The Raven Read online

  © 2016 Nappaland Communications Inc.

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-0519-0

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Raven is published in association with Nappaland Literary Agency, an independent agency dedicated to publishing works that are: Authentic. Relevant. Eternal. Visit us online at: NappalandLiterary.com.

  “The Raven is a delightful romp. Mike Nappa holds to a breathless pace in his new story, one that is sure to thrill his growing and well-deserved readership.”

  —Thomas Locke, bestselling and award-winning novelist, author of Emissary and Trial Run

  “I love Mike Nappa’s style! With intrigue, action, and a main character snarky enough to cheer for, The Raven is a thrill ride into the stark territory between grace and the letter of the law.”

  —Tosca Lee, New York Times bestselling author

  Praise for Annabel Lee

  “The start to Nappa’s Coffey & Hill series begins with an exciting event, and the adventure doesn’t let up. With hidden secrets, questionable motives, and interesting characters, this book has a bit of everything that suspense lovers will enjoy. The characters make this book shine; they are distinct, memorable, and fascinating.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars, Top Pick

  “Mike Nappa’s Annabel Lee is a fast-paced thriller, filled with unexpected twists and peopled by unique and memorable characters. From the first chapter on, I found it impossible to put down.”

  —Lois Duncan, New York Times bestselling author, I Know What You Did Last Summer and Killing Mr. Griffin

  “Annabel Lee is compelling, fast-paced, and filled with fascinating characters. One hopes that Mike Nappa’s eleven-year-old wunderkind from the title will reappear in future novels of this promising new suspense series!”

  —M. K. Preston, Mary Higgins Clark Award–winning novelist, Song of the Bones and Perhaps She’ll Die

  “A relentless surge of suspense and mounting tension coupled with an engaging mix of characters. With Annabel Lee, Mike Nappa skillfully sets the stage for a compelling series of Coffey & Hill Investigation thrillers.”

  —Jack Cavanaugh, award-winning author of 26 novels

  For Amy!

  It’s my favorite time of day,

  driving you . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Now

  1. Raven

  Then

  2. Raven

  3. Bliss

  4. Trudi

  5. Raven

  6. Bliss

  7. Trudi

  8. Bliss

  9. Raven

  Three Weeks Ago . . .

  10. Trudi

  11. Raven

  12. Bliss

  13. Trudi

  14. Bliss

  15. Trudi

  16. Raven

  17. Trudi

  18. Raven

  19. Trudi

  20. Raven

  21. Trudi

  Two Weeks Ago . . .

  22. Bliss

  23. Raven

  24. Trudi

  25. Bliss

  26. Raven

  27. Trudi

  28. Bliss

  29. Raven

  30. Trudi

  31. Raven

  32. Bliss

  One Week Ago . . .

  33. Trudi

  34. Raven

  35. Trudi

  36. Raven

  37. Bliss

  Today . . .

  38. Trudi

  39. Raven

  40. Trudi

  41. Raven

  42. Bliss

  43. Trudi

  44. Raven

  45. Trudi

  Two Weeks Later . . .

  46. Trudi

  47. Darrent

  Exclusive Peek at Book #3

  About the Author

  Books in the Coffey & Hill Series

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Here I opened wide the door;—

  Darkness there and nothing more.

  —EDGAR ALLAN POE, IN “THE RAVEN”

  Now

  Sixteen minutes to Nevermore . . .

  1

  Raven

  Atlanta, GA

  Downtown

  Friday, April 14, 8:11 p.m.

  My daddy used to tell me the best way to stay out of trouble was to think about tomorrow before you act today. Every Friday night in high school, just before I stepped out to go crazy with my friends, he’d look up from whatever he was reading—the Bible, a new Sharon Carter Rogers thriller, a boring book about Roman history, whatever—and he’d give me that same lecture: “Son, ask yourself if Tomorrow-You is going to thank you for the circumstances you get him into tonight.”

  Of course he was right. Pops generally gave good advice—it was kind of his job, after all. And of course I mostly ignored him. I figured that was my job.

  Right now, though, I’m kind of wishing Last-Night-Me had been paying attention to Dad’s most famous lecture. Even if LNM had just made some kind of contingency plan or something, that would’ve been helpful. But, as usual, that guy was winging it, hoping things would work out anyway, regardless of what he did.

  Eternal optimist, I guess that’s me. Hope it doesn’t get me killed today.

  The timer app on my cell phone beeps to tell me there’s only sixteen minutes left.

  I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm my nerves. No time to panic, not yet at least. Gotta keep my wits.

  The Big Dude in the wheelchair twitches and groans. I can see that his subconscious mind is fighting the drug that knocked him out, but there’s nothing I can do about it right now. All I can do is punch the elevator button again, swear a little bit, and hope that sixteen minutes is going to be enough time to get done what needs to get done.

  And then I see her.

  Wow.

  Trudi Coffey pops through the door to the stairwell without hesitating, like she knew I’d be here, like she knew I’d be waiting for this stupid elevator on the sixth floor of the Ritz-Carlton Atlanta hotel.

