Susan says . . .
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If you enjoyed
Natalie's Revenge
, I would very much appreciate an honest review on Goodreads and/or whatever Amazon site you purchased it. Thank you!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
In her travels, Susan Fleet has worn many hats: trumpeter, college professor, music historian and award-winning author, to name a few. The Premier Book Awards named her first novel,
Absolution,
Best Mystery-Suspense-Thriller of 2009. She now divides her time between Boston and New Orleans, the settings for her crime thrillers. See more at
http://www.susanfleet.com
Send her an email, she would love to hear from you!
More crime novels
by Susan Fleet
Absolution
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003MNH7JY/
Diva
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0056ASYCU/
Natalie's Revenge
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009EAWCDK/
Jackpot
http://www.amazon.com/Jackpot-Frank-Renzi-mystery-ebook/dp/B00FCCO4EE/
Non-fiction ebooks by Susan Fleet
Women Who Dared: Trailblazing 20th Century Musicians
Violinist Maud Powell and Trumpeter Edna White
http://www.susanfleet.c
om/women_who_dared-vol1.html
Dark Deeds: Serial killers, stalkers and domestic homicides
http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Deeds-stalkers-homicides-ebook/dp/B00CLS62D8/
See Susan's true crime blog:
http://darkdeeds.susanfleet.com/index.html#.UhUfUj-YFaI
ACKNOWLEGMENTS
Creating a work of fiction is an exciting and rewarding journey, but it can also be a daunting one. Happily, many people helped me along the way.
My thanks to Carolyn Wilkins and Jaimie Bergeron for helpful comments on early drafts, and to Haley Verrin, whose suggestions on the final draft were extremely valuable. I am grateful to members of the crime-scene writers and especially to Robert P. Morris, who helped me understand the treatment of gunshot wounds. Thanks also to former police officer Robin Burcell, author of
The Bone Chamber,
for advice on police procedures. However, this is a work of fiction, and any errors or inaccuracies are mine alone.
In my research on call girls, I consulted several books, including
Call Girl: Confessions of an Ivy League Lady of Pleasure
(2004), by Jeannette Angell. I also saw
The Girlfriend Experience
, a 2009 movie directed by Steven Soderberg about a high-priced Manhattan escort, played by porn star Sasha Grey.
The main story events take place in 2008. Several hurricanes threatened New Orleans that year, but the names and details of the hurricanes in this novel are fictitious. Similarly, the hotels and the casino located in the French Quarter are fictitious.
And finally, my heartfelt thanks to you, my readers. If you have comments or questions about
Natalie's Revenge
, please visit my website: www.susanfleet.com and send me a message. I'd love to hear from you, and I'd be thrilled if you posted a review of
Natalie's Revenge
!
And now, turn the page for a sample of Susan Fleet's latest Frank Renzi thriller,
Jackpot
CHAPTER 1
April 2000 Chatham, MA
Florence stood in her living room, peering out the picture window. No sun today, just depressing gray clouds. And no cable repair truck.
Ten minutes ago a man from the cable company had called and said they were having problems in her area but he'd be there soon to fix it. She turned and looked at her new flat-screen TV. The screen was full of snow.
Hoping to see a repair truck, she stared out the window. Patches of dirty snow dotted Ginny's driveway across the street. Ginny was her only neighbor. Like many Cape Cod residents, she went south for the winter. She wouldn't be back until Memorial Day. This had been a long lonely winter, the snow piling up in huge drifts. She had to hire someone to plow her driveway so she could go out to buy groceries and visit her son.
Her heart skipped a beat. Halleluiah! There was the cable van. A man got out and hurried toward the house, lugging a big toolbox, a short chunky man wearing a blue uniform shirt. Goodness, why didn't he wear a jacket? It was chilly today, even for April.
She went and opened the front door. “Thank goodness you're here. Regis and Kathie Lee are on at ten and I’d hate to miss them.”
Beads of perspiration dotted the man's forehead. Strange.
He glanced at an order form on his clipboard. “Don’t you worry, Florence. I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy. You don’t mind if I call you Florence, do you? My boss says it’s friendlier. We like to keep our customers happy.”
What a nice young man, big blue eyes and chubby round cheeks. “And your name is John. It says so on your pocket. Come in. It's cold out there."
He stepped into her living room, walked past her new recliner and set his toolbox down on the rug in front of the television set.
"What's wrong with the cable connection?" she asked.
"Just a little glitch, but I'll fix it." He knelt beside his toolbox and looked up at her. “Could I have a drink of water? My boss sent me out early this morning. I’ve already done three customers and I’m behind schedule.”
Florence hesitated. She wanted to keep an eye on him, but she didn’t want to be rude. “Goodness. Here I am thinking you’ve got such nice rosy cheeks and you’ve been hard at work all morning. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
She went in the kitchen and stood at the sink. Having a stranger in the house made her uneasy. The ADT man had been here two days ago, but he couldn’t install the security system until next week. Her son had warned her that people might try to take advantage of her. Maybe she should call him. But what good would that do? Her son was miles away and even if he wasn't, he couldn't help her. Her darling boy had come home from the Gulf War with both legs amputated below the knee. And then he got hooked on drugs.
She turned on the cold water and let it run. She was probably worrying over nothing. But her hand trembled as she filled the glass with water.
_____
Now that she was gone he felt better. The old biddy had been watching every move he made. He hated that. His mother watched him too, whenever she could. Florence had money, but she had rotten taste. Her pink polyester pantsuit was hideous. But she'd used her winnings to buy a sleek leather recliner and a big-screen TV. He assumed the beat-up green sofa was headed for the dump.
