Trial by Fire (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 6) Page 9

  He’d had enough of this scum.

  Thinking of Judith and Hirsch’s two known victims, Parker became a locomotive gathering steam before a burst of speed. Slowly he pulled back a fist, made a hard jab and punched the sorry excuse for a human being straight in the solar plexus.

  He felt the muscles give as Hirsch doubled over and fell back, knocking over another table as he tumbled to the floor.

  Curses came from the patrons.

  “Take it outside,” one of the bouncers growled.

  No need. Parker was finished. He glared down at Hirsch, his own stomach churning from having to deal with the vermin.

  “Remember how that felt the next time you what to bother a woman,” he said. “And especially the next time you think of touching Judith Walsh.”

  And he turned and headed out the door.

  ###

  Parker’s head was still pounding with rage when he unlocked the hotel door, stepped inside the suite, and tiptoed into the bedroom. But when he saw Miranda asleep on the bed, the light on and the Lydia Sutherland file spread out beside her on the mattress, all his anger melted away.

  His heart overflowed with love for her. Like swelling ocean waves controlled by the tides, unable to act of their own will. She had such power over him.

  His tiger, his warrior, working away on a case she hadn’t wanted to take. Now that she knew a bit about the victim, the National Guard couldn’t stop her from solving it.

  Gently he gathered the papers, put them in the file, laid them on the nightstand. Then he softly kissed her cheek and turned off the light.

  She stirred a bit and roll over. He pulled the cover over her.

  He got ready for bed and climbed in beside her being careful not to wake her. She’d had such a rough day. Once more he thought of the horror she had relived that afternoon in that alleyway. He thought of Mackenzie, conceived on that spot, back in Atlanta searching for her father, hoping he might be a decent human being.

  And what if that wish came true?

  What if the man he was searching for had been rehabilitated somehow? It would put the girl’s mind at ease. Parker would be overjoyed if it were so, and so would Miranda. And it would mean this man was not the one who had sent Miranda those anonymous texts on her cell phone. Parker would have to start his search all over again.

  But if Mackenzie’s father had not been rehabilitated—whether or not he’d sent Miranda those texts—Parker would find a means to put him away for a long time so he would never hurt either of them.

  He would make certain his precious wife would never feel what she had this afternoon again.

  Beside him Miranda stirred again. He turned to her, brushed back her hair, watched her eyelids flutter, her thick dark lashes against her lovely cheeks. Sweet dreams, my darling, he thought. Sweet dreams.

  He prayed this afternoon would not bring back the nightmares that plagued her.

  This feisty, spirited woman meant everything to him now. More than anyone ever had. More than Sylvia. More than even Laura. She was his life now.

  And the terror of his life would be to lose her.

  He would not let that happen. He may have been unsuccessful in his search tonight but he would try again tomorrow. And he would keep trying until he found the man he was after.

  That was a promise.

  Chapter Twenty

  He stood in the hall of the luxury hotel facing the door to the suite. The very door behind which they slept.

  He could open it if he wanted to. Go in and attack them in their bed. Do away with both of them and be gone. All the security cameras would show would be a tottering old gray man in a wrinkled coat searching for the room whose number he’d forgotten.

  He chuckled to himself. No one could make a change of appearance quicker or more convincing than he could.

  No one would have any clue at all that he’d even been here.

  But that wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted tonight was to simply stand here and relish the knowledge he was so close, yet the incomparable detectives inside would have no idea he was here—unless he wanted them to.

  Eventually he would.

  But not tonight. That would come later. A slow build was what he wanted. Agonizingly slow.

  Such busy little bees, that pair were.

  Running all over the city trying to find what? The man who had attacked her so long ago? So he’d indicated in the bar tonight.

  What a useless endeavor. What an exercise in futility. Wade Parker was hardly the ace investigator everyone in Atlanta thought he was.

  It was love that clouded his thinking. Love and desperation. He hadn’t realized Parker would be getting involved when he started his little game, but he was glad of it now. It made things so much more interesting.

  Parker thought he was a champion. A defender of the weak. He had a lesson to learn, didn’t he?

  And he would in due time. All in due time.

  And she? She thought she could find the killer of Lydia Sutherland. How amusing.

  Lydia.

  Once more his heart swelled with painful memories. What did Wade Parker know of love and desperation? He would never know it as he had.

  Sternly he swallowed back the rush of emotion. It would do him no good now. Besides, he had vowed never to think of Lydia again.

  Even as the tears from the memories stung his eyes he began to chuckle to himself. It was quite comical if you saw it in the right light. The female PI would be getting more than she bargained for if she solved this case. But she never would.

  The secrets were buried too deeply under the ashes.

  He put his hand on the door’s latch, sorely tempted. No, no. That would be so insignificant. For tonight, let them be. Let them sleep soundly. Sleep well, Miranda Steele. Your days are numbered.

  And he turned and headed for the stairwell and out into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She stretched out on the wide, wide surface. She lay on a luxurious white mattress, wrapped in clean white sheets. Everything was so soft and cool and smelled so good. It was deliciously comfortable. More comfortable than anything she’d felt in her life.

