Trial by Fire (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 6)
Trial by Fire
A Miranda and Parker Mystery
Book 6
by
Linsey Lanier
Copyright © 2015 Linsey Lanier
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ISBN: 978-1-941191-20-0
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Trial by Fire
Miranda Steele has a reputation for being tough. But that won’t keep her daughter from searching for her real father. If Mackenzie found the man who raped Miranda fifteen years ago? The fallout would be…well, traumatic would be an understatement.
Meanwhile her sexy investigator husband wants to take on a cold case back in Chicago. A house fire that might have been arson. Miranda is less than thrilled, but Parker won’t take no for an answer.
When Miranda learns years ago a young female art student was burnt to a crisp in her own bed, the case sparks a desire to find who did it and bring him to justice.
But suddenly Parker becomes aloof. He’s up to something, Miranda knows. She just can't figure out what. And now she’s beginning to sense the presence of something very, very evil.
When the case starts to dig up painful memories, Miranda sees Parker's secrets could ignite her past into an inferno that might destroy them.
Can she make Parker tell her the truth before it’s too late? Or will they both go up in flames?
Edited by
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Books by Linsey Lanier
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THE MIRANDA’S RIGHTS MYSTERY SERIES
Someone Else’s Daughter – Book I
Delicious Torment – Book II
Forever Mine – Book III
Fire Dancer – Book IV
Thin Ice – Book V
THE MIRANDA AND PARKER MYSTERY SERIES
All Eyes on Me
Heart Wounds
Clowns and Cowboys
The Watcher
Zero Dark Chocolate
Trial by Fire
Smoke Screen
OTHER SUSPENSE BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER:
Chicago Cop (A cop family thriller)
Steal My Heart (A Romantic Suspense)
HUMOROUS BOOKS BY LINSEY LANIER
You Want Me to Kill Who? (A Dandy Frost—Ninja Assassin Story) #1
You Want Me to Go Where? (A Dandy Frost—Ninja Assassin Story) #2
The Clever Detective Boxed Set 2 (A Fairy Tale Romance): Stories 1-5
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
More Books by Linsey Lanier
Excerpts
Chapter One
They call me Smoke.
A wisp here. A wisp there. And before you know it, I’m gone.
But then I’m a clever sort. At least Mother always used to say so when she taught me to play the clarinet. She doted on me. Sometimes. And at other times…well, we don’t want to think about those times.
She was very good with music…and with pain.
He said I was clever, too. But then I never knew if he was telling the truth or not. And besides, he was crazy.
Not like me. I always keep a clear head. Which is why I’ve never been caught for my crimes. And yes, I know they are crimes. I’m not delusional, after all. Not the way he was.
But I don’t call them crimes. They are my projects. And they are so much fun! How I love to hear the sound of female screams in my ears. Smell their fear. Watch the look of terror in their eyes when they realize there is no way out.
No escape from…me.
I pretend they are Mother. And I’m simply reciprocating the lessons she taught me.
He didn’t care for females. We were different that way. To each his own.
I should amend that statement about my crimes. I was caught, but only once. But then it hadn’t been me they were after that time. I was so young and innocent back then. Too young to appreciate the irony.
But I did not remain innocent.
I learned quickly. And as I said, I’ve never been caught. No one has ever escaped me.
Except one—my first.
She was the special one. Quaint. Sweet. The memory of her grows stronger with age. But I didn’t know what I was doing then.
It has taken a long while to perfect my technique, to reach the pinnacle I’m at now. And it took just as long to realize that all this time, I’ve been waiting for her.
I’ve had to be patient for her. Extremely patient. It’s taken much, much longer than any of my other projects. I’ve watched her now for almost a year. But all that waiting is about to pay off. It’s almost time. It’s all about to come to fruition.
I can hardly wait to hear this one scream.
Chapter Two
Fanuzzi’s Brooklyn accent hissed in her ear. “Do you see her?”
Her cell pressed against her cheek, Miranda Steele scanned the elevator banks and listened to the sound of expensive wingtips and pumps hurrying across the marble floored lobby of the downtown medical building.
She took a nervous breath of the warm air that the A/C for such a huge space couldn’t quite cool at the end of July in Atlanta, Georgia, and studied the people passing under the glasslike twenty-foot artwork along one of the walls.
There was no sign of an ebony-haired, self-possessed fourteen-year-old girl.
