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  KILLER FEMMES

  Five Irresistible Crime Novels From Around the World

  By

  Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Christine Kling

  Sujata Massey

  Zoë Sharp

  Julie Smith

  This is a work of fiction. Descriptions and portrayals of real people, events, organizations, or establishments are intended to provide background for the story and are used fictitiously. Other characters and situations are drawn from the authors’ imagination and are not intended to be real.

  Copyright © 2014 by

  Killer Femmes:

  Easy Innocence © Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Cross Current © Christine Kling

  The Flower Master © Sujata Massey

  Killer Instinct © Zoë Sharp

  Louisiana Hotshot © Julie Smith

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-938733-76-5

  Cover by Miguel Ortuno

  PR Chicago

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Easy Innocence

  Cross Current

  The Flower Master

  Killer Instinct

  Louisiana Hotshot

  INTRODUCTION

  Come on in and make yourself comfortable! We’ll hang your wet trench coat on the rack right next to Libby’s Burberry. Watch that you don’t get clipped by one of the zippers on Zoë’s black motorcycle jacket! The weather outside is terrible—may we make you a cup of hot tea...Really? You’d rather have a bourbon?

  Okay…we’ll all get along very well.

  Welcome to the Killer Femmes World, where vice is nice and a stiletto heel is a girl’s best defense! Libby Fischer Hellmann, Zoë Sharp, Christine Kling, Julie Smith and Sujata Massey are five mystery authors who have published more than seventy novel, most of them set in unique places around the world. In fact, our books have been published in thirty countries, won numerous awards, are ranked on national and international bestseller lists, and give us the motivation to get up every day and imagine things a lot worse than a rainy day.

  In this bundle, each of us is sharing one of our most popular crime novels. Together, the collection moves from Chicago to the Bahamas, Japan to the UK, and New Orleans. Libby starts things off with Easy Innocence, a suspenseful novel set in Chicago, in which P.I. Georgia Davis hunts the murderer of a suburban high school girl and finds much more than she bargained for. In Christine’s Cross Current, you’ll meet Seychelle Sullivan, a sexy salvage boat captain who rescues an orphaned Haitian girl with a big secret in the waters of South Florida. Sujata’s The Flower Master brings Rei Shimura, a savvy twenty-something American antiques dealer to Tokyo, where she is stalked by a ruthless killer with an aptitude for poetry and flowers. Zoë’s hardboiled thriller Killer Instinct introduces Charlie Fox, a beautiful but lethal ex-soldier who rights all kinds of wrongs in Lancaster, England using semi-legal methods. The collection’s final offering is humorous and poignant at the same time: Julie Smith’s Louisiana Hotshot, which sends poet Talba Wallis deep into New Orleans’ music scene to unmask a killer.

  All of us started our writing careers fifteen to twenty years ago the traditional way: with agents who sold our work to publishing houses based in New York or London. But as time passed and a little device called an E-Reader materialized, it has become easy to republish some of our earlier titles--and have complete creative control over new stories, novellas and book length fiction.

  We hope that the Killer Femmes collection keeps you up late at night, takes you to far-flung settings, and is the start of a beautiful friendship.

  WHY THIS BOOK?

  Some books come from a vision. Others from personal experience. Easy Innocence, the first Georgia Davis PI novel, came to me out of fear. My daughter was starting high school, I was recently separated, and I doubted my ability to be the single mother of a teenager. A hazing incident at a nearby high school had just occurred -- it made the national media -- and several teenagers ended up in the ER. I started to wonder what if a girl had been killed during the hazing. Why? Who was the killer?

  That’s where the story turns to teen prostitution—but with a twist. It turns out that girls from seemingly stable middle-class families were (and are) hooking for money to buy designer clothes, toys, and gadgets that their parents can’t afford. Most of it is motivated by the need to be accepted by their peers

  But what does that say about the values we’re teaching our daughters? Easy Innocence and Georgia explore that… and more.

  Here’s what folks are saying:

  Hellmann brings to life the reality of bullying among teenage girls with enough twists and turns to keep you reading. Highly recommended.

  Library Journal, (Starred Review)

  Just what’s needed in a mystery… Depth of characterization sets this new entry by Hellmann apart from a crowded field.

  Kirkus Reviews

  There’s a new no-nonsense female private detective in town: Georgia Davis, a former cop who is tough and smart enough to give even the legendary V.I. Warshawski a run for her money.

  Chicago Tribune

  This was a book I could not put down, reading it cover to cover during the course of one day. The reader is drawn into the story immediately, and the wonderful writing makes the characters come alive.

  Midwest Book Review

  Hellmann’s done her homework here and it shows: the writing is assured, the voices authentic, and the understanding both of criminal investigations and relationships among cops, lawyers and prosecutors come to life with great urgency. Her PI, Georgia Davis, works the affluent suburbs north of Chicago, fertile territory for crime that’s lain fallow far too long. Davis’ arrival on the mean streets is long overdue.

