Cold Target (13 page)

Thank God, her law books were at her office.

She peered outside. Detective Gaynor's car was still parked at the curb.

A rush of air left her lungs with relief she didn't want to feel. Perhaps she had been foolish to try to return here alone. Yet she refused to live her life in fear, and she had to begin the cleaning process.

First she had to take inventory and decide exactly what could be salvaged and what should be discarded. Keeping busy might wrestle the detective from her mind. It might cool the warmth lingering deep inside her. It might remove the memory of sensual tingling in every part of her body.

She forced herself to turn away from the window and not look outside. Instead she put torn pillows on the torn upholstery of her comfortable sofa, replaced salvageable books on shelves and placed damaged ones in a box.

She made a path through the living room to the kitchen. Items from the fridge had been splashed on the floor and thrown against the wallpaper. She straightened the room as well as she could, then sat down on a chair and considered her next move.

Meredith couldn't stay here, even if she wanted to. She would stay at the hotel tonight. No court appearances tomorrow. Her one appointment had been cancelled.

Yet there were a dozen things that needed to be done with current cases. Witnesses to be interviewed for one of her cases, motions to be prepared for another, and a proposed court order for a third. Most important of all, she had to start her search for her half sister. If only she could find her before her mother died …

If only.

If only pigs flew. She knew adoption laws well. She knew how difficult it was to open a closed adoption.

She used her cell phone to call cleaning services. She actually reached a human being to whom she explained her needs.

She made an appointment for the following day, then turned off the phone and stood. Enough today. She would get here early in the morning, supervise the cleaning, shop for new mattresses, purchase a new computer and start the search for her sister.

And visit her mother.

One more item
. She went through her desk. Her pistol permit was in a file with her passport, the mortgage and other important documents. She prayed that it was intact.

All documents were in a manila envelope labeled “Stuff.” She found it on the floor. Apparently “stuff” hadn't received much attention from the intruder. For once she admired her less than professional techniques. The envelope was untouched.

Had whoever had done this been constrained by time? Had the burglary been timed to coincide with the attack in the garage? Certainly they must be connected.

Had they meant to kill her? Or had they meant only to delay her while they went through her files? If it were the latter, they came damn close to making a mistake. If she had not been so quick in dodging the car …

An abusive husband bent on destruction was still the most likely prospect.

She looked at her watch. Nearly six. She looked outside. Summer light was still with her. Detective Gaynor's car was gone. Loss—and loneliness—settled deep inside her. Yet hadn't she wanted him gone? Hadn't she told him to leave?

She'd felt safe, knowing he was outside.

She couldn't blame him for leaving. She'd welcomed that kiss, and then she'd acted like a raped virgin.
Dammit
.

Her heart jumped as the doorbell rang. He had come back. She wished she didn't feel an unexpected anticipation. She opened the door.

Disappointment filled her as she looked at Detective Morris's tired face.

“You shouldn't be here alone,” he said.

“Who told you I was?”

“Didn't tell me. Gaynor ordered me to get my ass over here.”

“Can he do that?”

“Officially, no. But he's pretty damned good at making me feel I'm not doing my job very well.”

“I know the department is undermanned,” she said. “I didn't expect protection.”

“I can make an argument for it,” he said. “You were one of our prosecutors.”

“It probably doesn't have anything to do with my prosecutions,” she said honestly. “It's probably the husband of one of my clients.”

He shrugged. “Still, Gaynor was right. You shouldn't be alone here right now.”

“I plan to stay another night at the hotel. I'll be safe enough there.”

“Good. That will give us time to check out a few people. Make out a list for me yet?”

“I can give you a few names.”

“Do that, and we'll pay a few visits.”

She shivered in the air-conditioned room, but she knew it wasn't from the chill. She went to the ruined kitchen, rummaged around in a drawer and found a pencil. She jotted down some names and handed them to him. “I'll have some more tomorrow. You'll keep me informed?”

“Of course. Gaynor is going to talk to Rick Fuller. He told me about the protective order.”

“Do you think …?”

“I don't like to think any officer would be involved in something like this, but we'll be checking on all your recent cases as well as any individual you think might carry a grudge from your prosecutor days.”

“Fingerprints?”

“We took all we could find. We need to get a list of people who have been here.” He hesitated. “This was obviously well-planned. I doubt whether they left any clues.”

“Then you think the attack and the burglary are related?”

“I don't think there's much doubt about it.”

“Then there must be more than one person involved. One in the car, and one here.”

“Not necessarily. Whoever attacked you would have known you would probably be tied up for hours afterward.”

“Would they take that kind of chance? What if I hadn't had a scratch that needed tending? What if I just told the officers I wanted to go home?”

Frustration lined his face. “It doesn't make sense to me, either. But until we know why and who, I want you to be very careful.”

“I will. I've decided to get a handgun.”

“Gaynor told me. He also told me to make sure you get one. He threatened all that was dear to me if anything happened to you.”

She could see Gaynor saying just that. So he hadn't just left her. He'd apparently put the fear of God in his fellow detective. Some of the chill left her.

“I know a good gunsmith,” Morris continued. “They have a range, too. I can check you out right away.”

She simply nodded. She went back upstairs to her office, retrieved the permit and put it in her purse, gathered several pieces of clothing together, then set the alarm and locked the front door.

“I want to take my car and go to a hotel afterward. Can you give me the location and I'll meet you there?”

“I'll follow you,” Morris said. “I want to make sure no one is tailing you.”

She nodded gratefully.

She backed her car out of the drive. Morris was already in his car. She passed him and saw him fall in behind her.

