Unwilling Accomplice: New Orleans Detectives, #5

By Melanie Atkins

Marcy Moretti believes that anyone can be redeemed, until she witnesses a murder at the hands of her ex-husband and is forced to go on the run with her young son . The only person who can help her is Joe Riso, her former brother-in-law, a detective staggered by the loss of his wife and daughter. If he's going to protect both Marcy and her boy, he must first find a way to unfreeze his icy heart—and along the way, find his own redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Atkins
• Release date: Mar 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780985880590

Book preview

Chapter One

Daddy said he'd take me to the aquarium tomorrow.

Don't count on it, honey. Marcy Moretti tousled her young son's strawberry blond hair. Remember what happened last time?

I know. Ryan's gloomy look made her heart swell. But he promised.

I hope he'll follow through, but don't get your hopes up.

Yes, ma'am. I won't.

Marcy turned her eyes back to the cold, wet road. The steady slap-slap of the windshield wipers mirrored the thudding of her heart. Ryan's father had disappointed him too many damned times. So had she. In the eight years after she'd married Frank Moretti, he changed from a responsible, loving husband and father to a worshipper of the almighty dollar. He owned a small accounting firm in Metairie that made a tidy profit, but not enough of one to allow him to drive his fancy new Mercedes, invest in a French Quarter restaurant, and snap up the string of choice properties he'd acquired after the hurricane. Those were her first clues that his business wasn't completely legitimate.

Her next was his arrest on federal drug charges.

Ryan pinned her with his wary blue eyes. How long do I hafta stay with him?

Just for the weekend. Marcy slowed for a red light. She still couldn't believe the court had upheld Frank's visitation rights after his arrest. He was out on bond and had surrendered his passport, but that didn't mean he wouldn't flee with Ryan. She patted her son's leg. I'll pick you up on Sunday.

Daddy used to come to our house to pick me up.

I know. But right now, it's easier this way. Marcy wanted to know exactly where Frank lived, and with whom—for Ryan's sake, and her own.

Thunder boomed, underscoring her somber mood, and the temperature was steadily dropping. Weather forecasters were predicting a freeze, which didn't happen often in New Orleans. Marcy shivered. Freezing rain or no freezing rain, the forty-eight hours Ryan would be with his father would be hell. She didn't trust Frank. Ryan was her life, and if she lost him...

A horn blared behind her, and she suddenly realized the light had turned green. She put her foot on the gas and eased the Buick right onto Jackson Avenue, one of the main arteries leading into the Garden District. Frank had a house here, in addition to a place in Metairie and a quaint little apartment in the French Quarter.

The closer she drew to her vile, angry eyed ex-husband, the more apprehensive she became. She glanced at her son, whose hands were clenched tight in his lap.

Did you bring your video game? she asked.

He nodded solemnly. And all the games I like to play.

What about your cell phone? She squeezed the wheel. She'd gotten the prepaid gadget yesterday, so Ryan could call her no matter where Frank took him. Fear for her son had driven her to ask him to hide it.

His mouth curved. I put it in one of my socks, just like you said.

Good. Don't tell him you have it.

I won't, he said. And don't be scared. I won't call nobody 'cept you.

And who else?

911, if I get scared or Daddy takes me far away.

That's right. She forced a smile. Promise me you won't forget.

I remember everything, Mama. Don't worry 'bout me.

I'll try not to, she said, already knowing she she'd fail in that quest.

Thunder crashed again, rattling the car, but the rain had lessened. She turned down the wipers. The next street was Frank's. Her stomach twisted. She made the turn and ordered herself to stay strong, for Ryan. She hadn't seen her ex since that awful day in that downtown courtroom when the judge had ordered her to let Ryan see his father, and the bastard had sneered at her like a satisfied bully. She wouldn't let him get to her. She couldn't, or he would win.

His house, an attractive two story brick structure with blood red trim, loomed up ahead. Her palms grew sweaty. She pulled up to the curb and turned to Ryan.

Are you sure you'll be okay?

Sure, Mama. He smiled, but she could tell he was apprehensive.

She tried to hide her fear. I love you.

I love you, too. He gripped his backpack and put his hand on the door handle.

