The Watcher (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 4)

by Linsey Lanier

  “Don’t mind a bit. It was getting a little boring anyway.” She gestured to one of the tall buildings in the next block. “We’re staying right up there. C’mon. Let’s go talk about it in the room.”

  “We?”

  Wesson did the last thing Miranda expected. She blushed. “I’m with a friend.”

  Uh oh. “Now I really feel like I’m imposing.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I think I am.”

  Looking frustrated Wesson batted the air with her hands. “Okay. It’s Holloway.”

  Miranda felt her jaw drop. “Holloway?”

  “Weird, huh?”

  That was an understatement.

  “C’mon.” Wesson took her arm and steered her toward the nearest intersection.

  Miranda thought she must be having an out-of-body experience. Holloway? Becker’s sidekick and one of her best buds since she’d started at the Agency? Holloway and Wesson?

  The laid back Brazilian atmosphere must really be working its magic on Wesson. As they moved along she began to open up like they were old pals. “We’ve been dating for a couple of months now, on and off. We decided to take this vacation together to see if things would…you know, get to the next step.”

  Miranda’s stomach tightened. “And?”

  Wesson’s lips thinned as she shook her head. “It didn’t happen for us.”

  This was TMI. Big time TMI. “Gee, I’m…sorry.”

  “It’s okay. We’re good friends. We’ve decided to stay that way. C’mon the light’s changed.”

  “Sure.”

  Wesson and Holloway dating? Wesson and Holloway friends? As they hurried across the street, the purr of city traffic in her ears, Miranda thought she’d heard everything.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wesson’s hotel room was on the twenty-fourth floor. It looked semi pricey and was done in tasteful tans and grays.

  Miranda felt awkward when she eyed the lone double bed, and even more awkward since it was covered with a walk-in closet’s worth of Wesson’s clothes.

  She cleared her throat as she stepped inside. “Not enough storage space?”

  “Couldn’t decide what to wear today. Sorry, Steele. I’m a slob when I’m on vacation.” Wesson grabbed a few things and pushed them aside to make room. “Have a seat. Make yourself at home.”

  Avoiding the bed, Miranda skirted around a cart that held an open suitcase and headed for a chair in the corner. She sank into the soft gray leather, took the liberty of slipping off her shoes and putting her feet up on the matching ottoman. It felt good to relax for a minute.

  Then she spotted the two empty glasses that had held some kind of alcohol on the table beside her and felt like an intruder.

  Wesson picked up the glasses. “Remnants of the night that didn’t happen,” she smirked and crossed the room to stash them on a shelf in an alcove.

  “Uh, where’s Holloway?”

  Wesson laughed. “On a tour bus. He said he wanted to see the city and I wanted to run and then get some rays on the beach.” She sighed and tossed a lightweight blouse on the pile of clothes and settled on the mattress. “See? Incompatible.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Wesson lifted a shoulder. “Not my worst experience.”

  Miranda had always wondered if Wesson’s past with men had mirrored her own. But this was no time to discuss that.

  “Tell me about this case,” Wesson said, eyes glowing with eagerness.

  Miranda summarized the details. The resort in Campos do Flores. Tia. The death threats. The body in the woods. Their sabotaged brakes. The spiked coffee on the private plane this morning.

  “Good Lord, Steele. You and Mr. Parker have really been through the wringer.”

  “Yeah.” She guessed that was true. “Anyway we came here to Rio to visit the Dominguez Agency. Rico’s modeling firm.”

  “Your client’s ex-husband.”

  “Soon to be.” If they could keep her alive that long.

  “So what’s your plan?”

  Plan? What was her plan now? Same as the one she and Parker had hatched, she decided. “Rico’s supposed to have a deal in the works with a Parisian dress designer. The idea was to pose as representatives of an auditing firm the designer hired to check out the deal. A firm out of the US.”

  “And you’re trying to get some information on where this Rico character is?”

