Fallen Five

by Erica Spindler

  The same as she’d said happened with that shrink four years ago. The same as she’d said the other day.

  “I think she means to kill you. The way she killed Hank.”

  She’d warned him to stay away, then hours later, had come to his place and tried to seduce him? It didn’t make sense.

  Zach kept his gaze focused on Nichols. “It could be true, Major. There’s no audio on that tape.”

  Nichols folded his hands. “Even if it was—which I find hard to believe—there’s an appropriate way to respond. The behavior I viewed was far from appropriate.”

  “I’m just . . . struggling to come to grips with this. It’s just not . . . Mick.”

  “You agreed with me this morning, Zach.”

  He had. After seeing the video, and still feeling unbalanced from their last two interactions. Should he have fought for her? Had her back despite her volatile behavior?

  As if reading his thoughts, Major Nichols leaned forward. “Nothing you could have said would have changed the outcome of this, Harris. Natalie King is a powerful woman, and she has proof to back up her charges against Dare. Our hands are tied.”

  Zach frowned, recalling the other morning. What is my favorite coffee, Zach?

  Like she’d been testing him. As if she doubted who he was.

  But why would she?

  “A full suspension?” Zach asked.

  He inclined his head. “Return possible only with the department shrink’s blessing.”

  It might not happen, Zach realized. Mick hated shrinks. So, which was stronger—her dislike of shrinks or her love of the job?

  He didn’t know if he wanted to do this without her.

  “Major, you mind if I take the rest of the day? Get my head on straight?”

  “Go ahead. The last thing I need is you unraveling, too. But look—” He tapped his index finger on the desktop. “I’d give her some time and space. She was pretty pissed off this morning.”

  Zach nodded, stood and crossed to the door. Nichols stopped him and when he looked back, a movement caught his eye. A sparrow, perched on the bookcase behind Nichols’ desk.

  Zach indicated the bird. “You have a visitor.”

  Nichols swiveled in his chair, startling the sparrow. It burst into flight, flapping wildly, and Nichols jumped to his feet. “What the hell!”

  It took a couple of minutes, but between the two of them, they shooed the creature out the window.

  Nichols looked sheepish. “I guess I should keep the window closed, but this office is like a furnace this time of year.”

  And the squad room was like a refrigerator. “If there’s nothing else, Major, I’m going to head out.”

  “Just one thing. I know what you did today wasn’t easy. But it was the right thing to do.”

  Was it? Zach wondered. Because it sure as hell didn’t feel like the right thing.

  Zach went back to his desk for his keys and jacket, then signed out. He passed Susan on her way into Nichols’ office.

  “I’m out for the day,” he said. “I’ve got my phone for emergencies.”

  She nodded, looking as troubled as he felt.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  11:15 A.M.

  Zach was on the stairs when he heard the scream. Before he could return to the squad room, Stacy Killian burst through the stairwell doors.

  “Major Nichols fell out his window!”

  Zach all but flew down the rest of the stairs, Killian with him. A commotion greeted them as they charged out of the building. Officers shouting, pushing the curious back, already setting up a perimeter, the wail of an ambulance, the cluster of NOPD officers.

  “What the hell happened?” Zach asked as he and Killian pushed their way through. “I was just with him.”

  “I don’t know. Susan was nearly incoherent, just something about him falling out the window.”

  Zach’s first look at his commander was a shock. He wasn’t moving. Didn’t seem to be breathing. As he and Killian knelt down beside him, his eyes popped open and he arched up with a terrible, primal sound.

  “Keep him still!”

  “Until we know what his injuries—”

  Zach, Killian and several other officers circled him, holding him down firmly but as gently as possible.

  “Don’t move, Major—”

  “Ambulance is on its way—”

  He fought them, writhing and twisting, the sounds coming out of him like those of an animal in pain.

  Finally, the paramedics arrived. Zach and the others stepped back, standing in a silent circle, watching the EMTs work. Little by little, they peeled away—crime in the Eighth didn’t stop because one of their own was hurt.

  Zach’s phone went off; he moved away from the scene. “This is Harris,” he answered.

  “Detective, this is Porsche King! I need your help.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “It’s Mercedes.” Her voice rose, taking on a hysterical edge. “She got into a fight with Natalie and now she’s talking crazy.” She drew in a ragged-sounding breath. “She says she’ll only talk to you.”

  He frowned. “To me?”

  “I don’t know why, but she said you would know the truth!”

  “Put her on the phone.”

  “I can’t. She’s barricaded herself in Dad’s apartment and won’t come out!”

  “Porsche, listen carefully. Do you think she might harm herself?”

  “Mercedes? Oh, my God . . . you mean kill herself? No, at least I don’t think so, but—”

  “She hasn’t said anything like that?”

  “No.” Porsche’s voice rose. “But I’ve never heard her this way, like she’s lost it. One minute she’s yelling, cursing Natalie, the police, even dad, the next she’s crying and begging me to do something. That’s when she said to call you.”

  Zach glanced toward the crowd gathered around the ambulance. “Try to keep her talking. Tell her I’m on my way, and that together we’ll get this worked out.”

