Superstition Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  “WHEN YOU SEE KAREN ROBARDS’S NAME ON A NEW BOOK, GRAB IT!”*

  Praise for the novels of Karen Robards

  Superstition

  “Robards is . . . guaranteed to deliver an entertaining, must-read, can’t-put-down story. And she does it again with Superstition. This has all the earmarks of a Robards story: a compelling mystery, an engaging cast of characters, and a strong hero and heroine with amazing chemistry.”

  —*The State (Columbia, SC)

  “This is another winner from the popular and prolific Robards, who delivers a great romantic thriller filled with interesting characters in a classic edge-of-the-seat read.”

  —Booklist

  “Karen Robards is one of the best writers of romantic suspense available today. Fans of Tami Hoag, Iris Johansen, and Kay Hooper will love Superstition, a fascinating romantic police procedural with supernatural elements that add an extra dimension to the story line. Nicky is a wonderful protagonist, a reporter in the tradition of Lois Lane who will do whatever is necessary to get her story. Ms. Robards always delivers a thrilling reading experience.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Bait

  “Romantic suspense at its absolute best. I didn’t want Bait to end.”

  —Janet Evanovich

  “Veteran romance/crime bestseller Robards delivers another hold-your-breath drama, this time starring FBI agent Sam McCabe and advertising executive Maddie Fitzgerald. Her pacing is excellent, and regular infusions of humor keep the story bounding along between trysts and attacks. This one is sure to please fans.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fans of police procedural romances will enjoy the action-packed thriller that does not slow down until the final confrontation ties up all loose ends. . . . Readers will enjoy this solid suspense story.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Robards returns once again with a pulse-pounding novel. Nonstop suspense amidst sensual romance heats up the pages of this captivating novel. Top-rate suspenseful action and sizzling romance form the backbone of this spectacular read, one of Robards’s all-time best.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “A top-notch thriller filled with humorous characters and diverting subplots that leave the reader engrossed until the very end, this is another coup for Robards.”

  —Booklist

  “Maddie and Sam are two extremely likable and compelling characters, which makes this a love affair worth rooting for.”

  —Romantic Times

  ALSO BY KAREN ROBARDS

  Bait

  Beachcomber

  Whispers at Midnight

  Irresistible

  To Trust a Stranger

  Paradise County

  Scandalous

  Ghost Moon

  The Midnight Hour

  The Senator’s Wife

  Heartbreaker

  Hunter’s Moon

  Walking After Midnight

  Maggy’s Child

  One Summer

  This Side of Heaven

  Dark of the Moon

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition.

  First Signet Printing, June 2006

  Copyright © Karen Robards, 2005 Excerpt from Vanished copyright © Karen Robards, 2006

  eISBN : 978-1-101-16606-2

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This 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.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is for Jack, who is always so good,

  with lots and lots of love.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MANY THANKS TO ALL who made this book possible: Peter Robards, for indefatigable technical support, without which, frankly, I would be stumped more often than I care to admit; Christopher Robards, for invaluable critiques of my plot points and/or humor; Jack Robards, for always seeing the sunny side of everything; Doug Robards, who holds down the fort while I’m lost in my writing; Peggy Kennady, for research assistance and for always being there; Robert Gottlieb, agent extraordinaire; Christine Pepe, who is an absolutely wonderful editor; Lily Chin, for keeping track of everything; Stephanie Sorensen, for doing such a good job with publicity; Dan Harvey, who gave so unstintingly of his time while I was in New York; Sharon Gamboa and Paul Deykerhoff, for working so hard to sell my books; Leslie Gelbman, Kara Welsh, Claire Zion, and the entire New American Library group; and, of course, Carole Baron, with many thanks and much appreciation for her kind words and support.

  1

  “GET AWAY FROM ME! Oh, God, somebody help me!” Tara Mitchell screamed, glancing over her shoulder as she fled through the dark house, her widened eyes seeking the blurry figure of the man chasing her.

  She was slim. Tanned. Blonde. Seventeen years old. Blue jeans, T-shirt and long, straight hair: In other words, she pretty much had the average-American-teen thing going on. If it hadn’t been for the terror contorting her face, she would have been more attractive than most. Beautiful, even.

  “Lauren! Becky! Where are you?” Her c
ry was shrill with fear. It echoed off the walls, hung shivering in the air. No answer—except for a grunt from her pursuer. He was closing in on her now, narrowing the gap between them as she fled across the living room, the knife in his hand glinting ominously in the moonlight that filtered in through the sheer curtains that covered the French doors at the far end of the room. Tara reached the doors and yanked frantically at the handle. Nothing happened. They were locked.

