Smoke Screen (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 7)

by Linsey Lanier

  But when he took out his phone again and scrolled to the text, his body went rigid as stone.

  The message wasn’t from Gen.

  It was anonymous. No email address. All too personal. Just like the ones on Miranda’s phone.

  Its cold words sent a sickening jolt through him, slicing his heart in two.

  Good Morning, Wade Parker. You may be interested to know that I have your daughter.

  Chapter Forty-One

  When Miranda opened her eyes the next morning, she thought her head was about to split open on the pillow. Maybe it already had.

  Groping around on the pillowcase for her brains and not finding them there, she ran her hands over her face and groaned. She rolled over—gently—and glared up at the sun coming through her window.

  She’d slept through the night. If she’d had any bad dreams, she didn’t remember them. No need for them now. After yesterday, real life had supplied a big enough dose of horror. She could still see the image of Hannah Kaye’s mutilated body in her head. She shook herself trying to get it out.

  The rain had stopped. So she had no excuse to stay in bed.

  She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand and squinted at it. Quarter to one? Good grief. She’d never slept this late. That was the last time she drank half a bottle of Old Number Seven before she went to bed. Or any other time.

  Reluctant to get up yet, she scrolled through her messages. There was a text from Wendy. Thank God. Something good to think about. She hoped. Or maybe not.

  Hi Miranda. I really miss Mackenzie. Can you talk to her for me?

  Miranda’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Like she hadn’t already tried.

  But anything for her kids. I’ll give it a shot, she thumbed back. No promises.

  Thx. Wendy replied.

  Miranda sighed out loud recalling Mackenzie’s visit to her office. She and Wendy were in classes together. She’d thought the ice between them would have thawed by now. How could the two girls she loved most in the world end their friendship over a boy? It was so dumb. Maybe she’d go over to the Chatham place later today and give Mackenzie a talking to.

  She scrolled to the next text.

  Santiago said he’d be sending his remaining payment to her office that afternoon. That was incentive to get up and get dressed. But she didn’t feel she deserved the money. She had so wanted to save Hannah Kaye and she’d failed miserably.

  He also wanted to know what she was doing to find the dancer’s killer.

  Nothing, she thought. But she might as well at least get up.

  With the all the strength she could muster she stood and wobbled to the bathroom while pain zigzagged through her head. A hot shower helped with the headache some, but she still felt raw when she pulled on her clothes. She was going into the office in jeans and a T-shirt today. One of the perks of being your own boss. She happened to grab the form-fitting baby blue one Mackenzie had given her for Mother’s Day.

  On the front it said, Normal is Boring. What a sense of humor the kid had.

  She went to the nightstand and absently stuffed Adam Tannenburg’s ankle bracelet into her pocket. Out of habit she took her Beretta and stuffed it into the back of her jeans under her T-shirt. Then she plodded into the kitchen and scrounged through her cabinets for something for breakfast that wouldn’t turn her stomach.

  She ended up with a cup of strong coffee and half a peanut butter sandwich on two-day-old rye bread.

  What now? she wondered as she ate at her card table.

  She wanted to get away. Far away. California maybe. Would she carry on as a PI there? Maybe not. Maybe she wasn’t as good at this investigator gig as she’d thought she was. Maybe she’d go back to her old habits and see what struck her fancy when she got out there.

  She’d just taken the last bite of her sandwich when her cell rang.

  She glanced at the display and her back tensed. Hank Lauderdale. Her first client. The one who’d stiffed her out of her fee after she’d proved his wife had been cheating on him.

  She scowled at the screen. Okay, she was in the mood to chew somebody a new one today.

  She clicked the button to answer. “Steele Investigations.”

  His breathless voice came over the phone. “Ms. Steele? It’s Hank Lauderdale.”

  What do you want? she wanted to growl. Instead she forced herself to be civil. Still there was acid in her tone as she replied, “How can I help you, Mr. Lauderdale?”

  “Ms. Steele, I am so sorry. I hope you’ll let me explain.”

  “Explain what?” She was going to enjoy listening to him squirm.

  “The check I wrote you. It’s no good. Have you already tried to deposit it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. And it was—”

  “Oh, my word. I am so sorry. You’re never going to believe what happened. You see, when I confronted Luella about those pictures you took of her, she went straight to the bank and withdrew all the money out of our account. She opened another one in her own name and put it all in there.”

  Miranda stared at the phone. He was right. She didn’t believe it. Did this guy think she was born yesterday? “I tried contacting you several times about this matter, Mr. Lauderdale. You never returned my calls.”

  He made a strange wheezing noise on the other end. “That was Luella, too. She threw my cell phone in the pool.”

  Really? Now what? Did he want her to do something else for free?

  “It’s taken me three days to get everything straightened out. But it’s all right now. I’ve got my cell phone back and the bank returned the funds. I’ve written you a new check and I want to bring it to your office this afternoon.”

  Miranda didn’t know what to say. If he didn’t want to pay he wouldn’t stop by her office. And he did have a good credit score, she recalled. Was he really going to make good on what he owed her?

