Cold Target

by Potter, Patricia;

  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.

  She ached for him. For his need for a father who had never cared about him beyond his value during a photo opportunity.

  How much should she lie? Promise? When was it going to backlash? When would he not be quieted by her assurances? When would she be forced to tell him the truth … or make up an elaborate lie?

  She tried to divert his attention, even while knowing that it was a problem she couldn’t wish away.

  “Do you want to go riding again?”

  “With Sher’f Doug?”

  “Yes.”

  His face brightened.

  “Let’s stop here,” she said as they came to a park with swings.

  That would take his mind away from his father.

  But for how long?

  NEW ORLEANS

  Charles Rawson called his daughter.

  She should be on his speed dial. But she wasn’t. He didn’t call her that much.

  A pang of regret ran through him. They had never been close.

  He loved her. Just as he loved his wife. But his love had never been enough for Marguerite. And he had feared rejection from his daughter as well. Hell, he hadn’t known how to talk to either one of them.

  He had never been good at relationships. He’d always taken what he wanted, and now he looked at his life and saw what a failure it had been. Even his law career was crumbling. And that was the only thing he had left.

  No one answered the phone.

  His hand shook.

  A friend in the police superintendent’s office had called him to tell him of a murder. His daughter was a witness.

  He recognized the name of the victim.

  Meredith apparently had not taken his advice or paid any attention to his plea that she leave the past alone.

  He knew how dangerous her crusade was.

  He knew because there was blood on his hands.

  He hurriedly left the office. Although it was late, some associates were still working, as was his secretary.

  “Go home, Virginia,” he said.

  “But I have a few more letters.…”

  “Go home,” he said, more gently than he had ever spoken to her before, and he saw the surprise in his eyes. For some reason, that reaction hurt.

  His car was suffocating inside. In seconds, the air-conditioning sent a blast of cool air through the interior. It did nothing to cool the anxiety that clutched at him as he drove to Meredith’s home.

  Nothing looked disturbed at the house that once was his mother’s home. As always, it was as peaceful as its garden shaded by magnolia trees and colored by flowers.

  He parked in the front and opened the gate, surprised to hear barking from within.

  He rang the bell. Nothing. Rang again.

  Then he saw Meredith peer outside before opening. Good.

  Except being careful wouldn’t help against a determined enemy. And there was no question she was making enemies. She had made herself a target.

  The door opened, and she stood there, surprise in her eyes. The same kind of surprise that had been in his secretary’s eyes.

  Then he realized this was the first time he had visited her at this house. He’d always summoned her to his own.

  “Father?” she said.

  “Meredith. I heard about what happened earlier. I tried to call.”

  “I was at Mrs. Starnes’s house, talking to detectives,” she said. “I just got home a while ago. I haven’t had a chance to check messages.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Except for Nicky,” she said, looking down at the dog next to her.

  “I didn’t know—”

  “He’s not mine,” she interrupted. “He belongs—belonged—to the woman who was killed.”

  He soaked in that information. “May I come in?”

  She stepped aside. “Of course. I was just … surprised to see you.”

  He realized how sad that was. It was, it seemed, a day for realizations.

  He followed her inside.

  “Can I get you some coffee? Or a drink?”

  “A drink,” he said gratefully.

  He accompanied her into the kitchen. The house was much more comfortable than he remembered. Victorian furniture had been replaced by sofas with plush cushions. Fresh flowers filled vases but they weren’t as carefully arranged as those at his home. Instead there was a profusion of clashing colors that was somehow more appealing than the sedate pale blooms at his house.

  He hesitated at the door of the kitchen as she opened a cabinet door. “Scotch?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Straight.”

  She poured some in a glass.

  “You don’t drink scotch,” he said.

  “How would you know?”

  “I remember that you rarely took anything but wine.”

  “As well as an occasional beer,” she said.

  He found himself smiling at her. Despite what had happened the last few days, she was challenging him again.

  “I like one, too, now and then,” he said.

  “Would you rather have that?”

  “No. Scotch is fine.”

