Black Silk. Metsy Hingle

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      Also by Metsy Hingle

      DEADLINE

      FLASHPOINT BEHIND THE MASK

      Dear Reader,

      Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Black Silk. I hope you find it to be a real page-turner and it keeps you entertained.

      If this is the first time you’ve read any of my books, I do hope you enjoy it. For those of you who are familiar with my work, you won’t be surprised to find Black Silk is set in New Orleans, my birthplace and the city that continues to inspire me.

      As always, one of the greatest joys for me as a writer is hearing from readers. Your comments, opinions and feedback on my books mean a great deal to me. So please keep those letters, cards and e-mails coming.

      My address is Metsy Hingle, PO Box 3224, Covington, LA 70434, USA, or you can contact me on the web at metsyhingle.com.

      Until next time, best wishes and happy reading!

       Metsy Hingle

      METSY HINGLE

      BLACK SILK

      

www.mirabooks.co.uk

      In Loving Memory of Missy

      1991–2004 The four-legged ball of fur who owned my heart.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      During the course of writing this book, I lost dear family members, a lifelong friend and my beloved Missy, the puppy who sat on my lap for every book I’ve written until now. It was a difficult and sad period for me that made writing all the more difficult. Were it not for the grace of our Lord and the Blessed Mother, along with the support of some very special people, this book would never have been written. My heartfelt thanks go to the following people for their help in bringing life to Black Silk:

      Valerie Gray, my editor and friend at MIRA Books, whose continued guidance has been a blessing.

      Dianne Moggy, editorial director of MIRA Books, for her friendship and support.

      The amazing MIRA staff, who continue to astound me with their support.

      Sandra Brown, my dear friend, for her friendship, love and for the shoulder to cry on whenever I needed it.

      Erica Spindler and Nathan Hoffman, dearest of friends, for their friendship, advice and love.

      Hailey North, my dear friend and fellow writer, for her friendship, love and support.

      Carly Phillips, my friend and fellow writer, for her support.

      Bill Capo, TV investigative reporter for Channel 4 News in New Orleans, for his friendship, support and for answering my questions about the inner workings of the newsroom.

      Marilyn Shoemaker, my friend, fan and researcher.

      A special thank-you goes to my children and my family, whose love and support enable me to spin my tales of love, hope and happily-ever-after.

      And as always, to my husband, Jim, who is my lover, my best friend, my rock and the person who has taught me everything that I know about love.

      One

      She should have found him by now. Ignoring the chill of the February wind, Detective Charlotte “Charlie” Le Blanc stared down at her sister’s grave. Six years had passed since an unspeakable monster had murdered her sister Emily. And still he remained free. Free to walk the streets. Free to breathe. Free to kill again.

      Thunder rumbled overhead and the angry sound seemed to echo Charlie’s mood. She was no closer to finding her sister’s killer now than she’d been when she’d quit law school and joined the New Orleans police force almost six years ago.

      “It sounds like we’re in for some bad weather,” her mother remarked, drawing Charlie’s attention from her dark thoughts. “I wish you had worn your heavy coat like I asked you to, Gordon.”

      “My jacket is fine,” her father replied. “Honey, this is New Orleans, not New York.”

      Charlie looked over at the two of them. Grief had taken its toll on both of them, she thought. Despite the grief counseling that had helped them get through the loss of their middle daughter, the twinkle in her mother’s hazel eyes was never quite as bright again, her smiles never quite as wide. And although he’d never fallen apart, Emily’s murder had left its mark on her father as well. The lines around his eyes had grown deeper, his hair grayer, his laughter less frequent.

      When another growl of thunder was followed by a crack of lightning, her father placed an arm around her mother’s shoulder. “Looks like that rain is moving in this direction. We’d better go if we want to beat the downpour.”

      “All right,” her mother responded and walked over to the headstone. Stooping down, she placed a bouquet of yellow roses in front of it. After pressing her fingers to the marble stone where Emily’s name had been engraved, she straightened and returned to her husband’s side. “Charlotte, are you coming?”

      “Not just yet. You and Dad go on ahead. I won’t be long.”

      “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone,” her mother said. “It’s not safe.”

      “Mom, I’m a cop,” Charlie protested.

      “You’re still our little girl,” her mother informed her.

      “Your mother’s right, Charlie,” her father told her. “We’ll wait and walk you to your car.”

      Charlie fingered the package of yellow M&M candies in her jacket pocket. It was a silly gift—her sister’s favorite snack in her favorite color. It had become both a joke and a tradition since she’d fished out six of the yellow candies from a bag of the treats, bundled them up in tissue, tied it with a yellow ribbon and presented it to Emily for her sixth birthday. Emily had adored it. So every birthday that had followed, Charlie had added another candy to mark her sister’s age and presented her with the gift—right up to the year that her sister was killed. And for the past six years, she had continued the tradition. Only now she placed the gift on Emily’s grave. She knew it was foolish. After all, her sister was dead and as far as she knew, ghosts, if there was such a thing, didn’t eat candy. But continuing the practice somehow kept the memory of her sister close. It also renewed her determination to keep the promise she’d made to both of them at Emily’s funeral—to find her sister’s killer and bring him to justice. “I’ll be fine, Dad,” she told him.

      “Charlotte,” her mother began.

      “I’ll only stay a few minutes.” She kissed her mother on the cheek and then her father. “Now you two go on before the rain hits. I won’t be long. I promise.”

      “Are you still coming over for dinner?” her mother asked.

      “Yes. But I’ve got some paperwork to do at the station first so I may be a little late.”

      “That’s all right. Anne got sent out on some kind of assignment at the TV station this afternoon and she’ll probably be late, too,” her mother explained. “We’ll just plan on eating a little later than usual.”

      “Sounds good. I’ll see you tonight,” she said.

      “Make sure you don’t stay long,” her father instructed.

      “I won’t,” she promised again. Once her parents had departed, Charlie walked over to the marble stone that marked her sister’s grave. She retrieved the package of twenty-five yellow M&Ms from her pocket and placed it beside the roses her mother had brought. “Happy birthday, Em,” she whispered just before the skies opened up.

      Charlie made a run for it. By the time she reached her car, the black boots she’d splurged on the week before were a mess and