Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  “None of your business, Chambers.” She wished he’d just shut up and go away. “Where’s Erskine, tonight?”

  “Out on a call. For the life of me, I can’t see why someone with a job like yours wants to—”

  “Shut up, Chambers.” Dammit, he was blowing her cover.

  His eyes blazed. “Don’t you tell me to shut up, missy. You might remember you’re the one who’s incarcerated.”

  She made a face and nodded her head in the same direction he’d indicated before.

  “What you making faces at me for? What an ornery bitch you are. Lord have mercy, I don’t know why Mr. Park—”

  She shot to her feet. Before Chambers could blink, she reached through the bars and grabbed him by his uniform collar. “I’m working undercover here,” she hissed under her breath, “and you’re blowing it.”

  His eyes widened in shock. Then he frowned, like he didn’t believe her. “Lookie here—”

  She pulled him closer to her. “If you want to discuss it, take me to an interrogation room.”

  He jerked loose of her grasp. “With pleasure.”

  * * *

  It took longer than it should have to convince the hardheaded rookie she was on the level. She had to go over her story several times, explaining that she’d just happened on Santiago tonight.

  She sat back in the stingy excuse for a chair in the interrogation room. “You know, Chambers, if I hadn’t been racing him, you would have had his partner on your hands instead.”

  He gave her a you-think-I-couldn’t-handle-that? look. “Oh? And who would that be?”

  “A big dude named Francisco.”

  She watched his Adams apple go up and down. “Francisco Sanchez?”

  “Didn’t say his last name.”

  “He’s Santiago’s enforcer.”

  She raised a palm. “Well, there you go.”

  Chambers’s face turned grim. Maybe he was angry he didn’t get the collar for Francisco, too. Or maybe he was reconsidering his cocky attitude. “That still doesn’t tell me why you were racing with the drug lord.”

  She exhaled. She’d have to spill it all. “Okay, Chambers. But this is strictly hush-hush.”

  One brow quivered. “I am a cop, you know.”

  Right. “It’s about the Desirée Langford case.”

  “Desirée Langford, the heiress? Thought that was a suicide.”

  “I don’t think so. I think her ex-husband laced her drink at the Northwinds Steeplechase with PCP. Drugs he got from Carlos Santiago.”

  Chambers stared at her in that baby face way of his for several minutes, shifted his weight. “Guess hanging around Wade Parker has done you good.”

  She wasn’t sure that was a compliment or an insult. She let it slide. “I’ve learned a thing or two at the Agency.” She got to her feet. “You gonna help me or not?” If he could help prove the wealthy horse breeder’s death was a murder, it would get him off the shit list with his superiors.

  His face said that idea had just dawned on him. He’d learned a thing or two since they’d first met, too. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Here’s the plan.”

  * * *

  When Chambers walked her back to the cell, she had to hide the spring in her step. She’d turned an adversary into an ally, just the way Parker had done with Erskine years ago. Chambers had even given her his cell number, in case she ever needed it. And she had a link to the underworld in Santiago. Two good contacts in the same night. Not bad for an IIT.

  But after the cop shoved her into Santiago’s cell and the bars closed behind her, she almost lost her nerve.

  They’d taken all his chains, including the one with the cross. With his muscular, tattooed arms crossed over his black tank top, the drug lord wore an expression that could bring on another ice age. “How nice of you to join me, Miranda.”

  The rolling r was losing its charm. “How nice of you to invite me.” She sauntered in and plopped down on the cot.

  He scratched at his beard. “I don’t recall doing that.”

  “Sorry, Santiago,” Chambers said with a grunt. “It’s a busy night and we’re short of cell space.” He turned the key to lock the door.

  “I thought it was against the rules for males and females to be together.”

  Chambers chuckled. “It is. I just wanted to teach this one a lesson.” He gave her a wink. “You two play nice, now.” He turned and strolled away, whistling.

