Praise for Sullivan’s Evidence
“A great page-turner…. Rosenberg writes authoritatively about the legal system, and she knows how to make a reader identify with her heroines. She’s strong both at plotting and pacing, suckng the reader into a whirlwind, page-turning finish.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“Chilling…. A determined and fearless sleuth, plenty of insider detail about forensics and the criminal justice system (the author had a 14-year career in law enforcement), and a dramatic and satisfying conclusion make this another winner.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rosenberg gives readers a detailed insider’s look behind the badge.”
—New York Daily News
“A terrific protagonist, fabulous forensic support, and an incredible climax…a superb thriller that will make all the short lists for top books of the year.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Plenty of plot twists and canny reality…. With an obviously keen knowledge of evidence collection, forensics, and the strange and dastardly things human beings are capable of doing, Rosenberg has woven a web of obfuscation and evil that not even the most practiced and discerning readers can solve until the last few pages.”
—Daily Southerner (Tarboro, North Carolina)
Praise for the Electriying Thrillers of Nancy Taylor Rosenberg
Sullivan’s Justice
“Welcome back, Carolyn Sullivan! Rosenberg’s talent is amply displayed here as she gives us a sweaty-palm story of evil and betrayal—and a sharp-eyed look at the gritty world of southern Californian law enforcement. You won’t need coffee or No-Doz with this thriller; it’s guaranteed to keep you turning pages all night long.”
—Jeffery Deaver
“Authentic…. The author’s ability to generate narrative drive holds readers. A dark, perilous, and compelling ride.”
—Booklist
“A heart-thumping, pulse-pounding thriller filled with vivid, original players and a plot that grabs hold and sweeps the reader along until the last, breathless twist.”
—Judith Kelman
“Superb…plenty of action, the storyline is fast-paced, and readers have a good time wondering who the killer might be. The heroine is a valiant warrior in the fight against crime.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Confidently plotted…. Thriller enthusiasts will relish the intricate plot, accelerating action and novel climax of this gripping ride.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rosenberg’s personal experience in law enforcement brings a chilling reality to this page-turner…. Begins with an eerie, leave-the-lights on murder and ends with a high-speed chase. In between are breathtaking action and nonstop suspense.”
—Sandra Brown
Sullivan’s Law
“A gutsy heroine, a fast-moving plot, an insider’s look at the justice system—Sullivan’s Law is everything a legal thriller fan could hope for. As always, Nancy Taylor Rosenberg delivers the goods. This will be another bestseller.”
—Nelson DeMille
“Rosenberg uses her firsthand knowledge of law enforcement to create convincing sketches of criminal predators, mental patients, and hardworking civil servants in this fast-paced thriller…. Carolyn Sullivan is so human and determined that it’s almost impossible not to race to the ends to see what happens to her next.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Rosenberg’s experience as a cop and a probation officer gives her work an additional layer of investigatory authenticity…. Rosenberg puts it all together here with another thoroughly believable heroine dealing with corruption, greed, deceit, and danger.”
—Booklist
“Full or menace, romance, and violence.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Engaging, with enough excitement to keep thrill-seekers happy.”
—New York Daily News
Conflict of Interest
“Rosenberg’s legal thrillers make the most of breakneck pacing and high-energy plotting.”
—Booklist
“Frighteningly real.”
—Los Angeles Times
Buried Evidence
“Nancy Taylor Rosenberg is back with a vengeance, and Buried Evidence is the best evidence that she’s at the top of her game!”
—Lisa Scottoline
“Watch your pulse and don’t forget to breathe. Nancy Taylor Rosenberg’s legal thrillers are a guaranteed adrenaline rush!”
—Tess Gerritsen
Trial by Fire
“Incredibly fast-paced and exciting from page one until the end.”
—James Patterson
“A legal thriller with the works.”
—Nelson DeMille
California Angel
“There’s no doubt that Rosenberg knows how to spin a yarn.”
—Booklist
“Tantalizing”
—People
Abuse of Power
“Nancy Taylor Rosenberg writes legal thrillers with strong female heroes who triumph…. Keeps the tension high.”
—People
“Convincingly demonstrates why a bad cop is even more dangerous than a bad perp.”
—Booklist
First Offense
“Compelling tension…gutsy and full-blooded.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Rosenberg can construct a roller coaster plot with the best of them.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
Interest of Justice
“Intricate, vivid, thrilling…one of the year’s ten best.”
—Los Angeles Times
“A taut thriller, written with authority.”
