Rest for the Wicked

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This is a work of ction. All of the characters, organizations, and eventsportrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination orare used ctitiously.

. Copyright 2012 by Ellen Hart. All rights reserved.Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martins

Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.comwww.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hart, Ellen. Rest for the wicked / Ellen Hart.1st ed.

p. cm. ISBN 978-1-250-00186-3 (hardcover) ISBN 978-1-250-01807-6 (e-book) 1. Lawless, Jane (Fictitious character)Fiction. 2. Womenprivate investigatorsFiction. 3. MurderInvestigationFiction.4. Minneapolis (Minn.)Fiction. I. Title. PS3558.A6775R47 2012 813'.54dc23

2012026736

First Edition: October 2012

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


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After tossing back one last vodka shooter, DeAndre Moore tore

through the crowded strip club, certain that the knee breaker

who was hot on his heels would send him to the hospital if he

didnt get lostand fast. Hed come early to have himself a couple

of drinks and try to calm down. Tonight was the night. Eithershe would leave with him or . . . or what? Would he really turn

her over to the cops? Did he have that right?

As soon as Sabrina stepped onto the nightclub oor and saw

him, she walked straight to one of the goons stationed at the front

door, pointed back at DeAndre, and said a few quick words. Time

to bounce, he thought. Hed catch up with her later.

He took off running, dodging this way and that around the

tables, thinking that if he could just put some distance between

himself and the hired muscle he could make it to the kitchen,

where he knew there was an exit out to the alley. Making a mad

dash for a pair of swinging doors, he pushed inside. One of the line

cooks thrust a knife at him and shouted, Get the hell out of here.

DeAndre plunged out the back door into the frigid night air,hearing a click as the door shut and locked behind him. That

would be enough for the knee breaker. He merely wanted him


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out, with as little fuss as possible. The front door, his only way

back in, would be barred for the rest of the night.

Standing in the dank, narrow alley, trying to catch his breath,

he cursed himself for ever coming to Minneapolis. He shouldhave stayed in St. Louis, minded his own business, let her sink or

swim on her own. Yet when it became clear what shed done, he

couldnt let it drop. He loved her. Shed always looked out for

him, and now it was time he returned the favor. Even more, Sa-

brina held the key to his past. Shed been dangling it over his head

for years, and he was sick of it. Hed come for an answer. One

way or the other, he intended to get it.

Passing several Dumpsters, he moved to the edge of the side-

walk. The snow was coming down so hard that he could barely

make out the buildings across the street. For the last four nights,

hed been staying in a downtown hotel, an outlay of money he

could ill afford. It had taken him months to track Sabrina to Min-

neapolis. Checking out the local strip bars had been the next logi-cal step. Hed found her at GaudyLights, persuaded her to meet

up for lunch the next day. Though they talked easily, just like old

times, she refused to open up. He came back to the club that night,

and the next, and the one after that. Hed smiled a lot, tried to

talk to her when she was not busy. Drinks owed freely.

Just before closing last night, shed whispered in his ear. You

want to know what happened? Why I left St. Louis in such a big

hurry? Here it is. I did it. He deserved it. And Im not done. She

walked away from him and left him sitting there, stunned. Hed

been so sure she would offer an explanation that would somehow

make it all right. Instead, shed admitted to a cold-blooded murder.

Now he was here, standing at the edge of a dark alley, unsure

what to do. Removing his cell from his jacket, he shed inside hisshirt pocket for the business card his uncle had given him. He

held it up, tipped it this way and that until he could read the num-


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ber at the bottom. Punching it in, he waited, hoping the call would

be answered by a real live human. Instead, he was put through to

voice mail.

Fixing his eyes on the driving snow, he said, This message isfor Jane Lawless. You dont know me. My name is DeAndre

Moore. I need to talk to you. I can meet you anywhere you want,

just name it. So you know, my uncle is Alf Nolan, your partner.

He told me that if I ever needed any help and he wasnt around,

that I should call you. Since this is a . . . a private matter, and

hes family, I need you to keep this quiet. Here, he paused. Im

desperate, Ms. Lawless. Theres someone I know . . . someone

I love . . . whos in bad trouble. Im trusting you, okay? I need

you to help me gure out whats going on before someone else

gets killed. Anyway, thats enough over the phone. Hey . . .

what

DeAndre felt a sudden erce sting in his shoulder. Dropping

the cell to the concrete, he whirled around, only to feel a secondsharp thrust enter his gut. He doubled over, pitching backward

against the bricks. A warm, sticky liquid oozed into his hand. In

the darkness, he could barely make out the face of the person

standing over him. Youre

Shut up.

His thoughts began to scramble. Why? he whispered.

You stick your nose in where it dont belong.

No, he repeated, feeling suddenly weak.

At least you die like a man. Thats more than you would give

me.


