Crashing down, p.1
Crashing Down, page 1
CRASHING DOWN
H.K. CHRISTIE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by H.K. Christie
Cover design by Suzana Stankovic
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
If you would like to use material from this book, prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at:
www.authorhkchristie.com
First edition: August 2020
03Oct23hc
ALSO BY H.K. CHRISTIE
The Martina Monroe Series is a nail-biting crime thriller series starring PI Martina Monroe and her unofficial partner Detective August Hirsch of the Cold Case Squad. If you like high-stakes games, jaw-dropping twists, and suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat, then you’ll love the Martina Monroe crime thriller series.
The Neighbor Two Doors Down is a a dark and witty psychological thriller. If you like unpredictable twists, page-turning suspense, and unreliable narrators, then you’ll love The Neighbor Two Doors Down.
The Selena Bailey Series (1 - 5) is a suspenseful series featuring a young Selena Bailey and her turbulent path to becoming a top notch kick-ass private investigator as led by her mentor, Martina Monroe.
A Permanent Mark A heartless killer. Weeks without answers. Can she move on when a murderer walks free? If you like riveting suspense and gripping mysteries then you'll love A Permanent Mark - starring a grown up Selena Bailey.
For a full catalog, or to purchase signed paperbacks and audiobooks direct from H.K. Christie go to: www.authorhkchristie.com
At www.authorhkchristie.com you can also sign up for the H.K. Christie reader club where you’ll be the first to hear about upcoming novels, new releases, giveaways, promotions, and a free e-copy of the prequel to the Martina Monroe Thriller Series, Crashing Down!
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Thank you!
About the Author
Acknowledgments
1
He licked his lips as he thought about what she would taste like. An elegant blonde with curves in all the right places. She was a beauty; her ex hadn’t lied about that. He knew the two of them would have some fun together. Refocusing his gaze, he checked outside of his modest rental car.
Eight o’clock in the evening and the neighborhood was shut down for the night. She had moved into a quiet apartment complex nestled amongst the wealthy residential neighborhood with sycamore trees and manicured lawns and what he guessed were 2.4 kids for every white picket fence. It was one of those neighborhoods where bad things didn’t happen.
The streets were silent, except for leaves rattling in the light breeze. Not a soul outside. No fit owners walking Fido. No teenagers out having a clandestine adventure. It was a Tuesday night, all the kiddos in the neighborhood must’ve been at home doing homework or glued to their screens, furiously texting their friends that they’d been with just hours ago.
He adjusted himself and wrinkled his nose at the scent of stale cigarette smoke and artificial forest. The idiots at the rental agency probably thought a pine-scented air freshener would cover up the residual smell from the previous renter’s smoking habit. He should’ve cracked the window before he’d shut off the engine. Whatever. He’d endured worse. Much worse.
With both hands, he grabbed the newly purchased camera, fitted with a telephoto lens, from the passenger seat and pulled it onto his lap. He peered up at the second-floor window where he watched as the blonde uncharacteristically puttered around her kitchen cooking herself a hot dinner. Good for you, darlin’. She deserved more than her usual cold cereal or protein bar.
Sure, the fact that she was on the second floor made it a tad more challenging to watch and enter covertly. But, from his current vantage point, he could see a glass slider with a standard lock, which could easily be removed with a few common tools. The wooden, enclosed balcony made it no more difficult to reach the top floor than climbing a medium-height fence.
The front entry was right out in the open with a deadbolt. A bit riskier, but that’s not how he’d get in, although he could if he wanted. All it took was a little planning and a good backstory for being there in the first place. Cable guy. Maintenance guy. Package delivery guy. It was barely a challenge.
She was easy to find for supposedly being a “smart chick.” Maybe her ex had given her too much credit. Despite the measures she’d taken to start over, like changing her last name and her geographical location, it had taken him all of twenty-four hours to find her. And the apartment? Terrible choice. Too many trees and bushes with inadequate lighting where one could lurk. She, like most women, probably thought living on the second floor would keep out the … well, people like him. It wouldn’t. If there was a will, there was always a way.
He raised his camera and watched her for a moment before snapping a shot of her. She bent down into the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of red pasta sauce. Click. Click. Click.
He continued watching through the lens as she drained a pot of steaming linguini into a strainer in the sink before retrieving a fork and dropping a hearty helping of the pasta into a white china bowl. She set her bowl down on the counter and took hold of the small pot from the stove and poured the chunky red sauce into it. She grinned as if pleased with herself for finally making a proper meal. She lifted a glass of red wine and took a sip. It must’ve been a rough day, but she seemed to be in good spirits. She didn’t usually drink. Or socialize or do much of anything other than go to work, run on her treadmill that sat in the middle of her living room, or watch television. He’d never seen her with any friends or lovers. She kept to herself. That was no way to blend in, was it?
