"In the midst of a psychotic serial killer, can two broken souls find each other again?"
Reviewed by Linda Green
Posted December 31, 2014
Romance Suspense
APD Detective Ryan Winter is struggling with life in
general.
When his little boy, Tyler, accidentally drowned while he
was
supposed to be watching him, he not only lost his precious
little son, but also his wife Dr. Lydia Costa, who could
not
cope with her grief and blamed Ryan for what had happened.
Now
a year and a half later and Ryan is trying to move on and
rebuild some sort of life for himself. But when a serial
killer starts murdering cops, Ryan is thrust into a race
against time to find the culprit before they strike again.
Dr. Lydia Costa is still suffering greatly over the loss
of
her son but has slowly come to realise she should never
have
pushed Ryan away and blamed him. Working in the E.R. Lydia
and
Ryan are thrust into each other's company again, as the
serial
killer takes out more policemen. Realising that there is
still
love between them, they begin to explore a possible future
together. But as Lydia becomes embroiled in a patient's
private life and her life is threatened, and Ryan's
brother is
the next cop shot, will they be able to catch the maniac
before it is too late?
FALLEN by Leslie Tentler is a fast paced, energetic novel,
full of suspense and action. I enjoyed seeing Ryan and
Lydia
rediscover their love for each other, and I thought that
their
combined grief over their tragic loss, was beautifully
handled. The murder element kept me on my toes and I felt
that
the twist to the story was excellent and unexpected.
FALLEN by
Leslie Tentler kept me glued to the page and I read it in
one
sitting because I just had to know how it all would end. A
great read.
Learn more about Fallen
SUMMARY
Amid a sultry Atlanta summer, someone is targeting
police… The investigation becomes personal for APD Detective Ryan
Winter when a colleague and friend is shot dead, the
second
victim in just weeks. But even as he finds himself being
drawn into the tense hunt for a serial cop killer, he is
forced to re-examine his own shattering personal tragedy. An ER physician at Atlanta’s busy Mercy Hospital, Dr.
Lydia
Costa is no stranger to suffering. Still, the recent
police
slayings reopen barely healed wounds—and bring her
face-to-face with her ex-husband, Ryan Winter. As the body count rises and paranoia tightens its grip on
the police force, Lydia and Ryan are pulled together by
circumstances and fate…causing old passions to reignite
despite their painful shared past. But as Ryan moves
closer
to discovering the killer’s identity, someone is
watching,
placing both him and Lydia in mortal danger.
ExcerptPrologue“I’m sorry I’m late.” APD Detective Nate Weisz glanced at
the digital numbers glowering at him in luminescent green
from the car dashboard. He moved his cell phone to his
other hand, pressing it against his ear as he made the
sharp cut into the parking garage of the Midtown Atlanta
condo building. “We arrested four prostitutes on Ponce
tonight in a sting. I got caught up in paperwork.” “It’s after nine already, Nate. Those tickets were hard
to get.” He could hear the irritation in Kristen’s tone. It would
be a long night, the perfect ending to another shitty
day. “If it was so important, why didn’t you just take
your sister?” “Because I wanted to go with you. You’re my husband. Or
doesn’t that matter to you anymore?” He sighed in the sedan’s darkened interior before
shutting off the engine and pushing the door open. “I’m
in the parking garage now, all right? I’ll come up,
change clothes and we’ll go somewhere else. Maybe catch a
movie at Atlantic Station—” Kristen’s voice floated on a wave of petulance. “No. It’s
too late.” She disconnected the call without saying good-bye. With a
muttered curse, Nate shoved his phone into the pocket of
his suit coat. As he got out and closed the door, his
anger reignited at the scratch that remained visible on
the driver’s side. He chirped the key fob and headed
toward the elevator, the sound of his dress shoes echoing
off the deck’s concrete walls. He only hoped he didn’t
smell like booze. The last thing he needed was another
knock-down, drag-out with Kristen. There’d been too many
of them lately, and frankly, he was too goddamned tired.
Eight years as a Narcotics and Vice detective, and to
Kristen his excuses had become interchangeable—a drug
bust, a prostitution ring, a warrant to serve on an
illegal gambling operation. Any of them could be that
night’s culprit behind him getting home late. So could a few drinks, he admitted, but he’d needed to
unwind. Above him, the lighting in the garage ceiling flickered.
