Deadly Fall Read online

  Deadly Fall

  When his latest case falls on him and his partner—quite literally—Detective Nick Markov knows the destruction of his car by a not-yet-cold body is the least of his worries. The deceased is prominent businessman, Andrew Langan, and suicide is swiftly ruled out after Nick pursues the killers down twenty-seven flights—and loses them.

  To his superiors’ frustrations, Nick doesn’t believe Langan’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Augusta, is guilty, even though she has motive, opportunity, no alibi and a shady past. The only reasons Nick has for going against logic are the feeling in his gut and the constriction in his chest.

  Augusta is thrust back into an unwanted spotlight and her quiet life shattered. Then things go downhill. In between dodging the media, she confronts muggers, kidnappers and goons better dressed than she. With Nick, who dredges up a past she’d rather forget and feelings she’d rather not acknowledge, Augusta must race to unravel her late husband’s secrets before she finds herself skydiving without a parachute.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Titles

  Excerpt from A Naughty Noelle

  Excerpt from Rules of Engagement

  Excerpt from Before Dawn

  Deadly Fall

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright © 2005, 2011 Ann Bruce

  Excerpt from A Naughty Noelle © 2007 Ann Bruce

  Excerpt from Rules of Engagement © 2008 Ann Bruce

  Excerpt from Before Dawn © 2008 Ann Bruce

  Cover design by Croco Designs

  Electronic book Publication: December 2011

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Ann Bruce.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Deadly Fall was previously published in an altered form entitled Fall Dead by Cerridwen Press/Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc. in 2005.

  Deadly Fall

  Ann Bruce

  Chapter One

  “Damn it, Ethan,” Nick Markov muttered, trying to steady his drunken partner and keep him from falling flat on his face and doing permanent damage to it. “Your wife’s going to have my ass for this.”

  Ethan Murtagh’s scowl bordered on a pout more suited to a two-year-old. “I can walk on my own two feet,” he said, his words only slightly slurred. He stumbled, nearly taking them both down.

  Nick grunted and muttered, “Right.”

  It was several frustrating moments before Nick managed to strap his partner into the passenger seat of the black SUV parked in front of the bar. Ethan had been, once again, trying to drink himself into a stupor. He didn’t handle disagreements with his significant other well. The current dispute was over the photographer who had shot his wife’s swimsuit spread the previous week in the Bahamas.

  “You’d better hope Torie’s asleep when I get you home,” Nick said, getting behind the wheel.

  A disgruntled sound came from the sprawled figure beside him. Nick answered with a grunt of his own as he pulled out. At almost one in the morning on a Wednesday night, it was relatively quiet in the Sixties on the Upper East Side, so it was a few short minutes before he was turning onto Fifth Avenue. Deciding it wouldn’t take long to get Ethan upstairs and into his nineteenth-floor condo, Nick stopped the SUV in front of the building, killed the engine and flipped down his visor to display his credentials. He released his seat belt buckle, then reached over for his partner’s. Ethan mumbled a protest, swatted at Nick’s helping hand and fumbled with the door handle. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Nick grabbed a fistful of his partner’s jacket.

  “Stay put,” Nick said. “You open that door, you’ll land on your pretty face and Torie will never forgive me.”

  Ethan fell back in his seat, head tilted back, eyes closed. Satisfied, Nick opened his door, got out and made his way to the passenger side door. Ethan didn’t move when he pulled the door open. Nick silently groaned at the possibility of having to carry his less-than-petite partner upstairs.

  Before Nick could reach for his semiconscious partner, small pebbles pinged the roof of the SUV and bounced off his head and the sidewalk. Frowning, he skimmed a hand over his hair and his gaze across the roof of his vehicle. The pebbles glittered faintly under the mellow glow of the streetlight.

  Not pebbles. Glass shards.

  Nick glanced up—and froze, his gaze transfixed by the body above him.

  With a faint sense of incredulity, Nick stared, breath trapped in his lungs, as the blurred line of stark paleness grew larger and sharper as gravity closed the distance between its victim and the sidewalk. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the white face seemingly directly above him. For timeless seconds, that was all he saw, but his mind filled in the rest with disturbing clarity. He saw the wide open mouth and the rounded eyes, filled with the horrifying knowledge of one’s own imminent death.

  Nick was wrong about two things—the body wasn’t directly above him, and the ground wouldn’t stop its free fall.

  It was directly above the SUV.

  His own eyes widening at this realization, Nick fisted his hands in Ethan’s jacket, hauled his partner from the vehicle and jumped back, grunting when the edge of the door caught his shoulder. Ethan stumbled and both men went down hard as the body met metal.

