Cold Target Part 2

Rick Fuller was his final case with PID. Gage had learned a pet.i.tion for a protection order had been filed in civil court. A division investigator said the wife had refused to file a complaint, but had agreed to file for protection. There were photos and a statement from an emergency room doctor, enough to take the man's badge even without a complaint from the wife.

But Fuller had a superlative record in the department, and his captain wanted to keep him if possible. There had never been a citizen complaint filed against him. Apparently, he saved his violence for his wife.

Gage had talked to Fuller at length. If he did not fight the protection order, stayed away from his wife and followed the court's child custody orders, he would not lose his badge. But one call--one simple complaint--would end his career, and Gage would personally make sure he went to prison.

Gage hadn't liked the deal he'd made. He didn't like men who hit women, especially those they had vowed to protect and cherish. But he knew domestic violence. If Fuller was fired, he would go after the wife. This solution might just save her life.

He'd had no intention of telling Meredith Rawson that. He knew she thought he was dirty and for some odd reason, that bothered him. The defendants she had prosecuted had blackened his name to destroy his testimony. Rumors had been everywhere.

Perhaps he had some guilt and that had made him defensive. Not that he was on the take. But he had looked the other way too many times. From the moment he'd joined, he'd recognized that minor corruption was department culture, and the department was all he had.

Gage had accepted that culture until he discovered two fellow officers had committed a murder to cover up their sins. He'd overheard a drunken conversation about an unsolved murder. After talking with his superior, he'd found the evidence that convicted two fellow officers. He could ignore a lot, but not murder.

Meredith Rawson had a.s.sisted in trying the case. She'd been new to the office, having received the appointment-- according to courthouse gossip--because of her father, a prominent attorney and an influential political donor.

She had been charged with doing preliminary investigation of all the witnesses, including the police officers involved in the case. She'd obviously thought the whole department was dirty, and her questions implied such. He certainly hadn't intended on taking guff from a socialite who played at being an a.s.sistant district attorney.

To his surprise, she had done a reasonably competent job on the case, but their reaction to each other had been immediate friction. The air had crackled with it. He had thought her too inexperienced to be involved in what had become "his" case. He'd placed his career, even his life, in jeopardy to pursue it.

To be honest with himself, maybe it hadn't been her inexperience that had made him edgy. Perhaps it had been the physical attraction he'd felt even though she was exactly the kind of woman he avoided. He did not trust debutante types who played at real life. Their depth of commitment was usually as thin as parchment.

Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her now as he cleaned out his desk. She'd looked particularly harried today. Distracted. Her short auburn hair had been disheveled and her eyes had had dark circles under them. Still, she'd looked great in the expensive dark blue suit she'd worn. h.e.l.l, he might as well admit it. With her tall, lithe body, she was the kind of woman who would look good in a potato sack.

d.a.m.n, he was mooning over a woman who was pure poison for someone like him.

He took one last look through the drawers, not wanting to miss anything. Then he lifted the scantily filled box. No photographs. Just some notebooks filled with sources he'd cultivated during the fifteen years he'd served in the department. Some personal stuff, like insurance papers, old pay stubs and his various certificates for law enforcement courses. An address book that was almost empty. A letter from Clint, his only surviving brother. The return address was the state prison. It reminded him that he needed to visit him this weekend.

A familiar pang jolted through him. He hadn't been able to save his brothers. Terry had died in a gang fight. Clint had gotten involved with drugs and gone to prison. In trying to make their lives better, he'd somehow lost them. The pain and guilt never entirely left him.

He added to the box the numerous pencils and pens he'd collected in the past year and a couple of old candy bars.

The lack of heft didn't bother him. He had little doubt that his new desk would soon be bulging with files.

Homicides were never scarce in New Orleans.

*Chapter Two*

'NEW ORLEANS'.

A new private duty nurse greeted Meredith in her mother's hospital room.

"She didn't wake up?" Meredith asked.

"No. She's slipped into a coma."

Meredith swallowed hard. She closed her eyes as a lump grew in her throat. Grief was a part of it. Need, another. She had thought she would have more time. Perhaps not much. But enough to get the information she needed, perhaps even find her sister before her mother...

"Has my father been here?"