A rattling noise near the rear of his car caused him to jerk the camera down. His body tensed as he turned to look out the back window. No movement. All clear. His body relaxed as he told himself that it must’ve been a small animal, like a squirrel or a bird. There were plenty of those creatures running around the neighborhood. He surveyed outside his car once again, calming down. He’d been careful.
She didn’t seem to have a clue about how to disappear or that she was being watched. She didn’t even keep the curtains shut for Pete’s sake. Not that he’d be able to get a good view without the proper equipment, but with it, it was like watching a movie on TV. He snapped a few more photos before setting his camera back down onto the passenger seat. He glanced back up. Enjoy your dinner, darlin’, and I’ll see you tomorrow.
2
MARTINA
I squeezed my eyes shut and wished my job was obsolete. I wished that women, children, and other victims didn’t need my protection. I wished I hadn’t received another call that another woman needed my help. Another victim in which the police’s hands were tied and couldn’t help. I wished the stalking laws were different and provided more protection. Wishing. Hoping. I don’t think it made a difference. There wasn’t anything I could do, but to do my job. Martina Monroe, Security Specialist and Private Investigator at your service.
I used to love my job. It gave me purpose. It made me feel like I was doing something that helped others, and damn it, I was good at it. Now it all was overwhelming. I missed my partner.
I shook my head. I couldn’t think of him right now. I had a job to do. I took a sip from the flask, screwed the cap back on, and slipped it into the top drawer of my nightstand. One day at a time.
It wasn’t like I didn’t already have a crazy-busy week, but I couldn’t turn down this woman who, according to Mrs. Pearson, sounded frantic and in much need of our help. At Drakos Security & Investigations, we didn’t turn down those in need.
I pushed off my too-empty bed and straightened the sheets and pulled up the navy-blue duvet. It wasn’t regulation, but it was good enough. I stripped off my sweatpants and army T-shirt, folding them neatly and setting them on the edge of the bed, then headed for the shower. Time to start the day.
I inhaled deeply as I lathered up the lavender-mint shampoo, hoping the supposed stress-relieving properties would take over. No dice. Apparently my tension was impervious to aromatherapy. It was only seven in the morning, and my whole body was already a ball of nerves. I rinsed and shut off the water. Stepping out of the stall, I wrapped my body with a white, fluffy towel and began my morning breathing exercises. Before I could exhale, a high-pitched “Mommy!” sounded from the hall along with the pattering of feet.
Zoey didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she continued to shout “Mommy! Mommy!” as she barged into my master bathroom. Zoey’s long chestnut hair was perfectly combed, and she was dressed in her favorite jeans with rhinestones dow n the sides and a white long-sleeved cotton tee with a heart made of pink sequins adorning the front. Her baby blue eyes widened. “You remember we have to leave early today, right?”
Of course, I remembered. Zoey had reminded me no less than thirty times that she needed to bring in her experiment for the second-grade science fair and that she needed my help to carry it into the school.
My first thought had been, There was a science fair for second graders? I thought it was great the district was teaching STEM in the schools, but then I quickly realized it was likely just more work for the parents. Well, maybe for other parents. Zoey had led the whole thing like a master commander. The day she’d learned of the science fair, she checked out a book from the library that described 101 different science fair experiments. By the time I’d arrived home that day, she and her nanny, Claire, had the entire design along with a list of needed supplies planned out. Zoey presented her plan to me like she was going into battle and lives were at stake. At seven years old, Zoey was a natural leader—just like her father. Zoey was so much like him, sometimes it caused a physical pain in my chest. Every time I looked into Zoey’s eyes, I saw Jared’s. I forced a reassuring grin. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Can you make yourself some cereal for breakfast?”
Zoey put a tiny fist on her hip. “Cereal? No eggs? No protein?”
Yes, she was a miniature Jared.
“Just today. I promise a balanced dinner with adequate protein. Deal?”
Zoey tipped her head, squinting her eyes, and said, “Deal.”
As she scampered off, I shook my head in disbelief. Sometimes, I couldn’t believe Zoey had come from me. She was such an amazing, happy kid. That little girl was my whole world when I wasn’t busy trying to save everyone else’s.
I’d always been the protector ever since my military days, and now as a security consultant and a private investigator, I tried to be the rock for those who needed me. I never thought there’d be a time when I might need saving, but if I were honest with myself, most days I ran on fumes.
I’d gained the label as strong and brave, both before and after Jared’s death. Friends and family had all said how they’d admired my strength and that I’d handled his death admirably. I hadn’t, but I hadn’t been woman enough to admit it aloud. I’d always advised other women that accepting help when offered was brave and to be commended.
