Smoke Screen (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 7)

by Linsey Lanier

  He nodded. “Yolanda. She manages the club.”

  “Any way I can talk to her?”

  He glanced at the heavy classic Rolex on his wrist. “We do not open until seven, but she is there now. Shall I drive you?”

  She’d been hoping for a phone call, but it would be good to check this place of his out. “I’ll follow you.”

  Santiago rose and made a gesture toward the cash on her desk. “And so you will take my case?”

  Miranda picked up the bills, stuffed them in the bottom drawer and took out her Beretta. She locked the drawer, slipped the gun in her waistband behind her back and under her jacket.

  Then she turned to Santiago with a smile. “I’ll let you know after I talk to Yolanda.”

  Chapter Five

  She followed Santiago and his driver in his shiny black BMW up Piedmont, past the billboards and the auto repair shops and the strip malls. Suddenly Miranda’s stomach took a hard dip. They’d just rolled under the I-85 bridge.

  She glanced at her new Acura’s GPS map.

  Sure enough, the Imperial Building was just three miles north. She was right in the neck of the woods of the Parker Agency. Less than two miles from the Parker mansion.

  She was on the doorstep of her old life.

  Was it some kind of cosmic joke that her first case would be here? Her first paying case, anyway. Not only would she be working for a notorious criminal, but she’d be doing it in the shadow of the Parker Agency.

  The idea made her bristle.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself, jutting out her jaw. Business was business and she was here to do a job. Parker wasn’t the type for strip clubs anyway. He’d never know.

  They turned down a side street, cruised past a strip mall with a pawn shop, a tattoo parlor and an all-night diner, then made another turn.

  On the side of the building a sign in fancy lettering read Exótico with an arrow pointing toward a door in the back.

  Miranda rolled her car over the gravel parking lot, turned it off and got out.

  Santiago shot her a follow-me look and headed for the side door. Shielding her eyes from the blaze of the late August Georgia sun, she followed him inside.

  She stepped through a small space where IDs were no doubt checked during business hours, and then into the huge open space that was Exótico.

  The air was winter cool and smelled of rose water and breath mints. The walls were painted solid black, giving the place a theater like feel. Along one side ran a row of windows where DJs and lighting crew worked their magic. At the opposite end sat a wide stage hung with a black curtain, where the dancers worked theirs.

  The audience area was a study in sensual indulgence.

  Long tufted divans of pink satin were bathed in lights flickering azure and rose. Wait staff scampered about busily decking oval shaped tables with flowers and sparkling glasses and silver decanters for champagne or other libation. There were menus, too, and she bet the food here was terrific. Miranda noted the tables looked sturdy and could be easily cleared for the dancer who wanted to give those seated around it a private show.

  This place must really be something when it was filled with horny sports figures and businessmen, with the music and lights going. And, of course, the action on the stage. A perfect setting for modern hedonistic revelry.

  “Yolanda is in the back,” Santiago said and led her behind a row of divans to a door at the side of the stage.

  On the other side of the door was a short hall, then a dressing area. An expansive row of large mirrors ran along the wall, counters beneath it were littered with lipsticks, powders, eye makeup, and several wigs mounted on Styrofoam heads. Mounds of fake jewelry lay scattered here and there. At the edge of the counters stood a rack of glittery costumes with lots of fishnet and feathers. Headdresses, outrageous high-heels, g straps, leotards.

  Everything a girl might need for the show.

  Maybe she was a prude but Miranda couldn’t understand how someone could put on one of those getups—much less take if off—for money. But maybe she’d been lucky she’d never been so desperate.

  Up ahead Santiago came to a stop at a closed black door and gave it a sharp knock. “Yolanda?”

  “Come in. I am descent.” The comment sounded like impatient sarcasm.

  He opened the door and gestured for Miranda to follow him.

  She stepped into a small space that was only a little bigger than her new office. The walls were done in bamboo, giving the place an Asian prison camp feel. Another rack of costumes and a sewing machine stood along the back and made the space seem even smaller.

