Cherished Witness: New Orleans Detectives, #1

Prologue

Frigid air skittered over Teresa Pastral's pale skin. She'd never been so cold. Snow had yet to fall, but November in Chicago brought with it the possibility of hypothermia. Wishing she'd taken time to put on her gloves, she slipped behind a tall hedgerow and braced herself against the mansion's red brick wall. Her black knit running suit was thin, and the imprint of the cold bricks chilled her to the bone.

Her fingertips went numb. With great concentration, she dug out her prepaid cell phone and pulled up her father's number.

The line was busy. She murmured a curse. She shouldn't be outside this time of night—it was way too risky. If her husband, Antonio Pastral, or his men found her, she would pay dearly. Yet she had no choice if she was going to talk with her father. Antonio had forbidden her to use the landline inside the house, and she presumed he had tapped it.

The last time she'd crossed him, he'd hit her with the butt of his handgun and left a bruise on her cheek that had remained for three weeks. He said that if she disobeyed him again, he'd tie her up and pay his friends to do her. She had no doubt he'd follow through.

Her index finger hovered over the call key. She'd try her father once more, and then hurry back inside so Antonio wouldn't miss her.

She punched in the number just as the wind picked up, sending another icy chill through her bones. Headlights lanced through the darkness behind the house and a sleek black limousine pulled to a stop at the end of the courtyard's pebbled walk. Teresa stiffened and flattened herself to the wall. She was trapped. She debated making a run for the house but thought better of it. Floodlights illuminated every entrance.

Fear crawled over her skin. She ducked close to the hedge and peeked through its scraggly branches, hoping and praying whoever was inside that car wouldn't see her.

The driver got out, looked around, and opened the back door. A stocky, square-headed man stepped out of the vehicle, and Theresa recognized him right away as Frank Amaretto, Antonio's business rival. The driver stayed with the car, but Frank limped up the walk toward the house. Antonio had designed the rear entrance specifically for late-night meetings, claiming it was safer for him to meet business associates here at the house rather than in public. She had to admit, he was probably right.

Frank drew closer and the wind rose even more, wafting the pungent odor of cigar smoke over the hedge. Teresa's nose twitched. She clenched her jaw to keep from sneezing.

His footsteps echoed on the walk.

The French doors in front of him burst open and Yuri Calamondo, Antonio's right-hand man, stepped out. Antonio followed him. Both wore expensive Italian suits.

Teresa stifled a gasp and dropped low, praying her husband wouldn't spot her. She didn't move. Tried not to breathe. Her muscles ached from holding herself so rigid.

Calamondo met Frank at the top of the walk and held out his hand. Hello, Frank, he said. Long time, no see.

Cut the bullshit, Yuri. Frank ignored the flunky's gesture of friendship and fixed his hard gaze on Antonio. What's the meaning of this? Dragging me out here this time of night—

Our plans have changed. Antonio slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. A cloud edged over the moon, draping them both in shadow. Fingers of dread danced up Teresa's spine.

Frank shot his cuffs. Christ. Tell me what you want.

I think you know. Antonio's hard mouth curved. Yuri? I believe we have something for Mr. Amaretto.

Calamondo stepped aside, and Antonio's pistol flashed up. Two muted pops punctuated the frigid night air.

Frank's mouth fell open. His body jerked. Eyes wide, he seemed to float for a moment before dropping soundlessly to the pebbled concrete. Blood trickled from his mouth to pool on the collar of his clean white dress shirt.

If the limo driver had heard the shots, he didn't let on. Her heart in her throat, Teresa covered her mouth and pressed herself to the icy bricks. She didn't move, but inside she quivered. Her five-year marriage to Antonio had been filled with abuse, both physical and emotional. She knew what kind of man he was. But she'd never seen him kill anyone.

Before she could absorb the fact that Frank Amaretto was dead, Antonio handed the gun to Yuri and disappeared into the house. She prayed he wouldn't go upstairs. If he discovered she was gone, he would come looking for her.

The phone slipped from her numb fingers and cart-wheeled beneath the hedge. With a muffled groan, she dropped to her haunches and shoved her hand beneath the scratchy bushes, hoping like hell she wouldn't make any noise.

She found two sticks and a wad of gum, but no phone. Her heart hammered. With a curse, she dropped onto her knees and peeked through the shrubs just in time to see Yuri roll Frank over, rip off his coat, and don it himself. Darkness camouflaged the bloodstains on the collar. He slid Antonio's pistol into his pocket, calmly surveyed the area, and then limped toward Frank's waiting car.