The condominiums were getting old and needed renovation,
but the location was excellent, with easy access to I-85
and the zone five precinct near Centennial Olympic Park.
They were also less than ten minutes from the high-rise
where Kristen worked. Still, she’d been nagging him about
moving to one of the newer, fancier—albeit smaller and
pricier—loft apartments stacked along Midtown. The fluorescent panel hummed, emitting an electrical
crackle before leaving Nate in darkness. Grumbling, he
pushed the elevator button and stared through the deck’s
steel barriers at the IHOP building that was now an all-
you-can-eat Korean buffet. He waited impatiently as the
mechanical coffin rumbled its way down to him, nearly
drowning out what sounded like the faint approach of
footsteps. He turned and peered into the grainy darkness. Nothing. He was alone. The garage gave him the creeps. He’d talk to the super
tomorrow—he didn’t want Kristen down here in the dark.
Despite the city’s enthusiastic PR spin, crime inside the
Perimeter had only continued to worsen. There were
muggings, robberies and car-jackings these days even in
the best parts of town. Not to mention, criminal activity
always got worse in the summer heat. As the elevator
neared his floor, the overhead light winked back to life.
The convex curve of the security mirror to the right of
the bay caught Nate’s attention. A human form, clad in an
oversize hooded sweatshirt despite the muggy night, was
visible in the mirror’s reflection. He saw the gun. Nate whirled. He extracted his weapon from his holster,
losing his grip on the .38 as the blast hit him. He
staggered and fell to the concrete floor. Surprise gave
way to a screaming pain. The light flickered off again as the hooded form inched
closer. In disbelief, Nate pushed away, kicking clumsily
with his feet like a wounded sand crab. You? His gun was
out of reach, lost somewhere in the deck’s shadowy
recesses. Behind him, the elevator doors slid open. His
frantic pulse thudded in his ears. Nate tried to locate
his cell, pawing at his coat pocket, but his fingers had
grown numb and useless. His voice croaked out a cry for
help that ended in a wet cough. He tasted blood. Outside, Atlanta’s North Street was a barrage of honking
horns and car engines, radios turned up loud on a Friday
night. Noise that had masked the gun’s discharge, not
that it had made much sound. Even in the encroaching
haze, Nate’s trained mind noted the silencer on the
barrel. The barrel that remained pointed at him. His body convulsed at the entrance of the second bullet.
This time he felt no pain, just a slicing coldness and a
pressure in his chest like a ten-pound dumbbell had been
dropped onto his sternum. He wanted to speak to Kristen,
tell her he loved her and beg for her forgiveness.
Weakly, he raised his hand, attempting to bargain. No, don’t. Please. God help me. The third bullet sent him hurtling into darkness and the
unknown. Chapter One “GSW, two minutes out!” Jamaal Reeves made the booming
announcement from behind the ER admittance desk at Mercy
Hospital. His words put medical personnel on alert,
including Dr. Lydia Costa, who stood in the jaundiced
glow of the light box, reviewing chest films for an
eighty-two-year-old with suspected pneumonia. “It’s a ten-double-zero, people,” he added, using police
code that over time had slipped into the level one trauma
center’s vernacular. Officer down. A momentary hush fell over the staff before the beehive
of activity resumed, leaving only Lydia frozen. Gunshot
wounds were always nasty injuries, but it was the ten-
double-zero that caused anxiety to pool in her stomach.
There were hundreds of police inside the city, she
reminded herself. Still, leaving the X-ray hanging, she
shouldered her way through the scrubs-clad crowd.
Reaching Jamaal’s desk, she asked, “What else do you know
about the incoming?” He slurped from a Varsity cup. “Multiple bullets to the
chest and abdomen, intubated by paramedics on scene—” “Do you have a name? A precinct?” “What? Uh, uh—didn’t ask.” Jamaal shrugged, his eyes
returning to the stack of paperwork in front of him,
information forms for the three dozen or so coughing,
vomiting or otherwise miserable-looking people who waited
in rows of vinyl-covered chairs for treatment. “Plainclothes, though,” he murmured as an afterthought,
scribbling directives onto one of the forms. Lydia felt her knees weaken. Still, her inner voice spoke
to her, pointing out that she was one of the attendings
on a busy Friday night. She moved briskly toward the
automated, sliding glass doors that led inside from the
ambulance bay, joining the assembling team and preparing
to take charge of whatever faced her with the paramedics’
arrival. “Get trauma room three set up,” she ordered, raising her
voice to be heard above the din. “We’re going to need an
echocardiogram. Have a crash cart and thoracotomy set
ready.” All the while, a mantra repeated inside her head. It was
more like a prayer, if she believed in such things. She
used to, but didn’t anymore. Please don’t let it be him. Behind her, she overheard Roe Goodman, one of the senior
floor nurses. “You’re a jackass, Jamaal. Her ex-husband’s
a cop. A detective.” “Notify OR to stand by!” Lydia shouted as the flashing
red lights of an ambulance stained the vestibule’s walls.