  “Fuckin’ cop.” Miranda gave him the finger behind his back. Had to make this look good.

  Santiago studied her.

  Her gut twisted inside her like a hangman’s rope. Hoping he wouldn’t see her shivering, she leaned back and put her feet up on the dingy mattress with a careless air. “I must say, I thought a man of your means would have nicer digs.”

  “My downtown residence is quite elegant. Perhaps you would like to see it some time.” He smiled and his white teeth glistened as his gaze traveled the length of her body.

  A miniature glacier slid down her spine. Not the best pose. She’d been aiming for fearless. She sat up. “Sure.” An idea came to her and she shot him a grin. “Maybe when I do, you can help me out.”

  “Help you out? With what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She eyed him carefully. “How come a man like you hasn’t been sprung yet?”

  “A man like me?”

  “You know, they said some crazy things about you in there.” She gestured down the hall.

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “That you’re the head of a large and lucrative organization.”

  He nodded. “True. I’m a businessman.”

  “So why are you still here?”

  He smiled that oily grin. “My lawyer is on his way.” He took a step closer to the cot. “Now what would you like my help with?”

  Miranda stood up and crossed to the wall. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe…a little weed from time to time. A little blow. From what they said about you, you’re just the type who’d know where I can get some.” She sniffed and rubbed her nose the way a coke addict might.

  He chuckled and came closer to her. “You’re not as good an actress as you think, Miranda.”

  She steadied her breath. “What do you mean?”

  “For one thing, the police don’t put women in cells with men. And they don’t put anyone in a cell with me.” He put one hand on the wall next to her face. She tried not to shudder. “Do you really know who I am?”

  Time to lay her cards on the table. “Yeah, I know who you are. Or at least, I’ve heard of you.”

  His black eyes scanned her body, this time with caution. “And what do you really want? Who do you work for?”

  Uh oh. He must have overheard bigmouth Chambers when he came to her cell. She swallowed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  His eyes narrowed to hard slits. “Are you an investigator?”

  Cover. Blown. “Something like that.”

  He was so close, his breath whispered over her face as he spoke. She could smell the pomade on his jet-black curls. “And just what are you investigating?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He leaned closer. She watched the jagged lines of a gang tattoo around his neck move as he swallowed. “They have found prisoners dead in these cells from time to time.”

  God. Miranda’s mind raced. Maybe he thought she was FBI, some RICO investigator trying to bring him down. Desirée Langford’s death would be small potatoes compared to that. She had to take the chance.

  She raised her chin. “I’m investigating a murder. A wealthy horse breeder was found dead at the Northwinds Steeplechase last month.”

  His face relaxed. He drew back. Miranda exhaled a slow breath.

  “I read about that in the newspapers. Terrible tragedy. And why do you think I would know anything about it?”

  She studied him a moment, decided to take another leap of faith. “I saw you at Ferraro Usher’s art show. He has motive to want her dead. She died o
f a PCP overdose.”

  He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, ran a hand over his slicked-back hair as he stepped aside. Then he laughed. “You have a lot of balls for a woman. I like you, Miranda.”

  Nice to be liked. She could still feel her heart beating in her ears.

  He stepped away, walked to the sink. He ran some water and splashed it over his face. “Yes, Miranda. You are quite correct. I have a relationship with Ferraro Usher. We do business.”

  She knew it. “Did you do business just before the Northwinds Steeplechase? Maybe some coke? Maybe some angel dust?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember such details.”

  Like hell. “Liquid form of PCP? Hundred milligrams? Ring a bell?”

  He grinned. “So you surmise that Ferraro Usher made such a purchase. Exactly the dosage that killed his ex-wife, as I recall from the newspapers.”

  She stood and waited.

  He put a hand on his chest. “You think that I sold him that dosage?”

  “That’s what I’m asking.”

  Chuckling, he moved toward her again. Once more he put a hand on the wall next to her. He spoke softly, as if to child. “If you were to think that, Miranda,” he grinned, “then you would be correct.”

