The Detective's Daughter, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE DETECTIVE'S DAUGHTER
First edition. March 29, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 Erica Spindler.
ISBN: 978-1944323288
Written by Erica Spindler.
THE DETECTIVE’S DAUGHTER
ERICA SPINDLER
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
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Also by Erica Spindler
ONE
Rourke Conners
1994
* * *
4:05 p.m.
The Hudson Mansion, New Orleans, Louisiana
The first officers had already set up an outer perimeter, closing off one lane of St. Charles Avenue for a half a block in either direction of the scene. Traffic had slowed to a snarl and drivers were pissed. Sorry someone was dead, but damn, it was Friday afternoon, places to go, people to see.
Detective Rourke Conners held up his shield and the patrol cop waved him through the entrance gate. He parked in front of the stone mansion—arguably the most unique residence on The Avenue—but didn’t cut the engine. In the drive around the side of the house, he saw several work vehicles—a painters’ van, a landscape company truck, a couple battered looking pick-ups and an ADT security systems van.
Rourke drew in a deep breath, then took a quick glance in the rearview. He looked like shit. Red eyes. Dark circles under them. Lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there a month ago.
He tightened his hands on the wheel, willing them not to shake. Pull yourself the fuck together, man. It’s go time.
He cut the engine, then swung out of the car, mustering a confident swagger from memory. His partner had arrived right behind him, and Rourke met him halfway. Mikey Bruzeau was ninth ward, all the way. Or as Mikey would say, the ‘nint’ ward.
“Good to have you back, partner,” Mikey said, slapping him on the back.
“Good to be back.” They fell into step together. “Cleared for duty an hour ago.”
“Just in time to make the party.”
“Lucky me,” Rourke muttered. “What do you know?”
“Not much. Vic’s name is Cynthia Hudson, wife of Bill Hudson, the son of Charles Hudson.”
“The oil and gas, real estate magnate Hudsons?”
“The very ones.”
“Damn. That’s one hell of a welcome-back party.”
“I expect the chief will be making an appearance any moment.”
Rourke inclined his head. “Makes sense. I’m surprised the press isn’t all over this already.”
As the words passed his lips, the first news outlet arrived—the FOX affiliate. A reporter jumped out before the van had completely come to a stop.
She ran to the gate. “Detectives! Any information you can share at this point?”
Ignoring her, they made their way up the azalea-lined walkway. All in bloom, the path was a riot of brilliant pink.
Rourke couldn’t quite look at them. They reminded him too much of Maggie. She’d loved spring. Loved when the azaleas burst forth, covering the city in pink and white blossoms.
Fuck. He felt like he was drowning.
“How’s Quinn?”
“Cries for her mother every night.”
The words came out thick. Revealing.
“Damn, man, I’m sorry—”
“No.” Rourke cleared his throat. “Don’t be. Thanks for asking.”
“If there’s anything Betsy and I can do, we’re here.”
“Appreciate it.”
They reached the palatial home’s front entrance. Crime scene tape stretched across the door. At the sight of it, Rourke’s heartbeat quickened, his palms began to sweat.
A fight or flight response. Considering his line of work, it was probably slowly killing him, but it gave him an edge on the job, too. The same response that made his adrenaline spike, heightened his senses. All of them.
They ducked under the tape, stepped inside. Cavernous. Ornate. The whoosh of a tomb—or of monied silence. The fireplace in the open seating area dead ahead was massive. As big as Quinn’s nursery.
Rourke wandered toward it. The lemony scent of furniture polish stung his nose, mixing with the perfume wafting from the huge spray of blossoms in the entryway. A clock ticking, somewhere close.
He shifted his gaze; it landed on the couch. A magazine tossed carelessly aside. He crossed to it. New Orleans Magazine, open to a piece on the innovative, female chefs taking the city’s restaurant scene by storm. A cigarette butt in an ashtray. Beside it, a rocks glass. Mostly empty save for melting ice. Rourke bent, sniffed. Whiskey.
From behind him, Mikey greeted the officer at the bottom of the staircase. “Yo, Peanut. What do we have?”
The small, fastidious man didn’t seem to mind the moniker. “Dead female. Looks like a blow to the back of her head killed her.”
