But he disliked the idea of leaving his model trains.
The door on the other side of the room opened and Doroshenko shoved the boy inside and onto the floor.
“Get in there, you worthless little brat.”
“Leave me alone,” the boy cried.
Pretending to be alarmed he rose and set the model engine down on the desk. “What on earth is the matter?”
The Cossack looked at him. “I told the urchin to clean the toilets and he did a terrible job.”
“I want to go home. I want my mother.”
“Whiner.” Doroshenko raised a large hand and struck the boy across the cheek.
The boy got up and ran to him, throwing his arms around his legs, hugging him for dear life.
He stroked his thick blond hair, so like Little Brother’s. “There, there. It’s all right.”
The Stockholm syndrome was such a lovely phenomenon. The Cossack was playing his role well, except for one detail. Gently he placed his hands over the boy’s ears and leaned toward the huge man.
“How many times must I tell you?” he whispered softly “Do not damage the merchandise. You could cost us a hundred thousand or more if we deliver him bruised.”
Doroshenko nodded. “Yessir.”
“Why are you being so cruel to the boy?” he said in his normal voice.
“He must learn to obey.”
“No. He’s my friend. Here, Dylan.”
He lifted the boy’s chin until their eyes met. He smiled down at him. He waited. At last the boy smiled back. Excellent progress. He took the model engine off the desk and let the boy hold it.
The boy cradled it in his arms as if it were a pet.
The image reminded him of Little Brother and his furry white kitten.
A birthday gift from Mommy and Daddy. Oh, how Little Brother had loved that kitten. It made him ill how they fawned over the animal. One day, he got good and sick of watching them.
He found some bleach in a cabinet in the kitchen and put it in the kitten’s food. It was a gluttonous little thing and ate it all without even noticing. The next day Little Brother found it dead under the dining room table. It had lost all the contents of its stomach before its little heart stopped.
Oh, how Little Brother cried and cried over that stupid little kitten. Oh, how Mommy and Daddy tried to console him.
They couldn’t prove what had happened but he knew they suspected. That was when they started giving him those strange looks. And talking about sending him to boarding school.
But he’d gotten even for that. For all of it.
Bending down once again he stroked Dylan’s soft hair. The boy smiled. Good. He was getting used to being touched.
“Would you like some more ice cream?”
The smile grew brighter. “Can we have strawberry this time?”
“Of course. I bought some just for you.” He tweaked his nose and turned back to the computer for a moment.
The screen was still frozen with Miranda Steele’s face, a look of victory in her deep blue eyes.
She would not be victorious over him.
Suddenly her remembered the invitation he’d received a week or so ago, and an idea began to form in his mind. He didn’t frequent the charity functions and other to-dos so popular with the wealthy of Atlanta. He didn’t care for such affairs and it wasn’t wise to come out of hiding too often. Besides it was a long trip into town.
But perhaps he should make an exception for this one.
The senator might be there, hiding his anxiety for his son. That would be fun to watch. And Wade Parker might be there, as well. He was in the same social circle, after all.
Wade Parker and his wife Miranda Steele. What if they were there? Yes. The details of a plan began to snap together like the tracks of his model railroads. Why not do it?
His father had always said the best defense was an offense. It was risky to be sure. It would require him to alter his plans. But better to be safe than sorry. And if the detectives were working with the FBI it was the only way to find out. He’d be able to tell once he got there, talked to her. And then he’d decide whether to escalate.
He’d have his session with the boy then dig out his best suit.
He extended a hand toward his unwitting prisoner and smiled as the boy took it so trustingly.
Still smiling he led him to the kitchen. “How many scoops do you want? Three or four?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
As she stepped inside the thirty-room Greek Revival mansion on West Paces Ferry and heard the classical strains of a string concerto, Miranda felt more like a spy than a guest. But then that’s exactly what she was at the moment.
Both she and Parker were.
Tension peppering her skin she scanned the roomful of pricey tailored suits and metallic lace, floral silk, and petal chiffon accented with polished gold, silver and precious stones. Designer perfumes and colognes mingled in the air creating the odor of a classy, very expensive flower shop.
Everyone was dressed to the nines. Burberry and Gucci, Armani and Ralph Lauren Black Label—and that was just the women.
Miranda herself was in a designer crimson strapless thing Parker had picked out for her. It had a low-cut sweetheart neckline that showed off way too much skin, in her opinion. But the Tahitian pearl necklace that had belonged to Parker’s mother helped. Not to mention remind her of what they had together.
Nervously she fingered the pearls and watched Parker adjust his onyx cufflinks.
He was a sweet eyeful in his fancy dark suit that had to cost at least a grand or two. With his to-die-for face, sensual dark brows, and thick, sexy, want-to-run-your-fingers-through-it salt-and-pepper hair, she might have to spend the night batting the women away from him.
No, she wouldn’t let silly flirts distract her from her goal.
