Natalie's Revenge

Praise for Susan Fleet and ABSOLUTION

Best Mystery-Suspense-Thriller -- 2009 Premier Book Awards

“A New Orleans killer thriller.” -- Jan Herman, Arts Journal

“Relentless tempo and sharp writing.” -- Kirkus Discoveries 

“Creole-flavored suspense, colored with musical connections which Fleet handles with particular deftness.” -- The Attleboro Sun Chronicle

"A crime drama that stands far above the ordinary whodunit. A wholehearted bravo!” -- K. G. Hunt, The Florida Times-Union

"First class writing! Fleet goes inside the head of the killer with a rare talent. An 'I couldn't put it down' thriller." -- C. J. Gregory

Praise for Susan Fleet and DIVA

"Great character development [and] an absolutely fascinating ending ... a very suspenseful book!" -- Feathered Quill Book Reviews

"Fleet subtitles
Diva
, her new killer thriller, a novel of psychological suspense. That's an understatement." -- Jan Herman,
Arts Journal

"Frank Renzi returns in a relentless hunt through ravaged, drug infested neighborhoods in search of murderous thugs and a psychotic stalker. Fleet weaves . . . another nail-biting page-turner!" -- K. G. Hunt
   

"Fleet takes us inside the head of an obsessed stalker as he lusts after his victim ... a must-buy book." -- Tom Bryson, author of
Too Smart To Die

"The coolest detective in literature today - Frank Renzi!
"
-
-
Feathered Quill Book Reviews  

Praise for JACKPOT

"I so enjoyed this well-written, exciting novel. I liked the characters, the plot, the way [Fleet] uses words to convey the fear and imagery associated with serial murders." -- Diana Hockley, author of
The Naked Room.

"For anyone who loves the gritty, the witty, and perfect descriptions ... Fleet does another superb job of bringing her characters to life. Some readers may never take a chance on the lottery again.
A tremendously great series. 
-- Feathered Quill Book Reviews

NATALIE'S REVENGE

"I shall be a champion of justice and freedom."

-- From the student oath of the International Taekwondo Federation

A FRANK RENZI MYSTERY - Volume 3

By

SUSAN FLEET

Music and Mayhem Press

Dedicated to
all victims of violence and to their relatives, who suffer the consequences of violent crimes long after their loved ones are gone.

Natalie's Revenge
is a work of fiction. All names, characters, business establishments, incidents and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Susan Fleet

Excerpt from
Jackpot
© 2012  by Susan Fleet

All rights reserved.

Published by Music and Mayhem Press

Print edition: Trade paperback

ISBN-13  978-0-9847235-3-9

ISBN-10  0-9847235-3-6

Kindle Edition: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this e-book and did not pay for it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return it to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author. 

No part of this text may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews. For information and permissions contact the author at: www.susanfleet.com

This book contains an excerpt from Susan Fleet's next Frank Renzi mystery,
Jackpot
. This excerpt may not be identical to the final content of the forthcoming edition.

Cover photographs used with permission:

Sexy gun woman
©
Jason Stitt - Fotolia.com

Dragon
©
Dimitar Marinov - Fotolia.com

PROLOGUE

October 1988   New Orleans

One night Mom didn’t come home.    

Every morning she'd come in my room, wake me with a kiss and say in a cheery voice, “Rise and shine, Natalie. Your breakfast is ready.”

Not today. Today I woke with a start. Right away I got a creepy feeling. Except for the rain splattering my bedroom window, our apartment was silent and still. I checked my clock radio. The big red numbers said 8:35.

I was late for school. Even if I stayed up late watching TV, Mom always got me up in time for school. 

Last night before Mom left she said, “Do your homework and go to bed and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

I buried my face in the pillow and tried to pretend it was a dream.

But down deep I knew it wasn’t. I don't know why. Last night Mom left for work at nine o'clock same as always, wearing a pretty emerald-green dress and her lemony perfume. Mom was beautiful, long chestnut-brown hair and big green eyes that she made look even prettier with glittery eye shadow.

Every night before she left, she always said the same thing:

Don’t answer the phone
.
Don’t open the door to anyone
.
Don’t leave the apartment
.

