by Linda Ladd
The Vanishing Angle
Books by Linda Ladd
Claire Morgan Homicide Thrillers
Head to Head
Dark Places
Die Smiling
Enter Evil
Remember Murder
Mostly Murder
Bad Bones
Claire Morgan Investigations Series
Devil Dead
Gone Black
Fatal Game
Will Novak Novels
Bad Road to Nowhere
Say Your Goodbyes
Witness Betrayed
The Devil’s Work
The Vanishing Angle
Table of Contents
Books by Linda Ladd
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
Epilogue
Teaser Chapter
About the Author
The Vanishing Angle
A Will Novak Novel
Linda Ladd
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2019 by Linda Ladd
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Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat.& TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: December 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161- 0741-4(ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0741-1 (ebook)
First Print Edition: December 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0744-5
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0744-6
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
One late afternoon on the ides of October, Will Novak tied up the Sweet Sarah, the forty-foot Jeanneau Sun Odyssey sailboat that he had ordered custom-made several years back. Novak was a big man at six feet six inches and two hundred and forty pounds, and needed everything aboard to accommodate his size, at least as much as could be done in the confines of a sailboat. He’d made sure he got a bunk long enough for his legs, which had been his main objective.
Novak had put in earlier that morning at the big marina on the Potomac River several miles south of Washington, D.C. He’d spent a couple of hours scrubbing the salty brine from the blue-and-white hull and battening things down nice and tight before he showered and dressed for his dinner date with Lori Garner. They’d been together for a while now, but she had recently taken a job with the Department of Defense, so he had sailed east to spend some time with her.
Securing the cover of the hatch, he shivered from the chill wind sweeping in off the river. He pulled on a black windbreaker over his blue dress shirt, not yet used to East Coast autumn weather. The temperature had been in the seventies when he’d sailed down the wide and sluggish Bayou Bonne that edged the back of the old Louisiana plantation house he’d inherited from his mother on the day he was born. He had sailed the deep royal blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico in sight of the white beaches before he’d turned and entered the Intracoastal Waterway to Norfolk, Virginia, and then out into the magnificent Chesapeake Bay. Motoring up the Potomac took forever, but it was a beautiful experience with mile after mile of wooded shores, the dark scarlet of giant oaks, and the golden splendor of maples, all glorious to behold, a vivid patchwork quilt that glowed brilliant under the bright sun.
Zipping his jacket, he looked up at the buildings above him, now lit up in the growing darkness and bustling with tourists. He was in National Harbor, Maryland, just south of Washington, a favorite spot for tourists to stay outside the crazy traffic and expensive hotels inside the Beltway. He glanced around the boat, giving it one last visual check. It was battened down tight, all his homemade alarm systems in place, a habit he’d found necessary after he’d become a private investigator and made some enemies that harbored long memories. Novak walked across the dock, glad to be back on solid ground again. They were to meet at a steakhouse he’d suggested to her, one not too far away in northern Virginia. He’d found it when he had spent some time working at the Navy Yard in D.C. That was before he’d joined his SEAL team and been deployed to the Middle East. The Back Alley Grill would take about an hour’s drive, but it would be worth it. They served the biggest and best T-bone steaks that he’d ever eaten in that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He and Lori had met not long ago on a case where they’d worked to put a crooked Galveston judge in prison. They had liked each other instantly, becoming friends and then lovers.
Lori Garner was a veteran like him, having worked as an MP in battle zones and later as a sniper because of her skill with a rifle. But it was her experience and training in IT work that was most in demand. After she’d opted out, she and Novak had worked some cases together while his PI partner, Claire Morgan, was off on maternity leave. A few months ago, she had given birth to the most beautiful little girl whom she and her husband, Nicholas, had christened Olivia Rachel Black. He’d spent the last few months there with them at Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri while recuperating from a gunshot blast to his side that had nearly killed him. Lori had stayed in a cabin with him on that beautiful quiet cove, nursing him back to health and putting up with his foul moods at being confined so long. She had taken this new job almost a month ago.
Now as he climbed the path to the street, he realized how excited he was to spend time with her. The job at the Pentagon had been unexpected. Her training and expertise with computers and programming had made her invaluable to her former Commander. When he had been promoted to a one star and assigned to the Pentagon, he’d immediately requested her to re-opt and work for him, if only temporarily while he got acclimated to his new position. She had agreed to help him set up a new office, but only planned to stay until things evened out.
Novak hoped that was still her plan, but wasn’t so sure it would be. She loved the new work. Her voice was always eager and excited when she told him about her day. Novak was fairly certain she would stay on. That decision was good for her career, but bad for Novak. His gut told him that she would hit him with that ne
ws tonight. He couldn’t and wouldn’t stand in her way. She was good at what she did, and she was a woman who knew her own mind. That’s what he liked most about her.