She got out of the car and met him on the sidewalk in front of the chest high wrought iron gate, where he slipped his backpack onto his shoulders. A light drizzle, now mixed with sleet, pinged off the car. To her surprise, the gate was open. She frowned. That was odd.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed it wide and led her son up the narrow, well kept brick walk.

He paused on the bottom step. The door's open.

What? She fixed her gaze on the home's ornate wooden door, which was flanked on either side by yellow stained glass side panels adorned with eagles, their wings outstretched in flight. Sure enough, the door was cracked. She put out her hand to stop Ryan. Wait here.

She crept up the final three steps and crossed the covered brick stoop. Warm air, ripe with the odors of pine cleaner and cigarette smoke, washed over her. She held her breath and put her hand on the door. To her relief, it opened silently.

Marcy turned to Ryan and pressed a finger to her lips.

He nodded.

She left him on the steps and slipped inside, her eyes tracking over the sparsely decorated entrance hall. A brass umbrella stand stood in one corner, and a narrow antique table topped by an oval mirror hunkered against the left wall. A narrow set of stairs lifted off to the right.

She heard a muffled thud, and trained her gaze on a pair of double doors just past the table. The sound had come from in there. Perspiration gathered on her brow. She took another shaky breath and tiptoed forward, glad her sneakers made no sound on the polished wooden floor.

She drew closer and realized that door was cracked, too. Her heart skipped a beat. This was so unlike Frank, who prided himself on his security. She sidled up to the door and peeked inside. At first, she couldn't see anything. Then she moved, and her eyes landed on her hulking ex-husband, standing behind a small sea green sofa holding what looked like a telephone book and a sleek black pistol lengthened by a silencer.

He was dressed in black, his favorite color, which he wore to intimidate his foes, and his flinty obsidian gaze was fixed on a wild-eyed man seated in front of him. Thick gray tape covered his mouth and bound his ankles. She couldn't see his hands, and finally decided they were either tied or taped behind him.

The hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

Mama!

Ryan's loud whisper jolted her, and she whipped around to see him standing on the threshold, a questioning look in his eyes.

She shook her head violently and waved him back outside.

He made a face, and sullenly tuned to go.

Her heart pounding, she peeked back inside the room—half expecting to see Frank striding toward her. He wasn't. Instead, he cursed the man, lifted the phone book to the back of his head, and fired a single shot into his brain. The sound, like the death knell of a bug zapper, was barely audible.

Oh, my God! Marcy exclaimed, backing away.

Frank turned, and his eyes fixed on the door. He threw down the phone book.

She bolted.

Ryan stood on the stoop, facing the street. Marcy grabbed his hand and jerked him down the steps. Her foot slid, but she caught herself. Come on! she snapped. Let's go!

Why? he asked. He stumbled and almost dropped his backpack.

She whirled, grabbed both him and the bag, and lifted him off his feet. Rain and sleet pelted her face. He was heavy, but adrenaline kicked in and she hauled him out the gate. Don't slip, she told herself as she rounded the car. Don't slip, or you're dead.

Marcy! Frank's lashing bellow curled the hairs on her arms. Fuck! Get back here!

Mama! Ryan squirmed in her arms. It's Daddy.

I know. Hush, she said, setting him on his feet.

Slowed by the slippery rain, Frank ran down the steps. Marcy! Stop, damn it!

She opened the driver's side door and shoved Ryan inside. Get down. Now.

Frank shoved his way out the gate and lunged for the passenger door. Marcy opened her door and punched the lock button on her key fob just in time. He cursed and pounded on the window. Ryan scrambled to the floor. She threw herself inside the car and slammed the door.

Don't you dare leave! Frank yelled, running around the hood. He slipped and careened into Marcy's window.

With a terrified cry, she twisted the key. The engine roared to life.

Fucking bitch! He slammed his fists against the glass. Give me my son!

She punched the gas and fishtailed away from the curb, knocking him off his feet. Adrenaline fired through her veins as she centered the car on the narrow street and dodged a black truck parked at the curb. Her stomach flip flopped.

She whipped the Buick left onto St. Andrews and flew through a yellow light. Where could they go? Frank knew her car, knew where they lived. She couldn't go home.

Mama? Ryan's frightened voice cut into her thoughts. What happened? Where are we going?