  She found a bottle of wine in the fridge and poured herself a glass, then led the way to the living room.

  “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “I’m worried about you,” he said, watching her face tighten as he said the words.

  “Who told you?”<
br />
  “A friend in the police department. He called me about the shooting, the burglary and now this latest incident.”

  “It wasn’t an ‘incident.’ A woman died. Probably because of me.”

  His first impulse was to agree. If she hadn’t probed …

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said instead. “But I wish you would stop whatever you’re doing.”

  “Looking into my mother’s request, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt if the attacks had anything to do with that,” she replied. “The perpetrator could be the husband of one of my clients. You know I volunteer at the women’s shelter.”

  He nodded, and again saw the surprise in her face. “I keep up with my only child,” he said.

  “And your wife?” It was a bitter accusation.

  “She wouldn’t want me there,” he said. “I am doing what I can from afar.”

  “Why? Why wouldn’t she want you there?”

  “Do you want all the details?”

  “I want to know what you know about Mom’s past.”

  “I don’t know anything,” he said. He wondered whether his eyes conveyed the lie. He was a superb liar. He’d even been proud of the fact. Now he wasn’t.

  “Do you know who she dated before you?”

  His mouth tightened. “Is that why you visited the Starnes woman? To find the dirt in your mother’s background?”

  That wasn’t what he meant to say. But fear suddenly overtook him. If she discovered what had happened thirty years ago, she would despise him. He wouldn’t have even the little of her he had now. He had to be careful or he would lose her entirely.

  She took a sip of wine, then another, obviously trying to control her emotions. “What do you really want, Father?”

  “I want you to stop looking into the past.”

  “Why?”

  “For me, Meredith. I want you to do it for me.”

  She was silent for a moment, and he wished he knew what she was thinking.

  “I can’t,” she finally said. “Mother wants me to do this.”

  “And I don’t.”

  He knew when he threw out the words that he had lost. It was a foolish thing to say. He was asking her to choose between two parents, one of whom was dying. It was an impossible, selfish request. But he had been selfish all his life.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a toneless voice.

  “You can get hurt,” he pleaded. “You’ve obviously stepped into something you don’t understand.”

  “But you do, don’t you, Father?” The accusation was in her voice.

  “No. I just know everything that has happened to you has occurred since you talked to me that morning.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The simple statement was like a sword in his gut. That it carried truth only made it more painful.

  He took a gulp of scotch, something he seldom did. He was always very careful.

  “Help me,” his daughter said.

  He couldn’t. If he did, she would be even more of a target than she already was.

  “I’ll pay for protection,” he said. “I want you to have it on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis.”

  “That’s not what I need.”

  A wave of helplessness passed through him. It was an increasingly familiar feeling.

  “I’ll have someone over here tomorrow.”

  “No,” she said.

  “With or without your cooperation,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Please,” she said. “Please tell me what you know. I need you to do this for me.”

  It was the first time in years she had asked anything of him. The answer could send him to prison, and place her into even more danger.

  “I don’t know anything,” he said. “Nothing that can help you.”

  “Or the police?”

  He looked at her sharply. “You haven’t discussed …”

  “Of course I did,” she said. “They wanted to know why I was at Lulu Starnes’s home.”

  He felt the blood drain from his face. He had thought she would keep it within the family.

  “Do you realize what you have done?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  He finished the rest of the scotch. This had been a disaster. He had to make some phone calls. He had to fix things.

  Inflict some blackmail of his own, perhaps.

  He stood abruptly. “I have to go.”

  “Tell me, Father,” she pleaded again. “For once, talk to me.”

  “There is nothing to say.”

  He turned to go but not before he caught a glimpse of her face, her expression frozen into a mask. He realized now how often she had donned that mask.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had touched her, given her a hug.

  It was too late now. He had done too much damage. To her and to her mother. The heart that had gone into deep freeze years ago wept.

  He turned back to her. “Good night.”

  “Have you seen Mother?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She looked surprised.