  Sara Paretsky, Author of the VI Warshawski Mysteries

  EASY INNOCENCE

  by

  Libby Fischer Hellmann

  The Red Herrings Press

  Chicago

  Hardcover, Paperback published originally by Bleak House Books

  A division of Big Earth Publishing

  Ebook Published by The Red Herrings Press

  Audio Produced by Books in Motion

  Copyright © 2008 by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-932557-66-4 (Trade Cloth)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-932557-69-5 (Evidence Collection)

  ISBN 13: 978-1-938733-10-9 (EBook)

  Library of Congress Registration: TX7390938

  For Robin whose song brings joy and sunshine to my life

  CHAPTER ONE

  LONG AFTER she moved on, she would remember the smells. Her eyes, she kept closed—she’d never been a watcher, and most of the time there wasn’t anything worth looking at. But the smells were always there. Sometimes she made a game out of it. She could usually tag them by their aftershave. Brut. Old Spice. The man who reeked of Opium. Those were easy. It was when they didn’t bother to clean up, when their greasy hair or body odor or foul breath made her gag, that it got hard. Then she stopped playing the game and took shallow breaths through her mouth.

  There was also the dusty smell of the blankets. The starchy scent of the sheets. The faint residue of smoke in the rug and curtains. In nicer hotels, she might catch a lingering trace of disinfectant.

  But the smell of sex—that was always the same. It didn’t matter whether the man was white or black or Asian. It didn’t ma
tter the state of his personal hygiene. Sex gave off that slightly chemical, briny odor. Sometimes yeasty. Sometimes flavored with sweat. It wasn’t offensive. Just different.

  As she rolled off his body, his aftershave cut through the smell of sex. Spicy but sweet. She didn’t recognize it, but she knew it was expensive. She sat up. The room was large and elegantly furnished. Late afternoon sun spilled through wooden window slats. He always brought her to nice hotels. And he paid well. They never haggled.

  She grabbed the small towel she’d left at the end of the bed and gently rubbed his cock. He moaned and stretched out his arms. He claimed he liked to clean up right away, but she knew he just wanted some extra attention.

  She kept rubbing. “How we doing?”

  He kept his eyes shut, but a smile tickled his lips, and he angled his pelvis up toward the towel. “Mmmm.”

  Men were so predictable. But this was what made it worthwhile. Besides the money. She loved the moment when they reached the edge of passion and couldn’t hold on any longer. When they shot into her, relinquishing everything. The feeling of power at that moment was incredible. And addictive.

  She massaged him for another minute, then stopped. Always leave them wanting, she’d learned. Sometimes it meant another round. And more money. This time, though, he didn’t move. He lay so still she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She hoped not. She had another appointment.

  She bunched up the towel and lobbed it across the room. It landed on her black leather mini-skirt. Damn. She’d paid nearly two hundred dollars for it, another two for the jacket. No way she’d let it get ruined by a sex-stained towel. She got out of bed, picked up the clothes and the Coach bag lying nearby. She remembered when she bought the bag. How she handed over the three hundred dollar bills with a blasé expression, trying not to show how proud she was to have that kind of cash. How the sales clerk at Old Orchard Mall squinted, trying to hide her envy. Yes, it was worth it.

  She headed into the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open. He liked to watch her get dressed. She tried to remember if he’d always been that way. She thought not. Of course, things were different then. She smiled to herself. If he only knew. She cleaned herself up and put on the skirt, then the filmy see-through blouse. She checked herself out in the mirror, pirouetting left then right. She’d lost a few pounds over the summer, and she liked her new lean look. She’d be shopping for winter clothes soon. That would be fun.

  She was reapplying her makeup, thinking about Prada boots and Versace sweaters when his cell chirped. She heard him curse, then fumble around for his jacket. She heard the metallic click as he flipped the phone open.

  “Yeah?”

  She studied her hair in the mirror. It had come down, and her blond waves framed her face. But she had another job, so she rolled it back up into a twist. With her hair, her makeup and clothes, no one recognized her. Including “Charlie.” She almost giggled. Charlie. What kind of name was that for a john? He should have been more creative. Sometimes she said her name was Stella. The object of desire. Better than that stupid streetcar.

  “I’m in a meeting,” he said into the cell.

  She couldn’t hear who he was talking to, but the long exhalation that followed told her he wasn’t going to be hanging up.

  “That’s what we’re meeting about.” A pause. “The funeral’s at Christ Church up here. She refuses to go back to the old neighborhood.” Another pause. “Memorial Park.”

  She stopped fiddling with her hair.

  “I told you. I don’t want to talk about this. I told you I would handle Fred. But you couldn’t wait. Now we’re both up shit creek.”

  Fred? She dropped her arms and slowly turned around. He sat on the edge of the bed, his profile to her. His cell was glued to his ear, and he was trying to pull up his pants with his free hand. She leaned against the bathroom door.

  “Of course, she’s upset.” He snapped the button of his trousers. “He’s the only one in the family she talked to. For him to die—alone—in a fire—she’s devastated. Everyone is. I told you not to jump the gun. We were practically there.”