She was here to mingle. And to get whatever information she could about political rivals and their schemes. If Sloan’s theory was right and Senator Perry Ward Hughes had an enemy in their midst, she was bound and determined to find him.
She leaned close to Parker. “If I’ve met any of these folks before, you’re going to have to re-introduce me.”
He laid a hand against the small of her back. “Always happy to show off my lovely and talented wife.”
She suppressed a smirk. “If they only knew.”
A server with a silver tray passed by and Miranda reached for a flute of something bubbly as they headed for a tall Ionic column near the grand staircase.
The trouble was, they did know her.
A lot of them, anyway. They knew about the ordeal in Jasper County two weeks ago. They knew she and Parker had been on several international cases. They even remembered the details of the Madison Taggart case, which Miranda would have liked to forget.
That meant, as Parker introduced her around, they did the asking and she was forced to do the answering instead of the other way around. And even though her clipped replies bordered on rude, she couldn’t turn the conversations around.
That was, until she felt a squeeze on her arm. “Ms. Steele.”
It was the senator’s wife.
She had her golden blond hair done up in a classy chignon and wore a glittery black knee length dress that hugged her still youthful figure.
“Hello, Rebecca,” Miranda said when she regained her voice. “I’m surprised to see you here tonight.” As in stunned.
“Oh, that headache I was nursing seems to have disappeared.” She smiled at the man Miranda had been talking to. “You don’t mind if I steal her away. Do you, Sammy?”
The stately gentleman made polite noises as Rebecca pulled her into a semi-private corner under the staircase.
She lowered her voice. “Have you learned anything about Dylan?”
“What are you doing here?” Miranda couldn’t imagine attending a fundraiser when your kid was missing.
“Perry felt we should come out tonight for appearance’s sake, but I’m having trouble putting
on a good face. Please tell me you’ve found Dylan.”
For a moment Miranda wondered if Perry Ward Hughes had an ulterior motive for coming here. Maybe he knew his rival.
She shook her head. “If we had found him, you’d already know. We’re making some progress, but I can’t tell you anything yet.”
Rebecca’s mouth twisted into a tight grimace as she processed the words. “Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
She had to tell her the truth, but she hated to add to her pain. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell her what they had learned from Sloan about Group 141 and what they did to little boys.
The poor woman must already be out of her mind with grief and worry. Miranda could see the tight lines around her eyes and the color beneath them would have been like a dark cloud if it hadn’t been smothered with concealer.
“I can tell you we found Erica King this morning.”
Rebecca’s eyes went big. “Did you? And?”
“She doesn’t have Dylan. She had no idea he was missing.”
“She has to be lying. She’s a—”
“She wasn’t lying, Rebecca,” Miranda said firmly. “She didn’t take Dylan.”
She stared at her in sheer disbelief. “Who did then?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. We’re doing the best we can.”
“Is that why you’re here? You and Wade?”
Miranda watched the poor woman’s eyes fill with tears, watched her struggle to fight them back. If only she could give her some good news.
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that, Rebecca.”
She closed her eyes and squeezed Miranda’s hand. “I know. I know that. It’s just…”
“I understand. I know it’s hard. Very hard. But you have to be patient and let us do our jobs. It’s the only way.”
Nodding she put a hand to her lips to control herself. “I know. You’re right.” She let out a tearful laugh. “It’s funny. For years I thought being married to a philanderer was the worst thing that could happen to a woman.”
Years? It sounded like Erica King wasn’t the first. Maybe not the last, either.
“Now I know it doesn’t come close. If you’ll excuse me.” She gave Miranda’s hand another squeeze and hurried off to find the powder room.
Miranda let out a frustrated breath and turned to scan the room for a prospect, more determined than ever to find the bastard who had taken Dylan Ward Hughes.
Parker had wandered off, working the crowd and gathering intel on his own terms. She decided to head for a nearby drawing room. She stepped inside and looked around.
She didn’t know anyone in here, except—Fanuzzi.
###
Her friend stood at a counter in the far end handing out trays of the canapés she’d labored over earlier to the fancy servers.
The petite Italian woman had on a plain black dress with a bow at the neck that was made to make her look invisible. Feeling the stays of her red dress sticking into her ribs, the idea of changing clothes with her crossed Miranda’s mind.
She ambled over, relieved she could be herself for a few minutes.
Fanuzzi startled when she spotted her. “Didn’t think I’d see you here tonight.”
“Didn’t know until an hour or so ago.”
She nodded, catching the drift. “Dave’s at home doing that thing while he’s watching the kids.” Fanuzzi knew how to be discreet.
“Thanks.”
She’d talked to Becker before she and Parker left the penthouse and told him he and Holloway could pretty much chill for the evening. Nothing had popped on the run and Miranda wondered if it was even necessary anymore.
She snatched one of the cheese sticks off the counter and crunched on it. “These are good.”
“What I’m known for.”
“Almost as good as your dark chocolate ganache.”
Fanuzzi grinned. “You making any progress with your, uh, thing tonight?”
Miranda shook her head. “Did you make any progress with that thing you told me about this afternoon?”
