Cold Target (39 page)

She wondered if she would ever really know him. If she would ever have the chance.

They had decided she would stay with him tonight. She didn't want to be alone, and he didn't want her to be alone. She couldn't bear answering the phone and taking condolence calls and questions from curious reporters.

They arrived at his home at five
P
.
M
.

She parked on the street and met him at his car. He took her hand and together they went into his house, Beast at his heels.

He showed her the guest room. “Want a few minutes alone?”

“I need to make a few phone calls.”

“Be my guest.”

She really needed to make more than a few. She'd deserted poor Mrs. Edwards, who had to cope with getting the house ready and answering the phone. It had probably rung off the hook. She'd left Sarah to deal with irate clients.

She had never before abrogated her responsibilities. She had escaped, pure and simple. She wondered whether searching for information had been an excuse.

She used her cell phone and called Sarah first. “Any problems?”

“Nothing I can't handle. Reporters are all over the place, but the judge in the Keyes case postponed. He asked me to convey his sympathies.”

“Judge West?”

“Yep, he has a heart after all.”

“Thanks.”

“I'll be at the funeral tomorrow.”

“You don't have to—”

“I want to. And so does Becky. By the way, my kids are falling in love with that dog.”

“No problem with the apartment?”

“No. He squeaked in under the thirty-pound pet limit.”

“Can you keep him for a few more days?”

“The kids will be ecstatic. In fact, if you aren't going to keep him …”

“I'm sure Nicky would be happier with your children. I'm gone so much.” Yet it was another loss for her. She had been getting used to Nicky's presence.

She hung up and felt a tear wandering down her face. She sat down on the bed. The tears started coming. Not because of the dog. Or perhaps because of the dog. For some reason, it was easier to cry over a small loss than a huge one.

The tears came in torrents. She hated that, but she couldn't stop. Her father. Her mother. Her home. And now the damn dog.

“Meredith?”

She turned away from the phone. And from the door where he stood. She tried to stop the flood of tears.

“Has something happened?” His voice was warm with concern.

“Something else, you mean?” She hated the self-pity in those words.

He entered the room and pulled her into his arms. “It's about time for a cry. You can't bottle it up forever.”

“It's … the dog,” she mumbled. “It's so darn stupid.”

“Did something happen to Nicky? I thought he was staying with Sarah.”

“Sarah … wants to keep him,” she babbled.

She waited for him to make some smart comment. Here she was crying over a dog she'd kept all of a few days.

He didn't. He folded her in his arms and just held her.

“It's time, love,” he said. “Let it go.”

She yielded to the compulsive sobs that shook her even as she absorbed the comfort of his embrace. The tears came and came.

Finally, they slowed. Seconds later he was wiping the tears from her face with such gentleness that she started to cry again.

“I never cry,” she choked out. “Not like that.”

“Then you're due,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Any time,” he said with a lightness belied by the caring in his eyes.

Love
. He had called her “love.”

A meaningless endearment. Nothing more.

She straightened, brushed away the remaining wetness from her face. “I'm sorry. I'm not usually—”

“Hell, I would worry like hell about you if that hadn't come,” he said with a smile that was as intimate as a kiss.

She knew her lips were probably trembling, and she was sure of it when he leaned over and kissed her with such tenderness that she feared she would explode in tears yet again.

Instead she put her arms around him and the kiss deepened. He tore his mouth away and rained kisses up and down her face, licking the tears she knew still dotted her face.

She felt silly and stupid for the outburst and yet she felt better as well. Only now did she realize how she'd bottled so many emotions deep inside. She supposed she had gone through every known major one in the past two weeks. Grief, fear, terror, confusion, regret, loss.

She swallowed hard. “I think I can use a cup of coffee.”

“Laced with brandy, I think.” He pulled her close to his side and they walked together to the kitchen. She ached to taste his kisses again, but she also feared it. She wanted him far too much.

He was addictive. Too addictive.

She waited as he poured whole beans into a coffeemaker and a strong aroma filled the kitchen. An occasional tremor ran through her body, remnants of the crying jag. The emotions were still there, rumbling under the surface like a volcano with repeated eruptions.

She willed them to behave.

In minutes, he had steaming cups of coffee in front of them.

Then he sat down and studied her face. She knew it must be red and blotched and swollen.

His lips turned up in a quizzical smile. “Why must you be so pretty?”

“But I'm not.”

He stared at her with astonishment. “Then you've never looked in a mirror.”

“My mother …”

Something like understanding crossed his face. “I hope you don't compare yourself to her.”

She didn't answer.

“A mannequin might be lovely,” he said. “But it's the heart that conveys beauty. I don't know about your mother, but I know I like and … admire yours.” He'd hesitated as if seeking a word.

Of all the things he might have said to her, that was the most startling. A warm glow suffused through her. It was the finest compliment she'd ever received, made so by her conviction that he'd never said anything like it to anyone else. He was always direct. Matter-of-fact. Poetry was not usually a part of his character.

She sipped the coffee. She needed a jolt of reality, of common sense. She needed to fall back to the ground after that unexpected statement.

She asked, “What now?”

“Ready to join the fray again?” A challenge was in his eyes.

To get her mind off the past few moments? It was remarkable how sensitive he could be. She remembered when she had thought him the most insensitive man she'd ever met.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You don't think Rick Fuller was behind anything else that happened?”

“Believe me, Rick isn't that smart. I wouldn't rule out that someone used him, though.”

“I keep going back to why.”