  She’s cleaned up for the occasion, a rare treat if you ask me. Sleeveless red dress, sexy but not trashy—I think they call it a body-con style. It’s sleek, with ribbed material that hugs her hips until the fabric ends just above her knees. Below that is a pair of black ankle books, flirty, with a gold buckle, metal sequins, and chunky heels. Stylish, but also convenient for running. Or kicking.

  Her thick brown hair is casually twisted and tacked up on her head in a way that just drives a man crazy. Dangly diamond earrings are her only jewelry, except for that long, black-marble chopstick-thingy holding her hair in place. And stuck to her left hand is a little black purse—Mom would’ve called it a “clutch.” The way she’s holding the purse—I mean clutch—with the snap undone, tells me what I would’ve expected from her anyway: She wants to be able to get to her Beretta Tomcat quickly. Just in case.

  I know she’s just j
ogged up six flights of stairs, but she’s barely breathing hard, like she could run up the next eighteen floors of this hotel without any problem. She keeps in shape, this one. Of course, one peek at that red dress told me that. She pauses long enough to glance up and down the hall, checking to see if we have company. Then she turns her full attention to me.

  “So, Raven,” she says, “this is interesting.”

  “Don’t call me that, Trudi,” I say too quickly. “I mean, you don’t have to call me that. You can call me—”

  “Raven,” she interrupts. “I can’t help noticing you’ve got my ex-husband, unconscious for some reason, strapped into Mama’s wheelchair.”

  I cringe at that. This could be hard to explain. I decide to postpone that conversation. “You look great, Trudi,” I say.

  I’m stalling, obviously, but I mean it too. My mom always taught me it’s important to acknowledge a woman’s efforts toward looking pretty. Plus, if this ends badly, I’ll never forgive myself for missing an opportunity to tell Trudi Coffey that I think she’s heartbreakingly beautiful. Seems like she doesn’t believe that about herself anymore. And she definitely deserves to believe it.

  “I mean, wow, Trudi. Spectacular. You should dress like this all the time. Are those Vince Camuto boots? Very nice.”

  “We’re talking fashion now? That’s the best you can do?”

  I shrug and try out what I think is my adorably sheepish grin. “I’m just saying, you’re dressed nice today. It’s a compliment.”

  Her stupid ex-husband groans again, interrupting the flow of our conversation. She presses a hand to her hip and frowns. “This doesn’t look good, Raven.”

  The timer app on my cell phone beeps again.

  “What’s that?” she says.

  Only fifteen minutes left. I jab at the elevator button a few times. What is taking so long?

  “Raven.” She says my name again, intensity building in her voice. She steps toward me, and I suddenly get a maddening whiff of Bvlgari perfume.

  How’s a guy supposed to concentrate when a woman like this is standing just two feet away? I cannot catch a break today.

  “They shut down the lifts in the whole hotel,” she’s saying. “SWAT’s going to be here any minute. So . . . you want to explain what’s going on, or do I step out of the way and let them take you down? I’m giving you a chance here. Maybe you should take it.”

  I close my eyes and take in a sweet breath of violet, orange blossom, and jasmine. I try to make a mental list of my options at this point, and it’s not very long. In the end, though, all I can think is . . .

  This is going to get really messy really soon.

  Then

  Four weeks ago . . .

  2

  Raven

  Atlanta, GA

  The Old Fourth Ward Neighborhood

  Friday, March 17, 11:04 a.m.

  28 days to Nevermore

  Part of me thinks that maybe I deserve this beating.

  I did, after all, try to blackmail a captain of Atlanta industry. A man with political clout and many ardent supporters here in Georgia’s fine state capital. Then I feel my tooth wiggle, taste the blood from that last leather-fisted blow, and feel the stinging in my split lips.

  Nope, I decide. This one’s on them. The punishment does not fit the crime.

  Regardless, it’s back to the business at hand.

  “Jack of spades,” I say to the guy at the table with me. “Is that your card?”

  It sounds garbled, like I’m deliberately mumbling just to be annoying. But whatever, right? If they wanted me to speak clearly, they wouldn’t be trying to break my jaw.

  The dumpy Ukrainian guy standing behind me crows with laughter. “Got you again, Vicky! You don’t get to hit this kid all night long. Tell truth, he got you again.”

  I try moving my chin forward and back, left and right. Okay, good. Jaw’s not broken. At least, I don’t think it’s broken.

  The quiet one sitting at the table with me exhales slowly. His name is Viktor, and he looks Ukrainian too, or maybe Russian, even though it feels like a movie stereotype to admit that. He’s got dark hair, pale skin, and a medium build, taut and wiry, like he’s nothing but muscle underneath his navy blue suit. And maybe he’s got something else, like a gun, stashed under that coat, as well. Why else would he wear an expensive suit on an errand to beat up a luckless nobody like me?

  Viktor blinks. Once at the card. Once at me. Then, with purposeful silence, he blinks twice at Pavlo, the dumpy guy standing behind me. I think maybe there’s a family resemblance between Viktor and the chubby Pavlo, but I’m not about to make that suggestion. Don’t want to risk being wrong about that.

