Fallen Five

by Erica Spindler

  “Hell no, that’s not happening.”

  Zach started for the door, smiling back at her. “I’ll tell Nichols you’re having a nervous breakdown, and that you’ll be in when you’ve got your shit together.”

  “Try it and die, Hollywood. Now, get the hell out of here. I’ve got calls to make.”

  Zach laughed, relieved. “Cussing and crabby, classic Mad Dog.”

  She followed him to the front door. As he started through, she stopped him. “Hey, Zach?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. For everything.”

  “Even the smooch?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows in exaggerated lechery, and she pointed to his car.

  “Go. Now. Before I lose my sense of humor.”

  As the door clicked shut behind him, Zach’s smile faded. There hadn’t been anything funny about that kiss—or the way it had made him feel. And they both knew where it might have led if he hadn’t backed off.

  It had been the elephant in the middle of the room. Taunting them both. So, he had addressed it.

  The “what if” filled his head. He and Mick, naked on the bed, twined together. Hot and hungry. His mouth went dry and his blood began to thrum.

  Thank God, he’d resisted. If he hadn’t, the elephant in the middle of the room would have become the monkey on their backs. Or at least on his. Because he had a feeling that making love with Mick could become an obsession.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Noon

  By the time Micki arrived at the Eighth, she’d talked to someone named Rhonda at the United States Postal Service Mail Recovery Center in Atlanta. From her, she’d heard why mail gets lost, how much gets lost, and how often the MRC actually locates the intended recipients. Rhonda had then directed Micki to call her local postmaster.

  Which she did. A very friendly man named Pete. Not at all helpful, since he had no information about her package, but had agreed mail got lost all the time and shared how frustrating that was for all involved. They at the USPS were dedicated to getting every piece of mail delivered in a timely manner. And then he’d referred her to the MRC in Atlanta.

  Micki had thanked him and hung up, feeling oddly reassured by the facts and more than a little bit foolish over her earlier histrionics. But not reassured enough to leave a thread dangling, so she’d taken a detour on her way in, stopping by Hank’s old place. The curtains had been drawn, and no one answered the door, so she’d scribbled a note and tucked it into the mail slot.

  Micki greeted Sue, collected her messages, and headed to her desk. Hank’s medal hung from around her neck, nestled between her breasts and near her heart. She found its being there comforting. As if in some strange way, Hank was watching over her.

  Zach was on the phone. He looked her way and pointed in the direction of Major Nichols’ office, then hung up. “Big guy wants us. Pathologist’s report is in.”

  He came around the desk. “But first, that was King’s lawyer. Finally returned my call about the prenuptial agreement between Thom and Natalie King.”

  “And?”

  “Just as the widow King said, there is one. Everything goes to his kids and grandchild.”

  “She doesn’t get anything?” Micki sounded as incredulous as she felt.

  “I’ll read it to you.” He retrieved his notes. “She keeps all her personal belongings, including any clothing and jewelry. She keeps her personal vehicle and anything they purchased during the marriage.”

  “What about the 2 River Tower and Hotel?”

  “Nope. She gets nothing from the corporation. Only things they personally acquired.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “And a quarter of a million bucks.”

  To Micki, a lot of money. To someone who had been living the life of a billionaire’s wife, not so much.

  “And,” Zach went on, “the lawyer confirmed the prenup was Natalie’s idea. He’s emailing a copy.”

  “Damn.” She shook her head. “I called that one wrong.”

  “Trust me, you’re not the only one. This also came in.”

  He handed her a file folder. “What is this?”

  “Records of the electronic correspondence between Keith Gerard and Sarah Stevens.”

  The case they’d been working before King. It seemed like a month ago and it’d only been a few days. “And?”

  “I didn’t have time to take it all in, but in what I did read, there was nothing incriminating.”

  “Nothing?”

  Micki opened the file, flipped through the pages, and stopped on the day preceding Stevens’ suicide. She scanned the print-outs of their text conversations—Gerard came off as a model boyfriend.

  She made a sound of disgust, closed the file and tossed it on her desk. “There’s something there, and I’m going to find it.”

  He playfully elbowed her. “That’s my Mad Dog. How about the package from Hank. Any answers?”

  They started toward the major’s office. “Apparently, some mysteries cannot be solved. Packages get lost. Sometimes for a very long time, and for a variety of reasons. No one knew how mine had gotten lost, but obviously it had.”

  “You okay with that?”

  She wasn’t okay with any of it. Not with thinking she saw Hank, or King’s suicide, or a package from a dead man mysteriously showing up on her doorstep.

  And not with the nagging feeling that she was missing something important.

  She released a pent-up breath. “Do I have a choice?”

  They reached Major Nichols’ office and he waved them in. He started talking before they’d even taken their seats. “The coroner is classifying King’s death a suicide.” He moved his gaze between them. “Do you have anything that suggests that’s the wrong call?”

  Micki turned her gaze to the window to the right of the Major’s desk. A crow sat on the ledge. It seemed to be staring at her.

