Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (39 page)

“To my Dorchester Palace,” Frank said, deadpan. “We’ll skip the Chianti and caviar, take a hot shower, get under the covers and cuddle.”

She smiled at him, the first smile he’d seen on her face all day.

“That sounds perfect.”

Wish there were more? There is!

Keep reading for an excerpt of
Natalie's Art

Susan says . . .

If you'd like to know when my next book comes out, sign up for an email alert at
http://eepurl.com/ExkX9
  I'll never use your email for anything else.

If you enjoyed
Jackpot
, I would very much appreciate an honest review on Goodreads and/or whatever Amazon site you purchased it.  Thank you!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In her travels, Susan Fleet has worn many hats: trumpeter, college professor, music historian and award-winning author, to name a few. The Premier Book Awards named her first novel,
Absolution,
Best Mystery-Suspense-Thriller of 2009. She now divides her time between Boston and New Orleans, the settings for her crime thrillers. See more at
http://www.susanfleet.com

Send her an email, she would love to hear from you!

More crime novels
by Susan Fleet

Absolution

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003MNH7JY/

Diva 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0056ASYCU/

Natalie's Revenge  

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009EAWCDK/

Non-fiction ebooks by Susan Fleet

Women Who Dared: Trailblazing 20th Century Musicians

Violinist Maud Powell and Trumpeter Edna White

http://www.susanfleet.com/women_who_dared-vol1.html

Dark Deeds: Serial killers, stalkers and domestic homicides

http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Deeds-stalkers-homicides-ebook/dp/B00CLS62D8/

See Susan's true crime blog:
http://darkdeeds.susanfleet.com/index.html#.UhUfUj-YFaI

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Creating my Frank Renzi novels has been a remarkable and richly rewarding experience, each in its own way. Because of my music career, Jackpot was a particular pleasure. As a young musician growing up in Massachusetts, I attended many Boston Pops concerts. Years later, I once played for legendary Pops conductor Arthur Fiedler, not with the Boston Pops, but as a freelancer, I worked with many musicians who did, which gave me an insider glimpse of the orchestra. However, the Jackpot characters who play with the Pops are entirely fictional.

Compulsive gambling is a serious problem. For those interested in pursing the topic, I recommend these books:
Thinking Big: Education of a Gambler
, Sol Fox, 1985;
The Luck Business
, Robert Goodman, 1995;
Invisible Masters: Compulsions and the Fears That Drive Them
, George Weinberg, 1993;
Losing Your Shirt: Recovery for Compulsive Gamblers and Their Families
, 2nd ed. 2001

Most of my British lingo came from my longtime friend Richard Lister, a British trombone player and Monty Python enthusiast. Thanks to my British and Australian writer friends, Tom Bryson and Diana Hockley, for other suggestions. Thanks also to Massachusetts State Trooper Bruce O'Rourke for sharing his expertise on Massachusetts homicide cases and crime scene investigations. However,
Jackpot
is a work of fiction. Any errors or inaccuracies are mine alone.

Many thanks to Carolyn Wilkins for her helpful comments on early drafts. Thanks also to Tammy Gross, editor extraordinaire, who found and eliminated those pesky little mistakes in the manuscript.

And finally, my heartfelt thanks to you, my readers! I would greatly appreciate an honest review of
Jackpot
on Goodreads and Amazon. I love hear from readers. You can contact me via my website:
http://www.susanfleet.com

And now, turn the page for a glimpse of

Susan Fleet's next exciting crime thriller,
Natalie's Art

CHAPTER 1

April 2010   Oxford, UK  2:55 a.m.

“
What should I do?” the security guard asked, gazing at her with frightened eyes.

She took out her weapon, a
Beretta 92FS with an Evo 9 Suppressor attached to the barrel. The weapon she thought she would never have to use.

“
No!” said the guard, raising his hands. “Please! I didn't know he was coming, I swear it! Sometimes he stops by without warning.”

Maintaining a calm expression, one that belied her inner turmoil, she went to the security desk and studied
the monitor that displayed video from the camera outside the employee entrance. The Security Director, a burly older man with a Van Dyke beard, stood outside the door. He did not appear to be armed. The security guard wasn't either. Brits were touchy about civilians carrying firearms.

She turned away from the security desk and pulled the balaclava down over her face.
“Let him in,” she said. “I'll hide in the closet in the anteroom.”

A slight man with sandy hair and an acne-pitted face, the guard frowned.
“Then what?”

She flicked the Beretta.
“Hurry up. Unlock the closet.”

Fumbling with his key ring, the guard preceded her into the anteroom, a six-foot-by-eight-foot area just inside the employee entrance. He stopped at a door on the left-hand wall and unlocked it.

“Do what you are being paid to do,” she hissed. “Let him in. Act normal.”

The guard nodded, frowning anxiously, and went to the entry door.

