Above Suspicion: New Orleans Trilogy, #2

By Melanie Atkins

Jack Marsden is a volatile detective with no love for his ex-wife, but he sure as hell didn't kill her. At least he doesn't think so, after waking up in her house to find her dead in the bathtub. He has no idea who killed her or how he got there. The lab finds evidence against him, however, and the grand jury indicts him for her murder. He attempts to defend himself and becomes a pariah to everyone except his beautiful partner, Mikki Baker, who is known for her grit, hard work, and determination. The higher ups love her. Her jacket is filled with commendations. Yet when she goes to bat for Jack, nobody backs her play. She is forced to risk her career—and her life—to prove his innocence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Atkins
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393665748

Book preview

Prologue

Who... what... oh God! Susan bolted up in bed with terror in her heart. "Why are you here?"

Shut up.

What? No. Get out! She zeroed in on the knife in the man's hand, threw off the covers, and lunged toward the nightstand, her filmy white nightgown swirling around her like an ethereal fog. Her fingers hit her cell phone and flipped it over.

No time. He palmed the handle of the knife and grabbed her before she could grab the phone. His gloved fingers tangled in the sheer material at her back as she twisted sideways and kicked out at him. She screamed and clawed at him, knocking the phone to the floor.

Stop it! he growled, wrapping his free arm around her waist and raising the knife. Light glittered off its sleek silver blade as he plunged it deep into her belly. Fucking bitch—you lied to me.

No! she squealed, jerking away from him and flailing like a wounded bird as he bent her backward over the bed and stabbed her again and again. She cried out in agony.

No. More. With a dark snarl, he lifted her off the bed and half-carried, half-dragged her into the tiny bathroom, leaving a trail of blood on the beige carpet and white bathmat. He bypassed the sink, ripped aside the shower curtain, and dumped her into the tub. She screeched and tried to catch herself, but her strength had waned, and she lost her balance. Her head smacked against the white porcelain

Before the stunned look left her eyes, he plunged his shiny blade into her gut again for good luck. Blood spurted from her belly, and a gleaming crimson ribbon rolled down the side of the tub.

Gratification slithered down his spine.

She whimpered and waved one blood-flecked hand at him. Her dark eyes pleaded with him to save her. But the warm, coppery scent of her blood fed his lust for power and need for control. He'd liked subduing her, had loved having her at his mercy after all she'd done.

She might be an ice queen in life, but in death she was just like everybody else:  Helpless. Crying. Needy.

Laughter bubbled up his throat.

He stabbed her one last time, just because he could. Right below her ribcage. Then he yanked the knife free, reveling in the satisfying snick when its serrated edge scraped bone, and stood back as the life drained from her body.

He couldn't stop the satisfied smirk that spread over his face. Too bad he couldn't sit back and enjoy the pleasant rush of adrenaline. He still had to complete phase two of his plan. Once he was done, he could sit back and relax and relive the kill.

Life is good, he whispered, sparing the dying woman one last bitter sneer. Maybe not for you, but I'm gonna revel in your death.

He slung the excess blood off the knife and marched from the room, careful not to smear the blood on the floor. On to the next step.

Soon, if all went well, he'd have everything he'd always wanted.

Chapter One

Cool, clammy air gusted over Jack Marston's skin. He rolled over and attempted to sink back into the vivid dream outlined with old-fashioned blue tiles. He recalled the soapy scent of shower stalls, having wet bare feet, and the plink-plink-plink of dripping water.

What the hell?

He turned his head and bumped into something hard.

Damn. He winced and rubbed the sore spot on his temple. His eyes blinked open. In front of them were real tiles. Soft beige instead of powder blue, flecked with dark red. He frowned. Where am I?

Then a strong, musky odor hit his nose, and he drew in a shallow breath. Something was wrong. He was supposed to be in bed. In his bed, inside his upscale apartment in the French Quarter, a block and a half off Bourbon Street on Dumaine, in the Vieux Carre.

But he sure as hell wasn't lying in bed. He was sprawled on something hard and unforgiving that sucked the warmth from his bones and made his back ache as if he'd been hefting fifty-pound bags of concrete. He shifted his legs, and pain flared in his hip.

