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Witness
Betrayed
Betrayed
A Will Novak Novel
#3
#3
by
Linda Ladd
Linda Ladd
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Pub
Date: 10/2/18
Date: 10/2/18
No
Friends
Friends
Mardi
Gras whips New Orleans’ French Quarter into a whirlpool of excess,
color, booze, noise, motion. So the woman in the sights of Will
Novak’s binoculars stands out. She’s bruised, barefoot, wearing a
man’s raincoat. And she’s looking right at him.
Gras whips New Orleans’ French Quarter into a whirlpool of excess,
color, booze, noise, motion. So the woman in the sights of Will
Novak’s binoculars stands out. She’s bruised, barefoot, wearing a
man’s raincoat. And she’s looking right at him.
No
Faith
Faith
In
a moment she’s fleeing into the crowd, but Novak knows she’s not
gone for good. When she comes back, it’s with a gun to his head—and
a story about crony politics, a crooked judge, a kidnapped
whistleblower, and children in deadly danger. Novak can’t let this
one slide.
a moment she’s fleeing into the crowd, but Novak knows she’s not
gone for good. When she comes back, it’s with a gun to his head—and
a story about crony politics, a crooked judge, a kidnapped
whistleblower, and children in deadly danger. Novak can’t let this
one slide.
No
Fury
Fury
Through
the grit of Houston’s underbelly to the grime below Beverly Hills’
glamor, a trickle of rot connects the powerful to the desperate and
corrupts the men and women who are supposed to stand against it.
Deceit is everywhere. If he’s going to do right, Novak is going to
have to do it alone . . .
the grit of Houston’s underbelly to the grime below Beverly Hills’
glamor, a trickle of rot connects the powerful to the desperate and
corrupts the men and women who are supposed to stand against it.
Deceit is everywhere. If he’s going to do right, Novak is going to
have to do it alone . . .
Say
Your Goodbyes
Your Goodbyes
A
Will Novak Novel #2
Will Novak Novel #2
SAY
YOU’RE DREAMING
When
a scream wakes Will Novak in the middle of the night, at first he
puts it down to the nightmares. He’s alone on a sailboat in the
Caribbean, miles from land. And his demons never leave him.SAY
YOUR PRAYERS
The
screams are real, though, coming from another boat just a rifle’s
night scope away. It only takes seconds for Novak to witness one
murder and stop another. But with the killer on the run and a
beautiful stranger dripping on his deck, Novak has gotten himself
into a new kind of deep water.BUT
DON’T SAY YOUR NAME
The
young woman he saved says she doesn’t know who she is. But someone
does, and they’re burning fuel and cash to chase Novak and his new
acquaintance from one island to the next, across dangerous seas and
right into the wilds of the Yucatan jungle. If either of them is
going to live, Novak is going to need answers, fast—and he’s
guessing he won’t like what he finds out . . .
YOU’RE DREAMING
When
a scream wakes Will Novak in the middle of the night, at first he
puts it down to the nightmares. He’s alone on a sailboat in the
Caribbean, miles from land. And his demons never leave him.SAY
YOUR PRAYERS
The
screams are real, though, coming from another boat just a rifle’s
night scope away. It only takes seconds for Novak to witness one
murder and stop another. But with the killer on the run and a
beautiful stranger dripping on his deck, Novak has gotten himself
into a new kind of deep water.BUT
DON’T SAY YOUR NAME
The
young woman he saved says she doesn’t know who she is. But someone
does, and they’re burning fuel and cash to chase Novak and his new
acquaintance from one island to the next, across dangerous seas and
right into the wilds of the Yucatan jungle. If either of them is
going to live, Novak is going to need answers, fast—and he’s
guessing he won’t like what he finds out . . .
Bad
Road to Nowhere
Road to Nowhere
A
Will Novak Novel #1
Will Novak Novel #1
BAD
MEMORIES
Not
many people know their way through the bayous well enough to find
Will Novak’s crumbling mansion outside New Orleans. Not that Novak
wants to talk to anyone. He keeps his guns close and his guard always
up.
BAD
SISTER
Mariah
Murray is one selfish, reckless, manipulative woman, the kind Novak
would never want to get tangled up with. But he can’t say no to his
dead’s wife sister.
BAD
VIBES
When
Mariah tells him she wants to rescue a childhood friend, another
Aussie girl gone conveniently missing in north Georgia, Novak can’t
turn her down. She’s hiding something. But the pretty little town
she’s targeted screams trouble, too. Novak knows there’s a trap
waiting. But until he springs it, there’s no telling who to trust .
. .
MEMORIES
Not
many people know their way through the bayous well enough to find
Will Novak’s crumbling mansion outside New Orleans. Not that Novak
wants to talk to anyone. He keeps his guns close and his guard always
up.
