Guarding Miranda (7 page)

Decorated to Nancee’s incredibly tasteful eye for luxury, there were fine paintings hung on every wall and fresh flower arrangements on every table.  He took the grand oak staircase to the second floor and turned left, heading for Russ’ study.  He knocked once on the closed door and was called in.

“C’mon in.”

Upon opening the door, Brian saw that Russ wore a deep frown. He was sure that was not because of his Aussie presence so much as the purpose of his visit.

“G’day Mr. Gundy.”

“That’s it?” Asked Russ, of the large manila envelope Brian had in his hands. “All there is to it?”

“All that I have.” Brian told him, though the truth was, he had kept a copy of the black and white photo of Miranda for himself.

“Then let’s have at it.”

“You won’t enjoy what you find.”

“Still, I want to know, Brian.  I trust your judgment in the matter but I want to see it with my own eyes. Hear it with my own ears. Before I let the rabbit out of the hat so to speak.”

Brian opened the manila envelope, withdrew the stack of photos and the disc unto which he had burned the videotaped meetings and recorded telephone conversations that Russ had wanted to hear, first hand.

Russ sifted through the pictures, a frown upon his face. 

He paused at the first one of Richard using cocaine and snorted in disgust.

“It figures,” Russ said and flipped to the next.

“Play the DVD from the beginning?” Brian asked him, going to the stereo system behind the desk.

“I want to hear the whole thing.”

“I thought you would.”  Brian inserted the DVD into the player and pressed
play
, turning up the volume.

“Turn it down a bit, Brian,” Russ instructed. “I don’t want Nancee to hear it just yet.”

The private investigator did as he was told and the two men listened, their expressions a grim reaction to the three recorded conversations.

The first was a brief discussion between Brian and a man named David about a shipment coming in, in a few days’ time.  Boring talk of prices, times and dates. 

The second call was regarding the lateness of the shipment and Brian’s suspicion that a man named Barry was trying to screw them over. 

The third and final conversation was a discussion entailing how Brian planned to get rid of Barry, with the help of David who was again on the other end of the conversation.

It was the third conversation that really got Russ’ attention, a recording of Richard’s office phone, which one of Brian’s employees had bugged.

“-
just a minute, David - I got a call on the other line, it’s my stupid little bitch, hang on. BEEP! Hello?”

“Richard, it’s me.”

“Miranda baby – what’s up?”

“Fine.  Listen honey, with date night tomorrow I’m just calling to see if you wanted to go to a baroque performance at seven.”

“Where at?”

“Tillings Hall.  I’ve got tickets to two great seats.”

“Sounds wonderful.  Babe, I have a business partner on the other line.  Can I pick you prior to that, say at five-ish for supper?”

“Sure thing.  I love you.”

“I love you too.  Bye!”

“Bye.”

“BEEP! David?”

“Still here, Richard.  Which stupid little bitch was that? The whore, the girlfriend or the fiancé?”

“The fiancé. Fuck my life! She wants to go to another fucking concert at Tillings Hall. Shoot me now.”

“Sounds like she has you wrapped around her little finger?”

“Fuck that, Dave.  She’s the one who’s whipped.”

“You haven’t had a Friday night with just you and the boys since… shit, I don’t remember.”

“I can’t stand it, man!  One more opera, ballet or concerto and I swear I’ll strangle the fucking life out of her!”

“You still so sure you want to marry this high society broad?”

“Hell, ya.  Marry her and insure her for a fuckin’ fortune, arrange for a convenient accident.  I intend to retire early, you see...”

“I think I’ve had enough, Brian,” said Russ, looking far older than his forty-eight years. “You can shut it off.”

                                                            *          *          *

A month and sixteen days later, Miranda still had not met Brian Logan and the police were still clueless as to the identity of the shooter. 

All they knew for certain was that the man was named Barry had a tattoo of what had appeared to her to be a
snake or rope around a ship’s anchor
on his shooting hand, his right hand. 

That he was of average build and height, with brown eyes and crooked yellowed teeth, one of which was capped with gold. 

The bullet casings found at the scene of the crime were of a popular brand and had without a retrieved weapon had little to offer in the way of ballistics information. 

Miranda’s description of the man was not a lot to go on but it was all they really had...

Intent on getting out of the hospital as soon as possible, sick of the daytime soap operas and talk shows on the television that filled her hours between visitors, Miranda was focused on getting better. 

Focused with incredible resolve. 

She insisted on being updated daily by the progress of her healing wound, insisted on extra time with the physiotherapist, who at her constant nagging was seeing to it that she was set to regain full use of her left arm.

The long month and a half spent at Letterman General Hospital had dragged by due to unforeseen complications with her recovery, yet Miranda had healed far better than anyone predicted she would. 

She was going to be discharged from the hospital soon, she knew and there was nothing she looked forward to more. 

