Smoke Screen (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 7)

by Linsey Lanier

  And he’d died three years ago at the age of eighty five.

  And so the man in the video who had tampered with Miranda’s phone was just as unknown to Parker as when he’d started this quest.

  He rubbed his eyes considering what to do next. Before he could decide Gen knocked on his door.

  He smiled up at her. “What is it, dear?”

  She gave him a don’t-call-me-dear-at-the-office look, stepped inside and sat down. Her face, her makeup, and her slate gray suit were just as fresh and crisp as they had been that morning. At times, she amazed him.

  “Don Peregrin signed the contract,” she said.

  That made his smile wider. “Excellent work.”

  “You’re the one who did all the persuading.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without your facilitating skills.”

  “Just doing my job, Dad.” She put her hands in her lap and gave him the look she used to as a child when she wanted him to buy her something special. “So, I say it’s time to leave work early and celebrate.”

  His brow rose in suspicion. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Coco’s got a new set she’s performing tonight at the Gecko Club. She and Antonio want us to come.”

  He studied her a moment. “Is that all?”

  “Why should there be anything else?”

  “I’m afraid I’m exhausted, dear. I’d like a quiet evening at home.”

  Her glare told him she thought he’d had too many quiet evenings at home lately. “C’mon, Dad. It’ll do you good. And you never know who you might run into.”

  He eyed her cautiously. “You don’t have another surprise date set up for me, do you?”

  She raised her slender shoulders. “What if I do? Can’t a daughter take an interest her father’s love life?”

  He shook his head at her. “Really, Gen. I’m not ready for a relationship.”

  Her face turned solemn. “You’ve got to get over her, Dad.”

  “I am. I’m managing.”

  “She wasn’t good for you. I always knew that.”

  “You did,” he said.

  But his heart told him it had been true when he’d set it on Miranda Steele. They were good together. She’d delighted and amazed and annoyed him like no other woman ever had. Including Gen’s mother.

  And he missed her.

  She missed her laughter and her silly jokes. Her quick mind and her tenacious spirit. And the way she could always arouse every nerve in his body. She had filled his life with joy when he’d thought there was no more joy to be had. She had filled his heart with love.

  But it wasn’t meant to last.

  There was too much fire and sizzle in Miranda for him to contend with. Perhaps he was too old for her.

  Gen rose and took his hand. “Come with me to the Geckco Club tonight, Dad. Coco and Antonio will be so disappointed if you don’t.”

  He sighed deeply. He was at a standstill with the data on his screen. Perhaps a diversion would shake an idea out of his brain.

  What a man did for his children. “Very well, Gen.”

  As he got to his feet she reached up and kissed his cheek, warming his heart so that it nearly came to life again. He loved her dearly for that. For everything she meant to him.

  “I promise,” she smiled. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The clouds hovering over the distant tree line were growing darker. As she raced down I-20 heading west, Miranda prayed it wouldn’t rain again.

  In the rain it would be harder to deal with whatever she was going to find when she got to Hannah Kaye’s car. Rain would slow her down. And it had already taken too long to get out here.

  She’d stopped to fill up the Acura’s tank and had fought the traffic nearly all the way to Six Flags.

  She’d transferred the GPS tracker to her phone, and it had taken her into Paulding County, past Mableton and Austell and Lithia Springs. Following its directions after several more miles she turned off the main highway.

  Here the road became a two-lane. She passed apartment buildings and gas stations and strip malls for a while, then the road turned totally rural. Long and nearly clear of traffic, it stretched before her broken only by the occasional church or convenience store. Every once in a while a narrow side street shot off into heavy tree cover. Her tracker told her to keep going straight. She did.

  Mile after mile after mile.

  When it beeped she jolted at the noise. It was telling her to turn right onto one of those side roads. Stomach tensing she did, though she felt as if she were heading into hell, risking getting stranded on a deserted road in the woods.

  Here the pavement grew narrower. The road markings faded. A weathered sign told her the speed limit was thirty-five. She ignored it and sped on.

  Some of the tall treetops had been cut away for telephone lines. A sign of life? She hoped so. There were more trees up ahead. In Atlanta there were always more trees. An endless tunnel of thirty kinds of oaks and fifty kinds of pines, often covered with thick leafy kudzu, tall and green and silently ominous. Above her they swayed gently in the wind that was kicking up.

  Up ahead rose a bit of civilization. She zoomed past a row of modest country houses, spread out with at least an acre between them. As she went on, the space became two and three acres. And then the homes disappeared.

  There was nothing around her but thick, deep forest.

  She glanced at the tracker. It was still flashing the way but, she reminded herself, she hadn’t used it before. Was it taking her on a wild goose chase?

  Just then it beeped again.

  She startled in her seat and cursed the thing. But all it responded with was a command to turn left.

  She peered out the windshield. At first she didn’t see where she could turn. Then she spotted the narrow dirt road, its red Georgia clay nearly glowing under a patch of sunlight among the clouds. Something about the look of it made her heartbeat mount. But if this was where Hannah Kaye was, this was where she had to go.

  Hair rising on the back of her neck she turned the steering wheel. And as she did the sky turned dark and lightning flashed in the distance like a bad omen.