—New York Times Book Review
Mitigating Circumstances
“Adrenaline-pumped.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Intricate and satisfying…. Rosenberg develops a startling premise skillfully.”
—Los Angeles Times
Also by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg
Mitigating Circumstances
Interest of Justice
First Offense
Trial by Fire
California Angel
Abuse of Power
Buried Evidence
Conflict of Interest
Sullivan’s Law
Sullivan’s Justice
NANCY TAYLOR ROSENBERG
Sullivan’s Evidence
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To Forrest Blake and Christian Gabriel Nesci
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
St. Louis, Missouri
As the sun disappeared and darkness fell, death lurked in the shadows. Outside the winds were howling, causing the shutters in the cramped living room to rattle. Eleanor Beckworth headed to the bedroom to change into her nightclothes. Even when she wore her slippers, the cold hardwood floors chafed her feet. She was a petite woman. Her weight had never risen over one twenty. When she was younger, she stood almost five four, but now she was barely five feet. Age had not only shriveled her skin, it had compressed her spine.
Eleanor stopped walking, sensing something. The atmosphere in the room felt different. Was it a change in the barometric pressure? Maybe the storm they were predicting for tomorrow was moving in early. She hoped not, as her roof was badly in need of repair and the boiler was acting up again. Reluctantly, she had called her handyman, Mitch, today. She had space heaters, but she knew they weren’t always safe, and she was terrified of fire. Maybe Mitch could patch the roof as he’d done the year before.
Eleanor tried to live on the money she received from social security, which was barely enough to pay the mortgage and buy groceries. She had twenty thousand in her savings account and a modest amount of equity in her house. She had pulled out most of the money over the years, but she wanted to leave something for her granddaughter when she died.
Glancing at Elizabeth’s pictures lined up on the walls in the hall, she touched her finger to her lip, and then pressed it against her granddaughter’s face. She’d raised the girl from the age of three after her daughter, Anna, had died of leukemia. Since Anna hadn’t married the child’s father, the young man had left town, never to be heard from again. Eleanor gladly served as Elizabeth’s mother.
Elizabeth was such a darling girl, Eleanor thought, but terribly unlucky when it came to men. Her granddaughter had dated one young man for five years, letting him live with her in her apartment. The man had never contributed a dime, worked only a day or two a week, and refused to commit to a permanent relationship. Elizabeth had finally had no choice but to toss the freeloader out. Her little heart had been shattered.
Men living off women! Eleanor thought in disgust. She remembered the days when a man opened your car door, took you out for a nice dinner, treated you like a lady. They didn’t swoop down like vultures on lonely women, use them like prostitutes, then take off as soon as they got bored or decided there was nothing more they could take.
“Oh, well,” she said, entering the bathroom. She hung her clothes on a hook so she could wear them the next day and stepped into her blue flannel nightgown. Once she had removed her dentures and was bundled up in her bathrobe, she performed her nightly rituals: checking to make certain all the doors and windows were locked, watering the plants on a ledge above the kitchen sink, then selecting the pills she took every night and placing them inside a plastic lid.
Eleanor had always thought her granddaughter would live close by. She glanced at the clock and wondered why Elizabeth hadn’t called yet. They spoke on the phone once a week, and Sunday was her night to call. Eleanor rarely phoned Elizabeth, as the girl sometimes talked for hours, and Eleanor couldn’t afford to run up her bill calling California. Elizabeth must have lost track of time. She was a computer technician who worked out of her home.
When the phone rang, Eleanor rushed over and grabbed it. “Is that you, darling?” she said. “I was worried I wasn’t going to hear from you tonight.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, Mom,” her granddaughter said. Since childhood, she had called Eleanor “Mom.” “Matt and I had a terrible fight.”
“Oh my,” Eleanor said, “I thought your marriage was working out wonderfully.”
“So did I,” Elizabeth said, her voice cracking with emotion. “Matt’s not the man I thought I married, though.”
“Dear, dear,” Eleanor said, taking a seat on a stool beside the phone, saddened by what she was hearing. “Maybe you’ve been on your computer too much and not paying him enough attention. A man needs to be doted on, honey. I’m sure you’ll work things out. Where’s Matt now?”
“I don’t know. He got so angry, Mom. I’ve never seen him that mad. He’s been stomping around all day. About an hour ago, he left without telling me where he was going.”
“It might make him even angrier if he hears us talking, honey. What goes on in a marriage should remain between a husband and wife. No man wants people poking around in his private affairs.”
“You’re right,” her granddaughter said, sighing. “I’m sorry I said anything.” She paused, then whispered, “I think I hear Matt now. I’ll call you next week.”
