Clowns and Cowboys (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 3) (23 page)

“We want her as soon as they find her.”

“Understood.” Of course they did. A part of him hoped she wouldn’t be found. But another part of him didn’t. He just wanted this over.

There was a long pause before the voice spoke again. “And what will you do with the detectives?”

He stiffened. “What do you mean, do with them?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Yeah, he knew. Just like he knew the other two times. He wanted to tell her to go to hell. He hated being manipulated like this. Hated being forced to do things that could put him in prison or worse. But he’d been promised protection.

“I’ll need your help on that,” he said.

“We can’t send you any more pills. It’s too risky.”

Like it wasn’t already? Or maybe it was just risky for them. But he had no choice. He was in too deep. So what could he do this time? He glanced around the room and his gaze landed on his closet. He thought of the Mossberg shotgun he kept there. He hadn’t used it in years. But he’d been a good shot. It would do. And he was getting pretty good at creating a set up.

“I’ll take care of them,” he said into the phone.

“Do it now. Tonight.”

Silently he snarled at the phone, baring his teeth. He couldn’t stand being bossed around like this. “I said I’d take care of them.”

“Make sure you do.”

“Don’t I always do as I’m told?” He clicked off, more irritated at the situation than ever. He was a rat trapped in a damn maze.

Despite his anger, he yawned. He was dead tired. He’d hardly had any sleep since this whole business started, and it had been a long day.

He had to get some rest. Just a little. He’d catch a few hours of shuteye then track down the detectives. They had to have found Layla by then, and even if they hadn’t, they knew too much. He’d do what he was told. He’d take care of business. Just like he’d promised. He hoped that would satisfy them. With any luck the whole damn thing would be done by morning.

His mind already buzzing with a plan to carry out his new assignment, he rolled over and began to snore.

It was nearly one a.m. and the clear night sky was twinkling with stars when Parker pulled off the highway and made his way down side streets to Green Valley Inn, the tail lights of Sam’s truck leading the way.

Miranda scanned the establishment.

The place was like a thousand other hotels in a thousand other towns across the country. A long, two-story brick structure with whitewashed arches along the walkways bordering the building. Rows of well-kept shrubbery completed the homespun look.

The vacancy sign was on, and there weren’t many vehicles in the lot. No guests were roaming around. Probably for the best.

Through the glass doors of the check-in area she could see a set of not-too-shabby couches and chairs scattered about a well-lighted space. Behind a wide desk a clerk sat reading a magazine. He looked profoundly bored.

Not a dump, but it definitely wasn’t the Ritz.

As the two vehicles curved around the building and room one-twenty-four came into view, Miranda caught sight of the Vargas’ truck two doors down. Her stomach lurched.

Sam took the spot in front of the room. Parker pulled in two spaces away from him.

The gang was all here.

She opened the glove compartment and took out the pistols Sam had given them. She handed one to Parker, hoping they wouldn’t have to use them.

“What’s your plan?” he asked, giving her hand a tender squeeze after he took the gun.

His touch made her long for the comfort of his arms. She was hoping he had some thoughts on how to handle the situation.

But no, she was supposed to be in charge.

She thought a moment. “We should let Sam go in first. Layla knows him.” She just hoped there wouldn’t be any bloodshed.

Sam must have had the same idea. He was already getting out of his pickup, leaving his rifle behind. He was a trusting sort.

Parker let out a low murmur that sounded like a growl. “As usual, he isn’t waiting for instruction.”

So much for her plan. Miranda reached for her door handle. “We’d better go. In case he needs backup.”

“Agreed.”

She jumped out of the rental but before she reached the sidewalk, the door to one-twenty-four opened and Layla appeared.

In the dim light Miranda could just make out her form, but saw clearly when the young woman threw her arms around Sam’s neck and pulled him into the room.

“Doesn’t look like he’s in danger,” she whispered to Parker.

“Not from here. Let’s knock and find out.”

“Good idea.”

Miranda shot ahead of Parker and reached the door first. She gave it three sharp, police-like raps.

Inside there was a moment of shuffling and the door opened.