For a moment, she wished it were another detective behind her.

That thought was almost as frightening as the past few hours.

Gage was waiting for Rick Fuller when he returned from patrol with his partner.

The man's face tightened as soon as he spotted Gage and he swerved away from his companion. “What do you want?”

“Ms. Rawson was attacked last night. Her home was tossed.”

“I was on duty last night.”

“Your partner can verify this?”

“Yes,” Fuller said shortly, anger smoldering in his eyes. “I didn't go near the—” He clamped his mouth shut. “You have no right, anyway. I hear you went on homicide.”

“You might say I have a special interest in this particular case,” Gage said. “If you're lying to me …”

“I'm not, Detective. I have to go. I have a date.”

Fuller tried to push past him, and Gage grabbed his arm. “I hope to hell she knows what she's getting into.”

“Leave me alone, Gaynor, or I'll—”

“You'll what? Report the fact that you have a protection order filed against you?”

“Leave me alone.”

“I'll have an eye on you for a long time,” Gage said. “And if anything else happens to Ms. Rawson, I'll come looking for you. So you'd better start praying nothing does.”

He turned abruptly. He had done what he could. From now on, Meredith Rawson would have to take care of herself. He didn't need the aggravation.

He would try to interview her father for the Prescott case. He had sent all the evidence that still existed, including the victim's clothes, to the lab to check for DNA. If none of it produced anything, he would move on to another case.

Charles Rawson opened the door to his home and entered. He glanced at the grandfather clock just inside the foyer. After nine. He neatly laid his briefcase on the table at the front of the hall. Mrs. Edwards would take it upstairs.

It had been one hell of a day. The case would go to the jury tomorrow after a four-week trial. He doubted that the jury would deliberate more than a few hours before returning with a verdict in favor of the plaintiffs. He expected to lose the company's retainer shortly thereafter.

He headed for the library and the scotch. Pouring himself an unusually large glass, he sat down in the chair in the corner and took a long swallow, wishing the warm liquid would dull his senses.

Everything in his life was going to hell.

He knew he should visit his wife. Part of him wanted to. But she wouldn't recognize him, according to the doctor, and if she did, she wouldn't want him there.

He would honor one last wish.

He thought back to the day he had first seen her.
Really
seen her. She was only seventeen, but he'd thought she was the most beautiful vision in the world.

She was the daughter of the senior partner of the law firm he'd joined three years out of law school. She'd been only fifteen when he'd started, and he'd dismissed her as a child. But two years later, she appeared at one of the Mardi Gras balls he'd attended, and he hadn't been able to take his gaze away from her. She'd been breathtakingly lovely.

He'd known then he had to have her. And he would do anything to get her.

He had.

He swallowed hard and shifted his mind from pointless regret. His secretary had taken a call from a Detective Gaynor who wanted an appointment with him. When his secretary had refused to relay the message without a reason, the detective mentioned reopening the Oliver Prescott case.

Charles thought he'd buried that years ago.

He could avoid the detective for several days, but that might arouse suspicions. A quick interview with responsive answers should end the matter.

Charles would call him tomorrow.

And then there was Meredith. Dear God, how could he slow her down? Convince her that her search was quixotic? And if he couldn't, would he lose her completely, too?

He took another long sip of scotch. He didn't like drinking by himself. He always feared he would become like his own father, who drank himself into stupors.
Discipline. That was what was important
.

A drink of scotch when he arrived home. A glass or two of wine with dinner. He usually drew the line there.

Tonight he could drink the entire bottle.

He looked at his right hand. His fingers were clenched in a tight fist. He tried to relax them and was immediately sorry. They were shaking.

B
ISBEE

The library staff now greeted her as an old friend.

One reason, of course, was the common love of books. Her son could already read the simplest of books, and he did so vigorously. And since she still didn't sleep well at night, she ran through books at a fast rate.

But though she checked out books for both herself and her son, she had another, more urgent reason to haunt the library. She wanted to search the New Orleans newspaper for news of a murder and her disappearance.

Worried that someone might check the computer to see why she used it so frequently, she also turned to papers in Chicago, Kansas City, Atlanta and Washington, D.C. She would occasionally visit papers of Los Angeles and even Detroit. She was, she told the librarian, a news addict.

Once she reached the New Orleans paper, she skimmed through the front page, the local news and the society section. She stopped at a story about a symphony function. Among the attending dignitaries was her husband.

How had he explained her disappearance?

She saw nothing else of importance. Her gaze went again to Harry. Her son was sitting at a table not far from her, reading a book.

He was such a good little boy. Curious and loving. He had asked about his father last night. How long could she continue to put him off?

She visited the website of another newspaper, then closed the browser and rose. She held out her hand to her son. “Let's go. It's time to eat.”

“Tacos,” he said happily.

“I think I can manage that.”

She checked out several books for herself and a pile for Harry.

One of the librarians smiled at her. “I saw him with the books. He's reading already?”

“Some. He knew his alphabet four months ago.”

The librarian beamed at both of them. “Did you find everything you wanted?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I hope you like Bisbee. We're always delighted to have new residents, especially nice ones who love books.”

There was a sincerity in the woman's voice that warmed Holly. She had always been admired because of her looks, because of her family's position, then because of her husband's career. She realized now how pleasant it was to be liked for herself, to be an individual rather than a mere adjunct of someone else. She had married far too young. She'd had no chance to explore the world on her own.

She was startled now at how much she wanted to do just that, especially this region. She was fascinated by the history, by the stark beauty of her new environment, by the courage of the settlers who had defied any number of dangers to live here. It gave her heart.