Savage Betrayal (The Nickie Savage Series, Book 4)

By R.T. Wolfe

Detective Nickie Savage pins the trafficker who abducted her as a child.

The child trafficking crime ring Detective Nickie Savage is chasing--the one responsible for her own childhood abduction--is growing.

The traffickers have infiltrated the police department, the FBI and even her home, steeling Nickie's resolve to find the abducted girls and take down the crime ring once and for all.

But discovering the King Pin's identity, the very person who sold her into slavery, just might bring Detective Nickie Savage to her knees.


THE NICKIE SAVAGE SERIES, in order
Savage Echoes
Savage Deception
Savage Rendezvous
Savage Disclosure
Savage Betrayal
Savage Alliance

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Sep 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781614178804

R.T. Wolfe

It's not uncommon to find dark chocolate squares in R.T.'s candy dish, her rescued Saint Bernard at her feet and a few caterpillars spinning their cocoons in the terrariums on her counters. You can contact R.T. through her website: www.rtwolfe.com

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Chapter 1

The lights were out in the office. In fact, the entire top floor of the Northridge, New York police station was dark. Detective Nickie Savage sat at her splintered desk with nothing but the glow of her computer monitor to keep her company.

She hadn't been able to sleep. Her house seemed too big when she was alone. And since Duncan had taken their pup with him on his latest trip to L.A., the house was a special kind of empty. She shrugged and leaned back in her chair. She supposed when a client as famous as Johnny Lyons wanted to meet your dog, you brought your dog.

A zillion loose ends clouded her life. Two new cases sat in separate manila file folders on the side of her desk. Partner in the hospital; autopsy report on her latest case pending; stolen files to read... and who was the damned mole in the station? It all took away from her big picture.

Fu Haizi.

The child trafficking ring responsible for her abduction when she was a young teen. She'd fought her way from captivity. To freedom. And left the rest of the girls behind.

The peach Greek yogurt she'd had for breakfast threatened to return. Scooting her chair away from her desk, she dropped her head between her knees. This was not a road she could afford to travel. Not now. It never helped.

The grinding of an opening elevator door rescued her from her train of thought. It was followed by a flicker, then lighting of the commons area that was filled with vacant metal desks grouped in twos. Ignoring the cold sweat forming along her hairline, Nickie forced her head up so she could investigate. The telltale thump of conservative pumps on Berber carpet told her the assistant district attorney headed her way.

Your lights are off, Miranda Vaughn said as she entered the dark office. Her hand reached for Nickie's switch.

Don't touch that light. I sort of like you and don't want to have to break your arm.

Miranda snatched her hand back like she'd been burned, then marched over and glanced from the first of Nickie's guest chairs to the second.

Just put the crap from one chair on the other. That was what everyone else did.

She complied and sat down, placing her briefcase on her lap. Even if her posture was perfect, Miranda's hair wasn't in its usual smooth ponytail, and her blouse wasn't ironed. Curious, Nickie half-wished she'd turned on the lights.

So...? Nickie prompted.

Miranda let out a heavy breath before placing her briefcase on the floor. I couldn't sleep.

Me either, but I ironed my shirt for the day. Or maybe put it in the dryer for ten minutes. Details, details.

Oh, this. She glanced down at her soft rose-colored blouse, then buttoned the second to top button. I didn't stay at home last night, but the couldn't sleep part came because—

"Where did we sleep last night?" Nickie interrupted. She could almost see her blushing in the dim light and gave into curiosity. She reached over to turn on the lamp at the corner of her desk.

Miranda's chin dipped as she grinned. Officer Parker's.

Do you call him Officer Parker when you're... ya know? Nickie asked as she flipped on the light.

Ah, that's better. Thank you. Miranda sighed. You look awful. The bruises are turning yellow.

Nickie raised her brows. That tends to happen to bruises. Occupational hazard.

And Dale's, I stayed at Dale's. Miranda lifted her head. Ten years younger than me, sweet as can be, Officer Dale Parker. Her shoulders fell. But the couldn't sleep last night was because of Eddy.

Nickie's partner. The partner who still lay in a drug-induced coma from the gunshot wound he took to the abdomen. Eddy would give her shit if he knew how much it worried her. She would never complain about any of her yellowing bruises from the last mission.

