Missing, Frank Renzi Book 6 Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Susan Fleet's Frank Renzi series

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  Susan says . . .

  Copyright page

  About the author - Acknowledgements

  Praise for Susan Fleet's Frank Renzi series

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

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

  “Relentless tempo . . . sharp writing.” — Kirkus Discoveries

  “Creole-flavored suspense.” — The Attleboro Sun Chronicle

  DIVA

  “An absolutely fascinating ending ... a very suspenseful book!” — Feathered Quill Book Reviews

  “Fleet takes us inside the head of an obsessed stalker as he lusts after his victim.” — Tom Bryson, author of Too Smart To Die

  “Fleet subtitles Diva a novel of psychological suspense. That's an understatement.” — Jan Herman, Arts Journal

  NATALIE'S REVENGE Best Mystery-Thriller — 2014 Feathered Quill Book Awards

  “Fast paced, well written and extremely challenging to put down.” — Rebecca's Reads

  "The coolest detective in literature at the moment [is] Frank Renzi. Renzi’s hunt and Natalie’s actions go beyond thrilling. This is one great author!" — Feathered Quill Book Reviews

  JACKPOT

  “Thrilling and gripping. The writing is tight and builds to a tense climax.” — Readers' Favorite

  “A tremendously great series.” — Feathered Quill Book Reviews

  “Fleet does it again, another page-turning thriller. Frank Renzi hunts a disturbed serial killer.” — Tom Bryson, author of Sarcophagus

  NATALIE'S ART

  “Compelling characterization, unpredictable twists and a surprising conclusion. That's fine art, indeed." — Midwest Book Reviews

  “A superbly written crime series [with] non-stop twists and turns of plot that begin on page one. A fast-paced, action-packed read!” — Feathered Quill Book Reviews

  Praise for Susan Fleet’s non-fiction

  Women Who Dared: Maud Powell and Edna White

  “Fleet is an expert on American female musicians who deserve wider recognition in the history of jazz and classical music.” — Matt Morrell, ‘Jazz at WGBH,' Boston, MA

  “Fleet's heroines were successful, artistic performers, attracting and enriching broad audiences.” — Howard Mandel, music critic, Billboard

  Dark Deeds, Vol. 1: Serial killers, stalkers and domestic homicides

  Dark Deeds, Vol. 2: Serial killers, stalkers and domestic homicides

  “Well researched and well written. The inner world of killers is vividly and psychologically portrayed.” — Arthur Smukler, MD, psychiatrist

  “Fleet demonstrates both her excellent journalistic and creative writing skills.” — Micki Peluso, author of And The Whippoorwill Sang

  MISSING

  A FRANK RENZI NOVEL

  “Nothing weighs on us so heavily as a secret.”

  – Jean de La Fountain (1621-1695)

  SUSAN FLEET

  Music and Mayhem Press

  ==============================

  For R. L.

  CHAPTER 1

  Saturday, October 23, 2010 – 9:20 PM – New Orleans

  “Ready to rock-n-roll?” said Mickey Mouse, his black-gloved hand poised over the doorbell, his voice shrill with excitement.

  Too much excitement, thought Donald Duck, the guy jazzed up, acting like a kid on his first trip to Disneyland. But this was no amusement park frolic. This was serious business.

  “Wait!” he said, his stern command muffled by the mask. “No rough stuff, okay? Be cool. Make them think the husband sent us and we're taking them to a surprise party.”

  At the far end of the driveway beside the two-story mansion, the door of a three-car garage was open. A bright blue Honda Accord sat in the left bay; a fire-engine-red Corvette sat in the bay on the right. The middle bay was empty, as expected.

  Good. The husband wasn't home.

  He stepped behind one of the white columns that fronted the house. Sweating inside the rubber mask, he surveyed the area, worried about witnesses. In the dark sky, a pale yellow sliver of moon was visible behind wispy clouds. Across the street, an empty lot was overgrown with weeds. Five years post-Katrina, many lots in Lakeview were still vacant. The neighborhood was quiet, nobody walking dogs, no kids running around outside at this hour.

  But his heart was going ninety miles an hour. If this went bad, he'd be in deep shit.

  He heard the doorbell clang and turned.

  The ornate carved-wood door opened and a little girl appeared. She had on a sleeveless white dress with pink flowers on the skirt, and pink flip-flops. Ringlets of golden-blond hair framed her face. When she saw their masks, her big blue eyes opened wide.

  She smiled at them, a gap-toothed grin, one front tooth missing. “Hi, Emily,” said Mickey Mouse, hoisting a big orange-plastic pumpkin. “We've got a surprise for your Mama.”

  The girl's eyes lit up and her gap-toothed grin widened.

  “Hi, Mickey.” She opened the screen door.

  And they were in.

  _____

  The sweet aroma of peanut butter cookies—Robbie's favorite—filled the air as Donna slid the last cookie sheet out of the oven, turned to the center island and set it on a wire rack. She and Emily had made a double batch, but Robbie would make short work of them. They smelled great but the kitchen was almost as hot as the oven. Her short-sleeved cotton shirt was damp with sweat and daubs of cookie dough decorated her white Bermuda shorts.

