Also by Metsy Hingle

DEADLINE

FLASHPOINT

BEHIND THE MASK

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Black Silk. I hope you find it to be a real page-turner and it keeps you entertained.

If this is the first time you’ve read any of my books, I do hope you enjoy it. For those of you who are familiar with my work, you won’t be surprised to find Black Silk is set in New Orleans, my birthplace and the city that continues to inspire me.

As always, one of the greatest joys for me as a writer is hearing from readers. Your comments, opinions and feedback on my books mean a great deal to me. So please keep those letters, cards and e-mails coming.

My address is Metsy Hingle, PO Box 3224, Covington, LA 70434, USA, or you can contact me on the web at metsyhingle.com.

Until next time, best wishes and happy reading!

Metsy Hingle

METSY HINGLE

BLACK SILK

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In Loving Memory of Missy

1991–2004

The four-legged ball of fur

who owned my heart.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

During the course of writing this book, I lost dear family members, a lifelong friend and my beloved Missy, the puppy who sat on my lap for every book I’ve written until now. It was a difficult and sad period for me that made writing all the more difficult. Were it not for the grace of our Lord and the Blessed Mother, along with the support of some very special people, this book would never have been written. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people for their help in bringing life to Black Silk:

Valerie Gray, my editor and friend at MIRA Books, whose continued guidance has been a blessing.

Dianne Moggy, editorial director of MIRA Books, for her friendship and support.

The amazing MIRA staff, who continue to astound me with their support.

Sandra Brown, my dear friend, for her friendship, love and for the shoulder to cry on whenever I needed it.

Erica Spindler and Nathan Hoffman, dearest of friends, for their friendship, advice and love.

Hailey North, my dear friend and fellow writer, for her friendship, love and support.

Carly Phillips, my friend and fellow writer, for her support.

Bill Capo, TV investigative reporter for Channel 4 News in New Orleans, for his friendship, support and for answering my questions about the inner workings of the newsroom.

Marilyn Shoemaker, my friend, fan and researcher.

A special thank-you goes to my children and my family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.

And as always, to my husband, Jim, who is my lover, my best friend, my rock and the person who has taught me everything that I know about love.

One

She should have found him by now. Ignoring the chill of the February wind, Detective Charlotte “Charlie” Le Blanc stared down at her sister’s grave. Six years had passed since an unspeakable monster had murdered her sister Emily. And still he remained free. Free to walk the streets. Free to breathe. Free to kill again.

Thunder rumbled overhead and the angry sound seemed to echo Charlie’s mood. She was no closer to finding her sister’s killer now than she’d been when she’d quit law school and joined the New Orleans police force almost six years ago.

“It sounds like we’re in for some bad weather,” her mother remarked, drawing Charlie’s attention from her dark thoughts. “I wish you had worn your heavy coat like I asked you to, Gordon.”

“My jacket is fine,” her father replied. “Honey, this is New Orleans, not New York.”

Charlie looked over at the two of them. Grief had taken its toll on both of them, she thought. Despite the grief counseling that had helped them get through the loss of their middle daughter, the twinkle in her mother’s hazel eyes was never quite as bright again, her smiles never quite as wide. And although he’d never fallen apart, Emily’s murder had left its mark on her father as well. The lines around his eyes had grown deeper, his hair grayer, his laughter less frequent.

When another growl of thunder was followed by a crack of lightning, her father placed an arm around her mother’s shoulder. “Looks like that rain is moving in this direction. We’d better go if we want to beat the downpour.”

“All right,” her mother responded and walked over to the headstone. Stooping down, she placed a bouquet of yellow roses in front of it. After pressing her fingers to the marble stone where Emily’s name had been engraved, she straightened and returned to her husband’s side. “Charlotte, are you coming?”

“Not just yet. You and Dad go on ahead. I won’t be long.”

“I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone,” her mother said. “It’s not safe.”

“Mom, I’m a cop,” Charlie protested.

“You’re still our little girl,” her mother informed her.

“Your mother’s right, Charlie,” her father told her. “We’ll wait and walk you to your car.”

Charlie fingered the package of yellow M&M candies in her jacket pocket. It was a silly gift—her sister’s favorite snack in her favorite color. It had become both a joke and a tradition since she’d fished out six of the yellow candies from a bag of the treats, bundled them up in tissue, tied it with a yellow ribbon and presented it to Emily for her sixth birthday. Emily had adored it. So every birthday that had followed, Charlie had added another candy to mark her sister’s age and presented her with the gift—right up to the year that her sister was killed. And for the past six years, she had continued the tradition. Only now she placed the gift on Emily’s grave. She knew it was foolish. After all, her sister was dead and as far as she knew, ghosts, if there was such a thing, didn’t eat candy. But continuing the practice somehow kept the memory of her sister close. It also renewed her determination to keep the promise she’d made to both of them at Emily’s funeral—to find her sister’s killer and bring him to justice. “I’ll be fine, Dad,” she told him.

“Charlotte,” her mother began.

“I’ll only stay a few minutes.” She kissed her mother on the cheek and then her father. “Now you two go on before the rain hits. I won’t be long. I promise.”

“Are you still coming over for dinner?” her mother asked.

“Yes. But I’ve got some paperwork to do at the station first so I may be a little late.”

“That’s all right. Anne got sent out on some kind of assignment at the TV station this afternoon and she’ll probably be late, too,” her mother explained. “We’ll just plan on eating a little later than usual.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

“Make sure you don’t stay long,” her father instructed.

“I won’t,” she promised again. Once her parents had departed, Charlie walked over to the marble stone that marked her sister’s grave. She retrieved the package of twenty-five yellow M&Ms from her pocket and placed it beside the roses her mother had brought. “Happy birthday, Em,” she whispered just before the skies opened up.

