Cold Target (10 page)

To his surprise, she answered the phone.

“Ms. Rawson, Detective Gaynor.”

“What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I would like to talk to you.”

“About Rick Fuller?”

“No. Another matter.”

“This is not a good day.”

“I heard about the attack and burglary. I'm sorry.”

A short pause. “Is that what you want to discuss?”

“No. I'm looking into an old case. Oliver Prescott.”

“I remember that,” she replied cautiously. “Is there something new?”

He chose to ignore that question. “You knew him. I hoped you could tell us something about him.”

“I was in school at the time. I knew him, of course, but not that well. He was much older. I don't know how I could help you.”

“Just a few questions, a few moments of your time. Perhaps you know more than you think.”

“My mother is very ill. My house has just been ransacked and my computer stolen. I simply don't have the time. If I knew anything—”

“What about lunch? A quick sandwich.”

She paused, then, with an audible sigh, said, “If you'll bring it to my office. We're backing up all our files. I have to be here.”

“Done. What will it be?”

“Comfort food. A muffaletta.”

“You have it. Noon okay?”

A pause. He feared she was reconsidering.

“I have two people working with me.”

“I'll bring enough for all.”

“I still don't know how I can help—”

“I'll be there at noon,” he said, and hung up before she could change her mind.

As soon as Gaynor hung up, Meredith wished she hadn't agreed. In fact, she didn't know exactly why she had.

She'd had three hours' sleep at most. And what sleep she'd had had been restless. Her life seemed to be in free fall.

She'd risen at seven as she always did and called the hotel's front desk to see if anything had arrived for her. It had. The new key to her house was in an envelope. Then she'd hurried to her office to see for herself that her office was untouched.

Sometime today, she had to return home and start cleaning up the mess. She had to see her mother. She'd promised the police she would make a list of people who might want to do her harm. She wanted to get started on finding her sister.

There was no end to this day. And now this. She definitely should have said no. She should never have picked up the phone, but she often did when they were all busy. Most callers wanted her.

She didn't know if she was alert enough to go head-to-head with Gaynor. Why in God's name would he want to talk to her about a fifteen-year-old murder? At least, she thought it had been that long.

She went to her computer. Sarah was using her computer to back up files. This time the compact disks would go into a safe deposit box.

She looked up Oliver Prescott on the Internet and found dozens of stories about the murder. The number had dwindled as time had passed without any apparent progress in the investigation.

Now she remembered more. She'd been sixteen at the time and attending accelerated classes at a respected Catholic school. She'd been on a class trip to Washington, D.C., that weekend. The murder had been the main topic of conversation for weeks.

Meredith read all the accounts she could find.

Prescott and her father had dined together at the Court of Two Sisters, where they apparently discussed some business matter. Witnesses saw the two separate outside the restaurant, each taking his own car.

Prescott's body was found the next morning in his home. He had been shot. There was no indication of a break-in, but his wallet was missing. So was a very expensive painting.

Clues had been scarce.

She realized why Gaynor wanted to talk to her. Her father had been the last known person to be with the victim. The police always started at that point.

But why did the detective want to see her? Why not her father?

She returned to backing up her files, then went into Sarah's office. “How's it going?”

“Another hour.”

Meredith looked at her watch. “Someone's bringing us lunch.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, even as she replaced one CD with another and carefully marked the one she had just ejected. When Meredith didn't immediately answer, Sarah asked, “Who? And more important, what?”

“Muffalettas.”

“I can deal with that,” Sarah said. “It's far better than my tuna salad. Should I ask who again?”

“A detective.”

Sarah waited again, then pressed, “Who?”

“Detective Gaynor.”

Sarah started to grin. “The Lone Ranger strikes again. You must have made an impact at court.”

“Lone Ranger?”

“Some of us at the department started calling him that after the Teller case.”

“Why the Lone Ranger?”

“He took on the blue wall of silence by himself. Believe me, he suffered for it.”

“Didn't appear to be suffering to me.”

“He did,” Sarah said. “I have a friend who was a secretary in his division. He was completely shunned. Except by the secretaries. The unmarried ones. They all thought he was hot.”

“Do you?”

“Not my type. I lean toward the safe accountant type.”

“Well, he's not my type, either.”

“Who is?” Sarah asked after she clicked the mouse again, saving more files.

Meredith shrugged. “I just wish he'd picked another day. I'm not thinking well today.”

“You have reason. Why don't you go home? I'll back up the info on all the computers here and get the compact disks to the safe deposit box.”

She wanted to. God, how she wanted to.

No, she wouldn't. She
said
she would be here. She
would
be here. She hated the good little girl who always did the right thing, but neither could she shake it off because it
was
the right thing. She would backtrack ten miles if she discovered she received more change than she should. She sighed and mentally devised a game plan. She would cut the discussion short, take the CDs to a safe deposit box, and head home to start the cleaning process. She would stop by the hospital later. The list for the police would have to wait.

She wouldn't take any guff from Gaynor this time. He would answer her questions before she answered his. She paced the floor, waiting for him, too restless to be of any value to Sarah or Becky. Her mind could not sort the events, much less prioritize what needed to be done.

Nor could it conquer the lingering fear, the sense of being violated. She'd been trying to forget it, to bury it, to cloak it all day. But the bandage on her arm continually reminded her of last night's terror.

She would
not
let it take over her life.

The door to the office opened, and Gaynor entered, carefully balancing two large sacks. The impact of his presence was more than she had expected. He'd made her feel that way before, but then she'd been armored by the rumors circulating about him.

