Blind Instinct Read online

  “One of the library staff. Her name hasn’t been released yet.”

  Sara walked around to the front of the building and threaded her way through a gathering crowd. Police cruisers and an ambulance were pulled up outside the library doors. A news crew was already covering the scene. The coroner was crouched over a sprawled body, which was mostly covered by a tarpaulin.

  Nicola Gilbert, one of the librarians who was on late shift, and a longtime friend, was standing nearby, gripping her arms, her face white.

  When she saw Sara, her eyes widened as if she had seen a ghost. “You’re safe.” She shuddered as she indicated the mounded tarpaulin. “I thought that was you.”

  “It’s my half day.”

  “I forgot,” she said softly. “Well, I guess that narrows it down. I got a glimpse of her before they put the tarpaulin over. I didn’t see much, just long dark hair in a knot.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “It has to be Janine.”

  “Did anyone get a description of the killer?”

  Nicola searched in her purse and came up with a damp tissue. “An elderly couple saw the whole thing. Apparently she walked out of the front door on her way to lunch, and a guy walked up the steps, pulled a gun and shot her.”

  A brief flash of Delgado’s mug shot tightened Sara’s tension another notch. It couldn’t be related. Why should it be? “Where are they?”

  “Over there.” Nicola indicated a police cruiser, the two back doors open. She recognized Detective Rousseau sitting in the driver’s seat, taking a statement.

  The coroner drew back a corner of the tarpaulin. For a few seconds, Janine Sawyer’s face was starkly visible.

  Grief and sadness pooled. Janine had a daughter at LSU and elderly parents who depended on her. Her death would devastate her family.

  Sara watched as the evidence team moved in. Medics with a stretcher and body bag stood off to one side. “Did he take her purse?”

  “According to the couple, he didn’t stop to take anything. He just shot her and ran.”

  The reality of the shooting sank in along with a frightening twist. Nicola had thought it was Sara. On any other day it could have been, because she shared the same lunch hour with Janine.

  Another salient fact registered. Janine had looked a lot like her, with pale skin and long dark hair. Today her hair was pulled into a neat French twist, a style that Sara often wore, and she was wearing a white blouse and camel pants, a similar outfit to the one Sara had worn to work the previous day.

  The idea that the killer had been the same man who had attacked her—twice—and that he had mistaken Janine for her was a leap, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility.

  Ducking under the crime scene tape she strode toward one of the uniforms guarding the scene. The officer, who was holding a news team at bay, looked harassed.

  “I need to talk to one of the detectives involved with Janine Sawyer’s shooting. I have information that could help with the investigation.”

  Seconds later, Rousseau directed her to a police cruiser. He took the driver’s seat and she sat in the front passenger seat. He flipped his notepad open, not bothering to list her personal details, because he had taken her statement the night she had gotten mugged in the parking lot.

  Sara stared at the barrier being erected around Janine’s body. “I think I know who shot Janine. Check with the report on the complaint I laid yesterday.”

  Rousseau’s gaze was sharp. “What are you saying? That it was the same guy?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Rousseau looked skeptical. She couldn’t blame him. She had trouble believing it herself. “I could be wrong. I hope I’m wrong, but in the past two days I’ve been attacked in the library parking lot, almost run down crossing the road and now a coworker who happens to look a lot like me has been shot on the library steps. Maybe those events are coincidental. All I’m asking you to do is check.”

  “If he’s trying to kill you, what’s the motivation? Is he related to you in some way?”

  Rousseau’s expression was utterly neutral, his voice flat, but Sara got the distinct impression that he couldn’t imagine why someone might want to either mug or kill a thirtysomething librarian.

  She could see where he was going with the question. She was comfortably well-off, but she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous and she didn’t drive a flashy car or wear much in the way of jewelry. “His name is Delgado, but I don’t know who he is or what he wants.”

  She had a theory, but it was so wild there was no way she could air it here. Somehow she had done exactly what Steve had warned her against, and had gotten sucked into the Lopez/cabal investigation. The only reason she could come up with was that somehow, someone knew she had recovered Todd Fischer’s personal effects.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying the killer may have shot Janine by mistake.”

  “He left her bag. If he didn’t want money, why did he shoot her?”

  The expression on Rousseau’s face didn’t change. “Meth? Crack? Who knows? Maybe he was just having a bad day.”

  “No.” If it had been Delgado, he had been having exactly the day he had planned.

  “Okay, but you’re still not telling me what I need to hear. Why would someone be gunning for you?”

  “Ever heard of Alex Lopez and the Chavez cartel?”

  It was midafternoon by the time Thorpe, who had been given the job of interviewing her, finally showed her to an empty office and she was able to explain about her family’s connection to the Chavez cartel.

  Thorpe’s gaze sharpened. “You’re Steve Fischer’s cousin?”

  She was used to the reaction. Steve had been an officer in the Navy, a SEAL and a CIA agent. He was a local hero and he had gotten a lot of press lately with the discovery at Juarez. Sara had stayed out of the limelight as much as possible, her focus on her father’s illness then death. Only the people closest to her knew that she was related to that Fischer family.

