Cold Target (18 page)

“You're a cop, bro. One of them.”

Listen to me, Clint. I didn't have anything to do with your arrest. You did all that by yourself. I'll help you now, but by God, if you get involved in drugs again, I'm out. I'll turn you in myself.”

“I know,” Clint said. “Believe me, I've learned my lesson.” He gave Gage that crooked smile again.

But Gage had stopped believing it years ago. He'd believed Clint too many times. He wasn't going to offer him money. A place to live if he stayed clean, yes. He would help find him a job. He would pay tuition for college. But he knew he wasn't going to give Clint money.

“I'm going to make it,” Clint said.

Gage merely nodded.

“You still on internal affairs?”

“Public Integrity,” Gage corrected. “No. I've been transferred to homicide.”

“That's good, isn't it? For you, I mean.”

“That's very good.”

“I'm glad then.”

“You still getting grief here because I'm a cop?”

“Nothing I can't manage. You got a girl yet?”

“Nope.”

“I appreciate your offer to stay with you, but I don't want to cramp your style.”

“Nothing to worry about there,” Gage said wryly.

“You still canoeing?”

“When I can.”

“Maybe we can go together.”

“You never used to be interested.”

“I've gained a new appreciation of the outdoors.” Clint was talking about parole as if it were a natural conclusion.

Gage warned, “Don't be disappointed if the parole doesn't happen, Clint.”

“I won't,” he said. “But you have to have hope in here.”

They talked a few moments longer, mostly about acquaintances they knew. Unfortunately, most of Clint's were either dead or in prison. He had gotten involved with drugs when he was sixteen and had never been able to overcome them. He'd turned to burglary to pay for his habit, as well as selling drugs himself. Small amounts, but enough to get him a long sentence on his second offense. A fight during his first year had sent him from a medium-security institution to Angola.

Gage finally rose from his seat. “I have to get back.”

“Have a big case?”

“Just got on the squad,” he said.

Clint rose, too, and held out his hand. “Thanks for the books. And for coming.”

“I'll see you at the hearing.”

Gage left, not quite sure how he felt. He wanted freedom for Clint, yet he was afraid to hope. To trust. There had been too many promises in the past.

The sun was hot. The sky cloudless.

He drove faster than usual. He wanted to get back to New Orleans, where he had some control, where he wouldn't feel so much a failure. He wanted to make sure Meredith Rawson was safe despite Morris's assurances that she was. She had purchased a pistol. She'd had no more attacks. The police were driving by her home every few hours.

It was all they could do. He knew it. The police department was understaffed, like police departments across the country, and Morris had promised to keep an eye on her. At any rate, it was no longer his business. She had made that clear. So had Morris.

Yet something kept prickling him about the break-in and the attack on her in the garage. Something wasn't quite right.

It hadn't been mere anger. It was too well-planned. The destruction had been methodical. There had been purpose behind it.

Was
it simply revenge?

Or could it be something else? A hunt for information, disguised by the destruction? Or an attempt to distract her?

Then the question would be, Distraction from what?

He pressed his foot on the gas pedal.

N
EW
O
RLEANS

Meredith started dialing numbers she'd found for those members of her mother's class that she could identify.

Machines answered at two of them. She didn't want to leave a message. Her errand was too personal. She was luckier on the third call.

Mrs. Robert Laxton, formerly Pamela Cannon, answered on the second ring.

Once Meredith had identified herself, she related part of her errand. “My mother is very ill,” she said. “I want to notify her old friends but I'm not sure who they are, and she's too ill to give me a list. I understand you two were friends. I was hoping you could help me.”

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Laxton said. “I had heard she was ill but I didn't know it was that critical. Of course, I would be happy to help you. Could you come for tea tomorrow?”

“That would be very nice,” Meredith agreed. “What time?”

“Four?”

“Perfect.”

“I will look forward to it,” Mrs. Laxton said, and clicked off.

Mission completed, Meredith slowly put the receiver back in the cradle. She picked up the insurance claim papers she'd filled out earlier and tucked them into her briefcase. It was seven. Time to go to the hospital.

Forty minutes later, she entered her mother's room. There was no change in her condition, though her mother's skin looked pasty and her face seemed to have shrunk even more.

Still, she felt as if her mother knew she was there. She ignored the nurse after greeting her. Instead she talked to her mother. She didn't say anything about her own problems. “It's a pretty day, and the symphony is holding a concert tonight. I know how much you like music. I'll bring a CD player next time.

“I'm going to tea with Mrs. Robert Laxton. Remember Pamela Cannon? Of course, you do.” She paused. “I wonder if you know how much I hated those teas you made me attend. I know your friends always looked at me and wondered how I could be your daughter.” She had been expected to be the perfect lady, but she had always been bored with the talk of this party and that, and the gossip that flowed so easily.

“I used to look at you,” she continued. “And your face was always so attentive, but I always sensed you were somewhere else.” The memory had never been so clear as it was now. Perhaps because she had never probed beyond her mother's facade before.

The hurt had always been too strong. The gulf between them too wide. Now she felt her mother's reticence wasn't due to disappointment in her daughter, but a wound so deep inside her that she had closed herself off. Until Meredith knew more about that wound, she could never decipher the puzzle.

“I'm going to find my sister for you. And for me. I keep thinking that if I do that, you'll wake up. But you have to fight. You have to keep fighting.” She looked down at her hands. They had curled into tight fists. The area behind her eyes squeezed. She fought back tears.

Later.

Not now.

Carrying her mother's yearbook in her briefcase, Meredith knocked on the Laxton door promptly at four. The door was opened by an attractive woman who looked far younger than her early fifties.