  She bit her lip, trying to piece it together. When she thought she had it, she sucked in a breath.

  He twisted around and stared at her. The anger that ran hard across his face disappeared, and his expression grew puzzled. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’ll call you back.” He released the cell from his ear and snapped it closed.

  She looked down. But not fast enough.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A PRINCESS. That’s what she looked like to him. A fairy princess.

  Shh. Quiet. Don’t make a sound. Have to watch the silky, golden-haired girl. See her twist and twirl in the clearing.

  He slipped behind a tree. As quiet as a mouse. A furry mouse. Mousekeeters. Karen and Cubby. But the girls with her in the clearing were not quiet. They shouted and laughed. And made the princess spin around in a circle. She stumbled from one to another while they clapped and cheered. They should stop, he thought. Fairy princesses are not meant to fall. Fairy princesses are meant to smile, to soar, to glide. Their wands flickered as they touched the anointed, and the anointed rose up strong and powerful.

  No. Must not touch myself. It is bad. Everyone says so.

  The branch he’d been holding fell back, but the girls, absorbed in their chanting, didn’t notice. He waited a moment, then lifted the branch again.

  The girls had gone. The princess was alone. But she did not flutter from spot to spot, bestowing magic with her wand. She stomped around the clearing, her arms out in front. Long, bare arms, her summer tan not quite faded. He imagined the shapely, tanned legs beneath her jeans. He felt himself stiffen.

  She couldn’t see. A white metal bucket covered her head. A foul smell came from the bucket. Fish. Dead fish. How did that happen? She pulled at the bucket, tugging, yanking, trying to take it off. But it would not come off. Her ring made a tinny sound against the metal. A quiet clang. Knock knock. Who’s there? Who’s coming?

  “Is anybody there?” He could barely hear her muffled cries. “Please. Help. It’s getting hard to breathe!”

  He let the branch fall again. Her ladies-in-waiting had abandoned her. He, the gallant prince, would rescue her. But first he had to attend to the urge. It was strong, his urge. Sometimes it consumed him. It was what he did when he saw beauty. It was the only thing that soothed him. And the fairy princess was very beautiful. He hid behind a tree and dropped his pants. Quiet. Very quiet. Can’t let anyone see.

  “Hey. Come on! I need help!”

  His heart began to pound. She was calling. I am here, your highness, he wanted to say. I will be there. But first, I need to do this. It will only be a minute. Minute rice. Minute men. Minute. Minute. Minute.

  A moment later, he sagged and clung to the tree. He had finished. He peered around. The princess was standing strangely still. Had she heard him? No. How could she? He was always quiet. And she had that bucket on her head.

  Bushes rustled on the other side of the clearing. Who was creeping out of the woods toward the princess? Was that a baseball bat in their hands? Or was it his imagination? The doctors kept saying he saw things that weren’t there. Did things he shouldn’t do.

  His father had bought him a Louisville Slugger when he was young. Told him about Ted Williams and Harmon Killebrew. Taught him how to swing from his hips. He remembered that day. It was a good one.

  Wait. What was happening? The bucket wasn’t a ball. Stop striking the bucket. The princess will get hurt! Already she was swaying from side to side. But the bat kept pounding the metal. Swing and a miss. Strike one. The princess fell to her knees, still clutching the bucket. Ashes, ashes, they all fall down. The princess was down for the count. Ten, nine, eight. One more swing connected with the bucket with a loud clannngggg. The princess dropped to the ground.

  Home run. The home team won! Where are the bells? The whistles? The scoreboard lit up like the Fourth of July? A trickle of red seeped under the rim
of the bucket onto the ground.

  Suddenly it was quiet. Even the crickets stifled their song. He stared at the princess. She wasn’t moving. Oh God, it was good. He was good. His pants were stained. He was wet. Sticky. So was the princess. Have to mop up. Clean us both. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet. Cleaning her curds and whey.

  Her sweet, milky neck. The soft, golden hair. Streaked with red now. Did he do this? He was going to be her salvation. The leaves on the trees shivered. He did too.

  The Louisville Slugger. It lay close to the princess. He had wanted to play Little League. Shortstop, he thought. Stop short. But he didn’t make the team. His father was angry. He remembered that day, too. It hurt. He stood up and raised the bat to his shoulders. Swing and a miss. Strike two.

  Screams pierced the silence of the woods. The ladies in waiting were back. Their hands flew to their mouths. Their eyes grew wide with horror. You are too late, he wanted to call out. You could not save your Princess.

  He dropped the bat and knelt down next to her body. He touched the bloody rim of the bucket. He wiped his hands on his shirt. The silence of the woods pressed in. He would have cried, if only he knew how.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THAT TWO-TIMING bitch,” he spat. “She’s going to pay. Big time.”

  Georgia Davis tried to ignore the man’s venom, but the more he talked, the more vicious he grew. A potential client, he’d met her at Starbucks and immediately started to rant about his wife. Georgia listened, hoping she could remain dispassionate. “When did you first suspect she was seeing someone?”