Prime Suspect: New Orleans Detectives, #2

By Melanie Atkins

New Orleans Assistant District Attorney Marisa Cooper prosecutes murderers for a living, but the tables are turned when her ex-husband is found dead in her garage. To prove she didn't kill him, she must team up with her former fiancée, Slade Montgomery, the detective who risks his career -- and his heart -- to help her find the real killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Atkins
• Release date: Mar 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9780985880569

Book preview

New Orleans Detectives Series

Cherished Witness - September 2009

Prime Suspect - February 2010

Chosen Target - May 2010

Beloved Captive - October 2010

Unwilling Accomplice - February 2011

Perfect Partner - June 2011

Copyright © 2010

by Melanie Atkins

2nd Printing

ISBN 13: 978-0-9858805-6-9

––––––––

Published in the United States of America

1st eBook Publication Date: October 2010

1st Print Publication Date: February 2012

2nd eBook Publication Date: March 2019

Cover Artist: Jenifer Ranieri

Cover Art Copyright © 2010

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher. Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents, or persons living or dead are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Dedication

Thanks to Lee Lofland for being an awesome resource.

Your help is invaluable!

Chapter One

New Orleans Police Department Homicide Detective Slade Montgomery slammed into the beat up Chevy Lumina on loan to him from Vice and twisted the key in the ignition. He didn't want this fucking case. Didn't want to be in this part of town, didn't want to think about the past. Only now, he had to endure all of the above because there had been a double murder at a wedding, of all places. More dreams shattered at the altar. Only this time, the couple's bliss had been cut short by a pair of nine-millimeter slugs. Not cold feet.

Slade drove to the crime scene in silence, his thoughts a whirlwind of past hurts. He rounded a bend in the road, and the ancient stone church rose up in front of him like a sepulcher beside the swirling gray waters of the Mississippi. His blood chilled.

Why here? At St. Joseph's, three miles downriver from the famed St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter, the lonely backdrop for the nightmare his dreams had become since Marisa had left him standing at the altar. By now he should be able to come here without remembering, but he couldn't.

Just staring at the church's weathered stone façade brought back the rush of disbelief, the arc of pain. He paused to catch his breath, then climbed out of the car, stuck his hands in his pockets, and bent his head against the icy wind. Late December in New Orleans meant a chilly dampness that ate through flesh.

The brilliant slash of yellow crime scene tape across the front of the sanctuary seemed a sacrilege. Death had invaded this holy place. Low clouds hovered over the stunned guests milling in the street, adding to the gloom. The family was no doubt secluded in some private space, away from this nauseating spectacle.

The interior of the chapel reeked of candle wax and wood polish. The floors gleamed, and the pews seemed to call out to Slade. To taunt him. Guests for his wedding had sat here four years ago, only to be turned away before any vows could be said.

Marisa had bailed on him because he was a cop. And that had hurt. The greatest irony being that she was one of the high-priced attorneys who defended the murderers he arrested.

Being a cop was in his blood. His dad had been one before him, though he'd been cut down on duty when Slade was only seven. Slade, at that early age, had pledged to avenge his father's death. But in the years since, he'd discovered that nothing, no cases he would solve, no lives he would save, would ever be enough.

He would, however, survive. Like a cat, he always seemed to land on his feet.

Montgomery. His new partner, Terry Barnes, called to him from the ornate altar. Down here.

Slade turned and stalked toward him, taking care along the way to stuff his painful memories into that tiny compartment of his mind he'd labeled Purgatory, and plastered a stoic expression on his face. No need for Terry to know this place haunted him.

Slade carefully skirted the altar, which was filled to overflowing with greenery for the wedding that would never be, and headed for the alcove off to his right where Terry now stood. His partner's blond hair was mussed and his hard hazel eyes were weary. He was in the same rumpled clothes he'd been in only hours before, when they'd both worked a ritualistic killing in the French Quarter. He probably hadn't had any more sleep than Slade.

Their eyes met, and Slade knew Terry was thinking the same damned thing. They now had two more brutal murders to solve.

Slade ran a hand down his face. What have we got?

A dead groom. Terry's mouth twisted into a semi-smile. And a bride— He held his finger to his ear as if it were the barrel of a pistol. Bang.