“Hello,” she said. “I'm delighted to meet Marguerite's daughter. I'm so sorry to hear about her illness.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” Meredith said.

Mrs. Laxton led the way into a lovely sunroom. “If you will wait here, I'll tell Enid to bring the tea.”

Meredith looked around. It was a lovely room, the walls all glass and the interior filled with flowering plants. The windows looked out over a garden highlighted by a fountain.

In seconds, Mrs. Laxton returned, a woman in a maid's uniform following with a tray laden with a tea service and plates of small sandwiches and even scones and cream. She poured the tea into delicate china cups.

“Thank you,” Meredith said, taking a cup in both hands.

She waited until the maid left. Then she turned to her hostess. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You're welcome. Now tell me how Marguerite is.”

“She has cancer and is in a coma. I'm afraid …”

Mrs. Laxton leaned over and patted her hand. “I'm so sorry. What hospital is she in?”

Meredith told her, then said, “I hoped you could tell me about when she was in school.”

“Or course, you know she left before graduation. An opportunity in Europe. After that, I didn't see much of her until the last few years when we served together on the board of the Symphony Guild. She had changed so much.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was, well, a little headstrong—a rebel, you might say—but now she's a pillar of the community. I never would have thought it,” Mrs. Laxton said. “I hope you don't mind my saying that, dear.”

Her mother? Her very proper mother? But she was discovering how little she really knew about her mother.

“Can you tell me more?”

“It's not really for me to say.”

“Please.”

“She was always breaking rules. Staying out past curfew. She liked to go to … well, undesirable places. Then her father sent her to Europe. There were whispers of an unsuitable liaison.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No. We weren't that close. Now tell me about yourself, my dear. I saw in the paper that you had been attacked. I hope you weren't hurt.”

“Mostly scared.”

“Crime these days is just terrible. I won't go anywhere at night without my Robert. I don't even like going out alone during the day. And the police? They don't really care. A friend of mine was burglarized a month ago. The police didn't even take fingerprints.”

Meredith tried to steer the conversation back to her mother. She handed her hostess the yearbook. “I wondered if you could tell me the married names of some of your classmates.”

“Certainly. I was hostess of our thirtieth reunion a few years back. I'll get my list. You enjoy your tea.”

When Mrs. Laxton returned, she carried several sheets of paper. “I copied them on my husband's copier, so you may take them.”

“Do you know who was closest to my mother?”

“Lulu. Lulu Green Starnes now. The two were always together.”

“Does she live here?”

Mrs. Laxton nodded. “I had a hard time finding her. She's a widow. Her address is on the list, though she didn't come to the reunion. Out of town, I believe.”

“Thank you,” Meredith said, rising. “You've been a tremendous help.”

“You are very welcome. If you need anything else …”

“I'll call,” Meredith said.

Meredith returned to the office. Sarah and Becky were still there. Using Mrs. Laxton's addresses and phone numbers, she called Lulu Starnes. No one answered. She left a message.

Meredith had never heard her mother mention anyone named Lulu. She was sure she would have remembered a name like that. It was unusual enough, especially among her mother's crowd.

Sarah was having no luck in finding a birth certificate. There simply wasn't one in the state of Tennessee that had her mother's name on it. She'd also tried Louisiana and Mississippi. No birth certificate issued for a girl born to Marguerite Thibadeau. But Sarah did have names of doctors and hospitals in the area near her mother's aunt's home.

Frustrated, Meredith turned to the business of her practice. Lord knew she had been neglecting it.

“There's a call from another potential client on a divorce case,” Sarah said.

Meredith wanted to turn it down, but she had an office and two employees to support. “Why don't you talk to her. Determine what she needs and whether she can wait a few weeks.” She planned to fly to Memphis on Thursday and interview neighbors of her aunt's and obstetricians who might have delivered the baby. After thirty-three years she thought it unlikely she'd find the right doctor, but maybe some records would still exist.

It was the longest of long shots, but …

She tried Lulu Starnes again. Not even an answering machine replied.

Well, she would try tomorrow.

The phone rang. Becky buzzed her.

It was Nan Fuller. Terror was in her voice.

“I saw him,” she said. “He was watching me when I picked up the children from school.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No, but he wanted me to see him. He didn't try to hide.”

“Did he get within five hundred feet of you?”

“No. But his face … It was scary.”

“I'll contact Detective Gaynor. He might be able to do something.”

“I'm thinking about moving out of town but I don't have any money, not until the divorce is settled …”

Meredith knew the court had given Rick supervised visiting rights with the children. “You will need a court order to leave unless you want to become a fugitive and give him more leverage against you.”

“I know. I had hoped to go home.…” Nan said. She had been staying at the women's shelter with her two children. Neither Nan nor Meredith had any doubt that Rick knew exactly where it was, but she'd be safer there than in the house she'd shared with her husband.

“Let me see what I can do,” Meredith said. “I'll call you back.”

Meredith sighed. Rick would only claim he wanted a glimpse of his children. He hadn't violated the protective order. There was precious little she could do at this moment. But she knew from Nan's voice that she was terrified.

She didn't want to call Gage Gaynor. She hadn't heard from him since that unfortunate kiss … that she still felt deep in her bones every time she allowed herself to think about it.

But if she did call him, and he talked to Fuller, would it even further enrage Nan's husband?

Had she underestimated the officer's anger? Had he been the one who destroyed her home?

Her hand went to Gaynor's card he'd left with her when he'd inteviewed her, then reached for the phone. Hesitated. The detective disturbed her in more ways than she wanted to admit. She lost her disciplined composure with him. Darn it, she lost her wits.

It's for Nan
.

She dialed Gage Gaynor's cell phone.

Gage sat back in a chair in his new office and looked at Wagner. “Okay, what do we have?”