Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (23 page)

Holding her breath,
Miranda unlocked her lips, opened one eyed and peeked over Parker’s shoulder in time to watch the woman pull up the man tottering on the last step.

The
second man was at the door already, patting his pants. “Now where’d I put me bleeding keys, then?”

The woman hee-heed again.
“Other pocket, Luc.”

Luc patted the other side of his jeans. “Blimey! You’re right.” He pulled out his keys and tried several times to hit the keyhole with them before a second young woman took them from him.

“You’re absolutely gormless.”

Apparently she was the sober
est one in the group. She shoved in the keys and got the door open.

At last
the four revelers moved inside.

Keeping his gaze steady on Miranda’s face, Parker stretched a hand out behind him and caught the door just before it shut.

“Smooth,” Miranda grinned with admiration as they slipped inside.

The two “bladdered” couples turned at the end of a long hall without noticing her or Parker
and disappeared. Letting out a tense breath, Miranda took in the space.

A worn carpet ran the length of the passage. The walls were dingy, as if they hadn’t been painted since maybe the thirties. There was an old, musty smell in
the air to match, mixed with the scent of Middle Eastern cooking. Signs without words indicated the elevator a few doors away. More signs pointed around corners situated at each end for the stairs.

“Which way?” she whispered.

Parker gestured to the stairwell.

Her choice, too. Less noise.

They took the stairs two at a time, ascending side by side, floor by floor, until they reached the fourth floor. There Parker laid a steady hand on the door and opened it without making a noise.

He peered into the hall.

Behind him, Miranda strained to see over his shoulder. “Is he there?”

Parker didn’t answer. He simply opened the door the rest of the way and gestured for her to follow.

She stepped into the hall. It was empty.

Unless he’d slipped out while they were coming up the stairs,
Shrivel had to be in one of the units. Or lurking somewhere after figuring out he was being followed.

They moved cautiously toward the corner, rounded it.
This hall was similar to the one on the ground floor, but the carpet was green, the walls painted a muddy beige, the apartment doors an ugly dark red.

She scanned the units.
Which one was four-oh-six?

Just as she began to scan for numbers, shout
s came from inside somewhere. She shot Parker a questioning look.

He took a step in the direction of the noise.

Suddenly there was a loud, booming crash. And another. Gunshots.

A door banged open in the middle of the hall and
Shrivel stepped out. “It’ll be worse next time,” he sneered to someone inside the unit. Then he turned and ran off. The next instant he disappeared around the corner.

Heading for the stairwell.

“Stay here.” Parker rushed past her and after Shrivel.

“Wait,” Miranda hissed and ran after him. But as she reached Jewell’s apartment she stopped. The door was
still ajar.

She heard a groan. “Help!”

Hesitating only an instant, with one last glance at the stairwell, she shoved the door open and stepped inside.

Trenton
Jewell’s large body lay sprawled on the floor of a narrow living space, one big hand over his stomach, his blood seeping through his fingers and staining the throw rug beneath him.

He groaned loudly and lifted his head with what seemed like impossible effort to look up at her through a glazed stare. “Ms. Steele?”

Quickly she glanced past a shelf of law books and spotted a small kitchen through an open arch. She raced through it, snatched a towel off the counter and returned to Jewell.

He was dressed in a dark suit, the blood staining the crisp white shirt, the coat, the pants as it oozed over his knuckles.

She grabbed his wrist, jerked his hand away and pressed the towel down on the wound hard. “Breath,” she ordered.

He did with a heavy, heaving gasp.

“Goodness gracious, what ’appened?” said a female voice.

Miranda’s head snapped around. A woman in curlers and bathrobe stood in the doorway. She looked ghostly pale.

“Go call 911,” she barked at her.

The woman tilted her head and frowned.

“Emergency. Ambulance. The police.”

Getting it now, the woman nodded and hurried off.

The blood had soaked through the towel and Miranda didn’t dare press any harder for fear of injuring an organ.

Jewell groaned again and tried to move.

“Lie still,” she snapped. She couldn’t have two vics in one day. It couldn’t happen. She refused to let it happen. “What the hell was Malcomb Shrivel doing here?”

His eyes flashed as if he was shocked she’d seen the intruder and knew who he was. After a minute he spoke. “He…he thought I had the
Marc Antony dagger. The…real dagger.”

Her own heart felt like it had just stopped.
What did he say? Then her head cleared. What was she doing making him talk? “Never mind. Forget I asked. Just try to relax.”

But
he raised his large head again, his iron gray hair falling in greasy strings over a brow lined with agony, his large sharp nose pointing at her like an eagle’s beak. Now she couldn’t shut him up.

“I mean, he thought I knew where the dagger was. Since I…represented George Eames.” His eyes rolled back in his head and he let out a cry of pain.

“Just lie still. EMTs will be here any second.” She hoped.

But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, sirens sounded in the distance. Not American sirens. Those funny sounding European ones that made y
ou think the Nazis were coming.

“Any second now,” she repeated. “Just hold on.”

But the blood kept coming.

Jewell did hold on.

After an eternity the paramedics, all in green, arrived. They got the bleeding to stop, hoisted Jewell onto a gurney and rolled him out.

Miranda stepped out into the hall and found Parker waiting for her.

“
Shrivel got away?”

He nodded grimly, eyeing her. “Are you all right?”