Charlie made a run for it. By the time she reached her car, the black boots she’d splurged on the week before were a mess and she was soaked to the skin. A gust of wind sent a surge of rain into the vehicle as she hurried inside. After starting the car, she pushed wet clumps of hair away from her face. She was debating whether to go home and get a dry jacket before heading to the station when her cell phone rang. “Le Blanc,” she answered as she hit the defrost button on the dashboard.

“It’s Kossak,”

“What’s up?” she asked Vince Kossak, her partner for the past two years.

“We’ve got a possible 187,” Vince informed her, giving her the code for a homicide.

“What’s the location?” she asked.

“The Mill House Apartments in the Warehouse District,” Vince replied. “I’m headed there now.”

“I’m on my way.” Maybe she had yet to find justice for her sister Emily, but at least she could try to find justice for someone else.

He stood across the street shadowed by both his umbrella and the trees in the small park. Smiling, he watched the activity unfold at the apartment building. It had been risky for him to hang around, but the camouflage of the rain made it too tempting to resist seeing the reaction to his handiwork.

Everything had gone according to plan. The discovery of Francesca’s body by the maid couldn’t have gone better if he’d scripted the scene himself. Which, come to think of it, he had—at least indirectly, he thought proudly. Maybe when he finally collected the money due him, he would invest some of it in the movie business. Making movies in Louisiana had become big business and it made sense for him to get in on some of the action. Better yet, instead of simply being the moneyman, he would act as the movie’s director. After all, he had directed the players in the drama going on across the street for months now, hadn’t he? And look at what a masterful job he’d done. Yes, he thought with a chuckle, the idea of directing appealed to him—almost as much as killing Francesca had appealed to him.

The M.E.’s van pulled up and he shoved his plans for the future aside. Another group of the city’s gofers exited the van followed by a tall woman wearing an ugly beige raincoat. Mid-forties, moderately attractive, he thought, studying her. After speaking to the doorman for a moment, she turned and began giving instructions to the men accompanying her. The medical examiner herself, he realized, his gloved fist tightening on the handle of his umbrella. Another woman in a position of power—power that she wielded over the men beneath her. Adrenaline surged through him as he considered the prospect of showing her what real power was. He couldn’t risk it, he told himself as he watched her and her minions enter the building. Besides, she really wasn’t worthy of his attention.

Now the pretty, blond detective who had arrived flashing her badge was another matter altogether. He smiled. He hadn’t anticipated that the police department would assign a woman to Francesca’s case and certainly not one so young and attractive. Even all wet and in the bland clothes, she was a looker. And hadn’t he always been partial to blondes? She was a bonus, one he hadn’t expected. He was going to enjoy sparring with this one. And maybe he would do more than just sparring, he amended with a smile as he touched the black silk stocking in his coat pocket.

But the lady cop would have to wait, he decided. First…first, he had to put the next part of his plan into play. Whistling, he strode down the street toward his car.

By the time Charlie turned onto the street where the Mill House Apartments were located, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. But the wet streets had caused a slew of fender benders that had turned what should have been a ten-minute drive into twenty. With a touch of impatience, Charlie pulled her unmarked car to a stop behind a silver Rolls-Royce.

“Ma’am, this is a no-parking zone,” a uniformed doorman holding a black umbrella told her as she exited her car. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to move your vehicle.”

She didn’t bother pointing out that the Rolls was in the same no-parking zone as her car. Instead she flashed him her badge. “I’m here on official business. The car stays here,” she informed him and strode toward the apartment building.

Nervously tailing her, he called out, “But, ma’am—”

“Detective,” she corrected without breaking her stride, making her way to the building’s entrance. Once a working cotton mill, the Mill House was one of several vacant buildings that had been converted into luxury apartments following the success of the city’s 1984 World’s Fair. The place bore little resemblance to the old mill now, she thought as she reached the porte cochere that had been part of the building’s original architecture. She climbed the dozen steps and was about to open the door when the doorman practically jumped in front of her.

“It’s my job,” he explained when she leveled him with a look.

“Thanks,” Charlie murmured as he pulled the door wide. This had to be a first, she thought. She couldn’t recall ever being greeted at a crime scene in such a manner before. Then again, this wasn’t the typical place for a homicide. Although New Orleans held the unwanted distinction of ranking number one in the nation for murders per capita, most of the crimes were committed in the poorer sections of the city. Nine times out of ten, where the poverty was most prevalent so were the drugs, gangs and turf wars that so often resulted in murder. It was a sad fact of life and a black eye on the city of New Orleans, despite the current efforts being made by the police chief to rectify the problem. But barely into the second month of the calendar, the murder rate had already exceeded one a day.

In her five years on the police force Charlie couldn’t ever recall a murder occurring in one of the city’s upscale apartment buildings. And there was no question this one was upscale, she conceded as she marched across shining marble floors, past urns filled with fresh flowers and over to the front desk.

A nervous-looking clerk in a gray-and-red uniform that matched the doorman’s looked up and asked, “May I help you?”

“I’m Detective Le Blanc,” she said, flashing him her badge.

The man paled. “You must be here about poor Ms. Hill.”

“That’s right,” she said, assuming poor Ms. Hill was the victim. “What’s the apartment number?”

“Let me call Mr. Blackwell for you. He’s the building manager,” he explained. “He’ll take you up to Miss Hill’s apartment.”

“That’s all right. I can manage on my own. Just give me the apartment number,” she told him.

“It’s 513. But—”

“Thanks,” she said and started toward the elevator.

“Wait! Ma’am. Officer—”

“It’s Detective,” she corrected, pausing at the panic in the young man’s voice.

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Detective,” he said. “If you’ll just wait a minute. I’m supposed to notify Mr. Blackwell—”

“It’s all right, Dennis,” a portly man with a horrible comb-over said as he materialized from a door behind the desk to stand beside the nervous clerk. “I’m Mr. Blackwell, the manager of Mill House Apartments,” he advised her with a pomposity that annoyed her.