"He came for a few moments." The woman's voice was chilly.

Meredith wondered whether it was because her father had been curt with her, even rude, as he could be when in a hurry, or because her father had spent so little time with his dying wife.

"He has an important case," she said.

The woman gave her a look that tore apart that defense.

"You can take a break," Meredith said. "I'll stay with her."

The nurse rose. She left without a word and closed the door behind her as if she knew Meredith wished to be alone with her mother.

Meredith sat down in the chair next to the bed and reached for her mother's fragile hand. "Please wake up."

There was no response. She looked at her mother's face, remembering the wedding photo of her mother and father. Marguerite Thibadeau had been truly beautiful, far prettier than Meredith had ever been. She'd always envied the cool elegance of her mother's flawless bone structure, the symmetry of her features. Meredith had inherited her father's firm jaw and wide mouth.

She rested her head on her mother's chest, something she couldn't ever remember doing as a child. She heard the soft beat of her mother's heart even as she felt her soul drawing away.

"Don't give me a task I can't fulfill," she whispered. But she knew she would try. She had never known her mother. Never known the agony she'd obviously carried so long. Never known she'd possessed the kind of reckless pa.s.sion that produced a child out of wedlock.

How she wanted to talk to her now.

"I made you a promise. I'll try to keep it," she said, then continued in a conversational tone, "I won a small victory today. I've finally found something where I can make a real difference."

She sat there for another thirty minutes, talking about her life, reaching out when it was too late to reach out. She held her mother's hand and wished she could turn the clock back.

She thought about her father, about the coolness, even hostility, that in some strange way bound her mother and father together.

Should she talk to her father about her half sister?

Her mother had nodded when she'd asked if he knew. Or had she? Had it simply been a reaction to pain? Should Meredith bring it up now? Or should she wait? Regardless, he would have to know. If he didn't know already.

She decided she had to talk to him about it. It would be difficult. They had never spoken of important things.

She couldn't quell the resentment she felt for his lack of support now, for his few visits to the hospital.

She knew his current case was important. She also knew any other attorney would have requested--and been granted--a postponement. Any other husband would come to the hospital after court rather than interview witnesses himself. She wondered whether he was secretly glad to have an excuse to stay away from the hospital.

She would remain here tonight and face him tomorrow at breakfast. She would have Sarah cancel all her appointments for the next ten days except for one court case, and if worse came to worst she would try to postpone it. She would stay here at night with her mother. During the day she would try to find her sister.

That might be the one thing that could give her mother comfort. 'If' she regained consciousness.

She turned to the nurse, who had just returned. "Will she come out of the coma?"

"You'll have--"

"I know. Talk to the doctor. I have. He wouldn't commit himself. But you must have worked with comatose patients. Have you ever seen one wake?"

"I've known it to happen," the nurse said. "Nothing is impossible."

"I'll stay with her tonight," Meredith said.

"But--"

"I'll take the responsibility. I would just like to spend some time with her."

The nurse nodded.

After she was gone, Meredith leaned back and closed her eyes. Images went through her mind. The cool politeness between her mother and father. The causes her mother espoused. She'd been on every civic and charitable board in the city, including the symphony, opera and theater guilds.

Meredith always thought it was to avoid her husband and daughter. As a child she'd thought it was because she was not pretty enough. So she'd decided to be smart and please her father. But she could never quite do that, either.

What had happened so many years ago? Why had her mother given up the child if she cared so much? What had happened to Meredith's sister?

Meredith couldn't imagine what it must cost a mother to give up a child. She loved children, though she'd resigned herself to never having any. Growing up as she had in a loveless atmosphere, she had never seen marriage as a desirable state. Most of her friends' parents were divorced. Love, if it existed, seemed to be a fleeting thing, a condition more of pain than joy.

She didn't let herself think of loneliness. She had friends, interests, a career now veering off in an entirely new direction that gave her life purpose. She loved good music. She enjoyed art. It was all she needed.

It was what her mother had had.

Obviously it had not been enough. The despair in her eyes had not come from the knowledge of impending death, but of regret for things not done. Meredith had recognized that.

She continued to hold her mother's hand, planning out her next moves.

She could not stop thinking of the woman who was her half sister. What kind of life had she had? And would she even want to be found?

