The 13th Victim Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  DEDICATION AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  Other Books By Linda S. Prather

  THE 13th VICTIM

  LINDA S. PRATHER

  New York Times and USA Today Best Selling Author, Linda S. Prather

  Copyright © 2017 Linda S. Prather

  Digital Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the site and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a 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.

  DEDICATION AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Dedicated to my wonderful family, friends and fans for their encouragement and constant prodding.

  A special thank you to Mel Comley and Mum, as well as a very special ARC group who keep me plugging along at the computer.

  Thank you to Red Adept Editing, who’s fabulous content editor, Alyssa, helped me make this book the very best it could be. A special thanks to my line editor, Kate and proofreader, Kristina. Without you, I’d be lost.

  And to the wonderful Facebook groups that help support independent and traditionally published authors. Waving to TBC and its fabulous readers and authors.

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  PROLOGUE

  “Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t hurt you again.”

  Andi Carter stared into the deep-green eyes of Richard Thomas as she tried to collect enough saliva to swallow. Pain had dulled her senses, and her throat was raw from screaming. She wasn’t sure she could speak, or if she did somehow manage to utter a few words if they would be coherent. “I don’t… I don’t know what you want… to know,” she whispered.

  Thomas sighed as he followed her gaze to the door leading out of the basement. “Still think Jerry is going to barge through that door and save you, Andi? He isn’t, you know. In fact, dear old Jerry is the reason you’re here. He’s the one who told me what you were up to.”

  A burning river of rage flowed through her, much like the sensation from the whiskey he kept forcing her to drink, but instead of dulling her senses, it cleared her mind. He’s going to kill me anyway. “Jerry Palano is a good cop. Scum like you would never understand that. If he told you anything it was because he was your partner and he trusted you.”

  He flashed his even white teeth, but the green of his eyes darkened. “That’s my Andi, spirited and loyal to the end. Would you like a drink?” He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table. “If you spill it, you know it’s going to hurt.” He inserted the tip of the bottle between her lips. “Drink up now, like a good girl. Then we’ll talk some more.”

  Andi tilted her head back, guzzling the alcohol. Tears ran freely down her face as a tiny stream of alcohol dripped from her chin onto the raw, blistered flesh of her legs. The pain was excruciating, and she struggled not to scream as she continued to drink, praying for oblivion.

  Only when the bottle was empty did Thomas pull it away and pick up the scalpel. “Tell me what I want to know, and I won’t hurt you again.”

  “Gambini! Gambini was running young girls. I was going to expose him.” She began to slur her words, which sounded as if they came from a long way off. “Please. Please just kill me.”

  Thomas began to laugh, his roar filling the damp, musty room. “I can’t believe that crap actually works.” He leaned in close, his breath hot on her cheek as he whispered, “I’m not going to kill you, Andi, but you’re going to wish I had.”

  His threat seeped through the alcohol-induced fog as bile rose in her throat. A tiny pinpoint of satisfaction surged through her as she opened her mouth and spewed vomit on both of them.

  “Son of a bitch.” Thomas leapt up, knocking over his chair. “You’ll pay for that, Carter.”

  Andi tried to smile, but the acidity of the vomit had reignited the pain from her cuts and burns. She began to tremble, her breath coming in short gasps as she watched his hands clench and unclench. Three days as his captive had convinced her of one thing—Thomas was crazy. His moods swung from euphoric enjoyment of torturing her to angry depression, and occasionally to apologetic sympathy for having caused her pain. I don’t really want to die.

  Thomas pushed the table bearing his torture instruments into her view and lit the blowtorch. “You shouldn’t have done that, Andi. I was going to let you go.”

  “Please don’t, Richard. I told you what you wanted to know. You promised you wouldn’t hurt me again.” She struggled against the ropes binding her arms and legs.

  He studied her, tilting his head to the side. “I did, didn’t I?” His lips puckered as he turned off the torch. “Perhaps I’ll give you some time to think about your apology.” He leaned in close, staring directly into her eyes. “Your punishment will depend on just how well you can beg.”

  Sobs shook her body as she watched him leave, the heavy steel door slamming behind him. The alcohol had dulled the pain in her body, but not the emotional devastation of realizing Jerry wasn’t going to save her. He betrayed me.

  Time passed as she drifted in and out of consciousness until a scraping noise at the door jerked her wide awake. The door slowly swung open and Stuart Gambini peered inside.

  “Jesus.” He crossed the room and knelt in front of her then grabbed the scalpel on the table and quickly cut the ropes around her wrists and ankles. “I’m gonna get you out of here. Can you walk?”

