Cold Target Part 44

Another violent death. There were a lot of them around. Coincidence?

The fact that murder may have been continuing for years was chilling. What secret was so desperate that it drove someone to kill again and again?

She couldn't even begin to answer that question.

Instead she asked the neighbors about doctors in the area, particularly obstetricians. She gathered a list of three that she would call first thing in the morning.

That evening she checked the yellow pages for local hospitals and used her laptop to find websites. Most included the hospital's history. She immediately discarded those that were less than thirty years old. The list was narrowing.

But that was a long shot and she knew it. Hospitals didn't keep medical records that old. Her only hope was to find someone who might have remembered a heartbroken teenager who gave up a child.

She had to eat, yet she had no appet.i.te. She took a notebook with her and doodled as she waited for the ultimate comfort food she'd ordered. Hamburger and fries.

She noted every event that had happened since she learned of her sister, making a chart of them. Other than speaking with Mrs. Laxton and locating Mrs. Starnes, who was now dead, she had not gone further in searching for school friends, nor had she located the man in the photo.

She probably should have done the latter before she left. But she'd had to get away from New Orleans and the reporters and phone calls and sympathy. And her growing reliance on Gage. That reliance had cost him dearly.

If only she could find a clue here. One tiny thread. She knew how to pursue threads.

The comfort food was not at all comforting when it came. Usually she didn't mind eating by herself, but tonight she felt terribly alone. Terribly vulnerable.

'Don't do that! Don't think of that! Think of your sister out there, possibly in danger.'

She went back to her chart.

'BISBEE'.

Holly paused at the door of the office of Daniel McIntyre, Esq., Attorney at Law. She looked at her watch. She had changed the appointment to a day when the local church had a "Mother's Day Out."

She didn't want her son to hear the conversation. He was much too bright. He would remember bits and pieces and pop up with a question about them at unexpected times.

She opened the door. A middle-aged woman with a quick smile sat at the desk. "You must be Liz Baker," she said. "You can go on in." She gestured to a door and Holly opened it.

A pleasant-looking man in his fifties stood up and came over to her. He reached out his hand and she took it. It was a grip meant to convey confidence. She liked the way his eyes met hers directly.

He sat down, inviting her to do the same. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Baker?"

"I would like to retain you first. What is your fee?"

"I take it you want the client-attorney relations.h.i.+p from the beginning?"

"Yes."

"Then fifty dollars will do for the initial interview. I charge a hundred dollars an hour."

Holly gave him the money. She sought a.s.surance. "You can't say anything to anyone now?"

"Unless I know a crime is to be committed."

She nodded. "Two things. One is my son. I want to make provisions in case anything happens to me. I want a will naming a guardian for my son. Marty Miller, who owns Special Things."

He looked surprised. "No relatives?"

"No."

"That's easy enough. I'll draw up the papers and you both will come in and sign them. What else?"

She took the envelope containing the letter she'd written. "I want you to hold this. If anything happens to me, there are instructions inside."

His eyes sharpened. "Do you expect anything to happen to you?"

"No. But it's a letter to my son," she lied. "I would feel better if it were in a safe."

"I can do that as well."

"How much?"

He shrugged. "You've paid me fifty. I would say a total of two hundred would cover the will and guardians.h.i.+p."

It was less than she'd expected.

"Thank you."

She spent the next few minutes giving him lies about her son, and his name and birth date.

Then it was over.

She thanked him.

A small protection.

*Chapter Twenty-three*

'MEMPHIS'.

Meredith exhausted every possibility over the next three days.

She double-checked with the bureau of public records. No adoption records under her mother's name.

Next were local hospitals. None had records that reached thirty-three years back. A check of obstetricians proved equally as fruitless. The hospitals refused to--or couldn't-- release lists of obstetricians on duty at the time.

She accessed the American Bar a.s.sociation's Internet listing of Memphis-area attorneys. There were more than 2,800 listings. She narrowed it to Germantown. No downtown attorneys; those involved wouldn't risk large corporate practices for something like a black market adoption.

And that, she knew, was what must have happened.

It was the longest of long shots. She discovered that when she came up with forty candidates. She researched each firm. Three had been in practice thirty-three years ago in the general area of Germantown. One specialized in taxation, one in family law and the third was a general practice, which usually meant wills, estates and the like.

She called the latter office Monday morning, identified herself as an attorney in New Orleans and said she was looking for someone in a large inheritance case and there would be a substantial finder's fee. She said she would be in town only today--could they possibly squeeze her in?