  “Where he is, why he’s not in Paris, whether someone else has his credit card. Anything we can turn up.”

  Nodding Wesson mulled it over a few minutes. She sat up and dangled a foot off the side of the bed. “So is Mr. Parker running this ruse? Is this what the ‘errand’ he’s on is about?”

  Miranda shifted in her chair. She had no idea where Parker was but she was pretty certain he wouldn’t be making his presence known any time soon. Not with Wesson around. He was way too classy to fight in front of his employees.

  Miranda cleared her throat. “I’m in charge of this part of the operation.”

  “I see.” Wesson’s green eyes revealed she was beginning to put two and two—or rather two minus one—together. But she brushed it off with a sassy flip of her glossy red hair. “Well, as far as getting into the modeling agency, I’ve got a better idea.”

  ###

  Parker sat in the lobby of Detective Janelle Wesson’s hotel observing the activity while pretending to read the local newspaper. It was an old trick, but an effective one.

  He’d gotten out of the cab just before it caught up to his wife—when he’d seen Miranda speaking to the woman he instantly recognized.

  He recalled signing off on Wesson’s vacation a few weeks ago and that she had mentioned a trip to Rio. He also recalled signing permission for another of his employees, Detective Curt Holloway at the same time. From his offhand remarks he had wondered at the time whether they were going together.

  The Agency didn’t have a firm policy on interoffice dating. The situation had never come up. But he was certain his daughter Gen had some ideas about it. He’d been too busy recently to deal with the particulars, especially after the call from Tia.

  He’d followed Miranda and Wesson here to her hotel. At the front desk he’d made up some story about a delivery that was late, had gotten Wesson’s room number, and confirmed Holloway was staying with her, though he was currently out. He could have gone up and confronted his wife then. But that would have only embarrassed both of them.

  Instead he decided to wait.

  And it looked as if his patience was about to pay off.

  Down the hall the bronze doors of the elevator opened and two women strolled out. Miranda was still in the navy business suit she’d had on this morning, but she’d donned a smart-looking silk scarf Wesson must have loaned her.

  Wesson was dressed in a flirty peach-color sheath that hugged the curves of her body so that any man with half a breath in him would take notice. If he hadn’t already known where they were heading, he would have guessed.

  He watched them glide through the exit and onto the street. And remained seated.

  He did not want to leave Miranda to herself. He wouldn’t very long. But he supposed two Parker Agency trained martial arts experts could handle themselves until Detective Holloway showed up at the hotel.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Rico’s agency was a twenty minute cab ride away, on a bustling thoroughfare with a view of a tall rocky mountain in the distance.

  A twenty-story skyscraper nestled among shade trees and a cluster of other structures, the building dominated the South American flavor of its neighbors with stylish tinted glass, clean concrete lines, and a sassy architectural panache.

  Noisy traffic in her ears, Miranda got out of the cab with Wesson and traversed another geometrical patterned sidewalk bordered by a concrete divider, a bicycle rack, and a fern garden. Excitement and determination pulsing through her, she climbed the half-circle of steps to the shiny glass entrance and reached for the long brass handle.
After gesturing for Wesson to proceed, she stepped inside and the pair made their way to the elevators.

  The top floor had even more style and panache.

  The reception area was a pure white oval, half the wall plastered with covers from fashion magazines—all Rico’s models, Miranda assumed—the other half with Portuguese text. The words were done in a graphical print with several phrases bolded in an accent color that matched the sofa cushions. Had to be some write-up bragging about Rico’s genius and chic, Miranda decided, as the faint smell of rosy high-priced perfume teased her nostrils.

  At last they were inside the Dominguez Modeling Agency.

  Summoning her courage, Miranda marched across the glossy white tiles to the curved reception desk, the five inch heels she’d borrowed from Wesson barely pinching.

  In another pair of heels and a tight dress in a color she’d called sunset, Wesson minced over to the waiting area and began flipping through magazines as if she were too bored to be bothered with mundane things like announcing herself.

