Roses from My Killer

by Linsey Lanier

  Fanuzzi eyed her cautiously.

  “I can bake. And you can teach me your specialties.”

  Fanuzzi’s gaze shifted at the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

  Hoping it wasn’t Becker, Miranda turned in the direction.

  It was Parker.

  As he moved toward her, cell phone in hand, she eyed the expensive dark suit that caressed the muscles of his toned body. His dark hair was a little grayer around the temples. She blamed that on their last case. They’d been through a literal hell. But no matter where they were or what condition either of them was in, he could always make her heart come alive.

  Right now he wore a serious look on his handsome face that told her something was wrong. As his gray eyes locked on hers, her heart froze.

  “I apologize for interrupting,” he said to Coco and Fanuzzi. “I need to speak to my wife.”

  “Sure, Wade.” Coco put her arm around Fanuzzi. “I think we should get you home.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll talk to you later, Murray.”

  “Okay. Take care.” And Miranda watched Coco help Fanuzzi back down the hall to the living room.

  “Is Joan all right?” Parker asked, concerned for their friend.

  “It’s morning sickness. She’s got it bad.”

  He nodded. There was nothing either of them could do for that.

  Miranda pointed to his cell phone. “What is it?”

  “We’ve got a case. A rather grisly one, I’m afraid.”

  She could see the disquiet in his eyes. It sparked the same feelings in her. “A murder?”

  He nodded. “Suspected to be the work of a serial killer.”

  Another one of those. Fun, she thought, fighting down the nerves that suddenly swarmed in her stomach. “Who’s the client?”

  “A police department on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.”

  “Okay.” She’d never been there before. Must have been one of Parker’s connections who’d called.

  “There’s no direct flight, so it will take us some time to get there.”

  Miranda pushed her hair away from her face. “You want to leave right away?”

  “I hate to tear you away from this.”

  She smirked. “It’s all right. Mackenzie’s upstairs having fun with her friends, anyway.”

  Solemnly he nodded. He was well aware of how much she agonized over her daughter. “Would you like to take a team member with us?”

  He wasn’t going to let her shake the boss role, was he?

  She thought a moment. Holloway was just back from his leave of absence and his head was still in a funk. His ex-wife had been denied bond and was being held for psychiatric evaluation while waiting for trial. She couldn’t tear Becker away now. Fanuzzi needed him, even with her mood swings. Fry wouldn’t leave the office. That left just one person.

  “How about Wesson? She was good on the Boudreaux case.”

  “Yes, she was. But you may want to rethink that.”

  “Oh, why?”

  He drew in a breath. “The person who called was Officer Cindy Smith.”

  Miranda frowned a moment, unable to place the name. Then it came to her. “The Cindy Smith I went through training with?”

  “The Cindy Smith who dropped out of training,” he corrected.

  All Miranda could remember was that Smith and Wesson hung out so much together, their names became a class joke, especially when they’d studied firearms. And that the pair had done all they could to make her life miserable.

  And now she was going to put them back together again?

  “Cindy Smith is a police officer in North Carolina?”

  “Apparently. It’s her home town. She returned there after she left the Agency.”

  “Why is she calling us?”

  “It’s seems her boss insisted. He doesn’t think his staff has the expertise to handle a case like this.”

  Miranda didn’t know what to say. A grisly murder, a serial killer, and Smith and Wesson, too? She rubbed her arms, trying to make the anxious feelings go away.

  “I can suggest someone else to them,” Parker offered.

  Had he been hoping she’d say that? This case must be bad. Really bad. And after what they’d been through a couple of weeks ago, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to pass on this one. But she wasn’t going to let a killer go free. Especially not a serial killer. Not if she could do something to stop him.

  It just wasn’t in her nature.

  Dismissing Parker’s offer, she shook her head. “You get the tickets, I’ll call Wesson.”

  Chapter Five

  Wesson was on a date at a noisy nightclub on the strip when Miranda called, but she sounded happy to drop everything and meet her and Parker at the airport.

  After saying goodbye to their friends and calling another “Happy Birthday” upstairs to Mackenzie, she and Parker left for the penthouse.

  “We’ve been doing so much traveling lately, we should probably just keep a couple bags packed,” Miranda muttered as she tossed some things into her suitcase on the big luxurious bed she shared with her husband.

  Parker’s only response was a grim look.

  He was worried about her, she knew. She’d lived through a walking nightmare on their last case, and she already could tell this one was going to be difficult as well.

  “I’ll be okay,” she whispered to him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek as she zipped up her case and headed downstairs with him.

  At Hartsfield-Jackson, Wesson met them in the lobby with her flaming red hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing fashion jeans, sandals, a black leather-sleeved jacket, and a large pair of sunglasses. She looked more like a fashion model than a private detective.

  Parker managed to get them on the next flight out. They were going to a town called New Bern, which was still about two and a half hours from their destination. They tried to catch some shut eye on the plane, but Miranda was worried about getting to that crime scene in time. She had no idea what Cindy Smith might be doing while she waited. Evidence could be contaminated, and the condition of the body—Miranda didn’t want to think about that.

