Cold Target (25 page)

But
someone
wasn't his mistress, and she was fully aware of that.

Gage returned. “You can go for now. I'll drive you home.”

Not “May I?” Or “Can I?” An order. Like her father always gave.

“My car is here,” she argued.

“I'll have a patrolman drive it to your house later.”

She didn't want to capitulate. Didn't want to need him. Didn't want to need anyone.

But she did. She needed someone now. Not to protect her. But to share her sorrow for a woman she didn't know.

A warning voice told her that someone shouldn't be—couldn't be—Gage Gaynor. She didn't want to break down in front of him, and she was frighteningly close to that point right now. Her mother's illness, her mother's secret, the attempt on her life, the trashing of her home, and now this.

Emotional overload. She recognized it. She'd seen it too many times in her clients. She knew there was a breaking point, and she wanted hers to come in private.

“No,” she said sharply. “You have things to do here.”

He sighed heavily. “Meredith. Someone died today. It may or may not be connected to you, but it's a hell of a coincidence if it isn't. I'm not going to let you go home alone to an empty house. If I have to follow you, I will.”

“Then you will have to follow me,” she said. It was better than being in the same car with him, seduced by the sight and sound and scent of him.

He nodded curtly. “Ready.”

She stood, still holding the dog. He was an armful. A furry armful. He squirmed, protesting, and she whispered to him. He quieted and drooped forlornly against her.

Gage reached for him, but she shook her head. “I'll take care of him.”

Gage shrugged.

“You
will
tell the relatives about him?” she asked him again. She had no time in her life for a dog. Her hours were horrendous.

“Yes.”

“If no one wants him …”

“You can take him to the shelter. Or keep him.” He was looking at her with a raised eyebrow. Quizzically.

She knew she would never take the dog to the shelter. She owed Mrs. Starnes. Outside, she lowered the dog to the ground and he walked with her to her car. The house now was surrounded by police cars and uniformed police. She saw that several were at doors up and down the street, obviously canvassing the neighborhood for possible witnesses.

She reached her car and held the door open while the dog reluctantly got in. She was blocked by one police car, and she saw Gage talking to several officers. One moved the car behind her while Gage got into an unmarked car.

For a moment, she regretted her decision. She remembered how at ease she'd felt with him last night, how comfortable because of, or in spite of, the attraction that spiked between them.

She drove slowly, touching the dog occasionally. Talking to him. He sat upright in the passenger seat, his eyes seldom leaving her, as if she would help him fathom what was happening to him.

Fifteen minutes later, she parked in the driveway. It was the later part of dusk, and the air was hot and thick, laden with moisture. The sweet smell of hibiscus and magnolia permeated the air. She got out and opened the gate into the back, then returned to the car and drove inside. Gage parked outside.

He joined her at the door and took out his revolver. With the other hand, he took her key and opened the door, stepping inside first. She followed, punching in the code numbers of the security system.

“Stay here,” he said, and moved forward without giving her a chance to say aye or nay.

She remained at the door, clutching the leash. Nicky stood still, panting nervously.

In minutes, Gage returned. “Everything looks okay. You might want to look through it before I leave, make sure no one has been here.”

She had no argument left in her. She took the leash off Nicky and went to her office, the dog plodding behind her. She turned on her new computer. No one had used it since her last log-on. Her desk looked undisturbed. She returned to the living room, where he was inspecting her telephone.

Then she remembered his comment that her home and phones should be checked for listening devices.

“Anything?” she asked in little more than a whisper.

He didn't answer. His attention was fixed on the parts of the telephone receiver he'd separated. He took out a tiny piece of metal and balanced it in his hand, then carefully replaced it. Then he led her out to the back porch.

“The phone is bugged. I'll check the one in the kitchen and the one upstairs as well. Your burglar must have installed them between trashing your home. Perhaps the vandalism was just a cover for that.”

She tried to tamp her growing anger. A malevolent presence had been listening to her every word to friends, associates, clients.

“What do you want to do?” he asked. “It might be better if whatever did this doesn't know you've discovered it.”

“All right.” She hesitated. “Do you think any of the rooms …?”

“I doubt it. That's harder to monitor than a phone line. But I'll have someone sweep the house. Just be careful what you say on the phone.” He leaned over and touched her cheek. “Be careful, period. It could be dangerous.”

“As opposed to what?” she asked.

He smiled. “That's the Meredith Rawson I know.”

But she didn't want to be diverted. “You think Mrs. Starnes died because I tried to reach her?”

He shrugged. “It's a possibility.”

“We still don't know if there's any connection other than the fact I found … her.” Even she knew how weak that comment was. The person found at the scene of a crime was always the first suspect. Ironically, Meredith had probably told the killer through the bugged phone how to find Mrs. Starnes.

His gaze met hers. It did not allow self-delusion. “Tell me more about your half sister. Everything that has happened to you follows too closely your attempts to locate her.”

“I planned to go to Memphis this week and see what I could find out.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“I have some vacation coming. I'll go with you.”

She knew she should say no. He had a way of distracting her. “I'm leaving Thursday. I want to check area obstetricians practicing at the time of my sister's birth. And attorneys. I doubt whether anyone is still in practice but …”

“I can manage that.”

“I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Going alone is a worse idea.”

“Perhaps Sarah …” But she knew neither Becky nor Sarah could go with her. They both had families of their own. And he was right. Danger seemed to lurk around every corner.

She didn't consider herself a stupid person. And she would have to be quite stupid not to realize she was in the midst of a situation she didn't understand. A deadly situation.

“All right,” she said.