  “Why? You�
�re just going to kill me anyway. Do it here,” Andi croaked out. Her mind was still fuzzy, but she was pretty sure Gambini was the reason she was here.

  Gambini frowned, took off his jacket, and lifted her from the chair. “We can talk about that later. Here, wrap this around you. Patrick is waiting for us at the top of the stairs.” He slipped her arms through the sleeves and pulled the coat up around her shoulders.

  “How did you find me?” Andi leaned against him, taking a step toward the door, leaving small smears of blood on the floor from her swollen feet.

  “I’ve had my girls watching Thomas. This is the only place he kept coming back to.” Stuart placed an arm around her and half lifted, half dragged her toward the door. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  She placed her right foot on the first step. Taking a deep breath, she raised her left foot and put it on the second step. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Put your arm around my neck.” Stuart tightened his hold around her waist, placed an arm under her legs, and picked her up. “We’ll hide you at the boarding house for the time being.”

  Andi leaned into him and placed her head on his shoulder. “I need to call the Tribune. I was on a case, and they must be going crazy wondering what happened to me.”

  “You’re old news. They gave up on finding you after the first three weeks.”

  “Three weeks? I’ve only been missing three days.”

  Stuart grunted as he took the last step. “Honey, you’ve been missing for over a month.”

  Darkness closed in around her. A month? What the hell did Thomas do to me before he tortured me?

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Carter!”

  Andi Carter glanced at Matt Sinclair’s closed door and smiled. She’d been expecting his yell ever since she’d emailed him her latest article.

  “The master summons you, lassie. You’d best be hopping to it.”

  “Screw you, Irish.” Andi stubbed out the cigarette she’d just lit, stood, and smoothed out the wrinkles of her pants. She rolled down her shirt sleeves and picked up her jacket. I’m not changing one damn word of that article.

  Shamus O’Conner grinned broadly. “About that offer to screw me, lass.”

  Andi leaned across his desk, placing her hands firmly in front of her, her face only inches from his. “When hell freezes over… lad.” She waited a second or two for his witty and usually stupid comeback, but he swallowed hard and looked away.

  “I was only kidding. Give a lad a break, will you? Today’s me birthday, and I just turned twenty-one. Legal at the pubs now.” He picked up a folder and held it out to her. “Don’t forget your file.”

  Andi took the manila folder and studied the curly red hair and freckled face of her newest apprentice. He’d only been in America six months. She actually loved his Irish accent and hoped he didn’t lose it too soon. She also had a feeling he’d take a bullet for her. That was the problem—he was just a kid, still green around the gills. “Well, happy birthday, Irish, but if you want to live to see twenty-two, you’ll tone down that sense of humor.”

  She glanced longingly at the crumpled cigarette before stalking toward Matt Sinclair’s office. All she’d ever wanted was to be a top-notch investigative reporter with a major newspaper, or television station. So how the hell did I wind up thirty-five years old and working at this shitty hole in the wall?

  The answer to that question carried quite a sting, but she refused to think about the obvious reason. My legs are too short, hair too stringy, and teeth not white enough, that’s why. And even if I fix my hair and whiten my teeth, I’ll still look like a blind dog in a meat market in those short, contoured dresses and high heels.

  Andi knew what Sinclair was angry about, but it was time he faced reality and started producing a real newspaper, not a bunch of celebrity gossip pages. She stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath. So what if I take a little creative license with my articles? She called a spade a spade, and an ass an ass. Sinclair should appreciate that, and the readers certainly did. Her articles had increased the circulation of the Daily Drudge by fifty percent in the previous six months. And what the hell was he thinking when he named the paper? It wasn’t even a daily paper. Andi expelled another deep breath and opened the door. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Close the door, Carter.” Sinclair glared at her from behind his hundred-year-old tattered oak desk. “And take a seat.”

  Andi pulled a chair near the desk and sat down, crossing her legs and folding her arms over her chest. She’d be damned if she’d let his icy glare intimidate her. “So, what’s up?”

  “What’s up!” Sinclair tossed the paperwork he’d been reading across the desk. “You can’t call the mayor’s wife a lush, dressed like a floozy. That’s what’s up.”

  Andi felt a twitch and bit down on her bottom lip to stifle a laugh. She’d never wanted to cover the mayor’s political dinner and had told Sinclair as much. She’d also told him she was tired of writing trash. She wanted something she could sink her teeth into. “I call it like I see it. That’s why your readers love me.”

