“Yes. The dancing. The boyfriend was my first suspect.”
Chambers took another swig of frosted orange and leaned back in the booth. “That guy wouldn’t have the strength to kill anyone even if he wanted to. He looked like he was scared of his own shadow.”
Miranda studied the sheen on the chili on her dog and thought of Marty Jenkins’ skinny white hairless chest. “Yeah, I just picked up on something I overheard his friend say yesterday. It was just guy talk.”
He gave her a smug smirk. Then he got serious. “Have you contacted the parents?”
“Not yet.” She had been avoiding that move. All she needed was worried parents breathing down her neck along with Santiago.
Chambers set his empty cup down on the table. “She could be at her folks all this time safe and sound.”
She crammed the rest of the dog into her mouth and washed it down with soda. “I know. I’ll get to it. Haven’t been on it twenty-four hours.”
“Have you tried the hospitals? The Medical Examiner’s Office?”
“Not yet.” She balled up her wrapper in her fist.
Chambers was starting to annoy her. She didn’t need a cop telling her how to run an investigation. She’d gotten the lead on the boyfriend, so she’d jumped ahead in the standard checklist. Would have been a brilliant move if he’d have been the killer. And even though he wasn’t, it was the right move.
“I’ll be working on all that this afternoon,” she told him.
“Have you checked her car?”
She hadn’t even checked if Hannah Kaye had a car yet. But it had crossed her mind that she must have had one to get to the club at the hours she worked. She just hadn’t had time. She needed an assistant.
“Been focusing on the boyfriend,” she said.
“I can run it for you.”
Miranda stiffened. She didn’t want a cop muscling in on her case and she was pretty sure Santiago wouldn’t appreciate it, either.
She recalled how ambitious Chambers was. The only reason he’d responded to her call was because she’d helped him move up in the ranks a year ago. She wanted an assistant. Not a cop meddling in her case so he could make a name for himself in the department.
She gathered up her trash and slid out of the booth. “Thanks, but I’ll take care of it,” she told him with a smile.
Chambers gave her a long steady look that said he thought he could do it better. “If your girl does turn up dead, we’ll be getting involved anyway.” He got up and followed her as she moved to the trash receptacle.
“If she does, I’ll call you in.” She shoved the paper and cup into the bin and watched him toss in his drink. “I need to get back to the office.”
They strolled out and he was gentlemanly enough to hold the door for her. Even that gesture seemed to have ulterior motives.
“Why don’t you swing by the morgue first?” he said. “I can get you in quick.”
Now that assistance she could use. She turned to study his expression. His baby face features seemed sincere.
What could he do, anyway? Nothing she couldn’t handle. “Sounds good,” she told him and headed for her car.
Chapter Fifteen
The Fulton County Medical Examiner’s office was just a short jaunt of four miles away.
Again Miranda followed the tail lights of Chambers’ Interceptor, this time back west and down Northside Drive, the Coca-Cola building and various bank buildings making a jagged line against the clear sky in the distance.
Chambers got her in through a back door and introduced her to three of the examiners on duty, which was cool.
But after a search of the databases and facilities, they could find no Hannah Kaye and no Jane Doe matching her description. So Chambers’ smart-sounding move turned out to be as much of a bust as hers with Marty Jenkins.
Feeling vindicated, she said thanks and good-bye to the detective and headed back to her office.
She had just reached the dingy hall that led to her new digs when she stopped short.
Standing before her waiting room door was her daughter, Mackenzie Chatham.
The girl spun around to her, deep blue eyes burning. “Where have you been? I was just about to leave.”
Miranda was stunned. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
She rolled her eyes. “We had a half day. There’s a teachers’ conference.”
“Already?” Something fishy about that story.
The girl shrugged.
Still, to add weight to her claim, she had a backpack slung over her shoulder, the tips of her thick ebony hair trailing over the top of it. Her hair had gotten longer since Miranda saw her last.
Dressed in a flowing sleeveless top in a pastel southwestern design, complete with embroidered shoulder straps, she looked very grown up. Except for the pale blue pair of boyfriend jeans with the fashion holes in the knees. Definitely something a fourteen-year-old would wear to school.
Mackenzie pushed her silky hair over her shoulder and gestured to the door. “Are you going to let me in, Mother?”
“Sure.” Miranda got out her key and unlocked the door—she’d remembered to lock it this time.
The door rattled and squeaked embarrassingly as Miranda opened it, and they both went inside. Before the girl could take in much of the prints and the second-hand furniture in the waiting room, Miranda crossed to her inner office, unlocked it as well and ushered her inside and into the same guest chair Fanuzzi had used yesterday.
And Santiago before her.
Well, if she was going to run a PI business there’d probably be a large assortment of strange butts in that chair. She’d better get used to it.
“All I have is coffee.” She gestured toward the corner, wishing she had a fridge stocked with soda.
Mackenzie wrinkled her nose and perched on the chair as she lowered her backpack to the floor. “No, thanks.” She glanced around the small room. “This place is nice.”
Really. This from a girl who grew up in an oversized mansion? Miranda decided she needed something to wet her throat and since there wasn’t any booze, she started up the coffee pot.
