Читать книгу: «Cavanaugh Pride»

Marie Ferrarella has written more than one hundred and fifty books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.

To Jacinta, who lights up Nik’s life and made him smile again.

Chapter 1

Detective Julianne White Bear didn’t want to be here. And she was sure the four detectives looking her way in the homicide squad room didn’t want her here. They weren’t openly hostile, but she knew resistance when she saw it.

She couldn’t blame them. She knew all about being territorial and, if the tables were turned, she would have felt exactly the same way.

But Captain Randolph had sent her here and she wasn’t about to argue with the man. Years before she joined the force, she had learned to pick her battles judiciously. When she did decide to dig in and fight, the very act carried an impact.

Besides, who knew? Maybe it was fate that brought her here. Maybe this was the place where she would finally find Mary. This was where her leads had brought her.

For a moment, Julianne silently scanned the small, crammed room, assessing its inhabitants. The lone woman looked to be about her age, maybe a couple of years older. She’d been talking to two men, both of whom had a number of years on her. The man off to the other side was younger.

He was also studying her.

She wondered which one of the detectives was in charge of the newly assembled task force and how long it would be before she butted heads with him—or her.

“Can I help you?” Detective Francis McIntyre, Frank to anyone who wanted to live to see another sunrise, asked the slender, dark-haired woman standing just inside the doorway.

His first thought was that a relative of one of the dead girls had finally shown up, but something about her had him dismissing the thought in the next moment. He couldn’t deny that he’d be relieved if she wasn’t. Though he’d been working homicide for a while now, breaking the dreaded news to people that their child, spouse, loved one was forever lost was something Frank knew he would never get used to.

Mentally taking a breath, Julianne crossed to the good-looking detective. A pretty boy, she thought. Probably used to making women weak in the knees. She didn’t get weak in the knees. Ever. She knew better.

“Actually, I’m here to help you.” Saying that, Julianne held out the folder she’d brought with her from Mission Ridge’s small, single-story precinct. She was acutely aware she was being weighed and measured by the tall, muscular dark-haired man with the intensely blue eyes. A glance toward the bulletin board indicated the others were following suit.

“You have some information about the killer?” Frank asked, looking at her curiously as he took the folder from her.

Was the woman a witness who’d finally decided to come forward? God knew they needed a break. Something didn’t quite gel for him. Most people who came forward, whether over the phone or in person, usually sounded a little uncomfortable and always agitated. This witness—if she was a witness—seemed very cool, very calm. And she’d obviously organized her thoughts enough to place them into a folder.

“No, those are my temporary transfer papers—plus all the information we have about our homicide.”

“‘Our’?” Frank repeated, flipping open the manila folder. He merely skimmed the pages without really reading anything. Three were official-looking papers from the human resources department from Mission Ridge, the rest had to do with a dead woman, complete with photographs. As if they didn’t have enough of their own.

“I’m from Mission Ridge,” she told him, pointing to the heading on the page he’d opened to. “Detective White Bear, Julianne.”

He frowned.

“I don’t know if we have any openings in the department,” he began. “And besides, I’m not the person to see about that—”

Julianne’s belief in the economy of words extended to the people who took up her time, talking. She cut him off. “It’s already been arranged. My captain talked to your chief of detectives,” she told him. “A Brian—”

“Cavanaugh, yes, I’m familiar with the name.”

Frank was more than familiar with the name and the man, seeing as how Brian Cavanaugh had been part of his life for a very long time, starting out as his mother’s squad car partner. Just recently the man had married Frank’s mother and made no secret of the fact that he was absorbing Frank, his brother, Zack, and two sisters, Taylor and Riley, detectives all, into what was by now the legendary Cavanaugh clan.

He would have expected a heads-up from Brian about this turn of events, not because he was his stepfather, but because Brian was his boss.

“And just why are you being transferred here?” he asked.

“Temporarily transferred.” Julianne emphasized the keyword, then pointed to the folder. “It’s all in there.”

Frank deliberately closed the folder and fixed this unusually reticent woman with a thoughtful look. “Give me the audio version.”

She smiled ever so slightly. “Don’t like to read?” she guessed.

“Don’t like curves being thrown at me.” And this one, he couldn’t help notice despite the fact that she was wearing a pantsuit, had some wicked curves as well as the straightest, blackest hair he’d ever seen and probably the most exotic face he’d come across in a long time. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” he suggested.

“I’m here because my captain and your chief of detectives seem to think that the body we found in Mission Ridge the other night is the work of your serial killer.”

Frank didn’t particularly like the woman’s inference that the killer was Aurora’s exclusive property. That placed the responsibility for the killing spree squarely on their shoulders—the squad’s and his.