BAD
SISTER
Mariah
Murray is one selfish, reckless, manipulative woman, the kind Novak
would never want to get tangled up with. But he can’t say no to his
dead’s wife sister.
BAD
VIBES
When
Mariah tells him she wants to rescue a childhood friend, another
Aussie girl gone conveniently missing in north Georgia, Novak can’t
turn her down. She’s hiding something. But the pretty little town
she’s targeted screams trouble, too. Novak knows there’s a trap
waiting. But until he springs it, there’s no telling who to trust .
. .
Linda
Ladd is the bestselling author of over a dozen novels,
including the Claire Morgan thrillers. She makes her home in
Missouri, where she lives with her husband and old beagle named
Banjo. She loves traveling and spending time with her two adult
children,two grandsons, and granddaughter. In addition to writing,
Linda enjoys target shooting and is a good markswoman with a Glock 19
similar to her fictional detectives. She loves to read good books,
play tennis and board games, and watch fast-paced action movies. She
is currently at work on her next novel.
Ladd is the bestselling author of over a dozen novels,
including the Claire Morgan thrillers. She makes her home in
Missouri, where she lives with her husband and old beagle named
Banjo. She loves traveling and spending time with her two adult
children,two grandsons, and granddaughter. In addition to writing,
Linda enjoys target shooting and is a good markswoman with a Glock 19
similar to her fictional detectives. She loves to read good books,
play tennis and board games, and watch fast-paced action movies. She
is currently at work on her next novel.
Chapter 1
Below Will Novak’s balcony, the final day of Mardi Gras was in full swing. Crowds walked along the
narrow width of Bourbon Street, laughing and talking and enjoying the famous New Orleans celebration.
The French Quarter was alive with excitement and good cheer, which put police on alert for inevitable
drunken altercations. That’s why Novak was watching. From where he sat in a chair drawn close to the
wrought-iron rail, he could see several drunks stumbling around inside the crowd and others who
looked well on their way to inebriation. His apartment was at the top end of Bourbon Street, so the
riotous mass moved down the street in one direction like ants headed to a piece of pecan pie. Across
the street, a jazz band was playing, filling the late night with the sounds of saxophone, piano, and bass
fiddle.
Novak enjoyed the music, thinking the band was pretty good, as he swept his binoculars over the
boisterous crowd as it moved along the ancient street with its old-fashioned lampposts and multitude of
bars and novelty shops. The New Orleans Police Department had hired him on a temporary basis to spot
probable troublemakers and report their locations to street cops. He’d been at it for a long time.
Glancing at his watch, he found it was almost midnight. Eventually all the fun going on now would wane
and the people would gradually disperse, but not yet. Maybe in another hour or two. He hoped so. He
was dead tired.
Late February in south Louisiana was sometimes chilly; he had put on a leather jacket because of the nip
in the air. The cold was not bothering anybody else, who kept warm by drinking beer and the sheer
exhilaration of the moment. Unfortunately, nobody was calling it a night yet. Pushing, shoving, and hair-
trigger, testosterone-fueled fistfights had been a regular occurrence all week long. At such occasions,
Novak always watched first for the glint of steel. Knives were easily hidden under coats. This late hour
was when either guns or knives were apt to be whipped out and innocent passersby hurt. Novak wasn’t
the only observer on the street. There were many others just like him with bird’s-eye views of the
action. He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his earpiece and microphone headset.
Loud shouts caught his attention, and he swung the glasses to a commotion starting up right across the
street. A young woman stood high on a second-floor balcony opposite him. She looked as if she was
smashed but didn’t know it yet. She was having a good old time, giggling and waving at the men below
her on the street. A crowd had already gathered, mainly because she kept pulling up her sweatshirt and
showing her bare breasts. The guys below hooted and clapped and sent forth all manner of
encouragement. She obliged their fervor by whipping the sweatshirt off over her head and shimmying
for anybody inclined to take a look.
Skin shows were not unusual during Mardi Gras week. The guy standing on the balcony with her didn’t
appear to mind much, flinging off his own shirt in a show of support. His hairy chest didn’t garner as
much interest. Both leaned over the railing, blowing kisses and tossing strings of colorful beads to their
drunken admirers, which immediately caused fights for possession. People were just damn stupid
sometimes, but no real harm was done with something like that. He called in the incident. A two-team
unit was dispatched to break up the crowd below, and then they’d have to climb the narrow interior
stairs to the woman’s apartment and order her to cover herself or go to jail. They had already warnedthe same woman earlier that evening. They might arrest her this time. Novak didn’t care much, one way
or the other. He riveted his attention back on the street. Many people carried red Solo cups so they
could guzzle beer while they walked. Mardi Gras had always been a big drunken party and a giant
headache for the NOPD. Tonight was no exception.