  “I’m going to add another two hundred onto the check to cover any charges and inconvenience I’ve caused. I hope you’ll take it with my gratitude.”

  Now this guy was really sounding looney. “Gratitude?”

  “Luella and I are back together, Ms. Steele. All because of you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “After she calmed down, Luella broke into tears. She said she’d started seeing someone else because she thought I wasn’t interested in her any more. But since I hired a private investigator to follow her, it proves I really did care. She put her arms around me and we made up! We’re going on a second honeymoon to Miami next week. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Miranda was stunned. “I’m…happy for you,” she managed to say.

  “So please let me make amends and pay you the money I owe you.”

  He was begging to pay her? That was a new one.

  “Okay.” It was all she could think of to say.

  She made arrangements to meet Lauderdale in her office later and hung up.

  Well, she thought. This was new. Money coming in? Grateful clients?

  Pondering the meaning of it, she took her plate and cup to the sink and rinsed them. It didn’t mean she needed to stick around Atlanta. What it meant was she had enough money to go wherever she wanted and maybe take a little time off to get her head back together. She might even have enough to see her father in Hawaii. That might be the place to move.

  She was just drying her hands when the phone rang again.

  What did Lauderdale want now?

  She answered without checking the number. “Look, Lauderdale. I get it. It was a mix up. You don’t have to grovel.”

  “Miranda?”

  The low sophisticated tone rippled through her wrapping her in a blanket of emotion that nearly knocked her over.

  “Parker?” she gasped. What could he possibly want?

  And then she knew. Divorce papers.

  He probably wanted to serve them to her in person. Do something classy like take her out for a nice dinner and discuss terms like two rational adults. The hell with that. She didn’t wan
t anything of his. Hadn’t she made that clear when she left? He could send her the papers in the mail.

  But before she could tell him so, he spoke again.

  “I have a problem.” Suddenly she noticed the unsteadiness in his voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Gen’s missing.”

  She leaned back against her counter. “What?”

  “My daughter, Gen. She’s missing.” This time his voice broke.

  He sounded so anguished he brought sudden tears to her eyes. “What do you mean she’s missing?”

  “Someone’s kidnapped her.”

  Kidnapped her? Someone kidnapped Gen? That sounded unlikely. Gen was too mean to kidnap.

  “How do you know? Maybe she just went off somewhere.”

  She heard him take an unsteady breath. “Do you remember those anonymous text messages on your phone?”

  She tensed. Not that again. “Of course.”

  “I got one this morning.”

  “What?”

  “I got an anonymous text on my phone.”

  Her knees buckled but she managed to move to the card table and sink down into a chair. She put a hand to her forehead. Parker had gotten a text message like the ones she had?

  “What did it say?” she asked.

  “It said ‘I have your daughter.’”

  Was it from the same person? Had to be. No more esoteric musings like her texts. Just a straightforward gut punch. She didn’t know what to say. She could hardly breathe.

  “I need your help, Miranda,” Parker said.

  “My help?”

  “I want you to help me find Gen.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. How soon can you be here?”

  She looked around the apartment. There was nothing here to occupy her.

  Gen was missing. Parker needed her help. She didn’t even think about turning him down.

  “I’ll be there as fast as I can.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Parker told her he wasn’t at the Agency. He’d gotten a team together and they would be working at his penthouse, so as not to alarm the other employees.

  Miranda made arrangements with Santiago and Lauderdale to handle the money exchanges later and drove down I-85 to Piedmont, relieved the traffic wasn’t too bad this time of day.

  Twenty-five minutes later she was pulling into the guarded parking deck of a gorgeous thirty-five story masterpiece that made the high-rise she’d gone to on Ponce de Leon yesterday look like a shoebox set on its side.

  Somebody buzzed her in and she rode the elevator up to the top floor.

  Butterflies were dancing a pas de deux in her stomach as she lifted her hand and knocked on the tall dark wood door.

  To her surprise Becker answered. “Hi, Steele,” he breathed.

  “Hi.”

  He was in ragged jeans and a yellow T-shirt that didn’t do much for his complexion. But it was great to see that long hair, those bushy black brows and that loveable big nose again. He looked a little shell-shocked, but the expression in his big brown eyes told her he was overjoyed to see her.

  “So glad you’re here.”

  He led her through a short white hall with a lighted niche filled with antique, hand-painted vases and into the main living space.

  Wow.

  Parker’s new digs were more massive and ultra classy than she expected.

  The air was clean, cool, comfortable. The floors were real hardwood—a deep glossy mahogany. The ceilings were high and dotted with muted lighting that gave off just the right amount of illumination. The décor was sheer male—slate blue and earthen tones against a creamy background.

  Directly across from her the far wall was all window with a breathtaking view of every building in the city.

  The thought struck her that Parker’s father probably owned the building. Pays to have connections. And be loaded.

  Recessed in a wall near the windows she recognized a sleek onyx desk and one of Parker’s big screen monitors. He’d taken it from the mansion.

  Off to her right stood a spiral staircase with a shiny chrome banister leading to an upper floor. In front of the stairs a blue marble support beam divided an area where two ivory sofas sat facing each other. At the end of the space was a floor to ceiling bookcase.

