No Angel

By Mallory Kane

Alexandra Tyler is on the run. She married her college sweetheart, but soon discovered a dark side to him that she'd never seen before. Hoping to find refuge and start a new life, she moves to New Orleans. But bad luck follows and she finds herself barely escaping an abduction. Before she knows it, she's entangled in the search for a serial killer.

FBI Special Agent Danny DeLuca is on the trail of an infamous serial killer. There have been nine victims in nine months, one during each New Moon. But the tenth victim, Alexandra Tyler, escapes, giving Danny the first break he's had in the case. His job is to protect her and catch the killer, but as danger closes in, Danny must guard his heart in order to keep her safe.

While the killer continues to commit the almost perfect crime, Danny and Allie are forced to work together, while also resisting the other's charms. If they give in to their escalating attraction, it could be the death of both of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Mar 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948342520

Mallory Kane

Mallory Kane has 2 great reasons for loving to write. Her mother, a librarian, taught her to love and respect books. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. His oral histories are chronicled in numerous places including the Library of Congress Veterans' History Project. He was always her biggest fan. She has published 26 books for Harlequin Intrigue. She lives in Tennessee with her Renaissance husband and two very smart cats.

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Chapter One

Alexandra Tyler lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling fan. It rotated slowly, catching the pale light that seeped through the curtains of her apartment in New Orleans’s famous French Quarter. She’d been prescribed sleeping pills but they hadn’t helped, plus the headache and hangover that came with them were punishing.

She pushed the coverlet away and got up. According to her phone, it was just after two a.m. She’d been trying to sleep since eleven. Setting the phone on the coffee table in the living room, she stepped through the casement windows onto her tiny balcony. She sat on a beach chair and breathed the cool night air. The lights from Bourbon Street made a neon rainbow in the sky and even from three blocks away she could hear the shouting and laughter. For a moment, she considered walking over to the infamous street and letting the giddiness of the party that never ended distract her from the terrifying memories from two weeks before.

But Bourbon Street was a little more depressing than fun these days. The seedy bars showed their advanced age and the après-prom kids, tourists, and drag queens wandering up and down at this hour were either too old or too young to be doing what they were doing.

She sat on her little balcony rubbing the sore places on her wrists and doing her best not to think about those awful moments when she’d been grabbed and slammed into the side of a van, then trussed and thrown inside it. It wasn’t surprising she couldn’t sleep, not when the nightmare haunted her twenty-four seven.

She smiled wryly. She’d come to New Orleans to start over. And she had. She loved her little apartment that looked out over Royal Street. She loved being a window designer. She loved how strong she had become since she’d moved here, both physically and mentally. Most of all, she loved that she no longer lived in fear, at least until two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago, she’d escaped an abduction. She’d been bruised and scraped but that was all, physically. Mentally, emotionally, that was a different story. She knew of only one person in her life who would have cooked up such a scheme—her ex-husband. But why? And why now?

The police had been helpful and concerned, especially Detective Gautier, and had promised her they would check out her ex-husband, but she could tell they thought the incident, while serious, had been random.

Through the casement windows, her phone pinged, announcing a new text message. She started, her pulse skittering. She was terrified that she knew who was texting her. She’d thought it was over, but she should have known it wasn’t. She was so tired.

Please be an ad from Home Depot, she whispered.

She went inside, not looking toward the coffee table. With a deep breath, she walked toward the bedroom. She’d ignore the phone and go to bed. But at the bedroom door, she braced herself and turned around. Her hand shook and dread spread through her like a chill as she picked up the phone and swiped the screen.

Hi, Sugar Pie. Don’t you love New Orleans? Let’s meet for beignets one morning.

Her knees buckled and she flopped down on the couch, pressing her hands against her chest, trying to stop the panic that crawled up her throat. This was the third text she’d received, and the most ominous. The first two had been more generic, though still disturbing. She’d told herself it was spam, but she’d decided not to delete them, just in case.

And now she knew. This text was not spam. It was from Gary. Her worst fear was realized. He had found her and he was here.

FBI Special Agent Daniel DeLuca sat in the elegant desk chair in his room at the Monteleone Hotel and looked out at the neon lights shining from Bourbon Street. He’d heard about the debauchery, glitter, and madness of the famous street, but he’d assumed the stories were exaggerated. It was hard to imagine such a place in the United States. Amsterdam—sure. Certain areas of Paris or Madrid or Rome, yes. But not in Louisiana, one of the deepest parts of the Deep South, which had never quite recovered from the ravages and divisiveness of the Civil War.

