If they were out for a Sunday stroll it would have been nice. As it was, even the bees buzzing in the distance sounded ominous. More than once Miranda saw Parker check for the weapon in his pocket.
They reached a place where the path forked. Without a pause Evelyn led them left across a rust red bridge that ran over another branch of the creek. She seemed to know exactly where she was going.
On the other side they passed a lone woman walking a fuzzy white dog. She ignored them.
Not many people here. It was pretty secluded—as requested by the handler.
In the distance loomed an old train trellis.
“This park has a lot of history,” Parker said as he strolled along. “The Battle of Peachtree Creek took place in this area. There’s a multi-purpose trail over there designed by a Georgia Tech student. The plan includes streetcars and a light rail line for alternative transportation in the area.”
“I don’t see any streetcars.”
“Funding for the project has been tied up in the legislature for some time.”
Legislature? “Would Senator Ward Hughes have anything to do with that?”
“I’m not familiar with his voting record on the matter.”
Hmm. She wondered if it mattered to the kidnapper.
They went past an empty play area and around a curve into a deeply shaded spot.
Evelyn came to a stop and gestured to a green bench facing the walkway. “Here it is.”
Parker scowled. “Here’s what?”
“The bench. He wants you to sit here and wait for him. You’re not to look behind you. Just keep your eyes focused on the trees over there.” She gestured across the trail.
Say what? Who did this guy think he was? “I don’t know about this deal, Evelyn.”
Evelyn’s mouth went tight. “I have no choice in the matter, Miranda.”
“And we don’t either,” Parker said.
He was right, of course. Reluctantly Miranda sat down on the bench.
Looking annoyed Parker took a seat beside her. “And what will you be doing?” he asked Evelyn.
“Disappearing.”
Without another word she turned and marched off in the direction she’d come.
“How’s she getting back home?” Miranda wondered out loud.
“She’ll call a cab or walk if she has to.”
In high heels no less. The woman was tough. Miranda could just imagine Parker’s stoic sister puffing her way through the two miles back to her house.
“Are we doing the right thing sitting here, Parker?”
“It’s the only way we’re going to learn any more about the people Evelyn has gotten herself involved with.”
Parker was doing this as much to protect his sister as he was to find Dylan Ward Hughes. And if they discovered this so-called FBI group was something else? She was glad they had their weapons with them. Especially if that creepy guy Becker had uncovered showed up.
As casually as she could, she slipped her hand to the small of her back and moved her Berretta from her belt to her pocket.
They waited for what seemed like an hour.
Miranda kept her gaze focused on the tree directly across the path. It stood in the center of a wide clearing surrounded by similar trees. Elms, she thought. Or maples. Or maybe sweetgum. She wasn’t good at identifying the myriad of tree species in the area. The shadows of their leaves flickered over the grass while robins hopped around hunting worms and calling to their friends in the branches.
She had almost memorized the pattern of the tree’s bark when she felt someone squeeze her shoulder.
Automatically her hand went to her Beretta.
“Don’t turn around,” said a smooth accented voice. African, she thought. “And there’s no need to reach for your weapon, Ms. Steele. You’re not in danger.”
So he said.
“What do you have to tell us?” Parker said in a low, demanding tone.
“Me? Nothing. My orders are to bring you to my boss. On your feet, please.”
What? He wanted them to go somewhere with him?
Nerves dancing along her spine Miranda gave Parker a sidelong glance. Were they really going to go along with this guy?
Parker returned a slight nod.
And he thought she took unnecessary risks. Well, okay then.
Feeling as if they had bought the wrong farm, she rose to her feet at the same time he did.
“Now what?” she said.
“Now turn right and head back toward the parking lot,” said the man with the accent. “I’ll be right behind you. Do not turn around.”
They did as commanded.
Just a trio out for a Sunday afternoon stroll. But there was no one here to notice or to question their appearance.
Marching back along the twisty path beside Parker, Miranda felt her heart sink with every step. What in the world had they gotten themselves into? She’d worked with law officers before. She’d worked with French Intelligence. Parker had worked with the FBI and international agencies all over the world. As far as she knew he’d never been treated like this.
So what did that tell her? That this whole FBI thing was a fake?
No time to figure that out now. They had reached the small lot.
The only vehicles there now were Parker’s Mazda and a long, dark blue cargo van with no windows in the back. Was that the same van she’d seen near the tracks up in Kennesaw yesterday? She couldn’t be sure.
The man behind them led them to the back of it.
“Turn please. And again do not try to catch a glimpse of me. I don’t know what my boss will do to you if you see me.”
The phrase I’d have to kill you went through Miranda’s mind. She turned away while the man with the accent opened the back door.
“Inside, please.”
She climbed up with Parker beside her.
Seats ran along both sides of the back like a transport for prisoners. A metal partition at the front barricaded the driver from view. Draped over each seat was a strip of black silk.
“If you’ll buckle up and put on those blindfolds, we’ll be off. Again, if you don’t comply my boss will not be happy.”
