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

by Linsey Lanier

  Parker considered that a moment. “Would it have been a stranger? Or someone she knew?”

  Miranda moved a box over and lay down on the floor where the bed had been. Her head along the inner wall she gestured toward the door behind her. “If someone came in from there, she might not have woken up. Might not have seen him even if she were awake.”

  “True.” Parker strolled to the window. “The killer may have come through here.” He gave it a tug but the paint on the trim made it stick.

  “According to the first responders that night, all the doors and windows were locked.”

  “There are ways to break locks. And we don’t know the window’s condition before the fire.”

  Miranda still shook her head. “Too noisy. Too easy for a neighbor to see.”

  Parker peered through the window pane. “The shadows would hide him.”

  “Maybe.” She put her hands on her own throat. “So he sneaks in, strangles her, sets a fire to cover it up and high tails it back to whatever hole he crawled out of.”

  “Pinpointing that hole would be helpful.”

  So would a lot of things. She started to get up and Parker extended a hand. She took it, allowing him help her to her feet. Since he was letting her take the lead, she wouldn’t be petty about the damsel in distress thing.

  She strode through the opening to the kitchen. The place was as spotless as a showcase. No dishes in the sink, everything bone dry. Apparently Ivy, the food blogger, ate out every meal and probably wrote off the expense.

  She moved to the opposite side where the fridge stood. “Back door is here. He could have broken in this way.”

  “Or Ms. Sutherland let her killer in, if she knew him.”

  True. She jerked the door open—it stuck a bit, again from a new paint job—and stepped out onto a rear porch.

  The back yard was typical of this area. An elongated patch of grass bordered by a cyclone fence and a garage that faced the alley. A single elm tree stood off to the left, shading the neighbor’s yard more than this one.

  “Easy get away,” she said to Parker as he came up beside her.

  He nodded agreement. “Out the back door, across the yard, and into the alley.”

  “And then you’re gone. By the time the neighbor called in the fire, the killer could have been in Albuquerque.” She let out a deep sigh.

  “Patience,” Parker murmured beside her.

  Yeah, yeah. But this was going to be a tough one. She turned around. “Let’s go see if we can talk to that neighbor.”

  “Very well.”

  They headed back through the house, called out a good-bye to Ivy. Receiving no answer they locked the front door behind them and left.

  But as Miranda headed down the front steps, she felt that familiar tingle at the back of her neck. Her body wanted to freeze. Shut down again, take heed, take cover. But she forced herself to move forward.

  It was just that gas station.

  So she’d seen the place where she’s been raped fifteen years ago. So what? She was past that now. She had a new life. She lived in a whole different world.

  And what was most important, she had a job to do.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once again he pulled back the curtains and peered at the couple moving along the sidewalk.

  So well dressed.

  The man in the classic gray pinstripe, she in the charcoal outfit with black pumps. So much nicer than the things he’d seen her wear during her rehabilitation this past year.

  And that sassy walk of hers. So different from her halted gait at the hospital. But the man. That was what stood between them. Between him and his plans for her.

  He had to get rid of the man. Or cripple him somehow.

  He smiled, pleased he’d discovered their intent to come to Chicago, his old city, in the nick of time. He’d had to race to beat them to the airport. And once he followed them to the Larrabee police station, a call to the department posing as a reporter told him exactly what they were doing here. A little manipulation, a few false guesses and he had all the information he needed. A few more phone calls and his disguise was in place.

  It wasn’t hard to do if you were focused. Of course, he was more focused than most. And certainly more intelligent. Hadn’t Mother always said so?

  But why that case?

  Most likely because it was the most intriguing unsolved case in the law enforcement arsenal. The type these two investigators craved. That would be unfortunate for them this time.

  Lydia. He inhaled her name, his heart aching with memory. Amazing they should take on her case. More than amazing.

  It was fate.

  “What’s the square footage? Can you tell me that?”

  He ground his teeth at the sound of the young woman’s irritating voice. A woman’s voice was pleasant only when it was pleading, begging for mercy. Mercy he never gave them.

  But he forced himself to turn around and send the prospective buyer across the empty front room his flashiest smile. “About three thousand.”

  It was a reasonable guess. Everything about this real estate agent ruse was reasonable. People trusted him without question.

  The woman frowned as if the figure he’d stated didn’t suit her. The expression drew her bangs down past her eyebrows.

  She was a tiny thing. Dressed in a pale blue skirt and matching sweater under a lightweight blouse. The sort of material that yielded easily to a knife blade. The husband was downstairs checking out the basement.

  She brushed back her pale blond hair and made a note in her cell phone.

  He preferred blonds. Mother had had honey blond hair. She was lean and smooth skinned. He remembered the smell of her strawberry perfume when she used to touch him.

  “Is the kitchen gas?” The buyer asked, pulling her sweater around her though the temperature was quite warm in this vacant house.

  He imagined stripping those clothes off her and watching her back arch. First in pleasure, then in pain. Excruciating pain. Those pretty brown eyes flashing with surprise. He loved to watch that reaction.

  But he was getting ahead of himself.