Novak passed lots of tourists, mostly families with young children running out ahead of them. Everyone seemed to be having a great time. He was ready to do the same. The street was lined with bustling restaurants and pricey boutiques. There were several condominiums up on the hill above the river. On his left, a giant Ferris wheel was silhouetted against the darkening dusk, flashing red and blue and green geometric patterns against the night sky. He could hear distant screams from those in the swinging cars stopped up top. They could probably see the Washington Monument from that high, maybe even the Capitol dome.
Novak did not plan on going into the city while there, no way. He’d had enough of the traffic in that place to last him a lifetime. He hoped Lori had picked out a nice quiet Bed and Breakfast somewhere out in Virginia near the steakhouse. Two weeks out there with Lori all to himself sounded damn good.
The Uber driver was waiting inside a black Cadillac at the next intersection. The woman was an African-American who looked about forty but was probably older. When he tapped on her window, she climbed out in a hurry and greeted him in a friendly but professional manner. She identified herself as Mrs. Betsy McClelland. She asked him about luggage, but he held up the black nylon backpack that he always carried with him in case of emergencies. It had his clothes for the weekend, as well as burner phones, water, energy bars, GPS vehicle trackers, and medical supplies. He’d learned to always be prepared while with the SEALs and later as a PI. That little precaution had saved his life more than once. He never left home without it. He climbed into the front passenger seat and placed his bag on the floor at his feet.
McClelland asked for his destination and read it into her vehicle’s GPS. Novak waited, rubbing absently at the thick scar tissue across the left side of his waist. The wound was practically healed now but still ached some. The cooler temperature didn’t help. Briefly he relived that existential moment in the Guatemalan jungle when the man he’d tracked there had pulled the trigger on a .357 magnum. The slug had knocked Novak off his feet, and he hadn’t remembered much after that until he’d regained consciousness in a hospital bed in Guatemala City. He’d been lucky. A few inches higher and the bullet would have exploded his chest cavity. Yep, Novak was lucky to be alive. That kind of near-death experience made a man consider his life choices. The recovery had been a long, hellish ordeal, but he was better now, almost back to his old self.
Novak didn’t encourage conversation on the drive, and the lady didn’t force any. She did tell him that the Back Alley Grill was the best place around and their T-bone steaks melted in your mouth like butter. He told her that he already knew that, and then asked her about the six little kids in the photograph on the dash. She said they were her grandchildren—a seventh was on the way. He told her she looked too young for grandchildren, to which she scoffed and then laughed. She asked no questions about his life, and the rest of the drive was silent. He liked her immensely.
The Back Alley Grill was in a nondescript huddle of buildings not far past White Oak, Virginia. The rural highway where they ended up was practically deserted, all the work-weary commuters on the Interstates headed out of D.C. Lori had texted on the drive with news that she’d booked them into a private cottage at a B&B south of Fredericksburg so it would be an easy drive after dinner. Apparently, Betsy McClelland knew the route by heart, and in no time the little cluster of red-bricked buildings around the famous restaurant appeared seemingly out of nowhere. It was an old center that had catered to farmers in the old days. The street was lined by those ancient two-storied buildings that looked to be from the Civil War era, with raised wood sidewalks and tattered awnings and big plate-glass front windows. It appeared most shops were now empty. He hoped the steakhouse was still in operation.
Last time he’d visited, the same street had been bustling with people eating ice cream and playing video games in the arcades. Now it looked like a ghost town. They passed little traffic and no pedestrians until Betsy turned into the narrow alley that led to the restaurant. That’s where the excitement began. Five vehicles were lined up between the brick buildings. People were walking up from the parking lot down at the far end of the alleyway. A group of diners crowded under the canopied entrance while others formed a line against one wall.
An attendant stood at the door, no doubt shooing away disappointed people without reservations. He was a big guy, maybe six feet and one or two inches, stocky and muscular but with a pudgy belly where anybody fighting him would punch him first. He was dressed like a trendy nightclub bouncer, wearing a black leather jacket with lots of unnecessary zippers and tight black jeans with leather boots. He was blond and used a lot of gel to make his hair stand up straight in a widow’s peak. He was God in that alley, with his own red velvet rope suspended between metal posts to reinforce his power to choose.
Betsy braked and inched along with the other cars until they reached the doorman under his canopy. Novak thanked her, grabbed his backpack, and exited the car, and Betsy drove away, job well done and with a sizable tip. The minute he got out, his olfactory senses were hit with a smell that could only be described as heaven-sent. After weeks on the water enjoying his own cooking, his stomach reacted violently to the aroma of perfectly seasoned grilled beef. He’d had nothing to eat since that morning, and that was a bowl of cornflakes. His mouth watered.