“Detective Charlotte Le Blanc,” she told him with a flash of her badge. “New Orleans Homicide.”

“So I see,” he all but sniffed. “Several of your associates have already arrived, Detective. Perhaps you would like to remove your coat before you join them.”

The disdain in his voice was clear as he surveyed the wet tracks she’d left in her wake, and Charlie suspected he would have preferred showing her the exit instead of allowing her further access. And because she’d never understood why some people thought a fancy title or money entitled them to act pompously, she said, “It’s a bit chilly in here. I think I’ll just keep it on.” And without waiting for his response, she walked past him, down the corridor to the elevator, where she found a uniformed police officer waiting. “Detective Le Blanc,” she said, showing him her ID.

“Yes, ma’am.” The officer stepped inside the elevator with her and hit the button for the fifth floor.

“Why don’t you fill me in, Officer,” Charlie said and noted the surveillance camera inside the elevator. She made a mental note to have the tapes confiscated if Kossak hadn’t already done so.

“I wasn’t first on the scene, Detective. All I know is that we have a robbery/homicide in apartment 513. Any details on what went down and who was involved are being kept in there.”

Moments later when the elevator doors slid open, the police officer remained where he was and she stepped out into a carpeted hallway adorned with artwork and more urns of fresh flowers. As she walked down the hall, her damp boots were silent on the thick carpet. More surveillance cameras were in evidence and Charlie was impressed by the security measures. The tapes should prove useful, she thought. As she approached apartment 513, she noted the crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the doorway and another uniformed police officer, whom she pegged as a rookie, standing at the door’s entrance like a sentinel. Charlie held up her badge. “Detective Le Blanc.”

“Detective,” he said, all but snapping his heels together.

“Who was the first on scene?” she asked.

“I was, ma’am. My partner and I were on patrol when we got the call. After we arrived, we confirmed the victim was dead and phoned it into the station. We secured the scene and took a statement from the woman who found the body.”

Charlie quickly scanned the room, taking in the crime scene, which she guessed had been the site of a party, judging by the empty glasses and half-eaten food. The various police units were at work, sorting through it all. The forensic photographer snapped shots of empty glasses and champagne bottles on the table, then bagged the items. She spied her partner, Vince Kossak, in a far corner of the room, questioning a woman in a maid’s uniform. From the look of things, the fresh-faced officer had followed procedure. His securing the scene properly would certainly make her and Vince’s job easier. “Good work, Officer…”

“Mackenzie, ma’am. Andrew Mackenzie.”

“You did a good job, Officer Mackenzie.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Charlie nodded, then made her way across the room toward her partner. At thirty-two, Vince was three years her senior. An average-looking man of average height with brown hair and eyes, Vince was anything but average when it came to being a cop. He had a string of commendations for his bravery in the field. Though he downplayed the awards, she knew firsthand that he deserved every one of them. Just last year he’d faced down a drugged-up junkie wielding a knife who was holding his own wife hostage. Vince got the woman away unharmed, but it had taken a dozen stitches to close the gash in his shoulder. No, Vince Kossak wasn’t even remotely average, she mused. He was everything she believed a cop should be—honest, trustworthy, a man you could stake your life on.

They didn’t come any more solid than Vince Kossak. And she’d been lucky to be assigned to work with him. The two of them made a good team. In the two years that they had been partners, she had learned a great deal from him. More than that, they had become friends. She trusted Vince with her life and vice versa. He was among the few people that she’d confided in about her sister’s murder and her determination to track down the killer.

Looking up, she caught Vince’s eye and he motioned for her to join him. “Thank you, Mrs. Ramirez. You’ve been a big help,” Vince told the woman and waved the uniformed officer over to join them. “Now if you’ll just go with the police officer, he’ll get your contact information and we’ll be in touch with you.”

“You will find this person who hurt Miss Francesca, yes?” the woman asked, her accented voice thick with tears.

“We’re certainly going to try.” Once the police officer led the woman away, Vince turned to Charlie. “Jeez, Le Blanc,” he said as he took in her wet hair and jacket. “Haven’t you ever heard of an umbrella?”

She shrugged. “The weatherman said no rain today.”

“And you believed him?”

“I was hoping he’d get it right for once.” Of course, he hadn’t gotten it right. Nine times out of ten, the weather forecasts were off the mark, as was typical for New Orleans. The weather was as wide-ranging as the people who lived there. You could find yourself in shirtsleeves and suffering from a drought one day only to be hit with freezing temperatures and floods the next day.

“You’re lucky they even let you in the front door of this place.”

“Trust me, that prissy manager wouldn’t have if he could have helped it,” she replied. “So what have we got?”

“The vic’s wallet is empty and according to the maid there’s jewelry missing.”

“A robbery gone bad?” Charlie asked.

“Maybe.” He gave her a quick rundown of the situation, explaining the maid had arrived that morning to help the victim get ready for her wedding, only to find the bride-to-be dead.

“Today was her wedding day?” While each case she investigated left a mark on her, Charlie couldn’t help feeling sad for the woman whose dreams had ended before they’d even begun.

“It was supposed to be.” He paused. “This one is going to be touchy, Le Blanc. Word from the top is that we’re to handle this with kid gloves.”

She wasn’t surprised given the real estate. “Who’s the victim?”

“Her name’s Francesca Hill. Age twenty-six, a former casino hostess.”

The name didn’t ring any bells. Charlie glanced around the apartment. Lots of white and black, bold splashes of red, modern artwork that looked like a kid had been let loose with finger paints. It all added up to one thing—money. “Casino hostessing must pay really well.”

“It does if you’re marrying the boss.”

