Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  “Now there’s a guy who knows how to have fun,” Fanuzzi smirked.

  “Yeah, right. I think it’s time to order some food and sober up a bit,” Miranda said. If that guy was starting to look appealing, they needed to slow down. Besides, neither of them could afford a DUI.

  Fanuzzi agreed and ordered a burger and fries. Miranda decided on the Looney Bird, which was smoked turkey and Swiss cheese. Kind of bland, but the chicken wings sounded anemic. They ordered a couple more beers as well. Had to have something to wash it down.

  “Men,” Fanuzzi said, taking a swig from her bottle after the waitress set them down and left. “You can’t kill ’em. And you can’t kill ’em.”

  Miranda pointed a finger at her. “Damn straight.” She took a slug of her own bottle. It was nice and cold, but starting to get a little boring. She wanted to switch to something harder, but she’d better just quit.

  After another song or two from the DJ, the waitress brought two big plates of food. They both sat staring at them awhile.

  Miranda glanced up at Fanuzzi’s drawn face. She looked worn out. It was rough working two jobs and taking care of three kids. “I’m sorry about that mess at my party.”

  “Party?” Fanuzzi frowned a minute, as if she didn’t remember. Then she waved a hand. “Sorry I acted so pissy. You were just trying to do something nice.”

  Miranda picked up her sandwich and took a bite. Pretty good. She wiped her mouth and swallowed another swig of beer. “So why did you? Act so pissy, I mean.” Might as well find out, since they were starting to get chummy again, and their tongues were getting loose.

  Fanuzzi’s brows shot up, then she shrugged. “I don’t know. It was just…”

  “What?”

  She grabbed the ketchup bottle and squeezed a small puddle onto her plate. “When I walked into your kitchen and saw Dave Becker standing there, I just freaked. Talk about a blast from past.”

  “Guess I should have warned you.”

  “It wouldn’t have helped.”

  Now she was curious. After all, Becker was her buddy. “So how come you freaked? Didn’t you like him? Back in high school, I mean?”

  Fanuzzi chewed on her burger and stared dreamily at the cascading lights of the disco ball, as if she were reliving a scene from her youth. “Like him? Hell, we were crazy in love. We wanted to get married.”

  A bit of sandwich stuck in Miranda’s throat. She forced it down and blinked at her friend. “Married?”

  “We went steady. He gave me his class ring. I wore it around my neck on a chain. We always talked about getting hitched after we graduated.”

  “Jeez, Fanuzzi. What happened?”

  She took sip of beer, then picked up a fry and dragged it through the ketchup on her plate. “My folks were against it. So were his. We were only sixteen.”

  “So you didn’t run away together or anything?”

  She made circles with the fry in the ketchup. “We were planning to, but before we could, my dad got a different job. We moved to Yonkers and I transferred to another school. Dave was so mad, he made me give his ring back.”

  “And that was that?”

  She lifted the fry and bit off the end of it. “I wrote him, tried to apologize. We kept in touch for a while, but you can’t keep up a relationship that way when you’re young.”

  Miranda picked up her sandwich again. “Guess not.”

  “By the time I graduated, I had met Daryl.”

  “Daryl?”

  “My ex. He made me forget Dave. So I wrote him a ‘Dear Dave’ letter and told him it was over.”

  “Ouch.” But the new love didn’t last. “What broke you two up? You and Daryl.” She studied her bottle. Must be the suds that were making her so nosey tonight.

  Fanuzzi leaned on the table and put her chin in her hand. “He was a cop. A good one. Too good. Married to his job. The longer we were married, the less I saw of him.”

  “Rough, huh?”

  She nodded. “I put up with it for a long time. Told myself he was just doing his duty and I shouldn’t complain. I don’t know how we managed to conceive three kids, he was gone so much.”

  She got that dreamy look again. This time it was bitter. “He didn’t mean to neglect us. He really didn’t even know he was doing it. He’d stay away, working on a case, sleep at the station. Being a single mom isn’t all that much different.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “One day, I’d had enough. It was our anniversary. Daryl had promised to take me out. He didn’t show. Didn’t come home for three days straight. I took the kids and went to my mother’s.”