  When they landed at the small regional airport, Parker told her they had the option of renting a private plane and flying into an airport in a small town called Manteo. Parker was a good pilot. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust his abilities. But it was dark and with the winds, the unfamiliar territory, and their experience in Brazil last July, Miranda thought it would be better to drive.

  She was glad when Parker concurred.

  They rented a silver Nissan Rouge with charcoal interior, which had plenty of room for Wesson’s extra luggage. After an hour’s delay, they took off over the flat sandy Coastal Plain.

  Miranda napped most of the drive, as did Wesson, whose soft snoring in the backseat kept her from falling into a deep sleep. It was just as well. Since their last case, Miranda’s dreams had been more troubling than usual.

  She woke when Parker pulled into the lot of a small two-story brick building that looked more like a large house than a police department.

  “This is it?”

  “It is.”

  “And where are we again?”

  “On the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It’s an irregular line of coastal landforms stretching over two-hundred miles along the edge of the Atlantic.”

  He held out his phone so she could see the map he’d been following along with the GPS on the dash. Apparently they’d crossed two bridges and a large island and were now on a narrow strip of land to the east. Waterways with spiny fingers stretched in every direction.

  Parker pointed to the red dot that was their destination. “This is Nags Head, in the northern part.”

  “So we’re near the ocean.”

  “We are. The coast includes a number of sounds and landforms, much of which is occupied by dozens of privately owned luxury homes. Most of them are rented to tourists during the peak season.”

  “Which isn’t now, I
take it.”

  “No. The population decreases dramatically during the off season.”

  Maybe that would decrease the number of suspects.

  “My father owned several properties in the area at one time. I vaguely remember visiting here when I was a boy. He sold them a few months before a hurricane hit.”

  Nice. Mr. P always had impeccable timing when it came to finance. She frowned. “Was that where the body was found? In one of those rental homes?”

  “I gathered as much, but Officer Smith didn’t give me many details.”

  “Then let’s go find out.” She turned toward the backseat. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. We’re here.”

  “Already?” Wesson stirred and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Just after midnight. Time to get the party started.”

  As Miranda got out of the car and headed for the entrance with Parker and a sleepy Wesson, the first thing she felt was the salty wind against her face, teasing at her hair. She pulled her dark gray single-breasted trench coat around her, thankful Parker had bought it for her and insisted she bring it, and made her way across the asphalt to the glass entrance.

  Gentleman that he was, Parker held the door open for both of the ladies. But once inside, he let Miranda take over.

  She walked up to a well-lit reception area.

  Peeking through the glass divider, she saw neatly stacked folders, pens in a cup, a dark computer screen, and an empty chair.

  “Nobody’s home,” she smirked to Parker. “Hello?” she called through the mouthpiece, a tad of annoyance in her voice. “Officer Smith?” That title was hard to get out.

  Parker took out his phone. “I’ll give her a call.”

  “Maybe she’s out on patrol.”

  Wesson frowned. “Who is it we’re supposed to see?”

  Miranda hadn’t told her who had called them for help.

  Before she could think of a good reply, a wooden door in the far wall opened and a woman appeared. She was dressed in a dark police uniform, complete with badge, shoulder patches, and a loaded duty belt. Tall and thin, she still wore the short sunflower-blond curls Miranda remembered.

  “Mr. Parker, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said in a Southern accent thicker than Miranda recalled. Then she stared at who was with him, her electric blue eyes widening with surprise. “Wesson? I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Beside her, Wesson blinked. “Cindy Smith? I didn’t know you were the client. It’s good to see you.”

  Wesson rushed across the floor and gave her old buddy a hug. Laughing, they broke apart and pointed their forefingers at each other as if they were guns.

  “Bam,” they said in unison.

  Then they spun around and stood back-to-back as they blew on their fingers at the same time, like a coordinated dance move.

  “Smith and Wesson together again,” they said, and broke into laughter.

  Oh, brother. Miranda remembered that silly exercise they’d invented when they were IITs. She cleared her throat and the room went silent.

  Smith’s eyes went wide again, this time with embarrassment. Her cheeks turned pinkish. “Steele. I’m glad to see you, too. Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it.”

  Miranda gave her a nod. “I understand from what you said on the phone this case is urgent?”

  “Yes. Very urgent.”

  Before she could reply, another police officer appeared behind the window.

  “Smith?” he barked through the glass, but his voice was muffled. “What are you doing out there?”

  He held up a finger, turned and hurried out of sight. A moment later the door opened again and he marched into the reception area wearing a deep scowl.

  He was a skinny dude, about three inches shorter than Smith. His straight blond hair was combed back and glistened under the fluorescent light. His skin was tanned, but just now his face had a dark red hue. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with obvious irritation.

  He glared at Smith with bulging brown eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me they were here?” he growled.

  “They just arrived.”

  He shook his head in disgust, then held out a hand first to Parker, then to Miranda. “Mr. Parker. Ms. Steele. I’m Sergeant James Ballard. I’m so glad you’ve come. And you brought another investigator, too?”

