Marked Masters

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What critics
are saying
about

Ritter Ames's books:

"Ritter Ames sets a maddeningly expert pace
and keeps you on the edge of your seat scene after scene. In a
word, she's masterful."

~ Girl with Book Lungs

"
Organized for Murder
is a very
enjoyable first in a new series. Ritter Ames really hit it out the
park with this debut, and with her organizational tips included
(throughout the book and at the end), I know this is one book I
will be hanging onto. If you haven’t discovered this series yet, I
highly recommend picking it up."

~ Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

"Ritter Ames keeps ratcheting the suspense
until I started skipping sentences just to find out who murdered
Amelia and another woman. It was thoroughly enjoyable with
well-developed, 3-dimensional characters."

~ BookTalk with Eileen

"If you enjoy cozy type mysteries, I think
you'll enjoy this light fast read."

~ Murder Most Cozy

"The characters are well written and stay
true to who they are from the beginning to end of the book, and
they feel real as if you could meet the in real life."

~ Hiding from My Kids

"
Organized for Murder
by Ritter Ames
is the first in a new cozy mystery series, Organized Mysteries.
This is a quality cozy mystery. The story is well-written and the
mystery kept me guessing. This is a great start to a new series,
and one I am looking forward to revisiting. Great characters,
fantastic writing, and a clever mystery all combine to make a
really wonderful book."

~ Brooke Blogs

"I am a huge lover of cozy mysteries, and
this by far is one of my favorites. I loved the premise of the main
character Kate being an organizer and I loved all the
organizational tips that I picked up throughout the story."

~ Doctor’s Notes

"The plot was well paced and I enjoyed the
way Kate followed the clues in a very organized fashion. The author
added some great twists, I was surprised by the actual murderer. I
enjoyed all the organizational tips that started each chapter.
Several will be introduced into my own household."

~ Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

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MARKED MASTERS

by

RITTER AMES

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 by Ritter Ames

Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not
authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark
owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you
share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it,
or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return
to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the author's work.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

One of the quotes on the wall of my writing
corner is by Goethe, "Be bold…and mighty forces will come to your
aid."

I always keep this quote in mind when I'm
writing in Laurel Beacham's POV, because she has a job that
requires strength, ingenuity, and the confidence to know others can
provide backup if she calls.

As an author, I've found my own mighty
forces to give me confidence while writing this series. From
copyeditor extraordinaire, Pat Wade, to a phenomenal street team
who keeps me on the writing straight and narrow, and who constantly
let me know they are ready for Laurel's and Jack's next big
adventure. I don't have room to list everyone here or I would go
over my maximum word count—which I've fought a lot for this book.
Though, truly, my street team is why so many readers out there even
learned about this series: through word-of-mouth referrals,
Facebook shares, and from writing online reviews. Readers, you are
all my true heroes. I thank you, and I am thrilled you are always
there when I call.

Finally, I want to thank Lyndsey Lewellen
for always producing a fabulous book cover. She is a design genius,
and I'm always thrilled when I see her next new concept for my
work. The one she created for this novel is astounding. Again,
thank you, Lyndsey.

* * * * *

Two black-and-whites screamed to the curb,
paralleling each other and blocking off any possibility of retreat.
Brakes screeched. Sirens blared. My blood pressure ratcheted up a
notch. The flashing lights alone set my heart pounding so hard I
could swear the beats showed through my black Lycra.

One step and I bled back into the shadows of
the house's side wall.

A simple pickup on a limited time frame.
That's what the job had been. My objective was a medium-sized nude,
which had reclined over the headboard of a blackmailer's bed for
decades. A painting and headboard currently residing inside the
townhouse that was the focal point of this Orlando PD team.

"He's been extorting money from my mother
since before I was born," Kat Gleeson had explained earlier in the
afternoon. "The blackmailer picked up the portrait at a sale after
the artist died, playing a hunch it would be worth bigger bucks
later. Mother received the first demand as soon as my father
started in political life. Laurel, you have to help us."

A longtime friend from my Cornell years, and
daughter to Senator Gleeson, R-FL, Kat called me, frantic, to meet
for lunch after hearing I was in the city. When I'd said my Miami
flight was first thing in the morning, she'd turned from frantic to
panicked, and I promised to be at her favorite cocktail bar in ten
minutes time. I'd met her there.

Now, twelve hours later, this new dilemma
forced me to contemplate an alternate route inside the house for
the nude painted when Kat's mother was an ingénue and the artist
undiscovered. In his later years, before his final drug overdose,
the once up-and-coming artist became best known for his erotic
subjects and a penchant for the rock-and-roll lifestyle of the
1970s. Now, a single moment captured in brushstrokes kept Kat's
mother chronically worried and perpetually broke.