“Not yet,” she told her friend.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. She’ll co
me around eventually. Kids always do.”
Not this kid.
Fourteen years ago Miranda had lost her. Now she feared she was losing her all over again in a different way.
“What would you do if this were Callie?”
A sigh of defeat came through the phone. “Okay. You made your point.” Fanuzzi’s daughter, Callie, was still a little girl, but her friend dreaded what would be coming when the child reached “those” years.
But this was more than a case of pubescent rebellion.
Two weeks ago there had been a tense scene at the Chatham mansion. Two young girls fighting over a boy, no less. And during the squabble Miranda had learned her daughter, Mackenzie Chatham, had been looking for her father.
Her real father. Behind everyone’s back.
And Mackenzie hadn’t spoken to Miranda since.
Mackenzie’s adopted parents learned the news at the same time Miranda did and had heaped all manner of punishment onto the girl in response, one of which was forcing her to see Dr. Valerie Wingate, the same shrink Miranda had gone to over a year ago.
That’s where Mackenzie was now. In this building, in Dr. Wingate’s fifth story office. The visit should have been over by now.
Miranda glanced at the time on her phone. Either she’d missed her coming out or the session was going long. She wondered if the girl was tearing up the doctor’s office in a fit of rage. No, she might be mad at the world, but Mackenzie was too classy for that.
Just then she glanced up at the escalator and spotted a patch of deep black hair being flipped over a narrow shoulder.
“I see her,” Miranda whispered into the phone. “Gotta go.”
“Okay,” Fanuzzi said. “Don’t forget about Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?”
“You asked me to help you pick out a gift for Wade?”
This weekend was the first year anniversary of Miranda’s marriage to Wade Russell Parker the Third, the most desirable man in all Atlanta. The man who had changed her life. The man who meant the world to her.
Miranda had no idea what to get him.
Fanuzzi was throwing a party for them that Saturday and was as excited about it as a kid in a bubble gum store. She had eagerly volunteered to help Miranda out of her dilemma about the gift.
“Oh, right.” Heart throbbing Miranda watched the dark-haired girl step off the escalator in that confident way of hers and head across the lobby to the exit. “Gotta go,” she repeated.
“Good luck, Murray. But don’t be upset if it doesn’t go well.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Only half listening to the warning, Miranda hung up and made a beeline for her prey.
The girl was wearing a fashionable lavender floral print top with a denim vest that flapped as she walked. Her white designer jeans nearly made her blend into the pale décor but the purple tennis shoes on her swift-moving feet made her easier to track. She’d been a top skating contender and was in good shape. She could move fast.
Miranda didn’t catch up to her until she was just about to slip through the revolving doors and disappear into the street.
Couldn’t let her get that far.
“How’d your session go?” she called out.
Mackenzie stopped, spun around, her hair spreading out and falling at her shoulders like a shampoo commercial. “Mother.”
“Dr. Wingate’s pretty good, huh?”
Her eyes blazed. “Thanks to you, I’m now being forced to see a psychologist. What do you want?”
A tall, black suited man with a briefcase nearly bumped into Miranda. He recovered in time, swerved around her and Mackenzie and scooted through the doors muttering to himself.
Miranda ignored him. “Why haven’t you replied to my texts?”
Mackenzie folded her arms as if this conversation were so far beneath her, she had to descend from her throne to conduct it. “I did reply.”
Miranda whipped out her cell, scrolled to the messages. The sum total of your replies to my umteen texts were “k,” “sure,” and “whatever.”
She held up the display.
“Excuse us.” Two middle aged women in summer skirts too tight for their butts hustled past with vicious looks.
The girl didn’t even look at the cell phone. Instead she bore down on Miranda with her razor blue eyes, so like her own. “I don't have anything to say to you, Mother.”
And she turned and followed the two ladies out of the building.
Miranda shot after her through the revolving doors, wound up sharing the tight glass enclosed compartment with a skinny guy in a gray suit who was wearing way too much cologne. Cursing the slow speed of the contraption, she recalled how much she despised these things.
By the time she fought her way out of it and onto the street, Mackenzie was a half a block ahead of her.
Flanked by twenty-story buildings, accosted by the summer heat, and encased by the sounds and smells of city traffic, Miranda pushed through the swarm of business people on the sidewalk rushing to get to lunch.
When she was in earshot, she raised her voice. “Well, I have something to say to you.”
