Written in Blood: Keller County Cops, #5

By Melanie Atkins

Detective Tripp Broussard longs to show his bad cop, ex-con father that he's a good cop, but time is running out. His father is dying. So Tripp risks his own life to go after a gruesome serial murderer—anything to prove he's a better man than his dad. Angel Saint-Martin, a blood spatter expert on loan to the department, needs her father to accept her choice of a non-traditional career, and cracking this case will show him she can handle herself in a man's world. Driven by a common bond, Tripp and Angel band together to solve the case and put the notorious Vincent Delgado back behind bars… and along the way, they fall in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Atkins
• Release date: Jul 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393162346

Book preview

Chapter One

He bled, so they will bleed. Profusely.

Someone took their time with this, Angel Saint-Martin murmured, tracing the neat rusty brown brush strokes without actually touching them. The words emblazoned on the light green wall in blood, not ink.

Blood from a homicide victim.

He knows what he's doing, she continued. No drips, extraneous marks, or spatter. Just long, deliberate strokes, like at the other scene.

So... you believe he's an artist? Detective Tripp Broussard shot her a dubious look and shoved his pad and pen into the inside pocket of his coat. Come on, Angel. He murdered that poor woman in cold blood.

Doesn't mean he can't draw. Maybe he's a sign painter. I mean, look at that perfect loop in the L—it's too precise for him not to have done this more than just a couple of times.

That makes this murder even more eerie. Tripp put his hands on the leather holster slung across his narrow hip, and the edges of his dark blue coat flared out. "Especially finding the victim wrapped in a painter's tarp. I helped Mitch and Jonah on a serial case with that signature a year or two ago—the papers called the guy the Handyman—but he didn't do all this slicing and dicing or leave any messages. That dirt bag, Vincent Delgado, is in prison now anyway, doing life for strangling those women. So maybe this is a copycat... of sorts."

I wouldn't jump to conclusions this early in the game, Detective. She glanced at his handsome profile, and a tingle slid through her. Of all the detectives who could have caught this case, it had to be him. The one night stand she'd rather forget. Just ignore him and keep it professional. Don't let him know he's getting to you.

He turned to face her. Is that what I'm doing?

I-I don't know. What the hell did I even say? Heat filled her cheeks, and she forced herself to recall the last crime scene she'd visited in Hunter's Bayou, before her infamous night of shame. That scene had been pretty much identical to this one, but with more blood spatter because that victim had fought back. Angel turned away from the wall and dug into her case. Just keep in mind this might be an inventive son of a gun who's good with his hands.

Uh-huh. The detective's warm mocha eyes gleamed with mysterious lights. "You once told me I'm good with my hands."

My God, Tripp, she gasped, startled he'd brought up their unfortunate liaison. She spun to face him with a piece of contact paper in her hand. That's not why we're here.

Well, duh. He sent her a caustic look. You did say that, though. Remember?

I don't care. Turning her flaming face away, she dripped some distilled water onto the contact paper and pressed it against one of the letters on the wall, holding it there long enough for the dark brown substance to leach into the material. Then she knelt next to her case, took out a vial filled with leucomalachite, and closed the case so she could use it as a table.

Tripp just kept standing there, watching her. She tried not to pay any attention to him as she put the contact paper on the case and broke the ampules inside the vial to mix the chemicals. She dripped it onto the stain on the paper, and it immediately turned an intense blue-green—a presumptive positive for heme, one of the main components of blood.

Will you look at that? She scowled up at Tripp. You know what it means. We should be talking about whoever did this, not about what happened the last time I was in town.

He didn't say anything, but she imagined him staring at her, willing her to turn back around. No way. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, she labeled a paper evidence bag, slid the contact paper inside, and tucked it inside her case. Then she took out a piece of blank paper and a small metal spatula and fixed her gaze on another letter on the wall.

