Witness Betrayed Read online

  WITNESS BETRAYED

  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

  WITNESS BETRAYED

  A Will Novak Novel

  Linda Ladd

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by Linda Ladd

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

  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.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: October 2018

  eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0739-1

  eISBN-10: 1-5161-0739-X

  First Print Edition: October 2018

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0742-1

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0742-X

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter 1

  Below Will Novak’s balcony, the final day of Mardi Gras was in full swing. Crowds walked along the narrow width of Bourbon Street, laughing and talking and enjoying the famous New Orleans celebration. The French Quarter was alive with excitement and good cheer, which put police on alert for inevitable drunken altercations. That’s why Novak was watching. From where he sat in a chair drawn close to the wrought-iron rail, he could see several drunks stumbling around inside the crowd and others who looked well on their way to inebriation. His apartment was at the top end of Bourbon Street, so the riotous mass moved down the street in one direction like ants headed to a piece of pecan pie. Across the street, a jazz band was playing, filling the late night with the sounds of saxophone, piano, and bass fiddle.

  Novak enjoyed the music, thinking the band was pretty good, as he swept his binoculars over the boisterous crowd as it moved along the ancient street with its old-fashioned lampposts and multitude of bars and novelty shops. The New Orleans Police Department had hired him on a temporary basis to spot probable troublemakers and report their locations to street cops. He’d been at it for a long time. Glancing at his watch, he found it was almost midnight. Eventually all the fun going on now would wane and the people would gradually disperse, but not yet. Maybe in another hour or two. He hoped so. He was dead tired.

  Late February in south Louisiana was sometimes chilly; he had put on a leather jacket because of the nip in the air. The cold was not bothering anybody else, who kept warm by drinking beer and the sheer exhilaration of the moment. Unfortunately, nobody was calling it a night yet. Pushing, shoving, and hair-trigger, testosterone-fueled fistfights had been a regular occurrence all week long. At such occasions, Novak always watched first for the glint of steel. Knives were easily hidden under coats. This late hour was when either guns or knives were apt to be whipped out and innocent passersby hurt. Novak wasn’t the only observer on the street. There were many others just like him with bird’s-eye views of the action. He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his earpiece and microphone headset.

  Loud shouts caught his attention, and he swung the glasses to a commotion starting up right across the street. A young woman stood high on a second-floor balcony opposite him. She looked as if she was smashed but didn’t know it yet. She was having a good old time, giggling and waving at the men below her on the street. A crowd had already gathered, mainly because she kept pulling up her sweatshirt and showing her bare breasts. The guys below hooted and clapped and sent forth all manner of encouragement. She obliged their fervor by whipping the sweatshirt off over her head and shimmying for anybody inclined to take a look.

  Skin shows were not unusual during Mardi Gras week. The guy standing on the balcony with her didn’t appear to mind much, flinging off his own shirt in a show of support. His hairy chest didn’t garner as much interest. Both leaned over the railing, blowing kisses and tossing strings of colorful beads to their drunken admirers, which immediately caused fights for possession. People were just damn stupid sometimes, but no real harm was done with something like that. He called in the incident. A two-team unit was dispatched to break up the crowd below, and then they’d have to climb the narrow interior stairs to the woman’s apartment and order her to cover herself or go to jail. They had already warned the same woman earlier that evening. They might arrest her this time. Novak didn’t care much, one way or the other. He riveted his attention back on the street. Many people carried red Solo cups so they could guzzle beer while they walked. Mardi Gras had always been a big drunken party and a giant headache for the NOPD. Tonight was no exception.

  Novak was working solo. He hadn’t been on a gig by himself in a while, not since he’d signed up with Claire Morgan’s private investigation firm. His partner was unavailable, off to Italy with her husband, Nicholas Black. They had been tied up in Rome for days now, fighting Italian government red tape as they tried to adopt a ten-year-old boy named Rico. His parents had been murdered during a particularly bad case that Novak had been involved in, and since it had wrapped up, Claire and Black had given the kid a good home. They wanted him to stay there.

  They were due back soon, though, and Novak was glad. He missed Claire. She was quite a woman, all things considered: tall, natural blond, athletic, good-looking, and sexy without knowing it. More important, she was a damn good detective and a damn good friend. He could count on her when things got sticky. Compared to most of their cases, tonight’s gig was a breeze. Sitting in his own apartment watching people having fun was something he didn’t usually mind.

