Random Acts: The Lightkeepers

By Erica Spindler

One dead queen  
Three bizarre acts of violence  
No visible connection between the crimes 

 

Michaela Dee Dare, newly minted detective for the New Orleans PD, is called to a Garden District mansion—someone's decided to bludgeon a former Queen of Carnival to death with her own scepter.

 

Even as the investigative pieces begin to fall into place and they close in on a perpetrator, something's not adding up for Micki.  It's too easy, the crime too random. But what's a rookie detective to do when her seasoned partner doesn't agree with her?

 

Betting on her instincts and gambling with her future in the NOPD, Micki strikes out on her own, pulling at strings that reveal an evil that chills her to her core—and may cost her everything she holds dear.

Set in New Orleans' most iconic neighborhoods, this exciting prequel to The Lightkeepers —a series lauded as 'enthralling' and 'not to be missed'—introduces tough, likable heroine Micki 'Mad Dog' Dare, and foreshadows the thrill-packed journey to come.

 

About the Author:

Erica Spindler is the New York Times and International Chart bestselling author of thirty-three novels and three eNovellas. Published around the globe, she has been called the "The Master of Addictive Suspense" and "Queen of the Romantic Thriller."  

 

The Lightkeepers is Erica's first series, something she's wanted to do for years. All she was waiting for was the right characters. She found them in Micki Dare, reformed southern belle turned kick-ass cop, and Zach "Hollywood" Harris, a charming bad boy with some very cool, save-the-world skills.

Erica splits her writing time between her New Orleans area home, her favorite coffeeshop, and a lakeside writing retreat. She's married to her college sweetheart, has two sons and the constant companionship of Roxie, the wonder retriever.

 

Learn more about Erica by visiting her website or join the conversation on Facebook at Erica Spindler, Author. 

Praise for The Final Seven: The Lightkeepers #1

THE FINAL SEVEN is an expertly plotted crime drama with some supernatural flare and a dash of romance for good measure. – IndieReader

Edgy and charged with atmosphere, The Final Seven is exactly what a supernatural thriller should be: a battle royale for the human soul. Spindler knows her stuff. – Laura Benedict, author of Charlotte's Story and Bliss House.

"Erica Spindler has long been an innovator, but she's created something truly special with this debut in her new thriller series, THE FINAL SEVEN. Engrossing, exciting, and genuinely scary, Spindler takes you on a relentless ride that doesn't let up until the last line. I can't wait to read the next The Lightkeepers installment featuring Detectives Michaela Dare and Zach Harris - Spindler has created a partnership for the ages."– J.T. Ellison, NYT bestselling author of WHAT LIES BEHIND

• Language: English
• Publisher: Double Shot Press
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781944323233

Erica Spindler

No matter how innocent the story being relayed to me is, I can twist it into something pretty damn frightening. I've learned the real trick is not sharing these versions with those relaying the story. It tends to make people avoid me.” ~ Erica Spindler A New York Times and International bestselling author, Erica Spindler's skill for crafting engrossing plots and compelling characters has earned both critical praise and legions of fans. Published in 25 countries, her stories have been lauded as “thrill-packed page turners, white- knuckle rides and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.” Raised in Rockford, Illinois, Erica had planned on being an artist, earning a BFA from Delta State University and an MFA from the University of New Orleans in the visual arts. In June of 1982, in bed with a cold, she picked up a romance novel for relief from daytime television. She was immediately hooked, and soon decided to try to write one herself. She leaped from romance to suspense in 1996 with her novel Forbidden Fruit, and found her true calling. Her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence. A Romance Writers of America Honor Roll member, she received a Kiss of Death Award for her novels Forbidden Fruit and Dead Run and was a three-time RITA® Award finalist.  Publishers Weekly awarded the audio version of her novel Shocking Pink a Listen Up Award, naming it one of the best audio mystery books of 1998. Erica lives just outside New Orleans, Louisiana, with her husband and two sons and is busy at work on her next thriller.  

Book preview

Chapter One

Noon

New Orleans, Louisiana

Detective Michaela Dee Dare’s stomach growled. Loudly. One of those deep rumbles that would’ve been heard clear to the back of church on a packed Sunday morning. If she went to church.

Micki had given up church and praying to an invisible father for help a long time ago. Now she put her faith in the tangible. Her own skills. The gun at her hip, the shield that gave her the power to protect herself.

These days, she would not go down without one hell of a fight.

Lessons learned the hard way.

Up ahead, the blue lights of a lone cruiser flashed in front of a big-ass mansion. She’d pulled a temporary assignment in the Second District. Uptown, bounded by Louisiana and Orleans Avenues and the Mississippi River; the highest priced real estate in New Orleans. And no wonder—it included St. Charles Avenue, Tulane and Loyola Universities, Audubon Park and the Zoo.

Ritzy-titzyville.

She usually worked the Ninth District. Not quite down on its luck, not quite middle class. Which suited her just fine. People who dealt with real life every day; people who knew who they were and where they belonged.

