Blind Retribution Read online

  ALSO BY K. T. ROBERTS

  Educating Daphne

  Kensington-Gerard Detective Series

  The Last Witness

  Elusive Justice

  Deadly Obsessions

  As Carolyn Hughey

  Insanity Claus

  Cupid’s Web

  Shut Up and Kiss Me

  Romancing the Chef’s Toque Series

  Dishing Up Romance

  One Menu at a Time

  Catering to Love

  Kindle Worlds

  Gossip Girl: Lovers, Liars and Thou

  Gossip Girl: Murder & Mayhem

  From Princess to Prairie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Carolyn Hughey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939981

  ISBN-10: 1503939987

  Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects

  This book is dedicated to all the men and women in our military as well as those in law enforcement for their tireless efforts while risking their lives every day to keep us safe. My heartfelt thanks and appreciation for your service.

  CONTENTS

  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

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Helen Barrett opened the heavy door of her husband’s red Lamborghini, slid into the beige bucket seat, and wiggled in until she felt comfortable. She shut the car door with a thud, and it locked into place. The aroma of leather enveloped her, and she instinctively inhaled. She couldn’t believe she was sitting behind the steering wheel of her husband’s prized possession. He never let anyone drive it . . .

  Sliding her hands over the leather dashboard made her giddy. Seeing so many dials made her feel like a pilot preparing for takeoff. She smiled in the surrounding silence. It was . . . deafening . . . peaceful . . . eerie.

  Helen sighed deeply. Contented heat pooled in her heart, knowing that Jeffrey was as much in love with her as she was with him.

  Helen shook her head and glanced at her watch. It was later than she’d thought. They’d made love all night, like newlyweds. Now it was mid-morning. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d stayed in bed this late on a Sunday. Luckily, they weren’t leaving for Venice for their second honeymoon until late tonight, but it had been too long since she and Jeffrey had shared this kind of romance, and all she wanted to do was hurry back into his waiting arms.

  She shook her head as she thought back over the last several weeks. What a crazy ride it had been. At first, she hadn’t trusted Jeffrey’s sincerity about wanting to make their marriage work or his confession that he’d never stopped loving her. But his actions had changed all that, and the hurt she’d felt for so long slowly disappeared after he’d proposed all over again and even planned an elaborate reception to celebrate their renewed wedding vows with family and friends. She was happier than she’d been in a long time.

  Euphoria coursed through her body. She could live like this for the rest of her life, knowing she had all she needed—Jeffrey’s love and devotion. This was wedded bliss—the mature kind of love that only comes after years of being with someone. This was even better than the first time they’d married fifteen years ago.

  Helen pulled the seat belt across her chest, snapped it into place, and took another deep breath.

  She inserted the key into the ignition, anxious to hear the roar of the engine, then heaved out one last breath before turning the motor over. An odd popping sound came from beneath the dashboard and echoed in her ears. Oh God, what did I do wrong? She sat for a few seconds waiting to see if the noise continued, and then a loud blast erupted and the hood of the car shot into the air. She screamed as rich red flames mushroomed across the windshield. Panicked, she screamed again. Confusion set in like rigor mortis, rendering her helpless.

  Get out of the car! she told herself.

  She tried to release her seat belt, but her fingers fumbled as if frozen. She pulled on the seat belt with force, trying to release the latch. Nothing.

  A sudden intense blast of heat made her look down at her feet. Her sandals were in flames and for a second she was mesmerized as she watched the fire spread across the straps. Then the pain set in. She stamped her feet as hard as she could.

  She screamed at the top of her lungs. “Jeffrey, help me!” Surely, he must have heard the blast.

  She pounded on the door but couldn’t find the handle. Her mother’s voice echoed through her mind. Everyone has to die from something.

  Was she going to die? No, dammit. Not today she wasn’t. “Jeffrey!” she screamed again, her throat sore from straining.

  Hysteria overwhelmed her, and she banged on the window with all her might. Nothing happened and no one came. No one to help, not even Jeffrey.

  She slammed her fist on the horn just as a second blast popped the trunk and rocked the car. Her voice, no longer audible, released a silent scream. Helplessness took over as the tears gushed down her cheeks and that old familiar pain Jeffrey had managed to erase resurfaced. She should have known better. Everything he’d fed her over the last two weeks was a lie, and like a fool, she’d fallen for it. The bastard never intended to spend the rest of his life with her. All he’d wanted was to silence her voice.

  Orange flames engulfed her entire body in a thick blanket and she finally gave in to it. The sickening smell of burning flesh—her flesh—repulsed her.

