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About the Author
The author of twenty-five books, ERICA SPINDLER is best known for her spine-tingling thrillers. Her novels have been published all over the world, selling over six million copies, and critics have dubbed her stories “thrill-packed, page turners, white knuckle rides, and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”
Erica is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. In 2002, her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence.
Also by Erica Spindler
SEE JANE DIE
IN SILENCE
DEAD RUN
SHOCKING PINK
BONE COLD
CAUSE FOR ALARM
KILLER TAKES ALL
COPYCAT
All Fall Down
Erica Spindler
For Dianne Moggy, editor and friend.
Thanks for making the journey so much fun.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In our busy world time is the one thing we never seem to have enough of, yet the following people gave generously of theirs so that I could bring All Fall Down to life. They did so enthusiastically and openly, sharing their expertise and experiences; my heartfelt thanks to each.
Barton M Menser, Assistant District Attorney, State of North Carolina, 26th Prosecutorial District: for explaining the workings of the district attorney’s office.
Keith Bridges, Community Education Coordinator, Charlotte/Mecklenburg Police Department: for educating me about the CMPD, from the size of the force to interrogation procedures.
Elaine and Leon Schneider, friends: for not only sharing Charlotte with me, but their home as well. Special thanks to Elaine for squiring me to all my appointments and greeting me with a smile even when those appointments ran long.
Tommy Patterson, Investigative Group, Inc: for bringing the technical side of surveillance alive for me.
Special Agent Joanne Morley, FBI, Charlotte Field Office: for answering my questions about FBI protocol and for describing the Charlotte Field Office.
Linda West (aka author Linda Lewis), attorney: again and always, for being my legal editor and expert.
David Shilman, pharmaceutical representative, Organon: for information about the professional life of a drug rep.
Bobby Russo, Bobby Russo’s American Black Belt Academy: for information about the art of tae kwon do.
1
Charlotte, North Carolina January, 2000
The closet was small, cramped. Too warm. Dark save for the sliver of dim light from the bedroom beyond. In it, Death waited. Patiently. Without movement or complaint.
Tonight was the night. Soon, the man would come. And like the others, he would pay.
For crimes unpunished. Against the weak. Against those the world had turned their backs on. Death had planned carefully, had left nothing to chance. The woman was away, the children with her. Far away, in the loving and protective arms of family.
From another part of the house came a sound—a thud, then an oath. A door slammed. Excited, Death pressed closer to the door, peering through the narrow space, taking in the scene beyond: the unmade bed, the dirty laundry strewn about, the trash that littered the floor.
The man stumbled into the room, toward the bed, obviously inebriated. Immediately, the small dark space filled with the smell of cigarettes and booze—booze he and his buddies had consumed that night. Laughing. Thumbing their noses at the gods. At justice.
He lost his balance and knocked into the bedside table. The lamp toppled and crashed to the floor. The man fell face first onto the bed, head turned to the side, foot and arm hanging off.
Minutes ticked past. The drunk’s breathing became deep and thick. Soon, his guttural snores filled the room. The snores of a man in an alcohol-induced coma, of one who would not awake easily.
Until it was too late.
The time had come.
Death eased out of the closet and crossed to the bed, stopping beside it and gazing down in disgust. Smoking in bed was dangerous. It was foolhardy. One should never tempt fate that way. But then, this was a stupid man. One who had not learned from his mistakes. The kind of man the world would be better off without.
With the toe of a shoe, Death eased the bedside wastebasket to the spot under the drunk’s dangling hand. The cigarette was the man’s brand; the matches from the bar he had frequented that night. The match flared with the first strike of tip against the friction strip; the flame crackled as it kissed the tobacco, hissing as it caught.
With a small, satisfied smile, Death dropped the glowing cigarette into the filled wastebasket, then turned and walked away.
2
Charlotte, North Carolina Wednesday, March 1, 2000
Officer Melanie May hovered just beyond the motel room’s door, gaze riveted to the bed inside, to the murder victim bound by ankles and wrists to the bed frame.
The young woman was naked. She lay faceup, her eyes open, her mouth sealed with silver duct tape. The blood had flown from her face and the top of her body, downward toward her back, pooling there, giving those areas a ruddy, bluish cast. Rigor mortis appeared to be complete, which meant she had been dead at least eight hours.
Melanie took a shaky step forward. Chief Greer’s call had interrupted her morning shower. A towel clutched to her chest, she’d had to ask him to repeat himself three times. Not only had there not been a homicide in Whistlestop since she joined the force three years ago, as she understood it, there had never been a homicide in the tiny community, located on the outskirts of Charlotte.
He had ordered her to the Sweet Dreams Motel, ASAP.
First order of business had been arranging care for her four-year-old son, Casey. That done, she had hurriedly donned her uniform, strapped on her gun belt and pulled her still-wet, shoulder-length blond hair back into a severe twist. She had speared in the last bobby pin just as the doorbell pealed, announcing that her neighbor had arrived to watch Casey.
Now, not quite twenty minutes later, she was staring in horror at her first murder victim and praying she didn’t puke.
To steady herself, she shifted her gaze to the room’s other occupants. From the number of them, it appeared she was the last to make the scene. Her partner, Bobby Taggerty—his rail-thin frame and shock of bright red hair making him look like a walking matchstick—was photographing the scene. Her chief stood in the corner of the room, engaged in a heated discussion with two men she recognized as homicide investigators with the Charlotte/Mecklenburg force. Outside, keeping the Whistlestop PD first officers company, were two Charlotte/Mecklenburg uniforms. A man she didn’t recognize—but whom she assumed was also CMPD, probably on the forensics team—squatted beside the bed, examining the corpse.
What was the CMPD doing here already? Melanie wondered, frowning. And why in such great numbers? Sure, the WPD was a tiny force operating within the large area serviced by the CMPD—a department