Free Cold Target by Patricia; Potter

I just managed to jump out of the way.”
    â€œYou think the driver was trying to run you down?”
    â€œIf not, he was giving a good imitation of it,” she said. “He couldn’t have missed seeing me.”
    â€œWhat were you doing here so late?”
    â€œMy mother is a patient. She’s very ill.”
    â€œNext time, call for a security guard to accompany you,” he said briskly but with a hint of sympathy. “Can you tell us anything about the car?”
    â€œBig and dark.”
    â€œNot much help.”
    â€œSorry, I was busy rolling under a car.”
    He flashed his light over her. She’d left her suit jacket in the car, and her plain white short-sleeved blouse was stained and torn. Her arm had scraped along the pavement and blood trickled from it.
    â€œI need to get you inside to Emergency.”
    â€œIt’s a scratch,” she said.
    â€œBut it’s a scratch on hospital property,” he said with a wry expression. “Lawsuits, you know.”
    â€œYou know I’m an attorney?”
    â€œI recognize the name.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Mr.…”
    â€œAdcock. Head of security.”
    â€œMr. Adcock. Right now I just want to get home. I have no intention of filing a lawsuit.”
    A police car arrived, then a second.
    She repeated everything she’d said to Adcock, then reluctantly went into the emergency room with him. The wound was cleaned, swabbed, then bandaged. She was even given several pills “for pain,” though she said they weren’t necessary.
    Police reports were taken. A detective—Cliff Morris—arrived, and she told the story for the third time.
    He offered to follow her home and check out her house, and she accepted. She didn’t like being frightened. She didn’t like asking for help, either, but she wasn’t a fool. If the attack had been aimed at her personally, then there might be another attempt.
    From now on, she vowed to herself, she would carry a weapon with her.
    It was nearly four in the morning before they arrived at her house, a small historic home near the French Quarter. It had been her inheritance from her grandmother. Both her parents came from old New Orleans families.
    Morris took her key from her but tried the door first. It was unlocked. She knew she’d locked it.
    He looked at her.
    â€œI locked it,” she said.
    â€œGet back,” Morris said. His gun was immediately in his hand and he slowly opened the door.
    â€œWhat can I do?” she asked.
    He hesitated. “Do you know how to use the police radio?”
    She nodded.
    â€œGo to the car and call headquarters. Ask for backup.” He stepped inside, holding his gun in both hands.
    She ran to the car. It took her thirty seconds to make the call and give directions. Heart thumping, she went back to the front door of her home. Listened. Once again, she knew what terror truly was.
    It made her damned angry.
    The sound of wailing sirens rent the air, then flashing blue lights were visible through the rain.
    Two uniformed officers sprinted out of the car and up on the porch. “Ms. Rawson?”
    â€œDetective Morris is inside. The door to the house was open when we arrived. It was locked when I left. I was attacked just hours ago in a hospital parking area.”
    The officers already had guns in their hands. One man yelled out, “Police.” Then the two went inside.
    She waited, then heard voices, and all three came out. Morris holstered his gun. “All clear.” He stepped in front of her before she could go in. “It’s a mess in there. The whole place has been tossed.”
    He moved aside, and she entered, only to stop in astonishment and outrage. Sofa cushions had been slit open and tossed on the floor. Volumes from the bookcases lay strewn around the floor, spines broken in some cases. A vase was shattered. Tables upturned. It wasn’t just a simple burglary. It was