“How did you get down here?” she asked, tossing grounds into the filter. She didn’t ask how she knew where to find her. Either she’d seen the Craigslist ad, or Fanuzzi had told Colby and Colby had mentioned it. Or maybe it was the cheesy website Miranda had put together.
“I took Marta then I walked.” Mackenzie’s tone had the lofty air she used to use before they knew each other.
Miranda eyed the round dark spot on the side of the girl’s neck. The one that had convinced her more than anything that Mackenzie was her daughter. “This isn’t a very nice neighborhood, you know.”
“Then why are you here?”
Miranda folded her arms and tapped her fingers against her elbows, willing the coffee pot to hurry up and brew. She needed something to do with her hands. She should have gotten one of those high-powered gadgets.
If she were honest with herself, she was thrilled to death to see Mackenzie. She could only hope the girl had dropped by to see how Miranda was doing, though she’d never admit it. But she wondered if there was another reason.
At last the coffee started to drizzle.
Miranda grabbed a mug and held it under the spout. “How’s school?”
Mackenzie shrugged. “Okay.”
Miranda replaced the pot, took the mug and sat down in her chair.
Mackenzie smiled. “That’s cute.” She pointed at the mug.
Miranda turned it around and saw the two gray kittens playing with a big ball of yarn. Part of the cheap set she’d bought at the thrift store. She wished she had looked at it more carefully when she’d picked it up.
“It’s so you,” her daughter said with a smile, meaning exactly the opposite.
Miranda ignored the comment. “So you’re in high school now. Classes going well?”
“As well as can be expected.”
She’d always ma
de top grades. Mackenzie’s adopted parents wouldn’t allow any less. Miranda didn’t expect that to change so she didn’t press. “Are you still coaching?”
Mackenzie had been ranked among the top ice skating contenders in the nation last year, but that awful incident in Lake Placid had set her back. She’d turned to coaching in the meantime. Particularly, coaching Wendy Van Aarle.
“If you’re trying to ask if I’ve made up with Wendy, the answer is no.”
Sharp girl. “Aren’t you two going to the same school?”
“So?”
“Do you have any classes together?”
“We manage to avoid each other.”
That worried Miranda. Not just for her daughter and her stubborn refusal to make up with her friend but for Wendy. She’d had a hard time with other girls in school when Miranda first met her—actually that was pretty much of an understatement—and if Mackenzie dropped her, she might wind up on the bottom of the adolescent social totem pole again.
But she didn’t push. She knew that would only make Mackenzie dig her heels in harder.
She took a sip of coffee and continued the casual third degree. “Does Colby know you’re here?”
“She’s at a club meeting. And Dad’s working, of course. So no, he doesn’t know either.” There was a don’t-you-dare-tell-them threat in her voice.
“Well, next time you want to talk, text me. We can do something together.” Miranda just didn’t want her getting hurt.
Mackenzie straightened her shoulders in a businesslike pose. “Actually, this isn’t a social visit.”
Miranda’s first impulse was to smile at the girl’s formality. But she had a feeling she knew what was coming next.
She sat up straighter, looking more grown up than she was, every pore oozing the poise her adopted parents had schooled into her. “Now that you’re on your own, Mother, I thought you might want to work for me.”
Miranda put her mug down. “Doing what?”
“You know what.”
Of course, she knew. Mackenzie still wanted to find her father. Dear Lord. “Haven’t we already discussed that?”
“I thought things might be different now.” Her deep blue eyes, nearly the color of her own, sparkled like razors as they dug into her, asking the silent question. What happened between you and Mr. Parker?
“They aren’t different.”
“Of course, they are. You’re—” she waved a hand around the office, “on your own now,” she repeated.
Her gaze was unrelenting. What happened between you and Mr. Parker? There was accusation in those deep blue eyes and Miranda felt the full sting of it. Her breakup with Parker had to be unsettling for the girl. Miranda despised the chaos she’d brought into her daughter’s life. Sometimes she wondered if it would have been better if she’d never found her.
Miranda shook her head in disbelief. “What did you think, Mackenzie? Because I work for myself now I’d change my mind?”
She blinked at her. “But you’re…single again.”
Single again? Nice way of putting it. And what did that matter? “Whether I’m married to Parker or not has nothing to do with how I feel about the man who raped me fifteen years ago. How could you think that?” Did she think it was Parker’s idea not to go after her birth father? If she only knew.
“I thought you might need a case. I have money. I have my own checking account.”
Now it was Miranda’s turn to roll her eyes. “I don’t need your money. I’ve got a client. And even if I wanted to take your ‘case’—which I most definitely do not—I can’t. The case I’ve got is keeping me busy round the clock.” A little exaggeration, but not by much.
Her pretty mouth pulling into a thin line, Mackenzie’s eyes bore into her. “You don’t have a case.”
“I do.”
“Prove it.”
Prove it? She didn’t have to prove it. It was none of Mackenzie’s business. But she found herself zipping open her briefcase and reaching for the file she’d started on Hannah Kaye last night.
