The Boy

by Linsey Lanier

  Sure enough Parker was addressing the team.

  She caught his last words.

  “Ms. Steele will be in charge. All of you will report to her. She in turn will report to me. I will serve in a supervisory capacity.”

  Her stomach tightened as she listened hard for the reaction. The silence was deafening.

  Great. Parker had put her in charge, but he was the only one who wanted her there. She’d get him back for that. And she’d get him to change his mind. But right now they had a case to solve, so she might as well face the music.

  She put on a neutral expression and stepped inside the room.

  She handed the file to Parker with a tight grin. “The Westbrook file. Everything seems to be in order.”

  A flicker of a shadow crossed his expression that only she could read. He knew she knew.

  “Thank you, Ms. Steele. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I’ve just informed the team of your new position.”

  “Oh, no. Thank you.” She could hardly keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “Congratulations, Steele,” Becker piped up.

  “Thanks, Becker.”

  No one else said a word.

  “Why don’t you brief them on this morning,” Parker suggested.

  Glad to get down to business, she did.

  She told them about the eerie phone call Parker had gotten before six a.m., the police who’d been called out to the scene on the railroad tracks in Kennesaw, the strange GBI agent who’d shown up. She made sure to give Holloway credit for getting the evidence for them to work with.

  By the time she’d described the decapitated body of the young woman, nobody was thinking about who was in charge.

  “And so we need to get on this right away,” she concluded. “We could have a psycho killer on our hands.”

  The team’s response was instant and gratifying.

  “Let me have that evidence,” Fry said. “I’ll get on it right away. Hope to have some results pronto.”

  From his pocket Holloway pulled out the plastic bag he’d carried from the Kennesaw crime scene and handed it to the technician.

  “Let’s get to work,” Fry said to Becker and the pair disappeared into the back room of the lab.

  Miranda let out a breath of relief. These guys were good. After all, the Parker Agency hired and trained only the best. And even if they didn’t like her being in charge, she knew they’d always have her back.

  Wesson and Becker began to pepper her with questions about the unknown woman. As she related all the details she could remember, she glanced around the room.

  Parker had disappeared.

  When had he left? And why?

  She pointed at the corner where her lanky cohort was fixing a second bagel.

  “Holloway had time to study the body longer than I did.” She jerked a thumb at Becker and Wesson. “Why don’t you fill them in on the rest? I’ll be right back.”

  Before they could reply, she hustled herself of out the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Miranda found Parker in his corner office on the phone.

  As she stepped into the room for the second time that morning, she took a moment to drink in the familiar space.

  It was huge and impressive, as everything about Parker was. And the sunrays shooting through the floor-to-ceiling windows making the glass-and-chrome sparkle like a secret brook in a magic forest never failed to give her a sense of awe. She’d never realized how much the décor was like his penthouse.

  But then she’d never seen his penthouse before a few weeks ago.

  The blue-and-silver color scheme, which he’d just had updated, underscored the heavenly aura she’d always felt here. She flashed back to the first time she’d entered this elevated inner sanctum of his. And how overpowering Parker’s presence had been.

  Even now she felt a little twinge in her stomach as he held up a finger and gave her an understanding smile.

  He got her. Nobody ever had the way Parker did.

  He hung up the phone and his expression turned to a dark scowl.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I just put in a call to Inspector Whitman.”

  Their GBI contact who, according to the mysterious Simon Sloan, had retired. “And?”

  “No answer.”

  “Well, it is the weekend.”

  He gazed out the window in frustration. They couldn’t wait until Monday.

  “Hey, how come you left me alone in there?”

  He turned back to her. “Are you uncomfortable in the company of your coworkers?”

  “That’s just it. There’re not my coworkers any more. You’ve made them into something else.”

  “You were doing just fine.”

  “That’s what you think. Did you see the dirty look Holloway gave me? And Wesson is really annoyed.”

  “They’ll get used to it.”

  “Maybe they will, but I won’t. Look, Parker. I know you’re trying to be good to me, but I really don’t want to be anybody’s boss.”

  He sat back studying her. “Whom do you suggest I put in the role?”

  Whom. He was using his fancy English on her. “How about Becker? He’s the one who brought the pastries and bagels.”

  Parker raised an incredulous brow.

  “I mean, he’s the thoughtful one. And he’s a lot better with people than I am.”

  “We both know the job I’m giving you does not depend on social skills.”

  She paced around the room, pulling at her hair. “You’re not listening, Parker. I’m warning you. This isn’t going to go well. Everyone’s going to end up hating my guts.”

  The way she’d hated nearly every boss she’d ever worked for.

  He sat back and studied her a long moment. “I gave everyone a week to decide as soon as this case is closed. I’ll give you the same option.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll have seven days after this case ends. If by then you still don’t want the job, I’ll consider something else.”

  He was so stubborn. By then she could ruin every friendship she had here. She’d never had friends before. Not like these. She hadn’t realized what they meant to her.

  But before she could formulate another argument, the intercom buzzed.

