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

by Linsey Lanier

He raised a questioning brow at her. “I decided against the champagne massage tub and the private pool and the basketball court.”

  She laughed. “They really have rooms like that here?”

  “For a price.” He began to loosen his tie.

  “I’ll bet. Still, we have a whole suite.”

  “We need a place to work.” He moved into the bedroom and hung up his coat. “And these rooms don’t even come with the golf simulator or the stripper pole.”

  She took a step toward him with a sensual grin. “Stripper pole? Now that could be interesting.”

  “Perhaps I should have stretched the budget a bit.” He drank her in for a long moment, then took her in his strong arms and pulled her to him. With a heavy breath, his kissed her hard.

  She kissed him back, relishing the feel of his lips against hers, the smell of him, the heady taste of his mouth.

  But just as she was really getting into the kiss, he pulled away.

  She blinked at him, stinging with disappointment. “I won’t break, you know.”

  As Parker watched the wounded expression appear on Miranda’s face, his heart broke. He loved her to distraction. She was strong and vigilant and passionate and more beautiful than she knew. But her doctors insisted it would be another month or two until she fully healed and he wouldn’t do anything, no matter how tempting, to jeopardize that. The kind of unbridled sex they’d enjoyed before her injuries would have to wait until then.

  “I’ll let you shower first,” he said firmly and stepped away from her to unbutton his shirt.

  After he removed it, Miranda stood there, eyeing the delicious shape of his muscled arms and torso.

  They hadn’t bathed together since her hospital stay. Maybe the sight of her injuries under lights and water was too much for him. The bullet wound, the knife slashes her ex had put across her chest. But he should talk. Parker had a few slashes of his own.

  She was tired of the gentle treatment. She stepped over to him and ran her hands over the hard contour of his chest. She traced a finger along the scar on his abdomen. “You know, I think you’ve been babying me too long.”

  He regarded her with longing and caution. “Have I?”

  “Yep. Tonight I’m feeling a little risky. And frisky.” She opened her mouth and ran her tongue along the side of his neck.

  Inhaling with desire, he caught her wrist to stop her movement on his torso. “Don’t, Miranda. It’s too soon.”

  “No, I think it’s been too long. Way too long.” She began nibbling the other side of his neck, knowing that was a weak spot.

  “I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Nothing will happen.” She reached for his belt buckle, began to unloosen it.

  Once more his breath grew ragged against her ear. “You don’t know that.”

  “I think I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I’m pretty sure I do.”

  She felt him inhale, drawing in a new reserve of resistance. “How can you be sure, Miranda? Your physical condition—”

  With a swift move, she let his pants drop, kicked one of his legs out from under him and had him on the floor beneath her. “See? I’m just fine. You, on the other hand, seem a little vulnerable.” From her straddling position, she started to make lazy circles over his chest with her fingers.

  His eyes grew hot and smoky as he watched her. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

  She stopped and captured his gaze for a long moment. He loved her. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, even if things got a little rough. And she meant it that she wouldn’t let him go too far.

  Slowly she nodded. “Very sure.”

  “Very well, then.” And with one lightning move, he grabbed her and spun her over.

  He plastered her to the floor with a kiss as hot as the peppers she’d eaten tonight. Laughing with delight, she kissed him back and drank in all she could of him.

  This was going to be a fiery night.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Miranda opened her eyes to the smell of hot coffee and a delicious sense of satisfaction. They’d made it to the bathtub last night—after about an hour on the floor. Parker had been like his old self, doing things to her she had fantasized about for months.

  And she hadn’t broken.

  In fact, right now she felt better than ever. She stretched and yawned and looked over at the clock. It was past nine already. She got up and after finding a pair of jeans and a T-shirt to throw on, plodded into the suite’s living area to find Parker had already ordered breakfast.

  “How are you?” he asked with a scrutinizing eye after he’d handed her a cup of coffee and seated her at the small portable table near the window.

  She smiled up at him. “Just fine.”

  “Not too…sore?”

  “Nope. How about you?”

  “Never been better.”

  She could tell he didn’t really believe her, but that only made her want to prove it to him. No time for that now. They had work to do.

  She eyed the case file he’d laid on the table. “Have you had a chance to go through that?”

  “I thought we’d do that during breakfast.”

  Over poached eggs, gourmet bagels and exotic fruit cups, she studied the file’s contents. There wasn’t much information. Besides background details on the victim you could get off the Internet, O’Toole had only spoken to the hiring manager at the casino by phone.

  Though a regular at the Dame Destinado, Ambrosia Dawn had just come off a mini-tour about three weeks ago. While in town, she resided at her home in Costa Rica Hills, a country club about six miles west of the Strip.

  Traveling with her was her usual entourage. Her husband and personal manager, forty-year-old Cameron Forrest, a former Elvis impersonator. Her sister Blythe Star, two years her junior, who helped coordinate the music. Assorted friends and staff who took care of everything from her hair to her shoes to making sure she arrived at rehearsals on time and cooking all her meals just so.

  There must have been fifty names on the list.

  “Not much specific information, but a lot to work with.” Miranda handed the file to Parker.