Damn it, they should have been able to find the sick S.O.B. by now.

He was just being edgy, Frank upbraided himself. Edgy and overly tired. Ever since he had put two and two together and realized they had a full-fledged serial killer and had gotten his new stepfather to give him the go-ahead to put a task force together, he’d been working almost around the clock. As far as he was concerned, this was his task force and his killer to bring to justice. The fact that they were getting nowhere fast tended to rob him of his customary good humor.

“And why would they think that, White Bear, Julianne?” Frank asked, echoing the introduction she’d given.

Julianne didn’t even blink as she recited, “Because the woman was found strangled and left in a Dumpster. There was no evidence of any sexual activity.” To underscore what she was saying, she opened the folder he still held and turned toward the crime-scene photos. “That’s where your killer puts them, isn’t it? In a Dumpster?”

Both questions were rhetorical. Ever since Randolph had told her he was loaning her out to Aurora, she’d read everything she could get her hands on about the serial killer’s M.O. Lamentably, there hadn’t been much.

“He’s not my killer,” Frank corrected tersely.

“Sorry,” she apologized quietly. There was no emotion in her voice. “No disrespect intended.”

The blonde she’d first noticed standing by the bulletin board came forward, an easy smile on her lips. The first she’d seen since entering the room, Julianne noted.

“Don’t mind Frank. He gets a little testy if he can’t solve a crime in under forty-eight hours. To him life is one great big Rubik’s Cube, meant to be aligned in record time. I’m Riley McIntyre,” the woman told her, extending her hand. “This is my brother, Frank.” Riley nodded toward the two men she’d been talking with. They were still standing by the large bulletin board. Across the top of the bulletin board were photographs. Each one belonged to a different woman who had fallen victim to the Dumpster killer. There were five photographs, each heading its own column. “That’s Detective John Sanchez and Detective Lou Hill.” Each nodded in turn as Riley introduced them.

Julianne saw the flicker of interest in their eyes. Assessing the new kid.

How many times had that happened in her lifetime? she thought. Enough to make her immune to the process, or so she wanted to believe.

Julianne nodded politely toward the two detectives, then looked back at the smiling, petite blonde. Despite her manner, Julianne had a feeling the woman could handle herself quite well if it came down to that. “And which of you is in charge?” she wanted to know.

“That would be me,” Frank told her.

Of course it would, Julianne thought. She glanced at the folder he held. “Then maybe you’d like me to read that file to you?” she offered.

This one was going to be a handful, Frank thought. Just what he didn’t need right now. “Riley, get your new little playmate up to speed,” he instructed, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Riley asked, raising her voice.

Frank paused only to glance at her over his shoulder, giving his sister a look that said she should be bright enough to figure that out.

It was Julianne who was first to pick up on the meaning behind the expression. He was going to the chief of detectives, she would have bet a year’s pay on it—and she wasn’t one who gambled lightly.

“Before you go,” she called out to him, “you should know that I don’t want to be here as much as you don’t want me here.”

“Not possible,” was all he said as he exited the squad room.

“Don’t mind Frank,” Riley told her again. “He hasn’t learned how not to take each case he handles personally.” She led Julianne over to the bulletin board to bring her up to speed. “Don’t tell him I said so, but he’s really not a bad guy once you get to know him. Authority has made him a lot more serious than he usually is,” she explained. “He’s still working things out.”

Julianne had always believed that, up to a point, everyone was responsible for his or her life and the way things turned out. “If he’s not comfortable with it, why did he agree to be in charge?”

“Because Frank was the first one who made the connection between the latest victim and the other bodies.” She gestured toward the bulletin board. “Until then, they were on their way to becoming cold cases,” Riley told her. “C’mon, I’ll get you settled in first. This is a pretty nice place to work,” Riley assured her with feeling, a smile backing up her words.

Julianne glanced over her shoulder toward the doorway where Frank had disappeared. She supposed she couldn’t blame the man for being abrupt. She wasn’t exactly thrilled about all this, either. “I’m willing to be convinced.”

“An open mind,” Riley commented with a wide grin. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

Julianne thought of Mary and all the months she’d spent trying to find her seventeen-year-old cousin—afraid that when she did find her, it might be too late—if it wasn’t already.

“Yeah,” Julianne answered quietly, “actually, you can.”

The blonde spared her a curious look, but made no comment.

Frank knocked on Brian Cavanaugh’s door. “Got a minute?”

He’d waited outside the glass office, curbing his impatience, while his new stepfather had been on the phone. But the moment the chief of detectives had hung up, Frank popped his head in, attempted to snare an island of the man’s time before the phone rang again or someone walked in to interrupt them.