  The sickening thud was nearly drowned out by the explosive crunching of metal and shattering of glass as the SUV gave like an aluminum pie plate under the sudden force.

  As the squeaky sound of the SUV’s shocks being tested beyond their limits mingled with the other sounds of destruction, Nick, his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, found himself flat on the ground, face first, his head covered with his forearms. The damp, industrial scent of the sidewalk filled his nostrils as he took in the heavy, metallic clinking sounds as parts fell off the vehicle.

  Nick opened his eyes, lifted his head and pushed to his feet. Without conscious thought, he withdrew his gun and turned around. He stood on the street, the worn handle of his Glock comfortable and familiar in his grip, and took in the remains of his SUV. The new hood ornament had slammed onto it with enough force to bend the front hood into an imperfect V, partially obscuring the body from Nick’s view. The windshield, torn from the top of its frame, was split in two down the middle. The jagged, incomplete halves—spider webs of shattered glass held together by the thin, inner layer of plastic laminate—disappeared inside the SUV’s dark interior.

  Nick took a step closer, his mouth tightening as his gaze dropped. A stark face stared at him from the dashboard. Dark hair topped glassy, unseeing eyes, a bent nose and a mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Blood, thick and dark, seeped from the matted hair to pool on the leather. There was no need to check for a pulse.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Ethan’s shocked whisper brought Nick’s attention around to him. His partner swayed for a moment, then slapped one hand against Nick’s shoulder to steady himself. Blood trickled down the left side of his forehead from a ga
sh that disappeared into his hair. He was sobering up by the second as he stared at the body. Homicide detectives they might be, but they’ve never had a case fall on them literally.

  Nick swiveled his gaze back to the front of his SUV and blinked, but the image before him didn’t waver.

  The male body was a tangle of arms and legs bent at awkward angles nestled in the damaged hood of the SUV.

  There was nothing that he could do.

  Something heavy settled inside Nick, as it did every time he saw a body. Not bothering to shake off the feeling, he peered up the high-rise—and caught a flash of pale color on the top terrace.

  The suicide just became a homicide.

  Chapter Two

  “There are easier ways to commit suicide,” Ethan murmured.

  “I don’t think he jumped,” Nick said, head still tilted back. “He was helped over the penthouse terrace.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Ethan’s voice was barely a whisper. “Penthouse? That’s Andrew Langan. No fucking way.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth turning down even more. That hazy circle of paleness was gone. “Shit. The perp’s running. Come on.”

  Nick raced inside the building, through the glass and brass double doors and into the lobby, Ethan on his heels. The uniformed concierge on duty, a part-time NYU student, was in front of the reception desk with his back to the front doors. At Nick and Ethan’s entrance, he dropped the phone in his hand, spun around and jerked his head up, rounded eyes darting every which way.

  “What was that noise? Are we under attack?” he demanded, looking like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. “I was about to call nine-one-one.”

  “Do it, Charlie. Then get under your desk and stay there,” Nick ordered, already moving toward the elevator bank. “Someone just took a plunge from the penthouse terrace.”

  Charlie’s mouth moved, but Nick couldn’t make out the whispered words. Blood drained from the boy’s face, reminding Nick of the one he had just seen lying on his dashboard.

  “Charlie,” Nick snapped.

  “Y-yes?”

  “Nine-one-one and under the desk. Now!”

  “Passkey first, Charlie,” Ethan said.

  The concierge stared blankly at Ethan as if he was spouting Latin.

  “We don’t have time, Ethan.” Nick jabbed the elevator button. “We’ll kick the door down if we have to.”

  A ding sounded and the first set of elevator doors began to slide open. Nick stepped to one side, thumbed the safety off his gun and aimed it at the parting doors. The car was empty. He reached inside the open elevator and pushed the red STOP button. The elevator made a screeching protest.

  With the first elevator out of commission, the perp would have to take the second elevator down to the lobby, where Nick and Ethan would be waiting.

  Nick jabbed the elevator button again for the second car. If it was empty, he would take it up to the penthouse. Hopefully, he would apprehend the perp before he got creative and realized that he could hide in one of the other condos. Chances were, the perp didn’t even suspect two NYPD detectives were in the building.

  Thanks to the lateness of the hour, the second elevator was swift. Nick aimed his gun at the widening opening in the doors. The car was empty like the first.

  “Damn.” Nick looked over his shoulder. Ethan was riffling around under the reception desk. Charlie was still frozen. “Ethan, we don’t have time for that. Let’s move.”

  His partner muttered something—most likely derogatory—under his breath, but he joined Nick in the elevator car. Nick punched the twenty-seventh floor button.

  Before the doors slid shut, Nick said, “Charlie, get under the desk and don’t do anything stupid.”