  This was the best hotel she’d ever been to.

  Just as she was falling asleep a loud clatter sounded across the room. Her heart jumped.

  Miranda bolted up straight on the bed and listened hard.

  At first she heard it nothing. Then there it was again. Rattle, rattle, rattle. She peered across the pure white room. It was the door making that sound. Something was at the door. And then she saw the golden handle twisting, turning. The door shook, straining against its hinges.

  Someone was trying to get in.

  She jumped up and ran across the room. “Who’s there?” she shouted.

  No one answered. The golden door handle was still now.

  She dared to put her hand on it. The metal felt cold to her touch. She gave it a turn. Holding her breath she yanked open the door and braced herself, ready to face whoever was on the other side.

  But there was no one.

  She stepped into the hall, looked one way, then the other. All was still. Nothing but the soft tinkling of the crystal chandeliers overhead. No human anywhere.

  And yet she felt a pull. An invisible pull. As if some strange force was summoning her to follow.

  Her feet began to move of their own accord.

  As she moved the soft carpet gave way beneath her. She was barefoot. A long gauzy white nightgown covered her, billowing around her legs as she moved. She padded toward the stairwell. She could almost hear a voice beckoning her now.

  Here I am. Follow me.

  She did.

  At the end of the hall she turned and saw a large metal door with a bar across it. Above the bar burned a glaring red sign.

  Exit.

  The light in the sign began to flash. Exit. Exit. Exit. Then the words changed. No Return. Warning. Forbidden.

  Her breath caught.

  But ignoring the sign
she pushed the door open and stepped onto cold concrete. The door clanged shut behind her and she was plunged into darkness.

  Her heart began to pound. Where was she? A stairwell? But there were no stairs.

  She didn’t want to be in here. She wanted to go back to her room and the comfortable bed. She spun around, felt for the door, but it had disappeared. All she could feel was cold, hard brick.

  The brick in the alley.

  Hands grasped her shoulders. Big, strong hands.

  No! She twisted around. Leave me alone!

  The hands began to paw her, tear at her nightgown.

  Stop it. Stop it right now! She kicked out but her foot met only air.

  The hands were all over her now, pawing her, pushing her down. No. Stop.

  Her efforts were useless. She was so weak. She’d spent years and years honing self defense techniques, building her martial art skills, making herself strong.

  And now they were all gone.

  She went down. She felt the skin on her back scrape against the hard bricks, slap against the cold pavement. The hands tore at her clothes.

  And then he was there. That faceless black mask. The sickening smell of cheap cologne.

  The hands went around her throat. They began to squeeze. He lifted her, banged her head against the pavement.

  Her head spun with pain. She couldn’t breathe.

  Help me! she cried.

  But the only response was a long, low faraway laugh. It grew louder and louder as the hands tightened around her.

  And when she could no longer breathe she heard the voice. You thought you had killed me. You thought you could escape me. But you can never do that. I am everywhere. I will always haunt you.

  It was Leon.

  With one last gigantic effort Miranda raised her body—and managed to tip them both over. They rolled down stairs that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Over and over.

  Down. Down. Down.

  They were tumbling into eternity. Soon darkness would engulf her forever. Once they reached the bottom it was over.

  Fear bubbled up inside her and she let out a loud scream.

  “Miranda! Wake up!”

  She swung out an arm, began to kick and punch.

  “Easy, easy.”

  “What?” She opened her eyes.

  Parker had her wrists and was doing all he could to keep her from kicking the daylights out of him.

  “Huh?”

  “You had a bad dream.” His voice wasn’t comforting. It was low and angry, as if he’d shared the nightmare with her and was frustrated he couldn’t do anything about it.

  He let her go, and she laid back and put her hands to her face. “I’m okay now. I’m okay.” But it took another minute for that to be true.

  Lying beside her Parker was silent. She could feel the fire inside him smoldering.

  She glanced around. Daylight poured through the tall windows. “What time is it?”

  “Just after seven.”

  “Time to get up then.” She started to pull back the covers.

  Parker caught her hand. “Miranda, what was that dream?”

  She looked at him. His dark salt-and-pepper hair was sexily tousled, his toned body, a sprinkling of dark hair across the muscular chest, was tempting. Her gaze traced the line of the scar on his abdomen.

  Absently her free hand went to the ones on her chest. The set Leon had given her.

  “It was just because of where we were yesterday,” she told him. “You know, subconscious dredging up the past?”

  He only studied her with that scrutinizing look of his.

  And then she saw it—a dark welt under his eye, just above his cheekbone. She must have been hard asleep not to notice it right away. “Did I do that?”

  She reached out to touch his face but he pulled away. “No. It was something stupid.”

  Stupid? She recalled he had been interviewing Agency candidates last night. Or so he’d said. “What do you mean?”

  He flinched. “I challenged someone to test his reflexes last night. They were better than I thought.”

  That was the interviewing technique he was using these days? Who did he think he was kidding? Lucky for him, there wasn’t time to discuss it now.

  Her mind cleared and she was back on the case.