  Novak had lived in New Orleans since he was twenty-one and back from a childhood spent on his father’s sheep ranch in Australia. He was well acquainted with the Fat Tuesday celebration. He didn’t use his French Quarter apartment much, preferring his old plantation called Bonne Terre, down in Lafourche Parish. He’d inherited both properties the day he was born. In fact, he owned the entire building on Bourbon in which he sat, not to mention a fortune held in bank accounts that he rarely spent. His mother’s wealthy Creole ancestors had owned the once-profitable sugar plantation since Napoleon Bonaparte reigned in France. Both properties were shabby now but worth millions in modern real estate markets. It was location, lo
cation, location. Novak would never sell either.

  A shrill scream pierced the raucous noise. Novak instantly found the fight that was heating up. Two college-aged kids were circling each other, shoving and staggering, both drunk and confrontational. Their profane shouts escalated into swinging fists. Spectators circled them and cheered on the bloodletting.

  “Got a fight starting up, just up from Red Fish Grill. Two young guys, both Caucasian. One in a red sweatshirt and a Toronto Blue Jays cap. Other guy is scruff bearded and wearing a light blue UNC parka and dark jeans. Crowd is starting to get into it. Better break it up fast.”

  A voice came back inside his ear. “On it. We see ’em.”

  “Red shirt just knocked the other guy down and is on top of him pummeling him with both fists. Crowd’s trying to break it up.”

  Within minutes, two NOPD officers appeared and shoved their way through the eager onlookers. The two drunks were taken to the ground, handcuffed, and dragged off to a waiting paddy wagon. Novak lowered the glasses. NOLA jails were full to capacity tonight, just like most nights during Mardi Gras.

  After sitting so long, his neck was starting to ache. Novak stretched his arms over his head and rolled his head back against his shoulders. His muscles were cramped. He hadn’t eaten dinner and had stayed hunched over with the binoculars for the last five hours straight. He wasn’t used to sitting around and doing nothing. He kept busy, either investigating cases, keeping up his properties, or out on the water in his boat. Truth was, that’s where he wished he was now, out in the Gulf of Mexico sailing the seas in his forty-foot custom-built Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 379. Maybe he’d head there after this job wrapped up, head due south to the balmy climes and warm azure waters of the Caribbean Sea.

  Novak leaned back and tried to relax. Once upon a time, this building had served his Creole ancestors in the St. Claire family as an elegant townhouse. Behind him, in the high-ceilinged, French-windowed rooms, antiques still sat in the original places. He had no desire to move them and rarely ever stayed at the apartment. He preferred his boat where it was moored behind his house on Bayou Bonne. Outrageous offers had been made for this building because of its prime location, but Novak’s inheritance was sacrosanct. Most of that was tucked away in French and offshore bank accounts. His military retirement and private investigation pay was plenty to keep him in the red. But the once-lavish apartment behind him came in handy when enemies came sniffing around or Novak needed a safe house in which to hide endangered clients. Novak’s stomach rumbled. All he wanted at the moment was to eat a steak, drink a beer, and get a good night’s sleep.

  Scanning the passersby, he homed in on a kid, maybe fourteen or so, as the boy grabbed a woman’s purse and sprinted off. The thief headed straight for the intersection of Bourbon and Iberville, so Novak gave the cops a quick heads-up. Two mounted NOPD officers intercepted him near the Bourbon House. A stir of excitement ensued, but the crowd quickly lost interest and shuffled around the ongoing arrest like a lazy stream around a river island.

  He poured himself more coffee from the thermos on the table beside him. His weapon of choice, a Kimber 1911 .45 caliber handgun, sat right beside it. He always kept his gun close. He’d learned to do that the hard way. He had enemies from his past, lots of them, some from his tenure with the NYPD but more from his military service as a Navy SEAL. Some of them wanted him dead. Some had tried and failed. But he stayed alert, even when sitting in the shadow of his balcony high above the street.

  For fifteen minutes, Novak enjoyed a respite from trouble. The crowd was beginning to thin out but not enough to call it a night. Some people were peeling off onto the side streets, others heading back to hotel rooms. Novak had a knack for surveillance. He enjoyed people watching and learned plenty about human nature from that habit. He’d picked it up in the military, and it had kept him alive more than once. He could now pick out the bad guys nine times out of ten, by appearance and mannerisms and the bulge of concealed weapons.

  Novak passed his glasses over the sidewalk on the other side of Bourbon. He stopped and moved his attention back to a woman standing there. Something was definitely off about her, so he pulled her focus in closer. She stood there alone, completely still, half hidden behind a support post. Novak felt at once that she was hiding from someone. She had on what looked like a man’s raincoat, tan and belted tightly around her waist. It hung almost to the ground. He was startled to see that she was barefoot. A black New Orleans Saints ball cap was snugged down low over her face with most of her hair stuffed inside. Nobody seemed to notice her. More interesting, she was staring straight back at him.