  Miranda put down her beer. “Then what?”

  “He comes home so exhausted, he doesn’t even realize we’re gone. Next day, he gets up and goes back to work again. A few days later, he calls my mother and asks if I’m there. Mother of God.” She shook her head bitterly. “It had been a whole week by then. A whole freaking week it took him to figure out I had left him. That was when I knew for sure it could never work.”

  Miranda frowned with sympathy. “That’s too bad, Fanuzzi. My ex was a cop, too.”

  “So you know what it’s like.”

  Miranda smirked. “It would have been better for me if my ex had stayed away like Daryl did.”

  Fanuzzi’s eyes shot open. “God, I’m sorry, Murray. I forgot what a psycho you were married to.”

  Miranda took another swallow from her bottle. “It’s okay. Wish I could forget.” She let out a laugh. “We’re a couple of real headcases aren’t we?”

  “Guess we are.”

  Miranda looked around at the other customers. She’d been itching for a fight, but there was nobody obnoxious enough to give her an excuse to punch. Too bad.

  Fanuzzi waved her hand. “I don’t want to talk about me anymore. Hey, how’s your investigation going? The one the party was about?”

  “Kind of stalled. But I got sort of a tip the other day.”

  “What? Can you tell me?”

  “Sure. It was about the guy who might have sold Usher the PCP. He might have been a drug lord.”

  Fanuzzi’s chin dropped. “Did you say drug lord?”

  Miranda drained her beer, set it on the table with a nod. “Yep.”

  “Holy shit, Murray. Daryl used to work undercover. He knew some gang creeps and told me stories that would make my skin crawl. What are you going to do?”

  She had no idea. Yet. “I’m working on it.” Something was bound to click in her head sooner or later. With a yawn, she pushed back her plate. “Where to now?”

  Fanuzzi looked at her watch. “I’d better get home, Murray. Charlie has soccer practice in the morning.”

  Laughing, Miranda handed the waitress some cash. “Never thought of you as a soccer mom.”

  “Hey, he likes it. And it gets rid of some of his aggression so he won’t beat up his little brother so much.”

  The joys of parenthood. There were some advantages to being childless, Miranda told herself, as they headed out the door. But it might have been the beer talking.

  * * *

  They’d had to park a good distance away from the main road, due to the volume of Friday night revelers on the Buckhead strip. They strolled together along Peachtree, passing storefronts and groups out for a good time. The lights were almost as bright as daylight.

  At a traffic light, they turned right onto a side street and walked another block. There were cars parked along both curbs, but no one was around. The streetlamps grew fewer, the sidewalk darker as they went. They had just reached the parking lot of a strip mall when an engine roared on the road next to them.

  Miranda heard male voices. A bit of Spanish.

  “A C note says my hog can beat your streetfighter, amigo.”

  “You’re on.”

  She turned her head. Two men on motorcycles cut into the entrance in front of them, forcing them to stop. Engines revving, they took a couple of turns and came to a halt right in the middle the parking lot.


  One of them got off his cycle, leaned against it like the bad guy in a video game. He pointed his chin, along with its black goatee, straight at them. “Buena tarde, señoras.”

  Miranda’s pulse spiked. She felt every hair on her body come to attention as she took in sharp eyes, the slick black curls, the widow’s peak. Black boots and jeans, metal chain belt hanging low on his waist, a sleeveless black tank top, revealing the barbed and twisted tattoos that climbed along his muscular biceps. Around his neck hung a single gold chain with a heavy cross at the end. Just like in the picture she’d found on the Internet.

  Carlos Santiago.

  He must be dressing down tonight. She remembered Wilhelmina Todd said he was expanding his operation. Were his followers becoming a motorcycle gang? Or had he just been out bar hopping? Buckhead would be his style.

  Beside her, Fanuzzi shivered. “What the hell is going on, Murray?” she whispered.

  “Not sure yet. But it looks like a street race.”

  “You sure that’s all it is?”

  Santiago chuckled. “What are you ladies doing out so late?”