One night I snuck out to the corner store to buy a snack and the clerk told Mom the next day. Mom got mad and said if I ever did that again, I wouldn’t get my allowance.

I clenched my teeth, but it didn't make the sick feeling inside me go away. I threw off the sheet, got out of bed and opened my bedroom door.

The lumpy futon in the living room where Mom slept was still upright, no sheet, no pillow. That scared me even more than the silence. After I left for school Mom usually went back to bed. She needed to sleep because she got home really late. Mom worked as a hostess at a fancy restaurant.

Or so she said. I’d never been there. I was only ten, but I watched TV, and I didn't think hostesses wore fancy dresses and glittery eye shadow and smelled the way I imagined the women on my favorite TV shows did when they went out on dates with important men.

A delivery truck rumbled past our door, thumping over the potholes in our street. Our first-floor apartment was noisy, but Mom said hearing traffic noise beat lugging laundry and groceries up two or three flights of stairs. Mom can sleep through anything, but I'm a light sleeper. Sometimes the sounds outside my bedroom window woke me up at night.

Opposite Mom's futon was the breakfast bar where we ate our meals.

Normally, my milk and Cheerios and fruit would be there.

But nothing was normal now.

I felt sick, like I might throw up, and my hands felt weird, hot and cold at the same time and damp with sweat. Mom always said to call her cell phone if there was an emergency. And if this wasn’t an emergency, what was?

Padding barefoot over the worn linoleum, I went around the breakfast bar to the alcove kitchen. The telephone was on the wall beside a boxy old refrigerator with chipped enamel. Mom had printed her cell phone number on a pink Post-It and stuck it to the fridge. Beside it was another Post-It with the numbers for police and fire and medical emergencies.

I couldn't decide what to do. Maybe Mom was just late.

Maybe the taxi that was bringing her home had a flat tire.

I looked at the calendar beside the fridge. Right after Christmas last year Mom bought a wall calendar with twelve paintings by Vermeer. Mom loved art. Every month we got to look at a different painting while we ate our meals. The October painting was
The Girl With the Pearl Earring
.

The girl was pretty and she had beautiful eyes. But she looked sad.

Looking at her made me feel worse. My stomach cramped.

Where was Mom?

I noticed she'd penciled something on the calendar for tomorrow.

Natalie. Dentist. 4 PM.

Then the doorbell rang. My heart stopped, at least it felt like it did.

Don’t open the door to anyone
.

A few weeks ago the doorbell rang right after I got in bed. That never happened and it scared me. When I went to the door and looked out the peephole, some guy with a scraggly gray beard was outside our door. I could see his lips moving, like he was talking to himself. After a couple of minutes, he went away. I figured he was probably a drunk from the French Quarter two blocks away. I went back to bed, but it took me a long time to fall asleep.

I never told Mom about it. I didn't want to worry her. Mom was already worried about me staying here by myself. She didn't say so, but I could tell. 

The doorbell rang again. My legs felt like Jell-O, quivery and shaky.

I crept to the door and looked through the peephole the way Mom taught me. A woman in a dark-blue police uniform was standing outside in the rain.

Police meant trouble. That’s what Mom always said.

But I was already in trouble.

Late for school. And Mom wasn’t here.

And a policewoman was ringing our doorbell.

I looked through the peephole again.

The expression on the woman's face scared me. Frown lines grooved her forehead the way Mom’s did when she was worried about something, like when she didn’t have enough money to pay the bills.

My hands were shaking, but I worked all the locks and opened the door.

“Natalie?” The policewoman didn’t smile when she said my name.

I nodded. I was too scared to think, too scared to breathe.

“I’m Detective Fontenot from the New Orleans Police Department. Your mother’s been hurt.”

My throat closed up. Mom was hurt. Badly hurt, or she'd have called me.

I wanted to ask her if Mom was okay, but I was too scared.

The policewoman rolled her lips together. Her eyes looked sad, sadder than the girl on the calendar. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Natalie, but someone attacked your mother last night.”

She looked away, like she didn't want to say anything more.

Then she said in a low voice, "Natalie, your mother is dead."