  After combing through the file last night and finding nothing, she was set on visiting the Art Institute this morning to see if they could find out more about Lydia Sutherland’s shaggy-haired boyfriend.

  She got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “We’d better get dressed.”

  Parker twisted around on the mattress and followed her with his gaze. “I want you to see Dr. Wingate when we get back home.”

  She stopped and exhaled slowly.

  He could be a real mother hen at times, but right now he was also attempting to distract her, make her forget about the shiner under his eye and how he got it. She wasn’t going to forget. But she’d figure out what she was going to do about it later.

  And hey, maybe seeing her former shrink when they got home wasn’t such a bad idea. It would give her a chance to ask the doctor about Mackenzie.

  She gave her husband a pleasant grin. “Sure, I can do that. But let’s get going. I want to get to the Art Institute early.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  With Parker at the helm of the Audi again they worked their way down the aisle of skyscrapers that was Michigan Avenue. They made the two mile trip to the Art Institute in just under forty minutes—a record for downtown traffic of this caliber, no doubt.

  As they passed the huge green lions guarding the expansive entrance of the neoclassical fortress of culture, Miranda wondered whether anyone in the art school would remember a blond guy in a silver Mustang from fifteen years ago.

  A flimsy lead at best. But the only one they had.

  Parker found a commercial lot to stash the Audi, and they got out and hotfooted it across the crowded street and under noisy L tracks to the sidewalk where a sleek modern building stood with more display windows than Marshal Field’s.

  Inside the glass doors was an expanse of light hued hardwood flooring and walls dotted with modern artwork that used the entire color palette. A mini museum for the top students, Miranda assumed, as they headed for the area marked “Information” in stylish teal lettering.

  A young woman in a colorful dress that went with some of the paintings stood guard at the desk.

  A student, Miranda guessed and decided to let Parker make the inquiries. Despite the shiner, which he’d covered with concealer he must have had in his bag, his charm was spot on and he had her giggling and giving out information in no time.

  Soon the student was wiggling her fingers goodbye, and Miranda and Parker were heading for the elevator and the Dean of Admissions office.

  Good job.

  On the eighth floor they found an area similar to the one downstairs. Open, airy, decorated with splashy artwork.

  “This way,” Parker said.

  Miranda followed him through an opening in a wall painted with a twisty optical illusion that made her a little dizzy.

  She found herself in a smaller space where tall tan doors marked a row of offices. The one in the corner had a desk in front of it—for an admin guard dog, no doubt but at the moment it was empty.

  Miranda took it as a good sign and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” called a voice from inside.

  Miranda gave Parker a you-ready-for-this? look. He replied with a decisive nod, and she opened the door.

  “Dr. Drescher?” Miranda called out the name the flirty young receptionist downstairs had given them.

  The office had the same airy expansive feel as the rest of the place with tall windows overlooking downtown Chicago and a huge metallic design in bold primary colors on the far wall.

  In front of the wall stood a strangely shaped desk that looked like something out of a sci fi movie—a shiny white surface bordered with a bold stroke of tangerine. It
reminded Miranda of a giant acrylic paper clip.

  A woman sat at the desk, her back to them.

  The dean was on the phone.

  “Yes, yes, Vladimir. You’re designs will be featured. Yes, in the center of the pavilion. Just as we discussed. Don’t worry. You have my word.” She sounded like a powerful woman who knew how to turn people her way.

  Miranda cleared her throat and the woman shifted around.

  She smiled at them, held up a finger. “Yes, dear. I know. Again, not to worry. I have it covered. Yes. Got to run, dear. Ciao.” She hung up and gave Miranda an apologetic frown. “So sorry about that. One of our guest artists for our Summer Exhibition.”

  Miranda nodded.

  Even seated she could see the dean was a tall willowy woman, with tidy brown hair cut just under her jaw line. She wore tortoise shell designer glasses and a severe tan suit with a tight neckline that seemed too conservative for an art school, even if she was an administrator.

  She rose and extended a hand. “You’re the Stiffles?”

  Miranda shot Parker a glance. “No,” she told the woman. “I’m Miranda Steele and this is Wade Parker.”

  Dr. Drescher’s face fell but she shook hands anyway. “Oh? I could have sworn Elizabeth told me I had an appointment with the Stiffles this morning. They have a very promising son.” Her saleswoman smile reappeared. “Are you looking to enroll a son or daughter?”

  Miranda shot Parker an oh, brother glance, but he kept his eyes on the dean.

  “Dr. Drescher,” she said, “we’re private investigators from the Parker Agency in Atlanta. We’re looking into a case for the Larrabee police department.”

  Dr. Drescher’s hand went to her heart. “What kind of a case?”

  “A murder case.”

  Miranda watched the woman’s eyes widen. Then her thin lips grew tight. “I’m sure no one here is involved in any such case.”

  Step number one, ward off any chance of bad publicity. The dean was good at her job.

  “This case happened fifteen years ago,” Miranda said. “The victim was a student here.”

  The dean let out a soft breath. Miranda detected a degree of relief in it.