Clowns and Cowboys (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 3) (6 page)

As promised, they found the door—it was actually marked
Homicide
, Unit C—on the right in the middle of the second hall.

Miranda was debating whether to knock or barge right in when it flew open and a big bald guy with a thick waist in a cop uniform appeared.

“I’m on it. I’m on it,” he cried over his shoulder as if someone had just nagged him. “Oh.” He stopped short nearly banging into them. He blinked at Miranda, then at Parker. “Can I help you with something?”

“We’re here to see Detective Underwood,” Miranda said, hoping the officer would also assume they belonged here.

He scratched at his hairless head, then called into the room again. “Underwood, you expecting visitors?”

“Yeah. Show them in.”

“Middle cube. Down that cutaway.” He pointed a finger in that direction then hurried past them and down the hall.

Miranda shot Parker a surprised look.

He simply caught the door and held it open. “After you.”

She stepped inside.

Hive was right.

The place was buzzing like a nest of neurotic bees caught in a vacuum cleaner. The air was noisy and warm with the hum of cop talk and printers and computers and whatever other equipment they used, and mixed with the odor of stale coffee grounds and last night’s pizza.

Officers stood in groups in the spaces between cubes or with arms dangling over the canvas-covered walls, discussing the details of their cases. A couple of them were taking a civilian to an interview room. No one even took notice of the two new bodies who had just arrived.

Miranda led the way past a wall covered with maps and charts, turned in between two dividers and ended up at a cube in the middle with a sign that read
Sgt. Eloise Underwood
.

Must be the place.

A stocky woman maybe in her late thirties with short, straight, carrot-red hair sat talking on the phone, madly scribbling notes on a pad. From her profile Miranda could see she had a pert, turned-up nose, a smattering of freckles across the cheeks, big, bright eyes, and an expression that seemed authoritative and motherly at the same time.

She was dressed in a Texas working-woman outfit. A short-sleeved blue-and-white checked jacket, jeans and cowboy boots that gave her a rugged look, despite her maternal air.

The desk was crowded with all kinds of office paraphernalia. Phone, stapler, plastic organizers crammed with colored-coded folders. Papers lay all over the surface and sticky notes were everywhere. On the cube wall next to a calendar hung hand drawn pictures that must have been done by the detective’s kid. Ah, that’s where the motherly part came from.

A woman, a mother carving out her place in a male-dominated career. Miranda could relate to that.

“Uh huh,” Underwood said into the phone. “Got it. Right. Got it. Thanks.” She hung up, got to her feet and nearly bumped into Miranda. She took a step back, put a hand to her forehead. “Oh, right. You two here about the shootin’ last night?” Her clipped words came out in a thick southwestern drawl.

“No, we’re from the Parker Agency.” Miranda took a deep breath and did the standard intro, hoping they weren’t about to get the boot. “We’re here about the Magnuson case.”

“Parker Agency?” Underwood’s eyes went wide at the sight of Parker, then she caught herself and stared at Miranda a moment as if she didn’t recognize the name. “Oh, right. The circus clown. Somebody called and said you might be coming in.” She snatched a stickie note off the side of her computer screen. “Sam Keegan. He was a friend of the deceased as we understand. Made the 911 call.”

“That’s right.”

Parker gave Miranda a questioning look. She shot back a shrug. She didn’t know Sam was going to call the police. She certainly hadn’t asked him to.

Underwood ran a hand through her short red hair. “Sorry. We had a gang shooting last night and two recent liquor store robberies. I’m a little swamped right now.”

Miranda inched inside the cube opening a bit. “We understand, Sergeant. We only need a minute of your time.”

Underwood raised her hands in a shrug. “Not sure what I can tell you. The autopsy hasn’t been completed yet.”

Miranda gave her as solemn a look as she could muster. “Sergeant, Sam Keegan is our client. We were hoping to bring him some closure.”

Underwood’s lips went back and forth, but she shook her head. “I appreciate that, Ms. Steele, but we don’t normally consult with civilians.”

She said it kindly but the word “civilians” stuck in Miranda’s craw.

Parker had been standing quietly beside her, letting her take the lead. She caught his gaze and gave him an almost invisible nod that only he would understand. It said, “Work your charm.”

