Cavanaugh Pride

“Millie Klein was the granddaughter of a friend of his, and he wants justice for his friend. That means seeing her killer pay for her murder. You have the superior department,” she informed him without any fanfare. “It just made sense for him to send the case file over here as well as someone with it.”

Okay, he’d buy that. But he had another question. “Why you?” She’d just admitted to not having experience and from the looks of her, she couldn’t have been a detective that long. They had to have someone over at Mission Ridge with more seniority than this lagoon-blue-eyed woman.

Julianne studied him for a long moment before she said anything. “Is your problem with me personal or professional?”

“I don’t know you personally.”

And he knew better than to think that just because the woman was beautiful she’d gotten ahead on her looks. If he would have so much as hinted at something like that, his sisters—along with all the female members of the Cavanaugh family—would have vivisected him.

So he was saying that his beef with her was professional? She took just as much offense at that as she would have had he said it was personal.

“Professionally, I worked my tail off to get to where I am.” Her eyes darkened, turning almost a cobalt blue. “And you don’t need to know me personally not to like me ‘personally.’” She set her jaw hard. “I’ve run into that all my life.”

Prejudice was something he’d been raised to fight against and despise. “Because you’re Native American,” he assumed.

“You don’t have to be politically correct,” she told him. “Indian will do fine.” The term had never bothered her, or any of the other people she’d grown up with. She didn’t see it as an insult. “Or Navajo if you want to be more specific.”

“Navajo,” Frank repeated with a nod. He’d bet his badge that there was more than just Navajo to her. Those blue eyes of hers didn’t just come by special delivery. “And you won’t find that here,” he informed her.

“Other Navajos?”

“No, prejudice because you happen to be something someone else isn’t. I don’t care if you’re a Native American—”

“Indian,” she corrected.

“Indian,” he repeated. “What I don’t like is not having a say in who works for me.” But even that could be remedied. “But you prove to me that you can pull your weight, and we’ll get along fine.”

That sounded fair enough. “Consider it pulled,” Julianne told him.

With that out of the way, he nodded at her desk. “I’ll look at that folder you brought now.”

Julianne held the folder out to him. It was thin compared to the ones that Riley had given her. There was a folder complied with random notes and information on each victim posted on the board.

“You know, all that information was input on the computer,” he told her. He indicated the small notebook computer Riley had managed to mysteriously produce for the new detective. It had to have come from one of the other squad rooms, but he wasn’t about to ask which one. This was a case where “Don’t ask, don’t tell” applied particularly nicely. “You can access it easily enough.”

Rather than draw the notebook to her, she moved the folders closer. “I like the feel of paper,” Julianne told him. “If the electricity goes down, the paper is still here.”

Frank laughed shortly. He didn’t hear that very often, and never from anyone under thirty. “Old-fashioned?” he guessed.

She’d never thought of herself in those terms, going out of her way not to have anything to do with the old ways to which grandmother had clung.

“I prefer to say that I like the tried and true.” With that, she lowered her eyes and got back to her reading.

Frank knew when to leave well enough alone.

Julianne was still going through the files and rereading pertinent parts at the end of the day, making notes to herself as she went along.

She did her best to remain divorced from the victims, from feeling anything as she reviewed descriptions of the crime scenes. She deliberately glossed over the photographs included in each file.

The photographs posted on the board showed off each victim at what could be described as her best, before the world—or the killer—had gotten to her. The photographs in the files were postmortem shots of the women. Julianne made a point of flipping the photographs over rather than attempting to study them.

“Pretty gruesome, aren’t they?” Riley commented.

Julianne looked up, surprised to find Riley standing in front of her desk. She’d gotten absorbed in the last folder, Polly Barker, a single mother who made ends meet by turning tricks. Her three-year-old daughter, Donna, had been taken by social services the day after the woman’s body was discovered. Despite her best efforts, Julianne’s heart ached, not for the mother, but for the child the woman had left behind.

She closed the folder now. “Yes.”

