Cold Target (8 page)

The sound of a motor and the squeal of tires broke the silence. A car appeared in the curve leading from the level above where her car was parked. She backed up into an empty space. Unaccountably, her heart raced faster. She felt like a fool when the driver passed her without a look and drove toward the exit.

She was almost to her car when she heard an odd sound, like a muffled whistle, followed by the shattering of glass. An overhead light went out. Before she could react, the sounds were repeated, and the area was plunged into darkness.

Stunned, she didn't move for a second. She heard a different noise, the sound of a car revving up.

Meredith didn't have time to think. She leaped backward just as a car roared toward the spot where she'd been standing. She rolled under a car as the other sped away. She stilled completely, her heart pounding so loudly she thought anyone could hear it.

The sound—it had been like gunshots stifled by a silencer.

A gun? Fear threatened to strangle her, paralyze her.

Who had shot out the lights? Had he been in the car? Or was he still here, waiting to see whether she had been injured?

Whether she was dead
.

It couldn't have been an accident. Someone had aimed the car at her. She was certain about that. And the shattering of the lights was a deliberate action. A planned, calculated action.

Her blood ran cold and she shivered in the hot humidity. Her arm burned and she realized she had scraped it as she hit the ground. The smell of gasoline nauseated her. She lay still, trying not to even breathe, willing her heart to slow.

After several moments of complete silence, she slid from under the car and hunched at its side. She sneaked a quick look, even as fear crawled up her spine. She'd never known exactly how some of her stalked clients had felt. Not really. No one could unless she'd felt terror herself.

Now she knew.

She remained unmoving for what seemed a lifetime. Listening … wishing she had a weapon with her.

Then she stood, slowly, painfully. No one in sight. The garage looked empty except for the shadowed cars. Apparently no one had heard the silenced shots that had shattered the lights, nor wondered about the sudden darkness on the third level.

She'd dropped her purse when she had jumped out of the way of the car. She stooped again and felt for it as her eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness. She finally found it. Her hands shaking, she called hospital security on her cell phone.

She wasn't going to move away from the protection of the car. The shooter could still be out there. Or he—or she—might have an accomplice.

A robbery? Or something more sinister?

The thought that someone might still be in the parking decks made her skin crawl. But if he were, wouldn't he be hunting for her? If she were the target, why hadn't they made sure they'd hit her?

Or was it a dangerous prank? Meant only to scare, not to kill?

She ran through her mind a list of people who might want to hurt her. Rick Fuller was one. Several other ex-husbands who had lost their wives to the women's shelter or divorce. Criminals she had sent to prison as an assistant DA. As she waited for security, the list grew uncomfortably long.

Shouts and flashlights. Finally. She released a deep breath she hadn't realized was bottled in her throat. “Over here.”

In seconds she was surrounded by uniformed men. One stepped closer. Ms. Rawson?”

She nodded, afraid her voice might come out as timorous.
Never show weakness
. Something drummed into her by her father.

“The police are on their way.” He aimed the flashlights at the broken lights. “What happened here?”

“I'm not sure. I heard the shattering of glass and the lights went out. I think it might have been a silenced pistol. As soon as the lights went out, I heard a car tearing toward me. I just managed to jump out of the way.”

“You think the driver was trying to run you down?”

“If not, he was giving a good imitation of it,” she said. “He couldn't have missed seeing me.”

“What were you doing here so late?”

“My mother is a patient. She's very ill.”

“Next time, call for a security guard to accompany you,” he said briskly but with a hint of sympathy. “Can you tell us anything about the car?”

“Big and dark.”

“Not much help.”

“Sorry, I was busy rolling under a car.”

He flashed his light over her. She'd left her suit jacket in the car, and her plain white short-sleeved blouse was stained and torn. Her arm had scraped along the pavement and blood trickled from it.

“I need to get you inside to Emergency.”

“It's a scratch,” she said.

“But it's a scratch on hospital property,” he said with a wry expression. “Lawsuits, you know.”

“You know I'm an attorney?”

“I recognize the name.”

“Don't worry, Mr.…”

“Adcock. Head of security.”

“Mr. Adcock. Right now I just want to get home. I have no intention of filing a lawsuit.”

A police car arrived, then a second.

She repeated everything she'd said to Adcock, then reluctantly went into the emergency room with him. The wound was cleaned, swabbed, then bandaged. She was even given several pills “for pain,” though she said they weren't necessary.

Police reports were taken. A detective—Cliff Morris—arrived, and she told the story for the third time.

He offered to follow her home and check out her house, and she accepted. She didn't like being frightened. She didn't like asking for help, either, but she wasn't a fool. If the attack
had
been aimed at her personally, then there might be another attempt.

From now on, she vowed to herself, she would carry a weapon with her.

It was nearly four in the morning before they arrived at her house, a small historic home near the French Quarter. It had been her inheritance from her grandmother. Both her parents came from old New Orleans families.

Morris took her key from her but tried the door first. It was unlocked. She knew she'd locked it.

He looked at her.

“I locked it,” she said.

“Get back,” Morris said. His gun was immediately in his hand and he slowly opened the door.

“What can I do?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Do you know how to use the police radio?”

She nodded.

“Go to the car and call headquarters. Ask for backup.” He stepped inside, holding his gun in both hands.

She ran to the car. It took her thirty seconds to make the call and give directions. Heart thumping, she went back to the front door of her home. Listened. Once again, she knew what terror truly was.

It made her damned angry.

The sound of wailing sirens rent the air, then flashing blue lights were visible through the rain.

Two uniformed officers sprinted out of the car and up on the porch. “Ms. Rawson?”