  Once more he turned to peek out through the curtains. The man and woman were gone. Went to interview a neighbor, no doubt. They’d learn little. It was too long ago. People’s memories were short.

  “Well?” said the irritating voice.

  Forcing another dazzling smile he turned back and started toward her. “Yes,” he said. “All gas. Let me show you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Can I get you some tea?”

  Feeling tight and uncomfortable Miranda smiled up at her host. “No, thank you.”

  She and Parker were seated on a narrow flowery doily-decked sofa that was squeezed into the bay window overlooking the street, a few doors across from the Sutherland house.

  The front room of the red brick bungalow belonging to Mrs. Maria Esposito was close and stuffy and had the sort of odor Miranda could only describe as old lady smell.

  “Well, then. How can I help you? Stop that, Pookey.”

  The elderly woman picked up a gray tabby from where it had been meowing at her feet and lowered herself into an overstuffed blueberry-colored chair on the other side of the old-fashioned coffee table, groaning at her uncooperative joints.

  She was a small, thin woman and the chair almost swallowed her whole.

  Though it was warm in the room, their hostess wore tight blue jeans below a turtleneck and a thick gray sweater that might have been made of cat hair. The lines in her face were deep with age, but she had on full makeup to cover them, complete with heavy shadow and false eyelashes. Her short, iron gray hair was teased and looked like it was held in place with a whole can of spray.

  “As I explained, Mrs. Esposito—”

  “Ah.” The woman batted a hand in Miranda’s direction. “Call me Maria.”

  Miranda cleared her throat. “Maria, then. We’re investigating the fire that caused the death of Lydia Sutherland.”


  She sat back in the chair. “Oh, yes. What was that? Ten years ago?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Maria nodded. “I remember now. Enzio, my husband, had just retired. He was in sanitation.” She paused to chuckle. “That’s the fancy term for it, but he didn’t mind calling it was it was. He drove a garbage truck and was proud of it. It might not be a hoity-toity office job, he used to say, but even the president needs to have his trash collected.”

  As the woman talked, her hand stroked the cat’s head flattening its fur and ears. The thing started purring in her lap like a little motor boat.

  Miranda shifted her weight. She had a feeling this witness was going to be a dead end.

  “Would Mr. Esposito recall the incident?” she asked.

  Maria’s lips thinned into a tight smile. “He might but you’d have a hard time getting it out of him. He’s been dead these past twelve years.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.” Way to stick your foot in your mouth.

  Maria gazed out the window and kept petting the cat. “He didn’t last long after he retired. Didn’t have a sense of purpose anymore. You know what I mean?”

  “I do.” More than the woman realized.

  Miranda risked a glance at Parker. He wasn’t only letting her handle the interview, he was gazing out the window along with the interviewee, as if he had something else on his mind.

  Maybe he thought he was guarding her.

  Irritated by that notion Miranda turned back to the lady of the house. “Do you recall the incident, Maria?”

  “Sure, I do. I was the one who called in the fire.”

  Miranda knew that and was glad she didn’t have to pry the detail out of the woman. She made a pretense of checking the notebook she’d pulled out of her briefcase. “According to the file the call came in at 2:35 in the morning.”

  “So?”

  “Why were you up at that hour?”

  “Let me think. Oh, now I remember. Angelina was restless. Angelina was Pookey’s mother.” She held up the cat in her lap, as if presenting evidence, then put it back down and kept stroking. “I got up to give Angelina some milk. I saw a flash through the window and came in here to peek outside. That was when I saw the flames. They were just shooting out of Lydia’s roof. And there was a lot of smoke. ‘Oh, my word,’ I thought. ‘I’d better do something.’ And so I marched straight to the phone and dialed 911.”

  She sat up and gave her sharp chin a nod, as if she were pleased as punch at herself.

  “Commendable,” Miranda said.

  “I did what any good neighbor would.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “It was awful that night. Just awful. Noisy fire trucks barreling down our street, firefighters everywhere. Police. News people, too. Everybody in the neighborhood came out in robes to see what the Jiminy Cricket was going on. And then, what happened to that poor young girl?” She sighed and grew silent.

  “Did you know her, Maria?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “The story was on the news for the longest time. They kept flashing her picture on the screen. They said she was dead. They said somebody killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “But they never caught the bastard, did they?”

  Miranda had to smile at that one. “No, they didn’t, Maria.”

  “No, of course not. That’s why you’re here. Do you know who did it?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We could use your help.”

  The woman sat back and blinked as if she just realized she was being officially questioned. “Oh, absolutely. Absolutely. Anything I can do. I remember her family on TV. Mother, father, and a sister, I think. They were all so grief stricken. It was dreadful. Positively dreadful.”

  Miranda rephrased her question. “How well did you know Ms. Sutherland?”

  “Not that well. We didn’t exactly hang out in the same circles.” She cackled out a short laugh. “But we waved hello to each other on the street. Chatted a few times over the weather or some such thing. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes.” Miranda turned a page in her notebook. “When you were interviewed at the time, you said Lydia Sutherland was a ‘wild girl.’ What did you mean by that?”

