Trial by Fire (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 6)

by Linsey Lanier

“He was a little perturbed, didn’t want to at first, but I talked him into it.” She tossed her trash into the bag and started to rise. “So let’s head over there before he changes his mind, okay?”

  Parker didn’t get up right away. And for an instant, just a fraction of a second a shadow crossed his face.

  Hesitation? If Miranda didn’t know better, she’d think so. But he was the one who wanted to take this case.

  And then it was gone.

  He rose, reached for the trash as she grabbed the file and stuffed it into her briefcase.

  “It shouldn’t take long to get there,” he said as she began moving down the aisle.

  When they reached the gate, she eyed him with suspicion over her shoulder.

  But he only eased the door open and gestured gallantly. “After you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Miranda was quiet on the drive southward through the suburbs to the expressway.

  She was thinking about the lively blond twenty-year-old who had died too soon. It was too early to draw conclusions and she hadn’t been through the whole file. A house fire in December from an electrical source or a space heater wouldn’t be unusual—except the victim died before it started and might have been strangled.

  Miranda was already convinced she was looking for a killer. She just had to figure out who he was.

  December, fifteen years ago. She would have been married to Leon five years then. They’d lived in a house not too far from where they were headed.

  Of their own will, her thoughts went back to that time, the year of the fire.

  They didn’t celebrate the holidays that year, she recalled. Things between them were tense and Leon had taken on extra hours at work. It was just as well. A gift from Leon tended to be a fat lip or a black eye. She’d spent Christmas Eve alone. Her daughter, who had turned out to be Mackenzie Chatham, had not yet been conceived. She thought about the date of the fire again.

  No, that event would be a couple months off.

  It must have been almost ninety degrees out but Miranda felt a cold chill go over her. She reached for the A/C control to turn it down.

  “Are you all right?” Parker asked, tenderness in his tone.

  “Sure. Just thinking about how awful it would be to be burned alive.”

  “A comforting thought.”

  She could see he was wondering why she was making the temperature warmer instead of cooler.

  Miranda stared out the window. Parker had turned onto Roosevelt and was cruising through a west side neighborhood.

  “We’re close, aren’t we?”

  “Not too much farther,” Parker told her.

  On either side stood rows and rows of buildings and homes that seemed to have been built in the forties. They had definitely seen better days. Trash was caught in the rails of an iron gate in front of an old boarded-up house in the shape of a castle tower. A “For Sale” sign hung from its plywood door.

  They passed a water tower and an old industrial park with more old-fashioned brick buildings now run down and covered with graffiti.

  Up ahead stood a gas station on the right. It was newer and in better shape. Next to it stretched the back of an old single story structure of beige brick with half-glazed gridded windows. Probably was still used as a storehouse of some kind.

  Miranda peered at it, curiosity suddenly roiling in her gut. Did she…know that place?

  Suddenly a tingling ran up her spine and neck with a sensation so sharp, she nearly doubled over with nausea.

  “What is it, Miranda?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She craned her neck to glare down the side street.

  The few scraggly trees, the cyclone fences, the street lights, the telephone poles. It was all so familiar. Then she studied the building next to the gas station. Its side formed a sort of alleyway with its neighbor. She remembered the shape of its wall, the color of its ugly beige brick.

  And then it all came rushing back to her like a violent storm.

  “Oh, my God. Pull over.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  All she could do was wave a hand. “Just…pull into that parking lot.”

  Parker swung the Audi into the gas station. Before he had come to a complete stop, Miranda jumped out and ran into the alleyway.

  “Where are you going?”

  She couldn’t answer.

  Halfway down the alley she screeched to a halt.

  Heart thundering in her chest, she put her palms to her face, began turning in circles. Around and around, her hands pressed against her temples, feeling as if her head would explode. As if her whole being would burst apart any second. The sun beat down on her but she felt cold. Bitter cold. Wintry cold.

  February cold.

  The memories rushed back, assaulting her senses. Her body scraping against those bricks. The sharp hardness of the pavement as she went down. The taste of blood in her mouth. Those hands. Those awful hands holding her down, pulling at her clothes. The icy air in her nose mixed with the sickening smell of cheap cologne. The disgusting grunts as he violated her. The rush of her own blood in her ears as terror overwhelmed her.

  And the vision of that black ski mask that had haunted her dreams for over a decade.

  “What in the world is the matter, Miranda?” Parker had left the car and caught up to her.

  She waved a hand at the gas station. “That used to be an all-night grocery store.” She trotted over to the end of the building and peered down the street, pointing. “There. Right there was where I parked.”

  “What are you saying?” He reached for her but she pushed out of his grasp, hurried back to the spot in the alleyway. Again she turned around, staring, taking in the awful details. The smells, the sounds not of now. Not of summer.

  Of then. Of February.

  It happened here. It happened here. It happened here.

  “This is it,” she whispered in a hoarse croak.

  “This is what?” He seemed to know but he didn’t dare say it.

  “This is where my daughter…was conceived.”