“A little more enthusiasm please.” A small crooked smile accompanied the words.

“I'm
not
enthusiastic. You and I … we are like gunpowder and fire.”

“And you object to fireworks?”

“When they're uncontrolled,” she replied. “Don't you?”

He studied her for a moment. Then shrugged. “I'm not sure,” he admitted wryly.

At least he had some of the same doubts that haunted her.

“I don't like leaving you alone here.”

“I'm not alone. I have Nicky.”

“I'm not sure Nicky is such a good watchdog. Remember Mrs. Starnes.…”

She did. She remembered every second of the last few hours. She wondered whether the image of Mrs. Starnes on the floor would ever leave her.

“I'll keep my cell phone and revolver with me,” she promised. “I know you have to get back to the scene.”

He bent his head and his lips touched hers. Gently, yet with the spice of passion underneath. She sensed his reluctance as he drew away. “We'll probably be working all night. I'll send someone over to check the house for any more bugs. His name is Daniel. He's a deputy sheriff as well as a wire expert. He'll show his credentials from outside. You're not to let anyone else in unless you know them. In fact …”

“I'll be careful,” she said.

He took her hand and held it for a moment, his fingers tracing the palm in a way that caused erotic shivers to run up and down her spine.

“I'll call later.”

She liked that idea. Far more than she should.

B
ISBEE

The birth certificate came in the mail.

Holly looked at it for a long time. It was one of the necessary steps toward freedom. To a Social Security number. A driver's license. And a measure of safety.

Until this moment she'd feared that someone would discover that Elizabeth Baker had died years ago.

During her trips to the library, she'd found a book on how to disappear. She knew now that she had done everything wrong. She'd thought herself so smart.

The biggest mistake, it said, was settling in a small community. According to the book, she should have chosen a large city like San Francisco, or Chicago, where one could become an anonymous face in a crowd. It was far more difficult to hide in a small town where people knew one another and had a collective curiosity about newcomers.

Well, that certainly was true.

She'd thought about running again. That thought sent chills through her. She didn't think she could do that again.

Neither could she uproot her son again. She just couldn't do it. Harry liked it here. He loved Caesar and what he called the “funny” town. He liked the sheriff and the pony he'd ridden.

He was leading a normal life for the first time in his life.

But she did have to obtain a driver's license and Social Security number.

Neither, she'd discovered, would be easy to obtain. You needed a Social Security card for a driver's license. But there might be other kinds of identification she could produce.

She decided the Social Security card was the most important. With that, she could obtain a driver's license and open a bank account. The bank account would allow her to build credit. A history.

She had considered opening a bank account with someone else's Social Security number. But her Internet research told her that facade could last less than a year. Banks reported transactions to the government. If she had any idea of staying here that long, she could be discovered.

And she
did
want to stay. It frightened her how much she wanted to stay. She had real friends now. Friends who liked her for herself.

In a very short time, she'd grown to love the desert and the odd little town with so much character. A town that refused to die. A town that valued the lesser of its residents. One that persisted but still refused to conform.

Staying posed a risk. Trying to get a Social Security card posed a risk. But she knew to stay here—or wherever she went—she would need identification. She was terrified every time she drove a car. If she was ever stopped, her house of cards could tumble.

She'd spent hours trying to devise a reason why she didn't have a Social Security number. Most people today had a Social Security card almost since birth. The best scenario, she decided, was that she was a daughter of missionaries and had lived outside the country most of her life, had married overseas and had never held any job but that of housewife. Under those circumstances it had been easy to overlook the need for a card.…

She looked at the birth certificate again. A beginning. But there were so many traps out there. One mistake, and she could die. And then what would happen to her son?

“Mommy?” Harry sensed something. His eyes were riveted on her.

“Want to go for a walk?” she asked.

He leaped to his feet, dislodging Caesar, who had crawled up on the sofa with him, and fetched the dog's leash. Caesar jumped down from the sofa and followed him, obviously eager for his evening constitutional.

Holly regarded what had become a ritual with a pleasure only slightly tinged with apprehension.

She'd established a routine. She worked all morning while Harry watched television or read, then at noon she would visit the library in her daily search for news from New Orleans. Then she and Harry would go somewhere for an inexpensive lunch. After lunch, it was home again to work the rest of the afternoon.

They would walk the dog after the worst of the heat faded, then she would fix a simple supper. She usually read to Harry unless there was something suitable on television.

Both Russ and Sheriff Menelo had asked her out. She'd told both she wasn't ready to date again.

She was feeling safer and safer as each day passed.

That was scary in itself.

Caesar barked with excitement as they left the house.

As always, she looked around for any vehicle that shouldn't be there, for any person who looked out of place. But she saw only the usual, and she allowed herself to relax, to enjoy the evening breeze and the softness of the desert colors.

They had walked two blocks when Harry looked up at her. “When is Father coming?”

Not Daddy. He was four years old, and the only word he knew for Randolph was “Father.” Still, there was a yearning in his face.

“I don't know,” she said.

“Does he love us?”

“Of course he does,” she said, wincing inwardly again. She looked down. His small, beloved face was pinched with concern. She knew suddenly that he had been worrying for days, though he'd said nothing. Something he'd learned from her?

Her heart cracked. She'd chosen unwisely, yet if she had not married Randolph, then there would not have been solemn, bright little Harry.

“You know how busy your father is,” she said.

He nodded. He'd been told enough times.

“He wanted us to have this adventure.”

“But I want to tell him about it. I rode a horse. All by myself.” He was puffed up with pride, obviously eager to announce his accomplishment to the one person whose attention he craved.