MR01 - Someone Else's Daughter Read online

  Some called him obsessive. He preferred the term thorough. He didn’t see himself as some sort of savior. He’d merely discovered at a young age that it was in his nature to right wrongs, to protect the innocent and apprehend the guilty. It was his calling. A calling that drove him, spawned as it was by a deep, shadowy need, a dark episode from his past that had plunged him into a career both his father and grandfather had disapproved of.

  Patricia smiled coyly, trailing a finger around the rim of her glass. “It’s such a beautiful night. The dogwood and cherry trees are in full bloom. Maybe we could go for a walk?”

  Moving in for the kill? “Perhaps later.”

  “Or,” her voice took on a sensuous note, “we could leave early and go to my place for a nightcap.”

  Parker grinned, noted the plunging neckline of her sequined, ruby-red gown, her round breasts rising and falling beneath the fabric. Tempting. But he had business to attend to. He turned his eye to Jameson again. The man hadn’t budged.

  Parker watched Jameson’s deep-set eyes carefully scan the room. His straight features, his curled lip gave him a surly look that made him even more disagreeable.

  About a month ago a young woman named Elizabeth Kinkade had contacted Parker’s firm after someone looted her upscale apartment, stealing thousands of dollars in jewelry. She’d broken off an affair with Jameson recently and swore he’d robbed her for revenge. After tailing the suspect for several days, Parker discovered revenge wasn’t Jameson’s motive. It was simple greed.

  Jameson had a string of ex-girlfriends all over town. His M.O. was to romance the ladies until they let down their guard, then abscond with their valuables. He had been at his game for about six months now, responsible for a run of thefts the police hadn’t been able to solve. Tonight, Parker suspected, he would attempt something even more shameless.

  Parker had gathered an abundance of evidence against the man but not quite enough for an arrest. Tonight, he hoped to seal the case. His jaw tightened as Jameson set his glass on the mantelpiece and made his way along the wall to the grand staircase, which was now deserted.

  Parker watched him ascend.

  “So what do you say, Wade? Shall we make our apologies to our hostess?”

  Parker turned, forced a grin. “Perhaps some other time, Patricia. If you’ll excuse me.” He wasn’t pleased with the shock on her face at his ill-mannered behavior, but he had no choice. He headed for the stairs.

  It was quiet on the mansion’s third floor and the lighting was dim. Parker caught the tail of Jameson’s suit just as he slipped through the entrance to the master bedroom. The insolent bastard. Silently, he moved to the door, put his ear to it. Nothing. He waited a moment, then slowly inched the door open.

  Movement. Barely perceptible. Another inch and Jameson’s dark figure came into view. He stood at the dressing table, his back to the door, a fistful of sparkling jewels in each avaricious hand. Evidently, during his short career, the thief had learned that wealthy women tend to keep their valuables in plain sight, feeling secure in their own private quarters.

  Parker slipped inside the room, reached for his lapel pin and snapped several shots with the microscopic camera hidden in it. Jameson was still unaware of him.

  He cleared his throat. “Stealing from the governor’s wife? How politically incorrect.”

  Jameson spun around, shock peppering his face. “Who are you?”

  Parker smiled casually. “A very, very bad dream.”

  Fumbling with the gems, Jameson tried to put them back where he’d found them. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I—I lost my contact lens.”

  Parker chuckled. “On a lady’s dressing table covered with jewels? How convenient.”

  “It’s true. I swear.”

  “And how do you explain the things you took from Elizabeth Kinkade? Sarah Smith? Tamara Johnson?”

  Jameson looked as though his eyes were about to pop from his head.

  “I’m afraid your career as a jewel thief has come to an abrupt end.”

  Jameson glanced toward the window.

  “I wouldn’t try it.” Parker slipped a hand into his pocket.

  The thief froze. His eyes bulged even more as Parker slowly drew out a small metallic object.

  Parker couldn’t hold back a chuckle as he flipped his cell phone open and pressed speed dial. “Hosea, you’re still downstairs, aren’t you? Having a good time? Well, I have something on the third floor that will make your night. Yes. The master bedroom.” He closed his cell and turned to his subject. “That was Lieutenant Hosea Erskine of the Atlanta Police Department.”

