Fallen Five

by Erica Spindler

  Fallen Five

  Erica Spindler

  FALLEN FIVE

  All Rights Reserved © 2018 by Erica Spindler

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Double Shot Press

  Acknowledgements:

  Thanks to the entire Trident Digital Media & Publishing team, particularly Scott Miller and Nicole Robson, for making this process a breeze. To Hoffman/Miller Advertising, thanks for the amazing cover. Y’all rock. To my family, friends, and writing retreat ‘Girl Power’ gal pals Hailey North and Robin Wells: love, hugs, and deep appreciation for your support.

  Dedication:

  For all those who shine a light in the darkness

  Praise for The Lightkeepers Series

  THE FINAL SEVEN is an expertly plotted crime drama with some supernatural flare and a dash of romance for good measure.

  – IndieReader

  Edgy and charged with atmosphere, The Final Seven is exactly what a supernatural thriller should be: a battle royale for the human soul. Spindler knows her stuff.

  – Laura Benedict, author of Charlotte’s Story and Bliss House.

  “Erica Spindler has long been an innovator, but she’s created something truly special with this debut in her new thriller series, THE FINAL SEVEN. Engrossing, exciting, and genuinely scary, Spindler takes you on a relentless ride that doesn’t let up until the last line. I can’t wait to read the next The Lightkeepers installment featuring Detectives Michaela Dare and Zach Harris - Spindler has created a partnership for the ages.”

  – J.T. Ellison, NYT bestselling author

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter One

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Friday, February 9

  4:00 P.M.

  The suspect made her skin crawl.

  He sat at the small, scarred wooden table, the picture of self-confidence and calm. Keith Gerard. Twenty-eight. A graphic designer with the largest ad agency in New Orleans, he was ridiculously handsome and unabashedly hip—from his trendy fade haircut to his perfectly stubbled jaw.

  Too confident. Too calm. His direct gaze seemed soulless as he sized her up the way one would a lab specimen.

  The lack of emotion, that’s what really got her. As if nothing remotely human lived inside that handsome facade.

  NOPD Detective Micki Dee Dare returned the favor, holding that dark gaze, letting the silence swell uncomfortably. Not uncomfortable for her. Not for her partner Zach Harris, either, who was leaning casually against the interrogation room door.

  For him. That was part of the game—making him wonder why he had been called in for questioning, what they might have to link him to his girlfriend’s death, and why the hell they weren’t getting on with it?

  She started to sweat. She had literally cranked up the heat before entering the room.

  Gerard shifted restlessly, glanced over his shoulder at Zach, then back at her. He let out his breath in a frustrated-sounding puff. “How can I help you, Detectives?”

  “You tell us, Mr. Gerard. You’re the one who found your girlfriend, Sarah Stevens, in a pool of blood.”

  “That I did.” He folded his hands in front of him. “I found her and called you. The experience was quite traumatic.”

  He said the words without the slightest quaver, without the slightest flicker of emotion crossing his face.

  Micki didn’t blink. “I’m sure it was.”

  “You doubt that’s true?”

  “Did I suggest that?” She looked over at Zach as if for confirmation, then back at Gerard. “I certainly didn’t mean to. All that blood, someone you supposedly cared about—”

  “I did care about her. Very much.”

  Micki glanced at her notes. “How did you happen to just ‘stop by’ this morning?”

  “She and I spoke last night. She was upset and I—”

  “Why was she upset?”

  “She suffered from bouts of depression.” He opened his hands in a sort of what’s-a-guy-supposed-to-do gesture. “So it wasn’t unusual to find her upset.”

  “When she got that way, what did you typically do?”

  “Talk her off the ledge, so to speak.”

  “You didn’t think to go to her place to comfort her?”

  “I used to, when we first started dating. That got old.”

  “You mean boring.”

  “Yes. You can’t blame me for that, can you? It was her same fears and my same reassurances, over and over. Nothing ever changed.”

  “But you kept dating her?”

  He couldn’t have missed the censure in her voice, but seemed oblivious to it anyway. He unfolded his hands and began to absently thrum the fingers of his right on the tabletop. “I enjoyed her company the rest of the time.”

  Micki narrowed her eyes. “You’re a real peach of a guy, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, yes, I am.” His fingers stilled. “I have things to do today. Are we finished?”

  “No, Mr. Gerard, we are not.” She glanced at the notes again. “Why did you pay Sarah Stevens a visit this morning?”

  “She wasn’t answering her phone, and I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

  “Suddenly you cared about her well-being?”

  “You really have the wrong idea about me, Detective Dare. I’m a good guy. I really am.”