I saw something your daddy didn't want me to see. We have to go somewhere... I don't know where yet, sweetheart, she said. She hurried through another yellow light and prayed she wouldn't get stopped. Frank had half the cops in this part of town in his back pocket.

Rain and sleet continued to pepper down. Yet despite the chill, sweat drenched her spine. She strangled the wheel and peeked in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see Frank right behind her.

He wasn't. She breathed a sigh of relief and put her mind back to work on deciding where to go. The French Quarter? No. Once darkness fell, she and Ryan would stick out like a sore thumb. It was dangerous—and Frank had an apartment there. She frowned. The Lakefront? No. There was no place there to hide her car, and no real place to stay. The mall. That could work, at least for a while. She and Ryan could ditch the car and get lost in the crowd.

She turned right on Loyola and stepped on the gas. She had to get to Highway 90 and blend in with the traffic. Hurry, hurry. A red light loomed up ahead.

She glanced in the mirror again just as a dark car whipped onto the street about five blocks back. Her heartbeat skittered. Is that Frank?

The light turned green, and she weaved her way through two lines of cars to the entrance ramp. The dark car was gaining. She pushed the pedal to the floor and zoomed onto the elevated highway as fast as she dared, given the icy weather. Traffic was heavy. She slipped into the middle lane and prayed that whoever was back there wouldn't catch up.

In only minutes, she reached Interstate 10. She eased into the right lane and took the feeder ramp onto it, eager to get out of New Orleans proper. The Buick slid sideways, and she tightened her grip on the wheel. The traction control clicked on. Miraculously, the car stayed in the center of the ramp. The exit she needed was two miles down, and would take them directly to Gentilly Woods Mall.

Mama? Ryan's voice sounded small. Can I get up now? Please?

Yes. Hurry. She glanced at him. I'd feel better if you were in a seatbelt.

He clambered onto the seat and fastened the wide beige strap. Where are we going?

The mall.

He jerked his gaze to her face. We're going shopping?

No. She laughed nervously. We need a place to hide the car. A place where we can get lost in the crowd.

Why don't we go to the airport and fly away from here?

Because your daddy would follow us.

He won't find us at the mall?

Not if we're smart. She swallowed and peered in the rearview mirror. She didn't see the dark car behind them, but with the traffic so heavy and moving so slow—

Ryan coughed.

Cover your mouth, she said out of habit. She glanced at him. And be sure to bring your backpack with you into the mall. We won't be coming back to the car.

Where will we go?

I don't know yet. I'll think of something.

Why don't we go see Uncle Joe? He's a policeman. He can do anything.

Marcy's heart skipped a beat at the mention of her former brother-in-law. Joe Riso was no hero. He was the reason her sister Emily and Amber, her niece, were dead. A lump filled her throat. Turning to Riso, who'd started drinking heavily after his family's demise, would be her absolute last resort.

She shook her head. Not this time, Ryan. We'll think of something.

But he's a cop.

I know. She focused on the slick highway. But we can't depend on him to help us.

The Gentilly Woods exit loomed up ahead. Thank goodness she was already in the right lane, because it came up fast and the road surface was starting to glaze. She tapped the brake, hoping to slow her descent down the ramp. To her relief, the Buick slid to a stop at the light.

She drew in a deep breath and checked the mirrors. Still no sign of the dark sedan. Her pulse slowed, but continued to pound in her ears.

Ryan squirmed beside her. She sent him a stern look. I need you to stay by my side when we get to the mall. No running off or going to the restroom by yourself. Understand?

Yes, ma'am, he said solemnly. It could be dangerous. Right?

That's right. I know you love your daddy, but he doesn't always do good things.

He's mean.

He can be, yes. The light changed, and Marcy pressed the gas.

Ryan nodded. I remember.

Today he did something that wasn't very nice. Murder definitely fell into that category. Marcy pasted a grim smile on her face. That's why we had to leave in such a hurry—and the reason you couldn't stay.

And now he's after us?

Yes. She had to make that assumption after Frank had spotted her. Murder. She'd never thought he'd stoop so low. Her heart ached for the man he'd been when they'd first met, and the life they'd planned together. When had everything gone so wrong?

