The Boy

by Linsey Lanier

  Miranda peered at them.

  June May on the steps of a school with some of her second graders. An even younger and thinner version of June May with a guy a little older than her in Army camouflage. An older, faded picture taken on the porch of what looked to be a farmhouse. A girl, maybe nine or ten, sat on the steps while two older boys behind her made faces at the camera. The young girl was definitely June May. Her dark hair and wistful expression made Miranda think of Mackenzie.

  But it was the photo in the far corner of the mirror that made Miranda’s heart stop.

  A photo taken in a wooded spot somewhere. It was a fall day and the colors were brilliant behind June May’s drab blouse and jeans. But she was smiling. And so was the dark-haired man with his arm around her.

  “Parker,” she whispered. “Am I seeing things?”

  He stepped to her side and leaned over her shoulder. “Agent Simon Sloan.”

  It was him. Standing right next to June May in that picture.

  “Wesson,” she called out. “Bring the field kit.”

  She’d let Wesson carry it, hoping no one would read the gesture as favoritism or discrimination or whatever else their devious minds could conjure up.

  Wesson appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed. “Did you find something?”

  Miranda poked a finger toward the dresser. “That’s the guy I told you about this morning. The one who kicked us off the crime scene.”

  “The GBI agent?” Wesson tapped across the room in her heels and leaned down to have a look. “Dreamy,” she sighed.

  Of course Wesson would go for the looks. “Dreamiest serial killer I’ve ever seen.”

  Wesson’s lips tightened. “You think he killed her?”

  Miranda shrugged. “Maybe.”

  But she was jumping the gun and hadn’t wanted to do that in front of Wesson. This boss job was hard.

  “Let’s get these pictures bagged. If we get lucky and Sloan’s prints are on one of them, we’ll be able to run a check and find out exactly who he is.”

  Wesson set the kit on the bed and opened it with an efficient click. She handed Miranda bags and tweezers, and Miranda began plucking the photos off the mirror.

  The manager poked her head in. “You’re taking her things? I’m not sure I can allow that.”

  Miranda stepped past Wesson with Sloan’s photo still on her tweezers. “Did you ever see your tenant with this man?”

  With sudden alarm on her face the woman squinted at the picture. After a moment she shook her head. “I really didn’t know Ms. May at all.”

  “Are you sure you’ve never seen this man on the premises? Think hard.”

  She studied the photo again. “I’m sorry. We have so many people coming and going. I don’t recognize him.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Tucker,” Parker assured her with another winning smile. “We’ll return Ms. May’s things as soon as we’re finished with them.”

  Once more the manager nodded with her mouth open in a star-struck expression.

  Holloway appeared in the doorway behind her. “She didn’t have a landline. I’ve gone through all her books. Nothing unusual.”

  Becker wedged in between Holloway and the manager. “There’s nothing on the computer, Steele. Just school correspondence, lesson plans and a few pictures. Mostly of a guy named James. He seems to have been in the army.”

  Miranda snatched one of the bags out of Wesson’s hand and showed it to Becker. “This guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “So she’s got a history with this army dude and this guy.” She held up the photo of May and Sloan with her tweezers.

  Holloway’s brows shot up. “That’s the GBI agent we saw this morning.”

  “Sure is.” Then she noticed something on the back of it. “What the heck is this?”

  Carefully she turned over the photo as everyone crowded in to get a look.

  “It’s an address,” Wesson said.

  “Maple Lane. That’s near Irwin Street.” A neighborhood near the apartment Miranda had had until two weeks ago.

  “Maybe that’s where Sloan lives,” Becker suggested.

  Could be. “Write this down, Becker.”

  He tapped the address into his phone. “Got it.”

  Miranda dropped the photo into the bag Wesson was still holding. “We need to go check it out. Pronto.”

  “Let’s go,” Wesson agreed.

  At last they had a lead and it felt like a good one.

  Quickly Miranda packed the photos into the field kit and handed it back to Wesson. Then they all tromped back across the apartment and out the door, leaving the stunned manager to lock up.

  Chapter Ten

  The address on the back of the photo led them on a twenty minute drive to a lower income neighborhood on the south side of the Old Fourth Ward.

  Miranda had driven through this area a time or two when she’d been apartment hunting weeks ago. The neighborhood wasn’t too bad. Not ritzy by any means. Filled with hard-working, law abiding folk who minded their own business, as far as she could tell. The rent prices had been a little out of her range.

  The shady lane held an array of old-fashioned, one-and-two-story clapboard homes, most sporting friendly looking porches with antebellum style columns. And of course the ubiquitous trees.

  The house in question was a pretty pale blue with white trim. Single story. Assorted plants hung from the porch in attractive pots, and a birch tree grew in the front yard.

  So who lived here? Agent Simon Sloan? Didn’t seem the type of place for a GBI agent.

  In the passenger seat of Parker’s Mazda Miranda stared at the little blue house and drummed her fingers on her knee. There was no car in the driveway or parked in front. Hard to tell but there didn’t seem to be anyone home.

  If Sloan lived there he was probably at work, maybe throwing his weight around some other crime scene.

  If he really was a GBI agent.