  “Minding our own business,” Fanuzzi said. “We were just leaving. C’mon, Murray.”

  “Wait a minute.” Miranda didn’t budge. She stared at the cycles. Santiago’s was a low riding black and silver. V-Twin engine, shiny chrome exhaust.

  Francisco’s was a big, aggressive-looking hog with a wide rear tire and stainless steel, drag-style handlebars. It was blood red. The glossy spokes and fenders glimmered under the streetlights. Miranda lusted to feel the power of one of those engines. Besides, if this wasn’t opportunity, she didn’t know it.

  She nodded toward the bike Santiago had just dismounted. “That’s a cool-lookin’ chopper.”

  He folded his arms and grinned. “You have good taste, señora.”

  “The name’s Miranda.”

  “Miranda,” he repeated, rolling the r in that sexy Latin way.

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  He lifted a sharp brow. “Carlos.”

  Bingo. She knew it was him. “Glad to know you, Carlos.”

  He seemed very amused. “Do you like motorcycles, Miranda?”

  “Do I,” she said.

  “Francisco and I were just debating which one of these beauties was superior. We were about to settle it with a little Mat Rempit.”

  Yosemite Sam, the buddy who’d taught her to ride, had told her about Mat Rempit. It was a Malaysian term for illegal street racing. Her hunch had been right. She pointed toward the red one. “My money’s on the hog.”

  “Do you think so?”

  She waited a beat. “I’d be surer if I was driving it.”

  Next to her, Fanuzzi suppressed a squeal.

  Santiago chuckled. The sinister man took a step toward them. “Are you challenging me to a race, Miranda?”

  A frosty shiver went through her that was both excitement and dread. She fought to keep her breathing steady. She hadn’t been on a bike in years, but it would come back. She put her hands on her hips. “What’s the matter, Carlos, can’t take the heat?”

  Fanuzzi hissed in Miranda’s ear. “What the hell are you doing, Murray?”

  “My job,” Miranda muttered back.

  “Are you out of your freaking mind?”

  She had a point. The guy who’d taught her to ride had also warned her to stay away from motorcycle gangs. The way they treated women made Leon Groth look like a Sunday school teacher. But this wasn’t Hell’s Angels, it was Carlos Santiago’s gang. Maybe that was worse.

  But a woman was dead and her killer was getting away with it. Miranda was supposed to be a professional investigator. If this guy was the one who sold the lethal dose of PCP that killed Desirée Langford, it was her job to find out. But first, she had to take care of Fanuzzi.

  She turned back to Santiago. “Uh, my friend here’s had a little too much to drink. She needs to go home.”

  Santiago’s black eyes gleamed in the streetlamps. “Are you chickening out, Miranda?”

  “Not me. Her.” She turned back to Fanuzzi and put her mouth to her ear. “Get out of here now. I’ll keep them distracted.”

  “Are you insane? I can’t leave you here.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “I promise I’ll be okay. You’ve got your kids to worry about, Fanuzzi. Now get, or I might not be able to help you later.”

  The bit about the kids got her. Slowly Fanuzzi nodded. There wasn’t an opportunity to argue. Her eyes almost glowing red with shock, she took a few steps backwards, then turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk.

  Miranda turned back to Santiago and his big escort, and wished she had one of those concealed weapons Judd had been lecturing about in class.

  She spread her hands, trying to look nonchalant. “I’m game, if you are, Carlos. And if Francisco here will lend me his Harley.”

  The sidekick didn’t budge.

  “Francisco?” Santiago said to him with an oily grin, his voice as steady as a mother’s lullaby.

  Francisco knew the score. He shook his head in submission, let out a bull laugh and got off his bike. “Okay, if you say so, boss. This I’ve got to see. It’ll be worth giving up my hog a little while for such entertainment.” He bowed and gestured toward the seat. “Here you go, little lady.”

  “Thanks.” She strode over to the hog, grabbed the handlebars, and swung a leg over the seat. It was big and hard. God, she hoped she could get her bearings fast.

  “Just remember, if you wreck it,” Francisco said, “you pay for it.”

  She had a feeling he didn’t mean with money.

