No One Left to Tell
Karen Rose
Praise for
You Belong to Me
“A fast-paced murder mystery that will keep you turning pages. If you are not already a fan of Karen Rose, then you will be after reading this book.”
— Fresh Fiction
“If I could use one word to sum up this latest tale of revenge and retribution from Karen Rose, it would be… whew! However, this story is deserving of much more. Fans of Karen Rose are well acquainted with the superb writing of this talented author and will be kept on the edges of their seats… well written, with a compelling, complex story line that grabs your attention from the first page until the very last.”
— The Romance Readers Connection
“A strong police procedural with a deep cast… fast-paced with superb twists, readers will relish this terrific tale.”
— Genre Go Round Reviews
“With You Belong to Me, Karen Rose brings suspense to a whole new level!”
— Long and Short Reviews
“Rose again demonstrates her gift for creating complicated plots populated with realistic and imperfect protagonists. You will want to make sure the lights are on while reading this one!”
— Romantic Times (top pick, 4½ stars)
Praise for Karen Rose
“Rose packs action into every moment.… Thriller fans will love the high-adrenaline story and robust cast of intriguing supporting characters.”
— Publishers Weekly
“Without a doubt, Rose is in the top echelon of suspense masters!”
— Romantic Times
“Karen Rose writes blistering, high-octane suspense that never lets up.… Don’t miss it!”
— Karen Robards
“From the first rousing chapter to the last… intense, complex, and unforgettable.”
— James Patterson
“Rose is a master of chilling romantic suspense.”
— Alison Brennan
“A high-octane thrill ride that kept me on the edge of my seat and up far too late at night!”
— Lisa Jackson
“Takes off like a house afire. There’s action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller.”
— Tess Gerritsen
“Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat.”
— Lisa Gardner
“[A] riveting story.”
— Library Journal
“A tense, chilling suspense that readers will appreciate from start to finish.”
— Midwest Book Review
“Rose’s well-crafted story sets pulses pounding and pages turning.”
— BookPage
Also by Karen Rose
You Belong to Me
KAREN
ROSE
NO ONE LEFT TO TELL
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First American Printing, June 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Karen Hafer, 2012
ISBN: 978-1-101-58670-9
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To my sweet mom,
who has demonstrated strength, grace, and faith
throughout a very difficult year.
To my sensei, Sonie Lasker.
I miss you, girl, but am so very proud of you!
And to Martin.
I love you always.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to my friends for your consistently generous flow of information!
Danny Agan for answering all my police “how-to” and “what-if” questions.
Shannon Aviles for the Spanish phrases.
Marc Conterato for helping my characters’ wounds to be more realistic.
Kay Conterato for her constant stream of interesting articles, facts, and links to people she meets. I get all manner of ideas this way!
Sonie Lasker for fight-scene choreography and introducing me to karate.
To Claire Zion, Vicki Mellor, and Robin Rue—your support has meant more than you’ll ever know.
Finally, to my dear friends for all your love and unflagging encouragement. I love y’all right back.
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Did You Miss Me?
You Belong to Me
Prologue
Six years earlier
He was near. Crystal could hear his heavy breathing, feel him watching her. If she looked to the right, past the perfectly manicured hedge, she’d see him. His eyes would be hungry, his body aroused. But she didn’t look at him. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead she glanced over her shoulder. The door to the gardener’s shed was ajar, just as he had said it would be.
The gardener’s shed. She lifted her chin. He could have had her meet him anywhere on the grand estate, but he’d chosen the
gardener’s shed. She’d make him pay for that. She’d make him pay for everything he’d done.
She quietly pushed at the door to the shed, taking a last look behind her. The party by the pool was in full swing, the music loud enough to be heard in the next county. Luckily the estate was as big as the next county or the cops would have already been here, handing out citations. She smiled bitterly, the very idea ridiculous.
The cops would never hand out citations here.