He shut the door.
As the back of the van went dark, Miranda picked up the blindfold. “Are you sure about this, Parker?” she whispered.
In the shadows she could see the deep lines in his handsome face. He didn’t look sure at all. And he was really angry with Evelyn. The same questions were running through his mind. Was his sister really working for a stealthy branch of the FBI? Or was it something else entirely?
But if they didn’t go along on this ride, what were they going to do? Go back and watch Becker’s computer run some more?
“It’s all we have,” he said, his voice low. “And he let us keep our weapons.”
True. Unless he knew he had enough muscle to overpower them. It was unlikely the dude with the accent was alone.
But Parker was right. They were stuck.
She gave him a shrug and lifted the silk. “Okay.”
Her heart sinking she watched Parker put on the blindfold, then did the same.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Miranda felt herself shiver as she heard the driver’s door shut. She heard the engine start and felt the van pull away. Suddenly the air in the back of the vehicle seemed to lack oxygen and the seat she was on became hard and uncomfortable.
As they rolled along she felt every bump.
What if they were wrong? What if Evelyn had been duped and they had willingly walked straight into a trap? What if they were the ones being kidnapped now?
Forcing down the panic she tried to memorize the turns. Left, right, left again. But after awhile she lost track.
She lost track of the time as well. From the jostling, the van’s speed, and the traffic noises, she knew they must be on one of the interstates now. But which one? And going in which direction? And how far? The man with the accent could be taking them to Florida or Alabama o
r Kentucky for all she knew.
She felt a pull in her stomach and wondered if they were on a cloverleaf, but she couldn’t tell where. She hoped Parker was doing better with the directions.
It might have been twenty minutes or an hour and a half when the van began to slow. It came to a halt. Miranda heard a jangling noise. Then the van moved again, stopped again. The jangling noise sounded again and ended with a final slam.
Garage or warehouse door. They were inside somewhere.
She heard the driver get out.
There was a long silent pause and then the rear doors of the van clicked open.
“You may remove your blindfolds.” This time the accent was Irish.
Wasting no time Miranda ripped hers off and glared at the guy at the back.
Big dude. Large shoulders. Thick neck. Orange-red hair falling in waves down to his clavicle. He had on a not-too-expensive looking black suit and tie. White shirt. She could have sworn she’d seen this guy in Kennesaw.
He stuck out a meaty hand. “Let me help you out, Ms. Steele.”
Raising a brow toward Parker, she gave Irish dude her hand and climbed out. She blinked as her feet hit hard concrete and she looked around.
High overhead hung long rows of buzzing fluorescent lights, their bright glow illuminating high walls that seemed to be made of the same concrete as the floor. The air had a musty scent as if the rolling door they’d come through wasn’t opened very often. Two other dark vans sat nearby but other than the vehicles the space held a whole lot of nothing.
Not a window in sight.
After Parker joined her on the floor, Irish dude made a polite bow that surprised her.
“If you’ll follow me, please.”
Their footsteps echoed into the empty air as he led them across the space to a door in the corner. He entered a number sequence on a keypad to unlock it and ushered them down a long unadorned concrete hall. Three ninety-degree turns. Left, right, left. Then he came to a stop at a large door guarded by two more big men, also in dark suits and ties. These she didn’t recognize.
Their escort gave them a signal and they stepped aside.
Irish dude laid his big palm on a touch pad, waited for a light to blink, and the doors whisked open.
He gestured for them to enter.
Miranda couldn’t help reaching for Parker’s hand as they stepped inside the huge room.
It was twice as tall and three times as wide as the place where they’d left the van. More giant fluorescent lights hung from the high ceiling, shining against walls painted as black as midnight.
Before them stretched a massive semi circular wall filled with dozens of computer screens. Some of them seemed to be running reports, others were displaying constantly updating bar or pie graphs, others had to be the feed from surveillance cameras trained on various spots she couldn’t identify.
In front of the screens stretched a huge half moon shaped area. It was raised like a dais and several steps led to it. A desk like counter ran from one end of the display area to the other. Only one chair was at the desk, dead in its center. A lone man in another black suit sat in the chair, his back to them.
“They’re here, sir,” said Irish.
The man’s shoulders moved as if he were bracing himself for something horrific. Then slowly he swiveled around to face them.
Instantly Miranda’s gaze locked on a pair of sharp dark eyes.
Thin, wiry body. Sleek black hair. Cute little dent in the chin. As good looking as the current male number one box office draw. By now she knew that face only too well.
Simon Sloan.
Chapter Thirty-Three
He studied them a long moment then shook his head in apparent disgust. “So these are the two detectives who can’t seem to mind their own business.”
As Sloan’s polished radio voice rang out into the empty space Miranda heard Parker growl.
“What concerns my sister is my business.”
“Your sister. She’s a green one, isn’t she? We never should have recruited her.”
Did he really think they’d fall for this ruse? Miranda put her hand on her hip. “Are you telling us you really are with the FBI, Sloan? I thought you were with the GBI.”
