Part 8 (1/2)
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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+rt 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.
”I was on your side,” he said with a slight smile. ”You didn't plead out cases as others did.”
”That was usually the DA's decision.”
”And that depended on how well the case was prepared. Some of us appreciated it.”
It was a brightener on what had been the worst night of her life. ”Thank you.”