  “God, no.” His voice was dark, threatening.

  But there was no one to fight off now. The danger wasn’t here anymore. It was in her head. She thought she had conquered it, yet here it was again, playing with her mind, ripping her insides apart. She felt tears in her eyes. Her own nails digging into her arms.

  And Mackenzie wanted to find this sonofabitch?

  Ha. She felt like snapping a photo of this spot and texting it to her with some caption like, “This is where it all began.”

  No. Her precious daughter was just a foolish kid who wanted to figure out who she was. It had taken Miranda long enough to figure that out for herself. It was that thought that jarred her out of the nightmare of memory.

  She was here for a reason. She had work to do.

  A case to solve. Her destiny. A vision, or someone in a dream, had told her that once. And even though this Sutherland case might seem unimportant, it wasn’t. Even if the fire had been an accident, she owed it to Lydia Sutherland’s survivors to find out what happened to her.

  Stubbornly she straightened herself and wiped the tears off her cheeks.

  Parker stood before her not even daring to touch her.

  “Sorry I fell apart.” She started for the car.

  “Miranda.” His voice was commanding.

  “What?”

  “We don’t have to take this case. We can give it back to Detective Templeton. You could go back to the hotel and—”

  Her howl was a loud pang. “Are you kidding? I’ve got to solve this case now. It’s my destiny.”

  And she spun away from him and headed back to the car.

  Chapter Twelve

  As he drove the rest of the way to their destination, Parker silently forced his temper down to a low boil he hoped Miranda couldn’t see. While she attempted to sweep the agony of her past under the rug, he allowed himself to feel it keenly.

  He didn’t know whe
ther he was angrier at the man who had accosted her long ago or at himself.

  This was why he had to shut down their partnership. This more than anything. Miranda might want everyone to see her as tough and invincible. And she was on the outside. But inside, she was tender and vulnerable. She had wounds that might never heal.

  Why hadn’t he thought this plan through? Why hadn’t he realized in this city, they might end up some place that would bring back painful memories to her? And these memories were more than painful.

  They were horrific.

  He should have left her home. Told her he was going on a business trip.

  But there was nothing to be done about it now. She had gotten the scent of the hunt and nothing would pull her away from this case. She was sublimating, he knew. Using work to forget about the past. He’d done that himself at times but it wasn’t healthy.

  He’d make sure she booked a visit to Dr. Wingate when they got home. Right after their anniversary. Dear God. He’d been married to this woman nearly a year and this was what he had to offer her?

  No, he swore to himself their lives would change as soon as this business was done.

  ###

  The house on Bunting Street where Lydia Sutherland once lived was just three blocks away from the gas station.

  Miranda didn’t let herself think about that. She kept her gaze out the window, her mind on the case.

  The homes on the street weren’t new by any means, but they were definitely in better shape than some of the boarded-up structures they’d seen on the way here. The yards were well kept, the siding maintained. The cars parked along the street weren’t luxury but they weren’t broken down jalopies either.

  On either side of the road two-story bungalows sat in postage stamp sized lawns, with just enough space to walk through between them. One made of brick, another of stone, another of cedar. One had an entrance on the first floor, another an elevated basement with steps leading to a higher opening.

  Each had its own style, as if to say, “I may be small and my yard microscopic, but there’s no one else quite like me.”

  The street was quiet.

  Not many folks at home this time of day. Miranda wondered how many of Lydia Sutherland’s old neighbors she’d be able to talk to. And how many of the current residents had lived here fifteen years ago. There was one woman noted in the file who Templeton had interviewed briefly. If she was home Miranda would speak to her after they saw the Sutherland place.

  Parker pulled the Audi to the curb and they got out and headed down the sidewalk.

  Miranda’s legs still felt shaky, but she couldn’t let Parker see that so she held her head high and forced her attention on her surroundings.

  A few of the homes were for sale, she noticed. A real estate man was showing a house across the street to a young couple. The place looked newly renovated. It would probably go pretty fast.

  No witnesses there, she sighed.

  As the case file had indicated, the house Lydia Sutherland once resided in had been redone as well. The building showed no sign it had once almost burned down. New roof, new siding in a clean white hue with a happy blue trim. How easy for some building materials and a coat of paint to wash away a tragedy nobody wanted to remember.

  Miranda turned up the sidewalk and led the way to a cheery set of steps that ran to a porch decorated with hanging plants.

  She rang the bell. And waited.

  A minute passed. No sign of life. She rang the bell again and waited. Still nothing.

  She glanced at Parker.

  “I thought you said the owner was home.”

  “That’s what he told me.” She took out her phone and dialed the number.

  He picked up on the third ring. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Ivy?”

  “Yes…” he sounded distracted.

  “This is Miranda Steele out of the Larrabee police station. I called earlier about an investigation?”

  “Oh, yes.” He sounded as if his head had just popped out of his nether extremities.

  “We’re here.”

  “Oh! Very well, then. I’ll be right down.”