  Sinclair ran a hand over his eyes, sighed, and lowered his voice. “Divina Morgan is my sister, Andi. Comment on her dress, her hair, her makeup. Be creative and give the readers something out of Vogue. As much as we don’t like politics, we have to live with them. The mayor is a powerful man, and Divina would never forgive me.” He waved a trembling hand at the article. “I can’t print that.”

  The trembling hand and the fact he’d used her first name were dead giveaways of just how scared he was she’d pack up and walk out before she’d change an article. And I would, if I had any other damn options. “All right, on one condition.”

  Sinclair eyed her suspiciously. “What kind of condition? We’re barely making ends meet. I can’t afford to pay you more.”

  Andi uncrossed her legs, placed her hands on her knees, and leaned forward. “No more political dinners. A ten-year-old could cover those things. I’ve been listening to the police scanners, and I want to cover crime. You agree to that, and I’ll change the article.”

  “We don’t have a crime section.” Sinclair frowned, avoiding her eyes as he shuffled files on his desk. “The last time you wrote crime for a paper didn’t go too well for you, as I recall.”

  The blood drained from her face, but she refused to give in to the sinking depression that normally followed any mention of her former life. “That was ten years ago, Sinclair. I’m a lot older now and a lot smarter.”

  He shrugged. “What makes you think our readers would even want to read that stuff?”

  Andi walked to his trash can and pulled out a paper. “Because ninety percent of the people in this godforsaken city are buying the Tribune.” She tossed the paper on his desk. “Even you. They’re not buying it for the celebrity posts, or the DIY articles, or any of the garbage we print.” She tapped the article on the current influx of drugs and prostitution in West Hollywood. “They’re buying it for this. If you want to make money, then you’ll start competing and produce a real newspaper that goes out daily. And you need an online site. You’re missing out on a lot of sales because you’re cheap. It takes money to make money.”

  Sinclair pursed his lips, which pulled the wrinkles around his mouth tighter. “You got a story?”

  A surge of excitement rushed through her. “Not yet, but the stories are out there. All I have to do is hit the pavement. I’m a damn good reporter, Sinclair. Give me a chance to prove it.”

  Sinclair was nodding thoughtfully, and she knew he was comparing the cost of ink and paper to the giddy ideas of increased circulation and money in his pocket. “All right. We’ll try it for one week. If sales don’t improve, you cover local events without all the bitching. If they improve, we’ll look into the online site.”

  “And the daily paper?”

  “One week, Carter.”

  Andi grinned, picking up her file and the article. “I’ll have this back to you in five.”
<
br />   Shamus was watching for her as she walked out of the office. He quickly scanned her face for clues. I guess he figures if I got fired, he’d be out of a job too. Andi dropped the article on his desk. “Take out the lush-and-floozy part and write something flowery.”

  “The hell you say? There’s nothing flowery about the wench. If it weren’t for all the liquor in her blood she could be called the ice queen.”

  “She’s Sinclair’s sister.”

  Shamus glanced at Sinclair’s closed door. “Jiminy, who’d a thunk it?”

  “Definitely not me. Come on, Irish. You can think of something, I’m sure. Get it to Sinclair in five and I’ll buy your first legal drink. I’ve convinced him to give us a chance to write crime, do a daily paper, and maybe even put up an online site. We’ve got work to do before morning.”

  “Now, you’re talking.” Shamus grabbed the article and turned on his computer. In minutes his fingers were moving across the keys. “How’s this? ‘The lovely Divina Morgan shined in regal form as she toasted her husband’s supporters with exuberance, dressed in a form-fitting piece of pure magic.’”

  Andi shook her head and stuffed a notepad in her purse. “It sucks, but Sinclair will love it. Email it to him, then print it and give him a copy. Make it quick. I want to get to the bar before all the juicy stuff gets grabbed up by someone else.”

  Shamus returned in seconds pulling on his coat. “Are you really taking me to a pub?”

  “O’Reilly’s, down on Fifteenth.”

  “Isn’t that where all the Garda hang out?”

  “Yep, and that’s where the best stories are.” Andi strolled out in front of him. “Listen, Irish, you need to get your language right. It’s ‘bars’ in America, and we call them ‘cops’ or ‘the police.’”

  “Aye, and my name’s not Irish.” He moved around her to open the door. “It’s Shamus O’Conner.”

  Andi brushed past him. “A broken nose would ruin that pretty face of yours, so if you want to hang out with me, learn the language.”