Charlie arched her brow.

“The fiancé is J. P. Stratton.”

“Stratton,” she repeated. “As in Stratton Real Estate?”

Vince nodded. “And Stratton Hotels. The man also has an interest in two casinos and a professional football team. Our vic was supposed to become wife number five this evening.”

Charlie conjured up a vague image of a gray-haired man with a George Hamilton tan. The guy was sixty if he was a day. “Apparently Stratton likes his brides young.”

“Apparently,” Vince replied.

“Where’s the body?”

“In the bedroom.”

“How’d she buy it?” Charlie asked.

“We’re waiting for the M.E. to give the official cause of death,” he said, a troubled look coming into his eyes. “But it looks like she was strangled.”

For a moment, everything inside Charlie froze. Murder investigations were never easy. But the ones where strangulation was the cause of death were the hardest for her because it always brought back thoughts of her sister’s death.

“Listen, why don’t you stay out here and make sure the techies don’t screw up and I’ll handle things in there,” he offered and urged her away from the bedroom.

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “All right, Kossak. What’s in that bedroom that you don’t want me to see?”

Vince eyed his partner carefully, noting the shadows beneath her dark brown eyes. In the years they’d worked together he’d watched Charlie push herself, driven by demons to find justice for the victims. He knew from the countless hours she spent poring over case files that the demon that drove her hardest was finding her sister’s killer. It was the reason he was worried now about how she would respond to what was in the next room.

It had nothing to do with her toughness. He’d seen Charlie hold it together at more than one bloody homicide scene when even a seasoned vet would have lost his lunch. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t a better, smarter or more dedicated cop on the force than Charlie Le Blanc.

But for all her smarts and toughness, Charlie Le Blanc had a heart, a heart that sometimes felt way too much. And her sister’s murder was like a wound with a bandage on it that had been pulled off too soon. It was painful. And it wouldn’t take much to reopen that wound again.

“You going to answer me, Kossak?”

“Come on, Le Blanc. We’ve got a female strangling victim. Give yourself a break. Let me handle this one.”

“I can carry my end of the job, Kossak,” she informed him, her already husky voice dropping even lower.

“Nobody said you couldn’t,” he said sharply and when he noted heads turn in their direction, Vince hustled her over near a window and out of earshot of the fingerprint team. Lowering his voice, he repeated, “I never said you couldn’t carry your end of the job. Hell, half the time you’d carry mine if I’d let you. But you are not personally responsible for solving every homicide in this city.”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it. Cut yourself some slack for once.”

“I can’t,” she told him and looked away.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t,” she insisted.

“Why can’t you?” he pressed.

She whipped her gaze back to him and spat out, “Because if I don’t stop him, he might kill another—” She paused, took a steadying breath. “He might kill someone else.”

Vince said nothing. But he had no doubt that what she had been about to say was that he might kill another innocent girl like her sister.

“I thought you said this one was high priority,” she said more calmly. “So are we going to process the scene or not?”

Vince knew any further attempt on his part to dissuade her would be pointless. So he said, “Let’s do it.” He headed to the bedroom, knowing she was behind him. He paused at the door and donned gloves so as not to mar any evidence. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she replied as she finished putting on her own gloves.

They stepped into the room. It was huge, almost the size of his apartment, he noted as he surveyed the scene a second time. Only this room smelled of booze, perfume and sex. The virginal-white color scheme was only broken by the clothing that lay strewn on the carpet and the golden-blond hair of the woman who lay on the bed.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Vince replied. From a distance she did look beautiful, like something out of a painting, a siren draped in satin sheets. Her heart-shaped face looked as if it had been carved from ivory. It was smooth and perfect. The green eyes stared glassily up at the ceiling. The long, yellow-gold hair was spread out against the pillow and fell across pale shoulders. One hand rested near her face, the diamond ring on her finger catching the light. Only the marks across her throat marred the picture of beauty. He eyed Charlie, worried about the impact of the scene on her. But other than a momentary stiffening, she gave nothing away.

“Judging by that rock on her finger, we either have ourselves a very dumb thief or robbery wasn’t the motive. The way she’s positioned on the sheets with her hair spread on the pillow and her hand near her face looks staged,” Charlie remarked. “Our killer is evidently into showmanship—which tells me this was no robbery turned homicide. And it was no act of passion either. It was planned.”

He had reached the same conclusion himself. “Given the security in this place, I’d say our vic must have known her killer.”

She glanced down at the discarded underwear. “I’d say she knew him well enough to go to bed with him,” Charlie added.

“I figure they started off with drinks in the living room,” he began, mentally re-creating how the murder had gone down.

“Then they decided to take the action into the bedroom,” she continued. She walked past the high heels that had been discarded a few feet from the door, then stopped in front of the black sequined dress that lay in a heap. “Pretty,” she said and stooped down to examine the dress. She checked the label and read, “Ricardo’s. I know this shop. It’s very expensive.”

“Why, Le Blanc, I never would have guessed that you’d go in for this kind of number,” he said in an effort to distract her from what awaited.

“Oh, I’d go for it all right. The problem is I’d never be able to conceal my gun in it or be able to afford it, which is exactly what I told my sister Anne when she dragged me into the place to see a skirt she’d been drooling over.”

“Did she buy it?” The question was out before he’d been able to stop it and he could have kicked himself for the slip. Anne Le Blanc was little more than a kid, but for some reason she got under his skin.

“No. I managed to talk her out of it,” she said and went back to examining the dress. “We should get the techs to dust the zipper for prints. There’s always the chance we’ll get lucky.”

But it wasn’t likely, Vince thought. A killer who would take the time to pose the victim wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving his prints on the dress’s zipper or anyplace else.

Charlie moved farther into the room and stopped again, this time to check out a spot on the carpet. She poked at the matted section of carpet with her gloved fingertip, then sniffed it.