  “Help!” Glancing desperately behind her, she clawed at the dead bolt, her nails scraping audibly over the wood surrounding it. “Somebody help me!”

  The doors didn’t budge. Giving up, Tara whirled. Her face looked ashen in the gloom. A dark stain—blood?—spread like a slowly opening flower across the pale sleeve of her T-shirt. Her back flattened against the French doors as her eyes fixed fearfully on the man stalking her. He was no longer running. Instead, having cornered his prey, he was slowly closing in on her. The sharp pant of her breathing turned loud and harsh as she seemed to realize that she was out of options. Besides the locked doors at her back, the only way out of that room was through the pocket doors that led into the hall—the doors through which she had run moments earlier. They were ajar, admitting just enough light from some distant part of the house to enable her to see the outline of shapes—and to backlight her pursuer.

  Big and menacing, he stood between her and the door. It was obvious to the most casual observer that she had no chance of getting past him. He clearly realized it, too, and savored the knowledge that he had her trapped. Murmuring under his breath, the words not quite audible, he talked to her. The knife waved slowly back and forth in front of him as if to leave her in no doubt about what was coming.

  For the space of a couple heartbeats, her fear shimmered almost tangibly between them. Then Tara broke. Screaming, she bolted for the door, trying to dodge the man. He was too fast for her, jumping toward her, blocking her exit, catching her. His hand clamped around her arm, yanking her toward him. She screamed again, the sound an explosion of terror and despair.

  The knife rose, sliced down . . .

  Watching from the couch, where he had sat bolt upright after having been awakened by who-knew-what from what must have been his third involuntary catnap of the day, Joe Franconi broke out in a cold sweat.

  “Like I told you before, pal, you’re losing it,” Brian Sawyer observed wryly from behind him. Brian was thirty-five years old, six feet tall, blond, and good looking. He was also dead. That being the case, Joe ignored his comment in favor of listening to the TV reporter, who was now alone on the screen. Violence, even televised violence, was no longer his thing. True crime might be the TV flavor of the month, but to someone like himself, who had seen way more than his fair share of crime in real life, it didn’t qualify as entertainment. Didn’t even come close.

  So why was he still watching?

  Good question.

  Was it the reporter? She was maybe in her mid-twenties, a slim, good-looking redhead with big brown eyes and a cool, matter-of-fact manner. High cheekbones. Porcelain skin. Full, pouty red lips. Okay, she was hot. In his previous life, though, he’d never once felt the slightest stirring of interest in a talking head, no matter how attractive, and after considering the matter, he was glad to realize that his apathy toward media types remained unchanged.

  It wasn’t the reporter. But there was something—something . . .

  Trying to figure out what that something was, Joe frowned and focused on what she was saying.

  “Fifteen years ago this month, seventeen-year-old Tara Mitchell was brutally murdered in this house,” the woman said. A shot of a white antebellum mansion, once grand, now sagging and neglected, filled the screen. Three stories, double porches, fluted pillars, overhung by huge live oaks, branches bearded with Spanish moss, leaves the delicate new green that meant spring. Since this was early May, the shot was recent. Or maybe it had been taken in another, past, spring. Whenever, something about the house nagged at him. Joe squinted at the screen, trying to figure out what it was. The shadows that had become an inescapable part of his life kept shifting in and out of the edges of his peripheral vision, which didn’t help his concentration any. He ignored them. He was getting pretty good at that, just like he was getting good at ignoring Brian.

  The redhead on TV was still talking: “Rebecca Iverson and Lauren Schultz vanished. No trace of them has ever been found. What you just saw was a reenactment of what authorities think may have occurred in the final few minutes of Tara’s life, based on the evidence in the house. Earlier that night, Lauren’s parents had taken the girls out to dinner to celebrate Lauren’s seventeenth birthday, which was the following day. Becky, who was sixteen, and Tara were planning to sleep over at Lauren’s house. Lauren’s parents dropped them off at the house at around ten-fifteen that night, then went to check on Lauren’s grandmother, who lived less than half a mile away. When they returned, it was twenty minutes until midnight. Andrea Schultz, Lauren’s mother, describes what they found.”

