by Diane Capri
FATAL DEMAND
A JESS KIMBALL THRILLER
DIANE CAPRI
and
NIGEL BLACKWELL
Presented by:
AugustBooks
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Praise for
New York Times and
USA Today Bestselling Author
Diane Capri
“Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too.
Kim Otto is a great, great character. I love her.”
Lee Child, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers
“[A] welcome surprise....[W]orks from the first page to ‘The End’.”
Larry King
“Swift pacing and ongoing suspense are always present...[L]ikable protagonist who uses her political connections for a good cause...Readers should eagerly anticipate the next [book].”
Top Pick, Romantic Times
“...offers tense legal drama with courtroom overtones, twisty plot, and loads of Florida atmosphere. Recommended.”
Library Journal
“[A] fast-paced legal thriller...energetic prose...an appealing heroine...clever and capable supporting cast...[that will] keep readers waiting for the next [book].”
Publishers Weekly
“Expertise shines on every page.”
Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and Macavity Award Winning MWA Past President
DEDICATION
Thank you to some of the best readers in the world: Denise Shaw, Ted Black (Callum Black), and David Gardner for participating in our character naming giveaways which make this book a bit more personal and fun for all of us.
Dear Friends,
Thank you for buying this copy of Fatal Demand. I’m very excited to share this new Jess Kimball Thriller with you. Readers say Jess Kimball Thrillers are filled with “fast-paced, believable characters, taut action, and surprises all the way to the finish.” In all of these ways, Fatal Demand will not disappoint!
It’s been fun to write this book with my friend Nigel Blackwell, too. The most frequent question I receive from Jess Kimball fans is “when will you write a new Jess Kimball book?” With Nigel’s help, I’m pleased to say the answer is very soon!
I’m always working on a new book. Please sign up for my mailing list to receive advance notice of new releases and lots of other exclusive stuff for members only. You can do that here: http://dianecapri.com/get-involved/get-my-newsletter/
While you’re waiting for a new Jess Kimball Thriller, please give my other books a try. I believe you’ll enjoy them. You can find a complete list of all of my books here: http://dianecapri.com/books/
And please let me know what you think. I love hearing from you. You can write to me any time and I hope you will. I’d love to get to know you better and you can always reach me here: http://dianecapri.com/get-involved/message/
Meanwhile, thanks so much for reading. Readers like you are the reason I write.
Caffeinate & Carry On!
CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS
Jessica Kimball
Mandy Donovan
Henry Morris
Roger Grantly
Harriet Grantly
Wilson Grantly
Enzo Ficarra
Luigi Ficarra
When you have eliminated the impossible,
then whatever remains, however improbable,
must be the truth.
—Sherlock Holmes
I said that. In less words.
—Occam
FATAL DEMAND
CHAPTER ONE
Montreal, Quebec
Sunday, April 20
It’s a good day to commit suicide, the Italian thought as he got off the train at the Bonaventure Metro Station.
Avoiding the Underground City, Enzo Ficarra raised the collar of his supple black leather trench coat with a black-gloved hand and adjusted his fedora before he climbed the stairs up to the sidewalk.
Icy rain pelted his face. Frigid wind matched his mood and further hardened his heart. But it wasn’t enough to cool the molten anger seething inside him. He shouldn’t be here, in this wretched weather, on Sunday, the first day of spring. He should be in Italy. He should be at Mass.
Damn Marek.
Clouds blackened the sky as if he’d entered the city he knew so well at midnight, not mid-morning. He glanced the length of the sidewalk along the rue de la Cathedrale. The deserted street was weakly illuminated by streetlights sensitive to darkness. He watched frozen rain melt when it touched the warm street. As the day progressed and temperatures continued to fall, he expected treacherous black ice to capture the city, halting all traffic. He’d be gone by then, and the weather would grant him reprieve from potential pursuit. Not that he expected pursuit. But he was a careful man.
No one walked along the streets. Citizens foolish or determined enough to venture out on such a wicked morning kept to the routes of the Underground City until they reached their churches, reminding him that his own wife and children were at Mass this morning without him. His lips pressed into a grim line. He rarely missed Sunday Mass. His absence would be conspicuous, noted by everyone. This additional grievance further hardened his resolve.
Head down, walking briskly into the blowing sleet, he made his way along deserted sidewalks toward Les Canard. The last time he’d been here had been a pleasant Saturday night in July. The streets were busy then, alive until the bars closed at 3:00 a.m. Inside the club, a band played hard rock, dancers crowded the floor, the smell of baking bread wafted out of the kitchen, and the bar bustled with locals chatting in French.
His French was excellent and he had blended into the environment easily, avoiding the English pubs nearby. He always enjoyed the cosmopolitan city. The mix of people and languages, French as well as English, made Montreal better for his work than others. He easily avoided detection here. The city had served him well. God was good.
