged their fervor by whipping the sweatshirt off over her head and shimmying for anybody inclined to take a look.

Skin shows were not unusual during Mardi Gras week. The guy standing on the balcony with her didn’t appear to mind much, flinging off his own shirt in a show of support. His hairy chest didn’t garner as much interest. Both leaned over the railing, blowing kisses and tossing strings of colorful beads to their drunken admirers, which immediately caused fights for possession. People were just damn stupid sometimes, but no real harm was done with something like that. He called in the incident. A two-team unit was dispatched to break up the crowd below, and then they’d have to climb the narrow interior stairs to the woman’s apartment and order her to cover herself or go to jail. They had already warned the same woman earlier that evening. They might arrest her this time. Novak didn’t care much, one way or the other. He riveted his attention back on the street. Many people carried red Solo cups so they could guzzle beer while they walked. Mardi Gras had always been a big drunken party and a giant headache for the NOPD. Tonight was no exception.

Novak was working solo. He hadn’t been on a gig by himself in a while, not since he’d signed up with Claire Morgan’s private investigation firm. His partner was unavailable, off to Italy with her husband, Nicholas Black. They had been tied up in Rome for days now, fighting Italian government red tape as they tried to adopt a ten-year-old boy named Rico. His parents had been murdered during a particularly bad case that Novak had been involved in, and since it had wrapped up, Claire and Black had given the kid a good home. They wanted him to stay there.

They were due back soon, though, and Novak was glad. He missed Claire. She was quite a woman, all things considered: tall, natural blond, athletic, good-looking, and sexy without knowing it. More important, she was a damn good detective and a damn good friend. He could count on her when things got sticky. Compared to most of their cases, tonight’s gig was a breeze. Sitting in his own apartment watching people having fun was something he didn’t usually mind.

Novak had lived in New Orleans since he was twenty-one and back from a childhood spent on his father’s sheep ranch in Australia. He was well acquainted with the Fat Tuesday celebration. He didn’t use his French Quarter apartment much, preferring his old plantation called Bonne Terre, down in Lafourche Parish. He’d inherited both properties the day he was born. In fact, he owned the entire building on Bourbon in which he sat, not to mention a fortune held in bank accounts that he rarely spent. His mother’s wealthy Creole ancestors had owned the once-profitable sugar plantation since Napoleon Bonaparte reigned in France. Both properties were shabby now but worth millions in modern real estate markets. It was location, location, location. Novak would never sell either.

A shrill scream pierced the raucous noise. Novak instantly found the fight that was heating up. Two college-aged kids were circling each other, shoving and staggering, both drunk and confrontational. Their profane shouts escalated into swinging fists. Spectators circled them and cheered on the bloodletting.

“Got a fight starting up, just up from Red Fish Grill. Two young guys, both Caucasian. One in a red sweatshirt and a Toronto Blue Jays cap. Other guy is scruff bearded and wearing a light blue UNC parka and dark jeans. Crowd is starting to get into it. Better break it up fast.”

A voice came back inside his ear. “On it. We see ’em.”

“Red shirt just knocked the other guy down and is on top of him pummeling him with both fists. Crowd’s trying to break it up.”

Within minutes, two NOPD officers appeared and shoved their way through the eager onlookers. The two drunks were taken to the ground, handcuffed, and dragged off to a waiting paddy wagon. Novak lowered the glasses. NOLA jails were full to capacity tonight, just like most nights during Mardi Gras.

After sitting so long, his neck was starting to ache. Novak stretched his arms over his head and rolled his head back against his shoulders. His muscles were cramped. He hadn’t eaten dinner and had stayed hunched over with the binoculars for the last five hours straight. He wasn’t used to sitting around and doing nothing. He kept busy, either investigating cases, keeping up his properties, or out on the water in his boat. Truth was, that’s where he wished he was now, out in the Gulf of Mexico sailing the seas in his forty-foot custom-built Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 379. Maybe he’d head there after this job wrapped up, head due south to the balmy climes and warm azure waters of the Caribbean Sea.

Novak leaned back and tried to relax. Once upon a time, this building had served his Creole ancestors in the St. Claire family as an elegant townhouse. Behind him, in the high-ceilinged, French-windowed rooms, antiques still sat in the original places. He had no desire to move them and rarely ever stayed at the apartment. He preferred his boat where it was moored behind his house on Bayou Bonne. Outrageous offers had been made for this building because of its prime location, but Novak’s inheritance was sacrosanct. Most of that was tucked away in French and offshore bank accounts. His military retirement and private investigation pay was plenty to keep him in the red. But the once-lavish apartment behind him came in handy when enemies came sniffing around or Novak needed a safe house in which to hide endangered clients. Novak’s stomach rumbled. All he wanted at the moment was to eat a steak, drink a beer, and get a good night’s sleep.

