This wasn’t her.
She’d rather be out on the floor in her old cube with her buddies. She’d rather be one of them again. But, no. Parker had expanded Parker and Steele Consulting and put her in charge of the new team. They’d just solved an important case involving a senator’s son, but she didn’t feel any more at ease with the position than she had when he’d first insisted she take it.
She eyed the far wall behind her new desk. A huge watercolor of downtown Atlanta at night hung on it. Was it supposed to signify something?
That this was her home now? That venturing out at night alone wasn’t wise, especially if you were going after a killer? Maybe Parker wanted to remind her of their first dinner together atop Parker Towers, one of the many hotels in the city owned by his real estate mogul father.
She pressed her palm to her head, trying to still her racing thoughts. It wasn’t her new office or her new position that was bothering her right now. It was something far more disturbing.
Feeling helpless she stared down at her cell phone and the text she’d just gotten from Colby Chatham.
I’m concerned about Mackenzie. She’s been so listless lately. I don’t know what’s wrong. Any ideas?
Maternal anxiety pecked at her stomach lining. Not the type of worry Miranda had endured over the long thirteen years she’d searched for her daughter—after her psycho husband stole her from her. Not the wondering where she was, who was taking care of her, whether she was okay or not.
Miranda knew that now.
Oliver and Colby Chatham had taken excellent care of Mackenzie since adopting her as a baby. They’d done a better job than Miranda could have. They’d given her a comfortable, sheltered, well-to-do upbringing, and Mackenzie had become a talented ice skater. A well-adjusted, normal young girl—until Miranda came into her life and turned it upside-down.
She re-read the text.
I don’t know what’s wrong.
No, now the worry was deeper, more personal. With the potential to become devastating.
Miranda knew what was wrong—ever since she’d seen the look in Mackenzie’s eyes at a party a week ago. At least, she thought she knew. At that get-together Mackenzie had told her she wasn’t interested in skating any more. She hadn’t seemed interested in much of anything. She’d looked pale and—listless—to use Colby’s word.
Miranda’s mind went back to the Tannenburg case.
It had happened a month ago, but the creepy feeling of it had stayed with her, giving her nightmares. The mustiness of that basement. The smell of cheap cologne. The fear she’d had to fight down with all her might. And that crazy psycho’s words to her about her ex.
“He said he had a wife at home who needed to be taught a lesson. He wanted me to rape her.”
Adam Tannenburg—the insane serial killer she and Parker had shot to death in that basement—was the man who had raped her a decade and a half ago.
He was Mackenzie’s real father. Her biological father.
Did Mackenzie know who he was? Was she having nightmares, too?
Hugging herself Miranda stared out the window again. Tips on the leaves of the maple trees below were starting to change from green to red and gold. It was early October. Next month her daughter would turn fifteen.
How would it feel for a girl that age to go from thinking her parents were upstanding pillars of the community to knowing the truth about her real father? How would it feel to know she had the blood of a vicious killer coursing through her veins? A sick psycho who’d tortured and killed over thirty women?
Miranda tried to think what she would have done at that age. Something awful. Something she’d regret forever. It was hard enough for her to deal with the rape itself now.
She didn’t know what to tell Colby. What could she do for Mackenzie?
The girl was already in therapy. All she could do was wish she’d never found her. Mackenzie’s life would have been so much better if she hadn’t.
She couldn’t answer Colby’s text. Not until she talked to Parker.
Chapter Three
Miranda bolted out her door, made the sharp turn and took the few steps to Parker’s corner office—it was right next to hers.
The door was closed. Ignoring that, she gave it a quick rap and stepped inside.
Parker sat at his desk wearing the sharp charcoal gray suit and red silk tie she’d seen him slip over his beautiful muscular body that morning. A thick file folder sat before him and he held a pen nonchalantly in his hands.
Just the sight of him gave her comfort. His dark hair, with the touch of gray and the sexy strands falling over the forehead of his too-handsome face, gave her stomach a twist. And even though only a few hours earlier she’d been in his bed making earthshaking love to him, delighting to the sensations those skilled hands could evoke in her, she desired him more than ever.
She’d almost thrown it all away. But now she knew for sure this man was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She’d never make that mistake again.
He looked up at her with his penetrating gray eyes. He could soothe away all her troubles with one look of those eyes. But just now she saw pain in them.
Across from the desk in one of the guest chairs sat Antonio Estavez, Parker’s surrogate son and one of the top defense attorneys in Atlanta.
Like Parker, he was clad in a classy suit, but he wore his long ebony hair pulled back in a ponytail, as usual. The look in his dark Latin eyes was as somber as Parker’s. In fact, they both looked like death warmed over.
A stab of panic went through her. She slipped her phone into her pocket. Colby’s text would have to wait. “What’s wrong? Is Coco okay?”
It had been only a week ago they’d learned the newlyweds were going to be parents.
Estavez gave her a cheerless smile. “Coco is fine. Healthy as ever and eating everything in sight.”