  Another woman, mid-fifties maybe, with short, blond hair, faded blue eyes, and a face that had been deeply etched by time or grief, or some combination of the two, appeared on the screen. She was sitting on a deep gold couch in what appeared to be an upscale living room. A man of approximately the same age was sitting beside her. Gray-haired, a little paunchy, with the look of a solid citizen about him, he was holding her hand.

  Mrs. Schultz spoke directly into the camera. “We noticed coming up the driveway that the only light on in the house was in the downstairs bathroom, but that didn’t really strike us as odd. We just thought the girls had gone to bed a whole lot earlier than we had expected. We came in through the kitchen door. Mike—my husband—put away the doughnuts and milk we’d picked up for their breakfast, and I went on out into the center hall. When I turned on the light”—her voice shook—“I saw blood on the floor of the hall. Not a lot. A few drops about the size of quarters leading toward the living room. My first thought was that one of the girls had cut herself. I started calling Lauren, and I went into the living room and turned on the light. Tara was there on the couch. She was d-dead.”

  Mrs. Schultz stumbled over the last word, then stopped, her eyes filling with tears, her composure crumpling. The man—Joe assumed he was her husband—put his arm around her. Then they were gone, and the reporter was back on-screen, looking coolly out at him as she continued.

  “Tara was stabbed twenty-seven times that night, with such violence that the knife went all the way through her body to penetrate the couch in at least a dozen places. Her hair had been hacked off to within an inch of her scalp. And her face had been damaged to the point where it was almost unrecognizable.”

  “Shit,” Joe said, suddenly transfixed. He’d just figured out what had been nagging at him. That morning, he’d seen a photo of the murder house, which had been in the file he’d been reading through. The file on this case. The details were unforgettable.

  “Thought you’d want to see this.” Brian sounded smug. “You would have slept through it, too, if I hadn’t dropped the remote on your lap. You can thank me anytime.”

  Joe couldn’t help it. He glanced down and, sure enough, there was the remote, nestled between his jean-clad thighs, where it would have landed if it had been on his lap when he’d jarred awake. Had it been on his lap when he’d fallen asleep? Christ, he couldn’t remember.

  “Dave!” he yelled, at the same time doing his best to keep his focus on the screen. Dwelling on the state of his mental health was a good way to drive himself nuts—always supposing he wasn’t there already. “Get in here! Stat!”

  The program went to a commercial.

  “Jeez, Joe, you might want to keep it down. You’ll wake the kid,” Dave O’Neil said as he appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, his slow Southern drawl effectively robbing the words of any urgency that they might have been meant to impart. He’d attended his church’s five p.m. Sunday service—almost all the local churches
had one—but his church jacket and tie were long gone now. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up past his elbows, there was a blue-checked apron tied over his neat gray slacks, and he held a long-tined meat fork in one hand. Thirty-two years old, he was about five-eight, pudgy, and balding, with what was left of his dark brown hair grown long and slicked back in a mostly futile attempt to cover his scalp. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his round cheeks and the tip of his pug nose were rosy, making Joe think he’d just straightened up from checking on the progress of the roast chicken that at some time tonight was supposed to be dinner.

  In an unfortunate triumph of hormones over common sense, Dave was infatuated with a high-maintenance divorcée whom he’d recently allowed to move into his house with him—the house he and Joe were currently in—along with her three bratty kids, two of whom thankfully had not yet been returned by their father, who had them for the weekend. The third, a toddler, had fallen asleep shortly after Joe had arrived as agreed at seven for Sunday-night dinner, which was still cooking, although it was now just after eight-fifteen. Amy Martinez, Dave’s girlfriend and the children’s mother, had run to the corner store for some forgotten essentials a good twenty minutes before, leaving Dave to hold down the fort. Not that Dave had a problem with that. In fact, since Joe had known him, Dave had never to his knowledge had a problem with anything. When Joe had been hired as Chief of Police of tiny Pawleys Island, South Carolina, five months earlier, Dave was already the Assistant Chief of the twelve-man force. Joe’s first impression of him had been that he was a slow-moving, slow-talking, slow-thinking bumbler, but he’d kept him on, kept everyone on, just like he’d resisted making any but the most minor of changes in the way things had always been done, whether he’d found them irksome or not. The truth was, he’d needed the job too badly to risk making waves in those first few weeks, and now he found the Southern-fried culture of his department—in fact, the whole island—more soothing than crazy-making. And he’d developed a real fondness for Dave, who had done his best to make his new boss feel at home in what was, for the Jersey vice cop Joe had once been, an environment as alien as Mars.