  Hot damn. A break. A real break.

  Santiago lifted his hand, twirled a strand of her hair around a finger. “Now that I have shared that secret with you, Miranda, what can you do for me in return?”

  Oh, shit. She hadn’t planned on paying him back.

  She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, the door at the end of the hall clanged and footsteps sounded.

  Santiago moved away from her with a look that told her he wasn’t finished with this business.

  An officer appeared at the iron barred door. It wasn’t Chambers. “Miranda Steele?”

  “That’s me,” she said.

  He opened the door. “Come with me.”

  First time in her life she was happy to obey a cop’s orders. She gave Santiago a shrug and left with the flatfoot.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “What’s going on?” Miranda asked the officer as he led her down the hall to Processing.

  “You’ve been sprung.”

  Sprung? But when she saw who was at the desk waiting for her, she didn’t need any further explanation.

  Parker stood next to another officer, dressed in one of his fine suits, his arms folded, his face like iron.

  “Hi,” she said when she reached him. “Sorry about this.”

  “I don’t want apologies,” he snapped.

  Well, what a pissy mood he was in. She finished the paperwork, got her things and scurried down the hall with him. She had to trot to keep up with his pace.

  “Thanks, Parker. I know you’re thinking, ‘How’d she get herself in jail again?’ but this time it was different.”

  He opened the door for her without a word. He didn’t speak until they reached his Mazda.

  He opened the passenger door. “I had someone retrieve your car and bring it home.”

  She got inside and he shut the door with a slam.

  What the hell was wrong? She watched him slide into the driver’s seat, every muscle taut.

  She tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, how’d you know I was here, anyway?”

  He drew in an angry breath, started the car and pulled out of the parking space. “Joan Fanuzzi called me just before one a.m.” At the parking lot exit, he braked before turning onto the road and glared at her. “Do you know how worried I’ve been about you all evening when you didn’t come home?”

  She bit her lip. How could one look from him make her feel so guilty? “I’m sorry, Parker. I should have called. But let me tell you what I was doing. I think I’ve got a break. A real piece of evidence to prove Usher killed Desirée Langford.”

  “Oh, do you?” He pressed the accelerator and jerked the wheel for the turn onto Ponce de Leon, making the tires squeal.

  She was crestfallen. He wasn’t taking her seriously at all. “Look, I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you, but there’s no need to act like a butt.”

  His jaw tightened. “You think you have a break? Let me show you something.”

  They rode in silence along I-85. There was little traffic. It was, after all, three in the morning, according to the time on Parker’s dash. When he turned onto Peachtree and headed south, she knew something was very wrong. The mansion was the other way.

  Her heart started to pound. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere you’ve visited recently.”

  * * *

  As they pulled up to the curb on the side street along the Brentwood Gallery, Miranda felt sick to her stomach. Police cars with their flashing lights were everywhere. Yellow crime scene tape barricaded the area.

  She got out of the car and followed Parker up the stone walkway.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” she demanded.

  “You’ll see for yourself in a moment. Erskine called me half an hour ago. He’s waiting for us upstairs.”

  He led her up the steps to Usher’s loft. It was crowded with police officers.

  Erskine stood with his head down near the far wall, along a row of canvases, talking to an assistant. Miranda followed Parker as he made his way to the police detective.

  “What’s going on?” she asked again. But this time, she didn’t need him to answer.

  As she stepped past the coffee table and looked down, her hand went to her mouth.

  Usher lay on his back in a pool of blood, his long hair spread out, his tall, thin body stretched over the polished floor. His eyes were wide open. What looked like his last gasp of surprise was chiseled on his face.

  Usher? Dead? “My God,” Miranda gasped. “What happened?”

  “It was short range. Handgun,” Erskine answered curtly.