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Jane Lawless felt like a waitress who knew she wasnt going to get

a good tip. Carrying as much as she could manage on the only

small tray she could nd in Nolans somewhat less than state-of-

the-art kitchen, she entered the living room and began to hand

out food.Cordelia sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at Nolans new

forty-six-inch at-screen TV, bought especially for this years

Super Bowl. During the past year, Nolan and Cordelia had bonded

over the TV show Friday Night Lights, which had sparked an

interestfor Cordeliain all things football. Since Jane had no

interest in the sport, and tonight was the big night, she was happy

for something productive to doif you could call making a rather

boring array of snacks for the game productive. She handed

Cordelia her bowl of popcorn.

Extra butter? Cordelia asked, never taking her eyes off the

screen.

I sprayed it with rat poison, said Jane with a smile.

Perfect, muttered Cordelia. Thanks.Moving on to Nolan, who sat riveted in his leather La-Z-Boy,

Jane set a beer next to him on a small end table and then handed


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him a bowl of Totinos Pizza Rolls. Shed offered to make them all

something from scratch. Nothing too gourmet. Buffalo wings.

Barbecued riblets. A baked brie covered in brown sugar and cran-

berries. But no, they all wanted what they wanted. Nolan saidthat pizza rolls were his Super Bowl tradition. Far be it from Jane

to get in the way of a long-standing gridiron ritual.

On her way back to the kitchen, she handed Hattie, Cordelias

seven-year-old niece, a pint-sized carton of Nestls Quik. Mouse,

Janes brown Lab, had curled up on the carpet next to the little

girl. Jane was able to satisfy him with a quick scratch behind his

ears. The girl lifted her eyes to Jane, offered a coy smile, then stuck

her nose back into her book. She was precocious for her age, read-

ing at a fourth-grade level, according to her proud auntie. At the

moment, she was deep into The Dangerous Book for Boys.Shed al-

ready nished The Daring Book for Girls.At least she wasnt into any

adventures with kid wizards yet. That would be a particularly

diffi cult phase for Jane.Returning to the kitchen, Jane sat on a stool next to the break-

fast bar and watched the snow fall outside the back window. It had

been a hectic seventeen months. Jane owned two restaurants in

the Twin Cities, which were more than enough to keep her oc-

cupied 24/7. Yet this had been a time of radical change in her life.

Shed nally succumbed to Nolans pressure to join his PI agency

and work on a Minnesota state license of her own. Shed been

granted that license two weeks ago.

In truth, it wasnt Nolans pressure but her own personal needs

and desires that had driven her to make the decision. Her two

restaurants were both going strong. Seven months ago, her orig-

inal partner at the Xanadu Club in Uptown had sold his share

of the businesswith Janes approvalto a local restaurateur,Barry Tune. Jane liked Barry, trusted his judgment because of his

success with other venues in his thirty-plus years in the business,


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and was pleasantly surprised when he offered to take over the

everyday management of the club. She felt she was in a great place

in her lifecondent about how her restaurants were doing and

deeply absorbed by her new role as a licensed PI. Life was indeedgood. Crazy busy, but good.

Nibbling absently on one of the pizza rolls, she wandered back

into the living room, thinking about taking a walk. This was her

day off. She hadnt had one in . . . well, she couldnt remember

when. She loved windy, snowy nights. Nolan lived close to Min-

nehaha Creek, one of Janes favorite parts of the city.

As Cordelia and Nolan jeered in unison at one apparently sight-

less referee, she could tell her presence would not be missed.

Shed retrieved her coat from the front closet and was about to

put it on when the doorbell rang.

Ill get it, she called, smiling at her dog, the only other soul

in the room whod heard it.

Melanie Gunderson, Cordelias main squeeze, stood outside onthe porch.

Come in before you get buried in white, said Jane, helping

Mel brush herself off. For some reason, the usually chipper Mel

looked less than happy. Something wrong? asked Jane.

Cordelia, said Mel, stepping over to block her view of the TV.

Hey, said Cordelia.

We need to talk.

Cant it wait? Its third and twelve.

Nodding at Jane, Mel issued an order. Get her up and tell her

Ill be in the kitchen.

I hear you, said Cordelia with a groan. Your timing is lousy.

No worse than yours.

Jane watched Cordelias face turn as grim as Mels.Giving Jane a look that said, Geezsh, girlfriends, Cordelia


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stomped past her into the kitchen. Since there was no door to

close, Jane assumed they knew their conversation couldnt be

completely private unless they whispered. She stood in the arch-

way between the dining room and the living room and had notrouble hearing everything they said.

So, said Mel. Have you decided? Did you go see the place?

Its exactly what Ive been looking for, said Cordelia.

Youre leaving.

Thats the plan.

Even if Im against it.

Why would you be? Dont you want me to be happy?

This wont make you happy. Youre Cordelia Thorn. You have

a reputation to uphold. I mean, why not simply jump off a build-

ing. It would be quicker.

Youre sucha drama queen.