  Parker took his time reading over it, absorbing the data. “It’s obvious Sid wants as little to do with this case as possible.”

  “Too hot for him, I guess. I suppose the media is involved by now.”

  “Let’s see.” Parker picked up the remote and switched on the huge plasma TV over the fireplace.

  A news lady was talking about Ambrosia Dawn. “The tragic death of the popular singer has the entire town in shock.”

  The picture switched to a crowd on the street carrying flowers and signs.

  “We love you, Ambrosia,” one of them said tearfully into the camera. “We’re all going to miss you so much.”

  “Her songs will live on forever in our hearts,” another said.

  “Las Vegas Metro has declined a statement pending further investigation into the matter.”

  Parker turned the TV off. “Avoidance,” he grunted under his breath.

  Regarding the blank screen, Miranda finished off her coffee. “Sounds like at least O’Toole had enough sense not to leak the bit about the melon baller and the eye.”

  “He has ability. He chooses to use it in a passive fashion rather than active.” Which was a fancy way of saying he was lazy.

  “Yeah. Well, it’s all us now.” As she set down her cup, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the text message. It was from her friend Coco back home.

  OMG, Miranda. I just heard the news about Ambrosia Dawn on the TV. I can’t stop crying. You have to find the person who did this. You just have to. I know you and Parker can.

  It was all up to them, all right. She shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Okay. Where do we start? We have a boatload of possible suspects.”

  “You�
�re the lead. What do you suggest?”

  Oh, yeah. She thought a minute. Her usual first inclination in a case like this was the husband did it. It would be law enforcement’s too. But for her, it was her violent past with a psychotic ex-husband talking. Still, might as well get the nagging doubts out of the way first.

  She got to her feet. “Let’s go talk to the immediate family.”

  # # #

  The six-mile trip to Costa Rica Hills took them forty-five minutes in the mid-morning traffic. When they arrived, they found a throng of mourners huddled around the gated community’s entrance in the baking sun. Two security guards stood alongside the salmon colored stone wall on either side of a tall iron gate looking very uncomfortable.

  The grieving were mostly middle-aged women though there were some men and teens. Many had armfuls of gifts. Candles, flowers, stuffed animals, homemade placards expressing their devotion. They began laying them along the wall.

  “We love you, Ambrosia Dawn,” someone shouted.

  Someone else started singing “All Eyes on Me” and others joined in, filling the air with a sad lament and making Miranda wish she could find the killer in the next five minutes and deliver him—or her—to this crowd. On the other hand, one of them could be the killer.

  Parker eased the rental car through the group and up to the gate. He pressed a button and explained to a third guard inside a little hut that they were investigators here on police business on behalf of Sergeant Sid O’Toole of the LVMPD.

  The booth guard couldn’t very well refuse that. But the guards out front had to hold back the mourners when he opened the tall gate.

  Parker rolled inside without incident.

  “I don’t think I’d care much for being a celebrity,” Miranda said watching the gate close behind them, shutting out the adoring fans.

  “I don’t imagine you would.”

  As they found their way along the curving roads, the desert sun beat down on the sprawling stucco and stone palaces surrounding them. Most of the roofs were red clay, but the rambling buildings were all shapes and sizes.

  Squares and rectangles and triangles and circles, mostly done in desert colors of sandstone and cream and coral and burnt sienna. Yards were masterpieces of decorative rock and pebble and cactus arrangements. Here and there was a landscape of grass and small trees, and beyond the homes, the golf course. Given the climate, all the green had to be kept alive by a multi-million dollar underground watering system.

  Megabuck city.

  At last they came to the estate where Ambrosia Dawn had lived.

  A huge collection of tall arched windows and apricot-colored stucco blocks that rose to three stories. It made Parker’s family mansion back home look like a garage.

  Parker brought the car to a stop along the large circular drive and they traded the cool of the rental for the hot, dry desert air as they got out and made their way toward the huge glass-and-iron arch that was the front door.

  Parker was in his usual dark suit and Miranda was in a lightweight seersucker suit of black. They should have worn white for comfort but they were okay as far as appearance went. They looked like they could be from the FBI.

  Parker’s sharp gaze took in the estate. “No doubt there will be staff to interview,” he said.

  Miranda thought about that. “Can you get started with them? I want to talk to the husband first.”

  For a moment he looked like he might question that decision, as if he didn’t want her to suffer the ordeal of handling a grieving husband. But he must have thought better of it.

  He simply nodded. “As you wish.”

  “And we both need to be on the lookout for a lucky bean plant.”

  “I was just about to mention that.”

  They stepped onto the portico and Parker rang the bell. The first bar of “All Eyes on Me” rang out in chimes. Not too self-absorbed, was she?

  After about five minutes, a man in a black suit appeared behind the glass, making his way toward the door. Must take awhile to get around this museum.

  Another thirty seconds passed before he reached the front and opened the door. “I’m sorry. The family isn’t taking any visitors right now.” His look was stern.