She slammed it on the desk. “Here’s your proof.”
Her expression turning to surprise Mackenzie eyed the folder as if it were a mousetrap. “What is it?”
“A local college student is missing. Looks like she’s in trouble and I have to find her. Hopefully alive.”
Mackenzie’s face turned grim. “How awful.”
“Isn’t it, though?” She gestured toward the tiny window. “That’s why I don’t want you walking around here. If you want to see me, text first. I’ll come get you.”
“But—”
“I’m not going to look for your father, Mackenzie, and that’s final.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Miranda got to her feet. “C’mon. I’m taking you home.”
“You’re not even listening to me.”
“Home,” Miranda snapped.
“I didn’t think you had time,” she sniped, eyes flashing with rage.
Miranda wished she could ground the kid. “I don’t. So let’s get going.”
Chapter Sixteen
Parker stared at the screen on his office desk, feeling his eyes growing bloodshot in their sockets. The list of phone numbers seemed to stare back at him, mocking his efforts.
He had called every major television station in every major city in the country and several midsized ones. He’d had to use his best persuasion techniques to get through the gatekeepers to someone who could answer his questions and even then there had been more delays.
But no one had a record of a caller asking about Miranda Steele of the Parker Agency during the timeframe of the Las Vegas press conference.
This search was turning out to be as fruitless as the one in Chicago.
Scrolling down to estimate how much more time this would take, he heard a knock on his door.
He turned his head and saw Dave Becker standing in the hall, papers in his hand. Had he found something?
“What is it, Dave? Come in.”
The man approached his desk with mincing steps. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Parker.”
“That’s all right. Have a seat.”
He straightened his orange T-shirt, adjusted his jeans and sat down. After a swipe at his large nose with his damaged finger his gaze danced around the room then focused outside the window.
“Have you had any luck on that assignment I gave you?” Parker prompted.
“We had a bunch of hits on the Agency website the hours after Steele was on TV in Las Vegas. Nothing looks suspicious, though.”
“And the television stations?”
Dave shook his head. “So far nobody called any of the stations I’ve contacted. How about you, sir?”
Parker leaned back in his chair ignoring the stab of disappointment he felt at the words, even though it was exactly what he’d expected. “I’ve had the same result.”
Dave gazed out the window again, his thoughts drifting. “It’s just that—”
“What, Dave?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
A good sign. “Go ahead.”
“Actually, I ran into Holloway and Wesson in the break room an hour ago. They asked what I was working on, so I ran it past them. I didn’t tell them about the texts. Just the general details. Hope you don’t mind.”
Parker had wanted to play his hand close to his chest. Both Curt Holloway and Janelle Wesson had been Miranda’s colleagues at the Agency. All four, including Dave, had graduated at the top of their training class. He wasn’t sure where their loyalties lay, and learning of this side project might cause office gossip. He’d have to do some damage control—preferably before the damage occurred.
He did mind, but he decided to overlook it. “And what were their thoughts?” he said.
“Same as mine.” Dave rustled the papers in his hands, lifted his head, daring to make eye contact with his boss. He looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Which are?”
“Well…I…don’t
want to bring up bad memories, but like I said, I’ve been thinking and…”
“Yes?”
Suddenly, he blurted it out. “Steele was on TV before you two went to Las Vegas.”
True, Miranda had garnered some notoriety in the press here in Atlanta due to the cases she’d solved, but that wasn’t a large enough reach.
“That was local,” Parker told him. “And confined mostly to the newspaper and radio. Someone in Chicago wouldn’t have seen or heard it.”
Dave shifted his weight the other way and looked down at his running shoes. “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Parker.”
“What do you mean?”
He took a deep breath to fortify himself and said in a near whisper, “Lake Placid.”
Lake Placid.
Parker’s thoughts shot back to one of the most dreadful times of his life. The crowds, the police. He remembered the endless medicinal smells of the hospital, the hours he’d spent in its chapel, begging God for Miranda’s life. And then vaguely, he remembered the reporters at the crime scene, others at the hospital he’d turned away. He’d been too distraught to speak to them. They’d gotten the story anyway. Dave was right. The coverage of that event had gone national, too.
Slowly he nodded. “Excellent work, Dave. We’ll need to adjust our time frame then.”
Dave looked down at the papers in his hand with a weary look. “And start all over?”
“I’m afraid so. Think of it as a fishing expedition. We both need to exercise a good bit of patience to get a nibble.”
Rising, he nodded compliantly. “That’s what I figured. Guess I need to get started on that.”
“I appreciate it. If you’re getting behind on the Peregrin case, I can pass it to Fry.”
“Oh. I’m almost finished. I found the breach. One of the salesmen had a weak password. I changed it, added a block. Just need to finish installing the patches.”
Parker couldn’t help smiling with pride. Dave Becker hadn’t shown a great deal of promise when he started at the Agency but he’d found his niche.
“Excellent,” he told him.
“Thanks, Mr. Parker.” And he shuffled out of the room.
Parker returned to his screen with a new surge of hope. Dave’s point was a good one.
Smoke Screen (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 7) Page 9
