Cold Target (15 page)

“I'll call your cell phone number if I need you.”

“Good.”

Meredith decided to go to Morris's office with the lists. She could call him, ask him to meet her, but …

She might see Gaynor. Perhaps he would have talked to Rick Fuller, who was still at the top of her list.

Let Morris take care of it
.

She couldn't. Drat it. She wanted to see Gaynor. She tried to keep thinking of him as Gaynor. Not Gage. She wanted to convince herself that yesterday's encounter was the result of sleeplessness, of fear, of grief. She had her emotions in check today. She wanted to prove to herself that the attraction between them had been fleeting.

Certainly not because you just want to see him
.

Meredith picked up her purse. “Thanks, Sarah.”

“Good luck.”

“You, too. After thirty years, it will be a miracle if the doctor in Memphis is still around.”

“We'll find something,” Sarah said.

“I would like to do it before …” She couldn't quite say the words. She knew them in her head. Her heart had not quite accepted them yet.

“I know,” Sarah said softly.

“Talk to you later.”

“Be careful.”

“Oh, I am,” Meredith said.

No one was going to make her a victim again. She'd spent the better part of the last eight years comforting victims, knowing she didn't fully understand their trauma.

She was beginning to understand now. She didn't like it. She wouldn't tolerate it. Of that much she was sure.

Gage threw all his efforts into the Prescott case. In lieu of an immediate interview with Charles Rawson, he sent evidence—clothes worn by the victim and the bullet that killed him—to the FBI lab to see whether they could find something the local crime lab had not years ago.

Then he started extensively researching everyone mentioned in the case files.

He started with Prescott's uncle. He had the strongest obvious motive. His nephew had been groomed to assume the chairmanship of one of the largest banks in Louisiana. Now he held that position.

Gage knew the man's reputation as a builder of consensus.

He moved next to Charles Rawson, the last man known to have seen Prescott alive.

Rawson had an alibi, and no physical evidence linked him to the crime. Still, it apparently had hurt his career. He had been an assistant district attorney, then a municipal judge. He was a big political contributor and was known to be angling for a federal judgeship.

After Prescott's murder, the talk of a judgeship faded. Rawson resigned as municipal judge and never ran for office again. Instead he returned to a law firm in which he was now senior partner.

That appeared odd to Gage. Why the sudden lack of interest in a judgeship? Rawson certainly had the political connections. Gage made a note to investigate that aspect further.

He turned his research to Mrs. Rawson. Like the older Prescott, she had been active in nearly every cultural and charitable organization in the city.

He compiled a list of her interests, looking for patterns. She seemed to stay away from anything political as well as causes that called for more effort than raising money. Charities such as United Way, the American Cancer Society, and the Heart Fund all received her attention. But nothing personal like local women's shelters, boys' clubs, or children's hospitals.

Meredith Rawson's mother. Was that where Meredith learned that cool demeanor that locked people out?

The daughter hadn't been cool a few hours ago.

He still felt that kiss. Hell, he'd felt it all evening.

He stretched. He thought about going home but he doubted he would sleep. He was haunted by her face, by the kiss, by how much he'd wanted her.

He swore at himself and turned back to the file on his desk. He'd scrawled out a number of questions raised by the case.

It was interesting that Meredith had been out of town the weekend of Prescott's death. Or was he simply tying her to the case because he wanted to see her again?

He wanted to breach those walls she'd built around her. He wanted to know if that moment of passion was a fluke or whether it was a small glimpse into a very complicated, very passionate woman.

Gage worried that the intriguing idea might blind him to the case itself. To the evidence.

“Hey, Gaynor, the captain wants you.” Gage looked up to see a uniformed officer in his door.

He looked at the clock. A little after seven.

Surprised that the brass was here so late, he nodded and stood. Time to give it up, anyway. He walked down the hall to the captain's office. “You wanted me?”

“I'm told you're looking into the Prescott case.”

“The lieutenant gave me ten cold cases to review. That was one of them.”

“It was a mistake,” Captain Adams said. “We set up an office elsewhere to review cold cases. Bennett didn't realize that Detective Wagner had already gone over the case. He's damn good. If he didn't find anything, there's nothing to find. It's a waste of your time. And ours.”

“I've already started and—”

“We need you on active cases,” Adams said. “We don't have enough experienced men. Bennett should never have given you cold cases. I've spoken to him about it.” He paused. “You'll partner with Wagner from now on. You can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is my day off.”

“Okay, the next day then.”

Gage wanted to protest, but his superior's face didn't encourage it.

“You can return the case files to records when you come back in.”

Gage nodded.

“Go home, Gaynor.”

There was nothing left to say. He turned toward the door. Why was the captain working so late?

Certainly not to tell one of his detectives that he had a new assignment. That could have waited until the next day.

He told himself he should feel relief. But he had thrown himself into the Prescott case. There was something there. He knew there was.

And now he was sure of it.

ten

B
ISBEE

A car's tires crunched on the gravel outside.

Holly glanced out the window and saw the sheriff's car pulling up. Her heart stopped, just as it had when she'd seen the uniform at the cookout.

Harry was napping. She had been working and stopped long enough to get a glass of water. Her hair was messy. She had no lipstick on. Her feet were bare.

The man she'd met at the picnic the other night—Sheriff Menelo—stepped out of the car. No one was with him. Surely there would have been if they had come to arrest her. She started to breathe again; she had to concentrate to keep her hands from shaking.

What could he want? She thought about pretending not to be home, but her car was in front. She could not postpone trouble forever. She had discovered that with Randolph.

And if there was any suspicion about her story, perhaps she would see it in the lawman's face. Then she and Harry
would
have to disappear again. She kept their things ready.