  Maria’s false eyelashes batted open in surprise. “Did I say that?”

  “It’s what the report says.”

  She stroked the cat some more and thought about it. “Well, I guess I did. She was. Wild, I mean. Used to have loud parties until all hours of the night. We had to call the police several times. Ed Gundersen—he used to live next door to her—he’d go knock on her door and yell and shake his fist at her.”

  Violent neighbor? Miranda felt Parker tense beside her. He was back.

  “Does Mr. Gundersen still live next door?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. He moved away after he retired. Got a place in Maine somewhere.”

  Miranda’s suspect radar went off. “When did he move? After the fire?”

  “Let me see. No, I don’t think so. I remember he returned the lawn mower he’d borrowed from Enzio when he was packing up. There was a big U-Haul parked on the street. He said he was going to have Thanksgiving with his daughter’s family then leave the next morning, so it was a few months before the fire.”

  Miranda fought to keep her shoulders from slumping and asked the question. “Do you think he set the fire?”

  “Ed? Oh, no. He was harmless. Lydia ignored his complaints but then the parties stopped anyway. I guess that was when she got that ‘job.’” Maria made quote marks in the air with her fingers.

  “What job was that?”

  “At the Pink Pajama.”

  “The what?”

  “The Pink Pajama. Now isn’t that a silly name? It was one of those clubs where they played…what was it? Disco? Oh, I don’t know. It’s still there. Down the street around the corner. Not as popular as it was but still a seedy place. I’d never set foot in there. We started a petition when it opened, tried to get it closed down, but that didn’t go anywhere.”

  “And Lydia worked there? I thought she was an art student.”

  “Oh, she was. Took the L every morning to go down to the Art Institute. She was a waitress at the Pajama at night. She told me she hoped to become an exotic dancer.”

  Nice career goal. “And did she meet anyone at the club that you were aware of?”

  “Sure did. Didn’t she, Pookey?” Maria looked down at the cat.

  Its eyes were closed. It couldn’t care less.

  “That’s when Lydia started getting really wild. She brought home a different man every night for a while.”

  Just as Maria had said in the interview fifteen years ago. At least she was consistent.

  “Did you know any of these men?”

  “Oh, no. They didn’t live around here. Young fellows. But there was this one…” She stroked Pookey’s head until his eyelids pulled back. The cat kept purring. Must have liked it.

  “One?” Miranda prodded.

  “A blond guy. He was on the big side. Wore his hair long. Looked like a big shaggy dog. I remember he always wore a black leather jacket. Like he thought he was James Dean or Fonzie or something. You know what I mean? She was seeing him kinda regular.”

  “What do you mean by ‘regular?’”

  “Like they were going together or something. He drove a silver Mustang. Pretty fancy car. For a long while I remember seeing that Mustang parked outside her house every night. So I assumed it was just him. Who she brought home, I mean.”

  Now this was new. “How long a while?”

  She drew her thin lips together and pressed them firmly as she thought. “Oh, it’s hard to say. It was so long ago. Time goes by fast when you get older, you know.”

  “Can you make a guess?” Parker asked gently.

  Nice of him to join the conversation, Miranda thought.

  Maria squinted her eyes and thought hard. “Maybe a week? Maybe two?”

  “So not that long.”

  “No. I gu
ess not.”

  “What happened to this blond man? Did they break up?”

  “Let me see. Let me see.” She tapped her fingers against her mouth forcing the memories. Then suddenly she stopped. “Oh.”

  Miranda held her breath. “What is it, Marie?”

  “I just remembered something. I’m sure I mentioned it to the police.”

  “What was it?” Parker said in his most patient voice.

  “The night of that awful fire?”

  Miranda inched up on the sofa. “Yes?”

  “She brought him home that night. The blond fellow.”

  “And?”

  “And when I looked out and saw the flames? Just before I called 911?”

  “Yes?”

  Maria pointed in the direction that led to the main road. “I saw that silver Mustang driving off down the street.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  So the bastard didn’t sneak out through the alley behind Lydia Sutherland’s house. He drove away in a Silver Mustang.

  Unfortunately Maria Esposito couldn’t remember the license plate. Or any more details about the guy—like his name.

  Miranda stood on the sidewalk in front of the red brick bungalow, tapping her foot. “You want to go check out that bar?”

  “Fifteen years…the clientele won’t be the same. Neither will the employees.”

  She let out a defeated sigh. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and there’ll be somebody who was there back then.” Somebody with a long memory.

  Parker nodded toward the car. “Let’s drive.”

  “Good idea.”

  They got in the Audi and as Parker took off, once more Miranda scanned the street.

  Kids were starting to come home from school on bicycles and buses. There were more vehicles moving through as people headed home from work. The real estate agent and his prospective buyers were gone. For some reason that gave her an uncomfortable feeling.

  She shook it off as Parker turned the corner and they started to hunt for The Pink Pajama.

  They rode past a Lutheran church, a boxy red brick office, apartment buildings, circa nineteen-twenty-eight, more chain link fence guarding an empty lot. Finally two streets down and three over, they found a tavern sandwiched in between a laundromat and a sleazy looking law office.