Brian smiled. This was an interruption he welcomed, even though he had a feeling he knew what it was about. He’d known Frank, boy and man, for almost as long as he’d known Lila and was proud of the way Frank and his siblings had turned out. They were all a credit to the department—as well as to their mother.

“For you? Always.” Brian beckoned his stepson in and gestured toward one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

About to demure, Frank changed his mind and sat down. He looked less confrontational sitting then standing, even if he preferred the latter.

“What’s up?” Brian asked.

Frank didn’t beat around the bush. “Did you assign a detective from Mission Ridge to my task force?”

Brian nodded. He’d guessed right, but he hadn’t expected to see Frank in his office for at least a day or so. Had he and White Bear locked horns already? Had to be some kind of a record.

“I meant to tell you, but then the mayor called with another one of his mini-emergencies. With the police chief out on medical leave, I get to wear more than one hat.” With the current mayor, however, it was more a case of constant placating and hand-holding. The mayor was highly agitated about the serial killer, afraid that if the man wasn’t captured soon, it would bring down his administration when elections came around in the fall. “Don’t know how Andrew took it for all those years,” he added, referring to his older brother, who before taking early retirement to raise his five children had been Aurora’s chief of police.

And then Brian took a closer look at Frank. If the young detective clenched his jaw any harder, his teeth would pop out.

“Why? Is something wrong? You did say you could use more of a staff.”

“Yes, but I meant someone from our homicide division.” He’d never thought someone from the outside would be brought in. He didn’t have time to integrate this woman. “Maybe Taylor, or—”

“Granted, we have the superior police department,” Brian agreed, tongue in cheek. Mission Ridge’s police department numbered twelve in all, but he’d been given White Bear’s record and found it exemplary. “But I thought, since the captain called from Mission Ridge and the killer’s M.O. was exactly the same as the serial killer we’re dealing with, that it wouldn’t hurt to bring in a fresh set of eyes.” That said, Brian leaned back in his chair to study his stepson. “Is there a problem?”

Other than feeling as if he was being invaded, no, Frank thought, there wasn’t a problem. At least, not yet. And then he replayed his own words in his head before speaking. He was coming across like some kind of grumpy malcontent.

Leaning back, Frank blew out a breath and then shook his head. “No, I guess I just would have liked a heads-up.”

“Sorry I couldn’t give you one,” Brian apologized, then added, “I’m sure that the dead women would have liked to have been given a heads-up that they were about to become the serial killer’s next victims.”

“Point taken,” Frank murmured. Brian was right. Nothing really mattered except clearing this case and getting that damn serial killer off the streets before he killed again. If bringing in some detective from a nearby town accomplished that, so be it. And then, because it was Brian, the man who used to bring him and his siblings toys when they were little, the man who he’d secretly wished was his father when he was growing up, Frank let down his guard and told him what was really bothering him. “I just thought that maybe you thought—”

“If I didn’t think you were up to the job, Frank, I wouldn’t have let you head up the task force,” Brian informed him. “My marrying your mother has nothing to do with what I think of you as a law-enforcement officer. And if I have something to say about your performance, I won’t resort to charades—or to undermining your authority. You know me better than that,” he emphasized.

“Yeah, I do,” Frank agreed, feeling just a little foolish for this flash of insecurity. This, too, was new to him. Self-confidence was normally something he took for granted.

“I hear that White Bear’s good,” Brian continued. “Maybe what she has to contribute might help you to wind up this case.”

If only, Frank thought. Out loud, he said, “Maybe,” and stood up, turning toward the door. He’d wasted enough of the chief’s time.

“Frank?” Brian called after him.

Frank stopped and looked at the man over his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

“Go home at a reasonable hour tonight,” Brian instructed. “Get some sleep. You’re no good to me—or anyone else—dead on your feet.”

Frank turned to face him again. “I’m not dead on my feet,” he protested.

They both knew he was, but Brian inclined his head, allowing the younger man the benefit of the charade. “Almost dead on your feet.”

The last thing he wanted was preferential treatment. There’d already been some talk making the rounds about that. Since his mother had married Brian, there’d been rumors sparked by jealousy. He was beginning to have new respect for what the younger Cavanaughs had to put up with, working on the force.

“Just one thing.” He saw Brian raise a quizzical brow. “Are you speaking as the chief of detectives, or as my new stepfather?”

Brian was not quick to answer. “Now that you mention it, both,” he finally said, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “And if you don’t comply, I’ll tell your mother.” He punctuated his threat with a grin.

“Message received, loud and clear.” For the first time in two days, Frank McIntyre grinned.