She approached the door and opened it just as Sheriff Menelo was about to knock. His hand was in midair, and he looked at it sheepishly when there was no place to knock.

“Sheriff?” she said.

“Hello,” he said awkwardly. “Russ, well, he told me your boy liked animals and might want to go riding. I board a couple of horses at his place, and I'm taking Jenny, my niece, out there now for a ride. I wondered if you and Harry would like to go. Russ has several ponies.”

No
!

Yes
.

Once more her head was telling her one thing, and her heart something else. She knew how much Harry wanted to ride.

She'd promised him a great adventure. She had encouraged his interest in cowboys. But how long could she pretend to be something she wasn't with a man trained to detect deception?

“I don't think—”

“If you're busy, I can take him. The whole city will vouch for me,” he said with a slow, easy smile. “I'm mighty careful with children. Been looking after my niece since her father left her and her mother.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. And she was.

“I'm not. He was a sorry—” He stopped suddenly.

She had a pretty good idea of what he would have said if she had not been standing there. “How old is she?”

“Seven, going on thirty.”

She smiled at that. Harry surprised her at times as well.

“You should do that more often, Mrs. Baker.”

“Do what?”

“Smile. It's very nice.”

Not beautiful. Not elegant. Not lovely. All adjectives she'd heard before. Just “nice.” It was the best compliment she'd ever received.

“Mommy.” She heard Harry's voice behind her.

She turned. A sleepy-eyed midget stared up at her with confusion.

“Hi,” she said. “Do you remember Sheriff Menelo?”

Harry looked up—a long way up, Holly noticed. He nodded.

She waited. She expected Sheriff Menelo to make the same offer to her son, to make her the bad guy if she refused. That's what her husband always did.

But this man didn't. “Hi, buddy,” he said.

“'Ello,” he said as he had last night, then looked at her. She had emphasized over and over again not to trust strangers, especially not to talk to adults without her being present.

“He wants to know if you want to ride a horse,” she said.

All the sleep left his face and he looked as if someone had handed him the world. His face was so full of hope that her heart broke. “Mommy, can I?”

She nodded.

“Good,” the sheriff said. “I'll take the patrol car back and pick up my niece. I'll be back here in, say … an hour.”

She wondered what she was doing. Yet there was a shy sincerity about the man that disarmed her. Several hours of being very careful would be worth seeing pleasure on her son's face. And maybe feeling a few moments of pleasure herself.

Yet deep down, she knew she would regret this. She knew it to the depths of her soul.

N
EW
O
RLEANS

Fingering her rarely used key to her parents' house, Meredith rang the bell first and waited.

No Mrs. Edwards. After several minutes, she put the key in the lock and let herself in.

The house was like a tomb. Big and silent. She went into the kitchen. It was spotless. Then she stopped by her father's study. The room was large and wood-paneled. Certificates lined the walls. The desk was completely clear, the mahogany gleaming in the light drifting through the windows.

A computer was on a computer stand to the right of the desk. She resisted the urge to go over to it and turn on the power.

She looked at her watch. She thought she had several hours before Mrs. Edwards returned. Meredith didn't want her father to know she was snooping and didn't want to put Mrs. Edwards in an awkward position of choosing between two loyalties.

Meredith went up the stairs, then opened the door that led to a second set of stairs. She reached for the light overhead, wondering whether it still worked. No one came up here. Relief flooded her when it illuminated the dim stair area. She climbed the steps to the attic door and turned the knob. It was unlocked.

The room was lit by sun streaming in through two windows.

She looked around, stunned.

The attic was empty. The file cabinets were gone. So were the boxes that had been piled against the walls.

She stood there for several moments, then ran her finger along the floor. No dust. The boxes had been removed recently.

Very recently.

What was her father trying to hide?

She left, turning out the light. She descended the stairs and walked to her mother's room. Her mother and father had had different bedrooms for as long as she could remember.

The room was large and, like the rest of the house, looked as if it waited for visiting royalty. The walls were of a sky blue, and the floor covered by a rich, deep royal blue. Lovely delicate bottles lined the dresser.

Meredith looked in the night table. A recent bestseller. A notebook and pen.

She looked in the notebook, feeling a little like a Peeping Tom. This was her mother's world, one she'd never quite been allowed entrance. But the pages were blank, or they had been torn out.

Undeterred, she looked in the dresser, then a large chest, and finally the closet.

The walk-in closet was filled with clothes neatly separated into casual and dressy. Built-in drawers were filled with lingerie. Shoes lined racks. Sweaters were neatly folded on two shelves.

She sighed, then spotted a shelf in the back. Books. She reached back and found three yearbooks for the private girls' school her mother had attended. There was also a book of poetry.

They were out of sight but not hidden. She took all four volumes, feeling as if she'd caught the golden ring on a carousel. Her mother had cared enough to keep them. Perhaps they held some secrets.

She took the stack to the small antique writing desk and sat down. She picked up the book for the year her mother was a senior. Her mother was in the class photos and some group scenes, but there were no scrawled messages as there usually were in yearbooks. No writings from classmates. She picked up the second book. She found her mother's photo in the junior class. Fellow classmates had written all over their photos.

Her glance rested on the photo of her mother. She had long blond hair and looked at the camera with a huge smile.

Meredith couldn't remember ever seeing that smile.

An observer could see the energy and life in the girl, even in a black-and-white photo. Meredith looked through the group photos. Drama Club. Choir, Art Club. Homecoming court. In the latter, she looked like a princess.

Meredith thought how different her mother and she had been. She had gone to a different private school where she excelled in scholastic activities and not much else. She had been in the Latin Club and Honor Society, on the debating team. She'd been editor of the school paper.