  A thin, dark haired woman sat behind a stingy desk piled with papers, working on a laptop that was squeezed between the stacks. Paperwork and sewing? The woman must be a Jill-of-all-trades.

  Her lifeless hair was teased and its texture said it had been dyed often before it had been left to go gray at the sides. Her skin had a sallow tone that might have once been olive. She wore a sleeveless black tank top that revealed the tight sinews of a scrawny neck. A gold chain hung around it, and a rose tattoo decorated one shoulder. Her eyes sagged with the weariness of a beaten dog and a cigarette hung from the side of her plum colored mouth. In the forest of paper on the desk, Miranda spotted an ashtray filled with lipstick-imprinted butts.

  The woman looked like the definition of overworked.

  “Yolanda, this is Miranda Steele,” Santiago announced.

  Yolanda looked up at him with her sunken eyes, then slid them toward Miranda. “So?”

  “Ms. Steele is a private investigator. She is here to help us find Nitro.”

  Miranda extended a hand.

  Yolanda’s hand was dead fish limp and felt just a bit greasy during a quick shake.

  Then she took the cigarette out of her mouth, blew smoke up toward the ceiling with a curled lip and leaned back in her chair. “This is your PI?” Her voice was smoke hoarse and tinged with the expected Spanish accent.

  So they must have discussed her.

  “Yes, this is she. She has questions. Answer them.”

  Yolanda narrowed her eyes at her boss. Santiago wasn’t the type of man you argue with but Miranda had a feeling this woman had gone a few rounds with him in the past.

  She flicked ashes into her tray. “What do you want to know?”

  At last the woman had deigned to speak to her. “Let’s start with a name,” Miranda said, trying not to cough from the smoke. “First and last, preferably.”

  “Hannah Elizabeth Kaye. She’s a student at Georgia Technical Institute.”

  Say what? Miranda knew some college girls took questionable jobs but Georgia Tech? “Why would a Georgia Tech student work here?”

  She’d been about to say in a dump like this, but caught herself in the nick of time. It wasn’t a dump, after all. Just sleazy in another way.

  “She needs the money. A lot of college girls do. And the boss here pays them well.”

  “Very well,” Santiago added. “I also offer health insurance and a 401(k).”

  Jeez. “But you must have a big turnover, right?”

  Santiago scowled. “What do you mean, Miranda?” He was feeling insulted.

  She tried to sound diplomatic. “Well, if your dancers are going to school, don’t they leave after they graduate?”

  “Most do,” Yolanda said. “Some stay on with us. Dolly Winston, for example. She has been with us the longest. She graduated from Georgia Tech. An Astrophysics major, as I recall.”

  “And she decided to…dance instead?”

  “It is good money. And with the economy the way it is now, many of them cannot find lucrative employment elsewhere. When was the last time you saw an ad for an astrophysicist?”

  Yolanda laughed a hoarse, throaty laugh and Santiago joined in with his deep scary one.

  A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do—and so you flush your self respect down the toilet along with your diploma. But she wasn’t here to judge.

  Santiago t
urned to her. “Well, Ms. Steele, have you heard enough? Are you going to take my case?”

  Miranda hesitated a moment. “How can you be sure Nitro, or Hannah, didn’t just get tired of working here and quit?”

  Again Santiago chuckled while Yolanda grinned.

  “No one quits that way, Ms. Steele,” Yolanda said, reaching for her cigarette and taking another drag.

  What the heck did that mean?

  Santiago looked at her as if he were sorry she didn’t understand. “As I said I pay too well. Now. The case?”

  Miranda wasn’t convinced Hannah wasn’t in hiding somewhere. But if these two were right, and she didn’t want to get away from her job, she could be in another kind of trouble. No doubt the bouncers here were good protection for the staff, but some drunken customer could have snatched her when she left the building after the show. She might be a prisoner in some weirdo’s apartment somewhere.

  And the money from Santiago was back in her office burning a hole in her drawer. Like he said, he paid well.