  Jameson took a step toward the window.

  “Uh uh,” Parker scolded him. “You don’t want to risk finding out what I have in my other pocket.”

  Looking as though he might soil his slacks, Jameson stood without making another move until Hosea and several other members of the APD who were downstairs, burst into the room.

  While his men placed Jameson in handcuffs, Hosea narrowed his eyes at Parker. “Have you been meddling in police business again, Mr. Detective Man?”

  Parker chuckled. Hosea hated it when he one-upped him. “Merely serving my client.” He reached into his jacket pocket.

  “Look out,” Jameson cried, struggling against the cuffs. “He’s got a gun.”

  “Our perpetrator seems a bit paranoid.” Parker drew out a slip of paper and handed it to Hosea. “I believe you’ll find the stolen goods in this safe deposit box at the Freedom Bank on Peachtree Street.”

  With a huff, Erskine snatched the paper from his hand.

  Satisfied, Parker left the room and made his way down the hall, wondering if Patricia was still below. A case closed called for a celebration.

  Before he reached the stair, his cell rang. He flipped it open again. “Parker.”

  “Wade, thank God we’ve gotten hold of you.”

  The urgency in his friend’s voice made Parker stop dead in his tracks. “Jackson. I thought you’d be here tonight.”

  “Here?”

  “At the Governor’s mansion. The fundraiser—”

  “I completely forgot about it. The most dreadful thing’s happened…” His voice broke.

  Parker’s spine went rigid. He’d known Jackson Taggart since high school. As Chief of Staff at Saint Benedictine Hospital, he was no stranger to emergencies. He never panicked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Madison. Our little girl.”

  God, no. Parker knew that desperate tone. “What about Madison?”

  “She’s disappeared.” He broke off, stifling a sob that tore at Parker’s heart.

  Knowing he had to be calm, Parker forced himself into professional mode. “What makes you think she’s disappeared, Jackson?”

  There was a pause, he could feel the insult through the phone, and then the anguished words gushed out. “Last night Madison spent the night at Tiffany Todd’s house. She was supposed to be back this morning. She never came home. When we checked with Tiffany, she said Madison had left hours ago and walked home. She never got here.”

  The news hit him like a jackhammer. Madison was just thirteen. First step, keep the parents from panicking. Or rather, keep the panic from festering. “Calm down, Jackson,” he said as gently as he could. “Is there anywhere else she could be?”

  “We called all her friends. No one’s seen her. She’s simply gone. Cloris is beside herself.”

  The mother always suffered the most. “What time did she leave Tiffany’s house?”

  “Eleven this morning.”

  “Have you argued with her recently?” It was a hard question but important.

  “No. We’ve been closer than ever.”

  Parker’s mind raced through the possibilities. Runaway. Kidnapping. Possibly for money. If that were the case, the Taggarts might be contacted soon. “Have you called the police? The Special Crimes Unit—”

  “Yes, but they haven’t done anything. I want you, Wade. Both Cloris and I do. We know you can find her.”

  He was flattered, humbled by his friends’ trust. He’d do his best. “Very well, Jackson,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  He clicked off, glanced at his watch as he raced down the stairs, his heart sinking. It would be a long night. Twelve hours since Madison Taggart was last seen and no word from any kidnappers. Not good. He would have his work cut out for him, but he would do all in his power to find her.

  With all his heart, he wished he could bring the girl home to Jackson and Cloris tonight. But experience told him it could be days or weeks before that happened. If she were still alive. The world could be a dangerous place for the young, even in the shelter of well-to-do Buckhead.

  Chapter Four

  Miranda sat at a small granite table in one of the hip nightclubs along Buckhead’s strip, called The Gecko Club, sipping a beer. She shook Tabasco onto the lame excuse for a Thai roll she had ordered and took a bite.

  Buckhead, Georgia, she’d discovered, wasn’t a hick town. It wasn’t even your average suburb. No, Buckhead, Georgia, had turned out to be one of the swankiest damn spots in the nation. The freakin’ Beverly Hills of the South. There weren’t just a couple of mansions in Buckhead, Georgia. The whole place was littered with them. Ritzy subdivisions tucked away among the lush trees and rolling hills, with highbrow names like Mount Paran and Brookhaven and Peachtree Heights West and Tuxedo Park. All chock-full of elegant homes.