Moments later, Teresa heard two more muffled pops. Her eyes closed as she imagined the limo driver slumped across the vehicle's leather seat, his lifeless eyes staring up at nothing. With trembling limbs, she pushed herself to her feet and struggled to see what Yuri was doing.

He was only a blur in the darkness, but he moved like he was used to hiding bodies. He swiftly hauled the dead driver from the front seat and folded him into the trunk. Then he slammed the lid and looked toward the house.

Before he came after Frank's body, Teresa ran. Her wooden legs didn't want to support her, but she gritted her teeth and cut through a flowerbed. Her breath sawed out as she slipped into the east wing, flying down the hall and out the rear door, pausing only long enough to ensure Yuri was no longer near Frank's car.

Her Lexus was in the garage. If she could only reach it, she could get away and go to the police.

The garage was dark. Every sound blasted through the frigid air as if broadcast on a loudspeaker. She held her breath. The dark hulk of the Lexus loomed in front of her.

Keys. She patted her pockets. Empty. Damn.

Her heart sank. She couldn't go anywhere. Oh, God. Her skin grew clammy and her pores gave off the scent of fear. She had to get away.

Then her eyes fell on the limo, its roof visible through the row of windows in the garage's massive metal door. If she could reach it before Yuri returned, she just might have a chance.

Her pulse thudded as she crept outside. Determined to stay alive, she clung to the shadows. Sweat glued her undershirt to her damp skin. She spotted Yuri leaning over Amaretto's body near the house. Now!

Leaving the safety of the garage, she dashed to the limo. Her nerves tingled as she opened the back door, slipped into the passenger compartment, and lay face down on the dark floor. Yuri soon returned. With a grunt, he popped the trunk and tumbled Frank's lifeless body into it along with the driver's. The limo jostled with the added weight.

Teresa inhaled, drawing in the clashing odors of carpet shampoo and cigarettes. Her nose wrinkled. She willed herself not to breathe.

Shadows filled the car. She'd worn black to help her blend in with the night, but in spite of the tinted windows, she still feared Yuri might see her.

He didn't. He simply climbed into the front seat and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine purred to life.

Teresa didn't breathe again until Yuri pulled off the road miles away from the house. She had no idea where they were, but she knew she had to make a run for it before she was discovered.

He exited the car, and she bolted up. Darkness shrouded the vehicle. Yet she could tell they were at the top of a slope, and water glistened down below. Probably Lake Michigan.

Yuri stood near the hood of the limo, his eyes on the water. He jangled the keys.

Teresa's heartbeat tripled. He was going to ditch the car. Her hand gripped the door handle. Before she could act, however, twin headlight beams illuminated Yuri and the roar of an engine echoed in her ears.

She held her breath, opened the door, and rolled from the car, coming to her feet in a large, sandy area. A small frame building sat off to her right. She sprinted behind it and kept on running.

Chapter One

J.T. Romano slipped out the tiny restaurant's side door and into the foggy June night. A heavy mist rose off the bay, masking the beach road and turning the street lamps into pale, hovering ghosts. The damp air smelled of tomato sauce and brine. One car passed, its taillights winking like giant crimson eyes in the haze.

He leaned against the restaurant's rough brick wall and massaged his knotted neck muscles. Returning to his old hometown of Snake Bayou, Mississippi, and to Romano's in particular, was eating away at his nerves. Yet sooner or later, the stress would be worth it.

He'd have his wife's killer—and his revenge.

His mouth curved in a grim smile. His brother Peter had asked him to come home to manage the restaurant after he was injured in a near-fatal motorcycle accident, and J.T. had agreed. He'd do all he could to help Peter keep Romano's in the black.

But he also had another agenda.

Hey, J.T. Scott, the slouchy young kitchen supervisor his brother had hired for who-knew-what reason, stuck his head out the door. Got another problem in here.

Naturally, J.T. muttered, shoving away from the wall. This place was one freaking disaster after another. But if working here would help him catch Yuri Calamondo, the man responsible for the death of his wife and unborn child, he would gladly endure the frustration. He eyed the kid. What is it now? Is someone upset?

Who do you think? Scott asked with an audible sigh. It's Kelly, balking about going into the dining room—again. This is getting old.