Scanning the passersby, he homed in on a kid, maybe fourteen or so, as the boy grabbed a woman’s purse and sprinted off. The thief headed straight for the intersection of Bourbon and Iberville, so Novak gave the cops a quick heads-up. Two mounted NOPD officers intercepted him near the Bourbon House. A stir of excitement ensued, but the crowd quickly lost interest and shuffled around the ongoing arrest like a lazy stream around a river island.

He poured himself more coffee from the thermos on the table beside him. His weapon of choice, a Kimber 1911 .45 caliber handgun, sat right beside it. He always kept his gun close. He’d learned to do that the hard way. He had enemies from his past, lots of them, some from his tenure with the NYPD but more from his military service as a Navy SEAL. Some of them wanted him dead. Some had tried and failed. But he stayed alert, even when sitting in the shadow of his balcony high above the street.

For fifteen minutes, Novak enjoyed a respite from trouble. The crowd was beginning to thin out but not enough to call it a night. Some people were peeling off onto the side streets, others heading back to hotel rooms. Novak had a knack for surveillance. He enjoyed people watching and learned plenty about human nature from that habit. He’d picked it up in the military, and it had kept him alive more than once. He could now pick out the bad guys nine times out of ten, by appearance and mannerisms and the bulge of concealed weapons.

Novak passed his glasses over the sidewalk on the other side of Bourbon. He stopped and moved his attention back to a woman standing there. Something was definitely off about her, so he pulled her focus in closer. She stood there alone, completely still, half hidden behind a support post. Novak felt at once that she was hiding from someone. She had on what looked like a man’s raincoat, tan and belted tightly around her waist. It hung almost to the ground. He was startled to see that she was barefoot. A black New Orleans Saints ball cap was snugged down low over her face with most of her hair stuffed inside. Nobody seemed to notice her. More interesting, she was staring straight back at him.

Novak lowered the glasses. Their gazes locked for a few seconds. He was rarely spotted when on surveillance, and he was not advertising his presence. No way should she have noticed him sitting back in shadows, not with all the music and excitement surrounding her. Nobody else had, not one person all week long. He couldn’t see her face well because of the cap’s visor, but he was surprised that she didn’t look away. She stared back, almost defiantly. Something about her made Novak uneasy. That didn’t happen often, either.

Curious now, Novak watched her. She was looking from side to side as if searching for someone. Who and why? Then she riveted her attention back to him. He sensed she was worried, or maybe she was scared. His hunch told him it was the latter. She looked very young, early twenties, maybe a little younger or older, it was hard to judge. She had fair hair he thought, and she was not a particularly tall woman. He’d guess five feet four or five inches, at the most.

Novak picked up his cell phone and snapped a quick picture the next time she turned her face toward him. That’s when he got a good look at her injuries. She had on a ton of black eye makeup that was smeared now but did not hide the deep and ugly bruise around her left eye. Her bottom lip was split wide open but no longer bleeding. From the looks of it, somebody had punched her hard in the face and more than once. He moved his attention to the people surrounding her. Nobody seemed aware that she was standing there alone, but she was interested in him, all right. She kept looking up at him, and then she’d resume searching the crowd moving down Bourbon. Then, suddenly, she spun away and pushed hard through the crowd on the sidewalk.

Novak focused the glasses on the people behind her. That’s when he saw two men pushing hard in her direction, shoving people aside, with their eyes intent on the girl in the raincoat. Novak snapped photos of them. Both had short, scruffy beards. They were dressed like frat boys in town on spring break, but they were too old. They looked like guys with bad intentions. Worse, Novak was pretty sure they meant the girl bodily harm. He kept his focus on her pursuers. Both looked to be Hispanic, maybe, with dark skin and black hair and beards. He was fairly certain they were up to no good. His gut told him they had knocked around that woman before and were going to do it again. Why didn’t matter to Novak. They were now within yards of grabbing her.

“Picked up a potential problem about to go down. Half a block up from Iberville. Two guys. Tall, Hispanic, shoving through people in pursuit of a woman in a long tan raincoat and black Saints cap. Female’s roughed up, black eye and busted lip. She’s short, five foot five. Taller suspect also has on black Saints ball cap. Number two has scruff and dark hair down to his shoulders, no hat. Both six feet, maybe a bit shorter; both likely concealed carrying. Woman’s running, but they’re almost to her. Better intercept in a hurry.”