  “Who is it Emily?” she called. Moments ago when the doorbell rang, she'd told Emily to wait. But her rambunctious daughter had a mind of her own, almost six and oh-so-eager to be a grownup.

  She circled the granite-topped island and hurried to the hall doorway. Fear stabbed her chest like a hot poker.

  Dressed in black, two men in Halloween masks were following Emily down the hall. The one in the Donald Duck mask was huge, a massive black-clad figure. The other one was smaller but just as scary, Mickey Mouse striding purposefully down the hall.

  Her heart pounded her chest, like thunder claps in a violent storm. Who were they? What did they want?

  She knew what she wanted. She wanted them out of her house. Damn! She should have armed the security system.

  Emily dashed into the kitchen and Donna pulled her close,
hugging her with both arms.

  But Emily wouldn't have it, spinning away as Mickey Mouse said, “Hi, Mrs. Gates. Your husband sent us to pick you up and take you to the surprise party.”

  No he didn't. He's at the gun convention, schmoozing with the VIPs.

  “Oh, goody,” Emily squealed. “I love surprise parties!”

  “Where's the boy?” said Donald Duck, his voice a low rumble.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Not Robbie. He might get mad and ...

  “Robbie's upstairs,” Emily chirped in her oh-so-helpful voice.

  “Show me,” said Donald Duck, hoisting a big black duffel bag. His hands were enormous, the black gloves extending over the sleeves of his black sweatshirt. “I've got two great costumes for you.”

  “Wait!” Donna said. But Emily was already leading Donald Duck down the hall to the stairs. Everything was happening too fast. She backed away from Mickey Mouse, her body shaking with tremors. Her hands were clammy with sweat, and blood pounded in her ears. She felt utterly powerless. Unable to protect her children. Or herself.

  “Don't be scared,” Mickey said. “The kids will have fun.”

  Don't be scared? For most of her life, she'd been scared of someone. An alcoholic father. A husband who kept a gun with him, even in the bedroom. An ex-husband who knew her darkest secret.

  Mickey came toward her, a menacing figure in black, not as big as the other one but bigger than she was. At five-foot-three and 115 pounds, she was no match for him. She shrank back against the kitchen counter, aware of her ragged breathing.

  “There's no surprise party,” she said. “My husband is at a gun convention.”

  Hunter had asked her to go with him. He always wanted her with him—eye-candy to impress important people, important to him anyway. “Why don't you want to go?” he'd said. She didn't dare tell him she wanted to stop living a lie. Everyone thought they were the perfect power couple, handsome and happy. They weren't. In the end, Hunter had angrily stomped out of the house. Tomorrow he would make her pay for it. If she lived to see tomorrow.

  “Where's your cellphone?” said Mickey Mouse, jerking her back to reality, a reality even more terrifying than her gun-toting husband. “Call your husband. He'll tell you.”

  She turned to the counter and opened her brown-leather Gucci purse. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Hunter really was throwing her a surprise party. She took out her cellphone.

  Mickey's black-gloved hand took it away from her. “Are your car keys in here?”

  Her knees sagged and her head felt woozy. She was hyperventilating. Losing control. Off in the distance, she heard Emily laugh. But not Robbie. Please, Robbie, don't do something to make them mad.

  Mickey took her car keys out of her purse. “Come on. You can drive your car to the party. Donald Duck will bring the kiddies after they put on their costumes.”

  “No!” she said. “I'm not going anywhere without my children.”

  “Shut up.” Mickey gripped her wrist and pain shot up her arm. She heard a scream. Her own. She looked into his eyes. Terrifying. The mask covered his mouth and nose, a faceless monster in her house.

  She flailed her arms, raining feeble blows on him. He slammed her throat with the edge of his hand. A gurgling sound escaped her lips and she lost her balance. Don't let them hurt my children. Then she heard Robbie's voice. High-pitched. Terrified. “Mom! Mommy!”

  Mickey Mouse opened the door to the mudroom, dragged her through it and shoved her into the garage. She staggered forward and braced her hands on her Honda.

  A cold wet cloth covered her nose and mouth. Startled, she gasped, inhaling a sweet sickly odor. Her knees buckled and her body sagged. More sickly-sweet fumes filled her nostrils.

  Mickey picked her up, and then she was in the trunk of her car, the carpet prickling her cheek. And everything faded to black.

  _____

  9:30 PM

  Reluctant to leave, Homicide Detective Frank Renzi lingered in the back of the Snug Harbor jazz club. A jazz quartet led by saxophonist Kidd Jordan had put him in a good mood, banishing all thoughts of gangbangers, revenge killings and bloody corpses.

  He wasn't in uniform, but his bearing conveyed authority, a hint of explosive energy held in check. Six-foot-one, long-legged and rangy, he had jet-black hair and a tomahawk nose, but his most distinctive features were dark penetrating eyes and the jagged scar on his chin. He worked out at a gym when time permitted, hardly ever missed his daily five-mile run. In his line of work, foot-speed was essential.