Just need to gather a sample, and I'll be done in here. Breathe in, breathe out. Don't look at him. Angel scraped some flakes off the wall onto the paper, captured them in a neat pharmacist's fold, and slid the makeshift envelope into another evidence bag. Once she labeled it, she flicked her gaze to the other side of the living room. I still need to add markers to the castoff and smears beside the stairs, where I'm guessing he hit her hard enough to incapacitate her. That injury was bad enough, but cutting into her liver to find enough blood to use for paint? He's sending a message.

"Yeah. He wants us to know he's intelligent. He made a neat incision, knew where to find her liver... and used the word profusely. I mean, come on. He scoffed. Who even says that?"

Me. She gritted her teeth. He knew that, too, and had commented on her extensive vocabulary more than once. "Her scalp wound bled profusely, resulting in the pool of blood."

He barked a laugh. Yeah, well... sometimes I forget about your high-dollar education.

Shut up. Damn. What's wrong with me? I sound like a grouchy teenager. Angel grabbed her gear, stepped away from him, and halted behind the forensic team processing prints near the door and all surfaces close to the victim's tarp wrapped body. Good thing Angel had already taken photos, finished her tests, and gotten samples; one of the men had tracked the victim's blood across the beige carpet with his light blue shoe covers.

Tripp came up behind her and scowled. Holy cow. Will you look at that?

Don't worry. I've already checked this area with Lumiscene—and drew a blank. They vacuumed, too, she murmured, making sure only he could hear her.

He lifted a brow. Good. Hope they sucked up a hair or maybe some fibers from his clothes. He was careful.

Her phone blasted a shrill hole in the silence before she could comment, and the other men turned as a unit to give her the evil eye. She waved them off, plucked the offending device off her belt, and checked the display. Dad... again.

Another splash of anger made her blood run hot. He'd called her every hour on the hour this morning, that alone telling her before she even checked her watch the time was ten o'clock—and if she didn't answer, he'd keep calling, interrupting the lab work piling up at the satellite office, and she'd never get a damned thing done.

So she thumbed the accept button, picked up her black case, and headed for the door. She'd mark the scene in a few minutes. No way was Tripp overhearing this conversation.

Hey, Dad. She entered the hallway, dodging the coroner and his gurney, topped with a folded black body bag. She set her case on the floor beside the door and motioned for the uniformed officer holding the scene log to keep an eye on it. He nodded.

Her father sighed. Well... finally, Angel. I've been calling you for hours. Suppose you're at another grisly crime scene.

That's right, Daddy. It's what I do.

Not if I have anything to do about it.

Seriously? she said with a huff. Last time I looked, I was a grown woman. So you—

Stop right there, before you say anything you might regret, he said, cutting her off before she could continue to rail at him, I'm going to tell you why I called.

I can already guess. You just won't stop, will you? She reached the elevator and stabbed the down button with one vicious jab of her finger. Ever since he'd moved to Biloxi, he'd begged Angel to move there, too... but that wasn't all. She steeled herself to listen to the same spiel she'd heard a hundred times since her mother died.

Her father sighed. Don't shut me out before you hear the details. Please.

I'm not interested moving or applying for another position somewhere, no matter what or where it is. Got that? I like where I live and what I do.

You say that now, but you haven't heard about this job, he said in an eager tone, hurrying on before she could get a word in edgewise. It's at Baker Pharmaceuticals in Biloxi. Isn't that perfect? A real opportunity that pays triple what you're making now. And I found some houses for sale not too far from mine.

I don't care if they're giving them away. I'm not interested. The elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside, half hoping the thick shaft walls would cause her phone to drop the call.

No such luck. Her father rattled on, I've learned Baker employees get a month's vacation every year until the fifth year, then two months after that. Insurance, a 401K, a cafeteria plan... even stock options. You'll be wealthy in no time at all, can pay off your new house early, and still have plenty of time off to play. It's really close to the beach.

I'm not interested in piling up money or playing in the sand. I'm interested in solving crimes.

You're working with the police, Angel, and I don't like it.