Alarmed for the woman’s safety, Novak stood up and watched her fight her way through laughing revelers, out on the street now. Her pursuers were right behind her. One man lunged forward and grabbed the back of her raincoat. He swung her around to face him and punched her hard in the stomach. The blow bent her over forward, and she staggered, holding her stomach. She almost fell, but her assailant kept her upright with his grip on her coat. Then Novak glimpsed that telltale flash of steel in the woman’s hand as she slashed a blade at him. He let go quick enough and about the time the cops showed up. They wasted no time taking the two assailants to the ground.

Novak watched the woman melt into the throngs of people. When he lost sight of her, he turned back to where the cops were frisking and cuffing her pursuers. Novak had been right about the weapons. Both guys were quickly relieved of handguns. Whoever the girl was, she was lucky Novak had noticed her. He attempted to locate her again as the men were hustled off to jail. If the young woman was smart, she’d get the hell out of town. Those guys wanted her dead, no question about it.

Maybe twenty minutes later, Novak picked the woman up again, right across the street in the exact same spot as before. She stared up at him, as if nothing had gone down. What the hell? He studied her face some more and was fairly certain he’d never laid eyes on her before tonight. Somebody screamed off to his left. Novak jerked the glasses in that direction. False alarm; the woman was laughing and horsing around with her girlfriends. Novak returned his interest to the mystery woman. She was gone again. He spent a few minutes trying to locate her but without luck.

Novak felt uneasy. He didn’t like that feeling. That kind of visceral reaction rarely ended well for him. His danger detector was hitting alarm levels. When he got off duty, he was going out on the street and search for her. He was more curious than anything. Maybe he’d visit those guys in jail, too, if they hadn’t been bailed out and released. He wanted to find out who they were and who she was. It didn’t matter to him why they targeted her. They had abused a woman a whole lot smaller than they were; that just didn’t cut it in Novak’s book. He despised men who bullied women. It was a big trigger for him and a crime that angered him personally. Such men were cowards. Yeah, maybe he’d pay those guys a call. Maybe he’d bail them out and teach them a lesson in how to treat women.

As it turned out, Novak never got that opportunity. His muscles turned rigid as a woman’s voice came softly from right behind him on the balcony. Novak was more concerned, however, with the gun barrel she jammed up against the base of his skull. Her voice was shaky.

“Don’t you move, not an inch. Understand me? I will blow your head off if you do.”

Novak didn’t move. He understood, all right. He rapidly sorted through his options. There weren’t all that many, so he played along, pretty sure he was dealing with the girl in the tan raincoat. He was damn annoyed she’d gotten the drop on him. It was embarrassing to be caught flat-footed in his apartment. He didn’t like it much. He kept his words measured. “I’m not stupid enough to try something with a gun at my head. You got me cold, lady. Put the gun down. You’re not gonna need it. Way I see it is you need my help. So let me help you.”

Behind him, he could hear her rapid breathing. It was way off the normal range: quick, hoarse, raspy. Worse news, he could feel the slight trembling of the gun barrel now parting his hair, which meant her trigger finger was itchy, too.

Novak sucked in some fortifying air and steadied himself. He didn’t want to make her nervous. She was nervous enough already. Slowly, he placed the binoculars down on the table beside him. “You’re the woman I saw earlier, right? The one the two guys were after? I saw you watching me. I saw them attack you. I’m the one who put the cops on them.” She said nothing. The gun was still shaking. “It looked like you were in big trouble down there. Why don’t we talk about this? You need to put the gun down before it goes off. It’s making me nervous.”

“Are you Will Novak?”

Okay, now that surprised him. She knew his name, and she knew where to find him. Only a few close friends even knew that he owned this building. He was rarely ever there. Her knowledge of his business was not good news. Novak had been around the block a few times, had been hunted and had been the hunter. His enemies were hard-line criminals and didn’t mess around when they wanted him dead. She could be one of them or she could be sent by one of them. His gut told him she wasn’t there to kill him, or she would have pulled the trigger when he was unaware of her presence. The noise on the street probably would’ve drowned it out, and she’d have been home free.

On the other hand, no way would he take anything for granted. Maybe she was waiting to do it inside where nobody would see her. Whoever she was, she was pretty good. She had sneaked up behind him without him hearing a sound or sensing her presence. That rarely happened to Novak. He was well-trained, well-conditioned, and always aware of possible threats, but she had got him cold. Slowly, he raised his arms out to the side and spread his fingers. He did not want to spook her. She was edgy enough already.