  So which one did “Someone Else’s Daughter” live in?

  After three weeks, Miranda hadn’t had a clue. Driving through those upscale neighborhoods hadn’t turned up anything. Trying to get a job at one of the hoity-toity middle schools, so she could learn about the kids in the area, had been a bust. Her current approach of starting up conversations
with thirteen-year-old girls in the mall hadn’t worked either. She’d learned a lot about the funkiest styles in clothes, the coolest hairdos and the hottest rap singers, but nothing about a girl who was adopted and who’d written an anonymous letter to The Seekers.

  Her first bit of luck—if you could call it that—had happened today. It was the end of spring break and she’d been wandering around Phipps Plaza before she had to be at her new second shift job on a local road crew, when she’d noticed a group of teenage boys lounging near a fountain. She’d eavesdropped on their conversation and found out one of the boys had a girlfriend.

  The girlfriend had a sister. The sister was in middle school and had a best friend. The best friend…was adopted. Her name was Ashley Ingram. She lived in a subdivision called Mockingbird Hills. Bingo.

  And it got better.

  The girlfriend was on the outs with her parents. They’d caught her and the boyfriend going at it hot and heavy on the living room couch, had grounded her, and forbidden the boy to come over again. Tonight, girlfriend was sneaking out to meet boyfriend after dropping sister and Ashley at the Ingrams.

  Miranda set down her beer and stared at the map she’d printed off her laptop that afternoon. Thank God for the Internet.

  Mockingbird Hills. 111 Sweet Hollow Lane. A red star marked the spot where a family named the Ingrams lived.

  Opportunity knocking? Or a long shot?

  So much could go wrong. The girlfriend might change her mind. The parents might discover her plan and put a stop to it. But if the kids did show up, if Miranda could just get a look at the adopted girl, for just a moment.… Hell, if she were really lucky that girl might turn out to be.… Would she even recognize her Amy after all these years?

  “Need a refill?” a black-clad waiter pointed at her beer, shaking her out of her thoughts.

  Miranda took a last swig and handed him the bottle. “No, thanks.” He took it, along with her empty plate and left. She glanced at her watch. The two young lovers were supposed to meet at the Ingrams at midnight. She had almost forty minutes to get there through the Buckhead party traffic. Couldn’t be late.

  As she stood and dug in her pocket for some cash, a female voice from the table behind her floated over the jazzy music and crowd noise. “Isn’t it terrible about that missing girl?”

  Miranda stiffened. Missing girl?

  “Why, it’s just the most dreadful thing I’ve ever heard,” another voice agreed. “She’s barely a teen.”

  Stunned, Miranda turned and spotted a skinny, middle-aged woman with large, chartreuse earrings, who was shaking her head.

  “You’ve been following the story on the news, haven’t you?” she said to her dinner partner. “She’s been gone almost a week.”

  The short redhead next to her frowned solemnly. “Her parents must be beside themselves.”

  A young teenaged girl from Buckhead had been missing a whole week? Damn. Why hadn’t she heard about it before? That’s what happens when you live in your car for two weeks, then rent a tiny studio apartment with no TV. She hadn’t noticed any fliers when she’d been through the neighborhoods, but that was when she first got here.

  The woman with the earrings opened her purse to leave a tip, then patted her friend’s hand. “They’ll find her. Wade Parker’s on the case. He’s the best.”

  The friend smiled, reassured. “Not to mention the sexiest.” They rose from their table.

  Wade Parker? Who the hell was Wade Parker? Miranda shoved her map into her pocket, got to her feet, and followed the women toward the door.

  “Excuse me,” she called out after them, shoving her way through the waiters and the patrons waiting to be seated. “What were you saying about that missing girl?”

  But the women were gone.

  Disgusted, Miranda turned back and scanned the room. A piano stood in a dark, empty corner. By contrast, a noisy, interracial mix of designer-clad yuppies, businesspeople, and moneyed local college kids were jam packed along a gleaming, salmon-colored bar that swept the opposite wall.

