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  She typed in a reply.

  Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve got a pressing case. Don’t worry about Mackenzie. It’s probably just teenage angst. Talk to you later in the week.

  Lame, lame, lame. But she couldn’t think of anything better to say right now. The truth was she’d love to race over to the Chatham estate right now, throw her arms around her daughter, and tell her she was going to be okay.

  But that would only push her farther away.

  Wincing at her own words, she pushed Send.

  Miranda was just about to head out and meet Wesson when there was a knock on her door.

  She grimaced. She’d never had a door to knock on before. Not in any job she’d held. But she sat back down and cleared her throat.

  “Come in,” she said, trying to sound authoritative.

  It was probably Fry telling her he’d changed his mind about being on her team.

  The door opened a crack and a familiar voice drifted through it. “Steele?”

  It was Gen, Parker’s daughter. So much for protocol.

  She stood in the doorway, a curious mixture of official business and awkwardness. The awkwardness was unusual for Gen.

  “Yes, Gen. I’m here.”

  “I need to speak to you about an official matter,” she said in a loud voice, as if she wanted anyone who heard her to know this wasn’t a personal visit.

  Why anyone would think that, Miranda didn’t know. She watched as Gen stepped inside and closed the door.

  Her short crop of nearly white hair was impeccable as always, as was the makeup that made her dark eyes so vivid. She had on a simple navy business suit that hung on her tall lean frame almost the way it must have on the hanger in the designer store where she’d bought it. Gen’s tastes were Spartan, but she was raised wealthy. She never wore anything cheap.

  Miranda tried to read the expression on her face. A week or so ago they’d nearly had a heart-to-heart in the gym, but that was short-lived. Even though Miranda had saved the woman’s life not too long ago.

  “So what’s the official matter?”

  “What?”

  “The official matter you just mentioned?”

  Her cheeks reddened. Very unusual. In the office Gen had the reputation of a tough as nails Army sergeant. People called her “The General” behind her back.

  Gen strode across the floor and took a seat in a guest chair.

  “I haven’t finished those expense reports from the Ward Hughes case yet.” Last week Parker had informed her expense reports were part of her new duties. She’d been avoiding them.

  She’d written a report of the case itself, though. Detailing each team member’s contribution, she’d put down her thoughts about each one. That had been painful enough.

  Gen waved a hand. “Oh, it’s not about that.”

  “What is it, then?” Did she want another martial arts lesson?

  “I, uh, saw you had a meeting with the, uh, team.”

  Gen was as uncomfortable with Miranda’s new position as she was.

  “And?”

  “I assume you have a new case?”

  “Your father has us working on something, yes.”

  Gen looked out the window to avoid eye contact. “Is there any, uh, danger involved?”

  “I can’t say yet.”

  She pressed her lips together, dissatisfied with that answer. “One of your team members was injured during your last case.”

  So that was what this was about. Holloway. He’d been shot in the leg during the last case and was lucky it hadn’t been worse. Recently Gen and Holloway had become a number.

  Miranda sat back and waited for her to continue.

  “I’d like—I’d like some reassurance that sort of thing won’t happen again.”

  Miranda lifted a brow. “Isn’t that a little beyond the scope of office manager?”

  Gen blinked at her, then scowled. “It could fall under the scope of workman’s comp.”

  Miranda wanted to laugh. Instead she said, “I’m sure Holloway can take care of himself, Gen.”

  With a huff, Gen got to her feet. “I did not mention any specific names. And if Curt, or anyone else, is seriously injured on your current case, I’m going to hold you responsible, Steele.”

  And with that she turned and left.

  So much for relationship building with your stepdaughter. Gen’s concern over Holloway reminded her of Parker’s over-protectiveness of her. That girl better watch her step. From what Wesson had told her last week, Holloway’s ego wasn’t going to put up with mollycoddling.

  And speaking of Wesson, she was probably at the stairs cussing Miranda out under her breath for being late. It was going to be hard enough playing boss with her.

  Refocusing her attention, she grabbed her briefcase and hurried out the door.

  Chapter Nine

  Miranda decided they’d take her car, since she and Parker had come in separately that morning.

  She was still driving the light tan Acura she’d bought while on her hiatus from Parker. Since they’d been back together, they’d been too busy either working or making love to get her a new one. Not that she needed it. The Acura was the best car she’d ever had—except for the hot red Corvette ZR1 Parker bought her as a wedding gift.

  But she knew Parker liked to spoil her. She expected him to surprise her with a snazzy new vehicle any day now.

  In the passenger seat Wesson balanced her copy of the case file on her lap and was leafing through the documents. “Where are we going to start with these interviews, Steele?” she said after Miranda had turned onto Piedmont and headed south.

  “We’ve got Dr. Boudreaux’s neighbors, right?”

  Wesson studied the papers. “Right. But there are a lot of them. Looks like the police and Mr. Parker interviewed everyone in the area several times.”

  “See if you can sort them by location. Google the addresses if you have to.”

  Wesson started pecking at her phone. “These were done a long time ago, Steele. These people might not still be there.”