  The last blast under her seat was so intense it lifted the car into the air and flipped it over. Helen Barrett’s charred body bounced like a rag doll behind the tight constraints of the seat belt. Thick flames punched through the billowy black smoke. Carbon fiber, thousands of glass shards, and steel fragments showered down in a deadly rainfall . . . alarms . . . shrill and deafening. And then, Helen Barrett’s voice was silenced forever.

  There’d be no wedded bliss.

  There’d be no honeymoon in Venice.

  There’d be no more Helen Barrett.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cory Rossini removed the contents from his mailbox and walked b
ack inside his brownstone. He hadn’t realized he had so much mail after not checking it for a few days. He leafed through the envelopes and decided the pile was just a bunch of bills that he didn’t feel like opening. He’d look at them later. He carried the pile over to his mantel and laid it down next to the baseball he’d caught at a few weeks ago at Yankee Stadium, now perched on its stand. It was enclosed in a glass case and destined to be given to his niece, Brooke, for her birthday.

  He smiled, pleased that he’d caught that foul ball, but it brought back the harsh words exchanged between him and a beautiful woman. Her hand had been right there at the same time he’d caught the ball. If it hadn’t been for the baseball glove he’d been wearing, she would have walked away with it. He remembered the feisty blonde, blue-eyed woman, with the voluptuous figure who had him swooning even though she was mad. Maybe it was the appreciative expression he’d had on his face that made her think he was being smug, because the more he’d smiled at her, the madder she’d gotten.

  Under normal circumstances, he probably would have given the ball to her, but the snippy tone of her voice had reminded him of his ex-girlfriend, Lyndsey, and he’d stuck firm to keeping it. Besides, it was for Brooke. The poor kid had been through so much after she’d lost her leg to cancer, he thought having the entire team autograph it for her before her birthday would bring a smile to her face.

  Although he’d convinced himself he’d done the right thing by keeping the ball, he couldn’t escape the guilt he felt, nor get the image of the woman’s face out of his mind. He’d even dreamt about her last night—not that he remembered exactly what the dream was about, but he remembered it had something to do with love.

  Sadly, this last year had been disastrous in his life, and love was the last thing on his mind. Being suspended from the New York City Bar Association and banned from practicing law for six months had changed everything.

  How could he stand by and watch Brooke die from cancer? With his brother-in-law out of work, no health insurance, and the surgeon who’d refused to do the surgery until he was assured he’d get paid, Cory had had no choice and he borrowed the money from his client’s retainer fund. And then Lyndsey, angry because he hadn’t wanted to get married after they’d only been dating a few months, told his partners what he’d done. At that point, the money had already been returned, but he’d lost his job, and the bar had still suspended him. What was so ironic about what had happened was that Lyndsey had been the one to suggest it. As a result, he’d sworn off women—possibly for the rest of his life. Then there’d been his knee surgery. He was recovering, but it was slow going. Yeah, it had been one hell of a year.

  So why was he still thinking about this beauty two weeks later? And why did he want to know more about her? Apparently, a journalist thought their fight would make a good story and he’d snapped a picture of the two of them arguing. It had shown up on the sports page in the local paper, and for some reason, he’d cut that picture out. He told himself it was the novelty of being on the sports page, but he knew he’d only been fooling himself. Cory smiled to himself because he knew precisely why he’d kept the picture. So he could look at it anytime he wanted.

  He walked to his desk and pulled out a magnifying glass and aimed it down onto the picture. Although part of his shoulder had been in the way, he had a partial view of her, but he wasn’t likely to forget her beautiful face. His heart turned over. This blue-eyed bombshell was compromising his vow to swear off women. He placed the magnifying glass down and forced himself to forget about her. He’d never see her again anyway, so why was he wasting time? He needed to think more about what he was going to be doing with the rest of his life, or at least during this six-month suspension. Still, the image of this woman kept nagging at his mind, and apparently his memory of her wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  Even though the scene at the ball field had been unpleasant, he couldn’t help but laugh because she’d tried playing the guilt card. He’d learned that spoon-fed guilt stuff at an early age from the best—his Italian mother. He’d even offered to buy the woman a hot dog and drink, hoping to relieve her stress, but that didn’t work. It only angered her more because, he was certain, she thought he was patronizing her. Cory grinned. That little spitfire didn’t mince words either. She’d flat out told him to go straight to hell and walked away as quickly as her legs would carry her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Detective Maxine Turner, known as Max, arrived at the site of the explosion in Riverdale with her partner, Howie Spencer. She exited her car and whistled when she saw the mansion. “Holy cow, will you look at this place?” she said in a low voice.

