Fatal Past: A Jess Kimball Thriller Read online

  FATAL PAST

  A JESS KIMBALL THRILLER

  DIANE CAPRI

  Presented by:

  AugustBooks

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  Praise for

  New York Times and

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Diane Capri

  “Full of thrills and tension, but smart and human, too.

  Kim Otto is a great, great character. I love her.”

  Lee Child, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author of Jack Reacher Thrillers

  “[A] welcome surprise….[W]orks from the first page to ‘The End’.”

  Larry King

  “Swift pacing and ongoing suspense are always present…[L]ikable protagonist who uses her political connections for a good cause… Readers should eagerly anticipate the next [book].”

  Top Pick, Romantic Times

  “…offers tense legal drama with courtroom overtones, twisty plot, and loads of Florida atmosphere. Recommended.”

  Library Journal

  “[A] fast-paced legal thriller…energetic prose…an appealing heroine…clever and capable supporting cast…[that will] keep readers waiting for the next [book].”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Expertise shines on every page.”

  Margaret Maron, Edgar, Anthony, Agatha, and Macavity Award-Winning MWA Past President

  Fatal Past is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the 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.

  Copyright © 2017 Diane Capri

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by: AugustBooks

  Visit the author website:

  DianeCapri.com

  License Notes:

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  Publisher’s Note:

  The publisher and author do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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  eISBN: 978-1-940768-95-3

  Original Cover Design: Michelle Priest

  Digital Formatting: Author E.M.S.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Reviews

  Copyright

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  About the Author

  Also by Diane Capri

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Jessica Kimball

  Sam Sommers

  Melinda McAllister

  Trina Rickland

  CHAPTER ONE

  Good thing I’m not claustrophobic, Sam Sommers thought again as he listened intently to the tour guide. The underground tunnel system of centuries-old stone corridors known as the Mines of Paris was damp and close, but also fascinating.

  Sam shuffled along with the group, resisting the urge to explore on his own. The tour guide had warned them several times.

  The tunnel system was complex, Pierre had said. It was easy to get lost, even in the subset of the network known as the Catacombs of Paris. Some passages were narrow and had low ceilings. Cave-ins weren’t common, but they weren’t rare, either. There were good reasons why wandering the tunnels without an official escort was illegal, and had been since 1955.

  Not that Sam planned to wander around on his own. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but he had no desire to be lost underground forever, either. The mere thought of it sent a shot of electricity through his body. He grimaced. Maybe he was a touch claustrophobic after all.

  A few feet ahead, the group had stopped to hear more of Pierre’s expertise.

  “Then, in the 1800s, the haphazard collection of bones was moved to the care of Louis-Étienne Héricart de Thury. He was tasked with making the underground graveyard into a mausoleum that could be visited by the public.” Pierre spoke in hushed tones, reverently, as a priest might describe the Holy land.

  Pierre’s English was heavily accented, too. Sam had had trouble understanding him from the beginning of the tour. He squinted and leaned in as if those actions would improve Pierre’s delivery or Sam’s own comprehension. Nope.

  “As you can see, those nineteenth-century efforts resulted in the haunting walls made of skulls and femurs that you see today. The history in these walls is breathtaking, and this tour barely scratches the surface. Beneath the Paris streets run many more miles of twists and turns.” Pierre swept his arm out wide with a flourish before dropping his voice to a near whisper. “Who knows what secrets are hidden within the depths of the mines?”

  “Spooky,” said the man standing next to him.

  Sam shot a grin to the fellow at his side and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Pierre’s really selling it, isn’t he?”

  Despite the guide’s over-the-top performance, Sam found the catacombs pretty amazing. He thought of the magnitude of the underground beneath the city and shook his head in awe.

  See, this was what he’d come to France to do. Granted, he had started slowly. This was his first vacation in more than twenty years, not counting a couple of weekend trips to Vegas for one buddy or another’s bachelor party.

  He’d planned a trip filled with exploration and new experiences, things he’d stubbornly resisted pretty much his whole life. Or, at least, that’s what his ex-wife said when she divorced him.

  Once he’d made the long journey and settled into his swanky room, though, his adventurous spirit abandoned him.

  He’d spent more time exploring the patisseries and sampling the cheeses than exploring the city. He already had an extra inch around the waist to show for it.