Luckily for Miranda, the tabloids had all but forgotten about her, deciding instead to focus on three-headed babies raised in the wild and various love triangles between the rich and famous. 

For that, she was grateful. 

It was bad enough that she was the only heir to the Fowler family fortune.

Worse yet, was that the media found it fit to remind her of that every so often...

She could do without any additional infamy.

Miranda looked at the pile of newspapers that had accumulated on the floor next to her bed.  Friends of hers had thought she would be interested in following the case from the journalists’ perspective but she was not. 

She preferred to get her news directly from the police officers heading the investigation, kind as they were to update her every couple of days.

Richard’s killer was still out there, free as a bird, while Richard himself lay in a grave that Miranda had yet to visit, while she herself was still in the hospital. 

But not for long! 

The additional surgeries to repair the nerve damage in her left shoulder had been well worth the extra stay. 

Tomorrow, she would be going home.

*                      *                      *

A week after Miranda was released from the hospital, she was asking for an audience with Brian Logan, the man whom newspapers and nurses alike claimed had saved her life.  He was a man to whom she was very grateful, though not yet properly introduced to.

Obliging her wishes, Russ placed a phone call inviting Brian over for supper. 

Apparently, Brian had accepted, which left Miranda with the predicament of finding something suitable to wear.

What did one wear for a meeting with their own personal hero? 

The latest in summer fashion, as it was now June the twelfth? 

Or perhaps a casual dress in forest green, to match her dark green eyes?  Something alluring or something conservative?  Shorts and a tank top or a grey wool power suit?

Thumbing through the racks of clothing in her walk in closet, her left arm in its temporary sling, she decided at long last on a silk tank top, in dark emerald to compliment her eyes and a pair of plain black dress pants. 

Black slip on flats were God’s gift to the one-armed.

Pearl earrings followed the strand of pearls that she had gotten Lynn to affix at her throat.

She brushed her long, glossy black hair until all the stray ends were tamed into order.  She decided against makeup and then changed her mind, adding a bit of mascara to the long black eyelashes that framed her intelligent green eyes, the faintest touch of blush to her ivory cheeks and a cherry-colored gloss to her rosebud lips.

She stared back at her reflection with a sullen smile and frowned slightly as she absentmindedly caressed the sling that kept her left arm immobile. 

The sling was only a precaution now – her physiotherapist, Mark, had told her she would be able to begin a limited range of further activity in a few more days. 

As it was, the slow, cautious exercises she had been doing to rebuild and recuperate the damaged muscles under the physiotherapist’s direction had begun to incorporate light weights and other strengthening tools.

Mark was certain she’d have full use of her arm in
no time,
no time at all
.

She assumed that was good news...

Miranda was downstairs watching Oprah’s channel with Lynn when the doorbell rang. 

Chapter Four

Miranda glanced at the clock – it was ten to five, nearly supper time. 

Was it
him
?

Brian Logan? 

Her
hero
? 

She couldn’t help but notice the way Lynn straightened in her seat and fluffed her mane of long red hair.  Her college-aged cousin hadn’t bothered to hide how much she fancied Brian Logan. It showed in the length of time it had taken her to get ready for supper, showed in the immaculate set of her heavy makeup and even the short leatherette skirt she wore with her boob-baring Lycra spandex top.

“You aren’t going to believe your eyes,” Lynn whispered to Miranda, her light green eyes round with anticipation as she rose to the sound of the buzzer.

“What is it about him that has you so captivated?”

“Everything about him is big.  Big hands, big shoulders, big feet. And you know what they say about men with big feet?”

“Yeah, Lynn. That they have big socks.”

 “Whatever.” She sighed in rapture. “He’s breathtaking.”

“I’ll reserve judgment of that for when I see him,” Miranda replied, smiling at her cousin’s youthful anxiety. 

Yet, as neutral as she was trying to sound, she kept her eyes fixed on the entrance, as Lynn went to answer the door. 

She had tried keeping her curiosity in check but was now falling miserably short of her goal. 

What did her hero look like?

Lynn was renowned for her incredible taste in men and though the pain of losing Richard was quite fresh in her heart, Miranda couldn’t help but wonder what this Brian Logan might look like.

She remembered the nurse’s description adequately enough but when the large dark haired man entered the foyer to her cousin’s cheery welcome, she found that Nurse Sally’s description of Brian Logan did not do him justice.

He was well over six feet in height, with a swimmer’s build, his broad shoulders and powerful looking arms tapering down into a muscular chest and lean waist.  The black T-shirt he wore was snug fit to him, betraying everything beneath the thin, dark cloth. 

His hips were narrower than she had expected, giving way to thick, strong looking thighs, narrow knees and calves that were just barely hidden by the material of his khaki colored dress slacks.