Novak was working solo. He hadn’t been on a gig by himself in a while, not since he’d signed up with
Claire Morgan’s private investigation firm. His partner was unavailable, off to Italy with her husband,
Nicholas Black. They had been tied up in Rome for days now, fighting Italian government red tape as
they tried to adopt a ten-year-old boy named Rico. His parents had been murdered during a particularly
bad case that Novak had been involved in, and since it had wrapped up, Claire and Black had given the
kid a good home. They wanted him to stay there.
They were due back soon, though, and Novak was glad. He missed Claire. She was quite a woman, all
things considered: tall, natural blond, athletic, good-looking, and sexy without knowing it. More
important, she was a damn good detective and a damn good friend. He could count on her when things
got sticky. Compared to most of their cases, tonight’s gig was a breeze. Sitting in his own apartment
watching people having fun was something he didn’t usually mind.
Below Will Novak’s balcony, the final day of Mardi Gras was in full swing. Crowds walked along the
narrow width of Bourbon Street, laughing and talking and enjoying the famous New Orleans celebration.
The French Quarter was alive with excitement and good cheer, which put police on alert for inevitable
drunken altercations. That’s why Novak was watching. From where he sat in a chair drawn close to the
wrought-iron rail, he could see several drunks stumbling around inside the crowd and others who
looked well on their way to inebriation. His apartment was at the top end of Bourbon Street, so the
riotous mass moved down the street in one direction like ants headed to a piece of pecan pie. Across
the street, a jazz band was playing, filling the late night with the sounds of saxophone, piano, and bass
fiddle.
Novak enjoyed the music, thinking the band was pretty good, as he swept his binoculars over the
boisterous crowd as it moved along the ancient street with its old-fashioned lampposts and multitude of
bars and novelty shops. The New Orleans Police Department had hired him on a temporary basis to spot
probable troublemakers and report their locations to street cops. He’d been at it for a long time.
Glancing at his watch, he found it was almost midnight. Eventually all the fun going on now would wane
and the people would gradually disperse, but not yet. Maybe in another hour or two. He hoped so. He
was dead tired.
Late February in south Louisiana was sometimes chilly; he had put on a leather jacket because of the nip
in the air. The cold was not bothering anybody else, who kept warm by drinking beer and the sheer
exhilaration of the moment. Unfortunately, nobody was calling it a night yet. Pushing, shoving, and hair-
trigger, testosterone-fueled fistfights had been a regular occurrence all week long. At such occasions,
Novak always watched first for the glint of steel. Knives were easily hidden under coats. This late hour
was when either guns or knives were apt to be whipped out and innocent passersby hurt. Novak wasn’t
the only observer on the street. There were many others just like him with bird’s-eye views of the
action. He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his earpiece and microphone headset.
Loud shouts caught his attention, and he swung the glasses to a commotion starting up right across the
street. A young woman stood high on a second-floor balcony opposite him. She looked as if she was
smashed but didn’t know it yet. She was having a good old time, giggling and waving at the men below
her on the street. A crowd had already gathered, mainly because she kept pulling up her sweatshirt and
showing her bare breasts. The guys below hooted and clapped and sent forth all manner of
encouragement. She obliged their fervor by whipping the sweatshirt off over her head and shimmying
for anybody inclined to take a look.
Skin shows were not unusual during Mardi Gras week. The guy standing on the balcony with her didn’t
appear to mind much, flinging off his own shirt in a show of support. His hairy chest didn’t garner as
much interest. Both leaned over the railing, blowing kisses and tossing strings of colorful beads to their
drunken admirers, which immediately caused fights for possession. People were just damn stupid
sometimes, but no real harm was done with something like that. He called in the incident. A two-team
unit was dispatched to break up the crowd below, and then they’d have to climb the narrow interior
stairs to the woman’s apartment and order her to cover herself or go to jail. They had already warnedthe same woman earlier that evening. They might arrest her this time. Novak didn’t care much, one way
or the other. He riveted his attention back on the street. Many people carried red Solo cups so they
could guzzle beer while they walked. Mardi Gras had always been a big drunken party and a giant
headache for the NOPD. Tonight was no exception.
Novak was working solo. He hadn’t been on a gig by himself in a while, not since he’d signed up with
Claire Morgan’s private investigation firm. His partner was unavailable, off to Italy with her husband,
Nicholas Black. They had been tied up in Rome for days now, fighting Italian government red tape as
they tried to adopt a ten-year-old boy named Rico. His parents had been murdered during a particularly
bad case that Novak had been involved in, and since it had wrapped up, Claire and Black had given the
kid a good home. They wanted him to stay there.
They were due back soon, though, and Novak was glad. He missed Claire. She was quite a woman, all
things considered: tall, natural blond, athletic, good-looking, and sexy without knowing it. More
important, she was a damn good detective and a damn good friend. He could count on her when things
got sticky. Compared to most of their cases, tonight’s gig was a breeze. Sitting in his own apartment
watching people having fun was something he didn’t usually mind.
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