  “This is Janelle Wesson. She’s a member of our team,” Miranda explained.

  The sergeant shook hands with her as well, his gaze lingering a bit on her attractive frame.

  “The more the merrier.” Ballard turned to Smith. “Have you shown them the crime scene?”

  Smith’s cheeks were burning now. “No, sir. Like I said, they just got here.”

  He clapped his hands at her, like a schoolteacher gathering up young children. “Well, let’s get to it. The coroner will be here soon.” He turned back to Parker. “I hope you can help us with this case.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Miranda could hear the disapproval in Parker’s tone at the way this man handled his employee.

  “And I hope you don’t mind handling any reporters who might show up,” Ballard said. “We want to keep this as quiet as possible. Ours is a small, friendly resort community. We don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about us.”

  “Wrong idea?” Miranda said.

  “Our town is a safe place for folks to come and relax on vacation. It’s not a murder capital.” He gave her a sheepish grin.

  So he was more interested in the town’s reputation than in solving the case. And he didn’t seem to think too highly of Smith. For a brief instant, Miranda felt sorry for the woman.

  Straightening her shoulders she faced the man. “We’ll do what we can, Sergeant. Now, as you said, we’d like to see the crime scene.”

  “Of course.” He turned to his officer and snapped his fingers. “Smith, take them over there now.”

  Smith struggled to swallow down her wounded pride. “Yessir. My squad car’s out back. You can follow me.”

  Chapter Six

  Smith led them north up the main highway, then down a side street and into a residential area lined with multi-story homes. Bunched together to make the most of the real estate, they reminded Miranda of some of the high-end subdivisions in Atlanta.

  At last Smith pulled over near a pretty yellow house with white trim. Lights were on in every room, as if a rousing party were going on.

  Another police car was parked along the curb, its lights flashing. An officer was in the yard, guarding the area cordoned off with crime scene tape. He looked a little bored, and Miranda wondered how much progress they’d made.

  As soon as Parker stopped the car, Miranda hopped out and headed toward the officer. “I’m Miranda Steele,” she told him. “My team and I have been called in to help investigate.”

  The officer straightened and looked at Smith, who was coming up the yard behind her.

  “That’s right, Hill,” Smith called to him. “Sergeant Ballard asked me to call them.”

  The officer named Hill seemed young. He was a bit overweight and had no hair on his head. He ran a hand over his scalp, then eyed Miranda carefully.

  “Did you say Miranda Steele?” His gaze drifted to Parker, who had just reached her side. “And Wade Parker? From Atlanta? I’ve read about you both in the paper.” His eyes went wide as he caught sight of Wesson with her flaming ponytail and stylish duds. “And you are?”

  “Janelle Wesson,” she said shaking his hand.

  “We’re here to do all we can,” Parker assured the officer.

  “That’s good. Good. We need all the help we can get. It’s a real mess in there.” His face turned a little pale as he said the words.

  “He’s right. You’d better put these on.” From a case on the ground, Smith handed each of them a pair of gloves, booties, and a face mask.

  This was going to be worse than she thought, Miranda decided, as she put her equipment on.

  When they were ready, Hill steppe
d aside and let everyone through the tape.

  As they headed up a set of friendly-looking white steps, Smith filled them in.

  “Around four-thirty this afternoon I got a call from a neighbor who said someone in the vicinity was playing a loud radio. When I arrived, I could hear the noise from the street, so I came up here to check it out. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, so I went around toward the back.”

  She led them over the deck, their footsteps clattering on the wooden boards, as they retraced her steps to the back of the house. “No one answered here, either,” she said. “These homes usually have the main living area on the top floor so folks can enjoy the ocean view, so I figured the occupant might be upstairs.”

  She led them up a narrow staircase to the upper deck.

  “I found the sliding door back here open, so I stepped inside.” She moved to the doors and opened them. “And this is what I found.”

  Miranda adjusted the mask over her face and stepped through the opening and into a living room.

  Even through the mask, the odor in the air made her eyes water.

  The space was done in light, beach-toned colors of teal and turquoise and peach. A large sofa with comfortable looking cushions occupied a spot near a far wall. Placed around the room in a tasteful arrangement were guest chairs, white furniture, sea green table lamps. The hardwood floor was a light pecan. A mosaic crab hung over a fireplace tucked into an alcove.

  A nice cozy place to vacation—except for the naked body in the middle of the floor.

  “Dear Lord in Heaven,” Parker murmured behind her.

  That was followed by a soft gasp from Wesson.

  Miranda stepped around an armchair to get a better look.

  The woman was young. Maybe in her early thirties. Pretty. Some might say beautiful. She had been tall and shapely when alive. The coffee table had been moved to the side and she had been placed on a throw rug as if she were part of the décor. Her long thick golden-blond ringlets had been carefully laid out on the floor to highlight her face.

  Her eyes were closed, thank God, but her expression wasn’t serene.

  There was agony in it.

  It was easy to see what had caused the anguish. Bloody gouges covered her body. Miranda counted a dozen or more of them. He must have sliced her up with a knife. Probably worked on her for hours. Hours of wretched misery for her.