Now, he rolled his shoulders, lifted his coat collar higher, and waited. He glanced left and right. No pedestrians were near and traffic was sparse.
When the light at boulevard Rene-Levesque changed, he stepped off the curb and hustled across the street, walking quickly toward Rue Drummond. Marek knew he was coming, but he detected no sign that he was being followed. Marek was not a cautious man. That was one of the many problems between them.
Had he been wrong about Marek, all these years? All through school, the Italian had been stronger than Marek. His Polish friend was short and wiry, but always the weaker as their wrestling matches invariably ended with Enzo the winner. Marek had thus been consigned to follow Enzo’s commands and he’d executed each one faithfully.
Which made today’s task unpleasant for him.
Resentment fueled Enzo’s resolve. Why had Marek made such a disastrous decision? Was it his American wife? A man should never, ever confide in a woman. Women could not be trusted to keep secrets. Nor could men, for that matter. From personal experience, he’d confirmed many times that three people could keep a secret only if two of them were dead.
Whatever the reason, Marek’s stupidity had endangered them all. The situation could still be reversed; perhaps Marek had reconsidered.
As he walked, the Italian visualized Marek’s club, recalling every detail as sharply as possible. The interior of Les Canard was cool, dark and quiet, due to its thick granite walls and dim lighting. When the club was open, the raucous noise inside was muffled.
He arrived at the front entrance. A small sign boasting French calligraphy and an artistically dra
wn mallard swung from hooks on an iron arm on the left side of the door, squeaking in the gusty wind. The once soft gray granite façade of the club was now dark with decades of soot and city grime. Deep green shades were pulled over the front windows and the closed sign was posted on the door.
All senses alert, he reached for the pitted brass handle and pulled the door open. It had been unlocked for him. He moved soundlessly inside and then flipped the lock to prevent interruption. He stood in the interior foyer of the bar, allowing his vision to adjust.
“Come in, come in!” Marek sat in the shadows facing the door. He rose and hurried toward his guest.
The Italian arranged a friendly smile on his face. They hugged briefly in the Gaelic style.
“Enzo my friend, you are frozen,” Marek declared. “Spring, my ass.” He shook his head, shrugged at the incomprehensible weather. “Come in, come in. Coffee?”
Marek walked toward the coffee machine behind the bar as he asked the question.
“A double, please.” Enzo removed his garments, shook the water off and hung them on the pegs by the door. He grasped his gloves in his right hand.
Marek steamed espresso and poured the rich brew into small white cups, carried the cups with two spoons to the table where small pitchers of cream and sugar waited. He gestured toward the seat he’d vacated, allowing his guest to sit with his back to the wall facing the door. An offer meant to show his partner was welcome, safe here. No one threatened.
They lingered over the fragrant coffee for a few moments, sipping while it was still hot enough to scald their tongues. When the Italian replaced his cup on the saucer, Marek spoke. “Thank you for coming on such a terrible day. We have the place to ourselves.”
Enzo nodded, but said nothing.
Marek cleared his throat. He seemed tense, tired. There were dark bags under his eyes. He had not slept well, probably for many nights. Good. Fatigue made him a weaker adversary. “I don’t quite know how to begin.”
He halted again, drained his espresso, set the cup down on its saucer. He placed both hands on the table in a gesture of trust. He was holding no weapon.
Enzo watched, but kept both hands under the table in his lap. He’d touched nothing except the small white porcelain cup.
Marek flinched when church bells rang in the distance, pealing through the quiet morning, followed by a rumble of thunder. He grinned a bit, embarrassed.
The Italian prodded. “What did you want to see me about, Marek?”
Marek’s hand shook when he lifted his cup to his lips. He seemed chagrined to realize it was empty, and set it back down. He took a deep breath and said softly, “You and I, we have only a few open projects just now. All are at the stage to be easily completed. The money we’ve received has been deposited to your Swiss accounts.”
After a pause, Marek continued, “I must quit, you see.”
“Oh?” Enzo conveyed mild surprise he did not feel.
“You know my second son was born last month.” Marek gestured with his head toward the ceiling because his family lived upstairs, above the club. “He has a brother, like you now. He needs a respectable father with a business he can inherit. Like you have in Tuscany. A legitimate enterprise,” he whispered as a man with dry mouth does.
In the quiet, following the muffled sound of thunder, Enzo understood. The wife had made Marek do this. Women stupidly protected their children, failing to appreciate the consequences, and men followed their wives even into disaster.
“I see.”
Marek loosened the top button of his gray flannel shirt and rubbed his neck with his left hand. “I know what we agreed. With this kind of work, a lifelong commitment is required. And you know I will always be loyal to you. Completely. But…” He swallowed. “But I must stop. We’ve had many successful projects together. I’ve bought this club. It’s paid for. All mine now. And I have a home. Here. To raise my sons. Be a husband. Build my own family. You understand, Enzo my friend,” he paused a beat. “Yes?”