With a compassionate expression, he leaned toward the woman. “Sergeant, we sincerely apologize for disturbing you at such a busy time.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Parker. Thanks for stopping by.” She extended a hand.

He took it like he was a suitor wooing her and continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “However, since Mr. Keegan hired us, I’m hoping we can be of assistance to your unit.”

Underwood wrinkled her nose suspiciously. “Assistance?”

“We intend to investigate this matter on our own, but any collaboration with the Department would only aid both of us. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She pulled her hand out of his and eyed him with a cop’s gaze. “You’re a smooth one.”

He only flashed her more charm with a wry smile. “I’ve been told as much.”

She blew out a sigh of resignation. “Like I said, I don’t know what I can tell you. As far as we know Mr. Magnuson died of natural causes.”

“But your investigators went over the scene.”

“Yes.”

“The newish Winnebago?” Miranda asked.

“Right. They did the standard evidence gathering.”

Miranda resisted the urge to shoot Parker a look of triumph.

Ignoring her question, he continued. “And your lab is conducting tests to verify COD, correct?”

“Of course, they are.”

“Sergeant, is there anything, anything at all you can tell us?” His voice was so irresistibly seductive, his sexy gray eyes so hypnotic, Miranda couldn’t hold back a small pang of jealousy.

Until she saw the results.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to share our findings,” Underwood said, letting out another long breath as she sank back into her chair. “But I only have a minute.” She waved at a couple of wire chairs along the cube wall. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Miranda quickly slid into one before the woman changed her mind.

“Let’s see.” Her fingers danced across her keyboard. After a moment she squinted at her screen, then shook her head. “Nope. Just as I said. Fingerprints are still at the lab. So are the fibers and hairs we lifted. A lot of long blond ones, as I recall.”

Layla’s, Miranda thought. “Sergeant, we visited the deceased’s trailer last night.”

Underwood spun around to face them. “You went there?”

“Mr. Keegan has a key. It wasn’t marked as a crime scene.”

“Guess the team finished with it.” She didn’t look happy about that. “I had to leave before they were done. Got the call about one of the robberies. The clerk on duty had been shot and in the hospital. He lived, thank God.”

“Thank God,” Miranda repeated before pressing on. “We found a photo album in the place. We wondered why it wasn’t taken into evidence.”

Now Underwood looked as if somebody on her team was going to get their butt chewed, though she quickly covered it. “The CSIs must not have thought it was relevant.”

Overworked cops too stressed to be thorough. That could work in their favor—or against them. “There were photos of Tupper Magnuson and his fiancée, Layla. Mr. Keegan believes she’s missing.”

Underwood sat back, chewed on the end of the pen she’d picked up. “That so?”

She was interested.

“We’d like to know if—”

A rough Hispanic voice echoed over the cube wall. “Underwood, you coming to interview or taking a vacation?”

“Be there in a minute, Rodriguez,” she called back. She lifted her hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a witness to talk to.”

About the other case, of course.

“Do you mind if we take your card?” Parker asked. “If we find out anything we’ll be sure to call.”

“Sure. Of course. Appreciate it.” She took one from a pile next to the computer. Just as she handed it to Parker her phone rang. “Good Lord.” She picked up it. “Underwood. Yeah? Yeah? Is that so? Thanks, Garber.” She hung up.

Miranda leaned forward on pins and needles. This was something important.

Underwood let out a low whistle and turned to them. “Tox report’s in on the Magnuson case. Residue from the wineglass found on scene’s been analyzed.” She put a hand to her head. “Haven’t seen this before and I’ve been around awhile.”

“What is it?” Miranda said.

“The wine was a cheaper brand. Barefoot Merlot. Contained a nice dose of
NaCN
. Same showed up in Magnuson’s blood.”

Parker’s brows shot up. “Are you sure?”

“Kind of hard to mistake that. Our labs guys are good. So it wasn’t natural causes. It was probably suicide.”

Miranda racked her memory for what those letters meant. She thought she knew but that couldn’t be right. “What are you saying, Sergeant Underwood?”