Why don't you show more respect, Barnes? Didn't your son just— Slade clenched his jaw before he said anything he'd regret. Terry had recently lost his son, but you couldn't tell it by his actions. Slade was fed up with his partner's never-ending sarcasm.

Terry shrugged off his harsh look. It's the stress, man. Sorry.

Fine. Give me the facts. Slade crossed his arms to keep from throttling his partner.

"Whatever you say, Detective. Terry's eyes held a glint of defiance as he led Slade into the small room. The facts are that the groom's mother claims a photographer—not the one they hired to do the wedding—lured the attendants into the sanctuary under the guise of retaking a few pictures. The groom has a single penetrating gunshot wound behind his left ear, probably from a 9mm slug. I'm figuring he used a noise suppressor, considering this is a church and nobody heard anything."

The unfortunate groom lay on his stomach, his arms and legs splayed at odd angles. His eyes were open in surprise.

Careful not to disturb the scene, Slade pulled on latex gloves and dropped to his haunches beside the victim. Stippling surrounded a single black-rimmed gunshot wound behind his left ear, and a tiny rivulet of blood arrowed down his neck. Several drops had pooled together on the worn wood beneath his head in the shape of a distorted heart. Shit.

The odor of death and candles nauseated Slade. He dug out a small bottle of menthol rub and held it under his nose. Its pungent odor chased away the awful stench of death, at least for the moment.

The bride is upstairs?

Yep. An identical scene with her body just like this. Terry rubbed his hands together. Another familiar MO.

Too fucking familiar. Slade made a fist and stared down at the poor groom. Alex Assimov likes executions. You know how he works. Hell, he's from your hometown. Houston.

Yeah, Assimov likes things neat. That's why his man always uses a 9mm with a silencer. Terry let loose a string of sharp expletives. The bride is Assimov's sister.

Angelina? Slade's mouth dropped open. Angelina Assimov, who sang with the New Orleans Opera, had recently made a public statement claiming she wanted nothing more to do with her brother, Alex.

Terry nodded grimly.

Is Assimov here?

Haven't seen him. Terry shook his head. Lady outside said he didn't approve of the groom.

Jesus. Slade thinned his lips. Tough way to make a point.

I'd say he succeeded.

All too well. Slade came to his feet and drew in a steadying breath. Take me to Angelina.

No room downstairs for her to dress. Terry went out the door. So she and her bridesmaid's went upstairs to the fellowship hall.

A knot filled Slade's gut as he trudged up the narrow staircase. It appeared that Alex Assimov, the kingpin of New Orleans' largest drug dynasty, had returned to the U.S—and now either he or his minions were on a killing spree. But would his mere disapproval be enough to make him murder his sister and her fiancée? The Assimovs were a close-knit family who had always presented an impenetrable front to law enforcement. Slade could see him icing the groom maybe, but he had trouble believing Alex would harm Angelina.

A member of the Scientific Criminal Investigative Division, better known as the crime scene unit, passed them on their way through the sanctuary.

You boys didn't destroy the scene, did you? Detective Miller asked, punching Slade in the arm.

Slade resisted the urge to deck him and shot him a vicious glare instead. What do you think? We repositioned the body?

You never know. Miller slapped the stone altar, the crack of his hand as loud as a gunshot in the quiet church.

Slade jerked around.

Terry laughed and touched his elbow. Take it easy, man. You're jumpy as a trapped rat.

It's been a rough week. Rage boiled inside Slade at the detective's irreverence. He shrugged off his partner's hand. This place was sacred to him. A shrine. But to what? Lost love? Pain and loneliness? He tightened his jaw and hurried on.

They found the bride upstairs in an ultra-modern room, her white dress marred by a single drop of garnet red blood. She, too, had been shot behind her left ear. Her long black hair fanned out across her face and stuck to the few drops of blood that spattered the floor.

Slade scrubbed a hand down his face. What had gone wrong?  Was Assimov responsible for killing his own flesh and blood?

And, more importantly, who else would die before they could solve this new riddle?

*****

Quiet, Daisy. Marisa Cooper shot the hyper Jack Russell terrier a glare and shut the door to keep out the brisk winter breeze. Daisy stopped barking but continued to dance about her feet. Marisa set her purse on a chair and squatted beside the excited animal to pet her dark head. Daisy's wiry body quivered in response.

Hello, girl. She laughed when Daisy licked her cheek. Good dog. I'll fix your supper.

