All Eyes on Me (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 1)

by Linsey Lanier

  Sid jiggled a hand toward the body. “So are you done with my vic yet, Doc?”

  Miranda saw Easton’s cheek twitch. “About two hours ago. You didn’t call me.”

  O’Toole gave the ME a surly look. “Been a little busy. What can you tell me?”

  “The patient was female, Caucasian, age forty-one.”

  The sergeant made a rolling gesture with his finger, indicating the doctor should speed through the details they already knew. Miranda glanced at Parker and read his thoughts. This must be a delightful working relationship.

  “She has had numerous reconstructive surgeries on her face, abdomen, buttocks and breasts.”

  No wonder she looked so young on TV.

  “Time of death?”

  “Between eleven p.m. last night and one this morning. Given the liver temperature taken at the scene, I’d say closer to one.”

  “So she was dumped after a few hours of her demise.”

  “That would be my math.” He lifted the sheet covering the body to reveal her placid face and the long, V-shaped incision on her chest.

  “She was a good-looking woman,” Parker said.

  That was an understatement. Even after a long and waning career, even in death, she was still gorgeous. Just like Coco. Well, Coco was alive, thank goodness.

  “Apart from some minor bruising, the body shows no signs of defense wounds or constraints. No knife marks or bullet wounds.”

  “What about the eye?” Sid said. “Was that melon baller the murder weapon?”

  “I was getting to the eye. The only disfigurement.”

  Miranda didn’t think it was likely the melon baller had been used to kill and the look on Parker’s face said he thought O’Toole was wasting time.

  But the ME indulged the sergeant. He strolled over to one of the tables where instruments of his craft lay and picked up a silver object about six inches long. “Tissues on the bowl of this item tell you what you already suspect. This tool was used to gouge out the victim’s left eye. The person used it to sever the optic nerve, the muscles, the blood vessels, and lift the globe out of its orbit.”

  Gruesome. “Was she—”

  “No. It was done postmortem.”

  Thank God. “Fingerprints?”

  The ME shook his head. “Wiped clean.”

  “Where’s the eye now?” Miranda asked, hoping its condition could tell them something.

  Sid raised his palms. “Don’t know. It wasn’t at the crime scene. It appears the killer took it with him.”

  “Or her.”

  Sid gave her a cautious glance. “Normally, I’d say the body of a full grown female adult would be too heavy for a woman to carry. But the patterns in the sand indicate the body was rolled.”

  “Rolled?” Parker asked.

  “The ground sloped downward, so a couple of kicks would have done it. Desert shrubbery stopped the corpse from going any farther.”

  “I see.” Miranda started to feel a little sick.

  And that familiar anger at the sight of a murder victim was creeping over her. Who would do such a thing to a famous singer? She’d find out.

  Parker beat her to the next question. “Dr. Eaton. Have you determined the cause of death?”

  “I have. She was poisoned.”

  O’Toole’s brows shot up. “Poisoned? Are you sure?”

  “I am. A fatal amount of abrin was found in her blood stream.”

  Parker rubbed his chin. “Abrin. That’s similar to ricin isn’t it?

  Miranda had heard of ricin. Several decades ago in London a dude who was suspected of being involved in espionage had been injected with it. Nasty way to go.

  The ME nodded. “Yes, but abrin requires only one seventy-fifth of the dose of ricin to be fatal.”

  Miranda let out a low whistle. “How would someone get a hold of a substance like that?”

  “It could be found in certain medical research facilities. It’s been used as an experimental cancer treatment.”

  Miranda shot Parker a look and saw he was deep in thought.

  “However, it would be more likely to come from a house plant.”

  “House plant?”

  “Castanospermum australe. The lucky bean plant. It produces pods that contain the toxic seeds.

  “She wasn’t so lucky this time.”

  “No.”

  “Are you saying it was an accident?”