As political pundit-buzz hummed about
Senator Gleeson's prospective run for the presidency, the
hush-money stakes had risen sharply. The next installment had hit a
price Mrs. Gleeson couldn't deliver without her husband's knowledge
and cooperation.

"She's devastated," Kat had said as she'd
toyed with her second mojito. I'd decided if my friend's ragged
expression in any way resembled her mother's, devastated was
probably putting it mildly.

In the past few years I'd gained the
reputation as the best person to call when a legitimate piece of
art went missing. I'd climbed the ranks of the Beacham Foundation,
from internship at the New York office during college, to field
work and troubleshooting the last five-plus years since graduation,
rising in the eyes of the art world as my skills sharpened and the
wins mounted on my record. However, people who knew me well—or like
Kat, had known me in my wilder college days—were also aware of my
"special" talents, and that I always stayed ready to jump into a
nonwork venue when a wrong needed to be righted. I dubbed these pro
bono efforts my "reclamation projects." Given my more visible
status since a promotion a few weeks ago to head of the London
office of Beacham Ltd., I knew such forays may have to be reduced
in the future, but there was no way I could turn my back when
someone like Kat appealed to me for help.

My prep time on this particular reclamation
was understandably limited, but the facts that came back were
solid—the owner was a Luddite who didn't know a silent alarm from a
silent movie. An absolute anachronism today, but the attribute
served him well as a blackmailer since the practice left little
risk of his digital fingerprint getting lifted anywhere.

What had alerted the cops?

The head-to-toe unrelieved black I wore
dovetailed into the shadows and afforded me a bit of invisibility.
I contemplated the peripheral shrubbery but waited to see the
officers' game plan. A peek at my watch, hidden by the hood of my
sleeve, showed less than a half hour to either accomplish what I
came to do or cut and run.

Car doors slammed and voices rose as
authoritative tones ordered a blue scramble to search for whatever
tipped them off to the location.

Another scan of the back wall showed the
basement window I'd initially dismissed as too small for a final
escape. But it could get me into the house as long as I sucked in
my gut and visualized being
very, very small.
I also had to
maneuver without being seen or heard across the white ribbon
obligatory to so many Sunshine State homes; the oyster-shell path
that ringed the grounds around the house walls like fluorescence in
the moonglow.

They drew their guns and headed for the
porch. I made my move, using long-latent childhood gymnastic
muscles to clear the wide, crushed path and stick a quiet landing
on the tiny strip of grass along the foundation.

I pulled the penlight I'd stashed in my bra
and scoped out the basement in two-point-six seconds—or
thereabouts. Any longer carried too much risk, but the quickly
lighted view told me I'd be dropping about six feet onto bare
cement. That was doable.

The extended beam of a Maglite flashed from
around the corner as I started feet first down the rabbit hole.
When my soles hit concrete, I reached up to softly set the window
back into a closed position. Then I crouched into a dark ball and
held my breath. Even with the locked window, I heard the cop's feet
pass by, then stop. He flashed his light through the glass, across
the cellar, floor to ceiling. I hugged the wall tighter and hoped
he wouldn't try to look straight down.

"Nah." I heard him talking into his radio.
"There's a tiny window back here, but it's locked, and I can't
imagine anyone getting through it anyway. Over."

Still, it wasn't time to sigh in relief. The
mark was due home from a NASA event soon. No need to look at my
watch again to know the minutes were flying. I continued to hold my
breath until I heard the oyster shells crunch when the cop resumed
his recon.

A cursory scan for infrared, trip wires, or
motion detectors came up zero. The house was as technology-free as
I'd been told. No doubt I was taking a chance going in before the
cops left, but if I'd stayed outside I was pretty much guaranteed
to get caught. And a ride in the back of a squad car to explain why
I was dressed in black in a dark yard near midnight was not on my
agenda for the evening.

The open floor plan in the living space made
it relatively easy to navigate without lights. Moonlight streamed
through huge windows dressed in nothing but sheers. I kept to the
beige and taupe walls and the larger pieces of furniture as much as
possible, using the moving shadows of the cops outside to know
where and when to scoot to the next spot. So far, the boys in blue
only appeared to be doing reconnaissance, leaving me to hope for a
rapid departure when they found the house secured. At least I
hoped
it was completely secure. I hadn't had time to do a
whole house perimeter before they showed up.

I crept up the stairs, and the landing
opened to a full-wall window that overlooked the front yard.
Staying back as far as possible, I watched the blue crew huddle
again at the curb.