Gage went over the files dropped on his new desk. Mostly cold cases, the rest reaching that stage.

He was surprised. There was a special office for cold cases.

But this might well be an effort to keep him away from the other homicide detectives. His immediate superior had been curt when Gage reported in, and it was obvious--at least to Gage--that he had been foisted upon the lieutenant. Gage wasn't surprised. He knew he was a pariah in the police department. He'd broken the blue wall of silence.

He remembered Lieutenant Bennett. The officer had been in robbery when Gage had testified against two of his men. It had been a black eye for him.

Gage wondered exactly how he had been forced on Bennett. But he 'was' an experienced homicide detective and had a good record in solving cases. That was probably why he was getting cold cases that were almost impossible to solve.

Still, he was so d.a.m.ned glad to be back on the streets. And it wouldn't be long before Bennett was forced to send him out on new cases. Budget cuts had sliced the homicide unit in half.

He sifted through the ten old files. New scientific techniques often turned up something that hadn't been obvious before. The FBI now maintained a nationwide bank of fingerprints. And DNA technology allowed the police to explore avenues that had been closed years ago.

Only one case really interested him: the murder of a socially prominent man fifteen years earlier.

He remembered the case. He had been a rookie then, and he had followed the investigation. The victim--Oliver Prescott--had been an officer in his father's bank.

The death had apparently devastated the father, who died two years later. The father's brother had a.s.sumed the position of chairman of the board, a position the son unquestionably would have had. A good enough motive.

The reports sounded a little odd to Gage. Though Oliver Prescott was a member of the city's most prominent Mardi Gras Krewe, no one really called him a close friend. And despite the publicity surrounding the case, its active stage had ended fairly rapidly. Too rapidly, Gage thought.

He'd wondered then, and wondered again, whether it was because of the public figures involved. Prescott's family was one of a tight group of city leaders, including city officials, prominent political donors, judges and attorneys. Any cop who pursued the case would probably open closets some wanted kept closed.

Gage didn't give a d.a.m.n about offending anyone. He'd made a career out of it.

He would poke around, see what could be stirred up. Perhaps it would take his mind away from Meredith Rawson. He was d.a.m.ned if he knew why she aroused such strong reactions in him. Although her blue eyes were striking, she was not his usual type. She wore her hair in a no-nonsense feathered haircut and her suits were severe. He liked long hair and casual clothes. He was a beer guy. He suspected she was a champagne woman.

One detective wandered over and peered down at the files. "I got those last year," he said. "Apparently they give them to the new guy in the division."

Gage raised an eyebrow. "Or people they don't like. Did you have any luck?"

"Broke my a.s.s on the Cary case, but nothing. At least nothing I could take to the DA."

"What about Prescott?"

"Couldn't find a d.a.m.n thing. No one would talk to me. Maybe you being from here..." He held out his hand. "Name's Wagner. Glenn Wagner. They call me Wag."

Gage took his hand and studied him. Wagner was a big man, probably about forty. He had the cautious eyes of a cop and his cheeks told Gage that the man probably drank too much. "You might as well know I'm bad news around here," Gage said.

"You also have a great rep in solving cases."

"That's one reputation," he said dryly. "The other is why I have these cases rather than current ones. I expect the lieutenant intends to get rid of me as soon as possible."

"Then he's a fool."

Gage didn't answer. He was suspicious of such an obvious overture.

"Wanna grab a bite? I haven't had time for lunch."

He was hungry, so why not? He also wanted to know why Wagner was making an effort toward a man most other cops steered clear of.

"Sure," he said.

They went to a sandwich shop not far from the station and ordered at the counter before finding seats.

Once seated, Gage started his own interrogation. "Why the welcome?"

The other man shrugged. "I'm an outsider, too. It's a closed shop here."

Gage could understand that. The department had always been insular, self-protective. Newcomers were regarded as threats to the old way of doing things.

But he was a loner. He didn't want pals, particularly in the police department. Years ago it had led him into compromises that still haunted him.

"The Prescott case," he reminded Wagner. "Who did you talk to? I didn't see any update in the file."

"Nothing to update," Wagner said. "I found zero. Nada. But I can give you a list of people I talked to."