“I don’t blame you for not wanting to look at them, but I really think you should.”

Julianne glanced at Riley, somewhat surprised though she made sure not to show it. She’d sensed that the other woman was watching her, but more out curiosity than a of desire to assess the way she worked.

“Why? I’ve got all the details right there in the files.” She nodded at the stack.

“You’re supposed to be the fresh pair of eyes,” Riley reminded her. “Maybe you’ll see something we didn’t.”

Taking a deep breath, Julianne flipped over the set of photographs she’d just set aside. It wasn’t that she was squeamish, just that there was something so hopeless about the dead women’s faces. She’d fought against hopeless-ness all of her life and if given the choice, she would have rather avoided the photographs taken at the crime scene.

But Riley was right. She was supposed to be the fresh set of eyes and although she doubted she would see something the others had missed, stranger things had happened.

The first thing she saw was a tiny cross carved into the victim’s shoulder.

Just as there had been on Millie’s.

In his own twisted mind, was the killer sending his victims off to their maker marked for redemption? Was he some kind of religious zealot, or just messing with the collective mind of the people trying to capture him?

After a beat, she raised her eyes to Riley’s. “How long?”

Riley looked at her, confused. “How long what?”

Julianne moved the photographs away without looking down. “How long before you stopped seeing their lifeless faces in your sleep?”

Riley nodded. She knew exactly what the woman meant. “I’ll let you know when it happens,” Riley told her. And then she smiled. “The trick is to fill your life up so that there’s no time to think about them that way. And to find the killer,” she added with feeling, “so that they—and you—can rest in peace.” Riley glanced at her watch. It was after five. “Shift’s over. Would you like to go and get a drink?”

While she appreciated the offer, getting a drink held no allure for her. Her father had been an alcoholic, dead before his time. Her uncle, Mary’s father, while not an alcoholic, was a mean drunk when he did imbibe.

Julianne shook her head. “I don’t drink.”

“Doesn’t have to be alcohol,” Riley told her. “They serve ginger ale there. And coffee.” It was obvious that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer easily. “I just think you need to unwind a little. And it wouldn’t hurt to mingle,” she added. “Might make the rest of this experience tolerable for you.”

What would make the experience tolerable would be finally finding Mary, but, having kept everything to herself for most of her life, she wasn’t ready to share that just yet. For a moment, Julianne debated her answer. Turning Riley down would make her seem standoffish and she didn’t want to generate any hard feelings beyond the ones Frank seemed to be harboring.

“All right.” She rose, closing her desk drawer. “I’ll follow you.”

“Great.” Riley grinned, moving over to her desk to grab her purse. “I’ll drive slow.”

“No need. I can keep up,” Julianne told her.

Riley nodded. “I bet you can.”

Rafferty’s was more a tavern than an actual bar. While it was true that on most nights, members of the Aurora police force went there to unwind and shed some of their more haunting demons before going home to their families, the establishment just as readily welcomed spouses and their children. In many cases it was a home away from home for detectives and patrol officers alike.

And Rafferty’s was also where, on any given evening, at least several members of the Cavanaugh family could be found.

This particular evening there were more than a few Cavanaughs in the bar and Riley made a point of introducing Julianne to all of them, as well as her older brother, Zack.

“Taylor’s probably out on a date,” Riley told her matter-of-factly, carrying a mug of beer and an individual bottle of ginger ale over to the small table she’d staked out for the two of them as soon as they’d walked in.

Julianne took a seat, accepting the ginger ale. Riley had refused to let her pay. “Taylor?”

“My sister.” Riley sat down opposite her. “She’s the social butterfly of the family. Like Frank,” she tagged on as an afterthought. “Or he was until he got assigned to this case.”

After having met the man, it was hard for Julianne to picture Frank McIntyre as anything but solemn. Except for that one instance, he hadn’t smiled during the course of the day, not even when the smaller of the two detectives, Sanchez, had made a joke.