She looked up, and realized they had finally reached the mall. Relieved, she turned in at the second entrance and wound up and down the long rows of parked vehicles, trying to decide where to ditch the car. Hide in plain sight was a maxim she'd often heard on TV cop shows, but right now she doubted it would work, because Frank thought too much like a criminal.

She turned into a space between two full-sized vans in front of a major department store, hoping the extra cover would buy them at least a few more minutes. If only she could switch the license plate.

Let's go, she said, picking up her purse. Hurry. We need to get inside.

Yes, ma'am. Ryan shrugged into his backpack, climbed out, and met her at the back of the car.

She looked around, didn't see the dark sedan, and took his hand. His fingers were cold. Icy raindrops battered them as they quickly made their way to the store's wide entrance. In only minutes, they'd passed through the store and entered the mall itself. The crowd ebbed and flowed, and seemed thickest around the food court. She glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. No wonder.

Her stomach growled. They needed to eat, in case they had to run. But first, she needed cash. She hated to use the ATM because, knowing Frank, he'd use his contacts within the police department to trace her movements. Damn. The banks were closed. She had no choice but to make a withdrawal.

I'm hungry, Ryan said, his eyes riveted to the food court.

She squeezed his hand. Me, too. But I need to go by the ATM.

So we'll have money to eat?

Yes. Among other things. She led him to the other side of the elevator leading to the second level, to the ATM hidden in a small alcove. She pulled out her card and hurriedly punched in her pin number. Soon, she had three hundred dollars in twenties clutched in her hand. She pulled one off the stack and pocketed the rest, in case she had to leave her purse. As another precaution, she took her credit cards, driver's license, and other pertinent info out of her bag and stowed it on her person as well.

Ryan frowned. What are you doing, Mama?

Just being careful. She smiled sadly. In case I lose my purse.

Can we go eat now?

We'll get something, but we can't stay in the food court to eat. She caught his hand and led him around the elevator.

Her gaze locked on a tall, dark-haired man standing about forty feet away, with his back to them. She halted. Her blood ran cold. Frank.

Mama... Ryan's voice shook. That looks like Daddy.

I see him. Her throat closed up. Giving her son's hand a tug, she turned and fled into the alcove they'd just left, although she knew they couldn't stay here. As soon as Frank discovered where the ATM was, it would be the first place he'd look.

A shiver skated down her spine. Knowing her ex, he wasn't alone. He probably had men all over the damned mall. What should she and Ryan do? Where could they go?

She forced herself to breathe deeply, and scanned the area in front of them carefully. She spotted Victoria's Secret, Bath and Body Works, and a men's clothing store. Restoration Hardware. And next to it, Pickwick Cinema. Ten screens. Ten dark rooms, filled with people.

She reached in her pocket for the twenty she'd planned to use at the food court, and grabbed Ryan's hand. Come on. We're going to a movie.

Right now? His mouth fell open.

Yes. Marcy stepped out of the alcove and looked around. No sign of Frank, but his goons could be anywhere. It's a good place to hide. Keep up with me.

She sent up a prayer and pulled on Ryan's hand. He hustled along beside her as they bolted across the open mall and approached the ticket window.

Her eyes flicked over the list of movies, some old, some new, and opted for one she doubted Frank would expect her to force on Ryan. "Two tickets for Gone with the Wind, please."

The ticket clerk raised her eyebrows, but took Marcy's money and slid her change back through the slot. Marcy turned and scoured the mall again with her worried gaze. Still no Frank.

She led Ryan inside the theater, bought both of them a hotdog, a bag of popcorn, and a soft drink—a far cry from his usual healthy lunch—and handed over the tickets.

The theater showing their movie was a small one at the end of the building, near the door. It was only partially filled, and she knew Frank would find them if he looked long enough. She ushered Ryan to a row about halfway down, picked a seat near the middle, and settled in.

Almost immediately, the lights went out. Her pulse rate finally slowed.

Ryan wolfed down his hotdog and started on his popcorn. Marcy forced herself to eat even though she'd lost her appetite because she didn't know when they'd get to eat again. The movie in front of her was a blur. Ryan seemed to be watching it, but she figured he'd soon grow bored.

The theater had stadium seating, so she couldn't see the door but could tell whenever it opened.