  She had a few minutes to spare. Maybe the bartender could tell her something. She hurried over and tried to get his attention, but he moved to the other end, busier than a one-armed paperhanger with psoriasis, keeping everyone’s glass filled.

  Shit. Well, that missing girl didn’t have anything to do with Amy. Right?

  “Excuse me,” said a soft southern voice. It belonged to a classy-looking young woman daintily perched on the next stool, waving a graceful hand. “Sir?”

  The barkeep didn’t even notice.

  “What a jerk, huh?”

  The delicate woman turned and stared at Miranda with big blue eyes. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. A sheltered mid-twenties, in contrast to Miranda’s unsheltered mid-thirties. Her platinum hair gave her a sort of Jessica Simpson look and she was dressed to the nines in a slinky, low-cut black dress. “I’m sorry?”

  Miranda gestured. “That barkeep. He’s ignoring us.”

  “Oh. Yes, he is.” She seemed disappointed by the fact.

  Someone vacated the seat behind her and Miranda slipped onto the stool. “Say, have you heard anything about a missing girl?”

  The blond woman thought a moment. “You mean the one they’ve been talking about on the news?”

  “That’s the one. She’s from around here, right?” Miranda tried not to sound like a newcomer with no TV.

  “Yes. She’s from Buckhead. Her father’s on the staff of one of the hospitals.”

  So she did come from a wealthy family. The words from the letter echoed in her head, my dad’s always away. “How old did they say she was?”

  “I’m not sure. Pretty young, I think.”

  Hmm. That could be anywhere from twelve to sixteen. And nobody said she was adopted. No, that girl didn’t have anything to do with Amy, though Miranda felt bad for her poor parents. They must be going through hell.

  Just then a muscular arm slithered around Blondie’s shoulder. “Pardon me,” said the arm’s owner, “but the little lady and I were having a conversation.”

  Blondie turned a little pale.

  He gave her a squeeze, kind of like a python. “C’mon, now, Sweet Pea. L’me buy you a drink.” His speech was slurred, his accent thick, almost artificial. But then, every southerner in Atlanta had an accent that sounded fake to Miranda.

  Blondie turned her head away.

  “Tell me what you like, honey. The sky’s the limit.” The Southern Python was young. Big enough to be a football player. He wore designer jeans and a T-shirt with a local sports logo. Probably some spoiled college kid with an athletic scholarship and a rich daddy to bail him out of any trouble he managed to get into.

  Blondie shifted nervously on the seat, like a frightened rabbit trapped by a wolf. “No, thank you. I don’t want a drink.”

  No thank you? What was with the manners? Tell him to go screw himself.

  Mr. Football Player couldn’t take a hint. “Aw, why not, Li’l Cutie? Don’t you know I been waitin’ for you all my life?” Instead of removing his unwanted hand, he slid it up Blondie’s arm. Then he nuzzled her hair with his nose. “How about you and me goin’ back to my place?”

  Alarm danced in Blondie’s eyes. “No, thank you,” she repeated.

  Thank you, again? Tell him to drop dead. Miranda nodded toward the guy. “Is he with you?”

  Blondie shook her head.

  Miranda looked the jerk in the eye. “You got a problem with your hearing, bud?”

  He studied her with an inebriated scowl for a moment, then reached over and put his hand on her knee. “Honey, don’t be jealous. We can make it a threesome.”

  Miranda’s stomach knotted. She spoke in a quiet, threatening tone. “Get your damn hand off me before I break it.”

  He chuckled. “I like my women feisty.”

  The familiar earthquake rumbled inside her. This guy didn’t know who he was talking to. “You’ve got three seconds to move your hand.”

  “Baby, you’re cute when you talk tough.”

  “Okay, I warned you.” She grabbed hold of his middle finger, bent it back hard, yanking his hand off her leg.

  “Yeeeoww,” The creep hopped back, cradling his throbbing finger like it was a football he was carrying over the goal line.

  Miranda shot her thumb toward the door. “Now get lost.”

  His pain turned to insult. “Who the hell do you think you are?”