  It was Fry. “I think I’ve got something here, sir.”

  Parker scowled. “May I ask why you didn’t call Ms. Steele’s phone?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Force of habit. I’ll remember next time.”

  Good recovery.

  Before Parker could remind Fry again that she was in charge, she leaned over the speaker. “We’ll be right there.”

  Chapter Eight

  When Miranda got back to the lab everyone was gathered in the back room.

  Here the extra bright fluorescent lights beamed down on shiny test tubes and microscopes and fancy machines lined up along counters running around the room’s perimeter. A door at the back marked, “Authorized Personnel Only” led to the prep area, a special room pressurized for contamination.

  Fry was in the sealed room.

  Becker sat at a counter on a computer talking to him through a little window on the screen.

  “They’re here,” Becker said to Fry when he saw Miranda enter the room with Parker close behind.

  She stepped over to where Becker sat and peered over his shoulder. “What have you got, Fry?”

  Fry blinked, startled at her sudden appearance. After taking a moment to collect himself he replied, probably pretending he was addressing Parker.

  “Assuming the touch DNA on the ring would be dicey, I started with the broken fingernail. Doesn’t appear to be any contamination. So far, only one profile.”

  “One profile?”

  “Yes, Ms. Steele. The victim’s.”

  That’s what she thought he meant. “Go on.”

  “I completed the extraction and quanitation procedures, ran the sample through the analyzer. Here are the results so fa
r.”

  Fry did some clicking on his keyboard and a graph appeared on Becker’s screen. All Miranda could see was a jumpy line made of various colors and numbers.

  “And what does that mean?”

  Fry launched into a scientific explanation of genomes and markers and reference profiles.

  After a minute or so Miranda held up a hand. “What are you saying, Fry? Do we know the vic’s identity? Do we know anything about who might have killed her?”

  In the little corner of the screen Fry looked as if he had bit into an onion. “As I was saying, Ms. Steele, the next step is to run the results against the available databases.”

  “Doing that now,” Becker chirped. And he attacked his keyboard

  Everyone was silent as the sound of Becker’s fingers tapping away filled the room and images began to flash on the screen.

  Miranda folded her arms and resisted the urge to tap her foot.

  This could take forever. Fry had jumped the gun. He didn’t really have any results. And what if this DNA wasn’t in the database? A victim’s usually wasn’t. DNA analysis was used to catch the criminal. But Fry had said there was only one profile. So far.

  Just as her hopes started to fade, Becker’s machine beeped.

  “We’ve got a match.”

  “Already?” Parker stepped out from the corner where he’d been watching. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Look.”

  Becker pressed some more keys and an ID photo of a pretty young woman appeared on the screen.

  She couldn’t have been over twenty-six. She had on the pale blue sweater. Her complexion was creamy and innocent. Her dark brown hair was cut in an ordinary style that fell just under her narrow chin. Her soft, demure expression said she was the compliant type.

  But those deep brown eyes might haunt Miranda’s dreams for a long time. Right alongside her personal demons.

  “June May,” Becker said.

  Miranda wrinkled her nose. “A mix up in the date she was born?”

  “No. That’s her name.”

  “Kind of strange.”

  “Yeah. She’s a second grade teacher at Dogwood Academy.”

  Miranda stiffened. Dogwood Academy was where she’d worked her first case here in Atlanta. Where she’d met Wendy Van Aarle, the girl she’d thought was her daughter at the time.

  Becker pointed to the screen. “That was why her ID popped so fast. They do routine DNA collection of all the staff.”

  Miranda hadn’t been required to give any, but then she hadn’t really been an employee at the school. “What else is there on her?”

  Becker scrolled up and she scanned the information. “She’s a substitute teacher filling in for someone on maternity leave.” She’d been close on the age. June May had just turned twenty-seven.

  Wesson leaned in to see the data. “Graduated from Ohio State with average grades,” she noted. “Six years teaching experience. Sounds pretty normal.”

  “Maybe she was a party girl in her off hours,” Holloway surmised. “Maybe she picked someone up in a bar and made a bad choice.”

  “Someone who got her drunk or gave her a date rape drug.” Wesson sounded like she’d had experience in that area. Or rather that she’d gotten out of a bad one.

  Miranda shook her head. “Why put her on the railroad tracks? And how did she get to Kennesaw?”

  Holloway shrugged. “Maybe the guy thought he wouldn’t get caught if it was that far away.”

  “Assuming she went out in the city,” Wesson offered.

  Miranda rubbed her arms. “We’re speculating too much. Is there an address?”

  Becker scrolled down some more. “Here it is. On Sheridan.”

  “We need to head out there,” Miranda said. “All of us.”

  “Me, too?” Becker squeaked.

  “You too. We might need your tech skills.” She turned to the screen again. “Fry, keep working on that DNA. See if you can get a line on the killer.”

  “With pleasure.” And the window disappeared.