The Italian drained the last drops from his cup. He smiled sorrowfully at his oldest friend. “Of course. I want you to be happy. Family is important. I love children. You know that. You must have a large family, and a wonderful life. Like I do. Naturally.” He laughed, as if anything else would be too absurd to contemplate.
Marek laughed along, shakily. He pulled out his wallet and displayed pictures of his new son, his three-year-old boy, and beautiful wife.
“They know nothing of my work for you,” Marek volunteered.
Which meant that he’d told his wife everything.
Enzo’s anger grew hotter. Marek had jeopardized not only his own family, but the entire business.
He took a deep breath, and they talked of earlier times. They shared stories. Enzo asked about Marek’s plans for the future. Eventually the Italian glanced at his watch. “I must go. My train departs soon. My own family waits. But I will miss you, old friend.”
His words flowed easily, though he never allowed himself such sentiments. Not even with his own brother.
The two men stood. Enzo reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the capsule, hiding it in his left palm. They moved closer to hug again, Marek foolishly relaxed.
The Italian quickly turned and grabbed Marek by the forehead from behind, cruelly twisting his neck and pulling him against his shoulder.
Marek gasped, and in that instant, Enzo forced the capsule into his open mouth and pressed Marek’s jaw closed using the butt of his other hand.
Brief comprehension registered in Marek’s eyes as the capsule broke and cyanide drained into his mouth. He wrestled and fought, but like in their younger years, he lost. He tried to breathe through his nose. His arms flailed, beating on Enzo’s chest.
“I’m sorry, old friend, that you have chosen to betray me,” Enzo said, holding Marek’s chin shut lest any of the poison seep out.
Marek blinked his eyelids one last time. The poison had done its job as it always did. He slumped to the floor, eyes open, staring at his friend until gravity dragged his eyelids down.
Enzo knelt, felt Marek’s carotid artery for a pulse and found none. He waited ten minutes to be sure Marek was dead and that no one had heard the encounter.
He had one more task. Enzo stood, glanced around briefly. Where would Marek hide his electronic equipment? He searched behind the bar with no luck.
A loud thump followed by a crying baby sounded from the apartment above.
How could that be? Marek’s family was upstairs?
“Idiot!” he swore. Marek had been told that there should be no one else present. He couldn’t follow directions anymore. Another good reason to have eliminated him.
Enzo hurried now, completed his search of the entire club, finding nothing. He could not leave without Marek’s computer and cell phones. There must be no trace of his connection to the Italian’s business. He had no choice. He must search upstairs.
Damn Marek.
Quickly, he pulled on his gloves, walked back to his coat and pulled a .22-caliber Smith & Wesson and suppressor from deep pockets. He reached for the extra magazine, dropping it into his trouser pocket. He assembled the suppressor as he hurried from behind the bar, into the kitchen, and then climbed the stairs to Marek’s apartment.
Halfway up he heard a woman’s voice, “Marek? Is that you?”
Enzo hustled up the remaining stairs and entered the living room, startled to find Marek’s wife seated directly across from the archway, looking straight at him, nursing the new baby.
Enzo had not seen the woman in the flesh before. Marek had thought her plain features, and horsey face, beautiful. Another mistake.
Her eyes widened, not in surprise, but recognition. She knew what Enzo looked like.
He scanned the room. The apartment was empty but for the wife, the infant, and Marek’s toddler seated beside her on the couch, sleeping with its thumb in its mouth.
Now, all options were canceled. She’d seen him, and would know that her
husband had not committed suicide. She would identify him to the authorities. Not an insurmountable problem, but an unnecessary one. Easier to stop her now.
The moment Marek had revealed them both, her husband had signed her death warrant. What followed now was blissfully not the Italian’s choice, but white-hot anger fueled him nonetheless.
“Damn Marek!” Enzo spoke aloud.
He raised his pistol. She gasped. He shot twice. The forehead. Small holes. Her head bounced backward against the sofa. A bit of blood pushed out from the two bullet wounds. Her heart still pumped, she wasn’t quite dead. He waited for the message of her demise to reach her heart.
Despite the gun’s noise, the toddler still slept. If he didn’t awaken, he would live. The infant, too. He lay in the cradle of her arms, resting on a sturdy pillow, nursing, unaware of the mother’s death. He had seen his own infants feed and he knew how intent they could be on the nipple. He was curious as to how long the mother’s milk might flow, but he had no time to watch. He still had to search the apartment.
Enzo glanced at his watch. Four minutes had elapsed since he’d climbed the stairs. His own breathing was normal. Very little exertion in the project so far. He strode through the four-room apartment, checked the closets quickly. There was no one else. No more witnesses to eliminate.