  He hung up and found Killian. He touched her arm. “I’ve got to go. Keep me posted. If he needs anything, call me.”

  *******

  Porsche met Zach on the twenty-first floor, outside her father’s apartment. “I told her you were coming and it seemed to calm her down.”

  “That’s good.” He moved close to the door, tapped on it. “Ms. King, Mercedes, it’s Detective Harris. I’m here to help you.”

  “Go away! No one can help!”

  “You told me to call him!” Porsche cried. “You said he was the only who could help!”

  “You never cared about any of this, Porsche. And now, it’s all going to be yours.”

  Zach didn’t like the sound of that. He looked at Porsche. “You don’t have a key?” he asked, voice low.

  She shook her head. Her face had gone white.

  “The building manager must have one. Get him up here.”

  She nodded and hurried out of earshot to make the call. Zach turned his attention back to the door and Mercedes on the other side of it. He could hear her agitated breathing.

  “Hey Mercedes,” he said, pressing closer to the door. “Tell me what’s going on. What’s happened?”

  “You let her walk away. Free as a bird.”

  “We had nothing we could charge her with, so there was nothing we could do.”

  “Free as a bird,” she said again, tone changing, becoming high and brittle. “She laughed at me. Told me ‘better luck next time.’”

  The phrase tugged at his memory, but he couldn’t put his finger on why and didn’t have the time to try. “Look, let me in and we’ll talk some more about it.”

  She went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “I told her I would never stop trying to prove she killed him. I vowed to use every cent of my inheritance on private detectives, and she laughed at me. Told me I was pathetic. That I was nothing without him. She was right.”

  “No,” Zach said quickly. “She’s not right.”

  “
I was never good enough. Not smart enough. God knows I wasn’t pretty enough—”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I tried and tried . . . I worked so hard . . . But I was always a disappointment.”

  “If you don’t want to come out, Mercedes, let me come in. Just you and me. We’ll make a plan.”

  “That’s all I wanted. Him to be proud of me. To love me. And now he’s gone. It’s pointless.”

  He laid his palm flat on the door, near where her breathing was the loudest. “Mercedes, you had Porsche call me because you said I could help. So let me help. Open the door and we’ll figure it out.”

  “No. I had Porsche call you because she told me I should.”

  “Who told you that? Porsche? Natalie?”

  “No. The other woman.”

  “Who?”

  “You know her.” Her voice grew distant. “She said so.”

  He racked his brain for who she might be referring too. “Is she there with you now?”

  “She’s in my head. She says it’s time to go.”

  “Mercedes—” He grabbed the door handle, and then he knew. The energy raced up his arm and her image exploded in his head.

  The amber-eyed woman. Laughing at him.

  He rattled the knob. “Mercedes! She’s not real. Let me in!”

  “Goodbye, Detective Harris.”

  “No!” He pounded on the door. “You were right! I do know the truth. We’re going to get her. But we need you! You’re the only one who can help!”

  She didn’t respond. Zach put his ear to the door. He could no longer hear her breathing and knew she’d moved away from it.

  Toward the sliding glass doors, he thought. To the balcony beyond.

  Porsche came running down the hall. “I reached him! He’s coming up! It’ll be just a couple minutes.”

  They didn’t have a couple minutes. He knew what Micki would do—kick the damn door in.

  Working to remember his training, he reared back and landed a good, square blow. It hurt like hell, but he did it again. This time the wood splintered. Then, with another blow, it gave.

  He burst through the door to see Mercedes King crouching atop the balcony rail, holding on with both hands but teetering precariously.

  She looked over her shoulder, but not at him. She nodded her head, as if agreeing with something someone was saying to her.

  “Hold on, Mercedes!” he shouted, starting for her, hand out. “I’m coming for you.”

  She still didn’t look his way. Instead, a small, strange smile curved her lips. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s better this way.”

  And then she let go.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  12:10 P.M.

  Micki dug her toes into the sand and breathed in the cold, damp air off the Gulf of Mexico. When she’d left the Eighth earlier that day, she’d climbed into the Nova, hopped on I-10 East and headed for the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

  The hour drive from New Orleans wasn’t a pretty one—mostly highway lined with “progress,” an outlet mall, gas stations and fast food stops. Chain retailer after chain retailer.

  Finally, those had given way to small coastal communities, then this expanse of sand, water and sky.

  Micki popped a French fry into her mouth. It was crispy and salty, just the way she liked them. She’d stopped at the diner just up the beach highway and got herself the fries and a chocolate milkshake. She figured she was on vacation—sort of—so she might as well make the best out of it.

  She pulled another out of the brown paper sack and bit it in half, chewing thoughtfully. Was she stupid to expect Zach to call? Not to apologize—no, she wasn’t certain she deserved one—but to talk it out? Hear the whole story? Surely, he realized there was more happening here than a meltdown?

  But maybe not. She’d seen the recording. She had no illusions about how bad it looked for her right now.

  The shake was thick, and Micki sucked in several strawfuls of the concoction. Eli said he and the professor would come up with a plan, and she trusted him. Hour by hour, minute by minute, that’s how she was going to get through this. She wasn’t about to let this chameleon creature break her.