  He hung up and after another minute the sound of footsteps hurrying down steps echoed from inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The door opened and a skinny barefoot young man in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants appeared.

  “Ms. Steele?” he asked, as if making sure this wasn’t a hoax of some sort.

  “Yes. And this is my partner, Wade Parker. As I said on the phone, we’re from the Parker Investigative Agency in Atlanta and at the request of the Larrabee police department we’re looking into the death of Lydia Sutherland.”

  She and Parker displayed their IDs.

  He folded his arms and rubbed his skinny biceps. “It was fifteen years ago.”

  “Yes. The case remains unsolved.”

  “So sad.” He hung his head and stared at the boards of the porch through the screen door.

  Brian Ivy must have been no older than twenty-six. He had smooth, copper colored skin and black hair done in a short conservative style. His large dreamy brown eyes had a faraway look, as if he wasn’t really there.

  “May we come in?” Parker said at last.

  Ivy snapped out of his reverie. “Oh. Yes, of course.” He opened the door and stepped aside.

  Miranda entered the house with Parker beside her, their footstep echoing against dark wood floors. The walls were painted a friendly lime color. Diagonal walls nestled the living room windows. The room was sparsely furnished with a small area rug and a serviceable red couch and matching chair. Along one side a staircase led to upper rooms. White shelves tucked into the space underneath it were laden with cook books and magazines.

  The room smelled of air freshener. Not a speck of soot in sight.

  “Not the condition it was in when Lydia Sutherland was found here,” Miranda said.

  Ivy scratched his head. “No, not at all. In fact the place was vacant for a long time. An eyesore to the community, my father used to say.”

  “You grow up around here?”

  “The next block.” He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I was just a kid when the fire happened. My uncle bought this place for a song back then. He fixed it up and now he’s selling it to me cheap.”

  Sounded like a great deal. If you could live with the ghosts. She stole a glance at Parker and saw his face was grim.

  “We’d like to see where the body was found,” she said.

  Ivy’s face turned a little pale. “Sure. Back here.”

  They followed the owner under an old-fashioned arch topped with a scrolling design to the dining room area, then through another door and into a retro kitchen done in stark reds and whites. It reminded Miranda a little of that hot dog bag.

  Ivy crossed to a side door and opened it. “There’s a small room in here. This was what she…Ms. Sutherland…used as a bedroom.”

  It was where she died, but there was no need to rub the gruesome fact in. “We’d like to look around for awhile.”

  “Sure, sure. Take your time.” He rubbed his arms, then gestured over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind, though, I need to get back to work upstairs.

  “Do you work from home?” Parker asked.

  “Yes. I’m a food blogger. I’m in the middle of a post, actually. I just had lunch at a new place on Dearborn and I’ve got to get my impressions down before the taste fades.” He gave them a crooked smile and headed back through the kitchen. “You can let yourselves out when you’re done. Just lock the door.”

  And he was gone.

  “Accommodating young man,” Parker said under his breath.

  Miranda blinked at him. “You don’t think his family had anything to do with what happened? Set the fire for financial gain?”

  “At this point any motive is possible.”

  He was right. “All the more reason to dig something up that will point us in the right direction.”

  Miran
da recognized the room they were in from the photos in the file. That was, with some imagination.

  The walls were now done in textured paper of chocolate brown, the trim was a clean acrylic white. A bare narrow window let in light that fell on cardboard boxes stacked against the far wall. Ivy must be using the space for storage.

  Miranda didn’t blame him. She’d be uncomfortable sleeping in here, too.

  She moved to the corner. “The bed was here, against the far wall.” She pointed out the general dimensions with her hand.

  Parker came over to study the space but there wasn’t anything left to see. “And the source of the fire?”

  “The Fire Marshal believed it started in this room. A neighbor said she used a space heater in the winter. The heater was recovered here.” Miranda crossed the length of the wall where the bed had stood. “She was lying on her back. If she had been alive when the fire started in here, she would have reacted in some way. Rolled over, woken up.”

  “Not necessarily with the drugs in her system.”

  “Yeah, she was pretty stoned.” Miranda recalled the amounts of alcohol and grass in the coroner’s report. Was it enough to keep you conked out even while you were roasted alive? Maybe so.

  “But she had no soot in her lungs,” Parker said.

  “Which proves she was dead before the fire started, but not murder. She could have died from the alcohol first if she was sensitive to it. Or maybe the weed was bad.” No way to know that.

  Parker studied the floor along the bedside. “A defense attorney would hammer that point. The killer might have hoped the police would assume an overdose and the fire started from a joint.”

  “That would be a possibility if it weren’t for the damaged trachea.”

  “Smoke inhalation could damage a trachea,” Parker noted.

  “But then she’d have had smoke in her lungs.”

  Parker continued to play devil’s advocate. “Trachea damaged can be caused by blunt force trauma resulting from a fall or an automobile accident.”

  “Or from strangulation,” She countered. “I think there’s enough circumstantial evidence to assume she was murdered. We just need to figure out who did it and how.”