  A queasy sensation settled in the pit of her gut.

  “Detective?”

  She jerked her gaze back to Nichols. “Nada,” she said.

  Zach nodded. “Ditto, Major.”

  “Write it up.”

  “You want us to inform King’s family?” Micki asked.

  “The chief is handling that himself. I’d like those reports ASAP. That’s all.”

  They filed out. Zach glanced at her. “You’re quiet.”

  “Not much to say, is there?”

  “You think there’s more here?”

  She shrugged. “It’s one of those cases where what you see is what you get.”

  Even as she said the words, something tickled at her memory. Someone had once said those exact words to her. Who?

  “It’s just so weird,” Zach said. “A guy like King, killing himself? Why do you think he did it?”

  She drew her eyebrows together. “Don’t know. He didn’t leave a note, so we’ll probably never know.”

  “And that sits okay with you?”

  It didn’t. Not at all.

  Better luck next time, Detective.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled. The Three Queens case. Again. Her first homicide investigation as a rookie detective, inextricably tied to Hank’s death.

  It hadn’t sat right. It had looked too easy.

  In the end, she’d followed her gut.

  And she had been right; there had been more to the story. Much more.

  Better luck next time, Detective.

  What was her gut telling her now? What wasn’t sitting right with this case?

  “Mick?”

  She jumped as Zach touched her elbow. “Sorry. What?”

  He frowned. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  He hesitated a moment, as if not quite convinced, then jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. “I’m going to head over to CE&P.”

  “Central Evidence? Why?”

  “Before I write this up, I want to have a go at that Rolex.”

  “You’re thinking there might be some
thing there?”

  “Truthfully? No. But I’ve got to do it anyway.”

  “Need me to come along?”

  “I’ve got this.” He grinned. “Besides, I know how much you enjoy working on reports. No way I’m going to keep you from it.”

  “You’re not getting out of this, you know.”

  “Watch me.”

  She shook her head, amused. “Major expects a report,” she called after him. “And not just from me.”

  He laughed and loped off, and Micki returned to her desk and started by assembling her notes on the King suicide, reading through and organizing them.

  Suicide. Straightforward. Simple.

  Not simple. Never.

  Micki spun toward her computer to access The Three Queens file. She scrolled through, refreshing her memory. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for, but was confident she would recognize it when she saw it.

  Similarities, she realized, switching back and forth between the two investigations.

  Similarity number one. A case that had appeared simple but had proved to be anything but.

  Similarity number two. Family members adamant that those involved would never do what they very obviously had done. In the one case, that was take another’s life. In the other, take their own.

  Similarity number three. Testimony from others that the mood or behavior of the individuals in question had recently changed, specifically growing darker.

  Mick turned away from the screen and leaped to her feet. So, what? All three similarities could apply to numerous cases. She was wasting her time. The only reason she was thinking about The Three Queens case was Hank’s letter. It had stirred up her memory of it, that’s all.

  The St. Michel’s medal felt warm between her breasts. Crazy as it seemed, she sensed it was urging her on. She pulled it out from beneath her blouse and curled her fingers around it.

  Carmine, she thought. When was the last time she’d been to visit her old partner? She answered her own question. When Zach had come on board, and Carmine had been assigned to the Cold Case Unit. Too long.

  Snatching up her phone, Micki punched in his number. A brief conversation later, she was on her way headquarters.

  Chapter Fifteen

  1:30 P.M.

  “Mad Dog,” Carmine said, giving her a bear hug. “How the hell are you?”

  “Good.” She eyed him. He looked ten years younger and thirty pounds lighter. “What’s up, dude? You’re like the amazing, disappearing man.”

  He laughed and struck a pose. “I look good, right? Wife and I took up yoga.”

  She almost choked at the image that popped in her head, of Carmine, aging goodfella, on a yoga mat in Downward Dog.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve got to say, I didn’t expect that.”

  He laughed again, motioned toward the chair across from his desk, then settled into his own chair. “Saw you and the hot shot pulled the King investigation.”

  “Sure did. Coroner’s calling it a suicide.”

  “Was there ever any doubt?”

  “There’s always some doubt, you know that.”

  He shifted in his chair. “You and Harris make quite a team.”

  Micki wished she could share the truth about Zach with him, but she couldn’t—no matter how much she trusted Carmine.

  “We’ve had a lot of dumb luck come our way.”

  “A whole lot of it.” It was obvious he didn’t buy that and was hurt by her diversion, and she quickly added, “Harris has crazy good instincts. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “There’s something different about that guy.”

  “You’re telling me?” She leaned slightly forward. “He’s out of his frickin’ mind.”

  “Driving you crazy, huh?”

  “And then some.” She smiled. “You and I were pretty good, too.”

  “That we were.” His expression turned serious. “You just here to shoot the shit, Dare?”

  “Nope.”

  He settled back into his chair. “Didn’t think so. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been thinking about The Three Queens case.”

  He inclined his head. “Any particular reason why?”