I was a hypocrite.
It had become a daily struggle to figure out how I could keep up with my life. Protecting others. Being a single mother. A widow. I missed Jared so much my heart ached daily.
I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and returned to the bedroom, pulled open my dresser drawer, and took out my daily uniform, black slacks, and black blouse or sweater, depending on the weather. Sensible shoes.
I didn’t open the bottom drawer. It was Jared’s. I still hadn’t been able to get rid of his things.
I stepped into the kitchen where Zoey was perched on the seat of her dining chair, finishing the last of her Cheerios at the dining table. I watched her in amazement, marveling at everything she did. She was independent, smart, charming, and empathetic. She always seemed to understand when I needed a little help. God, I hated that my seven-year-old knew when I needed help. I should be the one taking care of her and helping her. Days like these, I felt like a terrible parent.
I pulled my travel mug from the cabinet above the coffee maker and proceeded to feed the Keurig a pod. The sound of the dripping coffee was a lifeline. At the last drop, I clutched the cool stainless-steel exterior of the mug and inhaled the scent. Glancing over my shoulder, Zoey was intently eating her cereal. I swiveled back, stealthily reached into the cabinet, and splashed a dose of Four Roses Bourbon and shame into my coffee, then screwed on the lid.
I took a sip of the spiked coffee and nearly dropped it at the sound of water trickling out of the faucet. My little Zoey, rinsing her dish and putting it in the dishwasher. How many other seven-year-olds did that?
I faced her with the best smile I could muster. “You all set?”
She pointed her index finger up. “Almost. I need a cooler. Where might I find one?”
A genuine smile crept up one side of my face. “It’s in the hall closet.”
“Thank you very much,” she said with a slight lisp, due to her missing incisors, before skittering down the hallway and returning with the Coleman clutched with both hands. She set it down in front of the refrigerator and pulled open the bottom drawer, the freezer. Without a word, she began loading it up with her science experiment—a set of plastic bottles filled with different liquids, some now frozen. Zoey had decided she would investigate the effects of freezing on different types of liquids. I admired her as she zipped the cooler and attempted to lift the heavy container on her shoulder. She strained and grimaced. Tough as nails in a tutu. Jared’s apt description of our daughter. It was true she was tough, but she loved all things pink and sparkly. I have no idea where she got that from.
Zoey didn’t ask for help as she labored to move away from the refrigerator with the heavy bag. In fear of her dislocating her shoulder, I asked, “You want me to help you with that?”
Zoey nodded with a bit of defeat in her eyes. I grabbed the cooler and my backpack, with the coffee travel mug clutched in my hand. “Now, are we ready?”
She picked up her pink backpack covered in pastel-colored hearts and fed her arms into the straps. “Affirmative.”
Buckled up in the Volvo, I rubbed my temples before turning the key. From behind, I heard, “Mommy, are you okay? Do you have another headache?”
It wasn’t fair that Zoey was always trying to take care of me. “No, I’m all right. Just thinking about all the things I need to do. I received a call from the office this morning, and it’s confirmed: this will be a hectic week.”
“Helping more people?”
“Yep.” Another victim.
“That’s so cool. When I grow up, I want to help people too.”
I glanced at Zoey’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “That’s great, honey.” I wanted to help people too. I just hoped I wasn’t too late.
3
MARTINA
I sheepishly grinned at Julie as we ordered lunch in the busy cafe filled with professional types, likely on their lunch break. Her hunched posture, pale skin, and eyes that constantly searched the room for a threat was a telltale sign. Julie De Soto had been a victim for a long time. Five years. The perpetrator of her hell: her husband. It’s not typical that we meet off-campus except with victims of domestic violence. Julie is one of the luckier ones, we think. A relative of hers came to us with concerns that something wasn’t right in the marriage. Julie had shown up too many times with bruises and unexplained broken bones. Too many accidents to be believable. To her family, Julie had denied all the allegations against her husband of five years. He was a prominent attorney in the San Francisco Bay Area and had a stellar reputation.
My initial assessment, based on her family’s description, was that Julie was too ashamed to admit that she, an educated, smart woman, had fallen victim to his charms. I doubt she understood the fact that domestic violence doesn’t discriminate based on age, gender, race, or economic status.
When her sister, Monica, contacted us, she asked if there was anything that we could do to provide security and to move Julie into a safe house. That was if Julie would agree. It was a big if. It took most victims seven attempts before successfully escaping an abusive relationship. Julie was lucky in that she had a family member with financial means who reached out to us to get her help. It was rare. We hoped to get it right on the first try and initiate protective orders after bringing Julie to safety.
