Black Silk

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

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.