“My guess is it’s champagne,” he told her. “There was an empty bottle in the living room and a couple more bottles in the bar.”

She nodded, rose and continued toward the bed. “So they get a little more frisky here. She loses the bra,” Charlie said, playing out the scene just as he had. She looked at the overturned glasses that rested on the night table, eyed the panties beside the bed. Then she spied the black silk stocking draped on the bed next to the victim. Suddenly her body stiffened.

Vince was sure Charlie noted, as he had, that the stocking looked smooth, no visible snags, not even a crease, as though it had never been worn. Instead, it appeared to have been placed beside the victim for effect.

Finally she looked up at him. “The other stocking isn’t here, is it?”

“No,” he told her, knowing the conclusion she would draw. Her sister had been strangled, her body posed in the bed in a similar manner and a single black silk stocking found at the scene.

“He took the other one as a trophy. Just like the last time,” she said and stared once more at the bed. “Just like when he killed Emily.”

Two

Cole Stratton studied the floor plans of the newest Logan Hotel for which he and his firm, CS Securities, had been contracted to provide a security system. Spreading out the blueprints on his desk, he made notations to those areas where additional cameras would be needed. Logan Hotels, which had begun with a few small, luxury hotels a decade ago had blossomed into an international chain whose “L” logo guaranteed excellence in accommodations and in service. Cole had set his sights on this account nearly a year ago. Getting the call from Josh Logan telling him the job was his had been the culmination of months and months of hard work. It had been a major coup for him. He should be thrilled. He should be out celebrating.

Instead, he was sitting in his office on a Saturday afternoon trying to assuage his concern for his sister by concentrating on business. But it wasn’t working. Frustrated, Cole threw down his pen and rammed his fingers through his hair. If only he had been able to convince Francesca not to file charges against his sister, Holly. But despite his efforts, the woman had been determined to follow through on her threat and have Holly arrested for violating the restraining order. Even though he’d sent Holly out of town for the time being, it would only be a temporary fix. If Francesca had contacted the police this morning, as she’d sworn she was going to do, they would already be looking for Holly. For his sister’s sake, he hoped Margee Jardine’s skill as a lawyer would be able to override J.P.’s political influence. The last thing his sister needed was the trauma of being dragged into the police station by her father’s newest wife.

“Damn,” he muttered. Thinking about what Francesca was putting his sister through infuriated him. But he couldn’t lay all the blame at Francesca’s feet. No, J.P. was the one responsible for this mess. If the man hadn’t fallen into lust with his own daughter’s friend, Holly wouldn’t be in trouble now.

Damn you, J.P.

The selfish S.O.B. didn’t care whose life he ruined as long as he got what he wanted. If he weren’t so angry at Francesca, he might even feel sorry for the woman, because it wouldn’t be long before she discovered that being Mrs. J. P. Stratton came at a very high price. His mother had paid it. First with her fortune, then with her dignity and finally with her life. The women who had followed had paid a price as well. So had each of J.P.’s children—including himself.

Unfortunately, by the time his father’s new bride discovered the cold, ruthless man behind the charming facade she’d married, it would be too late. She would have become another casualty of J. P. Stratton’s ego and greed. But, maybe not. After all, Francesca Hill struck him as the type of woman who always landed on her feet. Of course, her share of J.P.’s fortune would certainly help cushion her fall.

But Francesca wasn’t his concern. Holly was. And for the time being, there was nothing more he could do but wait and hope Francesca was too busy preparing for her wedding to follow through with the charges. Reminding himself that his sister was safely tucked away for now, he picked up his pen and went back to work. Lost in the challenge of the hotel project, he didn’t register the pounding on the door out front until he heard the shouting.

“Cole!”

Recognizing his brother Aaron’s voice, Cole pushed away from his desk and headed down the hall to the reception area. His first thought was that there had been a warrant issued for Holly. Just as quickly he dismissed that notion. Margee Jardine’s contact in the police department had promised to notify her if a warrant was issued.

“Cole, open the door!”

He frowned as he approached the door, suspecting that his brother was there to try one last time to convince him to attend J.P.’s wedding. Younger than him by four years, Aaron had been blessed with his mother’s blond hair and green eyes while he had inherited his father’s dark hair and blue eyes. Even though he more closely resembled his father than his four half siblings, it was Aaron who shared the closest bond with J.P. And it was Aaron who constantly tried to bridge the rift between them. Cole unlocked the door.

“It’s about damn time,” Aaron snapped. “I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour. Why in the hell aren’t you answering your cell phone?”

“Because I didn’t want to be disturbed,” Cole told him. “So if you’re here to try and change my mind about going to J.P.’s wedding, you’re wasting your time.”

“There isn’t going to be any wedding,” Aaron told him, his voice flat. “Francesca’s dead.”

For a moment, Cole thought that his brother had made some sort of tasteless joke. After all, Aaron had made no secret of the fact that he thought J.P. marrying his own daughter’s friend was disgusting. But one look at Aaron’s face and he knew his brother wasn’t joking. “What happened?”

“It looks like she was murdered.”

Cole’s brain tried to process the news. The determined young woman he’d tried to reason with the previous night was dead? “When? Where?”

“Sometime last night at her apartment,” Aaron informed him. “The maid found her a few hours ago. Blackwell, the manager at the Mill House, called me and I had him phone the police. Then I went over to the apartment building to wait for them. Seeing that dead body shook me up. You’d think my years in the military and in the SEALs would have prepared me for something like this.”

“Sit down,” Cole told his brother, motioning to the sitting area where sofas and chairs had been grouped around a square marble table. Aaron sank down into one of the upholstered chairs. Cole did the same and waited for his brother to continue.