  And standing beside the bookcase was Parker.

  His jacket strewn across the back of one of the sofas, he stood in rolled up shirtsleeves, papers in his hands, his Glock holstered on his shoulder. His thick expressive brows were drawn together in deep concentration.

  He was as heartbreakingly handsome as ever, but his dark, salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled and had more gray. He was still just as well-built and muscular as she remembered, but he’d lost weight.

  He looked tired and stressed. Even from here she could see there were more distinguished lines in his gorgeous face.

  He lifted his gaze from his papers and his gunmetal gray eyes fixed her with a look that went straight through her.

  Parker stared at his wife—his former wife—feeling as if he were coming out of a nightmare and into some rapturous dream.

  She was here.

  And she looked so strong and so lovely. Those black, dagger-like lashes and lush, deep blue eyes he’d first seen glowering at him from behind the bars of a jail cell. That wild, unruly dark hair he used to run his fingers through. Her lean, firm body. That cocky demeanor. Emotion and memory of all they’d been together surged through him like a tempest.

  It took all the strength he had to hold it in, to hide it.

  She was dressed casually. Her pretty blue T-shirt read Normal is Boring. It almost made him smile. But it was her strong, confident stance that bolstered him.

  Just what he needed now.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, and the sound of her lovely voice raked over his heart like a claw.

  He’d missed her. He hadn’t realized how much until this very moment. But there wasn’t time to think about his personal concerns now.

  He gestured to the opposite side of the penthouse. “We’re over here.”

  Miranda followed Parker beyond the sofas, past a section with marble flooring and four barrel chairs, and into a dining area.

  Here stood a long, glossy table that could easily seat a dozen, surrounded by credenzas filled with modern art brick-a-brack. A huge abstract painting that went well with the décor hung on the far wall.

  And at the table sat Holloway and Wesson.

  Wesson had on a Kelly green jacket and black business slacks. As usual her luxurious amaretto red hair fell sensually over her shoulders. But her face was grim and her back rigid. She was in full work mode.

  Looking lean and lanky as always, dressed in a tan coat and brown tie, Holloway shoved back his light brown hair and rose as Miranda approached. He extended a hand to her. Mighty formal of him.

  “Glad to have you with us, Steele.”

  “Anything to help.”

  Wesson gave her a nod from her seat. “Good to see you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “We’ve missed you, Steele,” Becker said as he eyed her and Parker slyly.

  Miranda wanted to kick his shin. This wasn’t the time for matchmaking.

  Parker cleared his throat and took the floor. “As you all know, I’ve asked Miranda here to help us with this investigation.”

  “Yes, sir.” All of them nodded in response.

  “As you also know, I received an anonymous text message this morning.”

  Miranda turned to Parker feeling a little out of the loop. “Let me see it.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed her his phone.

  She read the text.

  Good Morning, Wade Parker. You may be interested to know that I have your daughter.

  A shiver went through her. “He knows your name.”

  “And when Mr. Parker would see the text,” Wesson added. “My theory is he knew when he would s
tart missing Gen at the office and that was the time he sent it.”

  Miranda raised a brow. “So he’s a planner.”

  “Would have to be. Gen isn’t the type to just go off with someone.”

  “We believe she was taken this morning,” Parker said. “She had stopped at the mall on her way in to work. Holloway and I made a quick run out there before coming here and found her cell and her car. The police are processing it now.”

  Probably wouldn’t find anything. “So she’s in another vehicle.”

  “Would have to be,” Becker said, echoing Wesson.

  Miranda thought a moment. “The mall has to have surveillance cameras.”

  Parker nodded. “My contact there will be emailing the recording from this morning to us shortly.” Distress shadowed his face. “And speaking of surveillance recordings, I have a lot more to show you.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  They all crowded around the end of the long table, Miranda wedged between Wesson and Becker, while Holloway passed around soft drinks. Parker took Becker’s laptop and explained what he’d been doing for the past several days—looking for the man who had sent Miranda those anonymous text messages.

  Then he began to play a surveillance tape of one of the cube banks inside the Parker Agency.

  Miranda tensed. She’d noticed those cameras when she’d worked there but had assumed they were fake.

  Before she could decide how she felt about all this, her jaw nearly dropped at the image on the screen. “Is that my desk?”

  “It is,” Parker said.

  A grainy grayish figure in a nondescript uniform stood in the still familiar aisle in front of her old cube. His head tilted, he stared at something as if mesmerized.

  Her name tag.

  He stood there for several long, uncomfortable moments. Then he plunged into her space. A second later came up with her phone. His arms and fingers bobbed this way and that.

  “Is he doing what I think he’s doing?”

  “He’s getting your number,” Becker told her. “And probably some of your contacts. At least Mr. Parker’s. This was the only lead we could find for anyone who got to your phone.”

  Miranda sat back, her shoulders sagging with shock.

  She gestured at the computer. “Who the hell is that?”

  “His name is Gabriel Anthony Pierson,” Parker said in a low steady voice, tinged with simmering anger. “A cleaning man for Gypsum Management, the company that takes care of the Imperial Building.”