Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
Teaser chapter
PRAISE FOR DEPTH PERCEPTION
“A tightly written novel of romantic suspense by an author at the top of her game.” —All About Romance
“An exciting page-turner, Depth Perception will appeal to the fans of Beverly Barton and Iris Johansen. This tense thriller will keep you up way past midnight.” —The Best Reviews
“A fabulous, taut paranormal thriller that grips readers . . . The story line is action-packed and filled with atmosphere that has the audience gasping as the tension mounts . . . Exciting . . . A terrific read.” —Midwest Book Review
“Explosive . . . Deep [and] emotional . . . A riveting adventure.” —The Romance Reader’s Connection
FADE TO RED
“Castillo is pushing the envelope. And she is doing a very convincing and, yes, disturbingly good job . . . This is not a book for the fainthearted . . . If you like nothing better than an adrenaline rush and a hero and heroine possessing multiple character layers, then be assured that Fade to Red will be exactly what you are looking for and so much more.”
—A Romance Review
“A throwback to the old days of romantic suspense . . . chilling . . . Great character development; an ability to totally immerse the reader into the sleazy underbelly of porn and cause a shiver or two.” —Romance Reviews Today
“Enlightening and original.” —The Romance Reader
“Chillingly graphic—romantic suspense at its best.”
—The Best Reviews
THE SHADOW SIDE
“An electrifying chiller rife with action and passion . . . splendid.” —The Dallas Morning News
“The Shadow Side is exhilarating romantic suspense . . . never slows down until the final moment. Read this thriller.” —Midwest Book Review
“Stunning. A masterpiece of suspense polished off with a raw romance. This book, the best romantic suspense I’ve ever read, knocked me out. The characters were hot, the story was downright chilling . . . but so compelling. The pace constantly keeps you on the edge . . . giving you twists and turns and never giving you any clues as to what’s going to happen next . . . until the very last minute! Don’t miss this thriller; you’ll be sorry if you do. They don’t come any better than this.” —Romance and Friends
THE PERFECT VICTIM
“Castillo has a winner! I couldn’t stop turning the pages!”
—Kat Martin, New York Times bestselling author of The Fire Inside
“The Perfect Victim is a gripping page-turner. Peopled with fascinating characters and intricately plotted . . . compelling suspense that never lets up. A first-class reading experience!”—Katherine Sutcliffe, bestselling author of Darkling, I Listen and Obsession
“An exciting thriller . . . action-packed [and] powerful . . . a strong tale that fans of suspense will love.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Intense action . . . sizzling sex . . . a thrilling climax . . . the reader is carried along on the ride.”—Lynn Erickson, author of After Hours
“Linda Castillo delivers a powerhouse punch.”
—Merline Lovelace, author of After Midnight
“Realistic dialogue, beautifully vivid descriptions, and an intricate plot add up to a chilling, fast-paced, riveting read.” —Library Journal
“Both romantic and suspenseful—and in nearly equal measures. If you’re looking for a real page-turner with a strong and determined heroine, and an even stronger, even more determined hero, you’ve found it.”
—All About Romance
“I couldn’t put this book down . . . The escalating suspense and sexual tension pushes the story forward and keeps you hooked. Not many authors keep me up all night but Linda has succeeded with this riveting read.” —The Best Reviews
Titles by Linda Castillo
THE PERFECT VICTIM
THE SHADOW SIDE
FADE TO RED
DEPTH PERCEPTION
DEAD RECKONING
A WHISPER IN THE DARK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
A WHISPER IN THE DARK
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation edition / August 2006
Copyright © 2006 by Linda Castillo.
All rights reserved.
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eISBN : 978-0-425-21138-0
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PROLOGUE
John Merrick had always liked the takedown. He liked the adrenaline rush of walking into a dark warehouse, knowing he had only his partner, his Heckler and Koch .4
5 semiautomatic and his own nerve to back him up. As far as he was concerned, the more risk, the better the rush.
He moved through the dark warehouse with the stealth of a big cat on the prowl. Gripping the pistol, he slid soundlessly along the wall, his every sense homed in on the pallets and crates stacked ceiling high and dead ahead. He could feel the scream of blood through his veins, the burn of adrenaline in his gut, the heady zing of nerves crawling just beneath his skin.