“Anyway, once the police arrived, I left and came looking for you since I couldn’t reach you on the phone.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Cole said and meant it. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

“Not that I know of. They think robbery might have been the motive. Francesca’s wallet was empty and the maid said some of her jewelry is missing.”

“A robbery at the Mill House?” Cole remarked skeptically. He knew the building and the security system. Both were excellent.

“I know. I find it hard to believe, too. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. You know how the old man drapes all his women in jewelry and shows them off. He spent another chunk of change on a bracelet for her just last week. And Francesca wasn’t at all shy about flashing her little gifts under everyone’s noses. The woman might as well have pasted a sign on her back. Every thief in a five-state radius could spot her as an easy mark.”

Somehow he doubted the street-smart woman would allow herself to be anyone’s mark, Cole thought. But then he also couldn’t see her going down without a fight. “How did she die?”

“The police say it looks like she was strangled.”

Like a lightning bolt, a dark memory from his childhood flashed through Cole’s mind—a furious J.P. arguing with his mother, grabbing her and choking her. He’d been no more than five at the time, too small to take on a man J.P.’s size. But he’d grabbed his baseball bat and struck J.P. across the back as hard as he could. It had earned him a backhand and a bloody mouth, but it had given his mother time to get away. “How did J.P. react when you told him?”

“He doesn’t know yet,” Aaron said. “That’s why I was trying to reach you. I was hoping you’d come with me to break the news to him.”

“We both know the news will go down better without me there,” Cole told him. And it was true. He and his father were civil to one another, but just barely. Besides, they had nearly come to blows last night when he had ripped into J.P. for encouraging Francesca’s actions against Holly.

“You’re probably right,” Aaron replied and stood. “I’m just not sure how he’s going to take this. You know how he is when he thinks he’s in love with a woman.”

He did know, Cole admitted silently as he stood. He’d seen

J.P. fall into lust more times than he could count when he’d been growing up. And each time, J.P.’s new fling had taken precedence over everything in his life—including each of his wives and his children. “I don’t think you have to worry about J.P. He’ll bounce back fast enough,” Cole said. “You’re probably right about that, too.” I am right, Cole thought. His own mother’s grave wasn’t cold before J.P. had married Aaron’s mother. He walked his brother to the door and placed a hand on his back for a moment. “Don’t worry about telling Holly. I’ll let her know what’s happened. Are you going to tell the twins or do you want me to do it?” he asked, referring to his two youngest half siblings.

“Christ! I forgot all about them. They’re probably getting ready for the wedding right now,” Aaron said. “You’d better tell them. I don’t know how long I’ll be at the old man’s place and I don’t want them to hear about it on the news.”

“I’ll tell them,” Cole promised. He walked his brother out into the hall, down to the elevator bank, and pushed the button. After the elevator arrived, he rode with Aaron to the parking level.

When they exited the elevator into the garage, Aaron said, “Boy, talk about a mess. The press is going to have a field day with this and the timing couldn’t be worse. We’re waiting for approval on J.P.’s application for a new gaming license.”

“I’d be more concerned with finding Francesca’s killer than with any bad publicity her murder might generate for J.P.,” Cole told him, irritated that his brother’s thoughts were on business and not the tragedy of a young woman’s death.

Aaron’s eyes darkened and he shot him a look of annoyance. “You don’t have the market on empathy, Cole. I’m just as concerned as you are. I even liked Francesca. But someone has to look out for the business.”

And because Cole had walked away from his father and the career path that had been planned for him, that duty had fallen to Aaron. Unfortunately, since Aaron had earned his law degree, J.P. had taken full advantage of his son’s legal skills. As a result, Aaron had never pursued the brilliant career or personal life he could have had outside of J.P.’s shadow. “I hope J.P. realizes how lucky he is to have you,” Cole told him honestly.

“He’s my father,” Aaron said as though it was the only explanation needed for giving up his own career to work as his father’s attorney and right-hand man. “He’s your father, too. It wouldn’t hurt for you to remember that.”

“Trust me. It’s something I never forget.” And Cole had certainly tried. In fact, he’d spent most of his life trying to distance himself from the man. Being J.P. Stratton’s son was something about which he had never taken pride. As far as he was concerned, the only good thing that J. P. Stratton had ever given him was his half siblings. It was because of them, and only them, that he maintained any relationship with the man at all. His brothers and sister were also the reason he had not destroyed J.P. as he had vowed to do following his mother’s death.

The zap-zap of Aaron activating the door locks of his car with the remote broke into his thoughts. When they reached the vehicle, Aaron turned to him. “We’re going to need all the help we can get with damage control. It would help if you’d make a call to that friend of yours at the TV station to counteract any bad press.”

“J.P.’s no stranger to publicity. I’m sure he can handle it.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about. It’s Holly. What do you think they’re going to do when the story gets out about her crashing the rehearsal dinner last night and throwing wine in Francesca’s face?”

Cole had heard all the ugly details from his sister last night. It had been a stupid and immature thing for Holly to do. Of course, she’d regretted her actions later. But by then the damage had been done.

“How do you think Holly’s going to handle having the press in her face?”

Aaron was right. Holly was as beautiful as a hothouse flower and just as fragile. And ever since that mess J.P. put her through eight years ago, she had never been the same. Having the press all over her would only unnerve her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Charlie stood, waiting impatiently for the M.E. to complete her preliminary examination of the body. As she did, she kept seeing that silk stocking lying next to the victim. But instead of seeing Francesca Hill’s face, she saw Emily’s. The memories came tumbling back like slides from a home-movie reel…back six years ago…back to another dreary and cold afternoon….

Charlie adjusted the rearview mirror of her car in an attempt to diffuse the blinding headlights from the car that was practically on her bumper. When the other driver pulled out into the oncoming lane to pass her, horns blasted as the car nearly collided with the SUV coming from the other direction. Gasping at the near miss, Charlie hit the brakes of her car when the driver pulled back into the lane in front of her.