Mackenzie came to a halt on the corner, trapped by the flashing “Don’t Walk” hand.
She turned around and lifted her palms in defeat. “Say it then.”
Miranda caught up to her, dared to match her cold gaze. “Not here. Not on the street. Let’s go to my car.”
The girl stepped back, shaking her head. “I’m not going with you.”
“Ice cream then. I’ll buy you something nice.”
Miranda scanned the shops beyond the rushing traffic for a place, recalling the time she got Wendy Van Aarle to talk to her using that ploy. But Wendy was a sucker for banana splits. The idea didn’t even faze Mackenzie.
“No, thank you.” Mackenzie’s adopted parents had taught her to always be polite. Even if you wanted to scratch someone’s eyes out.
Miranda eyed the nearby signs. A bistro. An Asian place. An Indian place. A parking lot. But right on the corner was a pub with deep green faux Irish signs in the window.
Miranda nodded toward it. “How ‘bout I buy you a beer.”
Mackenzie didn’t crack even the hint of a smile. “Really, Mother. I don’t have time for this.”
The amber hand stopped flashing and became a walking figure. The girl turned to cross the street but Miranda grabbed her arm.
“Oh? You’ve got so much on your schedule these days?”
Mackenzie’s parents had grounded her. That was part of the reason she was so furious with Miranda.
The girl tried to shake her off but couldn’t. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
The sting of those words shot through Miranda’s heart like sharp arrows. But she held it together and managed a grunt in the girl’s ear. “Well, I want to talk to you.”
“Let me go, Mother.” Her voice was more of a whine now.
Miranda maneuvered her out of the moving train of pedestrians to the side of the restaurant.
Mackenzie struggled. “You’re wasting your time. My mother’s going to be here to pick me up any minute now.”
Miranda never ceased to be amazed at how easily the girl could use the same term for both her biological and her adopted mother interchangeably. She was beginning to think the cool demeanor was a façade for a lot of confusion and pain the girl kept carefully hidden.
“You’re wrong,” Miranda said. “I called Colby and told her I was picking you up today. I said I wanted to talk to you alone.”
Composure faltering, Mackenzie looked as if she were about to scream. “How dare you conspire against me like that?”
Miranda let go of her and folded her arms. “I’ll make a deal with you. Okay, kid?”
Her lips thinned as her face hardened like a block of cement.
“You let me buy you a burger, and I’ll tell you what I know of your father.”
That cracked the concrete a little. Mackenzie blinked, opened her mouth. Then she scowled in typical teena
ged disgust. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
###
Miranda ate her extra spicy burrito in silence and watched her daughter carefully cut a well-done sirloin burger in half and daintily bite into it.
She studied her pretty face and saw some of her own features in the angles of it. “So how’s Wendy doing?” Miranda asked casually.
Mackenzie laid her half burger down on the plate just so. “You know I’m not speaking to her.”
Not speaking to her real mother. Not speaking to her best friend. Actually, Wendy had been pretty silent lately, too. Probably laying low after dating the boy Mackenzie had a crush on.
“How long are you going to keep this up?”
Mackenzie’s delicate brows knitted together in a killer scowl. “How long before I get my computer back?”
Miranda resisted the urge to drum her fingers on the table. “How long before we can trust you not to do what you were doing with it?” she countered.
The girl sat back, glared out the window, teenage anger oozing from her youthful pores. She wiped her mouth and fingers on her napkin and laid it beside her plate. Absently her fingers went to the dark mark on the side of her neck.
The proof she was Miranda’s daughter.
She no longer hid it behind scarves. That was something at least.
Then, composure regained, she turned back to her. “You promised you’d tell me about my father if I ate with you. Or was that a lie?”
Miranda winced. The only reason she’d ever lied to her daughter was to protect her. And this time? It was a stretch. She didn’t know much about Mackenzie’s father. But she would tell her what she did know.
“Your father is a criminal,” she said flatly.
The girl’s eyes flattened. “How do you know that?”
“Rape is generally considered a crime,” Miranda said, wishing for the umpteenth time she’d never blurted out the truth of her conception to her daughter.
Mackenzie reached for her napkin, put it back in her lap. “But was it a real…rape?”
Now it was Miranda’s turn to scowl. “I’m not sure what other kind there is.”
Eyes on her plate, Mackenzie twisted the napkin in her lap. “I mean…was he a boyfriend? Did it happen on a date?”