Her heartbeat quickened, dread filling her as she stood
with the rest of the waiting staff, watching as the
paramedics opened the vehicle’s double doors and removed
the gurney, snapping its legs into place and rolling it
into the building. The back of one of the emergency
workers obscured her view, making it impossible to get a
look at the victim. “Multiple GSWs, two to the chest and one to the abdomen.
Only one exit wound,” Ravi Kapoor, the lead paramedic,
rattled off as he strode in at the head of the gurney.
“Systolic is down to sixty-two, pressure’s been dropping
in the rig. Probably has a bad internal bleed. Worsening
acidosis, hypoxia—” “Blood type?” someone asked. “O-negative.” “Type and cross-match,” Lydia said, finding her voice.
“Call up to the blood bank and tell them we need six
units of O-neg, stat.” She nearly stopped breathing as the victim came into
view. He was cyanotic, his skin bluish and pale, the
ventilation bag’s mask concealing his features. But one
look told her it wasn’t Ryan on the gurney, his shirt
ripped open and blood covering his chest. The victim was
stockier, his hair inky black, where Ryan’s was a light
brown. Lydia nearly went limp with relief. But that relief was fleeting. Lydia did know him. Nate
Weisz. He was a colleague of Ryan’s, from the same
precinct, although Nate was a Narcotics and Vice
detective, while Ryan worked Homicide. Lydia knew his
wife, Kristen, from APD picnics and softball tournaments.
Events that were no longer a part of her life. Shrugging off the shock, she snapped into action. “Get
him into trauma three.” Lydia jogged alongside the gurney, knowing it was a
matter of minutes before the ER would be swarming with
blue uniforms. News about the shooting was no doubt
already infiltrating the ranks, spreading down from zone
commanders to captains, detectives and beat cops. The
turnout from the zone five precinct in particular would
be heavy. There would also be television news crews on
the scene. “Coming through!” Ravi shouted, bumping into a staggering
male in a gold and black Georgia Tech T-shirt. The man—
more of a lanky kid, really—appeared intoxicated and held
a wad of gauze against his bleeding forehead. Lydia called to an intern as they passed. “Lonigan, get
that guy out of the hallway! He’s got a head lac and
needs sutures.” They moved into the trauma room, wheeling the gurney
around until it was parallel with the table. “On my count. One-two-three,” Lydia instructed. The
trauma team made the transfer to the table, the room
becoming a well-timed choreography as lead wires and
sensors were attached, IV poles and drips set up. “Let’s get a pulse ox—” “Where’s the O-neg? We need a central line, now!” “I’ll do it, Dr. Costa,” an eager resident offered. “I’ve got another run. Good luck, Lydia,” Ravi said,
knocking three times on the door well’s metal frame. His
eyes met hers through her safety glasses as the
paramedics receded into the corridor. “Blood’s here, Doctor.” A nurse hurried into the room
with a bag of platelets. “Hang it. Let Radiology know we’re going to need a C-
spine, chest and belly films.” Lydia frowned as the heart
monitor sent out a sharp, electronic wail. She studied
the EKG lead, her stomach dropping. Damn it. “We’ve got
v-tach! Power the paddles and start compressions.” A second-year resident, a large male named Kevin Rossman,
stepped forward and began pumping Nate’s chest hard
enough to crack ribs. It had to be that forceful to work.
Lydia felt a trickle of perspiration roll down her back
as she took the paddles. “Charge to two-sixty.” A few seconds later, the defibrillator’s high-pitched
whine filled the room. “Clear!” Rossman halted the compressions and stepped back, palms
lifted. Lydia pressed the paddles against Nate’s chest,
his body jerking with the electrical charge. Her eyes
moved to the monitor. No change. “Two-sixty again! Stand
by!” Come on, Nate. “Clear!” The second shock regulated the heart rhythm.