  Novak lowered the glasses. Their gazes locked for a few seconds. He was rarely spotted when on surveillance, and he was not advertising his presence. No way should she have noticed him sitting back in shadows, not with all the music and excitement surrounding her. Nobody else had, not one person all week long. He couldn’t see her face well because of the cap’s visor, but he was surprised that she didn’t look away. She stared back, almost defiantly. Something about her made Novak uneasy. That didn’t happen often, either.

  Curious now, Novak watched her. She was looking from side to side as if searching for someone. Who and why? Then she riveted her attention back to him. He sensed she was worried, or maybe she was scared. His hunch told him it was the latter. She looked very young, early twenties, maybe a little younger or older, it was hard to judge. She had fair hair he thought, and she was not a particularly tall woman. He’d guess five feet four or five inches, at the most.

  Novak picked up his cell phone and snapped a quick picture the next time she turned her face toward him. That’s when he got a good look at her injuries. She had on a ton of black eye makeup that was smeared now but did not hide the deep and ugly bruise around her left eye. Her bottom lip was split wide open but no longer bleeding. From the looks of it, somebody had punched her hard in the face and more than once. He moved his attention to the people surrounding her. Nobody seemed aware that she was standing there alone, but she was interested in him, all right. She kept looking up at him, and then she’d resume searching the crowd moving down Bourbon. Then, suddenly, she spun away and pushed hard through the crowd on the sidewalk.

  Novak focused the glasses on the people behind her. That’s when he saw two men pushing hard in her direction, shoving people aside, with their eyes intent on the girl in the raincoat. Novak snapped photos of them. Both had short, scruffy beards. They were dressed like frat boys in town on spring break, but they were too old. They looked like guys with bad intentions. Worse, Novak was pretty sure they meant the girl bodily harm. He kept his focus on her pursuers. Both looked to be Hispanic, maybe, with dark skin and black hair and beards. He was fairly certain they were up to no good. His gut told him they had knocked around that woman before and were going to do it again. Why didn’t matter to Novak. They were now within yards of grabbing her.

  “Picked up a potential problem about to go down. Half a block up from Iberville. Two guys. Tall, Hispanic, shoving through people in pursuit of a woman in a long tan raincoat and black Saints cap. Female’s roughed up, black eye and busted lip. She’s short, five foot five. Taller suspect also has on black Saints ball cap. Number two has scruff and dark hair down to his shoulders, no hat. Both six feet, maybe a bit shorter; both likely concealed carrying. Woman’s running, but they’re almost to her. Better intercept in a hurry.”

  Alarmed for the woman’s safety, Novak stood up and watched her fight her way through laughing revelers, out on the street now. Her pursuers were right behind her. One man lunged forward and grabbed the back of her raincoat. He swung her around to face him and punched her hard in the stomach. The blow bent her over forward, and she staggered, holding her stomach. She almost fell, but her assailant kept her upright with his grip on her coat. Then Novak glimpsed that telltale flash of steel in the woman’s hand as she slashed a blade at him. He let go quick enough and about the time the cops
showed up. They wasted no time taking the two assailants to the ground.

  Novak watched the woman melt into the throngs of people. When he lost sight of her, he turned back to where the cops were frisking and cuffing her pursuers. Novak had been right about the weapons. Both guys were quickly relieved of handguns. Whoever the girl was, she was lucky Novak had noticed her. He attempted to locate her again as the men were hustled off to jail. If the young woman was smart, she’d get the hell out of town. Those guys wanted her dead, no question about it.

  Maybe twenty minutes later, Novak picked the woman up again, right across the street in the exact same spot as before. She stared up at him, as if nothing had gone down. What the hell? He studied her face some more and was fairly certain he’d never laid eyes on her before tonight. Somebody screamed off to his left. Novak jerked the glasses in that direction. False alarm; the woman was laughing and horsing around with her girlfriends. Novak returned his interest to the mystery woman. She was gone again. He spent a few minutes trying to locate her but without luck.

  Novak felt uneasy. He didn’t like that feeling. That kind of visceral reaction rarely ended well for him. His danger detector was hitting alarm levels. When he got off duty, he was going out on the street and search for her. He was more curious than anything. Maybe he’d visit those guys in jail, too, if they hadn’t been bailed out and released. He wanted to find out who they were and who she was. It didn’t matter to him why they targeted her. They had abused a woman a whole lot smaller than they were; that just didn’t cut it in Novak’s book. He despised men who bullied women. It was a big trigger for him and a crime that angered him personally. Such men were cowards. Yeah, maybe he’d pay those guys a call. Maybe he’d bail them out and teach them a lesson in how to treat women.

  As it turned out, Novak never got that opportunity. His muscles turned rigid as a woman’s voice came softly from right behind him on the balcony. Novak was more concerned, however, with the gun barrel she jammed up against the base of his skull. Her voice was shaky.