  Miranda turned to the woman behind the computer screen.

  Thin—Miranda expected that much—dark hair piled high in a sleek bun atop her head with a single curl twirled on her forehead. Probably stuck there with lots of gel. Her eyes and face were thick with makeup, her form-fitting dress was gold, embossed in a tiny diamond pattern, her necklaces and bracelets heavy and gaudy.

  Slowly she raised her styled brows and turned her head in Miranda’s direction, a queen addressing some peon. “Posso te ajudar?”

  Miranda guessed at the meaning. Damn straight you can help me. But that wasn’t the role she was playing.

  Instead she lifted her own brows. “I’m Ms. Steele from New York. I have an eleven o’clock with Rico.”

  The woman, who had to be bilingual, stiffened. But there was a momentary flash in her dark eyes. Shock? Surprise? Fright?

  She gave her a phony smile and barely moving a muscle, switched to English. “I am so sorry. You must be mistaken. Rico is not in.”

  Okay. So he wasn’t here. One piece of information. Unless the ice queen here was lying.

  Miranda stuck to her role of bitchy, aggressive manager. “No, you’re the one who’s mistaken. Rico made this appointment with me a month ago. He called me himself.”

  Again the woman’s eyes widened just a little, but dutifully she turned to her computer and tapped on the keys for a bit.

  She shook her head. “I am so sorry. Rico has no such appointment in his schedule. He has been in Paris this month.”

  “Paris?” Miranda managed to shriek the word. “Impossible. He can’t be in Paris.”

  “I am afraid it is so.”

  “Hasn’t he called in to check his schedule? Didn’t someone make him aware I would be coming for our appointment?”

  Icy consulted her screen again. “Of course he has called in. But there are no notes about your appointment.”

  Another bit of information. “What sort of notes are there? Has he been meeting with other clients? He promised me exclusivity.”

  Miranda could tell she was getting on the woman’s nerves but Icy seemed just as perturbed with her boss’s behavior. Interesting.

  “I am truly sorry, Ms. Steele. But Rico does not work with anyone exclusively.”

  This was Wesson’s cue. From the corner she slammed a stack of magazines down on the floor and let out a howl. “Does this mean I’m not getting my photo shoot?”

  “Photo shoot?” The receptionist echoed.

  “That’s right,” Miranda snapped. “Rico promised me an interview and a photo shoot for my top prospect here, Janelle. She’s very special.” She leaned over and whispered confidentially to the dark-haired woman. “And she’s temperamental.”

  Wesson stomped over to the desk, eyes flaming as hot as her red hair. “Answer me. Am I getting my photo shoot or not?”

  Icy remained cool and unperturbed. “I am afraid you will have to make another appointment. Next month, perhaps?”

  “What?” Wesson reached into the little handbag she carried and took out a tube of lipstick. Deep red lipstick. She wagged it under the receptionist’s nose. “See this?” She opened the tube and stepped toward the wall with the graphical print on it. “How would you like it if I added the word ‘Bitch’ to this wall?”

  Miranda pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh. Wesson could really pull off the spoiled prim donna act. Well, for her it was only half an act.

  But it worked. Icy came to life. “Wait.” She jumped up, one hand in the air, grabbing her phone with the other. “I will call Elena.”

  She did and after ten minutes of frosty stares between Icy and Wesson, the sound of high heels rang out from a hallway off to the side. Another woman appeared in the stylish archway.

  This one couldn’t be a model. She had to be at least fifty.

  But she fit the tall-and-skinny profile so she’d probably worked the runway once upon a time. She wore a dark green tailored suit with a gold lapel pin of roses. Her short, styled hair was a coppery blond. Her heels were so pointed Miranda wondered if she’d stuck them in a pencil sharpener. They matched the sharp angles of her narrow nose and chin.

  Through a pair of pink glasses studded with rhinestones she studied Miranda with suspicious eyes.

  “Ms. Steele?” she said in an accent that sounded Italian and dripped with disdain.