Who's the reason this time? J.T. raked a hand through his close-cropped hair. Kelly Watson was the reason he was here. She was gorgeous and sexy, but she was certainly no waitress, even though she put on a damned good act. Except for her jumpiness. But then, he guessed anyone hiding in the Witness Security Program had a right to be edgy.

Scott shrugged. Just some guy. Come see for yourself.

Fine. I'll be right there. J.T. puckered his brow. Yeah, she was a nervous wreck. Anxious and beautiful, with honey-blonde hair and the sexiest green eyes he'd ever seen. Yet he couldn't dwell on her good looks. He was here to catch a murderer. Never mind that he no longer carried a badge.

Go easy on her, okay? Scott held the door open. She's as jumpy as a mouse in a closet full of cats.

You don't have to take up for her. She can fight her own battles. J.T. followed Scott inside. The kitchen was hot and steamy. His stomach rebelled at the strong odors of garlic, onions, and oregano. Smells that never failed to take him back to those cheerless summers he'd spent washing dishes and waiting tables while he secretly dreamed of being a cop like his Uncle Mario.

He'd eventually gotten his wish. He'd defied his father and become a cop, just like he'd wanted. Then he'd married Sandy, and when she'd announced they were pregnant, he'd decided his life was damned near perfect. Until that tragic winter day when Calamondo had decided to run from the police. J.T.'s hands clenched as he fought off the wave of bitter memories.

He rounded the counter and spotted Kelly, her pale cheeks flushed and her shoulder-length blonde hair a wild tangle, standing beside the door to the dining room clutching a black plastic tray. He batted aside his attraction to her and smiled coldly. She was going to help him nail Calamondo once and for all. She might not like it, but he had no choice but to use her as bait.

Her knuckles whitened on the tray as he approached her.

He halted and stuffed his hands into his pockets. What's the problem this time, Kelly?

Nothing. Her face shut down and she wouldn't look at him.

J.T. caught a whiff of her flowery perfume, and although he'd pledged from day one to stay away from her until his job was done, his hands ached with the need to comfort her. To touch her and feel her creamy skin against his. She seemed so alone, so vulnerable.

You look like you've seen a ghost, he said, dragging his eyes away from the sheen of sweat barely visible on the smooth curve of her neck just above her maroon Romano's t-shirt.

Kelly's gaze met his and what he saw in it stopped him cold. Her wide jade eyes held the haunted look of fear. J.T. knew that look well. He'd seen it often while he was on the force, usually on the faces of victims of domestic violence.

It hit him like a fist to the gut.

I need a break, she said, her gaze flicking through the dining room to a corner table, where a heavyset man in a wrinkled black suit attacked a plate of spaghetti.

The man held his fork in his fist and rolled the pasta around it like twine on a spool. His face was clean-shaven, and although it was well past sundown, he wore a pair of expensive designer shades. Silver and black, with opaque lenses.

Yuri Calamondo.

Those shades had filled J.T.'s nightmares for a full year now. He studied the guy. Cool and in control. Rough looking. And no doubt, dangerous as hell. J.T.'s blood chilled.

Icy rage washed over him as he was dragged back to the night Sandy died. Calamondo had plowed into Bayou Bridge just as she started across in her car. J.T. arrived to find his pregnant wife trapped two hundred feet above the bayou. Frantic, he'd scrambled up in an effort to reach her, but froze halfway there. The bridge collapsed around him.

Later, he cornered Calamondo at headquarters. He still remembered the solid thwack of his fist smashing Yuri's beak nose, over and over, until Slade had intervened. That day J.T. had been suspended from the force, and Yuri had taken to wearing those damned sunglasses.

Every muscle in J.T.'s body tensed. He glanced back at Kelly and noticed how ashen her cheeks had become. She knew Calamondo, had testified against him and her former husband in federal court. But she hadn't known the felon had escaped from prison. Until tonight.

J.T. had garnered that information himself only two weeks before, thanks to friends in Louisiana law enforcement, and had neglected to tell Kelly—aka Teresa Pastral—for fear that she'd run. Guilt washed over him every time he admitted he was using her to lure a killer to his door, but he always shook it off. He'd do anything to catch Calamondo.

Now the bastard had walked right into his trap, and she was caught in the middle. J.T. took a deep breath and debated coming clean with her, but ultimately decided against it. If she found out, she'd run for sure. At least this way he could keep an eye on her. It might not be the best option, but it was all he had.