  Thorpe made a notation, then excused himself. Through the glass door she could see him talking to Rousseau. At that moment Rousseau looked toward the interview room and raised a hand.

  Thorpe returned and took his seat.

  A few minutes later, Rousseau joined them. He placed a file on the desk. “We’ve got an ID on the shooter, which does match the description of the guy who attacked you the other night.” He opened the file. “According to this, the same guy—Joe Delgado, deceased—nearly ran you down yesterday. We have a few facts, a lot of supposition. What we need is motivation.”

  And solid evidence, which she couldn’t supply.

  “You’re not going to like what I’ve got to say.” And there was no way she could tell them all of it. She was aware that any credibility she had hinged on the fact that Janine Sawyer had died.

  Taking a deep breath, she outlined her discovery of the items in the knapsack and the connection with the ongoing investigation into the Chavez cartel and the cabal.

  Half an hour later, they broke for coffee and Sara took the opportunity to use the bathroom. Her face was white and there were dark crescents beneath her eyes, courtesy of lack of sleep and the fact that her mascara had smudged. She splashed cold water on her face, dried off with paper towels then took the time to apply fresh makeup, using the exercise to steady herself, although working with taped palms was difficult.

  Thorpe was waiting in the interview room when she returned. “I rang ACE Photography. It’s a disconnected number. I did an Internet search to double-check. A number of hits came up with the keyword Ace but nothing for ACE Photography.”

  “ACE exists. They’ve been advertising in the newspapers.”

  Rousseau sat on the edge of the desk, his arms folded across his chest. “The situation with the Chavez cartel and ACE Photography aside, is there any other reason you know of for someone to want to kill you?”

  “No.”

  Thorpe and Rousseau exchanged glances.

  Rousseau leaned back in his chair, his exp
ression guarded, his voice flat as he spoke. The Shreveport PD was hamstrung; they had to go on the facts and the major one was that Janine Sawyer had died, not Sara. The homicide investigation had to focus on Janine’s life. Sara’s angle was interesting, but at this point the possibility that Janine had been the target all along, and not Sara, was far more likely than a case of mistaken identity.

  Thorpe shrugged. “We’ll do what we can. Check with the papers’ advertising departments, run a credit check onACE. If there is an organized crime connection, we can run the data through the IRS.”

  He checked his watch. “I’ll get a cruiser to drop you back at the library so you can pick up your car. Are you going to be alone tonight?”

  Sara suppressed a grim smile as she pushed to her feet and picked up her purse. Both detectives had given her every courtesy but they had made it clear in the politest possible way that they thought she was paranoid, even bordering on hysterical. She couldn’t blame them. She was entertaining the same possibility. “I live on my own.”

  “Then maybe you should think about spending the night with a friend or a relative.”

  And chill out. Lose the paranoia.

  “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”

  A police cruiser dropped her on the sidewalk just along from the library. As she stepped outside into the heat of late afternoon, the fluttering crime scene tape blocking off the library entrance was a chilling reminder of what had happened.

  She lifted a hand as the officer accelerated away. The late-afternoon traffic was a steady hum behind her as she strode toward her car, the only vehicle left in the lot. She checked the shadowed loading bay and the back entrance, and skimmed the shrubs clustered around the parking lot. In contrast to the noise and activity out on the street, the library and the parking lot, usually busy at this time of day, seemed encapsulated in silence.

  Sliding gingerly behind the wheel, because she was still stiff and sore from the previous day, she locked the car and fastened her seat belt. Seconds later, she was in traffic. According to Thorpe, the evidence techs were finished with the crime scene and the library would be open for business as usual in the morning. Tomorrow was Thursday, one of their busiest days. She would be expected at work at nine. She had approximately sixteen hours to decide whether or not she was going to show.

  Twenty minutes of rush hour hell later, Sara turned into her street. Thorpe had suggested she stay the night with a friend or relative. He had been concerned for her state of mind, but it occurred to Sara that there was another very good reason for staying away from her apartment. Wild theory or not, if whoever had shot Janine had intended to kill her, then she had a serious problem.

  It made sense to act as if there was a threat. If the killer was after her, logic dictated that the reason had to do with items she had retrieved from her father’s attic. It also followed that if the items were that important, then he would want to retrieve them, which meant he would search her apartment.

  Instead of turning into the parking lot, Sara cruised slowly past, scanning the parking lot and the windows of her unit. She stopped at an intersection and checked her rearview mirror. She had taken note of the cars following her. One in particular, a beige Lexus, was still on her tail, although that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was a busy road. A lot of traffic was flowing both ways and there was a major shopping complex up ahead. The lights changed. She accelerated through the intersection and turned into a quiet residential area. The Lexus cruised straight ahead through the lights, toward the mall.

  When she was satisfied no one was following her, she doubled back and parked down the street from the apartment block so that her car was hidden from sight by a bank of thick, shady magnolias. She was beginning to feel faintly ridiculous. This was Shreveport, Louisiana, not Colombia. On the flip side, the Chavez Cartel had killed a lot of people in a great many locations. If she was right, Janine Sawyer was the latest in a long line of hits.