He’d just flown in to New Orleans from DC after a grueling week of testimony before Congress. The director had been the one testifying, but Danny was part of the team researching the subject matter, preparing answers and being on call on Capitol Hill for instantaneous information as needed. Prior to that, he’d been in San Antonio along with another agent during the new moon, a disappointing effort as it turned out. So now here he was in New Orleans, nearly two weeks too late and exhausted.

He’d come here to investigate a possible survivor of the serial killer his team had been chasing for months. Two of the team members were in San Antonio while one, Management and Program Analyst Christine White, was working from Quantico because she was very, very pregnant.

He thought about walking down Bourbon to see what all the music and laughing and shouting were about. He was too antsy and excited to sleep. Tomorrow morning he had a meeting with the local supervisory special agent in charge of the New Orleans FBI field office, Adam Laroche, to be briefed on an attempted kidnapping case. Danny couldn’t wait to hear what Laroche had to say. He hoped with every fiber of his being that this victim who had evaded abduction was the lone survivor of the serial killer he’d been chasing for all this time.

The behavioral analysis unit had been assigned to the case after the third victim had turned up. The unknown suspect’s modus operandi was the same in each case. He abducted his victim during the new moon phase of the moon, and killed them, usually within three days. His preferred site for disposing of the victim’s body was near their home or job. It was unknown how he had managed to successfully overpower and murder healthy adults nine times without a mistake.

Nine victims in nine months, and Danny had little more information on the unknown subject or unsub than when he started. The FBI had not yet developed a consistent victim profile and the geographic pattern was atypical to say the least. But now, at last, they might have their best chance yet to identify the person. They had an eye witness—a victim who had escaped the killer’s clutches. It was about time.

Despite the FBI’s best efforts to hide the nature of the crimes, a national news journalist had noticed that several recent murders had happened during the new moon. The journalist had felt an obligation to alert the public to a possible serial killer and, of course, make a name for himself. He dubbed the mysterious murderer the New Moon Killer. And true to form in serial murder cases, word about the New Moon Killer had started to spread. The FBI had worked diligently to staunch the coverage, and had spent some time talking with the journalist. Soon after, the excitement over the case had waned.

Danny rubbed his burning eyes and blinked to focus on his phone. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. He really needed to sleep. He’d spent most of the evening looking for a store that had white boards and dry-erase markers so he could make notes about clues and evidence gathered on this latest victim. He was due at the New Orleans FBI Main Office in six hours, to be briefed on the woman who may have barely escaped being the tenth victim of a nameless serial killer. Had his unsub finally made a mistake?

Danny picked up the slimmest file of the stack he’d set on the desk. So far, it held the newspaper clipping from the New Orleans Journal about Alexandra Tyler’s near kidnapping, two pages of background information he’d dug up and the copies of the police reports from the eighth district of the New Orleans Police Department, who’d caught the case.

Right now his profile of Alexandra Tyler was consistent with the other nine victims, mostly in the fact that it was peculiarly unrevealing. Each victim had been a normal person, with a normal job and family life. There was only one major difference. Nine victims were dead. Ms. Tyler was alive. Even her history with an abusive ex-husband was not entirely atypical. Three of the victims had been divorced. Two had had a history of moving and changing jobs.

He wrote the list of victims on one of the white boards, which he had set upright on the desk where he would see it first thing in the morning and last thing at night. He kept writing until he started to grow sleepy. He sat on the bed, propped up by pillows, opened Tyler’s file, and began reviewing it for probably the thirtieth time.

Four hours later, Danny woke to a pinkish glow coming in through his window. The sun was about to come up. He glanced at his phone. Seven a.m. central time.

His meeting with Special Agent Laroche was in two hours. He got up and collected the scattered pages of Alexandra Tyler’s file off the bed where he’d fallen asleep while looking at them. With a last, longing glance at the bed, he headed for the shower.

Allie dragged herself out of bed, groaning at the ache in her shoulder and hip, where she’d hit the concrete after tumbling out of the van. She’d only gotten about three hours’ sleep and it showed, in the circles under her eyes and her drooping eyelids. At least this was going to be a good day.

Her first appointment was one of her favorite clients, a local antique store. Every fourth week of the month, she changed the window display. She had almost total freedom to dress the window differently every month, using items in the store and often fabrics or pieces of her own as accents. This was what she loved to do. It gave her the satisfaction of instant gratification, the freedom of creativity, and the reassurance that this, at least, she could control.