Ow. He flattened his hand on the ice-cold floor. His head swam. He didn't remember drinking. All he'd done before bed was take a sleeping pill the doctor had prescribed, strip down to his boxers, and lower the thermostat. He should be waking up to the blare of classic rock, not the drip-drip-drip of a leaky faucet and the discordant hum of an old window unit air conditioner.

He gingerly pushed himself up onto one elbow and propped himself against the wall. At least, he thought it was a wall. He wasn't sure. In front of him was a beige toilet splattered with more dark red splotches. Blurred vision hampered his assessment, but the porcelain bowl looked real enough.

The tiles behind him were cold and slippery. He kept sliding down, so he braced himself with his forearm and splayed his fingers on the floor. They met something slick. The musky odor grew stronger. He grimaced and peered down at his hand.

Blood?

His analytical mind latched on to that familiar image. His upper back was damp, too. More blood? His stomach turned over. He pushed himself up and scrubbed his free hand over his eyes. The blood wasn't his. He didn't think so, anyway. He peered down at his glistening fingers and inhaled more coppery-scented air.

Why was he lying on a tile floor in pool of blood? He hadn't worked last night. He'd left the station at six, grabbed a sandwich at Henry's, and crashed in front of his new flat screen TV with a sandwich and a cold beer. The Braves had beaten the Dodgers for the third time this season, but not before the manager got his ass thrown out of yet another game.

Jack shook his head and tried to focus. He needed to see the rest of the room, but his vision kept fading in and out. He drew in a shaky breath. The faucet continued to drip, its steady plink-plink-plink threatening to lull him back to sleep.

Can't let that happen, he muttered. His back protested, but he shoved himself onto his knees and looked down. His chest was bare. All he had on were his boxers—and thank God for that. His head spun. Man, was he dizzy. And nauseated. He closed his eyes and waited for the sickness to pass. His heart thumped so hard he expected it to pop out and bounce across the floor.

This isn't right. He swayed awkwardly on all fours until the dizziness and nausea subsided, then gulped in more rank air. His queasiness returned with a vengeance. He tamped it down and steadied his wobbly limbs. Finally he gritted his teeth and grasped the edge of the sink. The smooth white porcelain was cool to his fingertips.

Need help.

He thought about his partner, Mikki Baker, the tough as nails detective who made his life hell some days and caused him grin like an idiot on others. She'd probably laugh him out of town right now. Wasted like some dumb punk, unable to stand on his own two feet.

He needed to call her, but what would he say? Come get me. Don't know where I am, but I've got blood all over me and the bathroom's freezing. Bring your sweater. He barked a laugh. Not a good idea. She was a hellcat on the street, and he trusted her to watch his back like nobody else, but he could already hear her caustic remarks.

Jack put Mikki out of his mind and tested his grip on the sink. Not bad. With luck, he'd make it. He certainly didn't want to fall and have to start over.

One, he muttered, concentrating on getting vertical, even though the room swam like a funhouse mirror. He gritted his teeth. "Two. Three."

He surged upwards. Pain speared his right foot, but he ignored it. Keep your balance. Stay upright, even if it hurts... and whatever you do, don't fall on your ass. He widened his stance and leaned heavily against the sink. It was stained orange from the constant drip of water. His breaths came in harsh pants. He flattened his palms on the cool porcelain and ducked his head. His mouth was unbelievably dry. So, risking his balance, he let go and twisted the knob.

The damned thing squawked like a wounded bird.

Just what I need, he muttered, cupping his bloody hands beneath the stream of water. A voice in the back of his mind told him not to wash them, but he ignored it and scrubbed at the sticky substance until the water turned pink. He shuddered.

Once his palms were clean, he splashed water on his face until his vision cleared. Then he scooped a handful of the chilly liquid into his mouth. Moisture dribbled down his stubbed chin and over his bare chest, raising gooseflesh. He shivered as a drop settled on his left nipple.

Once he'd drunk his fill, he turned off the water and wiped both hands over his mouth. He looked around and blinked. A yellow towel hung on the rack. He pulled it down and mopped his chest. Then he looked in the mirror. A stranger peered back at him. His eyes were sunken, and his short dark hair stood on end. A big purple bruise discolored his right cheek.

Blood spatter dotted his neck, his shoulders, and his arms.

