Smoke Screen (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 7)

by Linsey Lanier

Immediately he’d travelled to Lake Placid. He’d gone to the hospital, tried to get in to see her, but there were too many people.

  Instead he’d waited and watched.

  And after a time she recovered and went home. And when she did, he followed her. And watched some more. She went into rehabilitation and eventually returned to her place of employment.

  He learned all about her. Where she lived. Who she was married to. Her friends. Her colleagues. Her routines.

  Months passed and she started to travel with her husband. Again he watched her on television, all the while a plan forming in his mind.

  He thought of her image on the screen during her press conference in Las Vegas. Her dark, unruly hair, the blue of her eyes, the form of her body beneath her professional suit, her confident stance.

  She’d grown strong, bold.

  But the strong could be made weak. And no one could weaken a whore like he could. He could hear her cries now. Feel her shudder with electrifying pain. See the shape of her lips as she begged him to stop. Soon. Soon.

  Now after so much waiting, after so much watching, his plan for her was about to come to fruition at last.

  Of course her separation from her husband had thrown a wrench in his plan. But it had only caused him to come up with a better one. One that would destroy them both with its agony.

  He chuckled to himself and reached for his wineglass. She was a delight to chase, would be more of a delight to capture. She kept him on his toes. It would almost be a shame to end her. But not quite.

  The pain in his jaw was subsiding, soothed by the knowledge she would soon be in his hands. He inhaled deeply in anticipation of the things he would do to her. This would be his greatest project of all.

  His finale. The last movement.

  At last he would have her. And when he was done with her, he’d be done for good.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Footsteps followed her.

  Noiseless footsteps she could feel in her nerves rather than hear. They were behind her now. Growing closer, closer.

  She clamored down the stairwell. Flight after flight after flight. Her heart pounded in her ears like a hammer breaking bone.

  Down, down she went. As if she were descending into the center of the earth. But then the stairs were gone. Tall neatly trimmed hedges surrounded her. A shadowy dark green path lay before her.

  Only one way to go. The footsteps were close behind.

  She ran.

  Her bare feet slapped on the dewy grass. She pushed herself faster, faster, faster. Rounding a turn she thought she might slip on the moisture. Somehow she managed to keep her balance and go on.

  The footsteps were getting nearer.

  She had to get away. And yet she wasn’t just running from him. She was running toward someone.

  Someone she had to save.

  But she was growing tired and there was only one path after another and another. No end to it. She was caught in a maze.

  Trapped.

  She gasped for breath, her lungs burning. Her chest felt as if it might explode. She needed to stop. Just for a minute.

  But it was too late.

  Rough hands reached around her, snatched at her throat. She lost her balance and went down hard. Pain rippled through her body. She wasn’t on the soft grass now. She was on the icy pavement.

  In an alley. On a cold February night.

  The hands kept grasping for her tearing at her face, her clothes.

  “Stop,” she cried. “Leave me alone.”

  She struggled, punched, scratched, struck out. It did no good.

  The hands turned her over as if she were a rag doll. He hovered above her. She strained to see his face, but it was covered with a dark ski mask. Her vision blurred with her tears, but she could see him reach for his pants, hear the clang of his belt buckle and the unzipping as he pulled them down. She felt the hands tearing at her underwear.

  She closed her eyes, braced herself for the pain, the helpless desperate pain. And all the despair that went with it. All she could sense now was the nauseating smell of cheap cologne. And the sound of his raspy voice whispering against her ear.

  Whore, whore, whore.

  Miranda’s eyes jolted open and her mouth parted in a loud cry.

  She turned her head, felt the sheet beneath her damp with her own sweat. She squinted at the light coming through her window. Daylight. It was morning. She was in her own bed.

  Her heart still racing, she sat up and rubbed her face.

  A nightmare. Another one.

  When were they going to end? She thought they had once. But they’d come back. They’d started up again in Las Vegas. She’d had them during her last case in Chicago. She remembered those. Leon chasing her down, striking her, raping her.

  She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself for comfort.

  It was stupid. These dreams weren’t real. Leon was dead.

  And then she remembered Parker’s real life arms slipping around her after a bad dream, holding her close, soothing her pain away.

  Parker.

  He was the real tragedy of her life, she thought, as the horror of the nightmare subsided into the ache she was living with day-to-day because of that man. If only he had listened to her. If only she could have made him understand. If only they could have worked something out. But no.

  He was too stubborn to even discuss their differences. He was a my-way-or-the-highway kind of man. At least when it came to what she did for a living.

  With an irritated grunt she shoved the sheets aside and got up. She didn’t have time for psychological nonsense. She had to go to work.

  She got a shower and dressed. In the kitchen she grabbed her briefcase, a protein bar, a cup of coffee, and headed out the door.

  First stop, Phelps Supply Company. Thomas Anthony Drew’s place of employment. By the end of the day she intended to find out everything there was to know about the owner of that light gray Hyundai—including the whereabouts of Hannah Kaye.

  But before she had reached the decorative dumpster that sat beneath her window, her cell rang.

  She reached for her phone and grunted when she saw the number. Chambers. What the hell did he want?