I'm working with blood spatter—in the lab, most of the time. I only get called to the most horrific scenes—

That's what I'm talking about, he snapped, his sharp words ringing in her ear as the elevator reached the ground floor. You see too damned much, working with the MBI. And after what happened to your mother—

I know. You want to keep me under glass. She stalked out the elevator doors the second they slid open, desperate for fresh air. Anything to take her mind off this conversation.

Her father hummed in disagreement. You know that's not true. I only want what's best for you. So I emailed you links to the real estate page showing the house—a phone call will get you a chance to look inside—and Baker's application. Just fill it out, upload your resume, and you'll be all set. They want to fill the position by the end of the month.

Not interested.

Honey, if you're worried about gathering recommendation letters, no need to think about that right now. They can come later. I'm betting Baker might even pay for your move.

Forget it, Daddy. She shoved open the glass door leading out onto Hunter's Bayou's main drag with enough force to knock someone over, jogged down the steps, and whirled left onto the sidewalk. The early June heat enveloped her in an unwelcome hug. She blew out a frustrated breath. How many times do I have to tell you?

Please, sweetheart, he said, his voice developing the whine he hadn't used as much since he'd moved to the coast. "You need to get a real job. A job that doesn't put you in contact with scum. One that doesn't involve blood and gore."

"Dad, I'm a blood spatter expert—I'm the best at what I do. I've been published in professional journals; I study evidence and testify at high profile trials. This is a real fucking job. She halted beneath a small tree in a barrel planter, bristling at his comment, daring him to mention her use of profanity. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, and she dashed it away. I like solving crimes. It's what I do, and I'm going to continue to do it."

An-hel, he pleaded, using the Spanish pronunciation of her name her mother always had, a low blow if there ever was one, following it up with another heartfelt sigh, your mother would not want this.

Are you kidding me? Angel squeaked out a derisive laugh and eyed her rented Ford parked at the curb. Heat shimmered over the hood. "She encouraged me to work in the public sector. So I can help people. It's what I do."

Your mother was an idealist.

Maybe so, but that certainly isn't a crime. She believed in justice and cared about others, unlike— You. The word sat on the tip of Angel's tongue, but a car racing by distracted her, and she never said it.

Didn't matter, because her dad did the dirty work for her. "Unlike me, you mean. Might as well say it, even though it isn't true."

That's enough. I'm done with this conversation, okay? I'm hanging up now.

Please—

No more, Dad. Not today, she bit out, her slim thread of patience finally snapping. I'm hanging up now. Goodbye.

Still fuming, she lowered the phone and stabbed the end button with the tip of her index finger, then whirled and charged off again, almost running headlong into C.J. Bowman, another Keller County detective. Would have, if he hadn't sidestepped her and grabbed the lame excuse for a tree to keep from falling on his ass.

Whoa, Angel. Slow down. He shot her a startled glance. What's got your panties in a wad?

Sorry. She released a jagged breath. The iPhone sat heavy in her hand. It was just... my father... Never mind. It's nothing.

Must be something. He released the tree and brushed off his hands. You're upset.

It's not important. Really. Only a family squabble. A recurring family squabble. She shoved the phone deep into the pocket of her jeans and forced a smile. How's Abby? Did you two have a great honeymoon?

Yeah, he said with a wide grin. I love Grand Cayman. Never seen water that blue before. It was so crystal clear, it hurt my eyes. Amazing.

You mean, you actually got out of bed and got some sun?

Yeah, Abby loves the water, he said with a laugh. Besides, we stayed in a bungalow with a private beach.

He's one lucky son of a gun. Detective Jonah McKee strolled up behind C.J. Just married the woman of his dreams and made love on the beach... bet the two of you got sand in every possible orifice.

Well, thanks for that image, Angel said, laughing despite the tightness in her chest. "TMI. I did not need that picture in my head."

Jonah chuckled and zeroed in on her. His laughter faded. You been upstairs yet?