She’d brought rustic wooden boxes, burlap ribbon, fake birch branches, and bright lights to highlight and contrast with a collection of brilliantly colored, shimmering Depression glass the store had on sale. The window looked better than she’d hoped and Allie was proud of it. Just as the owner effusively approved her design, her phone rang.

Excuse me, she said as she glanced at the phone’s display.

She sighed. It was the detective who had interviewed her several times about her near-kidnapping. Just his name on the display was enough to throw her back into the fear and dread of the night before and the ominous text.

I apologize, she said to the store owner, I have to take this.

Is everything okay? the owner asked.

Allie nodded and forced a smile. Yes, thank you. This won’t take long.

The other woman waved her hand. Not a problem. The display is perfect. I’ll see you next month.

Allie waved goodbye and turned toward the exit as she answered the phone.

Ms. Tyler? The detective’s rumbling voice sent a shiver through her and caused a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was this going to be the news she’d been expecting. Had they arrested her ex-husband for the attempted abduction?

Yes? she said cautiously.

This is Detective Gautier. Would you be able to come by the station this morning? Supervisory Special Agent Adam Laroche, would like to sit down with you and me. He’s bringing another agent with him.

Allie gripped her phone more tightly. Do you know what time? I have a business appointment at one. The detective had told her he might need to ask her more questions.

When she’d met the supervisory special agent in charge of the New Orleans FBI Field Office, he had mentioned the possibility that her attempted abduction was not an isolated event. She was a little surprised that he was bringing a second special agent, although like anyone who’d ever watched a cop show, Allie knew the FBI could be called in on a kidnapping case.

If you can be here by eleven, you should have no problem getting to your appointment by one o’clock.

She’d be perfectly happy to never talk to anyone again about those horrifying few minutes when a man had grabbed her, slammed her head against the side of a van, slapped a piece of tape across her mouth, wrestled her inside and taped her wrists, all before she had a chance to react. She’d lain there in the dark, confused and panicked, thinking this must be a horrible trick by her ex-husband.

Yes, all right. She checked the time. She had about twenty minutes. Your office?

That’s right. I’ll be waiting for you. Thanks,

Of course, she said politely and hung up.

When she arrived at the eighth district building on Bourbon Street, Detective Gautier, as good as his word, was waiting at the entrance. He escorted her into one of the interview rooms. Special Agent Laroche was standing. He held out his hand and she shook it.

SSA Laroche, if you remember, he said. This is Special Agent Daniel DeLuca, from headquarters. He’s been working on a case that has some similarities to yours.

The second agent nodded and raised half out of his chair then sat back down. Ms. Tyler, he said.

You’re— she started, but stopped herself before she blurted out, you’re an FBI agent? She switched quickly to, Yes, hello.

He gave her a tiny, swift smile, which made her think he knew what she’d almost said. She’d never seen an FBI agent except on TV, at least not until she met SSA Laroche. He embodied the stereotype, dressed in the requisite dark suit, sunglasses, and polished shoes.

But Daniel DeLuca was anything but stereotypical. He had on a light summer jacket with khaki slacks and a polo shirt that hinted at a very nice body. He was probably five-ten or five-eleven, lean and compactly built, with broad shoulders. His hair was light brown, and his eyes were dark—very dark.

When she met his gaze, his dark eyes held hers, bright and penetrating, as if he could dig down inside her and scoop out all the information he needed in one large lump. His eyes were, in a word, disturbing. She looked away at Special Agent Laroche.

You can call me Danny, Special Agent DeLuca said. May I call you Alexandra?

Detective Gautier had never used her first name. Nor had Agent Laroche, and he’d introduced Agent DeLuca formally. But to say no would be rude. I go by Allie.

Great, Allie. Thanks, he said with a smile.

Before she could answer, Detective Gautier spoke. Have a seat, Ms. Tyler, he said. You remember I told you that if anything else came up about your case, I’d let you know.

Yes, she said, glancing anxiously from one man to the other. What is it?

Agent Laroche smiled at her. It didn’t make her feel better. We wanted to meet here at the eighth district of the NOPD. As you recall, Detective Gautier was the officer who talked with you about the incident.

Yes, she said. I do recall that. She also recalled that Agent Laroche was extremely exacting and detailed.

The FBI, in the past several years, has focused on developing a beneficial relationship with local law enforcement. Here in New Orleans, specifically the eighth district we’ve accomplished this. Detective Gautier has been a staunch supporter of the FBI and we have enjoyed a symbiotic relationship that might arguably be one of the most successful partnerships in the U.S. This is why we’re including him in our briefings. He’s experienced, extremely competent, and he knows this city.

