Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  But she’d never really fallen for it. “Pretty transparent for an ace gumshoe.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” He lifted her shirt all the way, lowered himself to her breasts and did things with his tongue that made her mind whirl entirely out of control. Gently, he drew down the zipper on her jeans, reached between her legs and touched her soft spot.

  She groaned even more helplessly this time. Yep, the ploy worked. It got him what he wanted. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t letting her think straight. But he’d said she cared and she guessed he was right. She did care about him. If only she could let herself admit it. But she couldn’t think any more. Couldn’t talk. Parker was flooding her with sensations too delicious for words. Her eyes fluttered as release rippled through her. Hard, long, as if it would never end. But then it did end, and as the sensation diminished and she drew in a breath, she heard a strange sound. A beeping.

  She turned her head and opened her eyes. The computer monitor was flashing.

  With a kiss on her cheek, Parker withdrew himself and rose. “We have a hit.”

  “Simultaneous.” Weakly she pulled up her drawers and got to her feet.

  Parker sat down at the desk and peered at the screen. “Usher was arrested in DeKalb County six years ago for possession of marijuana.”

  She sat down in a chair next to him. “Is that all? He’s used since then. He’s done coke. He’s got to have connections with dealers.”

  “He’s probably become more careful over the years.”

  “So those are his fingerprints on the riding crop.”

  “They are.”

  “And they’re the only ones on it.”

  “Correct.”

  She sat staring at the data on the screen. For her money, this riding crop proved Usher was the one who had gotten Calypso so riled. After he’d plied his ex-wife with drinks, given her a line of coke and a fatal dose of PCP, he couldn’t resist finishing her off with a vicious attack.

  “So Usher stood there while Desirée was in the stall and whipped Calypso into a frenzy with that crop. That he used her favorite horse to do it only underscores his feelings toward her relationship with Kennicot. And probably toward her career, as well.”

  “Objectivity, Miranda.” Parker murmured in that low voice. “This evidence is still circumstantial. It doesn’t prove the scenario you just described.”

  She reached for Desirée’s case file, furiously thumbed through the papers. “The trainers didn’t mention any whip marks on Calypso. No one thought to ask about it, dammit.” With a grunt, she got up and started to pace. She ran her hands through her hair. It was a mess. “What do we do now? We’ve talked to Kennicot, studied the hell out of this police file, we’ve even been to the crime scene.” She strode back to the computer screen, trying to will more information from it. “If only there had been prints on that PCP vial. Or marks on Calypso. If only we knew who Usher’s supplier was.” She started to pace again, then stopped. “Where did Usher get the money to buy that much PCP?”

  “Desirée was still supporting him.”

  “So he used her own money to kill her? That sick bastard.”

  Parker had a faraway look in his eyes. “A confession from the artist would be our best bet at this point.”

  She snorted. “And how in the hell are we going to get that?”

  Parker rose and went to the desk at the right. He opened a drawer, pulled something out of it, and handed it to her.

  Miranda looked down and saw two rectangular cards with an orangey-red design and fancy lettering. “The Brentwood Gallery presents Ferraro Usher’s ‘A Moment in Time,’ in memory of the late Desirée Langford. Ten o’clock.” She looked up at Parker. “Tickets?”

  He smiled his most sophisticated grin. “Are you feeling up to an art show tonight?”

  “An art show? Tonight?” Parker truly was something else. She moved her head up and down in an exaggerated gesture. “Hot dog.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They had to go dress shopping again. According to Parker, nothing in Miranda’s closet was suitable for a snooty art show, so they went to Phipps Plaza. Miranda despised looking for clothes, but Parker seemed to like picking out things for her. His choices were so numerous, so ultra-glamorous, so not-her, that after an hour, she was ready to spit and cuss.

  Amused by her response, Parker finally selected a short black chiffon cocktail gown with a scoop neck and plunging back.

  “Now that’s nice,” she sighed, despite her irritation.

  “Very tasteful, isn’t it?”

  “Yep, that’s the one. So are we done?”