What the hell happened to me? he rasped, fingering the bruise and wiping away more of the blood. The last thing he remembered was going to bed.

He gripped the edge of the sink and turned to examine the rest of the room. Blood splatter covered the floor and wall. The color-blocked shower curtain was pulled shut. He blinked. A dark shadow lurked behind it in the tub. His heart lurched. He reached for his weapon, surprised when it wasn't there. Damn.

Who is it? he rasped. He cleared his throat and tried again. Hey! Who are you?

No answer.

Sweat trickled down his cheek. He mentally measured the distance between the sink and the tub, and even though the toilet hunkered between them, he wasn't sure he could cover the distance without falling on his face. He hated feeling so helpless.

He kept his hand on the sink and took a step forward, testing his legs. His knees wobbled, but he stayed upright. He ground his teeth and planted his free hand on the toilet tank. The porcelain lid didn't fit quite right, and it clanked against the wall.

He cringed and eyed the curtain. The form behind it didn't move.

Hey, you! he yelled. The idea that someone was hiding and refusing to come out made no sense. He let go of the sink and switched hands on the tank. So far, so good.

I can do this, he murmured. His vision had cleared, and his muscles suddenly didn't ache so much. He took another step, and another, still leaning on the toilet like a man with a terrible hangover. Finally he let go and staggered the rest of the way to the tub. He set his feet, braced himself, and slowly drew back the curtain.

Susan, his ex-wife, lay huddled in the tub in a fetal position, her slim white throat slashed from ear to ear. Blood stained her legs and nightgown and filled the bottom of the basin.

Holy Mother of God, he croaked. Bile surged up his throat, and he stumbled backwards. His strength disappeared. With an agonized cry, he dropped to his knees and swayed toward the toilet, latching on to it with both trembling hands.

Tears blinded him. His chest burned. He hung his head, and his life with Susan flashed before his eyes, from the days when they were young and in love, to the night just over a year ago when he'd discovered she'd destroyed their unborn child.

Pain lanced his heart.

No matter what she'd done, however, no matter how much he'd hated her, she didn't deserve to die like this.

*****

Homicide Detective Mikki Baker sat at her desk in the dimly lit squad room, dreading the moment her co-workers would arrive and turn on the overhead lights. She'd known last night she was going to regret the stupid drinking game she'd played with her buddy Eric Fielding, her friend Lisa, and Lisa's husband, but a girl had to have some fun.

She put down her pen and rubbed her temples. Her head pounded, and she knew without a doubt the bright fluorescent glare would only compound her pain.

The double doors opened, and Detective Sam Walker walked in. He paused, looked around, and reached for the light switch, flooding the crowded room with brilliant white light.

His eyes found hers. What are you? A bat?

No. She covered her eyes. I've got a hangover. Turn off the lights, please.

Can't. We have to work. Sam twisted his lips into a smirk. You need to stop partying so hard, Baker. You're what? Thirty-five? Time to break out that rocking chair and learn to knit.

Kiss my ass.

I'd love to, believe me. He laughed. But Dani might shoot me with that .44 she carries around.

She knows how to keep her man in line.

Be that as it may, I heard you played Truth or Dare last night. His dark eyes twinkled.

Mikki's stomach dropped to her feet. Who, um... who told you about that?

He laughed. Lisa told Dani while they were out running at the crack of dawn, and she told me. You could've invited us to your little soiree, you know.

It wasn't my party, she said, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. She'd forgotten Lisa had moved next door to Sam and his girlfriend, Dani Barrington. Not good. Not good, at all.

Sam settled in at his desk. Yeah, I know. It was Eric's little shindig, celebrating his gold shield. Still, playing drinking games with questions about folks you work with—

For heaven's sake, knock it off.

I will, once I remind you about one question Lisa mentioned. Sam lowered his voice and looked pointedly at Jack's desk. Ever thought about sleeping with your partner?

Mikki groaned. Oh, God. She hadn't dreamed it after all.

Her fellow detective grinned. Word has it you took the dare instead of answering the question.

Sam— She couldn't believe she'd actually dodged the subject instead of saying no, I've never thought about sleeping with Jack Marston. Not once. No, she'd simply swallowed the three shots of tequila as Eric had instructed, letting everyone know she had thought about sleeping with Jack, the man who watched her back every day. The yin to her yang. Her best friend. The man who completed her sentences. She was so royally screwed—and not by him. Talk about irony.