Fanuzzi shook her head. “Not yet. Too busy.”
“Guess so.” Miranda grabbed another cheese stick.
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast at my house, have you?”
She thought a moment. “Don’t think so.”
“Here.” Fanuzzi grabbed a saucer and loaded it down with goodies sprinkled with bacon bits and goat cheese and caramelized onion. She opened a can of soda, poured it into a glass and handed it to her along with the plate and a napkin. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Fanuzzi. You’re the best.”
She leaned forward and whispered. “You just get that bad guy.”
“I’ll try. Better get back to work.”
Popping a square of something creamy and delicious into her mouth, Miranda wandered back into the crowd.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The conversations she eavesdropped on were boringly normal.
Which school to send the teens to when they were ready for college. Prospects for the local sports teams. Fussy details about luncheons and banquets and equestrian outings.
But nothing political. Nothing that would pinpoint a rival of Senator Perry Ward Hughes with a chip on his shoulder the size of the state.
And then she spotted a big bellied man in a mid-tone gray suit near the fireplace with what looked like a group of toadies.
His receding silver hair was styled in waves falling over his ears. His collar looked tight around his thick neck as he stood, big arms folded over a wide chest, surveying the crowd with a surly look.
He reminded her of Gene Hackman in that old Superman movie.
She’d seen him on the news. What was his name? Graham? She wasn’t sure but he had politician written all over him.
She inched closer.
“Are you speaking of Perry Ward Hughes?” she heard him say.
Bingo.
“Of course I am, Emmett,” said a tall elderly man with a soft southern accent. “He’s a good man.”
Emmett. That was the politician’s name.
The rotund man rolled his eyes and made a sour face. “I can’t believe you just said that, Greer.”
“What do you mean?”
Miranda looked down at her plate wishing she hadn’t eaten so fast. She needed something to do with her hands. A server passed by. Quickly she got rid of the dish and pretended to study a nearby painting while she listened hard.
“I’ll tell you what I mean,” Emmett continued. “Ward Hughes is short sighted. He voted to defund the commuter rail line in Clayton County.”
The elderly man shook his head in disapproval. “That bill had a lot of pork in it.”
Emmett scowled. “Look at his record. He’s voted against MARTA expansion projects, the BeltLine project, and all interstate improvements.”
“He’s voted down sales tax increases. He’s trying to be fiscally responsible for his constituents.”
“Fiscally responsible, my ass. He’s trying to make a name for himself.”
A younger man poked Emmett in the chest. “And you’ve got the Transportation Commissioner to answer to. He’s your brother-in-law.”
Everyone in the group laughed except the rotund man himself.
His face turning as red as Miranda’s dress, a mean glint flickered in his eyes. “My brother-in-law has nothing to do with it. All I know is that if Perry keeps this up it’s going to cost him votes. Mine in particular and I hope none of you are going to vote for him in the next election.”
He stuck his finger out with a threatening gesture.
A tall younger man with coffee colored skin who’d been listening on the sidelines scowled at the politician. “Don’t try to threaten me, Emmett. When the time comes, I’ll vote for whomever is most qualified.”
Sensing a fight coming and realizing a row wouldn’t look good here, the group broke up and went their separate ways.
As the bodies cleared out leaving the sp
ace vacant Miranda spotted Parker standing near a gold-and-ruby Federal style settee on the opposite side of the fireplace, nonchalantly sipping from a china coffee cup.
She eased over to him. “I take it you heard what I did?”
He nodded. “That was State Representative Fenton Emmett from one of the nearby districts. I always considered him a blowhard.”
“They said he’s connected to the transportation commission.”
“Has been for years. Transportation, bus lines, trains.”
“Trains.” Interesting. “Do you think he’s also connected to the underworld?”
Parker’s brow furrowed. “Despite the man’s bravado that would be hard to imagine, but you never know what ambition might make one stoop to.”
“He seemed to be the type who’s used to getting his way. A bully.”
“That’s always been my impression of him.”
“Could be our guy.”
“Could be, but you couldn’t prove it in a court of law.”
As Miranda pondered how to remedy that situation, music spilled in from another room and everyone began drifting toward it.
Parker found a spot to set his cup down. “Ah, yes. The invitation did mention dancing.”
Miranda brightened. “Maybe I can get a chance to talk to Representative Emmett over a tango.”
Parker seemed to like that idea. With a wry smile he took her hand and led her where the crowd was heading. “If Emmett’s the one we’re looking for, I hope you can get him to stumble over his own two feet.”
Chapter Forty
It was ballroom dancing. Waltzes mostly. One-two-three, one-two-three.
The room was large and done in delicate shades of cream, and the string quintet had turned into a small orchestra.
Miranda swirled over the glossy floor in Parker’s arms wishing Dylan Ward Hughes was back with his family and she were alone somewhere with her sexy husband. But there was still work to be done before that could happen. If the boy was still in the area and not sailing away on some barge across the ocean.
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