Lydia suspected the reason for the ventricular
tachycardia. “I need a ten-blade.” Someone handed her the surgical scalpel. Counting between
the ribs, she made a careful incision into the pleural
cavity. Blood spurted out, staining her scrubs as she
pushed the chest tube through the opening to re-inflate
the lung. Air hissed from the tube, followed by more
blood and fluid. “Give him an amp of atropine, an amp of epi. Turn him
over and we’ll close the external bleed. As soon as he’s
stable enough he’s going up to Radiology and then
surgery.” Lydia knew they didn’t have much time. He was
losing blood through the exit wound, and Ravi was right—
probably through internal perforations. Bullets had a way
of ricocheting around inside the body, creating a vicious
path of destruction. “Alert Dr. Varek that we’re on our
way up.” Several minutes later, Lydia and Rossman accompanied the
gurney down the hallway toward the elevator. A small
group of law enforcement had already begun to gather, a
handful of uniforms and men in suit pants and dress
shirts. “Lydia.” She heard Ryan’s voice. Turning but still moving down the
hallway, she looked into his handsome, somber face. He
appeared tired, his blue eyes troubled and questioning.
He glanced at Nate’s still form, at the blood on Lydia’s
scrubs, then followed in the gurney’s wake. “Is he going
to make it?” Lydia didn’t reply, her gaze communicating the severity
of the situation. Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets.
The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up, his tie
loose and hanging around his neck. He wore a shoulder
holster, his shield clipped to the belt at his waist. “Where’s Kristen?” Lydia asked. “She’s the one who found him. They wouldn’t let her in
the ambulance. A unit’s bringing her in now.” She gave a faint nod. His eyes held on to hers as the
elevator bell chimed. Lydia helped roll the gurney
inside. She felt emotion engulf her after seeing Ryan. It
always did. Once the doors slid closed, she looked again
at Nate. Rossman pumped air into his lungs with the
manual vent as they made the journey upstairs. The only
chance was to get him on a rapid infuser, find the
bullets and try to repair the damage. It could have been Ryan, Lydia thought. No matter what
had happened or the time they’d been apart, the
realization still tore at her. APD Det. Ryan Winter sipped lukewarm, bitter-tasting
coffee from the hospital vending machine, part of the
growing sea of law enforcement milling around outside the
closed doors of the surgical ward. Except for Nate’s
partner, Mike Perry, and the zone five precinct captain,
the private waiting room across the hall had been left
open for arriving family. The air around Ryan hummed with
low conversation centered on Nate. He was a colleague and friend, one of their own. They all
knew the job had its risks, but things like this never
got any easier. Leaning against the corridor wall, Ryan could see inside
the room that contained upholstered chairs and two
couches, as well as laminated end tables topped with
fanned-out stacks of magazines. Kristen Weisz sat huddled
in one of the seats, red-eyed, clutching a tissue and
looking as if she was barely holding it together. Ryan’s
heart tugged. Lydia sat with her. “Lydia cut her hair.” The statement came from his
partner, Mateo Hernandez, who had been pacing the hall
before finding a spot next to Ryan against the wall. He
also stared into the room. “It looks nice.” “Yeah,” Ryan agreed quietly. He’d been watching Lydia
since she had entered a few minutes earlier. She was
talking to Kristen, her hand placed comfortingly on the
other woman’s back. Lydia’s dark hair that had once been
below her shoulders was now cut in a shorter, blunt style
that fell just past her jawline. Ryan had been surprised
to see the new look, but he had to admit he liked it. The
hairstyle set off her delicate features and worked well
with her petite frame. She looked up, her cocoa-brown
eyes meeting his as she saw him outside the room. Ryan’s
hand tightened imperceptibly on the foam cup, and he
lifted it to his mouth, taking a sip. “I just talked to Darnell. He’s in charge of securing the
crime scene,” Mateo said, referring to Darnell
Richardson, another detective with the APD. “There’s no
security camera in the condo’s parking garage, and so far
no one’s claiming to have seen or heard anything.”