  Chapter Nine

  They piled into two cars. Wesson and Becker with Holloway in his snazzy black-and-white Mini Cooper, Miranda with Parker in his nondescript silver Mazda.

  As Parker headed out of the lot toward Roswell Road, his cell made a buzzing sound. He must have changed the ringtone.

  He handed it to her. “It’s a text.”

  Wondering if it was another message from their anonymous caller from that morning, she scrolled to the incoming.

  As she read the new message, her tongue slipped into her cheek. “I warned you.”

  “About what?”

  “Fry is requesting not to be on the team after this case is closed. Says he has no desire for field work.”

  Turning into the Saturday shopping traffic Parker let out a slow breath. “I’ll speak to him. You don’t mind keeping him in the lab, do you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, Parker. Admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “That this idea isn’t going to work. They’re already dropping out like flies.”

  “Fry is merely concerned about doing field work. Once I allay those fears—”

  “He’ll find some other reason not to be on the team.”

  “He simply needs some time to get used to the idea.”

  The idea of reporting to her. The very bad idea. On the other hand, Parker had given her the option of backing out, too. At this rate she wouldn’t have to. By the end of this case, everyone on the team would quit. Then Parker could take over.

  Or put Becker in charge.

  ###

  June May lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in a two-story building on Sheridan, a street lined with two-story apartment buildings of every southern style Miranda knew. Colonial, Antebellum, American Federal, all with lots of columns and faux porches and charm. The particular complex where the school teacher had lived had buildings boasting rows and rows of tall narrow windows that evoked the air of a plantation. With eighty or so residents.

  As they navigated the crowded lot in search of the office, she wondered if one of them was watching through one of those windows.

  Inside the office Miranda let Parker do the honors and within minutes, he had charmed the support hose off the stocky middle-aged apartment manager, and talked her into letting the whole team inside. Soon all six of them were trudging up the fifteen brick steps that led to the tall outer door of their target building.

  June May’s single-bedroom apartment was on the second floor.

  It was a clean, airy space, despite its small size. Light colored floors and walls gave it a bright, open feel. There were few decorations. A cheap department store print on a wall here and there. Nothing on the windows except a few potted plants on the sill that looked like they needed attention.

  A tiny living room held a dull colored couch with blue-and-gold throw pillows, a wire bookshelf filled with teacher’s manuals and children’s books, and an inexpensive desk with a computer.

  Miranda gestured toward it. “See, Becker. I told you we’d need you. See what you can get from that.”

  As Becker sat down and turned on the machine, the manager turned a little pale.

  “Are you sure that’s…legal?”

  Parker gave her his lady-killer smile. “As I explained, Mrs. Tucker,” he said in his smooth southern tone, “we’re investigating a possible homicide. I assure you everything is above board. We’ll be as discrete as we can.”

  Looking both helpless and captivated, the woman nodded.

  A few feet beyond the couch sat a miniscule dining space with a little round table and a set of cute wooden chairs. The table held only a glass vase with fake tulips and a tin of Earl Grey tea.

  “Simple tastes,” Wesson said at Miranda’s side.

  Miranda frowned. “Too simple. Not much personality here at all.”

  “Some people don’t have much personality.”

  True. As Miranda turned toward the tight gall
ey kitchen abutting the dining area she wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she stepped into the narrow galley. In the stainless steel sink she found a chicken breast on a small plate. It looked a little green around the edges.

  She dared to sniff the air. Yuck.

  “Wesson. How old do you think that is?”

  Wesson made a disgusted face and forced herself to peer into the sink. “Eww. Three days? Maybe four?”

  “So she took it out for dinner in the morning and never came back.”

  “Could be.”

  That meant her killer held her captive a while before he left her on the tracks. There had to be more clues here. An address or a phone number. Something that would tell them where she went or who she was going to meet.

  “You look around some more in here,” she said to Wesson. “Holloway, check out the rest of the dining room. Look for any messages if there’s a landline. Parker and I will take the bedroom.”

  As she skirted around the dining table she heard Wesson snicker behind her. Okay, bad choice of words.

  Ignoring the slur as well as Parker’s wry grin, she entered said bedroom and looked around.

  There was barely enough space to move in here. A double bed with a pale blue spread and a matching shaggy carpet on the floor took up most of the room.

  Miranda rifled through the small closet.

  Skirts, blouses, two sweaters, a few high necked dresses. Summer clothes. All in conservative colors and organized by type. A few pairs of neatly stacked shoes. Flats, sneakers, a pair of running shoes.

  Parker rose from a crouch. “Nothing under the bed.”

  “She didn’t have many possessions. At least not here.”

  “The apartment may provide a storage space.”

  “Yeah.”

  But people didn’t put things that meant something to them in storage. She used to live pretty sparsely herself, but she’d always had the dolls and toys she’d saved for her daughter.

  It was as if June May didn’t even have a history.

  Then she spotted something behind Parker. “Look at that.”

  Against the wall stood a small white dresser with a silver framed mirror over it. Tucked into the edges of the frame were photographs.