Lynx, Vaughn. You're in a police station discussing colleagues. Call Eddy by his last name. It was downright wrong. And call Parker Parker. Not Officer Parker and definitely not Dale. The last word stuck in her mouth like cotton candy. Leaning back in her chair, Nickie plopped one boot on her desk, then the other. And you're rolling in the sheets with Dale but can't sleep because of Eddy?

A grin spread over Miranda's sober face. You mean I'm rolling in the sheets with Parker but can't sleep because of Lynx.

It all made Nickie's left eyelid twitch. She wouldn't give her the satisfaction of a response.

Reaching into her bag, Miranda pulled out her tiny laptop and set it on her legs. Eddy may be loyal and driven, but he's bossy and arrogant. Officer Parker, um, Dale is sweet. You were right. He's the real thing.

Eddy got four adjectives, Nickie thought.

I went and sat with him.

Nickie's head spun. Which one?

Eddy. The doctors have kept him in this coma for almost a week now.

You think he knew you were there?

Since ADA Miranda Vaughn wasn't the type to shrug, she sat up straighter and said, I have to believe that.

Well, I'm among the first to be called when they wake him. Nickie's phone buzzed. She stuck her hand in the pocket and checked the caller I.D. It was from the station? She glanced around at the other offices surrounding the commons area to see if anyone else had showed up yet. Still no movement. Savage, she answered.

Mornin', Detective. Rickard here. Just finished the autopsy on Phillip Carson.

Phil the barber. Hide-guns-for-Fu Haizi Phil the barber. It was about time.

Stop by anytime.

I'm already here.

You're at work early today.

You have no idea.

* * *

The whole room had that formaldehyde smell. Plus, it was cold as hell. Nickie didn't know how Rickard could stand it. The ME danced around like he was in a rose garden.

The body of Phil the barber lay on Rickard's steel table. Two more stiffs occupied the other tables and some would be in drawers as the place doubled as the city morgue until funeral arrangements were made. Or sometimes not made.

Phil the barber. One Phillip Carson. Ghostly white and stiff. The gunshot to the abdomen was nearly identical to the one Nickie found in her partner's gut. The memory of finding Eddy nearly bled dry put that all too familiar lump in her throat. And stomach. And heart. The sight of him lying in the hospital bed. Drug-induced coma. What made him try to question Jun Zheng on his own? She should have known something was up.

Nickie? It was the voice of the ADA. Are you okay?

What? Yes. Huh? Oh, ME's lab. Dead body. Autopsy.

You don't look well.

Why, thank you, Vaughn, Nickie answered even though she deserved the jab. What do we have, Rickard?

Benjamin Rickard was the silent type. Kept to himself. Nickie could appreciate that. Before he began, he adjusted the collar to one of the neatly pressed plaid shirts he always wore. Nickie didn't want to appreciate that.

Phillip Carson. Male. Age fifty-nine. Died from gunshot wound to abdomen.

And who hardly ever spoke in complete sentences.

Blood loss did it. Hollow-tip bullet. Hands tied behind back post-mortem.

Wait, what? What?

Yes. He adjusted his collar again. See the color of his fingertips? White.

Yes. Chalky white. Ugh.

If his hands were tied before he died, the fingers would have a purple tinge.

A burglary made to look like a murder. It was the ADA. Nickie almost forgot she was there. Isn't it usually the other way around?

Yes, Nickie agreed. Backassward. Several large boxes had been stolen from the scene. No need for Nickie to tell the ADA she knew the large boxes contained guns. Evidence was sparse but specific. Wide parallel scrapes along the floor, pieces of wood shavings. The place was wiped down too damned good, but we're counting on something maybe missed in the hurry. Forensics is still working on it.

A phone rang. It came from the only desk in the lab. Expecting a phone call, the ME said, excusing himself and heading for it.

Your desk is obnoxiously clean, Rickard, Nickie called to him as he made his way to the back of the room.

He waved a hand over his shoulder. A compliment.

But why murder him? the ADA whispered.

Nickie took a deep breath. She had her theories, just no proof. And Nickie was a proof kind of cop. It's what gave her the track record she had. It was a rare attorney who could get past Nickie's evidence. I'm going to find out.