“I love you,” Eleanor told her, hating to end the call so abruptly.
“I love you, too, Mom.”
Eleanor was asleep when she heard a noise. Glancing at the clock on the table by the bed, she saw that it was a few minutes past five in the morning. She was certain the noise she heard was the garbage truck, but she decided to check. Putting on her robe and slippers, she made it halfway down the hall when she saw a large, dark figure standing in front of her. “Get out of here!” she shrieked, her hand over her chest. “I have a gun. If you don’t leave, I’ll shoot you.”
As she turned to run back to the bedroom to call the police, the intruder grabbed her around the neck, then released her. She fell face first onto the wood floor. The man was on top of her, his hot breath in her ear. “My purse is in the kitchen,” she panted, pain shooting through her left hip. “There’s cash…take it…you can buy drugs with it.”
“Drugs, huh?” the man said, wrenching her arms behind her. “I don’t need drugs. Killing is a natural high. Are you afraid to die? You should be.”
He rolled off and yanked her to her feet. She sank against his arm, unable to stand. “I think my hip is broken,” Eleanor said, moaning. Breaking a hip at her age was worse than a heart attack. If she couldn’t care for herself, she would have to go into a nursing home. “I’ll never walk again, you evil man,” she spat at him. “God is going to strike you dead.”
“Really?” he said, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her along behind him. “If there was a God, he would have struck me dead already. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve gotten away with. Shit, killing an old woman like you is like swatting a fly.”
When they reached the bedroom, he picked her up and tossed her on the bed. Eleanor made a frantic move to grab the phone, but the man ripped it from the wall. The phone tumbled to the floor with a loud thud. She saw the awful man wrapping the phone cord around his wrist, and scooted up close to the headboard to get away from him. “Oh, no, please!” she pleaded. “Help me! Please have mercy on me!”
He squared his shoulders and faced her. The seconds ticked off inside her head. Through a crack in the blinds, a beam of light from a passing car struck his face. “You!” Eleanor shouted, her body shaking in terror and outrage. “For the love of heaven, it can’t be you!”
The man circled to the side of the bed, leaping on top of the mattress behind her and planting his feet on either side. “Your eyesight is pretty good,” he said, bending over and wrapping the cord around her neck. “Too good.”
He twisted the cord in his hands, watching as it cut into the crinkly skin on Eleanor’s neck. Placing his foot on her collarbone, he extended his leg, pushing her toward the foot of the bed until she began to struggle. “Sorry you’re not happy to see me,” he said. “I’m the last person you’ll ever see. Don’t blame yourself. I was going to kill you even if you didn’t recognize me.”
Eleanor tried to scream but couldn’t. There was no air. Her body buckled, her eyes felt as if they were going to burst out of their sockets.
“Just relax, old girl. It’ll be over in a few minutes. All you’re going to do is take a long nap.” The attacker stood, the muscles in his leg shaking from exertion until Eleanor’s body became limp and lifeless. He stared down at her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Once he was certain she was dead, he wrapped the cord around the bedpost and tied it into a knot. H
is victim’s head dangled several inches off the pillow.
Jumping off the bed, he tossed the electric blanket over the body, turned on the bedside lamp, and began rummaging through Eleanor Beckworth’s drawers and closets.
CHAPTER 2
Ventura County Corrections Services Agency
Ventura, California
Thursday, September 14—2:10 P.M.
“Have you heard anything about the DA’s office cutting a deal with Robert Abernathy?” Carolyn Sullivan asked her supervisor. As usual, she had walked into his office unannounced. Anyone else would have been tossed out. Most people knew Carolyn had been a close contender for Brad Preston’s job and that the two of them almost ran the unit in concert.
“What happened to your hair?” he said, moving a stack of file folders to clear a spot on his desk. Outside his open door, phones jangled and voices rang out, mixing with the brushing sound of shoes moving rapidly across carpet.
Carolyn ran her fingers through her new short haircut, causing several curls to stand up on top of her head. She would turn forty next year. From someone who’d never given much thought to her appearance, she’d changed into one who tried on three or four outfits each morning before deciding what to wear. Her once slender hips and waist had expanded, and her clothes were not only snug, they seemed as if they belonged to a much younger woman. She wasn’t sure what a woman approaching forty was supposed to wear, and she was convinced that she’d suddenly become hideously ugly. Today she was wearing a cream-colored dress that was a hand-me-down from her mother. “I went to Super-cuts on my way home yesterday, okay?” she told him. “I wanted to look like Meg Ryan.”
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