  Then why was every fiber of her being recoiling from him? “A good guy,” Micki repeated. “And, no doubt, a great catch? I mean, look at you. Handsome. Successful. Charming.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled slightly. “But I assure you, I don’t think of my
self that way. Especially at a time like this.”

  Of course he did. It was as obvious as his Cole Haan loafers. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we, Mr. Gerard? We have reason to believe you were complicit in Sarah’s death.”

  “She slit her wrists, Detective. After months of threatening to do it, she followed through. I don’t see where that has anything to do with me.”

  “So, you’re saying you didn’t encourage her to go through with it?”

  “What kind of monster would that make me?”

  “You tell us, Mr. Gerard.”

  “This is about her crazy sister, isn’t it? What did she say?”

  “That instead of talking Sarah off the ledge, as you put it, you encouraged her to follow through with it. To just do it.”

  “Encourage her to kill herself? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” Micki held his gaze. “Her sister claims Sarah’s bouts of depression didn’t begin until after you two started dating.”

  He shrugged. “That’s her opinion.”

  “Not just her opinion. Sarah talked to her about it. Several times.”

  His lips curved up ever-so-slightly. “The ravings of a woman on the brink.”

  Micki leaned forward. “When someone’s on the brink, the right nudge from a loved one can send them over the edge, don’t you think?”

  “Is that personal experience talking?” He leaned toward her, stopping so close she felt his breath against her face. “You know what this sounds like to me? A guilty conscience. Blame Sarah’s suicide on the boyfriend instead of accepting responsibility herself. I knew Sarah six months, Teresa knew her all her life. Who do you think would have more culpability in her death?”

  “Have any of your other girlfriends committed suicide?”

  “Pathetic, Detective.” He stood. “I believe we’re done here.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Gerard. We’re most certainly not done here.”

  He smiled and shrugged into his coat. “The wild ramblings of a grief-stricken family member. You’ve got nothing. If you need anything further from me, go through my personal attorney.”

  He retrieved a card from his inside lapel pocket and dropped it on the table, then started for the door.

  Zach blocked his exit. He held out his hand. “Thank you for coming in today, Mr. Gerard. We appreciate your time and are very sorry for your loss.”

  Gerard hesitated before taking his outstretched hand. Zach held it—and his gaze—a few moments longer than was comfortable, and Micki saw Gerard squirm.

  Despite the squirm, Micki figured Gerard had no idea he was being mind-fucked—her description for Zach’s ability to reach into somebody’s head and see and feel their thoughts.

  Zach was part of a secret FBI initiative called Sixers. Individuals with psychic abilities had been recruited, trained, then sent to local police departments to help combat crime. Even within the force only a handful of folks knew about the program; she’d drawn one of the “lucky” insider straws and been partnered with the NOPD’s recruit.

  It was a damn slick trick, one that often irritated the hell out of her, but had proved unbelievably useful. Especially at times like this.

  “Elevator is right across the hall,” Zach said, releasing Gerard’s hand. “First floor’s your stop.”

  The man jerked his hand back, two spots of angry color blooming in his cheeks. “I’ve used an elevator before.”

  Micki joined Zach, and they watched as the elevator doors slid shut behind Gerard. “I can’t tell you how much I hate letting that one walk away.”

  “Don’t have to, partner.”

  He grinned down at her, those amazing blue eyes crinkling at the corners. She cocked an eyebrow. “You reading my mind, Hollywood?”

  “You know better than that, Mick.”

  She’d caught him doing that shit once, and had warned him if he did it again, the partnership was over. He’d promised her he wouldn’t, and so far, had kept his word.

  “I didn’t need to. You made it pretty clear what you thought of Mr. Slick. No super-mojo-power necessary.”

  “You get anything when you picked his brain?”

  “No confession, but a startling lack of response. No grief or shock, no guilt or regret. Nothing but this flat . . . curiosity.”

  “Curiosity?” she repeated. “In what way?”

  “I saw him standing there by the bathtub, just studying her. He was fascinated by the blood, the way it pooled. And by how pale and cold her skin was.”

  Goosebumps raced up her arms. “Did he touch her?”

  “Stroked her hand. Once. Lightly. Then got out his cell phone and called it in. All business.”

  “You’re describing the thoughts and reactions of someone with an antisocial personality disorder. My bet’s on psychopath. No empathy or remorse. No sense of personal responsibility.”

  Zach nodded. “I could definitely see this guy pulling the wings off butterflies. Or worse. A lot worse.”

  “The question is, did he encourage her to kill herself? If he did and we find proof, we’ve got something to take to the DA.”