Allie noticed that both Detective Gautier and Agent DeLuca looked impatient and uncomfortable. She felt the same way.

Allie, Agent DeLuca said quickly before Laroche could take a breath to continue. May I ask you some questions?

Yes, she said, sitting on the edge of the seat and clasping her hands in her lap. She did not want to answer any more questions.

I understand this is hard for you, Allie, DeLuca said. I wish we could get the information some other way. But as SSA Laroche has outlined thoroughly, violent crimes such as kidnappings are often handled by the FBI, in partnership with local law enforcement. The way you were abducted, the description of the vehicle, and the date are similar to several murders we’ve been investigating.

She frowned at him. "Several murders? I don’t—I don’t understand. How many is several?"

There have been nine deaths so far, DeLuca said evenly.

Allie’s chest tightened as she tried to make sense of those unbelievable words. "Nine? Nine murders? Wait. You think I was grabbed by a serial killer? Are you kidding? Her pulse pounded in her ears. She saw the answer to her question on Danny DeLuca’s face. She turned to Detective Gautier. You never said—"

Allie, Danny said, pulling her attention back to him. Detective Gautier didn’t know—we don’t know yet—if the man who grabbed you is the man we’re looking for, but there are similarities.

A serial killer— Allie felt the blood leave her face. She shot a glance at Detective Gautier then at Agent Laroche, thinking one of them would tell her it was all a joke or a mistake, but their faces were serious too.

I thought it was my ex. She was so used to her ex-husband being the sole cause of her misery that the idea the man who’d grabbed her was a serial killer was kind of a relief. It wasn’t her ex-husband. It was just a serial killer. She almost laughed.

Right. I see that in the police file here. DeLuca asked, leaning forward. Why would that be your first assumption?

Allie ducked her head. It’s the kind of thing he would do.

DeLuca consulted the folder in front of him and tapped the top piece of paper. Your ex-husband’s name is Gary Kender?

She nodded.

I see here in your police case file that a bystander came in voluntarily the day after the incident to make a statement. The statement reads— His gaze slid down the page. "Here it is. A dirty white van drove by going much too fast. Then its side door opened and a young woman came tumbling out. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I heard her cry out Gary! or Carrie! Then the van peeled away. A lot of people ran toward her. I had ice cream in my groceries and she was being taken care of, so I went on. He looked up. The name you cried was Gary, wasn’t it?"

Allie swallowed. I told the detective I don’t remember doing that, but I must have, she said.

You lived in Atlanta and were married to Gary Kender for eighteen months, and you’re now divorced. In Atlanta, you filed for two restraining orders and police were called for a domestic dispute once.

Yes, that’s true. So, are you saying that it wasn’t Gary? It was this killer?

Ms. Tyler, Laroche interjected. It’s extremely important that we have all the facts and cover all bases. I’m sure you can understand.

No. Actually I can’t. Allie suddenly felt dizzy. I don’t understand any of this. These three men were bombarding her with so much information and so many questions her head was spinning. It was making her nauseated.

There are many steps that must be followed in an FBI investigation. Eliminating suspects is one of them. Since you brought up that this incident could have been carried out by your ex-husband, we’re obligated to eliminate him from the suspect pool.

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, hoping that would help. It did a little.

Allie? Agent DeLuca said. Are you all right? The unexpected concern in his voice and the way he called her by her first name helped her ground herself.

I’m okay, she said, opening her eyes and her gaze met his. His dark eyes were soft, almost sympathetic. She took a deep breath. Not long after we were married, my husband, Gary, began being hostile and verbally abusive. I’d known him through college and he’d been an easygoing guy for the most part, but once he got a job and had to go to work every day, he got more and more unhappy and aggressive.

She looked down at her hands. I finally got a divorce, but Gary wouldn’t let go. He kept contacting me, wanting me to come back to him and getting angry when I refused. I got restraining orders, but of course they didn’t help. He knew everything about me. My address, my phone number, my mom’s address and phones too. I changed apartments a couple of times, but he’d bully my mom and my friends, trying to find out where I was. Mom even had to get a restraining order. So, finally, I decided to move here. She rubbed her temples. I took my grandfather’s first name as my last name and, of course, changed my phone number. I called my business A & R Interiors, as if it were two people. But then, just a few days ago, I started getting texts from him.

Texts from your ex-husband? DeLuca scribbled something in a small spiral notebook. You said a few days ago. You mean after the abduction? Were they threatening texts?

She laughed shortly. "No. Just the opposite. Anyone reading them would think he was just a swell