You know something.

I think I know something.

Miranda rotated her body so her back was to Rickard. Tell me.

Nickie wanted to share what she knew, she really did. But...

Miranda let out a long breath and stepped away.

This was why Nickie didn't get along so well with female types. Everything had to be all touchy and complicated.

Don't give me that look, Nickie. I'm not simply a girl who's curious. I'm a friend. I'm an ADA friend which means I can help.

Now Nickie could add guilt to not being able to share what she knew.

Miranda waved her manicured hand dismissively. I understand, truly I do. You're in a job that continually ties your hands behind your back. As a detective, you run into clashes over jurisdiction. Have you ever considered a job as chief? No. She stretched out the word as she answered herself and paced. Too much detective testosterone drama to deal with. Maybe FBI? She shook her head. Red tape. CIA? Bureaucracy. You know. She stopped and faced Nickie. You won't ever be happy until your efforts to save children take on more of a productive manner.

Nickie was speechless. And that was not an easy thing to make happen.

Something brushed against her back. The muscles in her shoulders tightened. Turning and jumping at the same time, she found the ME standing close enough that she could smell the onion on his breath.

In one hand, he held half of an everything bagel. With the other, he ripped off the sheet that covered Phil the barber. See these abrasions? Whoever tied his hands post mortem tied them tightly. Why do that if the victim is already dead?

Nickie should have been interested in what he was saying. She should have been more interested in how he got across the room so quickly. Or at least how he could finish breakfast while gesturing to a naked dead body.

But her focus couldn't leave the tattoo on Phil the barber's left forearm. It still had the raw pink markings around the perimeter, showing it was new. A falcon. Not the animated kind, but more like a photograph of a falcon in flight. Where had she seen that before? Her phone buzzed on her hip. She looked at the number. The hospital. Detective Savage, she answered after the first ring.

Good morning, Detective. This is Nurse Richardson calling to let you know your partner is awake.

Chapter 2

Duncan Reed sat in the single beam of moonlight shining through the window of his penthouse suite. The painting he'd started of Johnny and Bebe Lyons stared at him from the center of the makeshift studio he'd created next to the fully stocked wet bar. The Lyons were magnificent subjects, both physically attractive and photogenic. They deserved their tenth wedding anniversary painting to be of the utmost quality. And they deserved it sometime before their twentieth wedding anniversary.

Then why did Duncan have his laptop resting on his legs instead of his paintbrush in his hand? Because ever since Fu Haizi's Jun Zheng escaped jail, it had been this way. Duncan arrived at work—whether home or in L.A.—prepared his paints and brushes, then connected to the Net to search for answers about Zheng. Duncan believed that the guns found in the murdered Phil the barber's back room belonged to Zheng. And the files he and his brother stole from Zheng's accomplice's office? Useless.

Duncan had already discovered over a dozen media photographs of pedophiles and vice busts that contained Jun Zheng in the background. Photographs that helped Nickie connect with johns who had used Zheng's trafficked children. She'd narrowed down the fact that Fu Haizi had ten groups of children in captivity. Duncan felt for those children. However, his focus remained on his detective and her safety.

Nickie was not just his wife; she was the one person in his life who understood the curse that came with having a photographic memory. He didn't simply remember the violence he'd experienced as a child and during his stint in the Middle East. He could see, hear and smell the memories. Random images of the scars left on Nickie's back from Jun Zheng added to the clutter, making it as if pins pricked the back of Duncan's neck.

He opened a few more tabs, creating searches for vice busts in other states. He flipped through a handful of photos, searching for ones of Zheng. Xena rolled over in her crate, exposing her light-brown belly. The hotel manager hardly blinked an eye at the prospect of having her stay in the penthouse. Working for Johnny and Bebe Lyons had its benefits.

He opened a new search option, then bent closer to his laptop. On the screen was a new picture of Zheng. Duncan would remember the face even without his eidetic memory. The murderer stood in front of an upscale building with smooth concrete walls and tumbled edges. But it wasn't Zheng that caused Duncan to lean closer. The man in front of Zheng. The large man wearing a gray suit and black trench coat. Duncan's fingers gripped the sides of the laptop until it shook.