  Grabbing the key to her apartment and tucking her purse beneath the driver’s seat so it would be one less thing for her to carry, she locked the car, walked through the shady trees fronting the parking lot and skirted the open space. Maybe it was overkill, but she didn’t want to expose herself by crossing the parking lot.

  The air-conditioned cool of her apartment was a relief after the heat and humidity outside. Walking through to her bedroom, she kicked off her pumps and changed into a pair of cotton pants, a tank and a pair of running shoes. Dumping her crumpled blouse and suit into a laundry basket, she walked through to the sitting room, found the knapsack and stuffed the codebook, the newspapers and the notes she had made into it.

  Minutes later, she had retrieved her passport and the personal papers she needed, plus the family photos and the few personal items she couldn’t leave behind, and had packed them in a cotton tote bag. On impulse, she found a plastic bag in the pantry and packed it with items from the fridge that would spoil—fresh milk, cheese, tomatoes and salad greens.

  The parking lot was visible from her kitchen window. Most of the parking spaces were empty, which was predictable at this time of day.

  There was a car in her parking space.

  She studied the late model Japanese import positioned just yards away from her window, but it was partially screened from view by shrubs. It was a completely different make and model from the one that had almost run her down, but she could tell from the license plate that it was a rental.

  A faint noise in the corridor made her heart pound. Leaving the items on the counter, she gathered up the knapsack, the tote and her briefcase, which contained her laptop, and walked quickly through to her bedroom. She couldn’t risk using the back door because it was directly opposite her front door and if someone was breaking into her apartment, the likelihood that he would see her was high.

  Closing the door, she opened a window and lowered the items onto the garden.

  An audible click, followed by silence alerted her. He was in.

  Ears straining, she climbed out of the window and dropped silently to the ground. Pushing the window closed, she shouldered the knapsack, slung the strap of the tote over one shoulder and grasped the briefcase. Staying low, she backed through the thick layer of shrubs, far enough that she was concealed, but could still see in her windows.

  A face appeared at the kitchen window.

  Delgado.

  He spun away and she realized he had discovered the items from the fridge that she had left on the counter. All he would need to do was touch them to realize from their coldness that she had taken them out of the fridge just minutes before.

  Edging deeper into the garden, she turned on her heel and ran.

  Twelve

  Sara pulled into a parking lot in a mall. Just over twenty minutes had passed while she had driven aimlessly around the suburbs. She had used her cell phone to ring the number Rousseau had given her. She had been shunted through to his answering machine and had left a message about the break-in and the fact that Delgado was driving a different rental. Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to supply him with the license plate. By the time she had thought about that, she had already been in her car and driving.

  She had also rung the Shreveport PD after-hours number and talked to the duty officer. They had dispatched a car to check on her apartment, but they would be too late; Delgado would already be gone. The biggest gain in making that call had been to get the break-in on record, so that when she next spoke to Rousseau or Thorpe she would have solid evidence to back her story.

  Her easiest option now was to get out of town, but before she did that she needed to get hold of Bayard. If she was right, and Delgado was one of Lopez’s people, he needed to know.

  Grabbing her purse, she locked the car and strode into the mall. She hadn’t had time to pack her toothbrush or any spare clothes or fresh underwear. Aside from that, she needed to shop for clothes. Delgado knew how she dressed, how she wore her hair. Maybe in a town the size of Shreveport-Bossier it was overkill
to expect that he could find her, but she wasn’t about to take any more risks. Until she got some protection, or Delgado was caught, she needed to change her appearance.

  Her first stop was a clothing franchise she normally never used. The designs were cheap, bright and about twenty years younger than the tailored suits and silk blouses or low-key casual wear she usually wore. She grabbed tops, skirts and pants and walked through to a dressing room.

  Minutes later, after choosing an eclectic mix of limes, pinks and interesting shades of turquoise and chartreuse, she bought underwear and a couple of pairs of light, strappy heels. Walking into a ladies’ room, she changed into turquoise pants and a fitted pink sweater and slipped on a pair of high heels. Unpinning her hair, she brushed it out and pulled it back into a ponytail at her nape.

  She wasn’t quite in disguise, but she looked different enough that Delgado wouldn’t recognize her right off. Next up she bought a cheap suitcase. Zipping her purchases into the suitcase, she loaded it in the trunk of her car, then headed for the supermarket.

  Fifteen minutes later, she had the toiletries and convenience food she needed. It was after seven, but before she checked into a motel, she needed to change her car. Once Delgado realized that he had killed Janine instead of her, he would start checking motels and hotels, using her license plate to find her. The car would be the equivalent of an arrow pointing straight at her.

  She drove to a used car lot. Half an hour later, she had traded in her pristine sedan for a cream soft-top convertible. The convertible was a major change of style, which, like the clothes she’d bought, was completely not her. It was possible Delgado would trace the sale and purchase, but that would take time, and she was willing to bet that right now he was concentrating on finding her, not checking car dealerships.

  Sara chose one of the seedier hotels down by the waterfront and signed for a suite with a small kitchenette, using a false name. After slipping the receptionist a fifty-dollar bill when she asked for ID, she lugged her things into an elevator that looked like a certifiable antique.