  Defiance in her eyes Miranda lifted her chin. “Yes?”

  “Will you and your client please follow me?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Elena led them down a long narrow corridor, with one wall cluttered with more magazine covers, the other a long floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.

  At the end of the passage they made a sharp turn to the left and went down another hall. This one had large photos of gorgeous young women on one side and more glass on the other. Though the glass here served as an interior border for a string of offices where personnel chatted on phones or typed away at computers.

  At the end of the hall Elena stopped and gestured. “My office. Please come in.”

  Corner office, Miranda thought, stepping into the space.

  She wondered if the location had the same prestigious significance here. This office was only a tad bigger than the others they’d just passed. But it continued the white-with-accents theme in its walls and floor and furnishings

  Well, except for that, Miranda decided, watching Elena settle herself behind a glossy red desk.

  Behind the desk hung a huge black-on-white sketch of a lovely female face, representing, she supposed, the essence of beauty, of style—of being stuck on yourself. But from the modeling agency’s point of view it was intimidating.

  The adjacent wall was once again all window, delivering a breath-taking view of the city, the beach, the mountains, the sea. Guess all that made up for the lack of square footage.

  The angular woman gestured to a chair. “Please sit.”

  Miranda slid her butt onto the hard surface of a white chair shaped like a backward Z. Wesson perched on a matching chair next to her, looking pouty. Glancing through the glass Miranda wondered if the Cessna was fixed yet, and if Parker was on it heading back to Campos do Flores without her.

  Somehow she doubted that.

  Elena spread her hands on the surface of her desk. “Now. I understand you’re under the impression you had an appointment with Rico?”

  Time to play the role again. “It’s not just an impression. He promised me an interview with Janelle and a photo shoot.”

  Elena’s thin lips turned up in a nasty smile. “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Rico does not do interviews or photo shoots.”

  “Well, he promised me one.”

  Wesson shot to her feet. “If I don’t get my photo shoot, I’ll make you pay.”

  Miranda watched the lines move on Elena’s face, revealing irritation. Probably thinking her boss had been trying to get laid when he made those promises and no
w it fell to her to cover for him.

  “I’m in charge of acquiring new talent.”

  Elena was calling her bluff. Smart lady. She straightened her shoulders. “And?”

  “I’ll see if we have a photographer available. Do you have your portfolio?”

  Uh oh. They’d been hoping not to be asked about a portfolio. “Rico said Janelle didn’t need one. Really. Can’t you just contact him and straighten all this out?”

  Now Elena looked uncomfortable. Not so much in control of that, are you?

  But she managed a thin smile as she reached for her phone with one hand, and for a clipboard with the other. “I do not need his permission for every decision. I’ll just see if Amir is available. He is one of our best. In the meantime, won’t you fill these out?”

  She waved the clipboard at Wesson. It contained a stack of papers a quarter inch thick.

  Miranda’s stomach tightened.

  Wesson took one look at the clipboard and threw her hands up in the air like a spoiled little girl. “This is ridiculous!”

  And she stomped out of the office and down the hall. She was really good at hissy fits.

  Miranda sat back and crossed her legs, enjoying the alarm on Elena’s face. Wesson was a genius.

  “Where in the world is she going?”

  Miranda waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry about her. She does that once in a while. She’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Elena didn’t like that answer. “I must tell you, Ms. Steele. We don’t allow such erratic behavior at the Dominguez Agency.”

  She put a hand to her forehead and the lines under her eyes deepened with the weariness of putting in too many hours. If Rico had gone AWOL, this woman had to be holding the company together while wondering where the heck he was.

  Time to get personal. She leaned forward and laid her hand on the desk in a woman-to-woman gesture. “You really don’t know where your boss is, do you?”

  Elena sucked in a shocked breath. Then she suddenly cracked. She shook her head, put down the phone, and reached for a tissue as her eyes went moist. Must be under tremendous pressure.