  They started toward the Detective Investigative Unit squad room. The NOPD Eighth District was housed in a nearly two-hundred-year-old building, one badly in need of renovations. As with most of historic New Orleans, folks either loved or hated the derelict charm. Micki fell squarely into the “loved it” category.

  “Hold on, I need to check on my baby,” she said and crossed to the window that looked out at Bienville Street. A fat pigeon sat on the ledge, eyeing her as she rolled up the big old window.

  “Shoo,” Micki said when it held its ground. “Go on.” She clapped her hands, and it finally flew off. She peered down at the street. There it was, her midnight blue, 1971 Nova with a 396V under the hood. Three months ago, a perp had taken it for a joyride that ended with him crashing it into Bayou St. John; she’d just gotten it back, restored to its original glory.

  Unfortunately, it seemed to have attracted the attention of an unsavory-looking dude in a leather jacket and dark shades.

  “Oh, hell no,” she muttered, as he sidled up close to the driver’s side door. Micki leaned out. “Hey, you!” she shouted, “asshole in the shades!”

  The guy’s head jerked up.

  “Yeah you!” She leaned farther out the window. “Move away from the vehicle or I’m gonna have to come down there and kick your ass!”

  He jumped back so fast, he lost his balance. As she watched him right himself and scurry off, another man caught her eye. Walking quickly by in the opposite direction. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a long, easy stride and a head of thick silver hair.

  Her heart seemed to stop a moment, then began banging against her chest. Hank. The man was Hank.

  Micki leaned out the window and shouted his name. He didn’t hear her and she leaned farther out. A piece of the stuccoed brick crumbled under her weight, and she pitched forward.

  “Whoa, partner!” Zach grabbed her arm and hauled her away from the window. “You have a death wish or something?”

  Micki looked at him, startled back to her senses. She realized she was shaking and worked to steady herself. How could she have thought that was Hank? Her friend and mentor had been dead six years now.

  Zach’s expression grew concerned. “You okay?” he asked. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks.”

  He frowned and lowered the window. “You called Hank’s name. Not the Hank?”

  Micki glanced back at the window. The pigeon, she saw, had returned. She felt as if it was laughing at her.

  She was losing her freaking mind.

  “Yeah.” She shook her head. “Someone, on the street . . . he looked like Hank and for a moment, I guess I forgot he was . . . gone.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He grinned. “I used to think I saw my mother and I’d never even met her.”

  She laughed. “Why is that so not reassuring?”

 
“Angel told me you sometimes call out his name in the middle of the night.”

  “Young people,” she muttered. “They’re like frickin’ vampires, up all night.”

  “When are you going to trust me, Mick?”

  “I do trust you.”

  A lie. They both knew it. She trusted him with her life—but not with the deep stuff. The stuff she held close.

  They fell into step. “What do you want to do about Gerard?”

  “Mr. Slick? I say we see if we can get a subpoena for his phone and electronic records.”

  Chapter Two

  Saturday, February 10

  10:35 P.M.

  Micki sprang awake, and the battered old recliner she’d fallen asleep in snapped upright. Disoriented, she needed a moment to realize where she was and that her cell phone was ringing.

  Micki fumbled for the phone and brought it to her ear.

  “This is Dare.”

  “Mick. It’s me.”

  “Zach?” She gave her head a quick shake to clear it. “What time is it?”

  “Around ten-thirty. You were asleep?”

  Micki pushed her hair away from her face. Hank. She’d been dreaming about having seen him on the street. But in the dream, it really had been him, though no matter how loudly she yelled his name, he didn’t look back.

  “Yeah. If you want to call it that.” She climbed off the recliner—Hank’s recliner—her muscles complaining as she uncurled her legs. “What’s up?”

  “Turn on your TV. The local news. Any network.”

  She found the remote and clicked the device on. NBC, channel six. Some sort of commotion downtown, she saw. At the grand opening of 2 River Tower and Hotel. People everywhere, many in formal attire, some crying, others open-mouthed and staring. Sirens. Flashing lights.

  “What the hell—” She bit the words off as a news crawl at the bottom of the screen spelled it out for her.

  Real Estate Developer Thomas King Plunges to His Death

  “Holy shit,” she muttered. “What happened?”

  “Middle of the celebration, King goes up to his twenty-first-floor apartment to retrieve something he left behind. Next thing anyone knows, it’s pancake time on the back terrace.”

  Just this morning King had been on the morning show, boasting about the food at Thirty-Three, the restaurant at the top of the tower. Even the pancakes were going to be the best anyone ever tasted, he’d crowed. Trust me, he’d said. The best. Fantastic.