She paddled with her elbows, her heels slipping against the satiny sheets as she inched away from him. She laughed again. “For doing a good job on the Desirée Langford case?”
Parker drew back. Inhaled. Exhaled. Stared down at the rumpled comforter that made a little wall between them. “If you’d rather have something more ostentatious…”
Her teeth clenched as she struggled with the waves of emotion that were now mostly anger. More ostentatious, her ass. “Hell, Parker. What’s this ring supposed to mean?”
“What do you want it to mean?” His voice reverberated with that low, penetrating tone.
“Dammit, stop being a detective for a second and answer the question,” she snapped.
His gaze scanned the wall over her head. He wore the same look she’d seen when he was trying to decipher a clue to a murder. After a moment, with that casual air, he pulled himself up toward his pillow. “The conventional interpretation implies a promise of permanent cohabitation. Vows and such. But, being the renegades you and the uh, Tooth Fairy, are, you can put your own interpretation on it.” His tender sarcasm hung in the room like a swamp fog.
She closed her eyes, fighting the urge to smack him. Why was he doing this? Was he really asking her to marry him? She couldn’t marry him. She wasn’t the marrying type. It would never work. But how could she tell him she couldn’t take this ring after the things he’d revealed to her tonight? He’d bared his soul to her. How could she hurt him after that?
“What if—” She batted the air with one hand, “What if we don’t come up with the same interpretation?”
His mouth turned in a grim half-grin. “All life is negotiation.”
Negotiation, huh? Miranda closed the box with a sharp snap and put it on the nightstand. She lay down and pulled the comforter to her chin. “I think I need to sleep on it.”
He watched her a long moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice was even sadder than before. “I thought you might say that. Take all the time you need.” He reached for the light, turned it off, and rolled over on his side.
Away from her. He wasn’t happy.
With a huff, Miranda turned over, faced the windows and stared into the darkness. All the time she needed? And how long did Parker think that would be? How long did it take to work up the courage to say no—again.
In the dark, she glanced over at the nightstand where the ring box sat. She couldn’t see it, but she didn’t need to. She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, God, she couldn’t marry again. Even if she wanted to. Even if she thought they might have a fighting chance. Because they didn’t have a fighting chance. They didn’t have any chance at all. She was a basket case when it came to marriage. Marriage for her and Parker would be a disaster. A catastrophe. A regular tsunami. Why couldn’t he see that? Stubborn male testosterone. That was why.
But there was another question nagging at her heart. A question that had been hiding in the recesses of her mind ever since they’d first made love. A question she barely dared to think.
Did she want to marry Parker…anyway? Her breath caught. Did she want to throw caution to the wind, take the plunge, just do it, and any other cliché she could think of? Did she want to marry him, despite the failure that was sure to come? Despite the pain, the bitterness, the heartache for both of them? Did she? That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question.
Take all the time you need. Right.
As she closed her eyes and listened to his steady breathing, Miranda wondered just how patient Wade Russell Parker was going to be.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Monday morning, Judd was back at his instructor post at the Agency, with his characteristic panache—total deadpan. The current topic of study was firearms. Only the tall, lumbering, craggy senior investigator with the booming monotone voice could make shooting a gun sound boring.
Of course, they weren’t really shooting. They were going over evidence for a crime scene shooting, and all the safety rules for using a weapon. Every rule. Word by word.
In a few weeks, those who had passed all the tests would be allowed on the practice range. The Agency would determine which employees would be allowed to carry on a case-by-case basis after graduation. So it was just an exercise.
Miranda sat in her chair, resisting the urge to drum her fingers on the desk. She didn’t even have anyone to make snide remarks to. Holloway and Becker had planted themselves as far away from her as they could, on the opposite side of the classroom. Neither had even said so much as hello.
She ought to tell Parker about the Fanuzzi fiasco. That would show him how good she was with relationships.
Parker.
She thought of the ring still sitting on her nightstand.
“Take all the time you need,” he’d said. But she knew he wanted an answer. And the longer she waited, the longer she stayed in the same bed with him and went on as if things were just peachy, the more she implied the answer was yes. She couldn’t go on misleading him.
As soon as she’d gotten in this morning, she’d called Dr. Valerie Wingate’s office. There was a slot available that afternoon at three. She’d taken it.
She was going to get this muddle in her heart worked out one way or the other.
She thought of the secrets Parker had told her and the vision of the young man grieving for his murdered fiancée reverberated in her heart. The man who trained himself to go after her killer with the tenacity only a brokenhearted lover could have. She felt…in awe of him.
More than that, she felt something deep within her being resonate with him. She didn’t want to feel so close to Parker. She wished to God she’d never asked him about Delta Langford and her “delicious torment” line. She wished she’d never gotten involved with the case.
But Desirée Langford’s battered face still haunted her. She had to solve this murder.
Yesterday she’d watched the recording in the library again and come up with nothing. Delta had hit Usher hard with her accusations. Much harder than Miranda thought she was capable of. But he hadn’t cracked.
Why? If he were so sensitive, how could he stand the things she’d said to him? Could he really be innocent after all? And where did that leave her?
