Cold Target Part 30

"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 gla.s.s, 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?"

"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 pa.s.sed 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.

*Chapter 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 tras.h.i.+ng 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--s.e.x, 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'.