  She pressed on.

  The road was bumpy, littered with holes from past rainstorms. Several times she feared she might bust an axle.

  “If you damage my car,” she muttered to the tracker, “I’m suing your creator’s ass.”

  But she wouldn’t have to bother.

  As she came around another rough curve, she saw what she was here for in the distance through the pines.

  Hannah Kaye’s cranberry red Corolla.

  She had to drive a few more yards before she could get a better view. Beyond the car stood a murky, tan colored house with a charcoal roof. The place looked like it had seen better days.

  It was a sort of split level with siding that needed painting and a rotting old roof that needed replacing. A window on the upper floor was boarded up. Dingy gray encased a lower level that might have once been used as a garage. A pair of sliding patio doors in its side were also boarded up.

  As Miranda inched closer in her Acura she saw no movement at all in the windows. But she noticed there was only a single set of tracks in the dried mud lane. They led straight to the Corolla’s rear tires.

  She turned her car around—in case she needed to make a quick getaway—and parked as close to the front door as she dared.

  It occurred to her she might need a flashlight. Opening her glove compartment she took out the police issue maglite she’d stored there. Once more she checked her Beretta. As she did another bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.

  She got out, closed the door noiselessly, and picked her way across the neglected yard to the porch, the wind tossing her hair.

  The porch boards were slick and black and she didn’t think they’d hold her. But taking a deep breath, she put her foot on the first step. It didn’t cave so she hurried up the rest and stopped at the s
creen door.

  Knock or just go in?

  Better not to give your presence away, she decided and put her hand on the knob. It was probably locked, but as she gave it a turned, it opened easily. The solid door was already ajar.

  Trusting owner? She doubted it.

  For an instant she thought of Chambers’ warning. Maybe she should wait for him. But what if Hannah Kaye was dying in there? What if he got here seconds too late to save her life?

  She had to go in.

  Slowly she reached for her Beretta. After a quick glance behind her that revealed nothing, she gave the exterior door a push and it creaked open.

  Heart banging in her chest Miranda stepped inside the house.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The first room was a grimy living room.

  A cutout divider across the room revealed a dingy kitchen. In the far corner of the first room sat a ratty looking recliner with a small end table and a lamp. Along the opposite wall stood an old-fashioned fireplace that had been painted over. The air was hot and dank and musty. Might be some rotting food in the kitchen. And the baseboards had a nice crop of black mold growing along their edges.

  For a fleeting moment Miranda wondered why the place hadn’t been condemned.

  She switched on her maglit and ran it over the stained walls. No signs of life. To her right was a staircase leading to the upper floor. Beside it was a closed door, its paint just as stained as the walls. Had to be another staircase behind it to get to the lower level she’d seen from the outside.

  So would it be up or down?

  Up, she decided. Maybe the occupants were asleep.

  Silently she crossed the room and put her foot on the first step. As she shifted her weight the stair moaned.

  Miranda held her breath. Didn’t want to wake them.

  Why was she thinking in the plural? She was assuming Hannah Kaye was still alive and that she’d find her and Tommy Drew together in a bed upstairs.

  That would be the best case scenario.

  She took another step. This stair was quieter. Creeping along she tiptoed all the way up. On the landing she found three doors, all of them ajar. She took them counterclockwise.

  The first was a bathroom with a sink that needed cleaning. No towels. No toiletries. No cabinet behind the cracked mirror. No curtain on the tub. No one in the tub.

  She moved to the next room.

  This one looked like it might have been used as a bedroom but it contained no furniture. It had been painted a pale pink but that had to have been years ago. Black mold speckled the walls and baseboards from the moisture seeping through the ceiling and the unsealed window. An air vent in the corner was dark with grime.

  Oh for two.

  They had to be in the last room. Miranda moved silently down the hall and nudged the door open with her Beretta.

  “Tommy Drew?” she said softly.

  No answer.

  This room was in a little better shape but it wouldn’t win a Good Housekeeping prize. Here also there was no furniture except for a single mattress in the corner with a rumpled sheet on it.

  Miranda tiptoed over to it.

  Could be some nice DNA on that sheet. She didn’t have the resources to process it. She’d let Chambers handle that. A small closet with a folding door stood open. If anyone had hung any clothes in there they were gone. All that remained was a single hanger.

  As she stood staring at it she heard the rumble of thunder outside. Rain began to pelt the roof. She felt a slight relief from the too-warm, too-moist air. The temperature must be dropping.

  But it didn’t do anything for the anxious feeling in her gut.

  Giving up on this floor she went back down to the living room.

  As she reached the last step she realized how bad the room smelled. She’d thought it was a kitchen odor. She should have known better.

  Only one more place to check.

  As she eyed the door to the lower level her heartbeat kicked up. Her nerves began to dance wildly. Suddenly she felt like ants were crawling up her neck.

  Mustering her courage she strode to the door and flung it open.

  The foul air stung her eyes. Dear God, she should have known.

  Beretta still drawn, holding her maglit under the grip, she plunged into the stench and down the stairs, ignoring their creaking.