Ryan scowled. “No one heard a gunshot in a busy area? No
one heard three of them?” “My guess is a silencer.” Mateo scratched his cheek. “He
still had his wallet, so it doesn’t appear to be a
robbery.” “It could have been a collar, looking to get even.” Nate
had more than a few enemies, they all did. It came with
the territory. Some recent arrest or an ex-convict Nate
had helped put away. There was any number of
possibilities. “Here’s the thing.” Mateo touched Ryan’s shoulder,
guiding him a few feet away from the crowd of police. He
lowered his voice. “There was an off-duty uniform shot
dead six weeks ago outside a package store on Howell Mill
Road where he moonlighted as a security guard. He had
just gotten off for the night and gone around back to his
car. Also not a robbery. He worked out of the zone two
precinct—” Ryan remembered. “John Watterson.” Mateo nodded. “Darnell looked at the shell casings from
the parking deck where Nate was shot. They’re from the
same type of bullets as the ones used to kill Watterson.
Coincidence?” Ryan pressed his lips together. “I don’t know. Maybe.” “It’s something to think about though, right? I’m going
over to the scene as soon as we get some word on Nate.” “I’ll go, too.” Briefly, he massaged his closed eyelids
with his fingertips. It had been a long day, and he’d
been on his way home when he had learned of the shooting.
He had turned the car around and headed toward Mercy
Hospital, feeling the need to stand vigil with his fellow
officers. But he’d also been aware that Lydia might be
here, since she often had the Friday night shift. Ryan
reopened his eyes as a staccato of high-pitched beeps
came from the waiting room. Lydia checked her beeper,
then embraced Kristen before departing. “Lydia,” Mateo called in greeting as she walked toward
them on her way back to the ER. He stepped forward,
wrapping her in a bear hug.
“It’s good to see you, Mateo. How are Evie and Carlos?” “They’re great. You should give Evie a call sometime.
She’s working part time now that Carlos is in
kindergarten. You should see him. Riding his bike around,
no training wheels like a real daredevil—” He stopped, an awkward silence replacing his words. Ryan
was familiar with the uncomfortable pauses. He knew Lydia
was, too, although he still saw the faint shadow of pain
in her eyes. But her smile was genuine as she touched
Mateo’s arm. “Give them both my love, okay?” “How is he, Lydia?” Ryan asked, halting her exit. He’d
noticed she had changed her scrubs since he had seen her
taking Nate upstairs, trading the blue, bloodstained ones
for mint green. She shook her head and lowered her voice. “Not good. One
of the bullets lodged in the left chamber of his heart.
He has a bowel perforation and damage to his spinal cord.
He’s still in surgery. It’s touch and go right now.” “What about Kristen?” They glanced back into the room. A woman Ryan guessed was
Kristen’s sister had taken the seat Lydia had vacated. “She’s beating herself up pretty badly,” Lydia said. “She
and Nate had been fighting on the phone.” Her beeper went off again. She checked it with a soft
sigh. “I have to get back. I’ll check in again soon.” She turned and went down the hallway. He watched as she
waited several seconds in front of the elevator, then
took the stairwell when it didn’t arrive. “Christ. Sorry, man,” Mateo offered, looking repentant.
“My mouth’s two steps ahead of my brain.” “Don’t worry about it.” Ryan pretended not to feel Mateo’s gaze on him,
evaluating his reaction to seeing Lydia again. The truth
was, he did see her from time to time. She came by the
house on occasion to drop off insulin and syringes for
Max, their eleven-year-old diabetic tabby that had stayed
with him in the Inman Park bungalow after the divorce.
And he’d called her a few times, mostly regarding some
leftover business aspect of their marriage—tax payments,
mail ending up at the wrong address. Mostly, though, he
had wanted to hear her voice. “Spinal cord damage,” Mateo said in disbelief. All cops considered the possibility of being taken down
in gunfire—during a robbery, a hostage standoff, a
violent domestic disturbance. But Nate had been shot in
the parking garage of his own building, apparently caught
off guard while waiting for the elevator to take him
upstairs for the night. A place where he’d believed he
was safe. Ryan thought about the last time he had seen
Nate. He’d been outside the precinct house yesterday
afternoon, involved in a tense conversation on his cell
phone. Nate had seemed antsy, nervous, and he had stopped
speaking altogether when he noticed Ryan within earshot,
on his way to grab some lunch. You do that and I’ll f**king kill you. It was the one thing Ryan had clearly heard Nate say. He
wondered now to whom he’d been talking.
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