Cold Target (23 page)

She looked guilty as hell and felt guiltier. She had not participated in the sexual freedom of her generation. She didn't make love unless there was a long-standing relationship of some kind. She never just “hopped” in bed with someone.

Until now.

Weighed down by the fact, and by apparently how meaningless it had been to Gage, she washed her face to erase some of the telltale color, the tears that glimmered in her eyes.

Dammit.

She summoned a smile, then left the room. He was standing in the kitchen, watching a coffeemaker brew.

He turned. “I thought you might like some coffee first.”

She would. She wouldn't sleep tonight at any rate, so she might as well indulge her love for caffeine. But that meant staying in his presence longer. She didn't want that. She feared she would reach out and touch his face again, and take his hand in hers. She feared the charged air that was still between them, and detested the fact that the need she had for him had been fed but not sated.

She looked around the house for more hints about its owner, but strangely she picked up few clues. The furniture was comfortable, the television big. But other than that the interior was bland, without character. Then she thought of the roses outside and Beast, who'd padded alongside her and now sat perfectly still at her feet.

The dog looked up at her pleadingly, and she leaned over and scratched his ears. She'd never had a dog though she had always wanted one. Her father wouldn't hear of it, and then she was in college and later was simply gone from home too much to be fair to an animal. She wondered how a cop managed to have time to care for him.

Gage handed her a cup of coffee. Black. He'd noticed her preference at one time or another. Or perhaps he didn't have cream and sugar.

He looked at her for a long moment after she took the cup in both hands. Intimacy was in that look, and something else she couldn't identify. She thought he was going to say something but he seemed to stop himself.

He waited until she'd finished her coffee, then turned toward the door. “Let's go.”

B
ISBEE

Holly looked through the on-line New Orleans newspaper with special interest. Today was the day her husband had planned to announce his race for the U.S. House of Representatives. He had to file with the state within the next three weeks.

There was no mention of any announcement.

Because she and her son would not be standing with him?

She had sat in on strategy sessions although she'd always been silent, just as she had been meant to be. She was there as an ornament, not for any meaningful contribution.

She was the daughter of one of the most powerful judges in Louisiana, and she was deemed a distinct asset, along with her precocious, photogenic son.

Had Randolph delayed the announcement until he could find her? Was he afraid of questions as to her whereabouts?

One thing she knew for sure, her existence was a decided threat to Randolph now. Yet it was a weapon as well. She knew he had gotten rid of a body, and that endangered his reputation—and possibly his freedom.

He would not want her to surface. He would far prefer that she died in some fabricated scheme, like a botched kidnapping. But what about Harry? Their son was smart enough to know they had not been stolen away. Would that knowledge condemn him as well?

Was Randolph really that evil?

When she returned home she would write some letters, send them to people she felt she could trust, though they were few in number. Incredibly few, in fact. Still, she would do that. Then she would let Randolph know that others knew she was alive and well. If he let her disappear, then he could continue his life, perhaps even his political career. A tragedy could be an asset. He would milk it for all the sympathetic votes he could get.

Feeling a little better now about her prospects and her hopes for a new life, she left the computer and went over to where Harry was flipping through a picture book.

At last, she was taking a little of her own life back. It might be one small step at a time, but at least she'd started.

fifteen

N
EW
O
RLEANS

Meredith sat in her car outside of Lulu Starnes's home.

She was early, and she'd been taught that it was just as rude to be early as it was to be late.

She also needed a few moments to think.

Her world seemed to be disintegrating ever faster. All that precious control she thought she had was crumbling.

She had made a fool out of herself last night. She'd lowered her barriers and then run.

She never ran.

Or had she been running all her life? Now she was uncertain whether she had been running from or to something.

After they left Gage's house last night, he had driven her to her car, then followed her to the hospital and waited outside while she went up to her mother's room.

There had been no change. Except her mother seemed paler. Her breathing even more shallow.

How much time did her mother have? How long before it was too late to let her mother know that her daughter was found? And safe?

Meredith had allowed herself to be distracted. She was still distracted. Her body glowed while her mind scolded. Guilt roiled inside. She'd leaned over and kissed her mother's cool face, then left.

She'd averted her face from Gage's car as she reached her own. Yet she couldn't control her body or even her thoughts as she drove home, knowing he was behind her.

When they'd arrived, he insisted on going inside and checking her house. She stood outside, afraid to follow. Afraid of the heat that they generated together. Then he returned to the door and stood there, his green eyes searching hers.

She ignored the question in them, though her heart beat erratically. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly.

“You're welcome,” he said, equally polite though a muscle twitched in his throat. “Good night.”

She nodded, wanting to stretch out her hand to him yet knowing if she did, she would not want to let him go. He was a loner. That fact radiated from him.

He obviously disliked commitments as, she told herself, did she.

He walked away, and she quickly shut and locked the door, locking him out as well. Still, she went to the window and watched him leave. She'd never felt quite so lonely and inadequate before.

Why couldn't she accept what he was offering? Friendship. Wonderful sex.

She knew exactly why. A lifelong fear of relationships.

A wave of loneliness gushed through her. Had she made a terrible mistake?

She willed away thoughts of last night and the confusion she felt and checked her watch again.

Six
P
.
M
. exactly.

She left the car and knocked on Mrs. Starnes's door. A dog barked with frenzied excitement.

No answer.

She knocked again, then rang the bell. Still no answer.

She knew she had the time right. And the correct address.

Unlike the Laxtons' near-mansion that she'd visited, this house was a small but well-kept bungalow. The front was ringed with flower beds. It was a house that looked loved.

She waited a moment, then tried the bell again. Again she heard the frenzied, even panicked, barking.