  “Steele Investigations,” she answered professionally as she balanced the cell under her chin and the rest of her things in her arms while she unlocked her car.

  “You know anything about an abandoned car near club Exótico, Steele?”

  Uh oh. She pulled the door open set her cup in the holder, tossed her briefcase on the seat. “Good morning to you, too, Chambers. Why would I know anything about that?”

  “Someone in a nearby apartment called it in last night. Seems it had been sitting there a few days and he thought the owner would come get it eventually. But around nine o’clock last evening a gang of thugs showed up and broke into it.”

  Good grief. She hadn’t been thinking about nosey neighbors last night. She climbed inside and started the car.

  “When we got there everything seemed to be intact except the glove compartment had been cleaned out.”

  Play dumb, she decided as she turned onto Juniper Street and headed east. “Once again, why should I know anything about that?”

  “Because the good neighbor described the person who broke into said vehicle. It was a woman. And she looked just like you.”

  Jeez. Chambers sure knew how to ruin a morning. She laughed breezily. “What a coincidence.”

  “Isn’t it though? So if you do happen to know anything about the contents of that glove compartment, perhaps you’d be good enough to swing by the station and turn it in?”

  “Sorry, Chambers. I’ve got appointments this morning. Maybe later this afternoon.”

  “Gee, Steele. I’d hate to have a judge issue a bench warrant for you.”

  She glowered into the phone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Hey, have you gotten anywhere with the search for Hannah Kaye’s car?”

  Her app had been stuck on eighty
-three percent when she’d checked it this morning. Surely Chambers could do better.

  But all she heard now was a lot of throat clearing. “Haven’t run it yet,” Chambers said finally. “Had a double shooting come in last night.”

  And yet he had time to worry about some papers taken from an abandoned car. But that was okay. She didn’t want him involved in this case anyway. “Never mind,” she told him.

  “Don’t you worry, Steele. I’ll get to it soon.”

  Sure, sure, she wanted to say, but decided not to challenge him. Chambers had too much male ego not to brag if he got a lead. If that got back to Santiago, she’d be in a world of hurt.

  “Just be sure you bring those papers in today.”

  Rolling her eyes, she gave him her best imitation of a mocking little girl voice. “Whatever you say, Officer.”

  And she hung up.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Phelps Supply Company in Decatur turned out to be a warehouse on Church Street next to a strip mall and across from a burger place.

  After a forty-five minute drive that would have taken fifteen without traffic, Miranda parked her Acura near the loading bays and sat watching two big dudes in tan uniforms struggling to get a pallet of heavy-looking boxes into the back of a truck.

  Good place to start.

  She got out and made her way over the gravel, noting the sky was turning gray and there was a welcome cool breeze in the air.

  “Hey, there,” she called out, pretending to be a friendly local.

  The men ignored her as they continued to grunt under their load. Both their faces were shiny with sweat as their muscles strained.

  Before she reached the dock a voice rang out behind the men.

  “Jones! Connelly! What in tarnation are you two knuckleheads doing?”

  A small bald man in a blue short sleeved shirt and a cherry red bowtie marched up behind them. He carried a clipboard in one hand. Must be the manager.

  One of the big dudes set his end of the package down and straightened. “Trying to load this delivery, Mr. Phelps.”

  The little guy, who Miranda took to be Mr. Phelps, waved both hands in the air. “Use the forklift.”

  “It’s got a flat tire.”

  Phelps gestured inside the darkened space of the warehouse. “Well, fix it then.”

  “No time. We’re behind.”

  The little guy glared at his watch, put his hands on his hips. “Where’s Montgomery?”

  The second big dude, who’d also put his end of the package down by now shrugged, palms up. “Didn’t come in today.”

  That brought on a string of cussing from Phelps that would have made a lesser woman blush. But Miranda had heard similar diatribes before from construction bosses she’d worked for.

  Phelps’ entire bald head turned as red as his bowtie.

  Better be careful. Might drop over of a heart attack with a temper like that in the Georgia heat. Well, it was a few degrees cooler today.

  “Fix the damn tire now,” Phelps yelled. “You’re going to hurt yourselves and give me a workers’ comp claim. I’ll call the client and tell them you’ll be late.”

  “Yes, sir.” The big dudes said together. Then the two of them disappeared into the warehouse.

  “Excuse me,” Miranda called out before the boss man got away.

  Phelps peered down at her as if she were a mutant from outer space. “Yes?”

  Miranda peered at the angry little man. “You the owner?”

  He flapped his arms in a what-now? gesture. “What if I am? Are you a lawyer or something?”

  “Private investigator.”

  His head jerked back in surprise. “Is one of my guys in trouble?”

  “Not that I know of.” Yet. “I just need a few minutes of your time, if you can spare it.”

  Taking out his cell phone, Phelps shook his head. “We’re pretty booked up this morning, as you must have overheard.”

  Miranda smiled up at him. “Okay. I’ll go talk to the local police instead. I saw a station right up the road.” She hadn’t really but there was probably one nearby.

  She took a half step toward her car, watched him fume, his head turning from that cherry color to pink to cherry again.