Chicago PD had received the tip just that morning. A ton of Bolivian cocaine had been trucked in from Guadalajara, Mexico, and unloaded in this South Side warehouse. Tomorrow, the drug would be broken down into smaller shipments, loaded into trucks with hidden panels and shipped all over the nation. Within days, one ton of pure poison would hit the streets across America.
It was John’s responsibility to make sure that didn’t happen.
Big Joe Hartigan had been eluding the narcotics task force and DEA for the better part of four years. Tonight, Chicago PD had him squarely in their crosshairs, and there was no way in hell they were going to let him slip away. It would be the largest bust of John’s twelve-year career—and the biggest takedown in the history of the department.
John fully intended to be the one doing the taking down.
His heart thrummed steadily as he sidled into an aisle, the H&K leading the way, a hollow-point bullet ready in the chamber. The warehouse was immense and as dark and silent as a tomb. But John knew there were at least six other cops making entry simultaneously. Two at the loading bays at the rear of the building. One at the second-level fire escape. Three more at the front door. John had been assigned the side exit. And like a finely choreographed ballet, the seven men moved in from all directions as a single, deadly unit.
John rounded a corner, found the first aisle clear, and moved silently to the next. In the back of his mind he wondered when the rats would start jumping out . . .
The air hung thick with tension and the dark anticipation of violence. He could feel both of those things edging through him, like a blade nicking just deep enough to draw blood. He wasn’t superstitious, but the hairs at his nape prickled with a sensation he could only describe as foreboding.
He cleared another aisle then approached the next. Peering around a crate, he found the row deserted. Puzzled, he lowered his firearm and listened, hearing only the pound of blood through his veins.
Where the hell were Hartigan’s thugs?
Movement at the end of the aisle drew his gaze. John dropped into a shooter’s stance, spread his legs, raised the pistol. Adrenaline stung his gut when he spotted the man in blue jeans and a ponytail holding a sawed-off shotgun the size of a cannon.
“Police officer!” John shouted. “Drop your weapon! Do it now!”
As if in slow motion, the shotgun came up. A quiver of fear ran the length of John. He heard the sound of shoes against concrete behind him. Shit, he thought. Backing toward cover, he spun in a half circle. A second man behind him raised a pistol.
Instinct kicked in. John’s finger jerked against the trigger. The .45 bucked in his hand. The explosion deafened him, made his ears ring. Cordite stung his nostrils. The man crumpled to the floor.
John swung the pistol around to the other man to find him gone. “Shit,” he muttered. “Shit!”
He hit his mike. “Shots fired! North exit! Gimme backup now!” Without waiting for a response, he started toward the downed man.
The perp lay motionless on the concrete floor, in a widening pool of blood. John kicked away the gun. It was too dark to see exactly where the man had been shot, but John could tell from the amount of blood that the injury was bad. Maybe even fatal.
Trying not to think about that, he knelt. “I’m a police detective. Chicago PD. You’ve been shot. Just . . . take it easy. An ambulance is on the way.”
The man stirred, tried to say something, but his voice was low, the words unintelligible.
“Don’t try to talk,” John said.
The man opened his eyes. Within their depths John saw pain, incredulity and a damning measure of humanity. The power of those things had icy sweat breaking out on his back.
The man lifted his hand, reached out. “I’m a . . . cop.”
John felt the words like a blade, plunging and going deep. Disbelief rose in a violent tide. He stared hard at the man, looking for a lie, praying for a lie, reminding himself that a suspect would say or do anything to save his ass.
“DEA . . . undercover . . .”
John didn’t want to believe it; he desperately didn’t want it to be true. But he saw the truth in the man’s eyes. And he felt the horror of it twist like barbed wire in his heart.
Aware that his hands were shaking violently, he tore the tiny halogen flashlight from his belt. He ripped open the man’s shirt, barely noticing when buttons popped and scattered. The earth seemed to shift beneath him when he saw that the Kevlar vest had been breached. Everything inside him froze into a solid block of ice when a Drug Enforcement Agency I.D. shined up at him.
Oh, dear God in heaven, he’d shot a cop . . .