She’d have to think about that one. Then it came to her.
The drugs. If she could pin the PCP on Usher, that would prove he killed Desirée.
But how was she going to do that?
Judd finished his lecture and dismissed the class for lunch. Miranda looked over at Becker. He glanced away.
Okay, be that way. She’d planned to treat him at the Horseradish Grille on Powers Ferry Road to make amends. But since he was being an ass, she’d just go by herself. If the food was good, she’d rub it in his face when she got back.
* * *
Miranda found a parking spot and strolled up the walkway to the restaurant’s rustic exterior. Its white tin roof and cheery windows seemed to welcome her, as did the hedges, trees and flowers that lined the stony path to the entrance. There was an outdoor patio where diners chatted and ate in wrought iron chairs under green umbrellaed tables.
The friendly design was repeated on the inside with white walls, wooden floors, and white-tablecloth booths that overlooked the garden. At this hour, the place was crowded with business people on lunch break.
As Miranda followed a hostess down a red carpet runner along the row of booths, she spotted a familiar face. A lean, professional-looking woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a simple elegant chignon. She was sitting by herself. Dressed in a plain gray suit, she was absorbed in paperwork she’d spread out on the table.
Wilhelmina Todd. The criminal defense attorney who worked at Antonio Estavez’s law firm. When Parker introduced them at a party a few weeks back, Miranda had felt an instant connection to the woman.
“Would you like some company?” she asked, stopping at the lawyer’s table.
Wilhelmina looked up, her eyes brightened. “Miranda Steele. It’s good to see you. Yes, of course
. Have lunch with me.” She moved her papers to give her room.
“I’ll sit here,” Miranda said to the hostess, who nodded and handed her a menu. She turned back to Wilhelmina as she opened it. “I thought you were in Europe.”
With a sad sigh, she finished packing her papers into her Gucci briefcase. “Felicia and I got back last week. I’m too much of a workaholic to stay away from the firm for long. And she missed her friends.”
Miranda nodded.
Wilhelmina had had it rough lately. Shortly after her younger daughter was killed, she discovered her husband was having an affair. Her response was to divorce him and leave for Italy with her older daughter, Felicia.
A waitress came and took their orders. Miranda skimmed the menu. The only thing that looked both appealing and cheap enough was the catfish fingers with spicy mustard coleslaw. She ordered it. Wilhelmina ordered a green field salad.
“You look good,” Miranda said after the waitress left their table.
“Thank you.” She smiled, but Miranda could see the lingering grief behind her eyes.
She hesitated a moment, before she spoke. “I know the last month must have been hell for you.”
The last time she’d seen the woman, she’d been hysterical over the death of her daughter.
She reached across the table and gave Miranda’s arm a warm squeeze. “I never got to thank you for…everything. For finding Tiffany’s killer.”
Miranda shrugged. “All in a day’s work.”
“I suppose, but it means a great deal to me and Felicia.”
Miranda nodded, wishing she could bring back the woman’s daughter.
The waitress delivered their orders. They both began to pick at their food. The conversation wasn’t conducive to a hearty appetite.
Wilhelmina lifted her chin and tried to sound breezy. “So what has that sexy slave driver of a boss of yours got you doing these days?”
If she only knew. But she saw no reason to hide the truth—about her work. “Desirée Langford’s death.”
Wilhelmina frowned. “I read about that in the paper. At the Northwinds Steeplechase, wasn’t it?
Miranda took a bite of catfish and nodded. The food was good.
“Didn’t the papers say her death was a suicide?”
“Some people don’t think so.” Miranda wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“Hmm. It was a PCP overdose, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “That was the official COD.”
“But you think there was more to it?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Wilhelmina raised a hand. “I didn’t mean to pry. I, of all people, should know the rules of confidentiality.”
Confidentiality. A good excuse to use when you couldn’t prove squat. She changed the subject. “How are things going at the law firm?”
“Busy, but it’s my own fault. I asked for a heavy caseload when I got back. I just need work to keep my mind off of…things.”
“Right.” Again, Miranda’s heart went out to her. She eyed her a moment. “I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but I’ve always wondered how someone does a job like yours.”
Wilhelmina gave her a sly grin. “You must have worked with a few defense attorneys in your career.”
“Some.” A couple of times, she’d been appointed a public defender when she was jailed for a bar fight. And then there was Antonio who got her out on a murder rap. Wilhelmina didn’t know about that. Miranda intended to keep it that way.
“I know we can be annoying. The standard answer is that everyone deserves a fair trial. But the truth is it’s all about billable hours and highbrow clients who can pay them. Not unlike the PI business.” She took a sip of iced tea.
“Touché.” The longer Miranda knew Wilhelmina Todd, the more she liked her. She sat back. “Did you ever have a client you couldn’t defend?”
“Do you mean because I knew the client was guilty as sin and my conscience wouldn’t let me twist the facts?”
Miranda nodded.
She put down her fork and thought a moment. “Not many, but I can think of two recent cases.”
“And did you have to defend them anyway?”