She stepped inside the closet and pulled the door toward her, leaving it open a crack. The closet was dark and smelly. The guards used it to store their clothes after they changed into their uniforms.

Now she couldn't see the guard. She hoped he was punching in the security code for the door so the alarm wouldn't sound when he opened it.

But what if he wasn't? Her stomach clenched. What if this was a set-up?

She heard the guard say,
“Hello, sir. I wasn't expecting you tonight.”

“
Why would you?” said a gruff voice. “That's the point.”

The words failed to reassure her. Shifting the Beretta to her left hand, she took a steel baton out of her knapsack and waited in the darkness, tense and alert. When the Security Director passed the closet, she opened the door, took one step forward and slammed the baton against the side of his head. 

The man grunted and slumped to the tiled floor.

The guard's mouth fell open, but he said nothing, clearly horrified.

She stuck the baton in her knapsack. Held the Beretta in her right hand. Her shooting hand.

“
What do we do now?” the guard asked in a shaky voice.

“
Tie him up,” she said curtly. “Use the twine. Put duct tape over his mouth. Hurry!”

The guard took a ball of twine off the security desk and knelt down beside the Security Director.

She checked the time. She'd been here almost thirty minutes. Much too long.

Her cell phone vibrated against her leg. She took it out, punched on and said,
“Yes.”

“
What's going on?” said a gravely voice, a voice that sent chills down her spine.

She'd never met The Voice, but she knew he was nearby. Watching.

“The Security Director paid us an unexpected visit. I disabled him.”

“
Kill them,” said The Voice.

Her heart sank. She only carried the Beretta on these jobs to intimidate the security guards in case they had any last minute reservations.

“Adam didn't know he was coming,” she said. Adam was the guard's code name, not his real one.

The guard had bound the Security Director's wrists and ankles and was putting tape over his mouth. When she said his code name, the guard's head jerked up.

“Shoot them,” said The Voice. “If you don't, you will die, too.”

She had no doubt of it.
“Got it,” she said, and closed the phone.

The guard rose to his feet and backed away, staring at her eyes, the only part of her face not hidden by the balaclava.

“I didn't know he was coming. I didn't!”

“
I believe you, but we have to make this look like you weren't involved, remember? Give me the twine, turn around and put your hands behind your back so I can bind your wrists.”

As docile as a sheep, the guard gave her the twine, turned around and put his hands behind his back.

She shot him in the back of the head. The Beretta made a soft popping sound, and the guard fell to the floor. Blood spurted from his head.

A momentary flashback blindsided her. Shooting Tex in the back of the head near the golf course in New Orleans. Her throat tightened. She gritted her teeth, willing the memory away.

She had to get out of here, fast. But first she had to finish the job.

Rigid with tension and full of angst, she stood over the Security Director's lifeless form, curled on the floor, his eyes mercifully closed. She extended the Beretta, then lowered it to her side.

How could she kill this defenseless man?

Shoot them. If you don't, you will die, too.

Tears misted her eyes. Why did it always come down to this? Her life or someone else's?

Fighting down her revulsion, she shot the man in the head. Nauseated and sick at heart, she jammed the Beretta into the knapsack. She had no time for remorse or guilt feelings, she had to get out. Anxious to leave, she took a last look around. Certain she'd left no trace of herself, she grabbed the flat carton that held the Rembrandt, went to the employee entrance and tried to calm herself.

Her heart refused to cooperate, pounding her chest like a wild thing.

Where was The Voice? Somewhere near the museum, for sure. Not close enough to hear the gunshots, but close enough to see her when she left.

Her heart pounded as she opened the door and stepped into the darkness. The moon was hidden, the sky overcast with clouds. She closed the door, averted her face and strode past the security camera. Then she pulled off the balaclava, stuck it in her pocket and set off down the sidewalk with a purposeful stride.

Walk, don't run. Running attracted attention, and that was the last thing she wanted, not while she was carrying a painting worth several million dollars. The getaway car was two blocks away. The two-door Toyota Yaris was stolen. The license plate was also stolen, stripped from a different vehicle, one that wouldn't cause problems if by chance the police stopped her. She'd been given a cover story in case that happened.

Be prepared. Leave nothing to chance.

But the Security Director had foiled that part of the plan.

She came to an intersection and crossed the street. So far so good. Usually, she was afraid witnesses would see her, or the police. Not tonight.

Where was The Voice?
If you don't, you will die, too.

Her stomach clenched. She rotated her head and stretched her neck. This allowed a quick glimpse of the brownstones that lined the street. Her neck prickled. Was The Voice inside one of the buildings, standing in an upper window with a Bushmaster, drawing a bead on her head?

She strode down the sidewalk, breathing in quick, shallow gasps, trying to reassure herself. The Voice wouldn't shoot her now, not while she had possession of the painting.