He read the name on the I.D. Franklin Watts. A DEA agent working undercover. A man fighting the same war he was. Shot down like a criminal . . .
“Oh, man. Oh, Jesus.” John grappled with his radio. Vaguely he was aware of his fingers fumbling. His heart pounding wildly in his chest. The bitter taste of bile rising at the back of his throat. “I’ve got an officer down!” he screamed. “Officer down! Officer down! Where the fuck is the ambulance?”
Holstering the H&K, John yanked off his jacket, covered the agent with it, then looked into his eyes. “I didn’t know you were a cop,” he said.
“Undercover.” Franklin Watts closed his eyes. “Guy behind you . . . was going to plug you with that shotgun.”
Only then did John realize that this man had saved his life. Another layer of queasiness settled over the horror churning in his gut.
“How . . . bad?” the man asked.
Taking his hand, John squeezed it hard. “You’re going to be all right.”
“Yeah, and spring’s going to . . . come early this year.”
John had never shot anyone before, never even had to draw his weapon. That he’d shot a cop made him feel physically ill. None of the intel Vice received had given any indication that DEA would be at the scene. The enormity of the mistake dropped onto his shoulders with the weight of a thousand boulders, and he felt every ounce as if it were a ton.
How in the name of God had this happened?
Careful not to cause his fallen comrade pain, he opened the Kevlar vest and used his flashlight to locate the wound. He found it to the left and center of his breastbone. A sucking wound. Too much damage. He’d never seen so much blood, wondered how a man could bleed so much. All the while the burden of responsibility pressed down on him, crushing him so that he could barely take a breath.
“I need to stop the bleeding,” he heard himself say. “I’m going to apply direct pressure, okay? It’s going to hurt.”
“Already . . . hurts like . . . son of a bitch.”
John’s hands quivered when he set his palm against the wound. “You doing okay?”
“Can’t . . . breathe . . .”
“Hang in there. You’re doing fine.” But John could plainly see that he wasn’t. He could hear air bubbling as it escaped the hole in the other man’s lung.
Where the hell was that ambulance?
Franklin Watts’s breathing turned labored, and John knew that his lung was filling with blood. That he would either drown or bleed to death in a matter of minutes if help didn’t arrive soon.
Feeling helpless and more frightened than he’d ever been in his life, John leaned close to him. “I’m here, Frank. Hang tight, buddy. Paramedics will be here in a few minutes.”
Closing his eyes, the DEA agent took quick, shallow breaths.
“That’s it. Nice and easy.” John tried to stay calm, but he could hear the hard edge of fear in his
voice now, the underlying pitch of panic. He reached for his mike. “Where’s that fucking ambulance? Goddamn it, I need it now!”
The radio crackled a response, but the voice barely registered. He heard sirens in the distance, shouting, and the pound of footsteps a few yards away, but he’d never felt more alone in his life. He looked down where his hand was pressed against the man’s chest, saw the blood leaking between his fingers, and he knew this man didn’t have much time.
He squeezed his hand. “Stay with me, buddy.”
But when he looked into the other man’s eyes, DEA Agent Franklin Watts had already slipped away.
ONE
New Orleans
Two months later
Julia Wainwright stood on the sidewalk in the chill morning air, a box of warm beignets in her hand, a stack of books tucked beneath her arm. She stared through the storefront window, taking in the display of leather-bound tomes artfully arranged on a red and gold tapestry, not quite able to convince herself it was her creation.
“Not bad for a kid who flunked second-grade art class,” she murmured, unable to keep the grin off her face.
The sun rising over the French Quarter’s St. Louis Cathedral warmed her back as she tugged the key from her coat and stuck it in the lock. Hugging the books to her body, expertly balancing the beignets, she shoved open the door with her foot.
The aromas of old building—paper dust and vanilla candles—greeted her like an old friend as she stepped into the Book Merchant, the antique bookstore she owned and operated.
Julia had had a love affair with books even before she’d learned to read, which had occurred at the ripe age of four. Immersing herself in wonderful stories, with characters who were every bit as real as her friends from preschool, had transformed a rather lonely childhood into a world filled with enchantment and adventure. She had understood and appreciated the power of the written word long before most of her classmates had even read their first book.
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