As soon as he heard water running in the kitchen, he opened his toolbox. Inside were the tools he needed to fix the cable connection. And the other items he brought for his lucky winners. He took out a yellow plastic bag, spread open the drawstring cord and hid it on the floor behind the TV.
She came back with a glass of water and gave him a fake smile. But when she saw the surgical gloves on his hands, her smile disappeared.
He made his blue eyes go wide with innocence. “I’ve got eczema." He gulped some water and smiled at her. “My hands bleed sometimes. I wouldn’t want to mess up your carpet.”
“Oh. Well, that’s thoughtful of you. The carpet's brand-new and so is the TV. I wish my husband were here to enjoy it with me. He passed on three years ago.”
“Pretty exciting hitting the jackpot, huh? Lucky you.”
She bit her lip, looking uneasy now.
He set the empty water glass on a table beside the recliner. “I’m about done, but I need you to unplug the TV and plug it in again when I tell you.”
"Well, I don't know. It's hard for me to bend over. I’ve got arthritis.”
He gazed at her silently. Coldly.
Do as I say you old biddy.
With a heavy sigh, she went to the outlet on the wall, sank to her knees and pulled out the plug. Intent on her task, she didn’t see him creep up behind her. Wisps of yellow-white hair curled over her collar, and he could smell her perfume, an ugly lilac scent. He plunged the plastic bag over her head, shoved her face down on the floor and yanked the cord tight around her neck.
The bag muffled her scream. Her fingers clawed at the plastic bag, but he pinned her arms behind her back and sat on her. She made grunting sounds and thrashed her legs. He pulled the cord tighter.
A minute passed. Her struggles grew weaker. Finally, she lay still.
He rose to his feet and unzipped his fly. His breathing grew ragged, faster and faster as the power swelled. The power and the glory. He shuddered as the spasm coursed through him. But there was no time to enjoy the moment.
He rolled Florence onto her back. Her mouth had sucked a deep hollow in the bag. From his toolbox he took out the nip bottle of J&B with the red letters and the red cap. His autograph. He shoved the bottle into the hollow her mouth had made in the bag. Reset the cable connection. Checked the TV. The picture was fine. He looked at Florence, lying on the floor with the yellow plastic bag over her head. Like all the others.
He folded her arms over her chest and noticed the scarab bracelet on her wrist, tiny oval stones in a gold setting. Beautiful. He removed the bracelet and put it in his pocket. He was sure she’d want him to have it.
His eyes swept the room. The water glass! He put the glass in his toolbox and grabbed his clipboard.
Everything was perfect, no mistakes like the other times.
He blew Florence a kiss and left.
_____
Later that day, a hundred miles away, Frank Renzi sat at his desk with a phone clamped to his ear. A low hum purred from a ceiling vent, sending recycled air through his office inside Boston Police Headquarters. The door opposite his desk was closed. On one wall, awards from several Boston social agencies cited Homicide Detective Franklin Sullivan Renzi for his work with underprivileged children.
Two thick murder files sat on one corner of his desk. A third lay open in front of him. Five minutes ago he'd called the victim’s son. He checked his watch. Almost six. It had been a long day, but he was in no hurry to go home. And deal with more problems there.
“When did you last see her?” he said. A muscle worked in his jaw as the man poured out a torrent of anguish and rage.
“No reason to kill her. My kids are devastated. They keep asking for Grammy. Why can’t you catch the bastard?”
“George, I’m very sorry about your mothe
r
”
The litany of sorrows continued. “. . . cameo necklace is missing.”
“You’re sure?" He waited. "A picture? Great! Can you send it to me?”
George said he'd Fed-Ex the photo. Frank promised to call if he had any news, replaced the receiver and rubbed his eyes. A week ago, three new cases had landed in his lap, homicides in New York, Vermont and, most recently, a Boston suburb. Three Caucasian females, the youngest fifty-nine, the oldest sixty-seven. Two were widows, one had never married, all lived alone.
What distinguished them: All three had hit the jackpot, collecting lottery prizes ranging from one million to six million dollars. In each case, cash and credit cards were readily accessible but not stolen. So far, he'd found no other links between the victims.
George’s mother was the second victim. A widow, Lillian Bernard, age 63, had lived in Vermont. George, her only son, lived in California.
He opened a desk drawer and took out a pack of Merit Lights. He was trying to quit, but George's anguish had gotten to him, his voice shaking with grief and outrage. He could understand that. He was dealing with his own grief. His mother had died in three months ago.
He left the office, went out the back door and lit up. The first drag gave him a head rush. In the distance he heard the usual sounds of rush hour traffic leaving Boston, horns honking, a siren.
His cell phone rang and he grabbed it. "Renzi."
"Frank, it's Jack. I just got a call from the State Police Barracks on the Cape. We got another dead lottery winner." Jack Warner was his partner, an experienced Homicide Detective nearing retirement.
"Damn! I just got off the phone with the third victim’s son. Where was this one?"
"Chatham. Mail carrier rang her bell at noon, got no response, saw her car in the driveway and called police."
"Thanks, Jack. I'm on it."
He went back to his office. As if pulled by a magnet his eyes went to the crime scene photos. Lillian Bernard lay on the floor, asphyxiated by the yellow plastic bag that enclosed her head.
The Jackpot Killer was a coward.
He couldn’t look his victims in the face.
Six weeks ago he had killed Lillian. Today he'd taken another victim. Soon there would be another. And another.
Until they caught him.