  “No. This was deliberate. She didn’t have much left in her stomach. The poison could have taken effect within an hour of ingestion. She likely suffered respiratory distress, coughing, tightness in the chest, and severe nausea. The nausea would have escalated into vomiting, followed by seizures and then unconsciousness.”

  “If her stomach was empty from barfing, can we determine how she swallowed the abrin?”

  “I did find a small trace of herbal tea in the stomach contents. The tea contained mint, raspberry leaf, ginger, and a trace amount of abrin.”

  Sounded like she had a bath and a relaxing drink before bed. “Someone slipped her a mickey?”

  “So to speak.”

  They stood silently staring at the motionless body of the lovely performer who would never sing again. Miranda’s mind spun with the details.

  At last, Parker broke the silence. “Is there anything else you can tell us, Doctor?”

  The ME scowled and spoke the most un-objective words he’d said yet. “Just that I hope you find the bastard who did this. Ambrosia Dawn was one of my favorite singers.”

  Chapter Five

  Back in O’Toole’s office, Miranda paced back and forth in the small space—which still only had one chair—her mind buzzing with what the ME had told them. “This could be an organized crime hit,” she said. “The eye thing could have been a message. Ambrosia Dawn saw too much.”

  With a smirk, O’Toole sank into his chair and put his feet up on his desk. “Ambrosia Dawn involved in organized crime?”

  “A lot of stars are into drugs. Or maybe she just stumbled onto something innocently. A robbery or something.”

  Parker rubbed his chin. Miranda noticed he was getting a five o’clock shadow. “Abrin poisoning isn’t the usual method of organized crime.”

  She marched over to the filing cabinet in the corner, drummed her fingers on it. “Yeah, you’ve got a point. And where did the plastic sheeting come from?”

  “Could have come from any place. There’s always construction going on in this town.” O’Toole let out a yawn.

  Miranda curled a lip at him. “Are we boring you?”

  O’Toole narrowed his bloodshot, bottle green eyes at her. “I didn’t get much sleep last night as you might deduce. And I’m hungry. Why don’t we get some food.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Parker said, giving Miranda a let’s-keep-things-civil look. “I can drive. We have a rental.”

  “That’s fine but I’ll take my car.” As the sergeant stood and tucked the case file under his arm, he eyed Miranda as if he were sizing her up. “You like Mexican food, Ms. Steele?”

  “My favorite.”

  “I know a great place. You can follow me there.”

  “Sounds terrific.” And she and Parker trailed after him out the door and down the hall.

  ###

  Miranda bit into her fajita quesadilla and savored the fiery flavors of grilled meat, veggies, cheese and guacamole. “Hmm, this is really good.” She swiped the juices running down her chin with her napkin.

  From behind a plate of chicken taquitos, Parker eyed her lovingly. “You are hungry.”

  “Guess so.”

  The sergeant grinned at her with an expectant expression. “Pretty spicy, huh, Ms. Steele?”

  Miranda cocked her head as if she were thinking about it. “No, it’s just about right.” She took another bite.

  O’Toole had taken them to a lively place on the strip called Don Chachi’s Cantina where the music was peppy, the décor colorful and festive, and the staff eager to please.

  A smi
ling waitress in a red-and-yellow costume dress appeared at their table to refill their drinks. “How is everything?”

  He winked at her. “Good, honey. Do you have those chile de arbol peppers I ordered?”

  “They’re right here.” Another grinning waitress in green and yellow set a plate down in the center of the table. “Be careful with those, sir. Caliente.”

  “That means hot,” O’Toole said to Miranda.

  Miranda looked at Parker and they exchanged a meaningful glance. He was struggling not to grin. They’d played this game the first time he’d taken her to a Mexican restaurant back in Atlanta.

  Wide-eyed, Miranda turned to their host. “Oh? Does it? Better be careful then.”

  “Can I get anything else for you?” the waitress asked.

  O’Toole chuckled. “I think we’ll need some more water in a minute, but we’re fine for now.”

  “Just let us know.” And the server moved on to another table.