Gripping the carton, she walked faster. Get to the car and get inside. Then she'd be less of a target.

In the distance, she heard a car engine start somewhere behind her. Her heart jolted. She didn't dare turn and look. Moments later, she glimpsed the faint gleam of headlights behind her, closing fast, the car's engine roaring.

She broke into a dead run. In thirty seconds she reached the Yaris. The headlights came closer.

Forget hiding the Rembrandt in the trunk. Get in the car! With trembling hands, she unlocked the door, yanked it open and jumped inside. A black Mercedes passed her and flashed its lights. The Voice.

Filled with despair, she started the Yaris and pulled out of the space. Ahead of her, the street was deserted. No cars. No black Mercedes. But so what? Now they had a club to hold over her.

Stealing a painting was one thing. Murdering two people was another.

____

1:05 p.m. New Orleans

Riding shotgun with his partner, Homicide Detective Frank Renzi said,
“What was he thinking? Steal a car and take the woman with him?”

A complication he didn't need right now, not with an intriguing Interpol message about some recent European art thefts awaiting him in his office.

“Gotta be a nutcase,” said Detective Kenyon Miller, grimly focused on the road. “Either that or he's on something. Drive an old rattle-trap that fast? A tire blows, the car might roll over.”

Hot, humid air whipped through the open window as their cruiser rocketed up Elysian Fields Avenu
e
lights but no siren
s
in pursuit of the blue Chevy one block ahead of them, a beat-up Cavalier. The carjacker, a white male in his twenties, had held up a bank in the French Quarter, but the teller hit a silent alarm and a patrol car arrived, sirens screaming.

Ten minutes ago, Frank and Miller had been eating lunch two blocks away when their handsets erupted:
Carjacking in the Quarter, white male took off with the female driver, headed north on Elysian Fields.

“
I hear you,” Frank said, “but the guy's a bank robber, not Albert Einstein.”

“True
. No telling what he'll do with the woman.”

The Chevy hit the brakes and swerved right into the Gentilly Acres, a new housing development.

Frank got on his handset, identified himself and said, “Carjacker just drove into the Gentilly Acres subdivision. We're in pursuit. Get more squads over here.”

Miller swung into Gentilly Acres. Fifty yards ahead of them, the Chevy's speed increased. Moments later one of the front tires blew.

The car careened over a curb, skidded and slammed into a big oak tree.

Miller slowed and stopped twenty yards behind it. Steam billowed out of the Cavalier's hood. The carjacker yanked the woman out of the car and ran, dragging her with him, his hand clamped around her arm.

“My baby!” the woman screamed in a thin, shrill voice.

“
Shit,” Miller said. "There's a baby in the car?”

Frank jumped out and yelled to Miller,
“Stay with the child. I'll take Einstein.”

He drew his Sig Sauer and ran after the carjacker. The woman, wearing a bright yellow dress, was fighting the man, dragging her feet to slow him down. They disappeared around the corner of a house.

The subdivision was still under construction, two-story homes along the street roughed-in but not ready for occupancy, no shingles on the exterior or the roof. Frank ran to the corner of the house and saw the carjacker drag the woman through an open door into the adjacent house. A white van stood beside it,
THIBIDEAU ELECTRIC
stenciled on the side.

He ran to the door, eased inside and stepped into what would someday be a kitchen. The smell of sawdust and fresh-cut wood filled his nostrils. The studs were up on the walls but no sheetrock so he could see into the next room. The carjacker, a scrawny guy in cutoff jeans and a white T-shirt, had the woman clamped to his chest. In his right hand, he held a butcher knife inches away from the woman's throat.

Red splotches stained his white T-shirt. Frank's heart jolted. Jesus, did he already cut her? Then he realized the splotches were from the dye-pack inserted into the money the man had taken at the bank.

“
Let the girl go!” said a man's voice.

Two men stepped into Frank's field of vision, the electricians he assumed, white males in their thirties, one tall and wiry, the other short and stocky. The tall one had an electric drill in his hand, the short one held a staple gun, advancing on the carjacker and the woman.

Not good. A disastrous situation was about to get worse. Way worse.

“
Get away or I'll cut her,” the carjacker screamed, agitated, clenching the woman against his chest with his left forearm, holding the butcher knife in his right hand to her throat.

“
Hold it,” Frank said, stepping into the room. “Let's all take a deep breath and calm down.”

The woman's eyes locked onto his. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. A young, light-skinned black woman, she was maybe five feet tall, couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds. She had a pretty face, looked a lot like Halle Berry, might have been even prettier except for the look of terror on her face.

Fifteen feet away from the carjacker, the electricians stopped and looked at Frank.

“
Detective Frank Renzi,” he said. “I'd show you my badge, but my hands are busy.” Busy holding the Sig Sauer, carefully aimed at the floor, but poised to raise it should the need arise.