  She didn’t want to make a habit of working with someone like Santiago, but this time, she decided to make an exception. Now that she’d heard this much, Miranda knew she had to make sure this Hannah Kaye was all right. Might as well get paid for it.

  She held out her hand to Santiago. “Okay, Carlos. I’ll take the case.”

  He smiled in that unnerving way of his, his tooth diamond flashing. Miranda hoped she hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of her life.

  “I am very pleased, Miranda. You will keep me informed of your progress?”

  “Of course. Right now, I have some more questions for Yolanda.”

  “Then I will leave you two ladies to yourselves. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  He turned to go out the door.

  But as she watched him saunter away in his skintight leather pants, the heels of his flashy shoes clicking against the floor, the sinking feeling in her gut only deepened.

  Chapter Six

  “What do you want to know, Ms. Steele?” Yolanda asked, ribbons of smoke circling her head. “I have work to do.”

  And so did she. Now. “Do you have a number for Hannah?” Miranda decided she’d call the dancer/college student by her real name.

  “A cell number. I have called it several times since Thursday. No answer.”

  “Let me have it.”

  Yolanda rattled off the digits and Miranda recorded them in her phone. For good measure, she dialed it herself and likewise got a mechanical recording. Okay, so that much was confirmed.

  “Tell me when you last saw her.”

  “Thursday night when she showed up for the show.” Yolanda stubbed out her cigarette in her tray and lit a new one. She seemed thoroughly annoyed with Miranda’s third degree.

  Miranda ignored the attitude. “Details. The very last time you saw her. Walking out the door?”

  Yolanda took a long drag of her fresh cigarette, if you can call a cigarette fresh, and shook her head. “I didn’t stay late that night. My niece needed help with her daughter. Her husband is in the hospital. I helped Nitro into her costume, saw her on stage and left for the evening.”

  So Yolanda’s duties included herding the girls. “When did you realize she was missing?”

  Yolanda lifted a skinny shoulder. “The next evening when she didn’t show up for work. The girls get here around seven-thirty or eight. The first show starts at nine.”

  Good to know. It was the start of a timeframe, anyway. “Was Hannah usually late?”

  “Never. She always got here early. She loved her work. She was really very good.”

  Punctual, loves her work. Either Yolanda was blowing some of that cigarette smoke up her ass or Hannah could really be in trouble. “Do you have any pictures of her?”

  “I have a video. We were about to put it up on the website for promotion.” She gestured toward her computer.

  Santiago had a website for his club? Bet it got a lot of hits. “Let me see it.”

  Looking as if she wished Miranda would leave, instead Yolanda beckoned with her hand. “Come around here and grab a seat.”

  Miranda squeezed between the desk and the wall, pulled the sewing machine chair over to the desk. She checked the cushion to make sure there were no stick pins in it before sitting down.

  When she looked up Yolanda already had the video up on her screen.

  Miranda leaned forward as she hit Play.

  Rocky music with a sassy beat bounced through the speakers as a young woman pranced around a pole in a white sequined outfit decked with long fringe that swung out wide as she twirled. She had long blond hair. She swayed it along with the fringe in time to the music while flashing a gorgeous smile. Great figure. Lots of energy. Long legs. And super high heels that accented every well formed muscle of her calves and thighs.

  “Our specialty used to be the classics,” Yolanda explained. “Fan dances and balloon dances inspired by Sally Rand. But today everyone wants rock. Especially Nitro. She wanted the hard driving rhythms. Part of her image. It went over well with the customers, so I let her do it.”

  As if to demonstrate, the drumbeat from the speakers kicked into overdrive, and the girl on the screen began to gyrate as she peeled off her fringed top.

  “Santiago mentioned she had a way with an audience.”

  Yolanda nodded. “They all love her. She was a real draw. That is why Carlos wants her back.”

  “Can you crop me out a still of her face I can put in my phone?” Miranda couldn’t imagine showing this vid to passerbys on the street and asking if they’d seen her.