  What did she say when she wasn’t completely clear on that herself? She decided to start with the obvious. “I got a package today. From Hank. The letter inside was dated the day he died.”

  His expression registered surprise, then doubt. “That’s not particularly funny. What’s the punchline?”

  “There is none. It looks like it got lost in the mail.”

  “For six years?”

  “Apparently, that happens.”

  “Damn.” He sat back, chewing on the idea of it. His expression turned sympathetic. “That must have been a shock.”

  “Big time. I’d been thinking about him a lot lately anyway, even thought I saw him.”

  She bit the rest back and held out the medal. “He sent me this. It was his, he wore it every day.”

  “And that brought you back to our Three Queens case.”

  “Yeah.” She dropped the medal back under her shirt. “It’s not just the package from Hank causing me to think about the Dead Queen.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “There’s something about the King case. . . the way it makes me feel, that’s the same.”

  “Like there’s more to the story.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does the hotshot say? You said his instincts are ‘crazy good.’”

  “I haven’t talked to him about it, not specifically anyway.” Carmine’s eyebrows shot up, and she quickly went on, “He doesn’t know the details of the case or how it unfolded. So, I came to you.”

  “Gotcha.”

  But he didn’t. The easy word held a subtle condemnation. She’d shut her partner out, without valid cause. Not cool.

  “I re-read the report, Carmine. How’d she know? How’d she get away?”

  “Like you said back then, she anticipated your move. She had to know that someday, someone would catch on. And she was ready for it. That’s why she left you that note.”

  “Better luck next time,” Micki murmured. “You never noticed anything strange about her eyes, huh?”

  He pursed his lips. “Nope. You did, I remember. Had an almost physical reaction to her. To her office even, the moment you walked in.”

  She remembered and thought of what Zach had said about King’s daughters. “Like nails on a chalk board.”

  He smiled slightly. “I think she had a bit of the same reaction to you. You pushed her buttons, that’s for sure.”

  “That I did.”

  “Where’s all this leading, Dare?”

  “Not quite sure. Maybe I just wanted your advice.”

  “On what to do about this case?” She nodded, and he leaned forward. “You’re a good cop, Micki. Trust your instincts. Besides the badge and gun, that’s pretty much all we’ve got.”

  Ordinary cops, like the two of them. Without super-mojo, bullshit powers. Didn’t matter that Professor Truebell had “welcomed her to the club.” Her tiny spark of light hadn’t given her dip in the way of special abilities.

  She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “What if my instincts are wrong?”

  “You cause yourself some extra legwork. Big deal.”

  More than that, she thought. Last time it had cost her Hank.

  No. She rubbed her temple. Hank died of a heart attack. The pathologist had said so.

  “Look,” Carmine said, expression sympathetic, “there’s nothing new on Blackwood. I check every so often. That same day we got the search warrant, she got on a plane to Costa Rica and hasn’t returned.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “As certain as I can be. We flagged her passport; if she tries to re-enter the country, we’ll be notified.”

  “But if she falsified her passport—”

  “You think there’s a chance she’s done that?”r />
  Falsified her passport. Completely changed her looks. And come back not just to the States, but to New Orleans?

  Micki brought a hand to the spot between her eyebrows and the headache that had settled there. “Just throwing it out there. It’s certainly a possibility.”

  He frowned, studying her. “Do you have some reason to believe she’s stateside?”

  Not just change her looks—but become a different person?

  She couldn’t be thinking that.

  “No.” She shook her head. “The whole thing—this case, the feeling that there’s more to it—the package from Hank dredged it all back up.”

  “I get it, partner. It’s tough.”

  It was tough. Losing Hank was the hardest thing she’d ever faced.

  She stood. “Thanks, Carmine. I appreciate the time.”

  “Hey.” He stood and came around the desk. “Are you kidding? Anytime.” He gave her a quick hug. “Come to dinner sometime, bring the hotshot.”

  She forced a smile. “I’ll do that.”

  “And Dare?”

  She looked back at him. “Yeah?”

  “Your partner. Maybe you need to fill him in?”

  “You’re right, I will. Thanks, Carmine.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  2:10 P.M.

  Micki sat in the Nova, motor running. Thoughts racing. She breathed deeply, feeling calm—and common sense—ease firmly back in to place.

  Whatever similarities she saw between King’s suicide and The Three Queens investigation were coincidences. After all, how many times did the family members of perps swear up and down their loved one could never do what they very clearly had done?

  Nine times out of ten. At least.

  And how often did she hear testimony about recent changes to a perp’s demeanor or personality? A lot, for sure.

  Natalie King rubbed her the wrong way. So, what? She wasn’t the first person to do that, she wouldn’t be the last. Hell, she was Mad Dog Dare. Most people rubbed her the wrong way. That’s what made her the crabby, skull-crusher she was.

  Micki took in, then released, another series of long, deep breaths. Just like she’d said to Carmine, Hank’s package had dredged up the past—and all the helplessness and hurt of Hank’s death.