  It seemed to take forever for each floor number to light up. The atmosphere in the elevator car was thick with anticipation. At the periphery of his vision, Nick saw Ethan pause a moment too long with his hand inside his jacket before withdrawing his own weapon.

  “Damn it, Ethan, you’re not up to this.”

  “I’m fine,” his partner said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I can still aim and shoot.”

  “Like hell.”

  “I plan on leaving the heroics up to you.”

  “Maybe you should leave the shooting up to me, as well. I don’t want to explain to Torie why you’re missing body parts.”

  Ethan shot his partner a disgruntled look but remained silent. Nick shook his head.

  When twenty-four lit up, Nick’s fingers reflexively tightened around the grip of his Glock. The ding announcing arrival at the top floor finally came, and the doors began to part. Each man took a side, weapons ready. Nick stopped breathing even as the adrenaline pumped furiously through his veins and his heart threatened to burst through his chest.

  The elevator doors opened fully and no gunfire greeted them. In fact, no one was standing around anxiously awaiting the elevator’s arrival.

  Cautiously, Nick and Ethan stepped off the elevator. Two sets of eyes took in the double doors to 27A. They were ajar, and no sound was coming from behind the heavy slabs of wood. The corridor was empty, a fire door on the far left side. Nick’s eyes narrowed on the dark stain on the wall beside the doorframe. It was a palm print—and Nick would bet anything that it was in blood.

  “The stairs,” Nick said softly, as he hurried to the fire door and listened. Nothing. He grabbed the doorknob, the back of his mind registering the slick wetness on the steel, twisted and pulled, opening the door a fraction. The heavy sounds of feet falling rapidly on the steps came from below him. Two sets of feet. The suspects were in a hurry and were already at least three floors down. Nick cursed.

  He heard Ethan come up behind him and said, “You have the penthouse.” With his current blood-alcohol level, his partner would probably slip on the stairs and break more than just his face. “I’ll go after the suspects.”

  The heavy, steel fire door was closing behind Nick before his partner could protest.

  As the door closed with a decisive click, Nick dismissed a niggling thought in the back of his head and nearly threw himself down the carpeted stairs, taking the steps three at a time.

  “Stop! Police!” When did that ever work? Still, he had—

  Pfft! Pfft!

  “Fuck!” Nick hit the stairs as the bullets whistled by him and plaster exploded above his head. In that one instant, he would swear he could hear the blood rushing through the atria and ventricles of his heart.

  On his back with the carpet-covered edges of the steps digging into him, Nick extended his arm, pointed his gun down over the side of the stairs and squeezed the trigger.

  Without a suppressor, the report of his Glock was deafening in the enclosed space, seeming to reverberate through the stairwell.

  Then the footfalls below him started up again, faster than before.

  Nick got to his feet and began taking each set of stairs in two bounds. The rapid, heavy footfalls just ahead of him rang in his ears, accompanied by his own rhythmic thumps.

  After leaving the eighteenth floor behind—heart jack hammering, adrenaline pumping, the air in his lungs burning—indecipherable voices drifted up to him. Instincts he’d learned never to question had him hitting the stairs again just before several more soft pffts sounded and more plaster exploded around him.

  Nick heard a door slamming back against the wall. Shit. They were going for the elevator.

  He inched forward—and flinched when another bullet dug into the wall high above him.

  Correction: only one of them was going for the elevator. The other was keeping him pinned down until it arrived.

  Another two bullets, and Nick heard the maddening sound of the fire door hitting the wall again. He shot to his feet, jumped two more landings and wrenched the fire door on the fifteenth floor open, running for the elevators in the middle of the floor.

  The steel doors were closed.

  Nick could see the floor indicator on the second elevator des
cending. Frustration beat at his chest and he cursed, loudly and colorfully. He pounded his fist against the wall and kicked the baseboard. In an ideal world, the cavalry would be ready and waiting to greet the suspects on the ground, but Nick had never been one for idealism. He glared at the first set of elevator doors and cursed his own damned foresight. Then he glanced at the fire doors at the end of the corridor. He had no chance of making it to the ground before the elevator, but he had to try.

  Jumping the stairs in one leap from landing to landing, he soon burst from the fire door on the main floor and into the lobby. It was empty. He ran for the entrance, but by the time his shoes slapped the concrete, the wrenching frustration constricting his lungs told him he’d lost. He whipped his head back and forth. Central Park, ominous in the dark, stretched out in front of him. No movement. Nothing. Only a handful of curious passersby stood at a cautious distance from his SUV. A few looked at him, but none offered any assistance. Jaw and fists clenched, Nick stalked up to the battered vehicle and banged the fist clutching the gun on the roof. Hard. Another dent wouldn’t matter now.