He glanced at Kelly. Her eyes were wide with fear. To see her so terrified of Yuri, the man responsible for the deaths of Sandy and his unborn child, made his stomach churn. Yet he had to follow through with his plan. Otherwise, their deaths would never be avenged.

He patted his side where his piece should be. His fingers itched for his SIG Sauer duty weapon, only it wasn't there. Hadn't been for over a year. He'd have to improvise.

His hands still tight, J.T. forced himself to focus on Kelly, whose natural beauty socked him in the gut every time.

You know that guy? he asked, the words catching in his throat. He held his breath and gauged her reaction.

No, she said too quickly, tossing the tray onto the counter. Never seen him before.

Yeah? He lifted a brow. She was lying.

Kelly crossed her arms. He just makes me nervous. Please don't ask me to explain.

J.T. stared at her another long moment, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Did that mean she was still mixed up with the Pastral crime organization? Guilt by association, so to speak? Even though she had testified against Antonio and Calamondo and helped send them both to jail, he couldn't be sure they hadn't flipped her in the months since then. Fear was a powerful thing.

J.T. ground his teeth. Even though he wanted to believe she was on his side, he couldn't allow himself to feel sorry for her. Even if she was the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen. If he gave in to the lust that ate at him every time he saw her, it would mean he was losing his edge.

She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. I only need ten minutes, okay? Maybe by then he'll be gone.

All right. J.T. took a step back. She was scared, but she wasn't folding. He had to give her that. Yet she would never give herself away. She couldn't. Secrecy was vital to Witness Security.

Lola, he called. He didn't take his eyes off Kelly. Take table four, will you?

Sure, J.T., Lola said with her usual good humor.

Order up, Kelly, Scott shouted. Table six.

Kelly's lips curved in a grateful half-smile, and some of the color returned to her face.

Thank you, she murmured, before wheeling and bumping through the narrow swinging door. Maybe I don't need that break after all. I'll work the other side of the room.

J.T. followed her. He couldn't keep his gaze off Kelly's swaying hips. Her jeans molded to her every curve. She aroused him big time, and that wasn't in his game plan.

She turned, caught him looking, and blushed. For someone who had spent over five years married to a criminal, she surely seemed innocent sometimes.

Self-loathing surged up to choke him. Using her to entice a weasel like Calamondo to Snake Bayou had seemed like a good idea when he'd first come up with the plan, but he knew it was wrong. He had to take care of Calamondo before she got hurt.

She picked up the tray of food Scott had placed in the window and walked away. Shaking off the dangerous spell she'd cast, J.T. pulled out his cell phone. He longed to take on Calamondo alone like he had once before, but he didn't dare. He had to call in local law enforcement.

Once he placed the call to Snake Bayou PD dispatch, he angled for the cash register where a tall woman waited to check out. She paid her bill and left.

Calamondo stood up, dropped a couple of bills on the table, and headed for the cash register. J.T. went rigid as the man approached him. Although those irritating dark shades shielded Calamondo's eyes, J.T. could tell his attention was riveted on Kelly. The hairs on J.T.'s arms came to attention, and the old excitement of the hunt crawled over his skin.

How was your meal? he asked, knowing the man would recognize him and bracing for a fight. He expected no less than an invitation to step outside, maybe a blow to the throat or the gleam of a slashing blade. In fact, he welcomed it. He held his hands loosely by his side, ready to snag the butt of the loaded .44 Peter kept hidden beneath the counter.

When Calamondo didn't immediately reply, J.T. scrutinized the man's stoic face. A white-tinged scar ran from his top lip to the corner of his right eye, a lasting souvenir from J.T.'s brutal attack. Yuri stripped off his sunglasses.

Well, well, well. The felon's lips curled, and he raked his wary eyes over J.T. If it ain't Officer Romano. Oh, wait— he snickered. "That's Mister Romano now, ain't it? You got kicked off the force in New Orleans because of me. He laughed harder, revealing uneven stained teeth. Too fucking bad."

J.T.'s hand closed around the .44. He wanted nothing more than to pick it up and shove it beneath Calamondo's square chin. His fingers itched to pull the trigger and blow the man to hell. Yet despite the rush of adrenaline speeding through his system, he knew he had to follow protocol. The local beat cops would be here soon—and Calamondo would go back to prison where he belonged. J.T. released the .44's thick grip.

Keep the change. Calamondo dropped a twenty on the counter. He eyed J.T. for another tension-charged moment, then turned and walked away.

You'll pay soon enough, J.T. muttered