"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 tried 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. He drove around until he found a convenience store and parked the rental car as far to the side as he could. In case the clerk was watching out the window, he went inside and bought a soft drink, taking care not to make eye contact or do anything that would make him memorable. Leaving the car there, he briskly walked the three blocks to Karen Whitlaw's house.
When he reached her street, he began cutting through backyards, using shrubbery and fences for cover. People put all sorts of junk in their backyards, which was great for concealment. Generally, his biggest problem was dogs. Dogs were a pain in the ass. He could hear one of the little bastards now, yapping its head off inside the house he was now behind. Carl settled into place behind a bush, remaining motionless until the yapping ceased.
Finally, he reached the Whitlaw house. Getting in was a piece of cake. The lock on the back door wouldn't keep out a determined ten-year-old; he opened it within seconds. God, if people only knew. He did a walk-through of the house first, checking the most obvious hiding places: the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, on top of cabinets, under chairs. He didn't know exactly what the book looked like; no one did. Just look for a little notebook, Hayes had said. It'll be old and dirty. There weren't any old, dirty notebooks in any of the obvious hiding places. Methodically, Carl began tossing the house. He looked in every drawer, took every drawer out and checked for anything taped behind or underneath. He felt the curtains to see if anything had been sewn into the hems, examined all the cushions and pillows for a resewn seam or any suspicious lumps. He didn't wreck the place; that was for malicious amateurs. The real art was to get in and out without leaving a trace of his presence. He didn't slash the furniture, and he put everything back in place after he had examined it. There were framed photos sitting around, some of them of a smiling young couple. He assumed the pretty little blonde in the pictures was Miss Whitlaw. He wouldn't mind having her as his nurse, especially if she sat on his lap the way she was doing with some grinning idiot in one of the photos. The grinning idiot was the guy in the other pictures; evidently, he was the man of the moment. In the bedroom, he found men's clothing in the closet and shaving gear in the bathroom. He clucked his tongue. Miss Karen had a live-in boyfriend, or at least one who stayed over regularly enough to leave some of his clothes here. Maybe she had even married him, recently enough that the number in the phone book was still listed in her name.