Sam laughed. "So it is true. Have you two actually slept together, or do you just want to?"

You big— She was saved from answering his question by the loud ringing of her cell phone. Relief stole through her, and she snatched up the device. Baker.

Mikki... I-I—

Jack? Alarm funneled through her. He didn't sound like himself. What's wrong?

Everything. Susan—

What about her? Anger flared in Mikki's chest at the mention of her partner's ex-wife. That cold bitch had aborted his child without his knowledge, breaking his heart and precipitating their divorce. That would have made Mikki happy, if Jack hadn't gotten hurt in the process. She squeezed her hand into a fist.

A strangled sob escaped Jack's throat. Sh-she's... dead.

Are you serious? Stunned, Mikki sat back in her chair and glanced at Sam, who raised his eyebrows. What the hell happened?

I-I think I might've killed her, Jack whispered, his voice ragged.

*****

Jack stood riveted to the floor at the end of Susan's bed, unable to tear his eyes off of the startling crimson sea tainting her pristine white sheets. Blood spatter flecked the walls, the lamp, even the furniture. A dark red trail marked the path to her bathroom. He'd tried to stay out of it when he'd stumbled out in search of a phone, but he'd still gotten two ruby red smears on his bare right foot. He lifted it now and unconsciously flexed his toes.

The air in the room was cool and still. Two pairs of uniformed officers had just arrived and were doing an initial walk-through of the house and yard. Mikki should be close behind them, along with the crime scene boys, the medical examiner, other detectives from his NOPD homicide unit, and their boss, Major Sabbatini.

A door slammed at the front of the house. He flinched and tried to swallow, but his raw throat rebelled. He scrubbed a hand over his face. He needed more water yet didn't want to touch anything else. He'd already contaminated the scene. How he'd gotten to Susan's tiny house in Metairie, he hadn't a clue, and yet he was damned sure going to find out.

Jack? Mikki's worried bellow scraped his nerves. Where are you?

Back here, he called, edging toward the door. She certainly hadn't wasted any time coming to save his ass. He drew in a deep breath as she burst inside like a locomotive, her petite frame in high gear. She nearly bowled him over. A lock of blonde hair fell into her eyes.

Still lightheaded, he grabbed her arm. Easy, Mikki. Slow down.

Sorry. She brushed the hair off her cheek. Her wide blue eyes traveled the length of his body, lingering on his blood-flecked chest before flying back up to his face. What happened?

I don't know. I went to bed last night at home and woke up on Susan's bathroom floor. He jerked his thumb toward the crimson stains on the bed. I'm guessing she was murdered here.

Probably. Mikki studied him. Jack—

Body's in the bathroom. He dragged a hand through his disheveled hair and turned away. Looking at all the blood hurt too much. In... in the bathtub.

The killer moved her?

Mikki's question rattled Jack. She fixed her eyes on him, and he knew she was searching for answers in his body language and movements. The inflection of his voice. He didn't know what to do or say. He was too damned confused. He massaged his aching chest.

Looks like it.

Okay. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. I'll be right back.

Yeah, sure. He stood aside as she slipped into the bathroom, careful to dodge the blood on the carpet in spite of her light blue shoe covers. He knew from experience how meticulous she was at crime scenes: moving carefully so she wouldn't dislodge evidence, examining every nook and cranny, taking volumes of notes. If anyone could get to the bottom of this mystery, it was Mikki. If Sabbatini would allow her to be lead on the case, and that was doubtful. He'd probably call in the state police because it involved one of their own.

The major was aware of the tension between him and Mikki that had flared to life after Jack had gotten stabbed a year ago. Mikki staunched the blood rather than collaring the suspect, who subsequently broke into a house and murdered a woman. Jack was grateful his partner had saved his life but had to live with the knowledge that another person had died because of it.

He knew it haunted her, too. She'd walked away from him after that, and Sabbatini had loaned her out to Vice and paired Jack with Sam Walker on a dicey serial killer case. For their own good, he'd claimed. Jack had dealt with the change and muddled through, but it wasn't easy because Mikki was his right arm.