“Idiot,” she muttered when her heart began to beat almost normally again. The jerk could have gotten himself killed, not to mention the people in the SUV and her. Of course, she wouldn’t even be on this road if it weren’t for Emily.

Emily. Just thinking of her younger sister annoyed her.

This was payback. She knew it was. Her sister was punishing her by not answering her apartment phone or cell phone because Charlie had refused to drop everything and race over when she’d called yesterday. Emily’s claim that it was urgent usually meant one thing—guy trouble. Younger than her by four years, she and Emily couldn’t have been more different in appearance or personality. Emily was petite, feminine and blessed with the sexy curves that teenage boys dream about. Whereas she was tall, on the skinny side and more comfortable in jeans and T-shirts than a dress. Guys had been tripping over their tongues to go out with her younger sister from the time she’d gotten her first bra at the tender age of twelve. When it came to Charlie, the boys were more apt to ask her to play a game of catch than to go to the movies.

She didn’t mind that Emily was always considered the pretty, ladylike one while she…she was the smart, athletic one. She never had minded. She was even glad to see that their baby sister, Anne, was turning out to be a good mixture of the two of them—pretty and feminine, athletic and smart. She loved both of her sisters, would do anything for them. But she resented the heck out of Emily screwing up her plans by playing stupid games.

Because that’s just what she was doing by not answering her phone, Charlie reasoned. Emily knew that their mother would worry and insist that Charlie drive right over and check on her younger sister. And, of course, she would never refuse her parents—especially when her mother offered to make the drive from New Orleans to Baton Rouge if Charlie couldn’t.

As a result, here she was driving clear across town and dodging idiotic drivers just to make sure that Emily was okay, when what she should be doing was studying for her criminal-law class. And she really, really needed the extra study time if she wanted to finish at the top of her class. You’d think by now their folks would be used to the fact that Emily was a drama queen, she reasoned, growing more resentful with each mile she drove. She didn’t know why her sister had bothered to take premed courses when she clearly belonged on the stage. Everything in Emily’s world was of major importance. Even a blemish popping up on her face the day before the senior prom in high school had been a life-or-death matter to her younger sister.

Charlie smacked the steering wheel, irritated all over again that she had to put her own life on hold to come check on her sister. Finally she turned off onto the street where Emily lived. She pulled her car to a stop in front of the small cottage that their parents had leased for Emily at the start of the new semester. When she spied Emily’s Honda in the driveway and lights on inside the house, she fumed. She turned off the engine, slamming the car door as she exited, and marched up to the porch.

She jabbed the doorbell with her thumb and held it there for an extra moment or two. Five seconds, ten seconds ticked by and she hit the doorbell again. When her sister still failed to answer, Charlie pounded on the door with her fist. “Come on, Emily. I know you’re in there. Open the door!”

After several moments passed and her sister failed to answer, Charlie tried to peer through the frosted glass set in the wood panel of the door, but all she could see was the glow of lights. Since the drapes were drawn, she didn’t bother trying to look in the windows. Instead, she banged on the door again.

When she still got no response, Charlie began to worry. Tilting the potted fern beside the door, she retrieved the spare key that her sister kept there. Quickly, Charlie inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. “Emily,” she called out as she stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind her. She could hear music coming from somewhere in the house, a mushy love song from that CD her sister had purchased a month ago and had played incessantly when she’d been home for the weekend.

“Emily,” she called out again. Still no answer. A shiver of unease skipped down Charlie’s spine as she checked out the combination living room/dining room, but the room was empty. Charlie hit the off button on the CD player and suddenly there was silence. Too silent, she thought.

Moving down the hall, Charlie glanced in the kitchen. The light was on, the room neat. Two empty wineglasses sat on the counter, washed but not put away. A dish towel had been folded in half and draped across the sink. But there was no sign of Emily.

Charlie continued through the house to the next room, the spare bedroom. She flipped on the light, found it empty as well. Then she came to Emily’s bedroom. The door was closed, but she could see a faint light shining from beneath the bottom of the door. She tapped on it. “Emily?”

Nothing. No response. No sound at all.

With her heart pounding, Charlie opened the door.

The heavy scent of honeysuckle hit her. Charlie noted the gutted candles, recognized the silky-sweet scent that Emily loved and that had driven her crazy when they had both still lived at home. But beneath the overpowering sweetness, she detected another scent. An unfamiliar scent. An unpleasant scent.

Adjusting her eyes to the dimmer light, she saw her sister lying atop the bed, her body and face turned slightly away. At first glance, Charlie thought she was sleeping. She looked small in the four-poster bed, surrounded by the lacy yellow pillows and with the floral duvet draped over her lower body. She was wearing one of those silky, frilly nightgowns that she’d always favored over nightshirts and pajamas. A pair of matching black satin mules was askew on the floor. Although Emily’s face was turned away, her long blond hair cascaded across the pillow. One arm was lifted so that her hand rested on the pillow. Within reach of her fingertips lay a black silk stocking.

For a moment, Charlie simply stared at her sister. Then she was struck by her stillness. Emily wasn’t moving, Charlie realized. Not even a slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Nervous, Charlie’s heart began to pound like a jackhammer. A knot formed in her stomach as she moved toward the bed. “Emily,” she said her name again, this time unable to keep the fear out of her voice. Reaching out, she touched her sister’s shoulder and Emily’s body shifted. Suddenly Emily’s arm fell limply over the side of the bed; her head tilted toward Charlie like a broken doll. As she stared at Emily’s lifeless brown eyes, Charlie began to scream.

Charlie yanked herself back to the present. Shaking off the memory, she tuned into what the M.E. was saying to her and Vince and hoped that neither of them had noticed her lapse in attention.