  He followed the last stragglers out of the room and made his way through the line of jazz aficionados waiting for the ten o'clock show. As he reached the end of the bar, a voice, barely audible above the boisterous chatter of people at the bar, shouted, “Detective Renzi!”

  Antoine Carter approached him. He still had dreadlocks, but his dark-skinned face was thinner, more mature than the last time Frank saw him. Four years ago a gang leader had forced Antoine to help him rob a convenience store. Days later, the scumbag murdered Antoine's girlfriend, a fifteen-year-old singer. Grief-stricken and angry, Antoine had helped Frank capture the gang leader. By then, Frank had developed a soft spot for the kid, went to bat for him in court, and the judge had sentenced him to probation.

  Frank smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Great to see you, Antoine. How's it going?”

  “Going great! Just started my third year at New England Conservatory, the Third Stream Department. It's a great school. They gave me a scholarship.”

  “As well they should. You're a talented sax player. Last I heard you were living with your folks in Baton Rouge.”

  “Graduated high school there. My mom found me a good sax teacher, and he helped me with the scholarship application and such.”

  “No more probation?” Frank said.

  Antoine beamed. “No. Got a clean slate now.”

  “Good. I'm happy to hear it.”

  “How's your friend?” Antoine said. Puzzled, Frank looked at him. “That lady, you know, your policewoman friend.”

  Then he remembered. One Sunday morning, he and Kelly had rescued Antoine from the scumbag gang leader who'd cornered him in the French Quarter, intent on killing him.

  “Oh, Kelly O'Neil? She's good. She's in Chicago for a high school reunion.” He waited a beat, debating whether to ask, then said, “How about you? You got a girlfriend up in Boston?”

  Antoine ducked his head, then said with a bashful smile. “Yeah, I do. Met her at NEC. Lauren's a great bass player, plays in my scholarship quintet.”

  Relieved that Antoine wasn't still grieving for his girlfriend, Frank said, “Take her to a Boston Symphony concert some Friday afternoon. Rush seats are nine bucks. You can't beat it.”

  When Antoine gave him a dubious look, Frank said, “Hey, Charles Mingus and Thelonious Monk were into classical music. Go hear The Rites of Spring by Stravinsky. It'll knock your socks off, guaranteed.”

  Antoine smiled. “Thanks for the tip. Lauren will be impressed. She's always dragging me to art museums. You dig Kidd Jordan? I studied with him, could probably get you in for the next set.”

  Tempted, Frank thought about it. “Great group, but I better not.” These days few weekends passed without a murder. Working Homicide required stamina and a strong stomach, the hours long and unpredictable, the crime scenes brutal and bloody. “Next time I'm in Boston, let's hit a jazz club and you can catch me up on the news.” He gave Antoine his card. “Keep in touch and let me know how you're doing.”

  “Thank you, I will,” Antoine said, his dark eyes serious now. “And thanks for your help, you know … four years ago. If you hadn't helped me, I'd probably be in jail.”

  Touched, Frank said, “You're welcome, Antoine. Enjoy the show.”

  Pleased that Antoine had put the tragedy behind him and turned his life around, Frank left the club. This part of Frenchman Street was always busy, locals and tourists wandering the sidewalk, music spilling out of clubs: honky-tonk piano,
a blues singer wailing, Brazilian music with a salsa beat.

  The sound of a trumpet playing a jazz chorus drew him across the street to the Spotted Cat. He fought his way through the enthusiastic crowd to the bar and ordered a beer, blended in fine with the other jazz fans in his tan polo shirt and dress jeans.

  Why not chill out, enjoy some music and think positive? No homicides in the Big Easy tonight.

  No calls rousting Detective Franklin Sullivan Renzi out of bed to investigate a blood-soaked crime scene, no stench-filled rooms, and no bloated corpses with vacant staring eyes.

  CHAPTER 2

  Robbie opened his eyes. His head hurt and he felt sick to his stomach like he might throw up. But he was too scared to move. He was lying on a bed. But not his bed. Where was he? Someplace dark and quiet. So quiet he could hear his heart thumping against his chest.

  He reached out with his left hand and his fingers touched a wall. It was smooth, not paneling like the TV room at home, not embossed wallpaper like his bedroom. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw light leaking around raggedy shades on two windows, one near the foot of the bed and another one on the adjacent wall.

  He sat up, but the room started spinning. He sank back onto the pillow. It smelled faintly of jasmine. He knew it was jasmine because last year in fourth grade science class they studied plants that were indigenous—a new word he'd learned—to New Orleans, including what they smelled like.

  The room stopped spinning so he swung his legs off the bed, put his feet on the floor and tried to figure out what had happened. He couldn't remember much. Emily had brought a man in a Donald Duck mask into his room, all excited, saying they were going to a surprise Halloween party. But he knew they weren't going to any surprise party. Emily was stupid. She was only five, the fair-haired favorite. At the time, he'd been using his iPhone, surfing the Internet for information on the science project he was working on.

  The guy in the mask took it away from him and gave him a plastic baggie with Candy Corn.