  Parker gave her that self-satisfied look. “What about shoes?”

  “Oh, brother.” It sure was rough going to the mall with a sophisticated man.

  Studying herself in the full-length mirror in the master bedroom after they got back home, Miranda thought she’d made the right choice—of the five new outfits in assorted colors that Parker had bought her. She liked the effect of this little black dress, even if she did have to wear the three-inch Zanotti pumps with it. That was, except for the scars that marred the area just over her cleavage.

  She grunted as she applied another layer of makeup over the healing wounds. “All the vitamin E and cocoa butter in the world won’t erase these.”

  Parker came up behind her and kissed her neck. “Detective Judd says scars are a mark of honor.”

  She hissed through her teeth, despite the shivers his mouth was sending over her skin. “Detective Judd doesn’t have to wear a low-cut gown to Usher’s showing tonight.” Though she guessed Judd had his share of scars and wounds. And she knew Parker did, too. She’d seen them, touched them when they made love. One on the lower side of his abdomen, one along his right shoulder blade. She hadn’t asked who’d put them there.

  Chuckling, Parker studied her in the mirror a moment. “Perhaps these will help cover them.” He reached out and draped something around her neck.

  Miranda swallowed hard. Pearls? No one had ever given her pearls.

  One pink strand, the other a greenish-blue that set off the color of her eyes. Gorgeous. Stunned, she lifted a hand to touch them. “What are these? And don’t say ‘pearls.’ I can see that.”

  His lithe fingers fastened the clasp. “Tahitian pearls. They belonged to my mother.”

  “Your mother?” Miranda whispered. She didn’t know the details, but Parker’s mother had died some time ago. This necklace must be very special to him. Embarrassment prickled her skin. She certainly couldn’t keep them. “So they’re, uh, a loaner for tonight. Right?”

  She watched a flash of pain ripple across his face, then he stiffened. “Of course. A loaner for tonight.” He removed his hands and stepped away from her. “Although since I attend a lot of fundraisers, this may not be the last time you’ll use them.”

  It was an awkward moment. She expected him to get angry, but he didn’t. He rarely got angry with her, unless she provoked it. All she’d ever gotten from Parker was understanding and compassion. She knew he cared about her deeply.

  It wasn’t fair for him. She couldn’t return his feelings. She couldn’t feel that deeply for another person after what Leon had put her through. She wasn’t capable of it. The heady emotions Parker aroused in her were only a temporary thrill. Like a teenager’s crush on a rock star. Not real. Not lasting.

  She didn’t want commitment. She didn’t want a man in her life. And yet, here she was, living with Parker in his mansion. Shit.

  She glanced at the clock. “We’d better get going.”

  He nodded and silently escorted her down to the car.

  * * *

  The Brentwood Gallery was ablaze with street lamps and floodlights when Parker pulled up in his hot, midnight blue Lamborghini and handed his keys to a valet. The place itself seemed modest. A three-story, modern-looking building on a residential side street off Peachtree Road.

  But evidently, the staff knew how to put on the ritz, Miranda mused, as a seco
nd valet opened her door, and she stepped out and took the arm Parker offered to her.

  A thrill knotted in her stomach as they climbed the rough stone steps to the entrance and stepped inside. She had to admit she was excited to be at this fancy shindig. Not for the contemporary art, but because they just might nail this self-serving artist tonight.

  Inside she found a maze of white walls, with well-lit paintings hung every five feet or so. Soft guitar music played in the background. The air smelled of fancy appetizers and the expensive perfume of the patrons. In the many corners, odd sculptures stood on display. Most shiny, amorphous shapes in bright colors, that made Miranda think art was more about connections than talent.

  There was a moderately sized crowd of people strolling about, studying the paintings. Nobody she recognized, though Parker greeted a few of them briefly. College-aged kids dressed in black silk oriental-style uniforms with red trim, moved through the rooms carrying drinks and hors d’oeuvres on silver trays.