“Oh, no. Chatham, Grayson, and McFee has its scruples. The firm let me recuse myself. Of course, the clients didn’t like it, but they found another firm to take their cases.”
“What were they guilty of?”
“One was a child predator.” Her eyes narrowed as she stared out the window a bit.
She was thinking of Leon Groth, Miranda knew.
“And the other was a young, ambitious drug lord.”
“Drug lord?” Now that was interesting. “Here in Atlanta?”
She nodded. “A local gang leader. You probably know that for about a decade now, the higher-ups in the Colombian drug cartels have broken up their organizations into smaller units.”
She didn’t know that, but pretended to. “Street gangs.”
“Sometimes. The leaders of those gangs often have as much clout as the old drug lords, in their own areas. This one does. He’s young, good-looking and ambitious. His group is large and growing.”
“Charismatic leader, huh?”
“Very.” Wilhelmina leaned forward, her face suddenly bright with interest. “But this guy’s selective. He likes to prey on the rich. He likes his toys, too—cars, motorcycles, booze, parties, women.”
Not in that order, Miranda bet. “And he deals drugs?”
“Best business in town.” Wilhelmina attacked her salad like a witness on the stand.
Nerves and excitement shimmied up Miranda’s spine. She asked the obvious question. “Do you mean he might have clients like upcoming artists and wealthy horse breeders?”
Wilhelmina stopped chewing, tilted her chin. “You mean Desirée Langford, don’t you?”
Miranda grinned. “And Ferraro Usher, her ex-husband.”
Her eyes glowed. “Far be it from me to ask you about your suspects, but come to think of it, that’s exactly the type of client this guy would prefer.”
Miranda played with her napkin. “The hundred milligrams of PCP that killed Desirée Langford had to come from somewhere. If I can find out who sold it, I might be able to find out who bought it. Desirée herself or her killer.”
Wilhelmina pointed her fork at her approvingly. “I can see why Wade Parker hired you, Miranda. You’re good.”
Not good enough, yet.
“If this guy didn’t cut the deal himself, he’d know who did.”
“He has that much power?”
Wilhelmina nodded. “Unfortunately.”
Dave Becker had done her a big favor. By snubbing her for lunch, he’d let the clue she’d been searching for all these weeks fall right into her lap. Her heart thumping, trying not to grin too hard, Miranda leaned close to her lunch partner and whispered. “So what’s this guy’s name?”
Wilhelmina gave her a satisfied look that said she had just read Miranda’s mind. “Carlos Santiago.”
* * *
When Miranda got back to the office, she had just enough time before Martial Arts class to do some research on her computer. She looked up Carlos Santiago and found several articles on him describing his arrests in various drug busts and gang-related shootings. A slippery guy. Though Wilhelmina Todd had refused to be his lawyer, he’d found an attorney who was able to help him beat every rap.
Her lunch partner was right. This was one bad dude.
She went through another set of links and finally found a picture of the drug lord after his release.
Black curls heavy with styling gel. A pronounced widow’s peak. Eyes sharp as razors. Black mustache and beard, trimmed to a point. His arms and hands folded in a gang gesture, he was dressed all in black with heavy gold chains around his neck, one a thick cross. Must be real devout.
She sat back in her chair, gasping like the wind had been knocked out of her. It was him. The guy she’d seen in Usher’s art gallery the night of his showing.
E
xcitement pulsed through her veins. She was close. She knew it. Her mind whirled with the details she’s just read. Then her heart sank to the seat of her chair.
What in the world could she do with the information?
A reminder popped on her computer. Time for class. She closed the browser and got to her feet. She didn’t have an answer yet, but she’d figure out something.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Miranda fidgeted in the semi-comfortable chair in Dr. Valerie Wingate’s office. The therapist sat across from her at the obligatory forty-five-degree angle waiting with the patience of Job, for her to open up.
Dr. Wingate was a petite woman with fine blond hair she wore pulled back from her face and intense, perceptive, brown eyes. Eyes that now studied Miranda from behind a pair of square-shaped glasses. She wore a charcoal gray pants suit, a plain white shirt, very little jewelry. Obviously the serious type.
Miranda took a breath, searching for words. She didn’t know how to act with a shrink she halfway respected.
At last, Dr. Wingate broke the silence. “If you don’t have something specific you want to discuss, we can treat this session as a consultation, Ms. Steele. Just time to feel each other out and see if we want to continue with further visits.” Her voice was warm, soothing. No pressure.
Miranda remembered the sound of that voice when the doctor had come to see her at Saint Benedictine’s after Leon slashed up her chest. That voice had given her hope then. Hope of what, she wasn’t sure.
She stared down at her hands, which were laced together in her lap. “I do want to talk about something specific.”
“Go on, then. Whenever you’re ready.”
Miranda scanned the office. It was bright and cheery, with a tall window, a very neat, simple oak desk, bookshelves with medical texts and pictures of what must have been the doctor’s family, a nice set of framed diplomas on the wall.
She took a deep breath. If she didn’t get on with it, her time would be up. She couldn’t wait another week. “I have sort of a…relationship. With this…guy.” She exhaled. Damn, why was this so hard?
Delicious Torment Page 26