  Miranda blew out a breath. Wesson had a point. Probably most of the herpetologist’s former neighbors had moved away by now or had passed. “Let’s just see what we come up with.”

  “Will do. I’ll take some notes.”

  The sound of rustling papers and Wesson’s phone clicking filled Miranda’s ears. As she drove along, her cohort read off some of the details she was discovering.

  Dr. Boudreaux had lived with his wife Dr. Charmaine Boudreaux in the upscale neighborhood of Virginia-Highland, known to the natives as VaHi. A nine-minute trip from Emory University where Charmaine had taught and done much of her ground-breaking research work. It was a fifteen-minute trip to the zoo for Clarence. Convenient for both of them.

  “Looks like the residents tend to stay put,” Wesson said. “All of the doctor’s neighbors I’ve looked up so far are still listed at these addresses.”

  “Lucky break. Let’s hope that’s the start of a trend.”

  After about twenty minutes, Miranda came to a corner with a drugstore and an old red brick warehouse that could have passed for a Prohibition-era building in Chicago. Following Wesson’s directions she made a left, and soon they were rolling over hills and under shady trees, where cozy two-story homes with rambling southern porches were tucked away beside the curving lanes. According to Wesson’s information, many of the houses in the area dated from the twenties.

  Suddenly Wesson jolted up, phone in hand. “Hey.”

  “What?” Miranda started to hit the brake.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Miranda cleared her throat. “You didn’t.”

  “It’s just that Dr. Boudreaux’s old house is up for sale.”

  “It is?” That was interesting.

  “It’s listed on Trulow.”

  Another lucky break. They could get a look at the crime scene. Or at least, what had been the crime scene ten years ago. “Call th
e real estate agent.”

  “Already dialing.”

  Miranda listened while Wesson chatted up the person on the other end of the phone. After a minute, she hung up with a grin. “She’s in the neighborhood. She’ll meet us at the house in five.”

  They were on a roll. “Good job,” Miranda told her.

  “Thanks.”

  Wesson’s satisfied smile surprised her. Guess it didn’t matter who was your boss. A compliment was a compliment. Miranda was surprised the woman wasn’t giving her any flack.

  She made another turn and Wesson pointed out the window. “Here it is.”

  Miranda pulled along the curve in front of a symmetrically built, light brick bungalow with a blue roof and front door. In the front yard was a “For Sale” sign with a photo of a dark-haired, too-cheerful looking woman with large white teeth and ruby red lipstick.

  The houses on the doctor’s side of the road were built on a high ridge, and most had a dozen or more steps made of brick or cement leading to a walkway or a drive. Dr. Boudreaux’s former home was no exception. There was a clear view of his drive from several of the neighboring houses. Parker had told her the lady across the street had seen his car in the drive when the herpetologist swore he wasn’t there. Someone was lying.

  Or mistaken.

  As they waited, a breeze picked up and a smattering of yellow leaves fluttered onto the hood of the car. Fall was coming soon. Mackenzie and her best friend Wendy would be turning fifteen soon. What could she do to ease her daughter’s troubled mind? She had no idea.

  “Cozy neighborhood,” Wesson said to break the silence.

  Miranda shook herself out of her thoughts and looked at the rambling brick dwellings. “Yeah. It’s pricey though.” She always thought of price first.

  “But stable. Dr. Boudreaux’s murder must have shaken things up, though.”

  “True, but it was a long time ago.” If their lives weren’t impacted too much, people tended to have short memories. Miranda had a feeling their lucky streak was about to run out.

  She peered down the street. No sign of the real estate lady. She’d probably take more than five minutes to get here. Maybe she should get to know her team member better in the mean time.

  “So…what made you go into detective work?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound like a job interviewer.

  Wesson’s brow rose. “Why do you want to know that?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  Wesson shifted uncomfortably, no doubt recalling the person beside her was now her boss. “I don’t know. I grew up in a small town. An unincorporated community in the Napa Valley.”

  “You’re from California?”

  “Didn’t you know that?”

  “I didn’t remember.” She might have heard that when Wesson was snubbing her in the Agency showers when they were IITs.

  “Well, when I graduated from high school, I went to work for the local police department.”

  “You were a detective.”

  She shook her head. “I was a dispatcher for a few years, then they made me a traffic officer.”

  “Really?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Hard to imagine you in a uniform.”

  Wesson laughed. “They were pretty ugly.”

  Where had she gotten the idea Wesson had been an investigator? Smith, who had been Wesson’s buddy when they were IITs had told her that. She’d been trying to intimidate her. It had worked.

  “How come you left? The police department, I mean.”

  Wesson stroked a lock of her gorgeous red hair as she studied Miranda with her deep green eyes. She looked unsure of how much to reveal.

  Finally she said, “I wanted excitement, advancement. Instead I ended up getting felt up by the so-called sheriff.”

  Miranda blinked. She hadn’t expected that answer. “Eww. Couldn’t you bring charges or something?”

  “There were only two of us on the force, so it was his word against mine.” She lifted a shoulder. “So I moved to LA and started a boutique with a friend. I got two degrees in my spare time. One in business, the other in Criminal Justice.”