  The sluggish laughter stops.

  “I am just saying,” Pavlo mutters. “Maybe you got ‘tell,’ like in poker. This is all.”

  Now it’s time for the third guy to start chuckling from the kitchen. He’s a beefy, linebacker type, with cocoa skin and knotted muscles. No one has said his name, so I’ve taken to thinking of him as “Scholarship.” He reminds me of every careless college football stud who thought he’d make it to the NFL, only to have his scholarship revoked “for academic reasons” during sophomore year, thereby making him a college dropout and ending his pro football career before it began. Apparently this guy never quit lifting weights, though.

  “Pavlo, don’t mess your pants right there in the living room,” Scholarship says. He’s spreading jelly onto stale bread while he talks. “This place is bad enough without you adding to the urban decay in here. I mean, look at me. I’m eating a PB&J sandwich like a five-year-old. Why can’t people keep a little lunch meat in the fridge anymore? Even scrambled eggs and bacon would be better.”

  He takes a bite of the sandwich, licks peanut butter off the corner of his mouth, and grimaces. To me, he says, “You gotta get some eggs, kid.”

  He says it warmly, like we’re old college buddies, reconnecting after a few years apart. I’m not sure what to make of that. Then he turns back to his Ukrainian pal.

  “Besides, Pav,” he says, “you know Viktor’s not gonna embarrass you in front of this guy today. He’ll wait until we’re in the alley before he punctures your eardrum. Again.”

  Well, that explains why Pavlo seems hard of hearing sometimes.

  The dumpy one crosses his arms and turns away.

  Part of me feels good about the linebacker’s little revelation. Pavlo’s been the hardest to read all night long, and the sloppiest puncher too. I like the idea that maybe he gets bullied a bit by the quiet boss man. Still, another part of me wonders what ol’ Vik would do to me if he got the chance. Which parts of my body might he try to alter permanently?

  I decide I don’t want to find out.

  At the table, Viktor looks back in my direction and softens his gaze just a bit. I see a grudging admiration in his gray eyes. “Vrazhayuchyy,” he says to himself in what I can only guess is Russian or Ukrainian or some other foreign language. Then he translates for me. “Impressive. Nice work.” He stands up, stretches, and speaks to the room. “What time is it?”

  Viktor speaks flawless English, even though he’s obviously from somewhere in Eastern Europe. It makes me wonder why Pavlo still struggles with the language—and also makes me question my earlier assumption that the two Ukrainians are related. Maybe they came to America at different ages? Maybe Viktor came as a kid, and Pavlo came as a teenager? Or maybe Viktor just cares more about things like communicating clearly? Maybe that’s why he’s in charge.

  “It eleven o’clock, Vicky,” Pavlo chirps.

  Viktor flicks a look at the football player in the kitchen.

  “Eleven-oh-seven,” the linebacker says. He waits for Viktor to nod before taking another bite of his sandwich. Apparently the boss man is used to precision.

  “Yes,” Pavlo says. “This is what I mean. Of course. Eleven-oh-seven. Eleven-oh-eight now.”

  Everybody ignores him.

  I can barely feel my hands anymore. Th
ey’ve been handcuffed behind my chair for so long I worry I won’t be able to use them if they ever get loose. Of course, every once in a while I’ll shift and feel the pins and needles stab through my palms and into my fingers, so I figure at least some blood is getting down there. But that doesn’t make it better. My feet ache too, which I guess is a good sign, since they’re tied to the legs of my chair. At least that means circulation is happening, despite the zip ties around my ankles.

  Gotta be thankful for the little things. That’s what Pops always said.

  My jaw feels loose and misshapen but seems to be all in one piece. My lips are caked with a mixture of dried blood and fresh blood. My gums are also bleeding, and my nose feels puffy. Not my best day, I’ll say that.

  I’m guessing, because Scholarship is a lefty and because he got to hit me three times with that thin leather strap wrapped around his fist, that my right eye is bruised and black. It’s swollen enough for that. Barely a slit that I can peek through now.

  Pavlo is a body puncher, so I might have a cracked rib or two, as well. I can’t really tell since I kind of hurt all over. I guess he could have bruised some internal organs too, but what am I supposed to do about that?

  Still, all in all, it could’ve been worse. They might’ve cut me with knives or shot me with guns. Or made me eat okra.

  My dad used to say that nobody likes a smart guy—usually right after I’d just said something sarcastic about his parenting skills. I know Pops was right, but I can’t resist anyway. I mean, what are they gonna do, hit me again?

  “So, Scholarship,” I say to the linebacker eating the last of my food. “Ready to get your butt kicked again? Looks like I’ve got an opening at my table.”

  Even the quiet Viktor sniggers at that.

  “Whaddya think, Mr. Kostiuk?” Scholarship says to Viktor, taking another leisurely bite. “Should I put down this delicious sandwich and recommence beating the living daylights outta this magician kid?”

  Viktor smirks and shakes his head.

  I feel my insides loosen in relief. After all, Scholarship hits like a rodeo bull. Then I clench up again. Don’t want to make a mess in my otherwise reasonably clean underwear.