  Miranda eyed his black tie, crisp white shirt, polished dress shoes. His sandy hair was perfectly styled and his tan, good-looking features made her put him at no older than late twenties. She wondered if Hollywood was his ultimate career destination.

  “We’re from the Parker Agency.” She handed him her card. “We’re assisting Metro in the investigation of Ambrosia Dawn’s demise.”

  He stared down at the card, flustered. “The police?”

  “Sergeant Sid O’Toole, specifically. Feel free to call him to verify.” Though Miranda hoped he would at least invite them in first and out of the baking sun before he did that.

  Bewildered, he glanced over his shoulder as if hoping someone would come and give him directions. Then he shook his head and pulled the door open. “Of course, please come in. We’re in such a state, as you can imagine.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Parker added as they stepped into a large, square foyer that was all off-gray stone and drenched in light both from the windows and from a glimmering chandelier high overhead.

  No need to worry about the light bill when you’re this loaded, she supposed.

  The young man extended a hand to Miranda then to Parker. “I’m Derrick Dane, the family’s house manager. What can I do to help you?”

  “We’d like to speak to some of the staff, if we may,” Parker said.

  Derrick Dane’s fair brows knit together as if the request was difficult to comprehend. At last he put his hands behind his back, military fashion, and nodded. “Certainly, sir.”

  “How big a staff is there?” Miranda asked.

  “You mean the household staff?”

  “Anyone who works in the estate.”

  He blew out a breath. “Well, let’s see. There are the housekeepers, the caretakers for the yard, the chauffeurs, Miss Ambrosia’s personal assistant, her personal trainer, her personal chef, her hair dresser and her wardrobe assistant.”

  While he listed a few more, Miranda slipped a pad out of her pocket and took a few notes. A lot to narrow down and that was just the start. No wonder O’Toole didn’t want this case.

  “Is there somewhere we can go? For privacy?” Parker said as if he were asking if a window could be opened.

  The house manager blinked at him. “Why, yes. One of the sitting rooms, I suppose.”

  “That will be good. If you’ll bring them to me one at a time?”

  “Certainly, sir.” He gestured toward a room.

  Miranda raised a finger. “Before you disappear, is Mr. Forest at home?”

  Again, the young man looked confused. “Yes, of course. He’s in the viewing room. He gave strict orders not to be disturbed. He’s very upset, of course.”

  “I understand. But while Mr. Parker speaks to the staff, I need to ask him a few routine questions.”

  Derrick Dane’s pale green eyes went wide with shock for a moment as he took in the implication that his employer, that anyone on the staff, and that even himself, could be a suspect in a murder investigation.

  “I—” he glanced up at the fancy filigree banister on the second story overhead. “I’ll see if he’ll speak to you.”

  Miranda listened to the clicking heels of his polished dress shoes as the house manager crossed the tile floor to a small room. There must have been an intercom of some sort in there because he returned a moment later.

  “Very well. Mr. Forest will see you, Ms.—is it Steele?”

  “Yes, it is. Thank you, Mr. Dane.”

  Chapter Eight

  After showing Parker to the sitting room, and notifying the first staff member to be interviewed, the house manager led Miranda up the wide white staircase and down a long hall. At the end of it, they turned a corner and headed down anothe
r one.

  Here, posters of Ambrosia Dawn’s world tours were plastered all over the walls. Her image was everywhere, in various poses from her performances, foreign language text exclaiming her presence. France and England. Australia and New Zealand. Thailand and Beijing. Walking past the images of the woman she’d seen in the morgue last night gave Miranda a creepy feeling but she ignored it and focused on the job at hand.

  So far, she hadn’t seen any clues or any houseplants.

  At last they reached a pair of red tufted vinyl doors with two round windows. Viewing room. Now she got it. Movies.

  Derrick Dane reached for one of the golden handles and held the door open for her. “Mr. Forest is inside.”

  She was on her own. “Thank you,” she told the man and stepped inside the darkened room.

  It was a movie theater all right. Movie theater seats padded with thick red velvet cushions, ultralow movie theater lights peeking out from symmetrically placed walls, and up front, a movie theater screen.

  Band music and Ambrosia Dawn’s distinctive voice rang into the empty air while, arms out-stretched, her larger-than-life celluloid figure shimmied to the beat across the surface in a silvery dress. A pattern of colored lights flooded the screen while a chorus of dancers sang and bobbed around her, building to a dramatic crescendo. All the thrill and glitz of a big Las Vegas show.

  As Miranda’s eyes grew used to the dark, she could just make out the figure of a man in the front row. She felt her way down the aisle toward him. As she approached she could hear he was sobbing.

  This wasn’t going to be easy. “Excuse me. Mr. Forest?”

  She watched his shoulders shudder as he stared up at the screen. “She was so beautiful. She lit up the world with her songs. How can it all be over?” He seemed to be talking to himself.

  Miranda’s heart went out to him but in the back of her mind she knew this could be an Academy Award winning performance. Tread lightly, she thought. She usually didn’t have a lot of tact when she questioned people but being around Parker and his subtle style had been rubbing off on her.

  “Mr. Forest, I hate to bother you at this time but I need to ask you some questions on behalf of the police.”