Ima drama queen? Do you even hear yourself anymore?

Are you going to throw that pan at me?Jane moved closer to the door. Cordelia and Mels ghts were

legendary, often involving pots and pans. Their romantic make-

ups were equally legendary, but at the moment, they were in full

battle mode. What upset Jane most, if she cared to admit it, was

that she had no idea what they were talking about.

Put the pan down, said Cordelia.

Youre telling me theres no way to make you change your

mind?

This is my destiny.

Melanie hooted. Well, its not mine. A moment later, she ew

out of the kitchen, past Jane, and slammed out the front door.

That was charming, said Jane as Cordelia emerged, a stony

look on her face. Whats going on?Personal stuff.


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Are you two

Well work it out. She pointed at the TV and said, Now,

where was I?

No sooner had Cordelia resumed her Buddha-like position onthe couch than Janes cell phone began to vibrate inside the pocket

of her coat. She pulled it free and said hello.

Whos this? came a deep voice.

Excuse me?

Who am I talking to?

You called me and you dont know who I am? Im hanging up

now.

Wait, wait. This is Sergeant Kevante Taylor, Minneapolis

PD.

Jane eased down on the arm of a chair. As it happened, she knew

Sergeant Taylor. This is Jane Lawless.

He didnt respond for several seconds. Ms. Lawless. He

sounded annoyed. Do you know a man named DeAndre Moore?No. Why?

He was knifed less than an hour ago in an alley outside Gaudy-

Lights. Im at the crime scene right now.

Shed heard of the downtown Minneapolis strip clubor gen-

tlemans club, as it was advertisedalthough shed never had any

desire to go inside. Is he okay?

Hes dead. Thing is, looks like he was talking to you on his

cell when he died.

Talking to me?

Either that or leaving you a message.

You say this guys name was DeAndre Moore? she asked.

Nolan swiveled around to look at her. Honestly, Ive never heard

of him.Then why would he be calling you?

Cant answer that.


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Standing up, Nolan said, What about DeAndre?

Hang on a minute, said Jane. Drawing the phone away from

her ear, she said, You know him?

My nephews name is DeAndre Moore.Jane returned to Taylor. Can you tell me anything about this

guy?

Hes black. Late twenties. Drivers license says hes from St.

Louis. One of my men just handed me a business card. Found it

in the snow a few feet from the body. Nolan & Lawless Investiga-

tions.

Thats me.

I thought you owned a restaurant.

I do, but Im also working as a part-time PI.

Youre licensed?

Thats what Im told.

Hell. He shouted for someone to watch where he was walking.

Look, I need you to check your cell phone messages and get backto me ASAP. Ill be busy here for the next couple of hours. I need

that information. Dont erase it. With that, he hung up.

Nolan stood over her, his eyes demanding an explanation.

Whats going on?

Jane repeated what shed learned, ending with The man was

in his late twenties. From St. Louis.

Nolan sank back down in his chair. My nephew is from St.

Louisbut he wouldnt come to town without calling me.

So maybe its not him.

What are you two talking about? asked Cordelia, tossing a

popcorn kernel into the air and catching it in her mouth.

While Jane explained, in couched terms because of Hatties

presence, she tapped her phone and brought up her missed calls,nding only one. She played back the message, then handed the

phone to Nolan.


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After listening, Nolan said, Im going down there. He was

already on his way to the closet to get his coat.

He seemed so shaken that Jane said, Ill drive. To Cordelia,

she added, Will you let Mouse out before you leave? He can stayhere until I get back.

Not a problem, said Cordelia. Ill lock up the house when I

go. Looking up at Nolan with concerned eyes, she said, Im sorry.

Yeah. Opening the front door, he motioned for Jane to precede

him. Lets go.

Nolan spoke little on the way downtown. Under the best of cir-

cumstances, he wasnt a man given to easy conversation. Jane had

a ton of questions but kept them to herselffor the moment

allowing Nolan the space he so clearly needed.

Turning onto Washington Avenue, Jane saw the throbbing

lights of several police cruisers toward the end of the block. Since

parking was problematic on any wintry night, and Nolan wasitching to get to the alley, she stopped as close as she could to the

nightclub, telling him that shed be along as soon as she found a

place to stick her car. If shed been driving her Mini Cooper, she

might have been able to t into a smaller space. Nolan had advised

a more generic kind of vehicle for investigative work; thus shed

purchased a second car, a 2004 Honda CR-V. She had to drive

several blocks until she found a spot big enough to accommodate

even such a modest-sized SUV.

Flipping her collar up and digging her hands into the pockets

of her peacoat, she jumped over a mound of snow left by a city

snowplow and headed through the deepening drifts toward the

club. The alley in question was in the middle of the block and ran

from the sidewalk to the rear of the building. The entrance wasapproximately a hundred feet from the front door, which sat at an

angle to Washington and Second Street.


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Rest for the Wicked

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