  Finally he gave her a come-ahead wave. “Five minutes. Let’s go to my office.”

  While Phelps made his call to the client who was going to get his order late, Miranda climbed the cement steps to the ramp and followed the little guy through the warehouse.

  They passed a dozen aisles of tall shelving units all filled with cardboard boxes of various sizes and finally slipped through a door at the far end. Here they crossed a space that looked like a waiting room with cheap chairs and cheap linoleum on the floor. One wall was covered in cheap paneling.

  Phelps’ office was at the end of it. He ushered her inside and offered a chair with a cracked seat cushion.

  The office was small, messy, and smelled of the cheese-and-egg breakfast sandwich lying half eaten on the desk.

  Made her new place look like a showcase, Miranda thought as she gingerly sat, hoping the chair didn’t pinch her butt.

  Phelps settled down behind the desk in an office chair that looked like it came from the fifties. “How can I help you?”

  She took out a business card and handed it to him. “My name is Miranda Steele and I’m working on a missing persons case. One of your employees may have been involved.”

  He took the card, glanced at it, shook his head. “All my guys are aboveboard. All bonded. I check everyone out myself before I hire them.”

  She smiled again. “I’m sure you do, Mr. Phelps. However, I’m looking for someone in particular.”

  His chair creaked as he sat back and folded his arms over his skinny stomach.

  Miranda reached into her briefcase and took out the driver’s license she’d pilfered last night. “His name’s Thomas Anthony Drew.”

  Phelps took the card and studied it, irritation playing over his face. “Yeah, he worked for us. I remember him.”

  Didn’t look like the memory was a fond one. “He doesn’t work for you now?”

  “He quit two months ago. First week of June. I remember because we had a big order and I needed every driver I could get. Monday morning comes and he’s a no show.” He uttered a few more curse words under his breath.

  Two months ago. Miranda scanned her memory banks. That was about the time she and Parker were heading out to Las Vegas. “So Drew was a driver here?”

  Phelps nodded. “Did a lot of the local runs. He started in February, I recall. That’s the time of year I take on new drivers.”

  “What exactly do you do here, Mr. Phelps?”

  “We deliver medical supplies.”

  “What sort of supplies?”

  “You name it. Stretchers, incubators, operating tables. X-ray machines, ECGs, defibrillators.”

  Drew must have been strong to handle loads like that, though he’d probably used the forklift.

  “We do small stuff, too,” Phelps said, a tinge of pride surfacing. “Syringes, cold packs, foam cushions. Right down to band aids.” He smirked as he handed the license back to her. “Drew had the deliveries for Saint Benedictine Hospital, one of our biggest clients. We almost lost them because of him.”

  Saint Benedictine Hospital? That was where she’d done her rehab after her injuries in Lake Placid. “Have you been in contact with him since he quit?”

  Phelps shook his head. “Nope. I docked him for part of the loss. Expected him to fight me on it, but he never even picked up his last paycheck.”

  That was odd. Miranda had quit a bunch of jobs she’d gotten fed up with over the years but she’d never left money on the boss’s table. So where did Drew go? He was obviously still in the area. Had to be working someplace.

  “Did he ever contact anyone here for a reference for his next job?” she asked.

  Phelps bared a set of yellow teeth. “Nobody would give him a good reference after the stunt h
e pulled.”

  Good point. She needed to know more about the guy. “Before the day he didn’t show up was Drew a good worker?”

  Phelps jiggled his hand in the air. “He was okay. Strong as an ox. But a little…what would you call it? Distracted.”

  “Distracted?” Not a good quality for a truck driver.

  “A dreamer. I think he played music or something. Had an eye for the ladies though.”

  That remark set off Miranda’s sensors. “Why do you say that?”

  “My bookkeeper told me he was always hanging around her office. Said it gave her the creeps.”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s off today.”

  Miranda considered her options. It would be nice to talk to some of Drew’s coworkers and get their perspectives on the guy, but this lead promised more relevant information. And if Thomas Anthony Drew had Hannah Kaye somewhere, she needed to cut to the chase.

  “Is there any way I can talk to your bookkeeper, Mr. Phelps?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t give out my employees’ personal information.”

  “Can you make an exception? A young woman’s life may be at stake.”

  It was if Phelps just put together what she’d said about the missing persons case. His jaw went back and forth as he considered the implications.

  Finally he picked up his phone. “I’ll call her and see what she says.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The bookkeeper, whose name was Peggy Kinley, turned out to be a lot friendlier than her boss. She said the investigator could come right over and speak to her. Phelps had no choice but to hand over her address.

  The woman lived in a nice second-story apartment off Buford Highway in Duluth. Half an hour later, Miranda was sitting on a creamy skyblue couch in her eggshell painted living room, sipping coffee.

  “I appreciate your seeing me so quickly,” Miranda told her.

  “Oh, no problem,” the woman said with a thick southern accent that sounded like she’d come from a deeper part of the state. “When Mr. Phelps said you were looking for a missing woman, I just had to help.”

  She seemed to be around Miranda’s age and was a pretty, tan woman with a lot of blond hair and a lot of freckles. Must like the sun.

  “Still, thank you for letting me come over on your day off.”