Cold Target (11 page)

She knew he was fishing. She also knew that's what detectives did on cold cases. And it was logical to start with her father, who had been a close friend of Prescott's and seen him last. Still, she couldn't imagine her father having any knowledge of a murder. He was too rigid about proper behavior, and murder certainly wasn't proper behavior. He was also too concerned with his public image.

Yet in the back of her mind there was a seed of doubt. It was around that time that he had dropped his attempts to win a federal judgeship, a position she'd known he wanted. Badly.

She dismissed the disloyal thought, took another bite, then rose. “I have to go, Detective.”

“Are you going home now?”

“Yes.”

“I'll go with you.” His gaze dueled with hers, warming her with the attention, the perusal that seemed to peel her layers back one at a time. Wanting to study him in the same way—too much—she dragged her gaze away. She distrusted the sparks that streaked between them. He was everything she disliked, a macho man who felt he should always be in charge.

“No.” She wanted to be alone when she surveyed the ruin again. She wanted to replace the underwear and bring some semblance of order to her home before anyone saw it. It was her life that lay in shambles there.

Or perhaps she didn't want Detective Gaynor in particular to see her vulnerability. Of all people, he was the last one she wanted to see the house as it was.

He rose with a lazy grace that belied his size. “Thanks for the time. If you think of anything else—”

“I'll call you,” she said quickly. “Why is the Prescott case being opened now?” she asked after a pause.

“I'm the low man on the totem pole now,” he said. “I get what they assign, and right now it's a few of the cold cases. I'm sure you know that many of them are being reopened because of technology advances.”

“But isn't there a separate cold case unit?”

“There is. Apparently someone wants to keep me out of trouble,” he said with an affable grin.

She tried to tamp down the little jerk in her chest, stronger than it had been the last time he'd smiled. “But why Prescott?”

“Why not?” he replied, and ambled out of the office.

She stared at the empty doorway, suddenly wishing she'd not turned down his offer. Somehow the “Why not?” didn't answer her question. It only piqued her curiosity.

She should have pushed him more. And maybe … she should have someone with her when she returned home.

But her refusal was not entirely because she didn't want him to see the shambles at home. She didn't want to admit her fear. Not to him. Not to herself.

She wouldn't give anyone that victory.

She could protect herself. She'd practiced at the police shooting range and had a gun permit, though she hadn't carried a weapon since she'd left the district attorney's office.

She planned to remedy that today and felt it was something she needed to do on her own. Between the attacks on her and her home and the effect Detective Gaynor had on her, she'd lost enough control over the last few days.

seven

N
EW
O
RLEANS

Charles Rawson closed the door to his luxurious office and picked up his phone. He was so angry that his fingers shook as he pushed one number and the memory on his phone did the rest.

“Are you responsible for what happened to my daughter?” he said before any pleasantries were exchanged.

“She wasn't hurt.”

“She might well have been. A friend from the police department called me. Dammit, you didn't have to destroy her home.”

“There was no question of ‘might.' The orders were quite clear. It
will
keep her busy for a while, won't it?”

Charles sat back in his chair and drew a long breath, trying to cool his anger. He had not expected this violent reaction to his news that his daughter had found out about her half sister and intended to try to find her.

“Leave her alone,” he said.

“I will, if you do your part. Control her, Charles.”

But Charles wasn't sure he could do that. He had guided her for twenty-five years and then she had started to turn against him. She said it wasn't against him, but for her. He hadn't accepted it then. He still didn't accept it.

The silence must have spoken loudly.

“I mean it, Charles. I cannot guarantee her safety if she continues to meddle in this.”

Charles exploded. “It's your damn fault. If you hadn't …”

“Hadn't what, Charles?” came the silky smooth voice.

“I wish to hell I had never agreed to your bargain.”

“But you did, didn't you? And now, if you want your daughter to remain well and happy, you know what you must do. We gave you time last night. Use it.”

The receiver went dead.

He slowly replaced it in the cradle.

The sins of his past wouldn't go away.

Somehow he had to stop Meredith.

If he didn't, he knew someone else would.

B
ISBEE

If Holly hadn't been worried about making mistakes and even more so that Harry would, she would have enjoyed the evening.

She'd never attended a party in blue jeans and a casual shirt before. Yes, there had been barbecues, but they had usually been big, elaborate affairs or small, intimate fund-raising events. Both called for expensive, elegant clothing.

Neither her father nor her husband had ever had neighbors over for hot dogs and hamburgers.

She felt herself relaxing for the first time since she'd left her home. The first time in years. In addition to Harry and herself, she counted ten adults, four children and four dogs. But people came and went, wandering at will into the house set high on the hill. Tubs of iced beer sat on the porch.

She tried to remember names, and was fairly good at it. It was one of the requirements of a politician's wife and she had been a good student.

One of the women was a painter, another a sculptor. Both were accompanied by husbands, one of whom wore a long gray braid. There was an older man who was a guide for city sightseeing trips, and a bearded man who had once worked as a miner and now conducted tours in the now closed mines. Russ, a man who looked to be in his late forties, was a rancher. Julie, the woman from the animal shelter, was accompanied by a teacher at the high school. And there was, of course, her hostess, Marty.

It didn't take long to discover that Marty was a self-appointed matchmaker. Holly had been there only minutes before Marty had asked her to join Russ in cooking the hamburgers on one of two grills.

“What brings you to Bisbee?” Russ asked as she carefully followed his directions on moving the hamburgers from the center of the grill to the side.

“An article in a magazine. It sounded like a good place to raise a child.”

He glanced at where Harry was happily entertaining three dogs. An amused look came over his face. “He likes animals.”