Marisa rose and dropped her keys on the table. Daisy sniffed at her feet as she shrugged out of her coat. Today, a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She'd just received another guaranteed conviction, thanks to her tough bargaining.

Her first guilty verdict as Orleans Parish Assistant District Attorney had been the most exciting. Marisa had helped DA Sid Kendrick nail Dominick Assimov, her former brother-in-law, for killing his wife after her blood was found in the trunk of his new Lexus. Marisa smiled as she remembered his shock when he'd first been arrested. He'd deserved to go to prison.

Today's case was similar, but on a lesser scale.

Daisy trotted past the Christmas tree into the kitchen and barked at the door leading to the garage. Marisa kicked off her shoes. The dog was hungry, and that was certainly no surprise. She was late getting home—again. Entering an empty house was hard, so she liked to put it off as long as possible.

After Nikolai had walked out on her she'd adopted Daisy, but a terrier at the foot of her bed was no match for a man's hard arms. A year had passed since Nikolai had last hugged her. Their divorce had become final six months ago, and she'd taken back her maiden name. Now, except for Daisy, Marisa was alone.

The animal's high-pitched yips gnawed at her weary nerves as she followed the dog into the kitchen.

Hang on, girl. That's enough! Marisa said as Daisy scratched at the garage door. Grabbing a can of dog food, Marisa popped its top and filled the animal's bright red dish.

Daisy ignored her.

Come on, now. Time to eat. Marisa shook the bowl.

Daisy yowled and scratched harder at the closed door.

With a frown, Marisa crossed the room. Why was she so fixated on the garage? Marisa usually parked her car inside it, but today she'd spotted a package on the front porch and had decided to leave her Altima in the driveway. Then Daisy had kicked up such a ruckus when she came inside, she left the parcel beside the door. Maybe she'd confused the poor dog.

Okay, girl. Marisa gripped the doorknob and used her foot to keep Daisy back. What's got you so excited?

She opened the door, and a thick, unmistakable odor hit her nostrils. The coppery scent of blood. Startled, she jerked back. Oh, my God!

Dread twisted the nausea swimming in her stomach. With a loud yip, Daisy bolted past her into the darkness.

Marisa covered her mouth and nose and flipped on the garage light. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on the fully clothed body lying prone beside the steps.

Shock jolted through her, and she gasped. She brought a hand to her throat.

Finally, after a few stunned seconds, she found her voice. "Nikolai! Oh, Jesus."

Her ex-husband lay on his side in a puddle of drying blood, his right arm crooked beneath him, his booted feet spread. A thin trickle of red curled behind his ear. His eyes were wide open, yet unseeing.

She rushed down the steps into the garage and checked for his pulse, but jerked her hand away when she touched his skin, which was as cold as the concrete slab beneath her feet.

Marisa couldn't take her eyes off her ex-husband's slack face.

Daisy nipped at Nikolai's extended left hand.

No, Daisy! Marisa cried, escaping her stunned state long enough to grab the dog and rush back up the steps.

The rest of the garage was empty. But she had an unmistakable tingle at the nape of her neck that whispered someone was watching her. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She wrapped her arms around Daisy and retreated to the relative safety of the house.

With quivering hands, she dialed 911.

Why was Nikolai here, in the home they'd once shared? She hadn't seen him in months. How had he gotten inside? She'd changed the locks.

Ms. Cooper, the 911 operator said after she'd identified herself. Go outside. You could be in danger.

Of course, Marisa said, fear quickly rushing into replace her disbelief. She hadn't seen anything out of place, but she knew the operator was right. Her hand still wrapped around the phone, she grabbed Daisy's leash and snapped it on her collar, then led the dog out onto the front porch. Cool air wrapped around her, reminding her she'd forgotten her coat. She resisted the urge to go in and get it.

The operator cleared her throat. Ms. Cooper? Are you still there?

Yes. I'm outside, looking around. Marisa swept the neighborhood with her worried gaze, but didn't see anything unusual. Dusk was falling, though, and the shadows were thick. An icy finger of dread slid down her spine. Everything looks okay from here, but it's getting dark. I can't see much.

Just stay put, the operator said, and remain on the line until the police arrive.

No problem.

Minutes slid by, and Marisa rubbed her arm. Daisy looked up at her as she spoke quietly with the woman on the other end of the line. It helped her feel less alone.