After he and Sam finally put the monster away, the major put Jack back with Mikki and they gradually fell back into their normal routine, albeit more wary of each other.

Now he'd awakened on Susan's bathroom floor covered in blood.

They'll think I killed her. I'll be their main suspect.

Meaning the higher ups would suspend him until he proved his innocence. He stifled a shudder and scrubbed both hands down his face.

Mikki reappeared and skirted the blood trail on her way to the bed. She poked around a bit more, and then pinned him with a grim stare. I don't see a weapon.

I haven't seen one either.

You don't remember anything? She studied him closely.

He shook his head. No. I've wracked my brain.

You're not a murderer or a liar, she said softly. But you know how this looks, and you know protocol. We need your clothes.

This is what I had on when I woke up. He indicated his bloodstained boxers. I wore 'em to bed last night. At home. Alone.

We still need them.

I know. I have clothes in the Navigator. He started to say he'd go get them, but suddenly realized he had no idea where to find his vehicle. He met Mikki's eyes. Is it outside?

Yeah. In the driveway.

Her affirmative answer hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. If his SUV was here, he must have driven it. He eyed the bed, and his heart constricted. Did I kill Susan?

What's wrong? Mikki sent him a questioning look.

Shaken, he raked a hand through his hair. I don't know if—

Sonny Parker, followed by the ME and two crime scene techs, stepped through the door. Sonny's gaze fell on the blood-soaked bed. Morning, folks. This must be the place.

Yeah. Jack drew a pained breath. Body's in the bathroom.

Did you touch anything? The ME looked pointedly at Jack.

Hell, no, he snapped, his composure finally breaking.

Sonny cocked a brow.

Sorry. Jack went for damage control. Other than getting up and washing my hands, no. I was kind of freaked out. Didn't know where I was. I... um, used a yellow towel.

Okay, the ME said. You touched the floor, the towel, and the faucet. We've got your prints on file.

Yeah, I know the drill. He pressed his lips together.

Mikki motioned to one of the techs, who pulled out a camera and shot Jack and the bed from all angles. Then he and Sonny disappeared into the bathroom. Jack pictured Susan huddled in the tub, her throat sliced, her nightgown plastered to her, those stab wounds oozing blood...

Another brilliant flash from the digital camera made the hairs stand up on his arms. They were photographing her now. She wouldn't like that, knowing they were seeing her in her lingerie, the end of her gown glued to her hips with dried blood.

His throat closed up. His love for her had died the second he learned she had aborted their unborn child, but for some reason he found himself wanting to protect her from prying eyes. He hung his head as fresh pain rippled through him.

Mikki put her hand on his arm. Let's get out of here.

I-I can't.

I don't mean leave the house. We can go into the kitchen, so you can give your statement. She hesitated. That is, if you're up to it. We can wait for Sabbatini.

No, I can do it. Let's get it over with.

I'm sure you want to get cleaned up, she said as they stepped into the hall. I'll get a guy to get your clothes for you while we talk, so we can bag your boxers.

I don't have my keys. He glanced down at his shorts. They had no pockets, of course. How had he driven here? He hadn't seen his key ring—not that he'd looked for it.

Mikki turned back. Well, they have to be here somewhere.

We can't disturb the crime scene. He muttered a curse. I have an extra set at home, but I don't have my house keys, either.

You have an extra set of both at the district station.

Oh, yeah. He rubbed his throbbing forehead. I forgot.

If we don't find 'em, I'll send someone. She pulled out her phone and started off.

Jack's forearm itched. He glanced down at the blood dotting his skin. Susan's blood. Acid burned his throat. He took a deep breath and followed Mikki into his ex-wife's tiny kitchen. His partner pulled out a chair at the sturdy oak table and took out her pad, pen, and a tiny digital recorder. He sank into a chair across from her.

You all right? she asked, earnestly searching his face.

He shook his head. No. I'm confused. My body aches, and my keys are gone. None of this makes any sense. He massaged his temples.

She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut when two uniformed officers suddenly banged into the house. One fixed Jack with a curious stare, and the other looked at Mikki.

Morning, Detective. We've secured the scene and started a log. Cunningham and his partner are monitoring access.

Good, she said. Thanks.

Jack met his eyes. Find anything?