  Miranda eyed the plate of long red dried peppers. “Caliente, huh?”

  “Actually, they’re not so bad.” O’Toole pushed the plate toward her, smiling. “Try one.”

  She smiled back. “You first.”

  She watched his lip twitch. Then he shrugged. “Sure, why not?” He reached for a small one, held it by the stem and bit off the tiniest piece of the end. Miranda watched him cough and struggle to control the look of pain on his face. What a wimp. “Pretty good,” he said. “Try one.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She reached for a mid-size pepper, saving the big one for her “manly” opponent. She bit off half an inch and chewed.

  The skin of the pepper crunched in her mouth and the seeds burned against her tongue but the flavor was good. Her eyes didn’t even water. “They have a smoky flavor. I like it.”

  O’Toole looked at her as if she’d just performed some kind of magic trick. “Yeah, I do, too.” He put the small pepper on the side of his plate and picked up another medium sized one. This time, he took half of it.

  “Aren’t those similar to chipotle peppers?” Parker asked as if he were talking about the weather.

  The sergeant coughed and reached for his water glass. “Yeah, they are,” he sputtered after a minute.

  “Now you’ve got me hooked.” Miranda put the rest of her first pepper in her mouth and bit it down to the stem.

  Fire seared her taste buds and her eyes threatened to water but she forced herself not to even glance at the ice water beside her plate. “Mmm,” she managed.

  O’Toole just stared at her.

  “Chile de arbol. Also called ‘Bird's Beak Chile,’ I believe. About twenty thousand heat units.” Parker pressed his lips together and pretended to study a hacienda painting on the wall.

  Miranda hoped he wouldn’t burst out laughing anytime soon. This was too much fun.

  “I don’t want to hog these, O’Toole. Here. Have some more.” She picked up the plate and pushed three of them right on top of the sergeant’s chalupa.

  O’Toole’s face went from shock to anger to defiance. He wasn’t about to be one-upped by a “girl.” “Sure, sure. The more the better.” He snatched up the biggest pepper, put the whole thing in his mouth and chomped down.

  Miranda stared at him. “Isn’t that overdoing it a little, O’Toole?” She hadn’t meant for the guy to kill himself.

  “Not for m—” his face turned red. Then white. He started to cough and choke. He reached for his water.

  “Use a tortilla. Or a chip. They’ll soak up the heat.” Miranda handed him one.

  O’Toole shook his head, giving her a murderous look. He picked up his napkin and spat out what was left of the poor chipotle. Then he grabbed his glass with both hands and started to gulp.

  Bad idea. Just as Miranda knew, it only made it worse.

  He sat there choking and sputtering and coughing, his face turning colors that went really well with the décor.

  “Would you like us to take you to the hospital?” she asked innocently.

  “Grrr!” was all O’Toole could get out. And with his napkin against his mouth, still coughing like a bad engine, he got to his feet and scurried off to the men’s room.

  Miranda turned to Parker with a shrug. “More for us. You want one?”

  His sexy gray eyes twinkled with an I’m-no-fool expression. “No, thank you. I learned my lesson a long time ago.”

  She gave him a smile. “You did, didn’t you?”

  He leaned in and she drank in a whiff of his expensive cologne. “You really shouldn’t toy with the client.”

  “It was his idea.”

  “You didn’t have to go along.”

  She pursed her lips, satisfied with her performance. Parker knew she could never resist putting someone like that in his place. “You told me the guy was a dud at the Agency. You didn’t mention he was a chauvinist.”

  “He didn’t display such behavior when he was with us.”

  “When was he there?”

  “He joined us not long after I started the business. Judd was my only employee at the time.”

  No women on board yet. No opportunity to put them down, though she’d love to see O’Toole try to take on Detective Tan. “You’ve come a long way since then,” she told him.

  “Yes. And with you, I hope to go farther.”

  A nice thought, but at the moment, she had her doubts. She reached for a chip and just for good measure, dunked it in the spicy salsa. “Want to bet on how long before the sergeant sends us packing?”