“A necessary deception,” Sloan replied with a sneer. “You know about that sort of thing, don’t you, Wade Parker?”
“I know impersonating a government agent is a federal offense,” Parker replied. “Even for someone who already is a government agent. If that’s what you really are.”
Sloan only shook his head.
“And since we all know you’re not with the GBI,” Miranda continued, “how did you get Captain Walker up in Kennesaw to call you in?”
Sloan closed his eyes and exhaled. “He didn’t call me. I stopped by his house and paid him a visit before I went to the tracks. I convinced him it was in his best interest to say he had called me in if anyone asked.”
That explained why Sloan had seemed so legitimate in Kennesaw. And why he’d pretended to be GBI. The arrangements between local law enforcement and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation were clearly defined. If he’d claimed to be FBI, the officers wouldn’t have turned the case over to him so easily.
But it didn’t explain everything.
“What happened to the body?” Miranda said.
“That is none of your business.”
“We think it is.”
Sloan glared at her, gritting his teeth. “We owe you no explanations. What we want from you and Mr. Parker are those shoeprints from the house in the Old Fourth Ward. And whatever data you’ve managed to dig up on them.”
How dare he? Miranda put a foot on the first step of the dais thingy and glared at the man. “Where’s the boy, Sloan?”
He jumped in his chair. “What?”
“You know who I’m talking about. Senator Ward Hughes’s son, Dylan. Where have you got him?”
He barked out a laugh. “You think I have Dylan?”
“You told the senator his son was going to be kidnapped. You knew the boy’s teacher personally. You showed up in Kennesaw to scoop up her body as fast as you could. You impersonated a GBI officer. How do we know you haven’t been impersonating an FBI agent so you could get to him?”
She watched his dark eyes glisten with anger as his thin chest bobbed up and down. She felt a low rumble and wondered how the thin man could make such a sound. Then she realized it was coming from somewhere outside—along with the faint hum of a whistle. For a moment the walls seems to shiver. Then it disappeared.
“Hear that?” Sloan said. “Train. We’ve been operating here for several months now. We believe June May’s killer may know where we are and left her body on the tracks in Kennesaw as a message. We can’t afford to divulge any further details of our operation. You two already know too much.”
“And so what? You brought us here to kill us?”
He laughed. “We don’t kill private investigators. We brought you here to get the information I mentioned. Now if you’ll kindly comply.”
Miranda folded her arms. “Not until you prove to us who you really are.”
He shook his head again and turned to Parker. “Can’t you control her?”
“Why should I? I want that proof as much as she does.”
Miranda liked that answer.
Sloan put his head in his hands. “This is not standard procedure. It’s not protocol,” he muttered half to himself. “But I know your backgrounds. Both of you. I know the history of the Parker Agency, your time as a police officer, every case you’ve ever been on. I know everything Miranda Steele has done since she teamed up with you a year and a half ago.”
Nosy little guy, wasn’t he? But he seemed to be trying to convince himself he could trust them.
“Prove to us who you are, Sloan,” Miranda said. “Tell us what you did with June May.”
He lifted his head and his dark gaze bore into her for what seemed like an eternity. “I’ll do better than that,” he said at last
. “I’ll show you.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sloan got to his feet, raised a hand, snapped his fingers. “O’Cleary.”
The Irish dude appeared from somewhere in the shadows.
“This way.”
With a clipped, angry gait Sloan trotted down the platform steps and across the wide floor to a door hidden in a dark corner.
He opened it and led the way down another bendy, windowless passageway, with Miranda and Parker in the middle and Big Irish at the back, guarding them.
After a long hike they reached a heavy metal door. Sloan pressed a hand against a wall pad. A red light over the door flashed, a buzzer sounded, and the door opened. They stepped inside.
The smell of antiseptic and decomposition that hit her in the face told Miranda right away where they were.
A morgue.
Sloan led them down a white tiled passage and into an inner room. This one was wide and lined with stainless steel drawers. A row of sinks stood along the opposite wall.
Sloan snapped his fingers again and O’Cleary ambled off somewhere. Then he pulled a pair of blue surgical gloves from a container on the wall, slipped them on, and moved to one of the drawers.
He seemed to be bracing himself as he stared at the floor a long while. Then he reached for one of the handles and slid a drawer open.
He pulled back the sheet covering the body. “Here she is.” His voice cracked a little.
Miranda thought about the photo of Sloan in June May’s bedroom. He knew her. Apparently well.
She stared down at the body.
She’d been cleaned up. The head had been stitched back on and there was a nice even seam around the neck. Someone had closed her eyes. Another V-shaped seam crossed her chest. The typical autopsy incision.
Her skin was the pale hue of death. She looked fragile and cold.
Miranda looked at Sloan. He was clearly broken up, fighting hard not to show it.
“You knew her,” she said softly.
He seemed surprised at her comment but he nodded.
Once again she noted the dark hair color the dead woman shared with Sloan. “Sister?”
The Boy Page 14