She looked down at herself. She was covered with blood. “Hope the hotel’s got a good cleaning service.”

He gave
her a weary sigh. Before he could say anything else the elevator doors opened and Wample and Ives stepped out followed by a couple of crime techs.

Wample
’s eyes narrowed when he saw them. “You two certainly know how to keep us busy.”

Parker straightened his shoulders. Miranda knew he was in no mood for the inspector’s guff. “We found your suspect, Malcomb Shrivel
, in Tottenham and followed him here. He shot Trenton Jewell.”

Miranda noticed he left out the part about the auto repair shop and Scorpion and his boys.

Wample gestured and Ives and the techs went into Jewell’s rooms. “How do you know it was him?” Wample wanted to know.

“We heard two gunshots. Then
we both saw Shrivel leave Jewell’s flat. He ran down those stairs.” Parker pointed toward the stairwell. “I tried to capture him, but when I got outside he was gone.”

Wample’s lips curled as he turned to Miranda. “You’re a right mess.”

She returned his sneer. “I was trying to stop the barrister from bleeding to death.”

“My wife saved the man’s life
, Inspector.” Parker’s voice was low and cold. She knew that was mostly his frustration talking.

Wample nodded. “I’ll need your statements.” He strode over to the open door. “Ives, get this scene processed while I take Mr. Parker and Ms. Steele to the car.”

“Yessir.”

Wample lumbered back to the elevator and pressed the button. “Results from the lab are back from this afternoon’s incident,” he said grimly.

“And?” Miranda asked as the doors opened.

Wample stepped into the lift, Parker behind him.
“No fingerprints. The killer wore gloves, as we suspected.”

“What about the call on Lady Gabrielle’s cell phone?”

“Her mobile?” he said with a superior air. “Untraceable number.”

Miranda’s shoulders sagged
as she glanced over at Parker. His expression was bleak and he looked worn out.

The doors opened and they made their way through the entrance.

They descended the front steps, headed for Wample’s car and she and Parker got into the back seat while Wample made a call outside.

At last he slipped into the front, readied his recording equipment and his notepad and
turned to them.

“By the way,
” he said with a face so bland an artist have could have used it for a canvas. “I’m sorry to break our agreement, but I’ve just sent a man out to pick up Malcomb Shrivel.”

Big Ben was tolling one in the morning by the time Miranda and Parker got back to the hotel.

She peeled off her bloody clothes, took a quick shower and sank down on the bed in her T-shirt and panties. If only it were as easy to wash away the emotions of today. Instead they lingered in her heart, boring into her veins like parasites.

She groaned out loud. “Sometimes this job really…sucks.”

“I know.” Parker stood at the side of the bed,
holding out a glass to her. He was still dressed in his tight shirt and jeans.

She sat up on her elbows and eyed the drink. “What is it?”

“Bacardi. It will help you sleep.”

His
brand. She sat up and took a sip.

She set the glass down on the nightstand and took a deep breath as the liquid
began to warm her insides. It didn’t feel like it would be enough. Not even if she drank a whole case.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you what Jewell said,” she told him on an exhale.

Parker’s dark brows drew together. “When you were in the room with him?”

She nodded. “I shouldn’t have let him talk
, but I wanted to know what Shrivel was doing there.”

“What did he tell you?”

She scratched at her hair, the frustration of the scene playing in her mind. “Shrivel thought Jewell knew where the dagger was because of his connection to George Eames.”

“And so he shot him to make him tell?”

“I guess so.” Though it didn’t seem very effective. She stared down at the design in the purple bedspread. Her mind began to run in another direction. “If Malcomb Shrivel doesn’t know where the real dagger is…” She reached for the glass and swigged another swallow as it hit her. “Then his gang leader, Scorpion, doesn’t have it.”

“No,” Parker murmured.

“And if Scorpion doesn’t have the real Marc Antony dagger…who does? And who killed Lady Gabrielle with a fake one?” And how did…?

Parker took the glass from her and
swallowed his own swig. “There were two thefts.”

She
stared up at him. Then she took the glass back again, put it down on the nightstand and pressed her head between her hands.

This was crazy. “Two thefts?”

But even as Parker nodded, she knew he was right.

It made perfect sense.
“Someone else stole the real dagger and replaced it with a fake before Malcomb Shrivel broke into the museum.”

“Yes.”

“And so Shrivel ended up stealing the counterfeit dagger instead of the real one.”

“Exactly.”

It had to be. The wheels in her head began to turn faster. “And somehow the information Lady Gabrielle had about the inscription got to Scorpion and he knew he had the fake.”

“And now he wants the real one.”

“And thinks Eames has it.” She frowned. “Why go after Jewell?”

“Guilty people confess all sorts of things to their attorneys.”

She thought about that. “Eames is the only one with access to the dagger after it was delivered to the museum as far as we know,” she said, wondering how close Lady Gabrielle was to Sir Neville’s friend and colleague. “But why would someone who’s dedicated his life to old artifacts, who lives in the freaking museum, steal the dagger? He could just go down and look at it on display every day at his job, for Pete’s sake.” She got under the covers and gave her pillow a sock. “That dagger meant the world to Sir Neville. How could you work with him so closely, day after day and do something like that to him? Eames is Sir Neville’s friend.” Or was supposed to be.