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    Voodoo Bones
    Voodoo Bones
    Voodoo Bones
    Ebook108 pages1 hour

    Voodoo Bones

    By Melanie Atkins

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Noel Galliano has always wanted her own business. So despite critics who believe she won't succeed, she opens a tiny French Quarter voodoo shop. What she doesn't count on is finding a dismembered corpse upstairs. Detective Mathieu Bergeron is considered a screw up around the district station, until he puts away the Bayou Ripper. Then another body is found mutilated, and both his arrest and competence are thrown into question. Matt and Noel must work together to solve this terrifying crime in the Big Easy... and along the way, they fall in love.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMelanie Atkins
    Release dateApr 16, 2019
    ISBN9781386412632
    Voodoo Bones

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      Book preview

      Voodoo Bones - Melanie Atkins

      Copyright © 2011 by Melanie Atkins

      ISBN 13:

      Published in the United States of America

      1st Ebook Publication Date: October 2011

      1st Print Publication Date: 2012

      2nd Ebook Publication Date: April 15, 2019

      Content Editor: Gail R. Delaney

      Cover Artist: Laura Morrigan

      All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher. Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates US copyright laws. Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000. Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons living or dead are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author

      Dedication

      To the fine people of New Orleans and the Mississippi Gulf Coast, who acted with such amazing resilience and determination in the face of disaster back in 2005. You've rebuilt, encouraged each other, and proven to the world that life does indeed go on.

      Chapter One

      The night's inky blackness reminded Detective Matthieu Bergeron of hot chicory coffee: thick, rich, and filled with mystery. A muted jazz tune echoed off the French Quarter's worn bricks, and heavy fog rolled in off the river, masking the scrollwork on the balconies and dampening the air. October in New Orleans was fickle. Warm one night, and cold as hell the next. Tonight's humidity chilled Matt to the bone and told him it was the perfect night for murder. Not many people were out, and those who were, hurried to wherever they were going.

      He halted just outside the narrow alley where Crawford Delacort, one of the chief techs from the Orleans Parish Medical Examiner's office, knelt beside a sprawled female corpse. The air reeked of stale cigarettes, river mud, and old beer. He scowled.

      Fog snaked eerily around the body, and the bright yellow crime scene tape stretched across the entrance to the cave-like space fluttered in the damp breeze. Matt ducked beneath it and approached Delacort, a tall red-haired man with a runner's lanky build.

      Hey, Crawford. Please tell me this woman has all her parts.

      You're in luck tonight, Detective. Crawford rose and brushed off his hands. She's all here.

      Cause of death?

      Strangulation with some sort of ligature. The ME looked down at the body lying face down on the cold concrete. Maybe a necklace. Can't be sure.

      Was she raped?

      No fluids, but I'll know more once I do the autopsy. He cocked his head. I'm thinking she might be a hooker, though. Just look at her clothes and shoes, and she has needle marks on the inside of both arms. Killer left her empty purse. He cleaned her out.

      Could've been a dissatisfied customer.

      Or a drug deal gone bad. Even a simple robbery. Crawford shrugged. Who knows?

      Matt squatted beside the dead girl and examined her twisted, pale neck. Sure enough, a dark red line was gouged into her skin. He sighed. Okay. Where's CSU?

      On the way.

      Make sure they get plenty of pictures of her neck.

      I've got it covered.

      Something in Crawford's tone made Matt look up. The ME's dark eyes gleamed with derision. Anger boiled inside Matt, but he held it in check. No way would he let the bastard know his air of superiority bothered Matt in the least. Damn it. Gage Simms had soured everyone against him.

      He gritted his teeth and came to his feet. Any witnesses?

      No idea. Crawford peered down his sharp nose at Matt and jerked his head toward the other end of the alley, where two uniformed officers lurked in semi-darkness. Ask the first guys on scene.

      All right. Matt's heart raced. He dug out his pad and pen and made a few notes. Even his big collar two days ago, when he'd single-handedly brought in the Bayou Ripper, hadn't silenced his critics. His former partner's constant barbs had alienated everyone in the district station, and now that the jerk had been elevated to commander, Matt was seriously considering asking for a transfer. He started down the alley, and his cell phone rang.

      With a sharp curse, he jerked it off his belt. Bergeron.

      Matt. Speak of the devil. It was Gage Simms. Got another one for you.

      You can't be serious. Matt halted. I just got here.

      "I'll send someone else. Get your ass over here. To Vous Deux, on Esplanade."

      That new voodoo shop?

      Yeah. And Matt—I told you so.

      What are you talking about? A sick feeling swirled in the pit of Matt's stomach.

      Simms laughed. You'll see when you get here.

      Fury lanced Matt's heart. He and Simms had been friends before he'd made the mistake of going out with the woman who eventually became the commander's wife. Matt had no idea she'd turned to him out of spite. Now that ill-fated one night stand six months ago threatened to ruin his career. Why couldn't Simms just let it go?

      He closed the phone and slid it back onto his belt.

      Crawford raised his bushy eyebrows as Matt marched back past him and left the alley, but Matt didn't look back. Sweat trickled down his spine as he climbed into his department-issued Chevy Caprice and roared off toward Esplanade.

      Ten minutes later, he pulled up in front of Vous Deux. The tiny shop stood alone, with a small parking lot on the left and a line of trees to the right. The apartment over the rear of the shop blazed with bright light, but the shop itself was dark.

      Matt slammed out of the car, rounded the building, and smelled a nauseating odor. Ignoring it, he increased his stride and followed a uniformed officer who ducked beneath the stairway leading to the second floor apartment. The officer halted in front of a white painted door.

      Matt walked up to him and frowned. Is this the crime scene?

      No, Detective. It's upstairs. Smell that? The officer made a face. Hope to hell you've got a strong stomach.

      Matt steeled himself as he climbed the narrow steps. How bad could it be? He was used to death scenes. Blood and guts, rigid bodies, torn flesh.

      Halfway up the stairs, the odor hit him full force. Cooked meat, mixed with the coppery tang of fresh blood. Gagging, he covered his mouth and nose with his leather sleeve and peered inside the tiny one room apartment. Blood spatter covered every surface, and a severed bare foot lay in the middle of the floor. On the stove, a cooling pot gave off steam. Holy shit.

      Bile rushed up his throat.

      A mutilated body, severed limbs. A foot in the center of the linoleum. It can't be. Yet this murder has the same signature as the Bayou Ripper—and unless it's a copycat crime, I arrested the wrong man two days ago.

      His stomach twisted. More fodder for the rumor mill.

      Simms spotted him, tossed him a leering smile and a wadded pair of shoe covers, and motioned for him to hurry inside.

      Focus. Read the scene. Do your job. Matt's personal mantra rang in his head as he hastily donned the booties. It also helped obscure the pounding of the officer down below as he knocked on the door to the first floor apartment. With fresh determination, he pulled out a small jar of menthol salve, rubbed some under his nose, and stepped across the threshold into hell.

      *****

      Noel Galliano wheeled her small white Toyota into the parking

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