That was a relief to hear.
Miranda looked back at Parker. His expression was unchanged. She’d interrupted a private conversation. As worried as she was about Mackenzie, this seemed more important.
“Should I leave?”
He shook his head. “No. I was just about to call you in. We could use your help.”
The sadness in his voice touched her heart. Wondering what was the matter, she slid into the chair next to Estavez. She’d talk to Parker about Colby’s text later when they were alone.
“So what’s going on?” She braced herself for something awful. Was something wrong with Parker? No, that couldn’t be. She squeezed the arms of the chair and waited.
“Antonio and I have been discussing an old case,” Parker said wearily.
“An old case?” That didn’t sound so bad.
“One we lost,” Estavez added.
“You lost a case?” Miranda frowned. Estavez didn’t lose cases, and neither did Parker.
The lawyer leaned back in his chair and gestured toward her husband. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Parker drew in a heavy breath. “About ten years ago a friend of mine—lost his wife.”
Miranda nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“The police suspected him of causing her death. He hired me to prove him innocent. In court, Antonio represented him.”
Causing her death? An odd way for Parker to put that. “Okay.”
“Though he had sterling character references, all the evidence said he was guilty.” Parker patted the thick folder before him and fell silent.
“And?” Miranda prompted.
Parker drew in a heavy breath. “And, I couldn’t find anything to prove he wasn’t. He was convicted and sentenced to death.”
“Oh.”
Estavez ran a hand over his face. “Over the years we tried several appeals, they were all denied. His execution is scheduled for next Monday.”
Execution. No wonder they both looked so gloomy.
Parker flipped through the papers on his desk. “We’ve been going over the case again, trying t
o find something, anything to get a stay of execution.”
And no doubt Parker knew a lot of folks on the Board of Pardons and Paroles personally. They were the ones with the power to stop an execution in this state.
“I take it you haven’t found anything yet.”
Parker grimaced. “After all these years, I still can’t find what we need.”
Miranda was stunned. If there was any such evidence, surely Parker would have uncovered it by now. So maybe their client wasn’t so innocent.
“Who is this guy?”
“Dr. Clarence Boudreaux.” Parker opened the file and produced an eight by ten glossy. He handed it to her.
It was a picture of a nice looking man in his early thirties wearing a lab coat. He seemed healthy, well-built, though on the short side. Dark ringlets framed a copper-skinned face featuring round cheeks and a dazzling white smile. A pair of round, wide-set eyes seemed full of life.
“Boudreaux. Is he French?”
“French Creole, of mixed race. His family was originally from New Orleans. He became a herpetologist at the local city zoo. A rather famous one.”
“Herpetologist,” she repeated, searching her memory banks for the meaning of that profession. Something to do with—snakes?
Before she could ask, Parker handed her another photo. “This is his wife, Dr. Charmaine Boudreaux. She was a medical researcher at Emory University.”
“The victim.”
“Yes.”
The photo was a headshot of a woman with shiny blond hair cut just under her jaw line. She had on a black-and-white top and a gold necklace with a pearl drop pendant around her neck. She was leaning forward in a photographer’s pose, and her bright smile seemed almost provocative. Her eager-looking eyes were the color of the sky. A light smattering of freckles covering her nose made her seem like the outdoorsy type.
“And this is the crime scene.” Parker handed her several more photos.
Miranda took them and looked down at a gruesome image in the first one. It was a bedroom, a fairly ordinary looking one with simple pine furnishings. The camera had been angled over a double bed. A woman lay on top of a homespun quilt in a contorted position. She was obviously dead.
“So this is what happened to her?” Miranda said grimly.
“Yes.”
She turned to the next picture.
It was a close-up. The mouth and eyes were open in the look of terror Miranda had seen on murder victims before, but it was more than the vic’s expression that had her stomach churning.
There was a large, bloody welt on the woman’s shoulder near the neck. Another along her cheek, a third on her upper arm. The skin around each welt was swollen, charred and blistering. The remains of vomit clung to the sides of her mouth, and the blue eyes that had seemed to be so full of life in the first photo, had been bleeding.
Miranda swallowed, almost afraid to ask the next question. “The cause of death was—?”
“Snake bite.”
She raised a brow. “Snake bite?”
“She was bitten several times by a western taipan. One of the most poisonous snakes in the world.”
The idea took her breath. “This happened here in the city? How did a snake like that get into her bedroom?”
“Her husband brought it there.”
“The herpetologist.”
“Yes.”
Her skin starting to crawl, Miranda looked down at the photo once more. She cleared her throat. “Your client knew a lot about snakes, then.”
Parker nodded. “It was his profession. He was an expert and knew a great deal about amphibians of all sorts. Lizards, toads, salamanders. But his specialty was exotic venomous snakes.”
Okay. “And the jury found that he killed his wife with the one he put in his wife’s bedroom?” The idea was making her sick. What did he do? Hide it under her pillow? “How?”
Estavez, who up to now had been listening quietly, cleared his throat. “It’s complicated,” he said.