The towering frame of the human cannonball, dressed all in black, stood before her as his hamhock arms crossed over his big chest. “What do you want?” He sounded like a Russian spy.

“They’re with me, Yuri,” she heard Sam say from inside.

But she wasn’t about to let this bruiser get the better of her. She drew her Taurus and pointed it at his chest. “Get your hands up, Varga. Step inside the room.”

Two female screams came from the interior.

“What are you doing?” Sam cried out.

Yuri’s face went from defensive to shock, but he raised his hands and stepped back.

Miranda followed him with Parker right behind her. He’d drawn his weapon as well. When they were all inside, he closed the door without looking behind him, using his foot.

Dashia and Layla sat on the single bed, hugging each other, terror on their faces. Sam stood near the door to the bathroom, looking angry. Yuri eyed her cautiously as he backed up to one of the cheap framed pictures on the wall, his big hands atop his bald head, half covering the long scar on top of it.

Miranda had had enough. She was through clowning around. “Tell us why you killed Tupper Magnuson and Harvey Hackett, Yuri,” she barked.

“He did not kill them!” Dashia screeched the words.

“I’ll handle this, my love,” Yuri said to her gently. “Is that why you two are here? Are you going to take us back to the circus?”

“Like hell they are,” Sam said.

Miranda forced herself not to let Sam distract her. She could have a killer here.

And yet…he hadn’t said, “Are you going to arrest us?” or “Are you turning us in to the police?” He’d said, “Are you going to take us back to the circus?”

“What are you so afraid of at the circus?” she asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dashia’s voice was hysterical. “They killed Tupper. They killed Harvey. Now they will kill us.”

“How do we know you two didn’t do it?”

Sam started to take a step toward her then thought better of it. “For God’s sake, Miranda. Are you out of your mind? Yuri couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“He’s big enough to hurt several flies.” And kill several men.

But if he did, he’d do it with his bare hands or with a weapon. Maybe in a fit of rage if he was the volatile type. Like Sam, he didn’t strike her as the type to plan a meticulous murder with cyanide.

Still Miranda kept her eyes on the cannonball. She couldn’t take chances. Not with so many in this little room. It would only take one misstep for things to get out of hand big-time.

“I’m waiting for an explanation,” Miranda said again, her words coming out like hammer blows.

There was a long span of silence then a single voice spoke. Soft, musical, thick with the exotic accent, the voice trembled with an undertone of dread.

“I can explain.” It was Layla. She put her hands to her face. “This is all because of me. Please don’t hurt them. I couldn’t stand it if anyone else died.”

At her words Miranda melted.

“You are the detectives Sam hired?” Layla asked gently.

Miranda glanced over at Parker. He gave her a look that assured her she was doing the right thing. And that he could handle Yuri if she was wrong.

“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes at the cannonball but slowly lowered her weapon and stuffed it into the waistband at the small of her back.

Parker lowered his as well but kept it at his side.

She took a deep breath and turned to face the women on the end of the bed.

“Okay,” she said to Layla. “Let’s hear what you have to say.”

Miranda watched the young aerial artist gather her thoughts as she stared down at her bare feet and her teal-painted toes.

She wore dark jeans and a plain gray halter top with a modest neckline. Her blond hair, pulled back with a simple dark band, lay flat against her head. Her skin looked pale, her eyes shadowed and weary, like she hadn’t slept in a few days.

She probably hadn’t.

She took a deep breath and began to speak. “Three days ago, I went over to Tupper’s trailer. It was just after the evening show. The performance had gone especially well and I wanted to celebrate with him.”

“You’d been fighting with him,” Miranda said flatly.

She looked up at her, eyes wide. But she nodded. “Yes, we’d had an argument. I wanted to make up with him.” She took another breath. “So I went over to his place. I knocked on the door but there was no answer. It was open so I went inside. And that was when I…found him.”

She put her face in her hands.

Dashia slipped an arm around her. “You poor thing,” she murmured. “You poor, poor thing.”

