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The shrill ringing of the telephone jarred her awake. Confused, startled, Karen bolted upright in bed, then groaned as she realized she had forgotten to turn off the ringer before she went to sleep. The digital clock taunted her with big red numerals: nine-thirty.
She grabbed the receiver just to silence the obnoxious noise. "Hello," she said, her voice foggy with sleep.
"Miss Whitlaw?"
That voice. Just two words, but recognition tingled down her spine. She cleared her throat. "Yes."
"This is Detective Chastain, New Orleans Police Department. I left a message for you yesterday concerning your father."
"Yes." She started to say she had intended to return his call this afternoon, but he was already speaking again, the warm tones noticeably cooler.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but your father was killed two days ago in a street shooting."
Shock made her go numb. Her hand tightened on the receiver until her knuckles turned white. "Two days?" Why hadn't someone called before?
"He didn't have any ID on him. We identified him by his military dental records." He kept talking, saying something about her coming to New Orleans and verifying Dexter's identity. He was brisk, businesslike, and Karen fought to organize her scattered wits.
"I'll try to catch a flight today," she finally said. "If not—"
"The airlines have special arrangements for emergencies," he cut in. "You can be here this afternoon."
If you want to. She heard his unspoken accusation in his clipped tone, and resentment stirred. This man didn't know anything about her; who was he to stand in judgment on her relationship, or lack of it, with her father?
"I'll call you when I get there," she said, anger making her voice tight.
"Just come to the Eighth District on Royal Street."
Karen repeated the address, then said, "Thank you for calling." She hung up before he could say anything else.
She pulled her legs up and rested her head on her knees. Dexter was dead. She trie
d to absorb the news, but it was too unreal. She knew she should be feeling something other than shock, but she was empty. How could she mourn a man she barely knew? It was his absence, not his presence, that had shaped her life.
Throwing the sheet back, she got out of bed. She felt like a walking zombie, but she had to make some calls, arrange a flight, pack a bag. Only duty drove her, but duty carried a big whip.
Her father was dead. The thought kept reverberating in her mind as she stood under a cold shower. She hadn't really known him, and now she never would.
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
"Karen Whitlaw, Karen Whitlaw." A man named Carl Clancy stood at the pay phone—it had taken forever to find one with a directory—and ran his finger down the tissue-thin page. It was just after noon, and the sun was baking him. He shifted position so his body blocked the glare from the paper. No Karen Whitlaw was listed, but he found a K. S. Whitlaw. He would bet that was her. Single women always used their initials; the practice was so common they might as well go ahead and have their full names printed, except for the simple precaution of protecting their full names.
He dropped some change into the slot and dialed the number. After four rings, he heard the click of an answering machine, and a pleasant female voice said, "You've reached 555-0677. Please leave a message."
Smart girl, he thought with approval. She hadn't given out her name to any jackass who happened to dial her number. People did that all the time, gave out their names on their answering machine messages, even put signs on their mailboxes or in their yards announcing "The Hendersons," or whatever. Fools. All some burglar had to do then was look up Henderson in the phone book until he came to that address, then call to see if anyone was home. If no one answered, he could waltz right in, secure in the knowledge he was alone.
In this case, however, Carl already knew her name. The call had just verified her address. She was probably at work; the information he'd received on her said she was a nurse. He could take his time, give the house a thorough toss, find the book Hayes wanted. If he couldn't find it, Hayes said, torch the house, just to be on the safe side. Maybe the book was in a safe deposit box, but people were seldom that cautious with valuable items; they just found what they thought was a clever hiding place somewhere in their home.
Returning to his car, he took out the city map he had bought and located Karen Whitlaw's street. He could be there in fifteen minutes, max; plenty of time to do the job and catch his late-afternoon flight.
He drove through the neighborhood, looking for Neighborhood Watch signs and neighbors who were out gardening or mowing their lawns. The houses were smallish and past their prime. He saw only a few children playing, and most of the cars in the driveways were older sedans, which told him that the majority of the houses were owned by old people whose kids had long since grown up and left or young couples who had bought their first houses and hadn't yet started their families. The houses with no cars in the driveway would belong to the young couples, who were at work.
That was both good and bad. There weren't many people at home in the neighborhood, but those who were would likely be old people. Old folks were nosy. They knew what cars belonged in the neighborhood and what cars didn't, and they didn't have anything better to do with their time than peer out windows.
Well, a few old folks couldn't keep him out of a house he wanted into. The trick, if he was seen, was to look as average as possible and to act as if he had every right to be there. Even better was if no one saw him. He was good at not being seen; that was why Hayes had picked him for the job.