  He made a mental note. Tomorrow the choice between stuffing his gullet with fine wine and creamy Gruyère atop a crusty baguette, or ambling around the cobbled streets looking for history and culture would come around again. He vowed to remember how cool these tunnels were and get off his butt.

  His stomach grumbled, and he almost laughed out loud.

  Maybe there was a happy medium. He was here for another two weeks and then it was straight from a three-week “retirement” from the Denver Police Department to running his own private security firm. If he let himself go too much, he’d find himself lacking clients. Nobody wanted an overweight, out of shape ex-cop protecting them, after all.

  Or so he assumed. He’d never worked private security full time. He didn’t know what those pampered rock stars and teen idols wanted. But he would soon find out.

  That settled, he focused again on the wall he’d been studying. A few minutes later, he realized that the majority of the group had followed the guide further away, down a short corridor.

  “I’d love to bring my daughters here.”<
br />
  Sam turned and glanced again at the British guy who had been chatting with him on the bus and through much of the tour. Rory, he’d said his name was.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Rory shrugged. “I couldn’t afford to make the jaunt when they were younger. Now they’re both living in the States, so I really can’t afford it.”

  “Yeah, I have a couple kids myself. A daughter in college and a son who is married. I think they’d love it here. My son, especially.” Sam nodded. “He’s an engineer.”

  “My daughters are both married, too,” Rory replied with a snort. “That’s the thing of it. I’d manage flying them out here, but they’d want their worthless husbands to come. Not on my dime.”

  Sam didn’t want to weigh in on any of that. If he’d wanted family drama, he’d have his own. He tugged out his little pamphlet to check the map.

  He pointed. “Looks like they’re headed this way. Let’s catch up, so we don’t miss anything.”

  Rory fell into step beside him, but as they passed a tunnel blocked off by a rusted, metal door, Sam slowed.

  “Do you smell that?” he asked, sniffing the air.

  “Smell what? I’ve been smelling musty, moldy scents since we started,” Rory replied.

  Sam stopped abruptly.

  Not possible. Surely, he had to be mistaken. After thirty minutes immersed in old bones, his imagination must have kicked in. But as he moved closer to the rusty door, the odor became unmistakable.

  A smell he’d hoped never to encounter again after he’d retired.

  One that had filled his days and haunted his nights for two decades. Surely, he’d had enough already.

  He squeezed his eyes closed and mentally ran through his options. He could call the guide back and tell Pierre his suspicions. But that would cause a panic when he wasn’t even a hundred percent sure himself.

  Or he could roll up his sleeves and check it out. He was probably wrong, anyway.

  He shrugged and approached the twisted metal door. He tugged once, and then again, harder, half hoping it wouldn’t give. Then the decision would be out of his hands.

  At first, the hinges held, but then the metal opened with a screeching squeal. If the gate had ever been sealed tight, it had been pried open recently. Which amped his radar up from orange to full red alert.

  “You’re not supposed to go in there, I don’t think,” Rory said, his tone stiff.

  One hundred percent correct. But with the door opened, the unmistakable odor intensified. The last of Sam’s doubts scattered.

  “Rory, can you do me a favor and run up ahead and alert the tour guide to get everyone topside ASAP? Once he’s done that, have him call the police immediately.”

  Rory stared at him, nonplussed. “What’s going on, mate? Are you having a stroke or something? Do you smell almonds? Because my wife is a nurse, and she says—”

  “Please,” Sam cut in, keeping his voice calm and cool. “I’m fine. This is important. Please do as I ask, all right?”

  Rory’s full head of dark hair bobbed up and down, but his mouth was still flapping. “Right, then. But can you just tell me what’s going on?”

  Sam managed to hold back a frustrated growl as dread washed over him. “I’m afraid there is a dead body behind this gate.”

  Rory smiled. “Haven’t you been listening to Pierre? There’s dead bodies everywhere. This is a sacred burial ground.”

  Sam frowned. “If I’m right, this body is much more recent.”

  Rory’s eyebrows lifted, and his mouth formed a startled “O.” He turned and hurried to catch up with Pierre while Sam stood guard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For the next couple of hours after the Paris Police Nationale arrived on the scene, Sam answered questions and then stood aside while the body of a young woman was located and removed from the cave behind the metal door.

  Apparently “translator” had a looser definition in France. Or, at least, that was what Sam assumed as he tried to decipher what the woman standing beside the detective was saying.