“Take off the headset. Don’t alert anyone or I will pull this trigger. Please don’t make me kill you. That’s not why I’m here.”

Glad to hear that, Novak sure as the devil wouldn’t give her reason to shoot him. He obeyed, considering whether he should take her down now or later. It wouldn’t be hard. She was small, she was injured, and she was nervous.

“Place both hands on top of your head. Do it now.”

Novak obliged her. She was stressed to the max, her voice weak and trembling. He had no doubt she was either scared of him, perhaps because of his size, or nervous holding a man at gunpoint. Maybe she’d never done it before. But she wasn’t too frightened to confront him in his own apartment with a ton of people right below them, any one of whom could glance up and witness her accosting him. The gun barrel was shoved hard against his head and too unsteady to ignore. He could probably disarm her, and he might have already tried that if she’d had better control of the weapon. Even though she was standing behind him, he knew she was unstable, and that meant the outcome was unpredictable. It wouldn’t take much for that weapon to discharge. It was better to play along until she calmed down enough to listen to reason, and then disarm her.

So he obeyed and said nothing. The woman reached around and snatched Novak’s loaded Kimber off the table. That’s when he saw the chrome handcuff dangling off her left wrist. The skin beneath the metal was bruised black. That shackle had been clamped on her wrist for a long time. She’d been somebody’s captive. Novak stayed calm. Nothing much rattled him anymore. He’d been caught up in worse predicaments than this one. He sat still, just waited for her to tell him what to do next. She definitely had come to him for a specific reason. She wanted something, all right, but it probably wasn’t his life. More than anything he was irked he’d been blindsided. He’d been caught like a novice. Claire Morgan would get a good gut laugh out of this story when she found out. He sat still and didn’t make any sudden moves. A moment later, the gun pulled back a bit. Novak breathed easier.

“Okay.” More heavy breathing; her pulse had to be racing. “Stand up slowly and walk backward into the house. Don’t turn around. Don’t try to alert anybody. Don’t try to disarm me. Keep your hands on top of your head. I’m real shaky, I’m warning you.”

No kidding, Novak thought. Her voice reeked of desperation. On the other hand, the woman appeared to know what she was doing. That could mean she had been trained in law enforcement. He hoped she was acting alone, but he couldn’t be certain of that. There could be an accomplice inside the house behind her letting her do all the talking. There could be a second weapon trained on Novak’s head. Below them, the crowd laughed and drank and moseyed along, unaware of the deadly takedown going on above them. Novak rose slowly to his feet, kept his hands tight atop his head, and stepped around the chair. He made his way backward until he stood just inside the tall louvered French doors. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead. The girl across the street had put her sweatshirt back on. She was not looking in his direction.

“Get down on your knees. Slow and steady now. Please don’t try anything. I don’t want trouble. I just want to talk to you.”

“Then go ahead, talk to me.”

Novak was not going down on his knees. Maybe she wanted to cuff him, maybe she just wanted to get him down before she shot him in the head, but it wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t about to let her prod him with that gun, either. He took a couple of seconds to appraise the situation. She was frightened but knew what she was doing. Her nerves were shot to hell, so anything could happen. She could be in shock from the brutal beating and whatever else those two men had done to her. He had to gain control of the situation before one of them ended up dead. It was time to get answers. He ignored the order to kneel.

“Okay, lady, you said you wanted to talk. So go ahead. Tell me what you want. I saw you watching me. I saw those two guys come after you. I figure they gave you that black eye and busted lip, so I called in the cops to help you before they could hurt you again.”

He heard the sound of metal clicking. She was messing around with the handcuffs. Then she said, “I need to cuff you. Please, just do what I say. I don’t know if I can trust you yet. You might be one of them.”

“Wrong. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know who you are.”

Novak could see her now; her image was reflected in the antique gold mirror hanging across from them in the dining room. It had been in that spot for almost a hundred years, and the glass was dark and spotted, but he could still see that she was definitely the woman he’d seen across the street. “Listen, lady, I’m not working with those two guys. I’m not going to try anything, so no need to put cuffs on me. Tell me why they hurt you. Let me help you. That’s why you came up here, right? So I could help you?”

Novak had been guessing at some of that, hoping she’d trust him. The gun barrel moved back a bit and then pressed hard into the hollow at the base of his skull. “Get down on your knees like I told you. Don’t make me shoot. I don’t want to kill you but I will.”