“And if you get a chance,” Brian added just before his stepson went out the door, “Andrew would like to see you at breakfast tomorrow.”

Everyone knew about Andrew Cavanaugh’s breakfasts. More food moved from the former chief of police’s stove to the table he’d had specially built than the ordinary high-traffic restaurant. The family patriarch welcomed not just his immediate family, but his nieces and nephews and their significant others as well. There was no such thing as too many people at his table and, like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, Andrew never seemed to run out of food no matter how many people turned up at his door.

“If I get the time,” Frank answered.

“Make the time,” Brian replied. There was no arguing with his tone.

“Is that an order, sir?”

At which point, Brian smiled. “That’s just a friendly suggestion. You really wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Andrew.”

It was an empty threat. Even though everyone knew that in his day, Andrew Cavanaugh was a formidable policeman, when it came to matters concerning his family, Andrew always led with his heart. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Frank promised.

“You do that, Frank. You do that. And don’t forget to tell me what you think of this White Bear—once you give her a chance,” he added knowingly.

Frank nodded. “Will do.”

He still wasn’t all that happy as he went back to the cubbyhole that served as the task force’s work area. Becoming integrated into the Cavanaugh family was enough of an adjustment without having some outsider suddenly thrust upon him. It was the last thing he needed.

At any other time, he thought, pausing in the doorway and quietly observing the newest addition to his task force, he would have welcomed someone who looked like Julianne. The woman was a head-turner, no doubt about that. But he was in charge of the task force and that changed the rules.

He’d never much liked rules, Frank thought with an inward sigh, but there was no arguing the fact that he was bound by them.

Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the room.

Chapter 2

“So, did Riley get you all caught up?” Frank asked as he came up behind Julianne.

Five victims were on the board, five women from essentially two different walks of life who, at first glance, didn’t appear to have anything in common. If there was a prayer of solving this case and bringing down the serial killer, each victim would require more than just a glance. More like an examination under a microscope. No way could she have even scratched the surface in the amount of time that he’d been gone.

Was he testing her?

“She gave me a thumbnail sketch of each victim,” Julianne answered guardedly, watching his face for an indication of his thoughts. “It’s going to take me a while to actually get caught up.” She pulled a folder out from the bottom of the pile of files she’d been given and placed it on top. “While I’m at it, you might want to go over Millie Klein.”

The name was unfamiliar to him. “Millie Klein?” he repeated.

“The woman found in the Dumpster in Mission Ridge,” Julianne elaborated.

She leaned back in her chair as last Tuesday came rushing back at her. The woman, an estate planning lawyer, had been her first dead body. When she closed her eyes, Julianne could still see the grayish, lifeless body half buried in garbage, her bloodshot eyes open wide and reflecting surprise and horror.

“It looks like your guy was off on a field trip when he had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to kill another woman,” she speculated.

“That the way you see it?” Frank asked. Crossing his arms before him, he leaned back and perched on a corner of the desk that Riley had cleared off for the Mission Ridge detective.

McIntyre studied her more intently than was warranted, Julianne thought.

Stare all you want, I’m not leaving.

“Right now, yes,” she said flatly. “There’s no other reason for him to have strayed from his home ground. Plenty of ‘game’ for him right here.” She’d already gotten a list of clients that Millie had seen that week she was murdered, but so far, everyone had checked out. And every one of them lived in Mission Ridge.

“Maybe it’s not the serial killer.” He studied her face to see if she was open to the idea—and caught himself thinking she had the most magnificent cheekbones he’d ever seen. “People have been found in Dumpsters before this serial killer started his spree.”

“Not in Mission Ridge,” she informed him. “We don’t have a homicide division in Mission Ridge. Stealing more than one lawn gnome is considered a major crime spree. It’s a very peaceful place,” she concluded.

Frank’s eyes narrowed. He’d been laboring under a basic misunderstanding. “Then you’re not a homicide detective?”

“I’m an all-around detective,” she answered succinctly. Then, in case he had his doubts and was already labeling her a hick on top of what he probably perceived as her other shortcomings, she was quick to assure him, “Don’t worry, I won’t get in your way.”

It didn’t make any sense. Why would they send over someone with no experience? And why had Brian agreed to this? “If you don’t mind my asking, why were you sent here?”

That, at least, was an easy enough question to answer. “Because Captain Randolph isn’t the kind of man who sweeps things under the rug, or just lets other people do his work for him. This is kind of personal.”

Riley walked by just then and without breaking her stride, or saying a word to her brother, dropped off one of the two cans of soda she’d just gotten from the vending machine, placing it on Julianne’s desk. Julianne smiled her thanks as she continued.

“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?”