“Who called it in?”
“Vic’s father-in-law. He’s pretty shaken up. He’s waiting on the patio. The household staff is with him. Officer Pratt is keeping them all company.”
“Don’t let him go anywhere. Where is she?”
“Upstairs, then left.”
Rourke rejoined his partner, nodded at Peanut. They started up the stairs. A huge tapestry occupied the wall to the left. Seemed a bit overblown, even for this place. But what did he know? He’d grown up in a small shotgun house in the Marigny neighborhood—way before the Marigny had become cool.
They reached the top floor and went left, heading toward the officer stationed outside an open door. He looked bored.
“Vic’s in the ensuite,” he said.
They entered the bedroom, then split up, Mikey heading toward the ensuite bathroom, Rourke hanging back. Rourke preferred to take in a scene solo. Put his own thoughts together before they were contaminated by those of others.
Rourke moved his gaze over the room. Cynthia Hudson had put up a hell of a fight. Drapes pulled from the rod. Bedside lamp shattered. Dresser drawers open, clothing strewn about.
The drawers gave the impression of a robbery, maybe interrupted in process. He drew his eyebrows together. If so, what had the perp been looking for?
He turned back to the bored sentinel. “Has a complete search of the home been done?”
“It has, Detective.”
“Any of the other rooms disturbed?”
“Not that I saw, no.”
Rourke nodded, turned back to the scene, gaze settling on the four-poster bed. The rumpled spread lay half on, half off. Like somebody had been trying to crawl over the bed and was dragged back. Rourke lowered his gaze. Something peeked out from under the bedskirt.
He fitted on scene gloves, squatted down, noting the carpet was wet. He slid his gaze. Flowers, purple and pretty, strew across the floor. Where was the vase? Making a mental note to look for it, he lifted the bedskirt and peered under. An open suitcase. He slid it out. It was empty save for a few T-shirts and a half a dozen pairs of panties.
“Find something?”
He looked over his shoulder at Mikey, standing in the doorway of the ensuite. “Maybe. Take a look.”
He joined Rourke, then met his eyes. “Interesting.”
“Yeah. I wonder where she was going?”
“Or maybe she was returning?”
Rourke frowned. “Maybe.
He stood, made his way into the master bathroom. Beauty products spread across the vanity counter, spilling over onto the floor. Cynthia Hudson, face down in front of the vanity. The back of her head was bashed in, blonde hair matted with blood. Spatter on the adjacent cabinetry. Low, close to the floor.
Rourke picked his way around the body. Location and trajectory of the blood spray indicated the perp hit her when she was already down.
He glanced over his shoulder, to the bedroom. The carpet had been wet. Flowers strewn across the thick pile.
He took in the area, visually sifting through the disarray. Whatever the perp used to kill her, he’d taken it with him.
He moved on, squatting beside her. One hand lay flat, fingers splayed. Like she had tried to break her fall. Nails, he noted, looked clean. No help there.
The other hand was curved into a fist. Rourke leaned closer to get a better look. No, not a fist. Something shiny peeking out from between her curved thumb and forefinger.
The tip of cuticle scissors. She had gone for something to protect herself. She’d never gotten the chance to use them.
Mikey appeared at the door. “Come check this out.”
“You saw the scissors?”
“I did.”
He started to stand, then stopped, noticing bruising on the victim’s neck. He inched aside her shirt collar. More bruises, in a ring. Two that looked like thumbprints.
“Holy shit,” Mikey muttered, “I missed that.”
Rourke stood, stepped back from the victim. “The perp attacked her in the bedroom. She fought hard. My guess is, he got his hands around her neck, but she managed to get free. She runs in here, looking for something to defend herself with—”
“The scissors.”
“Right, but she doesn’t get the chance to use them. He follows her into the bathroom, knocks her down and whacks her on the back head, killing her.”
“We may have a bigger problem,” Mikey murmured.
Rourke frowned and followed him into the hallway, to the next room on the right. The door stood ajar.
Mikey nudged it the rest of the way open. Rourke’s gaze travelled past Mikey, into the room. A nursery, outfitted in pink and white ruffles.