  “I don’t see Usher anywhere,” she muttered to Parker under her breath when they were on the third row of paintings.

  He stopped strolling and rubbed his chin. With his salt-and-pepper hair, his blue silk tie and black suit, which she’d learned tonight was Ralph Lauren, he looked exquisitely classy. “Let’s split up,” he said. “We’ll meet back at that statue in half an hour.”

  “Good idea.” She took a casual glance at her watch, then pointed toward a corner. “The bright blue blob that looks like a large jelly bean?”

  He smiled. “That’s the one.”

  “Gotcha.” She headed toward the right, while Parker moved back in the direction they came from.

  Fingering the pearls at her neck, she perused the abstracts as she moved along, trying to get some insight into Usher’s mind. His paintings were weird and wild, his canvases filled with violent swirls of bold reds, golds, blues. Everything in an agitated, fitful style. Horses and women seemed to be favorite themes, all in the same fierce colors.

  She turned a corner and heard a man speaking Spanish. For a minute she thought it might be Antonio Estavez, Parker’s surrogate son, but then she realized the voice wasn’t as refined. She stood still, watching a man with sharp eyes, black locks, shiny with styling gel, piled atop his head, and dark facial hair that circled his mouth and gave his chin a sharp, menacing look. Like the devil.

  He wore black slacks and a blazer. His shirt, also black, was opened at the neck and he wore several heavy-looking gold chains around his neck. He was speaking quietly to two other Hispanic men.

  One thin and garish-looking in a gold paisley shirt, the other, dressed in dark clothes, with a protruding lip and a thick, heavy body, who sported a black wool cap.

  They didn’t look like art connoisseurs. They looked like…gang members. What were they doing in an art gallery?

  The guy with the goatee seemed to be the leader. Was he…Usher’s drug dealer? They seemed intent on some business that had little to do with art. Maybe they’d come to make an exchange. Maybe they’d come to collect. The leader pulled his coat back a bit and she thought she saw the hilt of a gun. A shiver snaked down her spine.

  Luckily, they didn’t see her. After a moment, the leader nodded and the group moved toward the door. If they were here on shady business, she’d missed it.

  She wanted to follow them out, but then she’d never find Usher. Where was the brooding artist?

  Frustrated, she turned and headed into the next aisle. She took a few steps and stopped.

  At the end of the wall was a large painting, maybe ten feet tall. It was all fiery oranges and blazing reds, like flames so searing she could almost feel their heat. She moved closer to scrutinize the face. It was horrific. A woman encased in a fiery gown. Those eyes. That expression, half way between lust and hate, seemed almost…vicious.

  But that face, those eyes were unmistakable. Desirée Langford.

  “I didn’t take you as the type to be interested in art, Ms. Steele.”

  She spun around, suppressed a squeal as she caught sight of Usher standing behind her, perfectly dressed, smug and full of himself. Not at all in mourning now.

  Her target for the evening was wearing a conservative-looking dark blue suit. His bleached-blonde, shoulder-length hair was neatly combed. Tonight his chin sported no stubble.

  He held a champagne flute in his long, thin fingers. Toying with it, he stared at her with those large, seaweed-colored eyes that had been so full of shock and pain the day Desirée died.

  She commanded herself to relax and smiled. “I’m interested in all kinds of things, Mr. Usher. I heard you were having a showing and I thought I’d check out your work.”

  He nodded haughtily, as if she’d just given him a huge compliment.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted Parker in the next row, pretending to examine a sculpture that resembled a large, green-spotted molar. He’d been tailing Usher. She was dying to know if he’d seen the artist with the three men who looked like gang members.

  In her hand, she had a brochure that she’d picked up on the way in. It gave her an idea. “In fact, I wonder if I could get your autograph.”

  He tilted his head and eyed her carefully, as if debating whether he could trust her, but his ego won out. “Of course.” He took a pen from his shirt pocket, reached for the brochure and stepped to a small table set against a nearby wall. He scrawled something on it and handed it back to her.