Keeping her observation to herself, Julianne scanned the crowded room. As she recognized faces, it struck her that she’d been introduced to more people than she’d realized.

“And you’re related to these people?” she asked Riley, slightly in awe as the fact sank in.

Riley nodded, taking a sip of her beer before answering. “Through marriage,” she qualified, although she’d gotten to know a great many of them from day-to-day interaction ever since she joined the police force. “My mother is married to the chief of detectives, Brian Cavanaugh. Real good guy,” she said with a wide, approving smile. Brian was the man her mother was meant to have married. He treated her far better than the man who had fathered all four of her children. Brian Cavanaugh was the man she herself had always pretended was her father, when times became rocky. “They used to be partners back when they were on patrol.”

Julianne looked at her in surprise. “Your mother was on the job, too?” This police department really was a family affair, she thought. It made her feel even more of an outsider than usual.

“Yes. Almost everyone I know is on the job,” Riley told her.

It was on the tip of Riley’s tongue to mention her late father, but since his career ended in disgrace, she decided not to go into something she didn’t really want to talk about. Besides, if Julianne remained on the task force long enough, she was pretty sure the woman would hear about it from one source or another. Facts had come to light not all that long ago about how her father had faked his own death and bided his time to come back for the money he’d stolen from drug runners. That wasn’t something to discuss with a stranger.

“My father made her quit the force after she was shot—”

“Shot?” Julianne echoed.

Riley nodded. The story was so much a part of her life, sometimes she forgot that not everyone knew about it. “While on the job. Brian saved her. Stopped the blood with his own hands and all but willed the life back into her as he waited for the paramedics.”

“I can see why your father wanted her to quit.”

He had pressured her mother to leave the force because he was jealous of Brian, not because he feared for her life, but Riley kept that to herself as well.

“Being off the force didn’t suit her. Being a law-en-forcement officer was in her blood so, once Frank was in high school, she got back into it. To keep peace in the family, she took a desk job, but she figured that was better than nothing.” She took another sip, then added, “I guess you just can’t keep a good cop down.”

Julianne heard the pride in Riley McIntyre’s voice and a trace of envy surfaced.

What was that like, she wondered, being proud of your parents? Of what they’d done and were doing, and the effect all that had on the lives of other people? She would have given anything to experience that.

But there was no sense in wishing. Those weren’t the cards that fate had dealt her and she’d already made her peace with that years back.

There’d been no other choice, really, except maybe to wind up the way her father had. But she absolutely refused to go down that road and let that happen. Pride wouldn’t allow her to.

“How’s it going?”

The deep, baritone voice asking the question came from behind her. Rather certain the question wasn’t directed at her, Julianne still turned around in her chair to see who was doing the asking. She found herself looking up at yet another law-enforcement officer. He wasn’t in uniform, but there was just an air about that man that fairly shouted: authority. He was older and had a kind, intelligent face, not to mention a handsome one. He also had the ability to take over a room the moment he entered.

She guessed his identity a second before he told her.

Smiling, Brian extended his hand to her. “Brian Cavanaugh,” he said easily, as if he was just another cop on the force rather than the chief of detectives. Julianne started to get up out of respect for the man and his rank, but he waved her back into her seat. “No need for that,” he told her. “I stopped by the task force and Sanchez told me that Riley was bringing you here for a quick orientation session,” he laughed.

His deep blue eyes scanned the room quickly. “They’re a bit overwhelming at first,” he agreed. “But they grow on you.” He turned his eyes on her again. “Glad to have you aboard for the ride.”

Something about the man made her feel comfortable. As much as she was able to be.

“Glad someone is.” The words came out before she could tamp them down. Living off the reservation had made her lax, she upbraided herself.

“Don’t let Frank get to you,” Riley said. “He’s channeled all his usual enthusiasm into solving the case and I know he can come on strong sometimes, but there’s the heart of a puppy underneath,” she guaranteed. Turning around, she saw the door opening. “Speak of the devil.”

“Riley,” Brian laughed, “that’s no way to talk about your brother.”