  Vaguely, he recognized her words as English. But her accent was so thick that he caught himself leaning toward her as if that might help him understand better, which was no more effective with her than it had been with Pierre. While he’d tried to bone up a little on his French for the trip, he’d only mastered the basics, which definitely didn’t include “mummified cadaver” or pretty much any of the words he’d have needed to discuss the situation.

  “Thank you very much for your aid,” the translator said. “You may now return to your life with the understanding that you will make yourself available should the police require more questioning. This is your correct hotel address?”

  She held out a slip of paper with the address neatly scrawled on it, and he nodded.

  “Very well, thank you again.”

  It took him a moment to realize he’d been dismissed. After he had processed the words, he glanced at Rory and tilted his head toward the exit.

  Rory trailed him back onto the cobblestones streets. Even though the soft late afternoon light bathed everything in a comforting glow, Sam thought only of that poor, dead girl with the faded tattoo, carried past him on a stretcher.

  Perhaps the partially mummified body had been too fragile to risk lifting into a body bag. They’d covered her with a sheet that succumbed to a stiff breeze once they climbed the winding steps. He should’ve looked away, but he’d been frozen in place. Now, he couldn’t scrub the image from his mind. He imagined the indelible image was even worse for poor Rory.

  “You all right?” Sam asked, and Rory nodded.

  “Another vacation story, I suppose.” Rory’s strained smile flitted across his pale face. “Where are you headed?”

  Sam nodded in the direction of his hotel.

  Rory shrugged. “I’m the opposite way. Perhaps I’ll see you ’round.”

  “Maybe,” Sam agreed.

  Rory started off and Sam did the same. His bones felt heavy as he trudged toward his hotel. Maybe instead of trying to pretend nothing had happened, he should take a few minutes to let it sink in and then take a nap or a hot shower. Anything to get himself to stop thinking about the girl.

  He made his way up to his room, mentally listing all the things he still wanted to do on this trip. There was the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. Lots of tourist attractions in Paris. A brasserie he’d seen on his way to the catacombs earlier had looked pretty good.

  The thought of food turned his stomach, and again the image of the girl’s leathery skin and gaping mouth filled his head.

  Stop.

  The police were on it. They knew what to do from here—how to conduct themselves and, hopefully, find justice for that Jane Doe. Though, of course, if that were true, maybe her body would have been discovered long before he’d found it.

  How had no one smelled her before? Granted, it wasn’t the usual funk of a long-dead corpse. Clearly, some sort of preservation process had taken place in the underground air, but still. Even among the dust and bones, he’d recognized the smell. Anybody with experience would have noticed it.

  He pushed through his hotel door and made straight for the bed. He shoved the comforter aside before tucking himself beneath the covers, shoes and all. He was exhausted, weary.

  He just needed to close his eyes.

  But whenever he did that, there she was again. With that strange quote tattooed on her clavicle—

  Oh world, you’re too beautiful for anyone to realize you.

  Now, with the adrenaline gone and in the quiet of his hotel room, he realized the quote felt oddly familiar. He sat up in bed and grabbed his laptop from the nightstand. He just needed to see. Where had he heard the quote before? After he answered that question, he’d be able to sleep and regroup.

  Swiftly, he typed the words into a search bar, and the result popped up—the words came from a famous play.

  Our Town.

  If he recalled, that play was very specifically abo
ut life in America. Come to think of it, if the girl had been French, he wouldn’t have been able to read the tattoo at all.

  Why hadn’t that occurred to him at the scene?

  He tacked on the word “tattoo” to his search term on the laptop and refreshed the page.

  Nothing other than the quote appeared on the first page. He flipped through two more pages until the answer he was looking for popped. A news headline. Missing Co-Ed Presumed Dead.

  Beside the stark declaration was a picture of the girl’s face.

  Except it wasn’t her face. At least, not the face he’d seen. She wasn’t mummified and horrible. Her mouth twisted open in a ghastly scream. She was young and beautiful, with thick blond hair and bright hazel eyes. She was grinning at the camera and pointing to a mottled, newly-minted tattoo, the swirling script shiny with anti-bacterial ointment.

  Let it go, Sam.

  But he couldn’t let it go. Swallowing hard, he clicked on the article and skimmed.

  It was from an American gossip paper, dated on the one-year anniversary last year.

  The American college student, Melinda McAllister, reported missing a year ago this past Saturday is probably dead, French officials say. After a lengthy and search and diligent investigation, authorities have found no trace of the missing young woman.