  Miranda eyed the brochure. To Ms. Steele. May your days be filled with loveliness. Ferraro Usher. Perfect. “Thanks.”

  He looked up at the painting she’d been gazing at. “Were you admiring my Medea, Ms. Steele?”

  “Your Medea?”

  Casually, Parker came up between them. “Medea of Greek mythology?” he asked. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  Usher looked unnerved, he gave Miranda a suspicious glance, and looked back at Parker. “Good evening, Mr. Parker. That makes two people I never expected to see at my exhibition tonight.”

  Parker gave him an easy smile, as if he thought that was a compliment. “You were saying? About your painting?”

  “She was my inspiration, the Medea of the Greek legends. Wife of Jason.”

  Miranda vaguely remembered the story from high school English or maybe it was an old movie. “Jason? The dude who went after the Golden Fleece?”

  “That’s right,” Usher nodded. “But he never could have captured it without the help of Medea.”

  “She was a witch.” Parker eyed the painting.

  “Ah, I can see my new patrons are very astute.” With his champagne flute, Usher gestured toward the work with hunger in his eyes. His voice took on a dreamlike tone. “She had mystical, magical powers and when the god Eros caused her to fall hopelessly in love with Jason, she used those powers to help him get what he wanted.”

  Like Desirée had helped Usher get what he wanted.

  “But Jason betrayed Medea,” Parker said dryly.

  The story was coming back to her. “He married somebody else, didn’t he?”

  Usher stared at the painting, as if he were in a self-induced trance. “He abandoned his true love for a political marriage.”

  Like Desirée had abandoned Usher for Kennicot.

  “He was heartless,” Usher said. “Medea threw herself at Jason’s feet, begging him to come back to her. But he refused.”

  Like Desirée had refused to go back to Usher when he begged her to. “The cold-hearted bastard.”

  “As the story goes, Medea went mad. In the end, her only choice was revenge.”

  “Revenge?” That searing red blaze certainly looked like payback.

  Usher’s chest was nearly heaving. “Medea sent Jason’s fiancée a lovely gown as a wedding gift. But the garment had a spell on it. When the bride put the dress on, it burst into flames and consumed her, burning her to death.”

  Miranda looked up at the painting. A case of life imitating art? Gave new meaning to the phrase old flame. “In
your picture, it looks like Medea is the one wearing the fiery dress.”

  Usher gave a short, self-satisfied smirk. “It’s my little twist on the story.”

  Uh huh. “Is that how you saw your late wife, Usher?”

  Usher bristled. “What do you mean?”

  He had been furious with Desirée for leaving him. The passions running rampant in that painting looked like enough to kill her. She tilted her head and put a finger to her chin. “The face is very recognizable. That’s a good likeness of her. After all, this exhibition is in her memory, isn’t it?”

  Usher turned slowly and glared at Miranda with a strange look. “Desirée’s face had interesting features. I used her likeness in many of my works. She always encouraged me to interpret things in my own way. Artistic freedom, you know.”

  “Oh really?” And he had destroyed that interesting face at the Steeplechase so Kennicot couldn’t have it. “Does that freedom include snorting coke and taking angel dust?”

  Usher made a slow hissing sound like a teapot. He looked as if he were about to bite her. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  Parker stepped toward the man and spoke in a low, dangerous tone. “You might be interested to know that in our investigation into your ex-wife’s death, we’ve found some incriminating evidence.”

  Usher put a hand to his chest. “Evidence that incriminates me?”

  Parker merely gave him a grim nod.

  Usher clenched his hands together, open and shut them, as if they were too clammy to bear. He glanced frantically around the room. “Please, my patrons.” He pointed off in the distance. “Let’s go where we can talk privately.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  He led them to a staircase that took them three flights up, to a roomy loft that was sparsely furnished and cluttered with canvases and easels. The large, open area seemed to serve as both living quarters and studio. A worn desk in the corner was overspread with brushes, palettes, tubes of paint. A single couch sat at the far end behind a coffee table littered with half-eaten fast food, still in the wrappers.