“No offense, Brian, but you don’t know him like I do.” And then she winked at Julianne, as if they shared a secret.

Julianne wondered what it meant. Before she could make a comment or frame a question, she saw that Frank was crossing the room.

And coming straight toward them.

All her natural defenses instantly rose.

Chapter 3

Riley dramatically placed her hand to her chest, like a heroine in a 1950s melodrama, feigning shock.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here, mingling with the masses,” she said to her brother as Frank approached their table.

Frank spared her a slight, reproving frown. He was bone tired and desperately in need of unwinding. “Give it a rest, Riley. This is after hours.”

Stealing an empty chair from the next table, he pulled it over to the one occupied by his sister and Julianne. He straddled the chair and folded his arms over the back.

Raising his hand, he made eye contact with the bartender and nodded. The barkeep took a mug and filled it with beer on tap and handed it to the lone waitress working the floor. Only then did Frank look at the detective from Mission Ridge and ask, “Mind if I join you?”

“No, I don’t mind,” she answered crisply. “I was on my way out, anyway.” Rising from her chair, she nodded at Riley. “Thanks for the ginger ale and the introductions.”

“Don’t mention it,” Riley replied, doing her best to hide her amusement.

“I’ll walk you out,” Brian volunteered, then told his stepchildren, “I promised your mother I’d be home early tonight. I just wanted to stop by and see how the new detective was doing.” And then he smiled at Julianne. “From the looks of it, I’d say she’s doing just fine.”

Not accustomed to compliments, Julianne murmured a barely audible, “Thanks,” before turning on her heel and heading for the front door.

Brian was right beside her.

“Well, that’s a first,” Riley said the moment she judged that Julianne was out of earshot. She looked at her brother with no small amazement. “I don’t think I ever saw a woman go out of her way to get away from you before.”

Frank handed the waitress a five and then picked up the mug she’d placed on the table in front of him. He shrugged, dismissing the incident. “She said she was leaving anyway.”

“She only said that after you sat down,” Riley pointed out. The waitress cleared away Julianne’s ginger ale and made her way back to the bar. “Face it, Frank, you’re losing your charm.”

Frank eyed his sister over the rim of his mug. “I’m also losing my patience with smart-alecky sisters.” He took a long sip, then added, “If you weren’t so damn good at your job, Riley, I’d have you taken off the task force.”

To which Riley merely shook her head, as if at a loss whether to pity him or hand his head to him. “Careful, Frank, this job is turning you sour.” And then she leaned in, her expression becoming more serious. “Really, Frank, lighten up a little. You’re trying too damn hard.”

They had a difference of opinion there. He’d had the case for over a month and in that time, they’d compiled nothing but data. Data and no viable suspects. And he had an uneasy feeling they were running out of time.

“Way I see it, I’m not trying hard enough.” His expression turned grim. “The killer’s still out there somewhere, daring us to catch him. Every second he’s out there is a second less the next victim has.”

“We’ll get him,” Riley said confidently. “You’ll get him,” she emphasized. It wasn’t often that she told him she thought he was good. But he was. “Just don’t alienate everyone else while you’re doing it.”

Rising, he turned his chair around so that he could sit in it properly. He sighed and picked up the mug again. Another long sip didn’t change anything. “Sometimes I think I’m in over my head.”

“We all are.” Riley laughed shortly. “This is where the dog paddle comes in really handy. We’re all just treading water until the killer makes a mistake. When he does, we’ve got him.”

The shrug was careless. He didn’t know if he bought into that philosophy. So far, the killer had been anything but careless. It was as if he was a ghost, depositing lifeless bodies into Dumpsters. Six in all, counting the one in Mission Ridge, and nobody had seen him.

To get his mind off the case, Frank changed the subject. “So, did you learn anything about the detective from Mission Ridge?” he asked, doing his best to sound offhanded.

Riley slanted a glance at her brother’s face. There was interest there, she’d bet a month’s pay on it. Personal probably although he’d try to keep it professional.