  “What’s the next move?” Parker asked.

  She let out a breath. “I’d like to get a look inside the place but it looks like nobody’s home.”

  “Do you have the means to remedy that?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Since she’d gone out on her own she’d made a habit of carrying the little packet of tools that could get her inside just about anywhere. She owed Parker for the knowledge of just how to use said tools. But she didn’t want to let the rest of the team in on it.

  She reached for the handle of car. “I’ll go in first. I’ll give you a signal when it’s clear.”

  “Excellent plan.”

  Glad he thought so. Miranda got out of the car and as she went around to Holloway’s Mini Cooper to inform them of it, she marveled at how much freedom Parker was giving her. He might not show it but he had to be nervous about letting her go inside this house alone.

  His confidence in her had grown. She liked that.

  After telling the rest of the team to stay put, she crossed the sunny pavement and headed up the steps to the porch.

  In addition to her tools, she had her Berretta tucked into her waistband behind her back. She’d stuck it there when she’d pulled on her jeans that morning. She knew Parker had his Glock and the rest of the team was armed as well. Standard operating procedure.

  So they should be ready for anything.

  Hoping they wouldn’t have to use their fire power, she rang the bell.

  As she expected there was no answer. She rang again, then banged on the door for appearance. When there was still no reply, she looked around. No nosey neighbors on the other porches or peeking through the windows. Plus there was enough shade to hide her movements.

  Before she resorted to her tools, she opened the screen door and tried the knob.

  To her surprise it opened. She tensed. That didn’t bode well.

  She turned and gestured to the team, waited for them to get to the porch.

  “What’s going on, Steele?” Holloway wanted to know.
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  “Nobody answered,” she whispered. “But the door was wide open. Be careful.”

  Cautiously she stepped inside and found a small square alcove that opened to another room.

  She drew her weapon. “Anybody home?”

  No answer.

  Becker lingered at the door with the others. “Are you sure we can go in there?”

  He sounded like the landlady. She was about to grab Becker by the collar and yank him inside when Parker stepped up behind the team.

  “The Agency will assume any liability,” he assured him.

  Miranda was relieved he’d offered that. “C’mon. And be quiet.”

  She stepped around the corner into a well-lit, cozy living room. Nothing too special. Standard eight-foot ceilings. Window facing the street. The blond hardwood flooring and clean eggshell colored walls told her the place had been redone not too long ago.

  The décor had a homey, traditional flair. A throw rug in a classic red-and-gold design. Matching floral design pillows on the tan sofa. Cream colored fireplace with tasteful brick-a-brack along the mantel. Brown leather chair and ottoman in the corner. Coffee table with a brass top.

  But there was no sign of life here.

  A divider at the other end of the room created a space for a small dining area. As she headed for it she spotted something sticking out from under the sofa. Was that what she thought it was?

  It looked like the tiny leg of an action figure. Was there a kid here?

  Becker saw it, too, and frowned with concern.

  The dining table was done in a clean white finish and had four chairs upholstered in a plain tan neatly tucked around it. No centerpiece on the table. Just a stack of plain paper napkins and an unopened jar of peanut butter.

  An opening on the other side led to a kitchen area. Miranda waved her team in there while she and Parker headed down the hall to yes, the bedrooms.

  The master bedroom was in the far corner of the house.

  As soon as she stepped inside it she knew something was off.

  The brush tone furniture wasn’t pricey but looked recently purchased. A double bed sat in one corner under a high window. It had been crisply made with a brown plaid spread suited for an adult. But folded neatly at the foot of it was a smaller blanket covered with colorful cartoon characters.

  In the opposite corner stood a short-legged table stacked with a toy store of stuff. Colorful building blocks. Construction paper. A book on paper airplanes. Some kind of gadget that looked like a bug. More books and papers and a small computer. A toy quad bike. A second table held a TV with a video game rigged up to it.

  Miranda went to the closet. There were adult clothes here. A jacket. A skirt and blouse. Plain-looking.

  Parker went through the dresser. “Children’s jeans and Ts in these drawers.”

  It looked like an adult woman and a kid shared the room.

  “Someone’s been keeping a child here,” she said aloud.

  Parker opened the last drawer. “By the size of the underwear a seven or eight-year-old.”

  Becker stepped into the room looking troubled. He held up an action figure dressed in army gear. “I found this in the fridge.”

  There had definitely been a kid here. A boy.

  Miranda’s mind began to go on a rampage. Were June May and Simon Sloan a family? Or living together? Did they have a kid together? Was Sloan abusing the woman or the kid? Did they try to run away and fail?

  Before she could voice her thoughts, she heard a latch turn down the hall. Her eyes went wide.

  “The front door,” Becker whispered.

  They stood in silence as footsteps began to echo through the empty rooms. Slow, cautious footsteps. Someone was inside.

  Miranda put a finger to her lips, raised her gun and stepped into the hall. With her back to the wall she inched toward the living room.

  Parker and Becker were right behind her, weapons raised.

  Three more steps and she reached the corner. She could hear the intruder—or maybe it was Sloan—getting closer.

  Now or never.