Here, the phony-factor ran high. Real high. Sort of like the crazy club she’d grown up in. Mama’s narcissism, Aunt Jo’s desperation. Grandma Roberta’s complete denial of reality.

And her Uncle Beau’s voice in her ear, deep and round from a third scotch: Come, Michaela, let’s play a little game of make-believe.

Micki shoved that memory deep into the dark recesses. The place the monsters lived. They came out to play sometimes, but rarely by the light of day. No, it was the night they preferred.

She reached the scene, parking behind the lone cruiser. Police tape stretched across the entrance to the building, blending weirdly with the purple, green, and gold Mardi Gras swags adorning the columned mansion’s facade. Tinsel wreaths of the same colors hung on the double doors, waving in the breeze like sparkling fingers.

The toot of a horn startled her and she glanced in her rearview. A man climbing out of his vehicle. Her partner—like her assignment, temporary. She grabbed her gear, climbed out, and went to meet him.

Her first impression was of an aging goodfella, softening around the edges but still intimidating. Carmine Angelo, he said, holding out a beefy hand.

She took it. Micki Dare.

He smiled, a big toothy grin that changed him from crime boss to somebody’s daddy. You’re new to the Detective Bureau.

I am. They fell into step together. Promoted the first of the year.

Congratulations.

Thanks. She’d beat out a number of other candidates—all men, some of them with more time in uniform—which hadn’t made her any friends. What do you know about the vic? she asked.

Besides that she was rich and now she’s dead? Nada.

They reached the first officer; Angelo greeted him by name. Chuckles, good to see you, man. My partner du jour, Micki Dare.

He nodded at her. How’re ya?

She returned the nod. Okay. What do we have?

Housekeeper called it in. Found her employer, one Vivianne Stanley, in a pool of blood in her Queen’s room.

Micki cocked an eyebrow. Queen’s room?

You know, Mardi Gras. She was Rex’s Royal Consort, back in 1969.

Angelo unwrapped a piece of peppermint gum and folded it into his mouth. That’s N’Awlins, he drawled, once a queen, always a queen.

Micki rolled her eyes. The krewe of Rex, one of the oldest, most exclusive of the Mardi Gras organizations. More phony bullshit.

Housekeeper’s name?

Margaret Cook. He shook his head. Looks like Stanley was beaten to death with her scepter.

Micki looked up from her notepad. Excuse me, did you just say—

Yeah, I did. Her scepter.

Angelo snorted. Those things aren’t much more than tin foil and paste.

Not this one. Like everything else, stuff was made to last in the old days.

Micki jumped back in. The housekeeper’s here?

In the kitchen with the rest of the staff. Yardman and cook. Stanley’s personal trainer. Apparently, his arrival precipitated finding the body.

Micki glanced at Angelo. He met her eyes and nodded slightly. The coincidence of the trainer’s arrival could be nothing—or everything.

My partner’s babysitting him. Called another cruiser, got nobody. It’s that time of year, I guess.

Angelo grinned. You’ve got us.

Chuckles chuckled and Micki instantly understood the nickname. Paramedics called?

"On their way. We’ll see how long that takes."

Angelo winked at her. Mardi Gras; can’t live with it, can’t kill it.

We could try, she muttered, as they entered the house.

She moved her gaze over the opulent interior, taking in details, absorbing. Waiting for that one thing to jump out and shout at her.

Where’re you from, Dare?

Mobile.

So you’re familiar with Carnival?

Intimately.

Hence the disdain.

You got it.

He laughed. Not much of a talker, are you?

Nope.

They reached the inner perimeter, delineated by more crime scene tape, and ducked under and into the queen’s room, essentially an office. Writing desk. Credenza. Discreet file cabinets.

Except for the eye-catching, life-size display: Queen’s garb—beaded gown, faux fur stole, photographs of the young and lovely Vivianne, framed newspaper clippings, display cases filled with memorabilia.

Obviously, Stanley had taken this royalty schtick seriously.

In fact, the getup was so eye-catching Micki almost missed the real deal—Vivianne Stanley, sprawled on the floor, circled by a pool of blood. Stanley’s head was a mess. Scepter there, by the body, bloodied. Even from this distance she could make out fingerprints on the scepter’s staff.

Looks like Chuckles called it, Angelo said.

Micki murmured agreement and moved on. Perp didn’t bother with stealth. Crime of passion. Unorganized.

Looks like first blow came from behind.

Stanley stumbled, turned— Micki indicated the blood spatter on the rug. Our perp kept at her.

Fury. Hatred. Jealousy. The trifecta of ugly.

Personal. Very.

In unison, she and Angelo fitted on gloves, inched closer and squatted beside the body.

The scepter had left a fleur-de-lis imprint on Stanley’s remarkably unlined forehead. A lone rhinestone had come free and imbedded there; it seemed to wink up at them.

How old you think she was? he asked.

Queen of Rex in ‘69, that would make her seventy plus.

He cocked his head and snapped his gum. Pretty well preserved. Neither of my grannies looked like this.