“He was…dead.” Layla’s voice trembled as she said the word. “I knew it as soon as I saw him. It was what we had been afraid of. What I knew would happen. I was so frightened. I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered Tupper had told me if anything happened to him, I should leave town. He gave me money for it. He made me pack my things so I would be ready. I never thought I could leave him, leave the circus, but I did. I had to.”

Her pretty dark eyes began to fill. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks. “Tupper said I should get as far away as I could. But I only got to here. I’m nearly out of money already. Oh, my poor Tupper.” She laid her face against Dashia’s neck and sobbed.

Miranda’s heart went out to her. But her sympathy was overshadowed by a strange tingling slinking over her skin. Layla had known her fiancé was going to be killed? How?

“Why were you and Tupper so afraid?” she asked, hoping not to upset her any more.

Layla wiped her cheek. “I…I don’t know how to explain. There’s too much to tell.”

“Give it a shot,” Miranda said.

That only made the young woman cry harder.

Dashia began to stroke Layla’s hair and apparently decided to attempt an answer. “We are not from Bulgaria.”

So the Vargas weren’t what they pretended to be. The Russian mob idea flashed through Miranda’s head again. Was that who they were running from?

“You have fake IDs,” Parker said.

Dashia blinked at him as if she had forgotten he was in the room. “Yes, Mr. Parker. They are fakes. But we did not make them. They were given to us.”

“Who gave them to you?” Miranda wanted to know. “Tenbrook?” And how did he play into this?

Dashia let out a breath as if she’d never felt more defeated. “We come from a lab.”

Miranda glanced at Parker and saw the rare look of confusion on his face.

She thought her hearing must be going bad. Or maybe she’d fallen asleep on the drive and was dreaming. “A lab?”

“An experimental lab,” Yuri said.

Oh, well that explained it.

Layla wiped her face again and caught her breath. “We didn’t know it was a lab. I didn’t. I thought everyone grew up that way.”

“What way?” Miranda asked slowly, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“We were always inside the building. Only once a week could we go into the yard and play. We had to study. We had to keep to the schedule. We had to exercise.” She stopped talking and stared at her toes again.

“What sort of exercise?” Parker prompted. He was going along with the story, humoring her.

Without looking up Layla shrugged. “Gymnastics, strength training, rope climbing. I was very good at that. They said I had amazing dexterity. That was when they got the idea to train me as an aerial silk artist.”

“At the lab,” Miranda clarified.

She rubbed her bare arms. “At the place where we lived. It was a large place with so many rooms. Big white rooms with no windows. Not at all like the trailers we’ve been living in at the circus. There was a dining room and a training room and a schoolroom. All connected by long halls.”

There was a slipping sound. Sam slid down the wall and landed on the floor with a bump. He sat staring at Layla.

“Go on,” Miranda told her.

“The doctors, they gave us numbers but our mothers gave us our names. Dashia and Yuri and I, our mother was Nurse Varga. She was the one from Bulgaria. She raised us. I suppose that is why we all have her accent.”

Miranda walked over to a chair near the door and sat down. She put a hand to her head. Either they were stalling for time with this bizarre narrative or she was still asleep in the car.

“Wait a minute,” she said to Yuri. “You’re married to your sister?”

“She’s not our real mother,” Dashia said as if that explained it. “She only carried us. We came from different sets of genes.”

As in implantation?

“Okay.” Miranda glanced over at Parker. His face was grim, his jaw set. He was obviously getting more out of this than she was.

“There were nine of us at first,” Layla continued. “Matthew and Andrew and Lauren, they belonged to Nurse Williams.”

“Yes. They were all so good in math,” Dashia said smiling nostalgically. “They could do advanced calculus at eight.”

Layla smiled at the memory. “They had clefts in their lips all the way to their noses. But they loved to talk. The teacher was always telling them to be quiet. And Chelsea. She had to walk on her hands. She had no legs. But she always made me laugh. And then one day they said Chelsea couldn’t come to school anymore because she was sick. I never saw her after that.”

“Silvio and Manuel,” Dashia said. “They were twins. Their mother was Nurse Martínez.”

“They had the bumps.”

Dashia nodded. “All over their faces. But they could remember everything they read.”