Which was a good thing for the dancers, she supposed. And for me. Everyone was so busy having fun that no one had seen her slip away. The partyers in the pool were having the most fun—coke and sex the party favors of choice. But not everyone was in the pool. The dance floor under the bobbing Chinese lanterns boasted its share of gyrating bodies. Every woman still clothed was dressed to the hilt, making Crystal grateful she’d had the good sense to go for the tiny, expensive dress and the even more expensive shoes. Her credit card was maxed out.
But I fit in. Well enough to get her entrée to the party of the season—and that was the important thing. She wanted—no, she needed—to be here. To see his face when she told him who she really was. That she had evidence that would ruin him.
That she now owned him.
He’d be shocked. Stunned. He might even beg.
Crystal smiled. She really hoped he begged.
She flicked a final glance at the big house, looming large and powerful on the hill above the partying crowd. He could have had me there, in one of the bedrooms. There were, after all, ten of them, each one decorated like something out of a magazine.
But here she was, stepping into the gardener’s shed. No matter. Someday all of this will belong to me.
She closed the door behind her and frowned. This really was a gardener’s shed. It was filled with tools and smelled of gasoline. Meticulously organized, the walls were covered with anything and everything a gardener would need to keep up an estate this size. Two riding mowers took up most of the concrete floor. There was no convenient cot in the corner as she’d expected. Not really any room to do anything.
Crystal rolled her eyes. Except maybe kneel. It figured.
The door behind her opened, closed again. “Amber,” he said.
Crystal took a moment to still her racing heart. Amber. That’s how she’d introduced herself. If he’d known her real name, he never would have met her here. He would have ignored her, just as he’d ignored the phone messages she’d left with the damn butler up in the big house. That was the tricky part about blackmail. You actually had to get the target’s attention to lay out the terms. She had his attention now.
Showtime, girl. Make this count. Your future rides on the next five minutes.
“You came,” she murmured seductively. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
He chuckled, the sound far from friendly. “You knew I was there,” he said, “watching you.”
She kept her voice smooth. “Yes. I was hoping for somewhere a little more… comfortable. Somewhere we can… talk.”
He made a humming sound, considering. “Talk? I don’t think so. Crystal,” he added and her heart leapt to close her throat.
“You knew,” she whispered.
“Of course I knew. I had you followed. Pretty thing like you, coming on to me. I have to be careful. There are all kinds of bad people out there, Crystal. You never know who might try something stupid. Like blackmail. Are you going to blackmail me, Crystal?”
Fighting panic, she slowly lifted her arm to retrieve the lipstick tube of pepper spray she’d slipped into her tiny handbag, glad she’d come prepared. Mentally she counted the steps to the door. Six steps. She could do six steps. She’d get by him.
She had to.
Go for the spray slowly. No sudden moves. Don’t let him see your fear.
He likes your fear.
He came closer and she could feel the heat of his body. “You never should have come.” There was a mocking lilt to his voice that chilled her to the bone.
“I have pr—” Something silky brushed against her jaw a split second before it slid round her throat and tightened. Proof. I have proof. But the words wouldn’t come.
Can’t breathe. She flailed instinctively, her nails clawing at her throat. She kicked backward, trying to hit his knees, his groin, anything she could reach, but he yanked her up until her feet no longer touched the ground.
No. Please. No. Her lungs were burning. She pawed at her purse, grabbing the pepper spray, fumbling as she pulled at the cap. Just get away. Have to get away.
She wrenched the cap from the tube. I don’t want to die. Please don’t let me die.
“Bitch,” he muttered. “You come here, threatening me. My family. Did you think that would work? Did you think any of this would work?”
She aimed the spray, but his hand clamped over her wrist, twisting, forcing the tube lower. Forcing her finger to press. New pain shot through her eyes, burning, blinding her. She screamed, but her voice was trapped. She was trapped. She dropped the tube, her hands desperately rubbing her eyes.
Make it stop. Please, make it—
He stepped back, breathing hard. Her hands swung limply at her sides. He dropped her to the floor. She was dead. He’d killed her.
I did it. For a long time he’d wondered how it would feel to drain the life of another. Now he knew. He’d finally done it.