A male attorney came on the line. She said she couldn't explain on the phone.

He finally agreed to an appointment at five P.M.

She hung up. It would be an amazing coincidence if that particular attorney had been involved, but then it would be amazing if she found the right attorney, regardless. At the very most, he might remember other attorneys active in the field of adoption.

Of course, there might not have been an attorney involved at all, though most people adopting a child would want some legal security.

The visit proved more fruitful than she'd imagined. It was a father-son practice, and while the older man was clearly just coming into the office, he'd been very active in the local bar a.s.sociation and never threw anything away.

William Hartley was in his seventies but had a spring to his movements that would put to shame most men decades younger. His gray eyes sparkled with curiosity and interest, and he obviously was a raconteur of stories about his profession. He wasn't shy about his a.s.sessments.

"I'm old enough not to give a d.a.m.n about being politically correct, young lady."

"And I'm not old enough," she countered.

He sat back and laughed at that, and his son, William Junior, smiled. "Attorneys weren't as pretty as you when I first went into practice."

"I imagine you find plenty of them elsewhere," she said.

"Ah, but there was only one for me." The laughter left his eyes. "She died two years ago and I came back here to bedevil my son. Was going crazy by myself."

She was moved by the emotion behind the words. So there 'were' happy unions. She knew that, of course, but her own personal experience and being an attorney who specialized in marital disasters sometimes made her forget that.

She explained that she had a client who had just died and left a very large inheritance for a daughter she'd given up at birth. There were no records. She was trying to find the attorney who might have handled it. As she'd said on the phone, there would be a substantial finder's fee.

It was the son who asked the amount.

"Fifty thousand dollars," she said. She'd already arrived at that sum. Any larger would be suspicious. Any lesser may not bring the cooperation she needed.

The father raised his eyebrows. "How much is the inheritance?"

"Several million."

That was a guess on her part. Her trust fund that had come from her grandmother through her mother was worth approximately a million. She a.s.sumed she would inherit most of her father's a.s.sets, including the house.

She was very prepared to spend whatever it took to find her sister, then to divide whatever was left. Part of what was hers would go to the women's shelter.

The son perked up at the sum. He looked at his father.

"I'll go through my lists. I have a pretty good idea of who might be involved in adoptions," the senior Hartley said. "If you like, I can hire an investigator to follow up on it. Or would you prefer to do that?"

"That would be extra, of course," the son said.

"Of course," she said, knowing that she didn't have much time. She had talked to the funeral home about plans for her mother's funeral, but some decisions had to be made in person. "How much?"

"The investigator we use on occasion charges a hundred an hour."

She nodded. "Go ahead. I'll keep in touch." She took out a checkbook. "Would a retainer for five thousand be sufficient?"

"Quite," the older man said. "I enjoy mysteries. How much information do you have?"

"Her name was Marguerite Thibadeau. She would have been seventeen at the time and the birth would have taken place sometime in February of 1970. We don't know who the father was."

"Anything else?"

"She was staying with an aunt." She took out a notepad with the name and address on it. "The aunt died in a robbery three years ago. I looked for a birth certificate for the daughter but couldn't find one."

"I'll see what we can do."

She left the office, feeling that at last she might be making headway.

She looked at her watch. She would have a good supper tonight, then leave early in the morning.

She stopped in the office of the hotel and asked for the name of a good restaurant.

"If you're in Memphis, you need barbecue," the desk clerk said. "One of the best is a mile away." She gave detailed directions.

As she went to her room to wash up and put on her more comfortable driving clothes, she noticed a familiar car in the parking lot. A long, lanky figure lounged comfortably against it. A large dog sat obediently at his feet. It greeted her with a short excited bark.

As her gaze met Gage's, her breath caught in her lungs. Her heart skipped a beat, maybe three or four.

She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

Meredith's blue eyes widened in astonishment, and then a smile crossed her lips. Pleasure ran through him at her obvious pleasure at seeing him.

He had expected surprise. Anger. Defiance. He'd hoped for acceptance. He'd been braced for anything but the momentary delight in her expression.

"I would ask you how you found me, but you would probably say you're a detective."

"I probably would," he said as her smile awoke something bright and warm in him. "You keep running off on your own."

"And if you found me, someone else could?"

"Will you stop reading my mind?"

"Why?"

"It might get you in trouble."

"I think I'm already in trouble." Her voice was husky, and the underlying sensuality of her words made it clear she didn't mean just the recent violent events.

She looked exhausted, as well she should be. But there was an indomitable quality about her, and she was still forging ahead. Alone.