Well... He shot another glance at Mikki, as if asking permission to speak with Jack. She angled her head in assent. He plowed ahead. No, sir. No sign of forced entry, no footprints. Nothing. All doors and windows are intact and locked from the inside.

Doesn't mean the perpetrator didn't find one open and lock it to cover his ass once he was in the house, Mikki said. Have CSU print everything.

A couple of techs are already on it and should be inside soon. He motioned for his partner to follow him back into the garage

Once they shut the door, Jack glanced at Mikki. They think I did it.

They're young and stupid, she said wryly. You didn't kill her. You couldn't have.

You don't know that. A lump formed in his throat. I don't know what the hell happened last night. My head's really fuzzy and... mixed up.

"I know you, Jack. She tightened her jaw. You were angry with Susan, but you didn't cut her throat. You couldn't have. It's just not in you."

You sound pretty sure of that.

I am. She stared at him a long moment, her eyes keen on his face, then jerked her gaze to the tiny digital recorder in front of her. She flipped it on, rattled off the date, their names, and other pertinent information before gripping her pen and letting her gaze drift to his. Tell me everything. You said you went to bed at home.

Like always. I took a sleeping pill after watching the game... He let his words trail off and released a ragged sigh. Went to sleep and woke up here. End of story.

Did you have anything to drink?

"One beer, with a sandwich. At home," he said with emphasis. She'd asked him to go to Monty's for a drink yesterday after their shift, and he'd said no. Not because he didn't want to, but because he did. The visceral pull drawing him to his partner grew stronger every day. He dropped his hands. Christ.

Okay. She paused. I'm changing gears. When did you last see Susan?

A couple of weeks ago, he said. I ran into her at the gym and said hello. That was it.

No phone calls or emails?

Not one. Check my LUDs, my cell phone, my laptop. You won't find anything.

Don't act so belligerent. I have to ask these questions, and you know the other investigators will grill you twice as hard.

I know, and I'm sorry. I'm just so freaked out. I wake up, see all that blood, and find Susan... He released a weary sigh. My nerves are shot to hell.

You've got to hold it together. Sabbatini's on his way, and Public Integrity won't be far behind.

Great. Civil Rights Busting 101. He grimaced. I'll be guilty until proven innocent.

You'd better call your union rep. She pinned him with her intense blue gaze. He'll help you stay out of jail.

Maybe, and maybe not. He put his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers.

Moisture glistened in her eyes. We'll find a way. I won't lose you.

Mikki—

The door flew open, and she jerked her hand away. Her face burned.

Major Sabbatini strode inside, followed by two suits from the Public Integrity Division. They spotted Jack, and Mikki cringed.

Detective Marston. The taller of the two suits wore black pinstripes and a rabid snarl. He stuck out his hand. Major Vince Thomas, PID. This is Al Fox.

Al was a short man with spiky, gray-blond hair and a beak nose. He bobbed his head.

Jack rose and shook their hands. He nodded at Sabbatini. Major.

What happened, Jack? Sabbatini scowled.

Jack met his boss' steely glare head on. I can honestly say I have no idea.

You need to start at the beginning, Detective, Thomas said. Don't leave anything out.

Not yet. I want my union representative.

All right, Fox said. You'd better come on to the station with us, then.

Right now? Mikki's stomach fluttered. She'd hoped for more time to question Jack, so she'd know how to proceed. Somebody had to prove his innocence.

Thomas raised a brow. You're his partner?

Yes, she said, widening her stance and squaring for a fight. He didn't do this.

Why am I not surprised to hear that? Fox directed a smirk at Sabbatini. Partners, joined at the hip. These two have been in trouble before, haven't they? The Bruckner case?

That has no bearing on what happened here, Sabbatini snapped. Marston and Baker are two of my most capable detectives.

I don't care if they have the best arrest record in Louisiana. If Marston killed his ex, he's going down. He eyed at Jack with disdain. Confess, Detective, and you can avoid the needle.

I'm not confessing to anything. Jack folded his arms. I don't know what happened.

Right. Thomas bared his teeth. Let's go. You can call your rep from the car.

Wait. He needs his clothes, Mikki's panicked tone drew Jack's piercing stare. She swallowed and looked at Thomas. His boxers are evidence.

All three men dropped their eyes to Jack's skivvies.

"That's