Unlucky people who thought they could get a table without reservations stood subdued and patiently waiting, probably owing to the size of the bouncer. He eyed Novak and frowned. Tough guys gave Novak attitude because he was usually bigger and stronger than they were. This guy acted as if he were manning an official White House gala for important dignitaries. Novak ignored him and glanced around for famous faces out of the Beltway. He’d never eaten here without at least one or two politicians, lobbyists, or news anchors at nearby tables. He didn’t see anybody of note. All Novak wanted was to get a table and order his steak.
The bouncer had to look up to Novak. He didn’t like that, either. His plastic nameplate said Jack Casinger. Jack had broad shoulders and bulging arms that he kept folded across his chest. He looked Novak up and down as if gauging whether Novak was going to start a brawl. Novak hoped he didn’t try to search him, as he was carrying concealed, a Kimber .45, just like he always did. Novak waited politely, then gave the guy the name on the reservation. Lori had been given permission to use her new boss’s influence, which appeared to have significant pull with this guy. He acted suitably impressed and quickly swung open the door, standing back for Novak to enter.
The restaurant interior was more impressive than the alley outside. It was old-fashioned, a shabby-chic decor. It looked like an old tintype of some elegant restaurant where Abraham Lincoln would court Mary Todd at dinner. The lighting was subdued with replicas of gas-flamed chandeliers. Maroon-flocked wallpaper that looked soft to the touch festooned the walls behind booths covered with worn black leather. About twenty tables were positioned in the main room, each covered with pristine white linen and a flickering oil lamp. Most were full of customers, and the people looked happy. Two rooms opened off on each side, and could be glimpsed through velvet-curtained arches. The long mahogany bar at the back was crowded. Behind the bar, murals made of beautiful stained glass depicted scenes inside a turn-of-the-century New York saloon.
It didn’t take long for an effusive, eager-to-please, but tired young hostess to come running, vellum menus in hand. At his request, she led him to a quiet table for two sitting inside a shallow alcove near the front door. Novak took the chair that placed his back to the wall and gave him a clear view of the room and front door. Old habits died hard, but they’d also kept him alive despite a few close calls. As he watched the other diners, an incoming text vibrated inside his pocket. He pulled out his cellphone. It was Lori, apprising him that she’d been delayed
by a meeting lasting longer than expected. She told him to go ahead and order without her; she’d get there within the hour. Novak was hungry enough to go ahead, so he scanned the red-tasseled menu and ordered the biggest T-bone they had, medium rare and topped with the delectable butter-sautéed onions he remembered so well. The girl scribbled it all down in a hurry and smiled at him, as if she’d known what he wanted before he opened his mouth. Novak spent the wait studying the patrons sitting around him. He saw no familiar faces, but lots of couples and family units. Nobody paid attention to him, so he watched the outside door for Lori, his eagerness to see her embarrassing him somewhat.
The giant steak came out, covered with those onions and still sizzling on a hot metal serving dish, along with a second text from Lori telling him to go ahead and eat. She was about thirty minutes away. The place was still loud and busy with new groups continually being seated. Each time the front door opened, he looked up, expecting to see Lori.
This time it wasn’t his date standing at the entrance. It was a young woman, quite young, probably not yet twenty. She had bleached her hair to a bizarre stark white shade with maybe four inches of jet-black roots showing. Her hair boasted the kinky, coiled-up kind of curls, like Shirley Temple’s. It fell around her shoulders in a big bushy, unkempt mass. She was impossibly skinny, which of course was the fashion of the day, and she wore a pair of white jeans so tight that nothing was left to the imagination. She had either bought them ripped apart at the knees, or attacked them with scissors herself. Novak often wondered about the intelligence of the youth.
She had black tights underneath her jeans and brown fuzzy boots he vaguely recalled as “Uggs.” Lori had a pair, or he wouldn’t have had a clue. The woman’s red-and-black, buffalo-plaid flannel shirt was unbuttoned, hanging open over a white T-shirt. More noticeably, she was absolutely strung out on some kind of illegal drug. It looked to Novak as if she were in the last stages of opioid withdrawal. Her eyes looked teary and tired and bloodshot, and she kept wiping her runny nose on the back of her shirtsleeve. She kept shivering and holding her stomach as if she had cramps. Her movements were jerky, and she looked ready to come apart at the seams. Novak put down his knife and fork, watching her for whatever was going to happen next, because something was definitely going to. Her eyes darted around nervously. She came off as frantic. He felt that if she didn’t get a fix soon, she would start screaming and overturning tables.