She detested crooked cops, and some officers had pointed fingers at Gaynor during the Teller investigation. That had been her first introduction to him, and she'd never learned the truth of it.

He was still with the department, though. And now he dominated her small reception area with his presence. Perhaps it was his sheer size. He had to be six-foot-three or more, and had a wide-shouldered, rangy body. But it was the confidence she'd noted before, the self-assurance that was in every movement, that seized her attention.

He had immediately filled the room, crowding it with male energy. His eyes assessed her openly, frankly, and a dizzying current raced through her. Dammit, she didn't know why—or how—he always affected her in such a sensuous way. It was … disconcerting. More than that. Maddening.

“Five muffalettas as ordered,” he said after a brief pause. She wondered whether he felt that same odd electric awareness.

“Five?”

“Two for me.”

The sandwiches were huge. She could usually eat only half of one, if that much.

“I burn a lot of fuel,” he said, obviously reading her mind. His gaze went to the bandage on her arm. “From last night?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why? You didn't have anything to do with it.”

He shrugged. “It's my city.”

“Mine, too.”

“You're not protecting it any longer.” It was a little bit of an accusation.

She was mesmerized by those green eyes. They weren't icy now. Something flared in them, and she suddenly knew he felt the same infuriating attraction. And didn't like it any better than she.

She forced herself to take one of the bags, place it on the table in front of the sofa and start taking out sandwiches. He took six tall cups from the second bag. “I have three of ice tea and three of cola.”

Meredith called Becky and Sarah to get some food, then took an iced tea and muffaletta. “My office?” she suggested to him.

“Sure.”

He took two of the sandwiches and a cola and followed her down the short hall into her office, his gaze sliding past the law books, the license and the degrees hanging on the walls and lingering on her untidy desk.

“Sit down,” she said, clearing off a space for the food. “Sorry about the desk.” She'd been going through recent cases, looking for names, as requested by the police.

“I have a theory about that,” he said with a grin.

Several seconds went by. She wondered whether he was baiting her. “What?” she said.

“If a cluttered desk suggests a cluttered mind, then what does an empty desk suggest?”

She smiled at that. She'd needed a distraction, and he'd apparently known that. She suspected he was a very good interrogator. Despite their earlier sparks, he had immediately put her at ease.

At least he would have, had the attraction not radiated between them. His very presence shrunk the room and raised the temperature considerably. At least for her.

She forced her attention back to the food. She was hungrier than she'd thought, and the muffaletta looked wonderful. She loved the things, but seldom indulged. The huge freshly baked loaves, still hot from the oven, held layers of ham garnished with a spicy olive dressing.

She took a bite and sighed with pleasure, then put it down. “Can we get on with it? I want to get home, then to the hospital.”

“You're not going home alone?”

“The detective last night had the locks replaced.”

He shrugged. “There's not a lock that can't be breached by someone who really wants to get in. I could probably break into any house in this city. And I'm not nearly as good as some of the burglars who operate here.”

“That's encouraging,” she said dryly.

“The detective should have explained the facts of city life.

“Perhaps he thought I should have realized them.”

“I'll have to have a talk with Morris.”

She raised her eyes and met his. “How did you know it was Detective Morris?”

“I checked,” he said equably.

“Did he meet your approval?” she said, unable to prevent a twitch of a smile.

“He's okay.”

From the sound of his voice, that was probably his highest praise.

“I'm glad you approve.”

It was a snippy reply, but she reacted to the arrogant assumption that she couldn't take care of herself. She'd always prided herself on handling her own problems. Mixed with that was a traitorous jolt of pleasure that he had taken the trouble.

Faint amusement crossed his face. “Except I would have explained about the locks,” he added.

“I didn't give him a chance. I was somewhat rattled.”

“I would have been more than rattled,” he replied.

That unexpected admission really
did
rattle her. “I'm sorry. I'm really tired and—” It was intended as a brush-off.

He didn't take the subtle invitation to leave.

“Why don't you stay with a family member? Or a friend?”

Because she didn't have anyone? She wasn't going to admit that to him. “That's not your concern.”

He raised an eyebrow and she wondered why she was so short with him. Possibly because his presence was so strong, even overwhelming.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm tired. In any event, I thought you wanted to talk about the Prescott case.”

He took a big bite of sandwich, chewed slowly, then sat back in his chair. “Do you remember him?”

“Barely. He was a friend of my father.”

“Do you recall where you were when he was killed?”

“I was on a class trip to Washington, but I don't understand why—”

“I'm just talking to everyone who saw him during the days before his murder,” he said. “Your father couldn't see me today. I thought you might remember something.”

“I was only sixteen.”

“Sometimes you don't realize that you do know something.”

She didn't reply, choosing to take another bite of sandwich instead.

“Was Prescott at your home frequently?”

“I truly don't know. I was usually studying and avoided most of the social gatherings at my house. I remember seeing him. I don't remember anything more than that.”

“Your impressions of him?”

“I didn't like him,” she said flatly, “but then, to be honest, I didn't care for many of my father's friends.”

A startled look crossed his face, then a slow, appreciative grin that sparked a frisson of pleasure in her before he continued, “Did you hear your father say anything about his murder?”

“No. He didn't talk to me about things like that.”

“What
did
he talk to you about?”

“I think that's between him and me,” she said tartly, wishing he would smile again. It transformed his stark face. She remembered when she had questioned Gaynor years ago and realized how he'd probably felt—like a butterfly on a pin—even though there was nothing to hide.