  “If that is what you need.” Yolanda stuck the cigarette in her mouth and went to work.

  When she paused the frame, Miranda’s heart stopped.

  The young dancer with her pretty face, her long blond hair, her vivacious smile, suddenly took her back to her last case. The one she’d worked in Chicago with Parker three weeks ago. Though actually, she’d mostly worked it without him.

  Hannah Kaye’s image reminded Miranda of the victim in that case, Lydia Sutherland.

  A young blond art student who had been murdered in her home in Lawnfield Heights. The murder had been covered up by a house fire that had left Lydia’s body burnt to a char. And the killer had been none other than Miranda’s psychopathic ex-husband.

  The memory of that case still gave her chills. All Miranda had known of Lydia Sutherland was a photo of her with her long blond hair and eager-for-life smile.

  A lot like Nitro’s.

  She hoped Hannah Kaye would not end up that way. Or anything like it. She hoped she’d run off with a boyfriend to get married or something.

  “That good?” Yolanda said through her cigarette.

  “Perfect,” Miranda told her.

  “Let me have your cell number.”

  Miranda gave it to her and the woman cropped the photo, converted it to a file and sent it to her phone. Yolanda was handy.

  Miranda checked the screen. “Got it.” She stood. “Do you have an address for her?”

  Yolanda punched a few keys on her keyboard and brought up Hannah’s employee record. Miranda scanned it, didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “I’ll print this out for you.” Yolanda clicked her mouse.

  “Thanks.”

  The printer whirred and soon Miranda had all the data she needed. The general stuff anyway. “I’ll head to the school and see what I can find there. But I’d like to come back tonight and talk to some of the other dancers. Somebody might have seen something.”

  “I’ve already questioned them twice, but if you feel the need. You are the detective.”

  Miranda had a feeling Yolanda thought Santiago was wasting his money. She was going to prove her wrong.

  “See you tonight then.” Miranda folded the paper in her hand and headed out.

  “Just tell the doorman you know me.”

  “Will do. Thanks for your help.”


  “My pleasure.” Yolanda’s smile was thin and unconvincing.

  Knowing the woman was lying through her smoke stained teeth, Miranda turned and found her way out of the building and back into the sun.

  Chapter Seven

  She hit rush hour traffic, which wasn’t so bad since she was heading south on the expressway, but it still took her over thirty minutes to make the five mile trek over to the Tech campus.

  During the drive she checked out Hannah Kaye on social media. The last entry had been two months ago. She had a busy life.

  Miranda’s navigation system ended when she reached the Registration building so she drove around through the shady lanes of the grounds a good while, hunting for the right facility in the endless rows of boxy red brick buildings situated every which way in the name of design. She went to the East Campus and was told she should be on the West Campus. She overshot her turn and ended up near a golf course. She made another wrong turn and nearly ended up on the freeway.

  When she’d finally located the hall where Hannah Kaye lived she decided she was far too dependent on GPS. She needed to retune her sense of direction.

  The parking deck was expensive and crowded so she had to drive around some more to find a spot on the street—and still ended up having to stuff quarters in a meter. No wonder it cost so much to go to college.

  At last she got her bearings. A pass card was required at the gate so she pretended she’d forgotten it and waited for a group of students to stroll by. She followed them in. Acting as if she belonged here, she began to make her way over the curvy walkway.

  It was still in the low nineties, typical for the early fall in Atlanta, and humid. She could feel the sweat beading up on her back, staining her good blouse under her suit jacket. Just what she needed. Another cleaning bill. She hadn’t intended on spending the money from Santiago on that.

  She was probably overdressed for campus, but she hadn’t had time to change. Maybe the students would think she was a professor. Hah.

  As a rule Miranda didn’t care much for institutions of higher learning. All those teachers and textbooks and tests made her skin crawl. Not that she didn’t have something of an education herself. She’d attended college here and there around the country in her wanderings, mostly community colleges with practical studies like carpentry or welding. But she’d never stuck with any program.