The woman sank back in her chair shaking her head in regret. “What a sad way for a clown to go. Something really must have been bothering him to make him do that to himself. It appears Tupper Magnuson drank his last glass of wine after lacing it with sodium cyanide.”

“Sodium cyanide? What the heck was this dude?” Miranda growled when they were back in the rental car. “Some kind of spy?”

They were ones who took poison pills when they were captured. Not clowns.

Parker turned out of the police station parking lot, a look of deep concentration on his face. “That’s a little farfetched but a remote possibility.”

“Didn’t the Nazis use cyanide to kill themselves before they were caught?”

“Some of them did. It’s one of the most lethal substances on earth.”

She stared out the window at the flat landscape of small middle-class homes along the highway. “Magnuson must have died an agonizing death.”

Parker nodded grimly. “Suffocation would have been almost immediate, accompanied by acute abdominal pain and cardiac arrest. All in a matter of seconds.”

Suicide definitely wasn’t painless. Not in this case, poor guy. She rubbed her arms. According to Sam, all Tupper the Clown wanted to do with his life was make everyone happy. Maybe underneath all the smiles and the laughter he lived in despair.

“You think he killed himself, Parker?” There was a catch in her voice she couldn’t control.

His answer was soft. “Hard to say. Most deaths by cyanide poisoning are suicides.”

She knew that, but she could tell he wasn’t buying it. “Magnuson had a new fiancée,” she offered. “Someone to live for.” Then she sank back in her seat. “Who was mad at him. Maybe mad enough to leave town.”

“So we’ve been told.”

She ignored the cynical comment. “Maybe Layla just broke off the engagement. Broke Tupper’s heart. Made the otherwise happy clown feel as if suddenly life wasn’t worth living anymore. Maybe Layla left because she couldn’t face seeing him every day after she did that to him.” But he couldn’t have gotten cyanide that fast. And how could he have gotten it?

“Perhaps,” Parker said. “If Keegan’s facts are accurate.”

He wasn’t getting off that horse anytime soon, was he? Only one way to confirm those facts and find out what state of mind Tupper Magnuson was in before he died. “We need to go back to the circus and talk to the other performers.”

“That’s just where I’m heading.”

The colossal red-and-white striped tent stretched across the wide open field like a lazy giant taking a nap. Atop its peaks flags flapped lazily in the noonday breeze near floodlights that were dark and loudspeakers that were still. A sign in big, fanciful letters curved over the broad entrance.
Under the Big Top
, it read.

But no one was here to see the show.

Parker cruised past the tent and headed for the dirt road. When he pulled up to the first row of trailers, the back lot looked different from the way it had last night. Instead of murky shadows, the sun beat bright and hard against the white siding and fanciful decals of the vehicles, giving them the look of giant sheep grazing in a field.

It was a huge spread. Seven or eight rows wide and maybe a dozen deep. Some RVs were lined up end to end with space between, others sat perpendicular, with cars and trucks for everyday transportation scattered every which way between them or parked in the big lot down the road.

Along the grassy stretches between the campers and RVs there was movement.

Life after a day of mourning the dead.

People were walking about, groups were practicing their acts, kids were playing, mothers attending to children. A whole community knit together by a common purpose—the show that must go on, despite the recent loss.

Parker drove down the narrow stretch of pavement where they’d come last night and pulled over to the side. He didn’t go as far as Magnuson’s place but stopped at the other end of the road.

“Good thing about it,” Miranda observed, “everyone we need to talk to is in one place.”

“Easier for them to get their stories in sync,” Parker said wryly.

“True.” Assuming they had something to hide. “Where do we start?”

He scanned the area. “Why not start at one end and work our way down?”

“Sounds good to me.” She nodded and reached for her door handle.

They got out and crossed the grassy space between two campers. A light breeze made the hot air a little more tolerable, but Miranda caught herself hoping they could get some answers soon. Jeez, the heat never used to bother her. She’d really gotten spoiled by Parker’s unlimited A/C.

They stepped out into the wide main path between the two rows of mobile homes and were greeted by the shouts of children kicking around a soccer ball, the barking of dogs, and the smell of hamburgers being grilled for an early lunch.