He crossed to the crib, took in the soft, pink blanket and stuffed toys. The abandoned pacifier. He pictured Quinn.
His blood went cold. He met his partner’s gaze. “Where’s the kid?”
TWO
4:35 p.m.
Rourke felt sick to his stomach. There was no reason to expect the child was in danger. Nothing about the bed or room suggested violence had befallen her. The grandfather hadn’t sounded the alarm.
Yet, something felt wrong here, something that caused his skin to crawl.
He turned in a slow circle, taking in every detail: rocking chair, changing table, more plush toys than any child could love, dresser topped with a Mother Goose lamp, framed photos and a sterling brush and comb set.
He crossed to the photos, examined each. All babies were beautiful, but this one seemed particularly so. In each photo, rosy cheeked and cherubic, with blue eyes and a head full of blonde curls. In another picture, a young and beautiful Cynthia Hudson, before someone had stolen her life from her. In another, the happy mother, child and father.
He picked up the sterling brush. It was engraved with an ornate GAH.
He set it down and turned to find Mikey watching him. “What?”
“You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, too close to home maybe?”
He bristled. “I can have a kid and be a cop.”
Mikey held his gaze a moment, then nodded. “Life can be pretty messed up, that’s all I’m saying.”
He had that right. “I think it’s time to have a chat with Mr. Charles Hudson.”
Charles Hudson sat alone, shoulders bent, head in his hands. On the other end of the massive patio, a clutch of household staff huddled together, whispering.
Hudson looked up as they approached, then stood. Rourke saw he was tall and thin, with sharp, hawkish features and eyes that missed nothing. Despite the situation, he emanated strength.
Rourke wasn’t surprised. You didn’t control an empire like Hudson’s by being weak or sloppy.
“You’re going to get the animal who did this,” he said fiercely. “You will make him pay.”
“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Hudson.” Rourke held out his hand. “I’m Detective Conners; this is Detective Bruzeau, and I promise you, we’ll do our best.”
“I don’t accept that. Not good enough.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I want this animal caught, drawn and quartered.”
Mikey stepped in. “We understand that, Mr. Hudson. So I’m sure you’ll do anything in your power to help us—”
Rourke cut him off. “The baby, where is she?”
He swung his gaze back to Rourke. “Grace? With the nanny.”
“Her name?”
“Lucy Praxton.”
“You’re certain Grace is with her?”
Alarm flickered in his eyes. “Where else would she—” He turned, strode toward the group of household staff. “Mrs. Thompson,” he called. “A word. Now.”
The body language of everyone in the group changed. A woman with graying hair separated herself from the others and hurried to meet the older man, smoothing her skirt and jacket as she did.
She stopped before him; her lips trembled slightly. “Sir?”
“Is Grace with Miss Praxton?”
She looked terrified. “I don’t know.”
“Have you seen her today?”
“Grace or Miss Prax—”
“For God’s sake! Miss Praxton!”
Rourke stepped in. “The child is not in her nursery. Mr. Hudson thought she might be with her nanny.”
“She could be, of course. I did see Miss Praxton this morning. I’ll page her immediately.”
She hurried off and Rourke looked back at Charles Hudson. “Perhaps your granddaughter is with your wife?”
“Simone is in Paris, visiting family.”
“When did she leave the country?”
“A week ago.” He grimaced. “I don’t know how I’ll break this to her. She’ll insist on returning immediately, of course.”
“What about your son, Grace’s father? Could she be with him?”
“That would be unusual, but not impossible. I sent my man Shaw to find him.”
“To ‘find’ him?”
“He and Cynthia are building a house in Lake Vista. He went to check on progress there.”
“When was that?”
“Sometime after lunch.”
Now it was nearly dinnertime. “You haven’t seen him since?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“No, but there’s no reason I should have—”
The housekeeper hurried back. “Lucy isn’t responding.”
“Keep trying.”
Another staff member, this one male, approached with a phone. He held out the cordless handset. “Mr. Shaw on line one, sir.”
Hudson took the phone. “Is Bill with you?” He paused then asked, “You told him about Cynthia?”
Rourke watched the man closely. Something about his reactions seemed off. Too composed, almost mechanical. It could be shock. Or maybe ice water ran through his veins.