“Not a thing, except that she’s thorough.” The woman had studied the files without getting up from her desk all afternoon. “But she’s not exactly chatty.”

“Yeah, well, that might be a nice change,” he speculated, looking at her deliberately.

Riley swatted him.

“Hey,” he warned, pulling his head back. “You’re not supposed to hit your superior.”

“We’re off duty, remember?” Riley countered. “You’ve got to learn how to turn it off, little brother, or it’ll take you apart.”

Frank said nothing to confirm or deny the wisdom of her words. Instead, he just took another sip of his beer and thought about the woman fate—and his stepfather—had brought into his life.

Julianne could have driven back home. “Home” was only about forty-two miles away. But in the interest of time, Julianne had decided to rent a room in a hotel close to the police headquarters.

Taking the suitcase she’d thrown together last night out of the trunk of her car, she walked into the Aurora Hotel, a wide, three-story building that, from the outside, resembled one of those 24/7 gyms that had become the rage.

The decor inside could have used a little modernizing and upgrading. But in comparison to what she’d lived with when she was growing up, it was on par with the Taj Mahal.

The lobby was empty. No one sat in the five chairs scattered about, their gray color all but fading into the equally gray rug. The bored, sleepy-eyed desk clerk came to life as she approached the front desk, obviously grateful for any diversion that would make this long, drawn-out evening move a little faster to its conclusion.

Ten minutes later, with her keycard in her hand, Julianne got out on the third floor and walked to her room. As uninspired as the lobby, it at least gave the semblance of cleanliness, which was all she required. Setting her suitcase down by the pressboard writing desk, she didn’t bother unpacking. There was time enough for that later.

Right now, she had a job to do, which was the real reason she hadn’t balked at being loaned out to an adjacent police department. She had streets to drive up and down, people to question and show the picture she carried with her at all times.

Throwing some water into her face, Julianne was ready. Dinner would be fast food. She didn’t care what; it was just fuel anyway.

She wasn’t one to believe in miracles, but, as she’d said to Riley, she liked to think that she had an open mind about things. Silently, she challenged God to prove her wrong about miracles. Someone had told her that finding Mary would come under the heading of a miracle.

Mary.

Her cousin was out there somewhere because living on the street was preferable to living at home, subjected to nightly abuse at the hands of a father who didn’t deserve the name. “Monster” would have been a far more fitting title.

But he would never bother anyone again. Events had arranged themselves so that she could make that claim to Mary—when she found her—with certainty.

She hadn’t gone over to her uncle’s house to kill him even though she’d wished the man dead more than once. But when he’d come at her the way she knew in her heart that he had come at Mary time and again, she’d had no choice but to defend herself any way she could.

Julianne wasn’t even sure just how the knife had come into her hand. She only knew that when she’d told him she’d use it if he didn’t back off, her uncle had laughed at her. He’d mocked her, saying that she was just as cowardly as her father had been.

And then he’d told her what he’d do to her for daring to point the knife at him. She remembered her blood running cold. Remembered feeling almost paralyzing guilt for not having taken Mary with her before her cousin had been forced to run away.

Her uncle had lunged at her, knocking the knife from her hand and screaming obscenities at her. There’d been a struggle for possession of the weapon. They’d wrestled and though to this day she wasn’t certain how it happened, somehow the blade had wound up in his chest—up to the hilt.

Her first inclination had been to run. But she knew she could never outrun her own conscience, so she’d gone in to the captain without bothering to change her torn clothing. Numb, in shock, she’d told him the whole story.

People who lived in the vicinity knew the kind of man her uncle had been. In short order, Harry White Bear’s death was ruled self-defense, and she was free to go on with her life.

Her search for Mary began that day.

She wanted to bring her cousin home with her, the way she should have done right from the beginning instead of fleeing herself and leaving Mary behind. She’d left because her uncle had made advances, but she’d never, in her wildest dreams, thought that he would force himself on his own daughter.

That was when she still believed that there was some good in everyone.