The sudden roar of an engine made her turn. A lone patrol car wheeled onto her street, and relief coursed through her. She loosened her hold on the leash and released a shaky breath. They're here. Finally.

Yes, ma'am.

I'm hanging up now, Marisa said, as the cruiser whipped into the driveway behind her Altima and two uniformed officers climbed out.

The operator wished Marisa well, and she ended the call. Her heart thudded.

The two officers marched up the walk, and she tugged Daisy close to her side.

ADA Cooper? The younger of the two policemen had white-blond hair and a stern countenance. We met in court a few weeks ago.

She nodded. Officer Brennan. I remember.

You reported a dead body? The older officer cocked his dark head. She didn't recognize him. The gray marking his temples gleamed in the muted light. Daisy sniffed at his shoes, and he turned his attention to the dog. Does she bite?

Not usually. Marisa pulled the animal back. The body is in my garage. It-it's my ex-husband, Nikolai. Nikolai Assimov. We've been divorced a while. I don't know what he's doing here. I just—

Yes, ma'am. Please stay here. The older officer pulled his pistol and motioned to the younger cop. You take the back.

Got it. The blond officer gripped his own gun and trotted toward the end of the house.

A shudder slid through Marisa as he disappeared around the corner. Who in the world had killed Nikolai, and why here, in her garage? The two of them barely spoke. She listened for sounds from the house, but there were none. Having no answers, she stepped into the grass to let Daisy nose around in the bushes.

A silver Chevy Lumina with a single light on top suddenly pulled up to the curb. Trying to knead the tension from her neck, Marisa watched in dismay as its lone occupant climbed out. She'd know that lean, muscular body anywhere.

Slade Montgomery.

She had to tell herself to breathe. He was as dark-haired and handsome as the day she'd left him at the altar in his crisp black tux, back when she'd believed defense work was sacred and policemen were only obstacles in her path trying to make her job difficult. Why, oh why, of all the detectives in New Orleans' Sixth District, had he drawn this case?

With a confident swagger, he shot her a knowing look and rounded the car.

Daisy barked.

Despite her shock, Marisa drank in Slade's appearance. A neat beige sport coat strained across his broad shoulders, a tight black tee shirt hugged his muscular chest, and worn, form-fitting jeans molded his lean hips.

Marisa. He halted on the walk and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The movement emphasized the frayed placard of his fly. The gold badge on his belt glinted in the waning light, and a bulge on his left side gave away his gun.

She met his cool, assessing blue eyes.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. You reported a dead body?

Yes, I did. She entwined her hands. She'd only seen Slade a few times since their failed wedding—and then only in court, when they'd tiptoed around each other like one or both of them had the plague. This time, however, he stood in front of her like a barrier—tall, intimidating, and compelling. A taut package of testosterone and brawn with a heart of gold.

Nikolai's dead. I-I found him when I got home, in the garage. He's been shot, I think. Blood is everywhere. And the smell— She shivered. He must have been in there all afternoon.

When did you last speak with your husband?

"Ex-husband, she said solemnly, banding her arms about her waist and letting Daisy's leash dangle. We talked last month, when we ran into each other on Dauphine Street. It was purely coincidental, I assure you. We're barely civil."

Surprise filtered through Slade as he studied her oval face. How long have you two been divorced? He'd heard they'd split, but he hadn't let himself believe it. Seeing her now—and realizing that she really was free—was like taking a fist to the gut.

She bit her lip. Six months, but we've been apart for about a year. Our marriage was... rocky from the start. But I wouldn't have hurt him. Not ever. I mean—

I understand. Slade had never seen her so damned upset. Normally, she was the one in control. The proverbial ice queen, channeling her emotions into a special slot in her heart so nobody would know she had any. Nothing fazed her. He ground his teeth to keep from pointing that out and changed course. Did you touch anything?

Of course not. She glowered at him. I know better.

Figured you did, he said, letting his eyes play over her rigid body. She was thinner than before, almost to the point of being too thin. Her chestnut hair framed her elegant face, and her dressy gray pantsuit fit her slim body like a glove. But as always, it was her eyes that drew him. Wide set, tawny eyes that took in every movement, catalogued every smile, measured every nuance crossing his face.

When she looked at him that way, he felt as if he were under a microscope.