“Detective Morris is inside. The door to the house was open when we arrived. It was locked when I left. I was attacked just hours ago in a hospital parking area.”

The officers already had guns in their hands. One man yelled out, “Police.” Then the two went inside.

She waited, then heard voices, and all three came out. Morris holstered his gun. “All clear.” He stepped in front of her before she could go in. “It's a mess in there. The whole place has been tossed.”

He moved aside, and she entered, only to stop in astonishment and outrage. Sofa cushions had been slit open and tossed on the floor. Volumes from the bookcases lay strewn around the floor, spines broken in some cases. A vase was shattered. Tables upturned. It wasn't just a simple burglary. It was damage for damage's sake.

“All the rooms are like this,” Morris said grimly. “It appears that someone doesn't like you.”

“I've concluded that,” she said, barely holding back tears. But she had learned never to cry in public. Tears were strictly private.

She walked around in a daze, first through the living room, kitchen, and dining room on this floor, then through the two bedrooms and office on the second, careful not to touch anything. All had been trashed. Her computer was gone from her office. Her printer and copy machine had been smashed to the ground.

Morris followed her soundlessly. She was aware of him standing at the door as she regarded what was left of the office.

“We need a list of anything that's missing,” he said.

Still speechless, she simply nodded as she looked at the shambles. All she wanted was a drink and bed. She couldn't cope with any more tonight. No, she numbly corrected herself. This morning.

“The beds are pretty well torn up. I would suggest a hotel or another residence until you get those locks fixed. I would also recommend a security system.” He paused. “You have anywhere you can stay?”

She could go to her parents' home. But she wasn't prepared to tell her father what happened tonight. He would tell her it was because of the type of people she had as clients and once more demand she join his corporate law firm. She simply wasn't up to it. Not this morning. And Sarah's apartment was too small for a guest.

“A hotel,” she decided.

“I'll take you to one. Do you need to get any clothes?”

She nodded. Then a thought struck her. “I want to call the night watchman at my office building. I want to make sure no one has tampered with my office computers.”

She dialed the emergency number at the office. All her backup files had been in her home computer. There were records and memos in there that she wouldn't want in the wrong hands. Addresses.
Dear God that was the real disaster
.

Archie was the security guard who was usually on duty overnight. She knew him well, since she often worked late. He answered immediately.

“This is Meredith Rawson,” she said. “My home has just been ransacked. Will you check on my office?”

“No one here but the cleaning people, Ms. Rawson.”

“Just go look for me,” she said.

In a few moments—they seemed like hours—he was back. “Nothing disturbed there. Least not so I can see.”

“Keep a special eye on it for me … please, Archie.”

“You bet, Ms. Rawson. You can depend on me.”

“I know I can, Archie. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and turned to the detective. “I'll have to warn some people. I had files on my hard drive that included addresses. Clients hiding from their spouses.”

Morris waited patiently as she called four women, waking them up and warning them that their addresses might be compromised. She suggested they either keep someone with them or move to a different location.

There were no protestations. They had all been through the kind of fear she felt tonight.

When she finished, Morris looked at her steadily. “Could it be one of their husbands?”

“I don't know.”

“We'll need your client list.”

She hesitated. “I can't give you that without their permission.”

He looked exasperated. “At least a list of anyone who has threatened you. That wouldn't be privileged.”

She nodded. “I'll get some clothes.”

She entered her bedroom. It looked as if a tornado had hit it. The painting she loved had been slashed. The mattress was cut open and linens littered the floor. Drawers were pulled out, her clothes scattered.

She swallowed hard. Despite the weariness that almost overwhelmed her, she yearned to start the cleanup process, to cleanse the room—her room—of a foreign, malevolent presence.

Suitcases. She needed a small suitcase. Three of various sizes were in the back of the closet. When she opened the closet door, a new shock ran through her.

Her clothes had been torn from the hangers. Some had been slashed. One suitcase had been ripped. She grabbed the smallest one. It was intact. Apparently her intruder had tired of his destruction.

Frissons of new fear ran through her. Someone really hated her to tear up her clothes like that. She tried to dismiss the thought as she found a pair of good black slacks that had survived the carnage, along with a cotton shirt and a silk blouse. They were wrinkled but whole.

The next stop was her bathroom for a few toiletries. It was the least ransacked, probably because there was little of value there. She located necessities—toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant—and threw them into the bag. She always carried makeup in her purse.

Shutting the bag, she returned to the living room, where she had left her purse. She met the gaze of the detective.

“The lock …”

“Didn't keep anyone out. I'll return after I get you to a hotel. I have some work to do here anyway. I've ordered a crime scene technician.” He hesitated, then offered, “I know a locksmith who is on call twenty-four hours a day.”

“Please call him.”

He nodded. She looked at him for the first time. He had that rumpled, overworked cop look. He was older, probably nearing retirement age, yet he had not hesitated to go inside her apartment to look for an intruder.

“Thank you,” she said. “You've been more than kind.”

He gave her a long, searching look. “I don't think I have to tell you to be careful.”

“No,” she said.

“Most women would be in hysterics after being nearly killed and seeing a mess like this.”

“I've never been good at that.”

“I know. You had a reputation in the DA's office.”

She wasn't surprised. Though she'd left the office two years ago, she was very aware that the police often discussed members of the district attorney's office. Some they liked. Some they dreaded. She'd been told she had been put in the “dreaded” category. She'd always been hard on the police officers. She hadn't liked losing cases because they didn't dot the i's and cross the t's. Or worse.

“I'm surprised you didn't let me come home alone,” she said wryly.