“What about a time of death, Doc?” Vince asked.

“You know I can’t tell you that until I get the body back to the lab and examine it more closely,” Dr. Penelope Williamson said as she stripped off her gloves.

“Come on, Doc. Just a ballpark idea,” Vince responded.

“Well, based on lividity, I’d say she died sometime between midnight and four this morning. I should be able to narrow it down once I complete the exam.”

“What about the cause of death?” Charlie asked her, even though she was sure strangulation would be ruled the cause—just as it had been for her sister.

“My initial assessment is death due to strangulation. But like I said, I’ll know more once I get back to the lab and do a full exam.” She motioned for her team and they moved in and began to bag the victim for transport back to the coroner’s office. “I heard this one was a robbery turned homicide. Judging by some of the artwork left behind, your perp isn’t very bright. There’s a small fortune just on the living-room walls.”

“He may have settled for the cash and jewelry because it was easier to get it out of here without attracting attention,” Vince offered.

Or maybe the robbery had nothing to do with the murder, Charlie thought, because it simply didn’t feel like a robbery to her. “You’ll let us know if anything interesting shows up—like someone else’s DNA,” Charlie stated, knowing without asking that she could count on the other woman. Not only was Penelope Williamson a good doctor, she was thorough in her exams. Nothing got rubber-stamped on her watch.

“I’ll let you know, Detective,” Dr. Williamson assured her in that cool, calm voice that reminded her of her high-school English teacher, her words perfectly enunciated and no hint of the South in her tone. “And I’ll also let you know if anything shows up in the toxicology report. From the looks of things, your victim liked to party.”

If the champagne bottles and caviar in the other room were an indication, Francesca Hill liked to party in style, Charlie thought.

“Sean, just one minute,” Dr. Williamson called out to one of the men with the body bag. Frowning, she said, “Excuse me, Detectives.”

She and Vince watched as the other woman went over to her crew and had them wait while she tucked the victim’s hair inside the bag and away from the zipper. She stood there a moment longer, giving them instructions.

Charlie had come to admire Penelope Williamson immensely in the year since she’d joined the New Orleans Coroner’s Office. To her surprise, the doctor had a sense of humor—something that helped make an often gruesome job more tolerable. Charlie had seen Dr. Williamson approach the most grisly of crime scenes without hesitation. And she’d seen her handle broken and bloody corpses with the same tenderness and care she would administer to a child. Penelope Williamson cared about the dead victims. It was something the two of them had in common, Charlie thought. She also felt in her bones that if anyone would be able to provide her with the information she needed to identity Francesca Hill’s killer, it would be Dr. Penelope Williamson. And her every instinct told her that when she found Francesca Hill’s killer, she would find Emily’s killer, too.

“I know what you’re thinking, Le Blanc. And you shouldn’t start jumping to conclusions,” Vince warned.

But before she could respond, Dr. Williamson returned. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Vince said.

“How quick can you get us the autopsy results?” Charlie asked.

Vince placed a hand on her arm and gave her a look. “Doc, what my partner’s trying to say is that we need the results on this one yesterday. So we really would appreciate it if you could process this one right away.”

“Kossak, you and Le Blanc always need your cases processed right away. But you’re going to have to wait like everyone else. The weekend’s not over yet and I’ve already got five bodies lined up in the crypt waiting for me,” she told him, referring to the two homicides and three accident victims from the previous night.

“But this one can’t wait,” Charlie began, only to grimace when Vince stepped on her foot.

“The word from the top is that this case is a priority,” Vince explained. “We’ve been ordered to solve it quickly and quietly or heads are gonna roll.”

“I don’t like politics, Kossak. They have no place in police business,” Dr. Williamson informed him.

“I agree with you,” Vince returned. “But the victim’s fiancé has friends in high places and those friends are putting pressure on the captain.”

The comment irritated Charlie—especially because she knew that despite the mayor’s efforts to rid the city of corruption, there were still a great many who held on to the good-old-boy system of doing business. “It doesn’t matter who her fiancé was or who the man is friends with,” Charlie said as she watched the body bag being carried out. “What matters is that a woman is dead and we need to catch the animal who killed her.”

“You’re right, of course,” Dr. Williamson told her. “You’ll have the autopsy results as soon as I finish.”

“Thanks. We owe you one, Doc,” Vince told her.

“You owe me several, Detective.” She shifted her gaze to Charlie and back to him again. “Both of you do and one of these days I intend to collect by having you treat me to a lavish dinner at Commander’s Palace.”

“Anytime you say, Doc. Right, Le Blanc?” Vince nudged her with his elbow. “Right?”

“Um, right,” Charlie said, pulling her thoughts back to the present.

“I intend to hold you to that,” Dr. Williamson told them, and after she gathered her bag, she headed for the door.

“Snap out of it, Le Blanc, and start focusing on this case,” Vince said in a low voice near her ear before heading for the tech guys in the next room and barking orders about the surveillance tapes.

Telling herself that Vince was right, that she did need to concentrate on the case at hand, Charlie made another sweep of the crime scene. Pictures had already been taken, evidence bagged and tagged. She walked through the bedroom, attempted to re-create where each piece of clothing, each shoe had been found. She looked at the bed, noted the markings on the mattress, outlining the position of the body when it had been found. She looked over to the spot where the stocking had been draped beside the body. As she did so, she called up the images forever etched in her memory from Emily’s bedroom six years ago. The similarities couldn’t be dismissed.

It’s the same guy.

She was sure of it—could feel it in her bones. He might have gotten away the last time, but not this time, she vowed. This time she wasn’t an unprepared law student who didn’t know enough to preserve the crime scene. This time she was a cop, one who knew what to look for and where to look for it. If he’d made a mistake, no matter how small, she would find it.

And then she would find him.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.