“Here’s the summary of case.” Parker handed a paper across his desk.
It was three pages of fine print. She read it over.
Apparently one weekend ten years ago, both Drs. Boudreaux were away from home attending professional conferences. The wife’s conference was a medical research symposium in Dallas, the husband’s was a herpetological congress at the Atlanta Hilton downtown. According to the defendant, his wife departed for her symposium the day before he did. At the zoo, there was a new western taipan from Australia named Ozzie who was showing signs of stress. That afternoon Dr. Boudreaux—the husband—decided to bring the snake home to get him away from the commotion of visitors and other reptiles for a few days. He left for his conference, but returned home on Friday afternoon to check on the snake. All was normal.
Whatever normal was with the most poisonous snake in the world in your bedroom.
She read on. Dr. Clarence Boudreaux went back to his conference. He claimed he returned home again around nine Sunday evening to find his wife dead in their bedroom. He found Ozzie curled up in a corner. After securing the snake, he called 911.
Crime scene investigators were dispatched to the scene. After a thorough investigation, they found no evidence of anyone else in the house except Dr. Boudreaux and his wife.
Miranda lowered the paper. “This sounds like a horrible accident.”
Estavez pointed at the report. “Except for concluding paragraph.”
Miranda turned the page.
During the investigation one of the CSIs had had the presence of mind to order a rape kit. Seminal fluid was found in the victim. Initial testing revealed the fluid to have been “inserted” there no more than three days before the incident. Probably less. Skin cells under the victim’s fingernails indicated she might have unsuccessfully tried to fend off an attack.
It was confirmed that the wife had returned home from her symposium a few hours earlier than expected—the only time the pair could have been together over the three-day period.
After more meticulous testing, the DNA from the seminal fluid was proven to be from only one donor—Dr. Clarence Boudreaux.
Miranda dropped the paper in her lap. “This guy raped his own wife and killed her with a snake from his zoo, and you think he’s innocent?”
Parker scowled. “It wasn’t necessarily a rape.”
She scoffed. “Really kinky sex, then?”
“The skin cells under the deceased’s fingernails turned out to be trace. Better classified as touch DNA. Not unusual for a husband and wife.”
That didn’t explain the snake. She turned back a page to double check. “But the DNA inside her proves her husband was there when she was killed. Contrary to his statement about coming home later and finding her.”
“So it seems.”
Seems? It didn’t make sense. Parker didn’t lose cases. He was the top detective in the southeast, maybe the whole country. If he hadn’t found any evidence to exonerate this guy, he must be guilty. And what kind of evidence would?
“Parker, I don’t think—”
He raised a hand and gave her a long steady gaze. “I knew him, Miranda.”
That explained a few things. “I see. How well?”
“I first met him in the fourth grade.”
A long time.
“His family had moved to Atlanta and he was transferred to Westminster on a special scholarship program. He was highly intelligent, two grades ahead of everyone else in the class. He was small, quiet, bookish, as you might imagine.”
She could see the image of the boys in her mind. “So the other kids picked on him.”
“Some did.”
“And you protected him.”
Parker nodded. “I did what I could to keep the bullies away.”
Which had to have been effective. “So you were close.”
“For a time. I lost track of Clarence after he graduated high school at fifteen. He went on to the University of Georgia to study Biology. At twenty-four he bec
ame one of the university’s youngest PhD graduates. He conducted research projects for various institutions, including Emory. Eventually he became Director of Herpetology at the local zoo. He met Charmaine during one of his projects at Emory. She was working under Jackson Taggart at the time in conjunction with Saint Benedictine Hospital, and we became reacquainted socially.”
Jackson Taggart. Parker’s closest friend.
So the man accused of murder had been a boy genius and a scientist. Not the typical profile of a killer. But killers came in all types and sizes. Miranda tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. Maybe he had a deep seated resentment from being bullied that suddenly resurfaced as an adult.
She was about to ask Parker why he hadn’t mentioned the case before when he interrupted her thoughts.
“I want you to meet him.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“It’s the only way you’ll be able to judge for yourself.”
“You mean in prison?”
“Yes.”
“I have an appointment with him this morning,” Estavez said. “We can all go, if that’s agreeable to you.”
“That sounds good, Antonio,” Parker said. “We’ve no time to lose.”
“I’m seeing another client there as well.”
“We’ll take separate cars, then.” Parker got to his feet and turned to her. “It’s a long drive. We won’t be back until the afternoon. Is that all right? Do you have anything else pressing today?”
Miranda didn’t know what to say. She could use the text from Colby as an excuse, but that wasn’t what was bothering her.
A man murders his wife, the evidence clearly shows he did it, and yet Parker believes he’s innocent because he knew him in grade school? It was so un-Parker-like. What happened to objectivity?
But feeling his eyes boring into her, she knew there was no getting out of this one.
Instead of arguing, she raised her hands in a shrug. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Chapter Four
It was a long drive.
Snakebit Page 2