  “Wow.” Miranda was genuinely impressed.

  “When I heard about the Parker Agency, I worked my tail off to get in. Just made it, too. I always wanted to do something that would make a difference.”

  The way she said that made Miranda think there was a whole lot more to the story, but she’d pried enough for one afternoon.

  She gave Wesson’s arm a light punch. “If we ever get a case out West, maybe we can stop by and kick that sheriff’s ass.”

  That made Wesson grin, then she stared out the window and sighed. “There’s someone else out there whose ass I’d rather kick.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “When my little sister was in her junior year in high school, she started hanging around with the wrong crowd. She ended up with a guy in a motorcycle gang.”

  As much as Miranda loved motorcycles, she knew there were some pretty dicey characters who rode them.

  “I warned her not to go with him, but she fell in love with him. He ended up beating her up pretty bad.”

  Miranda tensed. Once upon a time she’d felt a connection with Wesson on a level like that. Now she knew why. “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t do anything about it. The sheriff didn’t take it seriously.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “She kept going back to him. Olivia hasn’t talked to me in years. As far as I know, she’s still with the guy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s the real reason I wanted to get into law enforcement. To do something about people like that.” She let out a sigh. “So now you know my deep, dark secret.”

  Miranda was about to tell Wesson she had one, too when there was a rap on the window.

  Miranda rolled it down, and the plump, perky woman with the red lipstick on the For Sale sign appeared.

  “I’m so sorry I startled you,” she said in a sweet Southern drawl. “I’m Jane McAlister of Bracken Realty? You’re the party who called me, aren’t you?” She stuck her hand through the opening, as if assuming the answer was yes.

  Wesson reached across Miranda and shook the woman’s hand. “I’m Janelle. I called you about the property.”

  “So glad to meet you.”

  “And this is Miranda.”

  Miranda got a turn to pump the woman’s hand. “Thanks for coming. Can you show us the house?”

  Jane McAlister’s red lips became a surprised O. “I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry. Certainly. Step right this way.” She opened Miranda’s door for her.

  Without waiting for either the real estate lady or Wesson, Miranda marched around her to the sidewalk, hiked up the uneven walkway to the dozen steps leading to the drive.

  There was no garage. Just a slab that ran to the side of the house. At the end of the concrete, she stopped and turned to study the neighbor’s house across the street. Sure enough, there was a clear view of any vehicle parked here from the kitchen window.

  “This is a wonderful neighborhood,” Jane McAlister huffed out as she caught up with Miranda with Wesson at her side. “It’s within walking distance to nearby restaurants and shops, and of course, there’s the hospital and the university nearby. Do you have any college-aged children?”

  “No,” Miranda said. “We just need to see the place.”

  “We’re looking for something cozy and comfortable,” Wesson added, giving Miranda a look that said they needed to keep up the pretense of being potential buyers.

  “Of course, of course.” Jane McAlister smiled her big red smile as she scooted up to the front door and opened the lock box. A moment later she had the place open. “Here we are,” she sang out, extending an arm.

  Miranda stepped inside the place.

  It had been redone recently, and it smelled of fresh paint and new flooring. She eyed the big empty space that was the living room. It had a
large white brick fireplace with a burnished mantelpiece. Thinking of Wesson’s reminder, she ran her hand over it pretending to be interested.

  “The current owner is a cardiologist,” Jane McAlister said in an overly enthused voice. “He would have loved to stay here, but he recently got a new position in a prestigious hospital in New York. He’s definitely willing to negotiate on the price.”

  Ignoring the comment, Miranda wandered into the kitchen. It was all shiny fixtures and granite and stone tile. She was just about to go out again when Wesson pushed in next to her, oohing and aahing at the appliances.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” she said to Miranda, prompting her with a nod as she peeked inside the fridge.

  “Sure. It might work.”

  “Which one of you does the cooking?”

  “Excuse me?” Miranda said.

  Jane McAlister wagged a finger back and forth at them. “You two are a couple, aren’t you?”

  Miranda looked at Wesson. She stared back and turned a little pale at the thought.

  “We’re looking for a place for our mother,” Miranda blurted out.

  Jane McAlister sucked in an embarrassed breath. “Oh, I see. Well, the neighborhood is an established one. There are a number of senior citizens here. And the master bedroom is on the main floor. That would be a bonus. Is your mother disabled in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Wesson said at the same time.

  Miranda suppressed a growl of irritation. “She has her good days and bad days.”

  “I see,” the real estate lady said, eyeing Miranda with curiosity. “Well, the master is right over here.”

  They followed her across the living room to the other side of the house. At last, the room they wanted to see.

  After Wesson passed through, Miranda stopped Jane McAlister at the door. “I think we need a little time to talk things over. Do you mind?” She reached for the handle.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Take all the time you want. I’ll be right over there.” She indicated the fireplace in the living room. “Let me know when you’re ready to go upstairs.”

  “Thanks.” She shut the door and turned to study the room.

  It was another empty space with freshly painted walls and a new laminate floor. A matching pair of windows let in cheery sunlight.