  “I think we chose the wrong profession, Max.” Her partner, Howie, put his hands to his lower back and stretched as he took in the grounds.

  Max eyed the house in awe. She remembered seeing a few mansions like this on a show on the Travel Channel during one of those rare occasions when she’d turned on the television to break the silence in her apartment. Her apartment was nothing like this house.

  She loved the pitched roof, the brick and stone sheathing that stretched the entire length of the home, and its entryway tucked inside a turret that led into the main residence. Yeah, she wouldn’t mind living in a house like this, with its park-like setting and grass so green it resembled a velvet carpet. Ornate flower beds with a variety of plants in hues of pink and lavender lined the fieldstone walkway leading up to the entrance. The trees throughout the property were just starting to change color and were ceremoniously showing off their brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows.

  At the curb near the entrance to the long driveway, a uniformed patrolman stood guard, trying to control the curious neighbors now gathered and bombarding him with questions about what had happened at the Barrett residence. The first responders had secured the property with yellow crime scene tape to preserve the integrity of the evidence that had been strewn about the drive and lawn. Several investigators combed the property, looking for anything that could help reconstruct the last minutes of Helen Barrett’s life. Any evidence would be taken back to the crime lab.

  “Were you the first on the scene, Officer Jenkins?” Max asked when she read his badge.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What can you tell me about what happened here?”

  “The husband said his wife wanted to pick up her prescription before they left on a second honeymoon.” Max listened intently. “He gave her the keys to his Lamborghini, and she left while he was in the shower. Upon hearing the loud explosion, he rushed down the stairs. He shouted to the maid to call 911, but she was already outside.”

  “Which of them called it in then?”

  “Neither. It was a neighbor.” He checked his notebook. “A Mark Ginsburg, who was out walking his dog when he saw the car explode and immediately called from his cell phone.”

  “And you have his address?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” Max nodded in the direction of the two people standing to the side with their backs to her. “I assume that’s the husband and their maid?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Who is he? I didn’t catch his name on the squawk box.”

  “He’s one of those bigwig heart surgeons over at Mount Sinai.” Jenkins checked his notes again. “Dr. Jeffrey Barrett.”

  Max screwed up her face. “I’m pretty sure I saw his face splashed across the New York Times recently, but I don’t know why.”

  “A delicate heart transplant on a senator’s kid, using some new procedure, I think,” the patrolman said. “I remember it because it was such a risky new technique, done on such a young kid, right here in our own backyard. A state senator, as I recall.”

  “That’s it.” She pointed a finger at him. “Thanks, Jenkins.” Turning to her partner, who was still eyeing the mansion, she asked, “You ready, Howie?”

  “About as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  The two stopped and stared at the smoldering pile of de
bris for a moment. The firemen were busy putting their equipment away after curtailing the blaze. Max glanced over in the direction of the bomb squad, which had already begun its investigation, when she saw the fire battalion captain in the distance.

  “Why don’t you go over and start questioning the witnesses,” Max said to Howie. “I’d like to get the scoop from Zeke.” Howie nodded in agreement and walked off. Max felt a tug on her heartstrings as she watched Howie’s slackened pace. It was hard seeing him decline over the years. He was no longer the aggressive mountain of a man she’d first partnered with six years ago. Although Howie had maintained his slim six-foot build, his face was now drawn and tired looking, and that sparkle she’d seen in his brown eyes every time they’d solved a case seemed to die a little every day. She’d always thought of him as a father figure because he’d taught her the ropes, things she might never have learned if not for him during her rookie year as a detective. But it was more than that. He’d counseled her when she’d needed it, and hugged her as if she were his own daughter.

  Max was pulled from her thoughts when the battalion captain, now approaching, called out to her.

  “What’s the status, Zeke?” she asked, standing next to him.

  “Max, you know the drill. We’re going to be here for a while, and your investigation will have to wait until we’ve completed ours.”

  “I understand.” She nodded. “Can you give me your cursory view of the situation, though?”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt this was intentional. Those explosives were planted in the undercarriage in three places on that Lamborghini. It was as though the killer was trying to torture the victim by timing each explosive to go off one right after the other.”

  “So this person is no amateur then?”

  “I think not,” Zeke said with conviction.

  Max pointed to the two garages adjacent to the carriage house in the back of the property and noted both doors were open. “A Lamborghini, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that his car wasn’t parked in one of those bays?” Max asked, pointing toward the open garage.