  She looked more closely and saw the entrance wound in his chest. Didn’t Usher owe Santiago money? Helplessly, she looked up at Erskine.

  He glared at her, then at Parker. “You two have no business here. Unless you have something to add, I suggest you leave.”

  Miranda looked at Parker.

  He folded his arms over his chest. Why had he brought her here? She turned to Erskine. “We questioned Usher here about a week ago. When we were here, we saw a gun in his desk.” She turned and pointed. “In that top left drawer.”

  Erskine motioned to a female officer. Wearing gloves, she gently pulled open the drawer and lifted out the handgun. “Doesn’t look like it’s been fired, sir.”

  “Bag it anyway.”

  While the technician busied herself, Miranda surveyed the room and spotted the Medea painting. The vengeful woman in a flaming red dress. Her mouth open, she stepped toward it.

  Someone had moved it up to the loft and done…something to it.

  Streaks ran down the figure’s face, smearing the paint, distorting the features, though the eyes blazed just as hatefully. Shards of glass were scattered on the floor beneath it. Like someone had thrown a drink at it.

  Erskine’s bark bellowed over her shoulder. “Ballistics is going over the evidence, Parker. If we find anything more, we’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Hosea. For tonight, Ms. Steele and I will get out of your way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  She must have fallen asleep on the drive home. She didn’t remember Parker carrying her inside or pulling her clothes off, but when she awoke on the big mattress in the master bedroom, Miranda realized he must have. It was morning.

  Rolling over, she reached for him, then sat up. He hadn’t slept here. Man, he must be pissed.

  As last night’s events came back to her, a hollow emptiness settled in the pit of her stomach. Ferraro Usher was dead. Definitely murdered. Who could have killed him? And why?

  She got up and pulled on jeans and a fresh T-shirt. Okay. So she should have called Parker last night. She hadn’t meant to worry him. But surely, he couldn’t still be upset over that. They had more t
o worry about now. Usher was dead.

  In the kitchen, she found bagels and coffee on the counter, but Parker was nowhere in sight. A skimpy meal for him, she thought, grabbing a plate and smearing a dab of cream cheese on the bread. He’d always loved pampering her with exotic breakfasts. Something was up.

  She took the plate and a coffee cup and went out onto the deck. There, she found him.

  His back to her, Parker stood under the redwood trellis, the climbing vines circling over his head like a regal canopy. He wore what he considered dressing down—a pale blue dress shirt and black slacks. His hair was damp from a shower. As she set her food down on the tiled table, she caught the faint scent of his cologne.

  He didn’t move, though his slight flinch told her he sensed her presence.

  Causally, she settled into an Adirondack chair and took a bite of her bagel. “Top of the morning,” she said when she had swallowed.

  He didn’t answer.

  She put the bagel down and took a deep breath. “Parker, I’m really sorry I didn’t call last night. I’ve had a lot on my mind and—”

  He didn’t budge. By now she had noticed the rigid tension in his shoulders, his neck. The mounting strain that was almost audible. The fire of a volcano ready to blast.

  She ignored it and picked up her cup. “Okay, if you don’t want to discuss that, let’s talk about Usher. Do you have any thoughts about who might have killed him? Because I think—”

  His dark voice rumbled from the corner. “I told you at the police station I didn’t want apologies.”

  She set her cup down with a clatter, folded her arms over her stomach, her teeth involuntarily gritting. “What do you want?”

  He turned slowly. His face was dark and worn, like he hadn’t been to sleep. But his gray eyes were as cold as the barrel of Usher’s handgun. “Compliance.”

  She glared at him, attempting to match the coldness of his gaze, but there was too much fire in her. “Compliance?”

  Parker watched her eyes flame with that wild, rebellious spirit he now knew he could never tame. Struggling, he fought back the fuming adrenaline coursing through him. In his entire life, he’d never been so angry with a woman he loved. How could she have been so reckless? How could she have put herself in so much danger—after what she’d been through with Groth?