  Taking a deep breath, she swung around the corner, her Berretta aimed for the intruder’s heart.

  Parker did the same. Becker echoed their moves.

  “Hold it right there,” she demanded.

  It wasn’t Sloan.

  Before her stood a tall, regal looking woman in an ice blue tailored business suit with a mound of steel gray hair piled atop her head. In her hand she held a small silver handgun. Her familiar, piercing gray eyes stared at her in sheer shock.

  “Miranda?”

  From the corner of her eye Miranda watched Parker lower his Glock—and turn a little pale.

  “Evelyn?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Parker’s older sister Evelyn Parker had always been an enigma to Miranda.

  Along with Parker’s father, the lovable but crusty old Mr. P, she ran the Parker real estate empire with her powerful, Margaret Thatcher like presence. Miranda had always found her downright intimidating. The woman was always busy, and Evelyn and Parker weren’t close, so luckily Miranda rarely ran into her except for special occasions and get-togethers during the holidays.

  This house in the Old Fourth Ward was the last place she expected to see her.

  Letting out a slow breath Parker voiced her thoughts. “What are you doing here, Evelyn? And why are you carrying a gun?”

  Head held high Evelyn slipped the weapon into a small handbag that matched her tailored ice blue suit. “If you recall, baby brother, I’m in real estate,” she said with snide dignity. “This is one of our properties. And you’re the one who taught me to always carry protection.”

  Miranda watched Parker’s jaw twitch. He didn’t care for being called “baby brother.” Especially in front of his employees. At least Wesson and Holloway were still in the kitchen.

  Parker gestured at the down-to-earth living room. “Are you sure this house belongs to Parker Enterprises? It hardly seems like the type of property we deal with.”

  Evelyn raised an indignant brow. “We?” Her smooth southern accent rivaled Parker’s for sophistication. “How would you know what type of property we deal with?”

  Miranda had always wondered if Evelyn resented Parker for not taking over the family business and leaving her to do it—and to deal with their headstrong father.

  “And what’s wrong with this property?” Evelyn gestured out the window. “Our great great grandmother grew up in a grand house on Boulevard. It was the place to live.”

  “In the 1890s.”

  Evelyn went to the sofa and fluffed a pillow. “Nonetheless this house is one of our rentals. The tenant has moved out. I’m here to clean up the place.” She strolled over to where Becker was standing and snatched the toy soldier out of his hand.

  “You’re cleaning an abandoned unit?” Parker asked. “Yourself?”

  “I do the grunt work occasionally. No one else is available right now.”

  Miranda put a hand on her hip. “Your tenant doesn’t happen to be a guy named Simon Sloan, does it?”

  Evelyn turned to her, confusion on her face. “I’ve never heard that name. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. What are you doing here anyway, Russell? And why are your people here?”

  Calling Parker “Russell” was almost as bad as calling him “baby brother.” It was his middle name. The name Mr. P used for him. But that wasn’t what caught Miranda’s attention. It was the funny way Evelyn asked the question.

  As if she already knew the answer.

  Parker’s face turned to granite. “I’m on a case, Evelyn. And I think you know something about it.”

  He was getting the same vibe Miranda was.

  Evelyn shook her head. “How would I know anything about your case?”

  “I don’t know, but I think you do.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  “Evelyn, please.” Parker reached for her arm.

  “Let go of me.”

 
“A young woman is dead.”

  With a look of shock Evelyn turned to stare at him. For a long moment she struggled to keep her composure then her eyes grew watery.

  “She really is dead then.” Evelyn pulled out of Parker’s grip, moved to the sofa and sank down onto it. She put her head in her hands. “Dear God.”

  Miranda shot Parker a tense look. His sister did know something. It was up to him to get it out of her.

  Parker strode over to where she sat and put a hand on her shoulder. “Evelyn, what do you know about that woman?”

  Evelyn held up a hand while she pulled herself together. Miranda took the opportunity to whisper something in Becker’s ear. With a nod he silently slipped out the front door.

  Evelyn inhaled a big breath and began to talk. “About two years ago I was approached by a man from the FBI.”

  “The FBI?” Miranda said at the same time Parker did.

  Eyeing them both with defiance Evelyn nodded. “A covert branch of the bureau was working with Homeland Security conducting a special operation.”

  “What sort of operation?”

  “An operation involving the protection of young children.”

  “From what?” Parker asked.

  “I don’t know the details. I do know they needed me to arrange temporary housing for agents in the area. It was a worthy cause. I agreed to help.”

  Miranda thought Evelyn had to be joking. But she knew the look of concerned annoyance on Parker’s face only too well. He was worried for his sister’s safety.

  He steadied himself by perching on the nearby ottoman. “How do you know this man was really from the FBI?”

  Evelyn lifted her head and scowled at him. “Give me some credit, Russell. I’m in real estate. I can conduct a background check as well as you.”

  Parker drew in a steady breath, summoning all he could of the famous Parker patience. “Go on.”

  “I’ve been doing it since that time.”

  “Doing what?”

  She spread her hands. “This. When I’m contacted, I prepare a house, deliver the address, escort the agent to the house, clean it of any trace when he or she leaves.”