  Santiago fixed her with his black gaze. “We head south on Peachtree, take a left on Pharr Road. Then right on North Fulton. We end at the parking lot behind the Marta station. It’s a half-mile. Exactamente.”

  “Exactamente,” she repeated with a grin and turned the throttle to rev the motor.

  He tossed his head back and laughed. “I like a woman with balls. Are you ready, Miranda.”

  “Ready, willing, and able.”

  He grinned lustily. Might not have been the best choice of words.

  Francisco gave the signal and they took off.

  They cruised up the side street between the parked cars, each of them taking a lane. Miranda prayed no other vehicles would come down it.

  Santiago went slowly at first, to let her get used to the bike. Awfully fair for a gang leader, but he must have wanted a real challenge.

  Then they turned onto Peachtree, and he took off. She held her breath and hit the accelerator hard.

  It was all she could do to keep up. They whizzed around a Toyota, past the iron railing of the Cheesecake Factory, around a bus stopped along the curb.

  Now Santiago was several feet ahead. She gritted her teeth, shifted into high gear and gave it the gas. Her palms were wet on the leather handles. She glanced down at the speedometer. Seventy-five. Lord Almighty.

  The wind shot her hair straight back. The legs of her jeans whipped around her legs. Neon bar signs blurred as they whizzed past. Glimpses of pedestrians on the sidewalk flitted in the corner of her eye. One gave them the bird and shouted obscenities. Others cheered. But there was no time to reply.

  When they wheeled onto Pharr Road, they must have been doing ninety. Miranda’s heart ached in her chest. She struggled to keep up. If she could win, she’d gain Santiago’s respect. It was one step toward getting the information she wanted from him.

  Then just behind them, a siren rang out. Shit. Last thing she needed now was a cop.

  The squad car whipped around the turn. She glanced in the mirror and saw him gaining.

  Throttle. She gave it more gas. They spun onto North Fulton. Her front tire reached Santiago’s back one. Finally, she was gaining on him. She heard him curse as she passed him. But her glory was short lived.

  Ahead, another squad car pulled onto the road from a side street. Lights an
d sirens blazing, it swung around and blocked the road. An officer jumped out, his gun drawn.

  Brake! she thought madly, pulling on the lever, trying to stop without skidding and getting plummeted off head first.

  “Hijueputa” Santiago growled beside her.

  Gasping for breath, she squealed to a halt not two feet in front of the officer.

  Santiago ground his streetfighter to a standstill and turned off the engine. The cops and the riders glared at each other. Everything went quiet, except for the sound of heaving chests.

  Miranda blinked at the officer pointing his pistol at her. Short curly hair of a nondescript color, wide-set eyes, and a perpetual questioning expression on his face. She’d know him anywhere.

  Officer Chambers.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Miranda stared up at the lime green concrete walls of her holding cell. This made her third trip to Fulton County jail since she’d come to Atlanta—all three courtesy of the same cop. The place was beginning to feel like a home away from home.

  She rubbed her eyes and glowered at the mattress she sat on, wishing she could lie down and take a nap. Coming off of an adrenaline rush like the one she’d been on tonight was exhausting. Especially after all the beer she’d sloshed down.

  But her mission wasn’t accomplished yet.

  She looked up and saw her best bud, Officer Chambers, strolling toward her cell.

  He stopped and shook his head. “Well, well. If it isn’t little Ms. Miranda Steele, come to visit us again.” Back on North Fulton, he’d been so silent and smug when he’d handcuffed his two lawbreakers and shoved them into the back of his cruiser, she’d thought he hadn’t recognized her. No such luck.

  “What’s a matter, honey? You get homesick for the boys here at the station?”

  She curled a lip at him. “I just thought your left jab needed some practice.”

  His wide-set eyes grew surly. The first time Chambers arrested her, Miranda had just about kicked his balls in. She’d gotten him demoted to patrolling Peachtree on the midnight shift. Guess he still had a grudge.

  He clucked his tongue. “What’s a nice girl like you doin’ hanging with the likes of Carlos Santiago?” He nodded to one of the adjacent cells. Santiago must be within earshot.