  Her cell went off and she dug it out of her pocket. It was the first time it had rung since she’d exited the Eighth. She checked the display and was disappointed to see it wasn’t Zach. She started to refuse the call when she heard Hank’s voice in her head, clear as a bell.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it, girl?”

  So she did. “Hello?”

  “Detective Dare?”

  A woman’s voice, though she couldn’t place it. “This is Micki Dare. Who is this?”

  “Cyndi Stevens. Sarah’s—”

  “Sister,” Micki finished for her. “I remember. How can I help you, Cyndi?”

  “I didn’t hear back from you . . . I was wondering if you had a chance to question the woman my neighbor told you about?”

  “I have not. I’m so sorry, Ms. Stevens, my partner and I have been hung up in another investigation. And in fact, I’m afraid I won’t be able—”

  She didn’t finish the thought because Cyndi Stevens burst into tears. A lump formed in her throat—she understood what it was like to feel helpless against the world.

  What the hell, she decided. She’d already been suspended. Why not go for impersonating an officer, as well? “I’ll do it today,” she said, “and get back to you with what I learn. But please, don’t get your hopes up. The coroner ruled your sister’s death a suicide. That’s difficult to overcome.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Thank you so much!”

  Micki ended the call and tucked the phone back into her pocket. She stood, brushed the sand off her pants and collected the remnants of her makeshift lunch.

  Was she crazy? Micki wondered, tossing her trash in the receptacle at the sidewalk. She unlocked the car and slid behind the wheel.

  “What do you think, Hank?” she asked, starting the engine.

  The medal seemed to warm and she smiled. Hell yeah, crazier than a tourist in the French Quarter during Mardi Gras. “That’s what I think, too. Let’s do this, Hank, you and me.”

  ********

  The ad agency Keith Gerard worked for was located in Place St. Charles, a swanky commercial building in the heart of the downtown financial district. Micki made one quick stop on the way—the Big Easy Costume Company.

  Five minutes later, she’d emerged from the store with a shiny new police badge. Now, badge affixed to her belt, she fed the parking meter in front of Place St. Charles.

  She’d been a cop long enough to know that police work was as much about attitude as firepower.

  Good thing, she thought, and stepped onto the elevator. Moments later she alighted on the fifteenth floor. Double glass doors announced Walton & Johnson Advertising.

  As she approached the receptionist, she opened her jacket to reveal her badge. The young woman saw it, Micki knew, because her eyes widened slightly.

  Micki stopped at the desk. “Detective Micki Dare, NOPD. I’m here to speak one of your employees. Tara Green.”

  “Tara?” The young woman’s gaze darted past Micki, down at the phone, then back up at her. “I’m not sure—”

  Micki looked her dead in the eyes. “It wasn’t a request.”

  She nodded and made the call. A minute later, a pretty, young blonde approached her.

  “I’m Tara Green,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “Micki Dare. NOPD. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  She frowned. “I think you must have the wrong person.”

  “Perhaps.” Micki motioned toward the doorway the woman had emerged from. “I suspect you’d appreciate it if we spoke somewhere private.”

  “Sure. My office is this way.”

  Green led her to a small, functional office. She closed the door behind them. “I hope this won’t take too long, I’ve got a big media buy to finish by five.”

  “You’re a media
buyer?”

  “That’s right.” She clasped her hands nervously together. “I have a degree in marketing.”

  “Good for you.” Micki smiled. “Do you know someone named Keith Gerard?”

  She looked surprised by the question. “Of course. He works here.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with him?”

  “With Keith? We’re co-workers. Friendly, but that’s it.”

  “Are you saying you two are not romantically involved?”

  “Me and Keith? Romantically involved? No way.” She shook her head for emphasis. “Where would you get an idea like that?”

  Micki ignored the question and asked another of her own. “Does the name Sarah Stevens mean anything to you?”

  “No. Should it?” She stopped, biting back the words. “Wait. Keith’s girlfriend’s name is Sarah.”

  “That’s right,” Micki said. “Sarah Stevens.”

  Her eyes widened and she brought a hand to her mouth. “The other night . . . I heard she killed herself.”

  “Yes, Thursday the eighth. She slit her wrists.”

  Green found her chair and she sat down. Her hands shook. “It’s so horrible.”

  “What would you say if I told you a witness can place you at the scene at the night of her death?”

  Green looked up. Her lovely brown eyes were filled with tears. “What?”

  “A witness,” Micki said, “placed you at Sarah Stevens’ apartment that night. Thursday, February eighth.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why is that, Ms. Green?”

  “I was on vacation last week. My sister in Phoenix just had a baby and I was visiting her.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  3:30 P.M.

  Micki found a parking spot just around the corner from LAM, under the shade of a big oak tree. Ignoring the squawks of the birds disturbed by her arrival, she swung open the car door and stepped out.

  She breathed deeply, the cold air clearing her head. Before she left Tara Green’s office, the young woman had insisted on digging her boarding pass stub and several travel receipts out her purse, then calling up the dated photo stream on her cell phone.