Yep. She sobered as well and threw a weighted glance over her shoulder at the upscale apartment complex in the old Watkins Bank building, one of only two converted housing units in downtown Hunter's Bayou. Both had been gutted by Katrina but now looked better than ever. It's a pretty gruesome scene like the one last month, complete with a painter's tarp. Tripp said you and Mitch worked a serial case with a similar signature a year or two ago, I believe.

Really? A tarp? Jonah glanced at C.J. in surprise, then returned his gaze to her.

She shrugged. "Yeah. He said something about these maybe being copycat crimes. Mentioned a guy called the Handyman."

That's right. I thought about him right off the bat last time, thanks to that damned tarp. C.J. narrowed his eyes. Only... that murder was way too bloody. The woman had been cut to hell and back. Vincent Delgado strangled his victims.

Can't be him. He got life. Jonah pulled out his phone. They locked him up in Parchman and threw away the key.

Maybe so, but I heard he's working as a trustee at the governor's mansion in Jackson, C.J. said. Maybe he escaped.

I hope to hell not. Punching up a number, Jonah brought the device to his ear and turned away. Hey, Michael. Yeah, it's Detective Jonah McKee, in Keller County. I need some information on a prisoner.

Angel strained to hear his side of the conversation, but he drifted too far down the sidewalk for her to eavesdrop. By the sound of things, if the man named Delgado had escaped, she might end up staying on the coast for longer than just a few days. Not good, with Tripp Broussard working the case. A shiver cascaded over her.

C.J. shook his head. Can't be that son of a bitch. No freaking way.

Whoever killed this girl is sick, I'll tell you that. He cut open her liver, dipped a paintbrush in her blood, and wrote a message.

The detective opened his mouth to respond just as Jonah stormed back over to them.

It's him, he snapped. He shoved his phone back into his pocket. "Delgado was working as a trustee in Jackson—until Armentrout pardoned him, along with almost two hundred other convicted felons. He's a free man."

Free to kill, Angel murmured, another icy chill sliding over her skin despite the summer heat. Not only is he free to kill, but he's also very angry. Angry enough to taunt us with the victim's blood. She frowned. What the hell was the governor thinking, pardoning so many felons before he left office? Half of them were murderers and rapists.

As far as Delgado goes, he has money, C.J. said, his words bitter. You know Armentrout's list wouldn't have been so long without at least some cash changing hands.

I'm going up. Jonah's face flushed with fury. He turned toward the building. I wanna see the bastard's latest handiwork for myself.

I'll come with you. I still need to mark the spatter and take more pictures. Hope you haven't eaten yet. Angel shook her head to dispel the macabre picture embedded inside her mind. The murderer had sliced that poor woman to shreds.

The detective groaned. Unfortunately, I have. Brooke made a big breakfast.

No problem, C.J. piped up, tossing him a squat blue bottle filled with menthol salve. Just smear some of that under your nose. Helps to mask the smell.

Won't hide the blood, though, Jonah scowled and opened the bottle.

Angel acknowledged his unease with a bob of her head. When I get back to the motorhome, I'll check NCIC for similar signatures. In case you guys are wrong about Delgado.

We're not. Jonah met her eyes with a blazing stare.

She shrugged. You never know.

*****

Tripp finished jotting down notes about the brutal crime scene and stuffed the pad and pen into his inside jacket pocket. Angel and the forensic team would soon finish up in the front room, and the coroner and his overzealous assistant would zip the tarp-shrouded body into the thick black bag on the coroner's gurney and haul it north to Jackson for autopsy at the State Crime Lab. He longed to get the hell out of there, to hit Jimbo's Place and throw back endless shots of bourbon until he drove the disgusting odor of blood and bowels out of his nose and no longer had the memory of his and Angel's ill-fated one night stand running on the screen inside his head. Unfortunately, however...

Mother Mary and Joseph. The familiar growl jarred him from his thoughts.