The bitch. She thought she could come here. Control me. She’d learned. The hard way. Nobody controls me. He wadded the silk scarf with which he’d choked her, shoved it in his pocket. Leaned over to scoop her purse from the floor and hid it under his coat. He opened the door a fraction.
Nobody was coming. Nobody was watching. Everyone was partying. Having a great time. The music of the band would have covered any sounds they’d made. He slipped from the shed and disappeared behind the hedge. It was done.
One
Baltimore, Maryland
Tuesday, April 5, 6:00 a.m.
Paige Holden pulled her pickup into the last parking place in the lot, a scowl on her face. Of course it was the one farthest from her apartment. Of course it was raining.
If you were back home, you’d be pulling into your own garage right now and you’d stay warm and dry. You never should have left Minneapolis. What were you thinking?
It was the mocking voice. She hated the mocking voice. It seemed to slither into her mind when she was least prepared, usually when she was most exhausted. Like now.
“Fuck off,” she muttered and the Rottweiler in her passenger seat gave a low growl that Paige took to be agreement. “If we were back home, that little kid would still be with his ho of a mommy.” Her teeth clenched at the memory, only hours old. She wasn’t sure she’d ever erase the sight of that child’s terrified face from her mind. She didn’t want to.
She’d accomplished something tonight. Someone was safe who otherwise wouldn’t be. That was what she needed to hold on to when the mocking voice intruded. The faces of the victims she had kept safe were what she needed to remember when she woke from the nightmare. When the guilt rose in her throat, choking her.
Zachary Davis would be okay. Eventually. Because I was there tonight.
“We did good, Peabody,” she announced firmly. “You and me.”
The dog pawed at the truck’s door. He’d been cooped up with her in the cab for hours, patiently waiting out the night. Doing his duty. Guarding me.
That he did so made her feel safe. That she still needed a protection dog to feel safe in the dead of night made her annoyed. That she still jumped when anyone made a sudden move pissed her off. But for now, that’s how it was and she was learning to live with it. Her friends back home told her to give herself more time, that it had only been nine months, that recovery from an assault could take years.
Years. Paige didn’t intend to wait that long. Briskly, she pulled her hood over her head, clipped Peabody’s leash to his collar. She’d walk him, then grab coffee and a shower before her next appointment.
Peabody made a beeline for his favorite spot, the lamppost where the neighborhood dogs stopped to pee. He was sniffing when her cell jangled. Juggling the umbrella, she glanced at the display before wedging the phone between her ear and shoulder. It was her partner of three months, who, until she was a licensed PI, was really her boss.
“Where are you?” Clay Maynard demanded, bypassing any greeting as usual. He was brusque, maybe even a little rude, but he was very smart. And still grieving a devastating loss. Because Paige keenly understood his grief, she cut him slack.
Under the gruffness resided a good man who, in the three months since she’d moved to Baltimore, had become more like a big brother than a boss. She’d trained with dozens of overprotective “big brothers” just like him during the fifteen years in her old karate dojo, and she knew how to deal with his irritation. Keep it cool, make him laugh.
“Standing under a lamppost watching Peabody pee. If you want,” she added wryly, “I can send a photo. Peabody won’t mind an invasion of his privacy to ease your mind.”
There was a beat of silence, then a grudging chuckle. “I’m sorry. I called your landline and you didn’t answer. I figured you’d be home by now.”
Paige wanted to remind him she was thirty-four, not four, and that he was her partner and not her keeper, but she did not. He’d found his last partner brutally murdered. He didn’t want to feel responsible for anyone else’s death, and this Paige completely understood, maybe even better than Clay himself.
Thea’s face, always hovering somewhere on the edge of her mind, barreled front and center. Terrified, with that gun to her head. Then dead.
And no matter how many Zachary Davises you save, she’ll still be dead.
“I had to give my statement to the cops.” Thea’s face faded to the edge of her mind, replaced with what she’d witnessed through a window just hours before.
“Had you seen anything like that before?” he asked.
“The mom snorting coke, sure.” It was one of her earliest memories, one she rarely shared. “The mom letting her son be groped by her strung-out boyfriend, no.”