Nickie's father? Duncan stood, nearly flipping the laptop onto the floor. He set it on the wet bar and took three steps away, hoping the image etched in his mind would somehow change, adapt. He'd misunderstood. Been mistaken.

Rotating on the balls of his feet, he walked away before he stepped back to the laptop. The image hadn't changed or adapted. The photo may be grainy, but it was Jun Zheng standing in the background. Ramrod straight, hands folded in front of him, far behind a press conference. The caption under the photo read, Assistant to governor of New York arrested for involvement in child trafficking. Duncan had aided with that take down, and had the scar on his shoulder from a gunshot to prove it.

Nickie's father stood only a few feet away from Zheng in the grainy photo. Duncan leaned in as if his eyes somehow weren't the 20/20 they actually were. He always knew her father was a bad man and terrible parent, but this? It could only mean one thing. His head tilted from one side to the other as prickles of electricity ran through him. Edward Monticello. He wasn't entirely facing Zheng. Coincidental encounter?

Shaking his head, Duncan stood tall. He looked down his nose at the photo. Experience taught Duncan long ago there were no coincidences.

How? Why? He went back to pacing. He had to call Nickie. No. He had to see her. His eyes turned first to the unfinished painting, then to the dog crate, then to his laptop. He pulled out his cell and made the necessary arrangements.

* * *

Hospitals all smelled the same to Nickie. A mixture of disinfectant bleach and some sort of ointment stuff. She'd stopped for some flowers. Stupid. They swung at her side as she took the stairs to the fourth floor.

As she reached the top floor, she rested a hand on the push handle of the hallway door. The flowers. What the hell? He wasn't a woman. He wasn't her lover. Worse yet, he was an ex-lover. Tossing them in a corner trash, she pressed open the door and looked for the sign that directed her to room 413.

The eyes of a few passing nurses landed on Nickie's badge. They nodded before moving on to their next room. The beat cop assigned to sit outside Eddy's room was standing in what she liked to think of as a drill sergeant stance. No chair. Knees locked. Feet apart. Hands behind his back. Good morning, Officer... She squinted as she read his name badge. Corelli. How is the patient?

Before he could answer, Eddy called from inside the room. Hey, Nick. His voice was strong for someone who had been in a coma. It was good to hear it. I'm naked as shit, he said through the door. Go get us some coffee. I'll get dressed. It feels like I haven't had any java in a week. And he was joking?

On it, she answered and shrugged to the beat cop. Tracing her steps back to the basement, she glanced at the stems of the flowers and almost dug them out of the trash. What was the matter with her? She didn't know how to do partner-is-awake-from-coma; that was what the matter was. Warm and fuzzy, she was not.

The echo of her boots on the concrete steps brought back the image of when she found him in the stairwell that led down to the county jail. Lying there for who knew how long, bleeding to death. Why had he been interrogating Zheng without another officer or detective present? Without her?

Not that she hadn't interrogated Zheng alone before, but she hadn't been dumb enough to take him out of his cell. Alone. Leaving Zheng with the chance to take her frigging gun and shoot her in a stairwell.

As she reached the basement level, the flashes of Eddy lying at the bottom of the stairs became like photographs. Not like eidetic memory Duncan Reed pictures or anything, but enough to make her shiver.

She stepped around the imaginary Eddy Lynx and opened the basement door, heading for the coffee vending machine. The ADA was right. Eddy was loyal and driven. And bossy and arrogant. But he'd had her back enough times that she owed it to him to forget the bossy and arrogant.

Nothing could ever make her drink coffee, so she filled just the one auto java and headed back to the fourth floor. Before she made it halfway, a door above slammed against the concrete wall and was followed by the quick steps of feet racing down the stairs.

Placing her hand on her .45, she took it off safety and pressed against the side wall. What was it with stairwells lately? She supposed when you didn't use elevators, you got stuck in stairwell drama.

It was the beat cop barreling down the steps. Spotting her, his feet stopped before the rest of him, causing him to stick his arms out to catch his balance.

Her brows lifted as she waited for an explanation.

Sir, he panted and looked from one corner of the small area to another. Ma'am. I mean Detective Savage. Fire