  “I know you’ve been disappointed I haven’t sat by her bedside,” he said. “But she wouldn’t have wanted that.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong. She loved you.… She must—”

  “Never,” he said. “She never loved me.” Almost blindly, he left the house.

  He drove a half block until he was out of her view, then parked the car on the side. He had to regain some composure. He buried his head in his hands, trying to think.

  The office. He had to go to the office. He would write letters containing details of decades-old events and mail copies to several attorneys he knew. It could mean his daughter’s life.

  And his own.

  But the latter no longer mattered.

  seventeen

  NEW ORLEANS

  Gage sat in his office and put the phone back in the cradle.

  He’d had Meredith’s house electronically swept by a friend of his. There’d been no bugs other than the one on the phone downstairs. Perhaps there had been no time, no opportunity after the trashing of her home.

  “Gaynor!”

  He looked at the lieutenant who stood at the door.

  “Where’s Wagner?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Checking out some leads on one of our cases.”

  “Well, I want you to concentrate on a floater we found.” He handed Gage a location. Gage looked at it, then up at the lieutenant.

  “They found his body in a bayou.”

  Gage swore. If there was one thing he hated, it was floaters. Usually bodies that turned up in the water were dead-end cases. Impossible to identify.

  Still, he was the detective on duty. Wagner was following a lead on the homeless man murder.

  It shouldn’t take long. Gage would check the body before it was moved. Make sure the photos were made and that it was treated as gingerly as possible. Then send it to the examiner to find any identifying markers.

  He would check to see whether the general description—sex, height, age—matched the description of a missing person.

  It was routine, but he begrudged the time.

  Yet it was someone’s son, husband, father, brother. He owed it to the victim to provide some closure.

  BISBEE

  Holly stared at the photo in the New Orleans paper.

  Her father and her husband stood in front of campaign headquarters. Randolph was announcing his candidacy for the U.S. House of Representatives.

  No mention of his wife.

  She couldn’t believe his audacity.

  But then he would never consider her a challenge. He’d apparently rid himself of the body she’d left. All he needed now was to rid himself of a wife.

  How on earth was he explaining her absence?

  Or had no one asked?

  Her only close relative was her father. But he had always been closer to Randolph than to her. Randolph was the son he’d never had. H
is legacy.

  She stole a glance at Harry, who had a small pile of picture books in front of him and was engrossed in one of them.

  She finally forced herself to move away from the article and on to the society pages. A photo stopped her. Randolph stood next to Sylvia Sams, a well-known socialite in town. The caption identified them as co-chairmen of one of the city’s largest fund-raisers.

  He looked totally at ease. A confident smile sat comfortably on his patrician face. Randolph had always wrapped himself around good causes. Sylvia Sams, sleek and always impeccably coiffed, was legendary for her manhunting. They looked like the perfect couple.

  Holly wished her well in this instance. Anything to keep her husband’s efforts focused on something other than finding her. And her son.

  “Mrs. Baker?”

  She looked up from the computer, turning it slightly so the woman could not see the screen.

  “Your son. I helped a customer and when I came back, he was gone.”

  “Oh my God,” Holly said as she leaped up so abruptly the chair fell. Her gaze went around the interior of the main room. No little boy.

  “I’ll look in the rest rooms,” the librarian said.

  “I’ll start out here,” Holly said, her voice rising in panic.

  Two other patrons overheard and also started searching, going through each aisle of books.

  Her heart pounding, her breath caught in her throat, Holly ran through the room, hunting behind shelves, every corner. She could barely breathe. What if her husband …?

  Panic exploded in her. She prayed even as she searched. God, don’t let anything happen to him.

  The rest room. Maybe Louise had found him.…

  But the woman came out of the men’s room, shaking her head. “I’ll call the police,” she said.

  Outside. Maybe he went outside. She ran for the door, almost tripping. Please, God, she begged again. Let him be there.

  She threw the door open. Her gaze swept the street in front and she dashed outside. Praying. Hoping. The street was empty.

  She ran around the side of the building. “Mikey,” she called.