  As she reached the last step Miranda’s heart nearly stopped. Her stomach roiled and she had to fight the gag reflex hard.

  She’d seen some pretty frightening scenes in her time, but nothing like this. It was much worse than she’d imagined. Worse than anything in her most terrible nightmare.

  Instead of the familiar mold these walls were hung with acoustical foam, as if someone wanted to block in the noise. The patio doors were boarded up on this floor so there was no outside light. In the far corner stood an empty cage. About three foot by three and six feet long. A faded blue blanket lay on the floor next to it stained with blood.

  A disturbing enough sight but that wasn’t what caught her attention.

  Overhead some sort of pulley system had been strung up over the reinforced rafters. Thick ropes had been anchored to the wall. The ropes had been strung through the pulley and used to heave the victim up by her bound wrists.

  And there before her, hanging from those ropes was the naked body of Hannah Kaye.

  For an eternity all Miranda could do was stare up at her, the foul stench in her throat.

  It was a grisly sight.

  Grotesque bruises and welts and cuts covered her torso, her arms, her legs. Flies and gnats buzzed around streams of dried blood caked on her skin where it had oozed from the gaping wounds in her thighs, her sides, her breasts, between her legs. Of the eight to ten pints in the human body, at least half had pooled on the floor below her.

  The blood meant he’d done that all that to her while she was still alive.

  She must have died in incredible pain.

  The angle of the cuts indicated she’d been hanging up there while he’d worked on her. It was as if he’d used her as a human piñata. How had he done it? With a long knife? A sharp poker of some sort? He’d cut her just enough to cause pain without killing her. Until he was ready for her to die.

  She could imagine the sick, sadistic bastard digging into her flesh. Over and over and over. Watching her suffer. Enjoying it.

  Her long blond hair hung over one shoulder, matted with blood. Her tongue was extended down her chin in total resignation.

  But most disturbing of all were the big blue eyes. Wide open, bulging, peering down at Miranda and asking “Why? Why did you let this happen to me?”

  If only she could have gotten here sooner.

  As she stared up at the woman whose life had been cut so short Miranda felt her whole body shiver. She began to quake from head to foot. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed. If she didn’t get out here she was going to lose her mind.

  Turning she ran up the stairs and out the front door.

  As she reached the porch a loud thunderclap exploded overhead. It seemed to shake the whole earth. Rain began pouring down in sheets.

  Not caring if she got wet Miranda ran into the yard getting doused to the bone. She ran for her car fumbled with the handle, climbed inside.

  She sat there hugging herself, still shivering, numb with shock.

  Water dripped from her hair, her clothes onto the floorboards. She turned her head and saw her Beretta and the maglite lying in the passenger seat, both wet. She couldn’t remember putting them there.

  Could barely make out what was around her. All she could see was the image of that poor, poor girl. The student, the dancer she had been too late to save.

  Her brain starting to rouse, she dug in her pocket for her cell phone. With shaky fingers she dialed the number.

  He answered after the first ring.

  “Steele?” There was concern in his voice.

  “I found her,” she breathed. “I found her, Chambers.”

  “Is s
he—?”

  “She’s gone. Get out here fast and bring your CSIs.”

  Before he could answer she hung up. For several long moments she sat, rocking, hugging herself, trying to get the image of that mutilated body out of her head.

  And then as another bolt of lightning split the sky, she burst into tears.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The rain had subsided to a drizzle by the time Chambers arrived with his entourage of squad cars with their sirens and flashing lights.

  They parked around the muddy yard and surrounded the house, weapons drawn, their brouhaha announcing their presence to no one. Guess the word of a lowly PI that nobody was in the house but a dead woman wasn’t good enough.

  She stayed in the car and let Chambers come to her to take a statement. She gave it to him, retracing her steps and describing what she’d seen in a dull monotone.

  She watched his face go pale as he made notes on his clipboard.

  Finally he drew in a breath. “Sorry you had to go through that, Steele. Wish you had waited for me.”

  Yeah right. So he could what? Get the glory? Take over? Protect her? But she guessed he was just doing his job. And so was she.

  Santiago’s black BMW rolled up into the yard jogging a vague memory that she’d called him while she’d waited for Chambers to arrive.

  The gangster got out of the backseat of his vehicle, heedless of the barrage of law enforcement officers or if the misty rain ruined his silky white shirt. He shot a rueful look at her huddled in her Acura, then marched over to one of the cops.

  One of the drug lord’s men dressed in bodyguard black emerged from the driver’s side of the BMW and stood near the hood, his big arms crossed over his hulky chest.

  Arms flailing Santiago screamed at the officer. She could hear it through her closed windows. A moment later Chambers came out of the house, took in the scene and motioned for Santiago to come inside.

  The bodyguard remained rock solid at the car. Must have had his orders.

  Francisco, she thought, surprised she’d remembered his name. She’d borrowed his hog the night she’d raced Santiago down Peachtree. The night they’d met.

  She’d taken a big risk then, just as she had coming out to this remote house. Parker was right. She did rush into danger. She could see now why it drove him crazy. No man would put up with that for long. But what choice did she have? It was her duty, her job, her destiny.