Part 9 (2/2)
Meredith Rawson? Or her father?
He called Rawson at his law firm, only to discover that he was in court. He hesitated, then tried Meredith Rawson's law office. He wanted to know more about the burglary as well, and whether Rick Fuller could be involved. More than once, a husband had gone after the wife's attorney.
To his surprise, she answered the phone.
”Ms. Rawson, Detective Gaynor.”
”What can I do for you, Detective?”
”I would like to talk to you.”
”About Rick Fuller?”
”No. Another matter.”
”This is not a good day.”
”I heard about the attack and burglary. I'm sorry.”
A short pause. ”Is that what you want to discuss?”
”No. I'm looking into an old case. Oliver Prescott.”
”I remember that,” she replied cautiously. ”Is there something new?”
He chose to ignore that question. ”You knew him. I hoped you could tell us something about him.”
”I was in school at the time. I knew him, of course, but not that well. He was much older. I don't know how I could help you.”
”Just a few questions, a few moments of your time. Perhaps you know more than you think.”
”My mother is very ill. My house has just been ransacked and my computer stolen. I simply don't have the time. If I knew anything--”
”What about lunch? A quick sandwich.”
She paused, then, with an audible sigh, said, ”If you'll bring it to my office. We're backing up all our files. I have to be here.”
”Done. What will it be?”
”Comfort food. A m.u.f.faletta.”
”You have it. Noon okay?”
A pause. He feared she was reconsidering.
”I have two people working with me.”
”I'll bring enough for all.”
”I still don't know how I can help--”
”I'll be there at noon,” he said, and hung up before she could change her mind.
As soon as Gaynor hung up, Meredith wished she hadn't agreed. In fact, she didn't know exactly why she had.
She'd had three hours' sleep at most. And what sleep she'd had had been restless. Her life seemed to be in free fall.
She'd risen at seven as she always did and called the hotel's front desk to see if anything had arrived for her. It had. The new key to her house was in an envelope. Then she'd hurried to her office to see for herself that her office was untouched.
Sometime today, she had to return home and start cleaning up the mess. She had to see her mother. She'd promised the police she would make a list of people who might want to do her harm. She wanted to get started on finding her sister.
There was no end to this day. And now this. She definitely should have said no. She should never have picked up the phone, but she often did when they were all busy. Most callers wanted her.
She didn't know if she was alert enough to go head-to-head with Gaynor. Why in G.o.d's name would he want to talk to her about a fifteen-year-old murder? At least, she thought it had been that long.
She went to her computer. Sarah was using her computer to back up files. This time the compact disks would go into a safe deposit box.
She looked up Oliver Prescott on the Internet and found dozens of stories about the murder. The number had dwindled as time had pa.s.sed without any apparent progress in the investigation.
Now she remembered more. She'd been sixteen at the time and attending accelerated cla.s.ses at a respected Catholic school. She'd been on a cla.s.s trip to Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., that weekend. The murder had been the main topic of conversation for weeks.
Meredith read all the accounts she could find.
Prescott and her father had dined together at the Court of Two Sisters, where they apparently discussed some business matter. Witnesses saw the two separate outside the restaurant, each taking his own car.
Prescott's body was found the next morning in his home. He had been shot. There was no indication of a break-in, but his wallet was missing. So was a very expensive painting.
Clues had been scarce.
She realized why Gaynor wanted to talk to her. Her father had been the last known person to be with the victim. The police always started at that point.
But why did the detective want to see her? Why not her father?
She returned to backing up her files, then went into Sarah's office. ”How's it going?”
”Another hour.”
Meredith looked at her watch. ”Someone's bringing us lunch.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow, even as she replaced one CD with another and carefully marked the one she had just ejected. When Meredith didn't immediately answer, Sarah asked, ”Who? And more important, what?”
”m.u.f.falettas.”
”I can deal with that,” Sarah said. ”It's far better than my tuna salad. Should I ask who again?”
”A detective.”
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