He whipped around. Detectives Jonah McKee and C.J. Bowman stood frozen in the doorway, apparently just as stunned as Tripp had been when he'd first walked in. Hoping to lighten the impact, he walked over to his fellow detectives. It's 'bout time you guys got here. I've been working this scene all by my lonesome. Just me, Angel, and the boys from forensics.

It's what we do, Detective. C.J. cocked a brow. Got a problem with that?

'Course not. I've done it lots of times. He looked down the hall toward the mutilated corpse, still wrapped in the bloody tarp. Just don't like this one.

That's understandable. Jonah's face turned a little green. God. If this is Delgado, he's brought his game up a couple of notches.

See the note on the wall? Tripp asked, indicating the cryptic script, still blue-green at one corner. He bled, so they will bleed. Profusely.

Profusely? Seriously? C.J. stepped deeper into the posh apartment.

Jonah shot Tripp a wry look. Sounds like a word your friend Angel might use.

"She's not my friend. Heat flashed through Tripp, along with a spear of embarrassment, and he stammered, I-I mean, hell. She is my friend—or rather, she was. Just... nothing more."

Didn't I just call her his friend? Jonah looked at C.J. and lifted a brow.

The other detective nodded. "Yep. You didn't say anything about her being more."

"Maybe something more is going on between them."

Come on, guys, Tripp said, heat mounting in his cheeks. Did they know he'd slept with the pretty blood spatter expert on loan to Keller County from the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation—and that she'd slipped out during the night because he wasn't man enough to keep her there? Surely not. Desperate to refocus, he cleared his throat. Let's get back to work, okay? What do you think of the note?

Well, the guy must be pretty smart if he used that word correctly. C.J. took out his phone and took a few pictures of the flawless loops and swirls above the couch. Somehow, the killer had managed to write on the wall without getting a drop of blood on the smooth leather.

Jonah nodded. I agree. He's trying to make a point.

He bled. Tripp turned the words over on his tongue. "Who bled? Who's he talking about? A friend, a family member? Some other relative?"

No idea. C.J. shook his head.

Detectives? Ralph Pendergast, the current Keller County coroner, a bulky white-haired man with a perpetually red face, walked down the hall toward them. He was a florist by trade, but walked with a swagger that belied his elected status. Anything else I can do for y'all before we load her up and hit the highway?

You can wait a few minutes, if you don't mind, Jonah said, turning away from the words on the wall. I wanna get a good look at the victim first.

Fine. Have at it. An irritated expression on his face, Pendergast waved his hand toward the body. Just make it fast. I've got a load of daisies coming in tonight.

It's gotta be retaliation for something, Tripp said to C.J. as Jonah stalked off to appease Pendergast. A revenge killing.

That's a possibility. C.J. pocketed his phone and studied the words, his eyes narrow and questioning. Retaliation would certainly explain the rage.

Yeah, only somebody who was really pissed would hit someone in the head, then flay them open like that. Tripp eyed the odd message. "He made the victim bleed because he bled. Who is he?"

Didn't Delgado's dad—Judge Marlowe—blow his brains out rather than go to prison? C.J. asked. 

That's it. Tripp said, excitement replacing his dismay. He's avenging his father.

Steve Marlowe and I used to play golf together, Pendergast added gruffly, shaking his white head. Tripp hadn't realized the coroner was listening in. Never dreamed he'd ever kidnap anybody, let alone try keep Mitch from testifying against his kid so the wormy little scumbag could avoid prosecution. Hell, he didn't even know Vincent was his spawn 'til the bastard had already killed at least two or three women. How could he want to claim such a loser?

He'd always wanted a son, Tripp said, the irony disturbing him. His father had always wanted a son, too. A son to follow in his footsteps. Except... his father's footsteps had led straight to a cell at the South Mississippi Correctional Institution, or SMCI, in Greene County. Hell, if Tripp's dad wasn't isolated from the general population because he'd been a cop, he might have even shared a cell with Delgado. Tripp huffed in disgust.

Jonah strode back over