“He loves animals,” she corrected. “He never had a chance—” She caught herself saying too much. She had to watch that.

He looked at her, waiting for her to finish.

“We lived in an apartment in a large city. Having a pet wasn't practical.”

“What city?”

“Chicago,” she said, wishing that lying came easier to her. She was sure everyone present saw a big L on her shirt.

“Marty said you were a widow. I'm sorry.”

He didn't look sorry at all. He looked interested, and she could not return that interest. She was still married. Not only that, but her trust in men had reached an all-time low. Most important, she had a past she couldn't share. Perhaps he was just being polite. She'd thought her now mousy brown hair and store-bought glasses would quell any interest.

“Thank you,” she said. “It wasn't very long ago.” She hoped he would get the message.

“How long ago?”

How long ago? Marty had asked the same thing. Not nosy, just interested. Sympathetic. Holly had brushed it off then, but she couldn't do that any longer. She'd decided on three months. That would be recent enough to still be grieving and have an excuse to avoid relationships, yet long enough to be a reasonable time to resettle. “Three months,” she said.

It worked. He started paying more attention to the hamburgers. He would have been an insensitive clod not to get the message and, thank God, he wasn't that.

“This is a friendly community,” he finally said as he put fragrant hamburgers on a plate. “If you need anything, call one of us. Marty calls me all the time if she needs something fixed, and Jim's our computer guru.”

She released a long, grateful breath. Friendship. He was just offering neighborly friendship, as the rest of them were.

Then reality struck again. Would they do that if they knew she was a murderess?

She and her son were here on borrowed time. Was it possible for either of them to have friends … to have any sort of normal life? Was tonight a mistake?

Looking at her son and hearing his laughter as he played chase with the dogs and another small boy, her heart warmed. He needed this. He didn't need expensive day schools and formal clothes and a demanding father. He needed play and fun and friends and warmth.

He took that moment to give her a wide grin of sheer delight.

Her heart broke. For him. For her.

“Elizabeth?”

She heard the name but for a moment it didn't register. She turned back to Russ and saw his puzzled look. “I'm sorry. Everyone calls me Liz.”

“Liz then,” he said easily.

The hamburgers were ready. Marty insisted she and Harry go to the head of the line. “The cooks are always first. That's the only way we can get them.”

Holly fixed a plate for both Harry and herself, then searched for a place to sit. The one table on the front porch was already filled with people talking to one another. She found a step, happy to be alone with Harry for a few minutes. Others also found steps or a swing on the porch. Marty came over. “There's room at the table.”

Holly smiled and shook her head. “We're settled now. Thank you.”

Marty gave her an understanding look, then retreated.

Holly was grateful. No more questions this way. She was happy to be with her son, to know that he was safe.

The hamburger was delicious, far more delicious than a steak at one of the famous New Orleans restaurants she'd frequented with Randolph. Perhaps the flavor came from the mesquite wood or the smoke rising up into a clear night, or the unconstrained laughter or the dogs chasing one another around. She did not have to worry about saying something that her husband would dislike and let her know about later.

The hamburger suddenly lost its taste. She placed the remainder on the plate and looked at the others. Laughing. Talking easily. She was the outsider, would always have to be the outsider. How she longed to be one of them.

A car parked at the road in front of the steps—a sheriff's car. Her heart stopped as a uniformed officer stepped out.

She wanted to run, or hide.

The officer was alone. Tall with a solid teddy bear build. Black hair. Dark brown eyes. Certainly part, if not all, Hispanic and about the same age as Russ the rancher.

Marty went down to meet him, and they both climbed the steps to where she sat. Terror spiked in her chest. She tried not to let it show.

But there was no sternness in his eyes. Instead he knelt in front of Harry. “Hi, young man,” he said.

Harry looked at her, then back. “'Ello,” he said noncommittally.

Marty broke in. “Liz, this is Sheriff Doug Menelo. Doug, Liz Baker.”

“Marty showed me your sculpture of a frog,” he said. “My niece fell in love with it.”

Niece
. Not daughter. Or wife. Evidently Marty had dragged out every single man in Bisbee to meet her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank
you
. It solved my birthday present problem.” His smile crinkled his face, especially around the eyes. If it hadn't been for the uniform, she would have been charmed.

She stood. “Which reminds me, I should get home. Marty has ordered more.”

“Indeed I have, but all work and no play—”

“Work satisfies me,” Holly broke in. “And it's getting to be Harry's bedtime.”

“Did you drive?” Sheriff Menelo said.

“I walked.”

“That's a fair distance,” he said. “Can I drive you both home?”

How did he know where she lived? Or did everyone know that a widow and her son had moved into town?

She wanted to take Harry and flee. Yet then she might not be able to sell her sculptures, and money was imperative. Her little creatures were one of the few things she could do to raise money without needing a Social Security card. She had been waiting daily for the birth certificate to arrive in the mail. Until she had that, she couldn't apply for a Social Security card.

And Caesar? It wouldn't be easy to find another place that would take pets. She could never take the dog away from her son. Not after seeing the pure joy on his face whenever they were together.

But now she had caught the attention of someone in the sheriff's department. What if photos of her or Harry were circulated to various law enforcement agencies?

“Thank you,” she said again, “but we need the exercise. And it feels safe here.”

“It is for the most part,” he said. “I'll leave you then to finish. If you change your mind …” He gave her another warm smile, then took a plate and filled it with food before sitting in a chair just vacated by someone else.

Ride in a police car
? The very thought made her tremble. She hoped he didn't notice her shaking hands. She looked down at Harry's plate. The hamburger was gone. So were the pepper-flavored beans and spicy cole slaw.

Harry's attention was focused on several cakes sitting on the serving table.