“Everything leads back to your mother's request,” he said. “And the stakes have to be pretty damn high if they don't hesitate to attack a former assistant district attorney and someone of your father's stature.”

“Then someone in the city knows where my sister is?”

He nodded. “It's a possibility.”

The coffee was helping considerably. So did sitting across from Gage.

“What now?” she asked.

“We need to find the man in the photo.”

“How?”

“I made a call while you were making yours. I asked someone at the department to research taverns within a fifty-mile radius in 1969 for one called Paule's.” He paused. “I think I have an idea as to who the boy might be.”

“Who? Someone here?”

“I can't say until I know for sure.”

She understood that. Too many people had been jeopardized already. The image of Mrs. Starnes remained in her mind. “When will you know?”

“I just called. I'm going over there now.”

“Someone you know?”

“Yes.”

She wanted to persist. She had learned enough about him, though, to know that it would do little good. He might cut some corners, but she would never doubt his integrity again.

“Can I go with you?”

“I think it's better if I go alone. He might talk to me more freely. I doubt that he would if you were there. If it is the young man in the photo and he knows anything, I'll arrange a meeting.”

She wanted to protest. But there was something in his eyes that told her it would do no good.

“I should go home anyway.”

His gaze held hers. “Will you stay here? With Beast? I don't think any one knows I'm back, or even that we are working together. This is the safest place for you.”

She considered it. She liked the way he asked. He didn't demand or order as her father had often done. It was a request, made for her protection. “Yes,” she said simply.

His mouth curved with approval. “I'll bring back some food.”

“That sounds good,” she said.

“Pizza?”

She nodded.

“Don't answer the phone while I'm gone. Or the door. You have a gun with you?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and took her hand. “Keep it with you.”

“How long will you be?”

“No longer than two hours. Any more than that and I'll call you on your cell phone.”

She nodded.

“You have my cell number?”

She'd memorized it days ago. “Yes.”

He stood. So did she.

“You really are beautiful,” he said.

She'd probably never looked so wretched as she did after the recent outburst, yet she saw sincerity in his eyes.

“You be careful, too,” she said. It was an order rather than request. “If they know we've been together—”

“I'll be on guard.”

“Too many people have been dying around me,” she said. “I couldn't stand another.”

“I have no intention of letting anything happen to me.”

He touched her cheek, then she stood on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his.

“Promise,” she demanded.

“Oh, yes,” he drawled. His voice was husky.

And then he left.

twenty-five

N
EW
O
RLEANS

Gage met Dom at the shelter, a large rambling building that included a small gym where Gage and Dom played basketball with some of the young residents.

The building had been donated years ago when Father Michael Murphy ran the shelter. Father Murphy had a silver tongue and had not only talked someone out of the building but had garnered substantial backing for his cause. Dom, who had worked with him since he'd been released from prison, had been Father Murphy's designated successor.

Though not as diplomatic as Father Murphy, Dom's commitment and dedication had kept the money coming. He received city, state and federal grants, and had managed to keep the stream of money flowing from sources long cultivated by Father Murphy. Still, he never had quite enough. The number of runaways kept increasing.

Gage knew Father Murphy had saved the bitter young man who had spent years in prison. He'd sponsored his parole, given him a job and paid his college tuition. And Dom had found his calling. His experience in prison had helped hundreds of kids in trouble. They loved Father Murphy but they related to Dom.

Dom was in his office, a frown on his face as he looked at bills. The frown disappeared when he saw Gage.

“Thank God. An excuse to delay this. I hate paperwork. And bills even more.”

“How are the finances going?”

“As always, I can use more money. Some of the kids really need better clothes. It's hard enough for them to go to school with the other kids knowing where they live. It's harder when they don't have decent clothes to wear.”

“I'll send a check.”

“You send enough, but I'll accept anyway. Now, why did you sound so urgent?”

Gage closed the door. “I asked you a few questions the other day.”

Dom waited.

“About Mrs. Rawson? Whether you knew her.”

“I'm not senile yet, Gage. What is the point here?”

“Did your father have a tavern near Donaldsonville?”

Dom merely gazed at him. Watching. Waiting.

“Did you know Mrs. Rawson when she was Marguerite Thibadeau?”

“Why the interrogation?”

“People have been dying, Dom. I think they are dying because of something that happened thirty-three years ago.”

Dom didn't move. His face didn't change. Gage knew that stare. He had seen it on his brother's face. In prison you learned to school your expression. But you couldn't always control your eyes.

Gage saw something there.

He played his trump card. “Did you know Marguerite Thibadeau Rawson had a child in February 1970? A daughter?”

He saw the implications of what he'd said register in Dom's eyes. A muscle flexed in his throat. “No,” he said softly after a long pause. “I thought she had gone to Europe.”

“What happened back then, Dom?”

Dom stared into the distance. Gage knew he had never married. He'd always laughed it off. An ugly ex-con who had fifty wayward sons had no business getting married. Since Gage had also avoided matrimony like the plague for his own reasons, he'd understood.

Dom's hands played with a pen.

Gage waited.

“My
daughter?” he finally asked.

“If the timing is right, it's a damn good possibility.”

“Where is she?” Only the throbbing muscle in his throat revealed any emotion.

“We don't know. Mrs. Rawson told her daughter, Meredith, about it just before she lapsed into a coma. She asked Meredith to find her and split a trust. Meredith has been trying to find her, but there aren't any records.”

“The bastards.” Dom spit out the two words.

Gage waited. He'd wondered if the father knew. If he hadn't, then he would probably be of little help.

Dom rose from the chair and started pacing. Barely restrained fury radiated in the room.