  “Save your money, Miranda. I think O’Toole’s desperate for help on this case.”

  She chewed thoughtfully on the chip. Maybe Parker was right. She hoped so.

  Chapter Six

  After about twenty minutes, O’Toole came back to the table and finished what he could of the meal. He was still nursing his sore tongue when they reached the vehicles outside.

  Miranda’s mind was back on the case and she was downright frustrated. “So we’re looking for someone with access to a medical research facility or a lucky bean house plant and who knew how to use a melon baller. Doesn’t make much sense at all. We’ve just started and we’re already stuck.”

  “And when you’re stuck…?” Parker prompted.

  O’Toole didn’t say anything but he was still having trouble getting out anything but grunts and coughs.

  Miranda decided to answer. “When you’re stuck, you follow procedure. So that means we start by questioning the immediate family and close acquaintances.”

  “With someone like Ambrosia Dawn, that will be a long list.”

  O’Toole made an unintelligible sound and turned to his car. He opened the door and reached for something on the seat. When he straightened, he had the case file in his hand.

  He passed it to Parker. “Efferything’s in zere.”

  “You’re giving me the police file?”

  The sergeant patted it. “Copy.”

  “You’re giving us authorization to act on behalf of the police department?”

  O’Toole nodded. “Theck in tomorrow.” And with that, he got in his car and drove off.

  Miranda put a hand on her hip and stared at the car as it turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. “Guess he had to go home and lick his wounds. Except his tongue isn’t working so well.”

  “Perhaps we should call it a night as well.”

  She spun around to him. “Why?”

  Parker looked at his watch. “It’s past midnight back home. Ambrosia Dawn’s family hasn’t had even twenty-four hours since the news of her death.”

  It sounded reasonable. If one of them wasn’t involved and hiding evidence as they stood there. But she’d be sharper if she got some rest. “Okay. Where are we staying?”

  “Right up the street.”

  # # #

  Parker drove around a side street and made his way south down the crowded Strip, giving her the view she’d wanted.

  There were palm trees and marquees and too many huge flashing billboards
to count, beckoning tourists to this show or that. One side of the road looked like a solid wall of neon, as if a giant Christmas tree had been decorated by a psychedelic artist from the sixties. On the other side were tons of shops. Gucci and Prada and McDonalds, and the Hard Rock Cafe with its giant guitar.

  Past sidewalks crammed with visitors making their way to the restaurants, bars and wedding chapels, there were shooting fountains lit with rainbow glows, pirates in pirate ships, the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty. It was as if you had traveled around the world in the space of half an hour. Were they in New York or Paris or Hollywood?

  At this point, Miranda wasn’t sure.

  They were staying at the Dame Destinado—the hotel where Ambrosia Dawn’s show had been booked—across from the one that looked like a castle and down the street from the one that looked like a pyramid.

  Miranda was still glassy-eyed from the lights as Parker valeted the car and they were ushered inside into even more opulence.

  Just the casino lobby was beyond classy.

  Sheets of sparkling water trickled over shimmering lights down walls that seemed to stretch to the sky. Guests traversed golden stairways and brass escalators that lead to rainbow-colored globes serving as bars and meeting areas on an elevated floor. The perimeter of the space was carved into huge modern art shapes revealing shops and restaurants and spas.

  As she rode the glass elevator up to their suite with Parker, Miranda felt as if her heart would stop.

  They reached their room and after the bellhop had left them alone, she took in the muted gray velveteen of sofas, the gilded silver pattern of chairs, the flower arrangements on tables. This wasn’t just a room.

  Stealing a peek at the huge, pillow-laden bed in the next room, she gave a low whistle. This was nicer than the honeymoon suite they’d had in Maui. She turned to Parker. “Pretty fancy accommodations for someone on an expense account.”

  He picked up a remote control and pressed a button. The curtains opened revealing a stunning view of the colorful lights below and soft, seductive music began to play.