Her voice was lower and steadier now. He could barely hear her. He was pretty sure she was alone. “Who beat you up?” he asked.

The pressure of the gun increased. Neither said anything. She was close to losing it; the tension in the room felt palpable. So Novak reconsidered. No way was he going to let her put handcuffs on him. He could spin around easy enough and snatch the weapon out of her hands. It’d be easier if he was already facing her, but he had disarmed plenty of people who stood behind him. He lunged to the side, spinning low and to his left, but she was ready for the maneuver. She stepped back out of his reach and redirected her weapon to his heart.

Novak stared at the Luger: chrome, German-made, 9mm, shiny bright with a carved ivory handle that she gripped tightly in her right hand. His .45 was in her left hand. The handcuff now dangled from her little finger. She was still barefoot. Her coat was slightly open in front. She was naked underneath. It looked as if she had been wounded. Blood was dripping down her leg and pooling on his carpet. The hat was gone, and there was a lot of blood soaking into some long and tangled wheat-colored blond hair. She was filthy, and she was trembling all over. Her heavy black eye makeup was smeared down on her cheeks, and her face was bruised worse than he’d thought. She looked in bad shape. She needed medical attention. Her gun hand was shaking back and forth like crazy.

“You need a doctor,” he told her softly, not moving a muscle.

She swayed slightly. Her weapon did, too. Her finger was not alongside the trigger the way it should be; it was on the trigger and ready to tug it back if he looked at her wrong. Not good, that. Novak kept his eyes latched on the weapon and then moved his gaze up to her swollen eye. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret. Nobody needs to get hurt here.”

“Then do what I say. Please, I’m tired, I’m just so tired.”

Weak but determined, she meant it, all right. She looked tiny standing next to him. Novak stood six feet six inches; he towered over her. At around two hundred forty pounds, he was easily double her weight. Even if she hadn’t suffered from abuse and exhaustion, she couldn’t best him in a fight, not without some major ninja skills. They stared wordlessly at each other. Tension was building, slowly and steadily.

Then, without any warning, the hall door across from them burst wide open and slammed against the wall behind it. Both Novak and the girl went down into defensive crouches. One of the men chasing her earlier stood in the threshold holding a Glock 9mm with both hands. The intruder and the injured woman with Novak opened fire simultaneously. Novak lunged forward and tackled the woman around the waist and took her down to the ground behind the couch. He grabbed his Kimber out of her hand. She was hit in the arm and bleeding profusely, but the man at the doorway was dead, hit center mass with a double tap, right through his heart.

Novak didn’t have time to think before the dead guy’s partner showed up in the dining room archway and let loose with a barrage of fire. Novak rolled to the end of the couch and came up firing. He hit the guy in the head and throat, knocking him back into the dining room where he went down, choking on his own blood. Novak stayed low, behind the couch, and waited for number three. Nobody else showed. After a few moments, he took a knee beside the girl. She was on her back, moaning and already half-conscious. Her upper arm near the shoulder was a bloody mess.

Novak pulled a throw off his couch and wrapped it around her arm as tight as he could knot it, hoping to slow the bleeding until the paramedics showed up. The woman had already lapsed into unconsciousness. He got up and checked out his apartment for more gunmen but found no one. Both assailants were dead. Then he walked out onto the balcony and picked up his headset. The crowd below still moved blithely along, unaware of what had just gone down in his apartment. Either they hadn’t heard the gunfire or thought it was fireworks.

“This is Will Novak. Requesting ambulance and homicide detectives. Home invasion. Two dead, one wounded. Come down the back alley between Bourbon and Royal. I’ll be there to wave you in.”

“Got it. What the hell’s goin’ on, Novak?”

Novak dropped the headset without answering. A siren shrieked on from somewhere down around Canal Street. He hurried back inside and searched through the pockets of the two dead men. He found wallets, keys, and cell phones. He stuffed all of them into his coat pockets. He left everything else in the apartment untouched. The evidence would clearly show that two men had burst inside and attacked them. It was all right there with enough forensic evidence to satisfy any practiced detective. He checked the girl’s arm, realized the bleeding had not slowed down much, and tightened the tourniquet. Then he ran downstairs to the back alley and waited for the shrill sirens to find him.

Chapter 2

The ambulance skidded to a stop, spraying gravel on the two NOPD patrol cars coming right behind it. All three vehicles had their sirens shrieking like banshees. The EMTs scrambled out and jerked a gurney from the bac