Meredith went around to the back of the house. Another garden filled the yard, along with a patio. Comfortable-looking lounge chairs were arranged around a glass table.

She knocked at the back door, then feeling a little like a Peeping Tom, peered through the window. The room was obviously the kitchen. She saw a fridge, its front covered with photographs, but couldn't see much else.

Meredith slumped into one of the chairs. She didn't know whether to wait or not. Then her gaze went to the detached garage. The door was closed but there was a window at the top. She walked over to it, stood on tiptoes and peered through the glass. A car was parked inside.

Did it belong to Mrs. Starnes? Was she visiting a neighbor or had she decided not to see Meredith? Perhaps the woman was sitting inside waiting for her to leave.

But Meredith had a bad feeling about this. Perhaps it was the frantic barking that hadn't stopped, as if the animal was trying to tell her something.

She decided to wait a few more minutes. Maybe Mrs. Starnes was simply late.

She sat on the porch. If the anxiety in her hadn't been deepening, she would have enjoyed the interlude. A bee buzzed among the flowers. Huge white blooms from a magnolia tree scented the air. Peaceful. Except for the barking.

Meredith looked at her watch. Thirty minutes past the time of the appointment. She stood and went to the front door. She tried the doorknob. To her surprise, the door opened easily.

“Mrs. Starnes?” she called out. “Mrs. Starnes?”

A dog—a small black-and-white Sheltie—jumped against her, dashed around her legs, demanding attention, bumped its nose against her legs, then ran toward another room and came back again.
Follow me
.

Apprehension flooded her, then outright fear. She followed the animal down the hallway. She stopped, and the dog barked again, treading back and forth until she took several more steps in the direction he indicated.

The hall led to the kitchen. Meredith stopped suddenly.

A middle-age woman lay motionless on the floor, her clothes stained with blood. Her eyes were wide open.

Meredith knew before she stooped and put her fingers to the woman's neck that she was dead. Horror chilled her. Disbelief. She knelt there, paralyzed by both.

Her mind started working again.
What if someone is still in the house
?

But she had been waiting outside for thirty minutes.…

Dear God, what if she had gone in then?
Perhaps the woman would still be alive
.

The dog stood as close as he could to Mrs. Starnes and made soft noises. Crime scene, she reminded herself. This was a crime scene.

“Come on, guy,” she told the dog.

He wouldn't move. When she leaned down to pick him up, he growled and inched closer to his mistress. Her heart ached for the woman and the distressed animal.

Dammit. She was doing everything except what she knew she should do.
Call the police
.

Because of shock. She had been on the scenes of murders before, but this woman, who must be Mrs. Starnes, had known her mother, had been a friend. She had been waiting for Meredith, to give her answers.

Call the police
!!! She looked around for a telephone, but long training stopped her. She knew the need to maintain the integrity of a crime scene. Her cell phone!

She took the revolver out of her purse and placed it on a table within quick reach, then found her cell phone and called 911 to report a murder.

Gage looked over his notes as Wagner drove. The two of them were returning from interviewing street people in the area where a homeless man had been stabbed nights before. Henry was the only name they had for the victim. The dead man had been wearing faded and torn fatigues and was in his fifties. Vietnam vet age. Had he been in the army and, if so, had his tour led to what he'd become? Gage had seen too much of that.

They were running fingerprints now through the FBI. They'd also sent them to the army.

Both he and Wagner were silent on the way back to headquarters.

When they were ten minutes from the office, his cell phone rang.

“Gaynor,” he said.

“Cliff Morris,” the caller identified himself. “Miss Rawson called me. She had an appointment with an old friend of her mother's. When she arrived, no one answered. She tried the door and went in. The woman was dead. She called 911, then me. This is a homicide and out of my territory, but I thought you would like to know.”

“What's the address?” Gage jotted it down. “Is she still there?”

“I think so.”

“I'm on my way.” Gage hung up, then called the desk. “I just heard about a murder in the Garden District. It's not far from where I live and I'm out there now. Do you want me to pick it up?”

A pause on the phone as someone went to check with an officer. Gage knew it was logical for Wagner and him to get the case. Because he was new, they had a reduced caseload. He had no intention, though, of mentioning the Rawson name. That could wait until he officially had the case.

The sergeant was back in several moments. “The lieutenant said go ahead.”

Gage closed the phone.

Wagner glanced over at him. “What murder?”

“A woman in the Garden District. A detective just called. The lieutenant gave us a thumbs-up.” He gave his partner the address. He didn't say more. Why in the hell had Meredith called Morris rather than him? And why was she wandering about the city without protection? What if she had arrived earlier and walked in on a killing?

His blood ran cold at the thought. This murder couldn't be a coincidence. Not now. Too much was whirling around Meredith. She was the eye of a hurricane.

“Step on it,” he said.

Gage put the light on top of the unmarked departmental car as Wagner maneuvered through the crowded streets. They arrived at the address within minutes.

Uniformed police had beat them there. Two cars, lights still flashing, were in the driveway. An ambulance was parked on the street.

Gage barely waited for the car to stop before jumping out, badge in hand. He went past two officers, who nodded him inside. He followed voices to the kitchen.

Meredith was sitting in a chair next to the kitchen table. Her face was white, her jaw clenched, her expression grim. Her arms clutched a furry dog that looked like a miniature collie.

A woman lay on the floor several feet away. Two paramedics stood by. A uniformed officer was talking to them. Gage showed them his badge while casting a look toward Meredith.

Then he turned to the paramedic. “How long has she been dead.”

“Hard to tell at the moment,” he said. “At least an hour. The medical examiner will know more.”