Cavanaugh Standoff
Cavanaugh Standoff
Marie Ferrarella
For homicide detective Ronan Cavanaugh O'Bannon, this time it's personal…and totally baffling! The body of a police friend is found executed in the same manner as rival gang members. There's no progress in finding Aurora's serial killer…until Sierra Carlyle joins the team.The perky young newbie is as chatty and extroverted as Ronan is taciturn and closed off. Frankly, she irritates him, but she's a brilliant, relentless investigator. Working together, facing danger, Sierra's warmth begins to thaw Ronan's iciness. But acting on their undeniable attraction proves unwise now. There's a killer to find and stop…before he sets his sights on a Cavanaugh!
The Cavanaughs are back to doing what they do best—fighting crime—in this electrifying new novel by USA TODAY bestselling author Marie Ferrarella!
For homicide detective Ronan Cavanaugh O’Bannon, this time it’s personal…and totally baffling! The body of a police friend is found executed in the same manner as rival gang members. There’s no progress in finding Aurora’s serial killer…until Sierra Carlyle joins the team.
The perky young newbie is as chatty and extroverted as Ronan is taciturn and closed off. Frankly, she irritates him, but she’s a brilliant, relentless investigator. Working together, facing danger, Sierra’s warmth begins to thaw Ronan’s iciness. But acting on their undeniable attraction proves unwise now. There’s a killer to find and stop…before he sets his sights on a Cavanaugh!
“I’m not heartless,” he informed her.
“I just don’t allow emotions to get in the way, and I don’t believe in using more words than are absolutely necessary,” he added pointedly since he knew that seemed to bother her.
“Well, lucky for you, I do,” she told him with what amounted to the beginning of a smile. “I guess that’s what’ll make us such good partners.”
He looked at her, stunned. He viewed them as being like oil and water—never being able to mix. “Is that your take on this?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes,” she answered cheerfully.
The fact that she appeared to have what one of his brothers would have labeled a killer smile notwithstanding, Ronan just shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, you’ll get to believe it soon enough,” she told him.
Cavanaugh Standoff
Marie Ferrarella
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author MARIE FERRARELLA has written more than two hundred and fifty books for Mills & Boon, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website, www.marieferrarella.com (http://www.marieferrarella.com).
To
Adelynn Marie Melgar
Welcome to the World
Little One
Contents
Cover (#u7379d250-bf99-5e20-9224-be6f0ee06c38)
Back Cover Text (#u96f992e7-b3d1-5032-b845-b8ade2d121c3)
Introduction (#u243482ad-6457-5c29-94c0-4cb5ae529d12)
Title Page (#u6ddd4f49-8944-5cb9-a37c-fcccaf82bc16)
About the Author (#u623c2b11-9a9f-50a5-bc30-c332ed044c0e)
Dedication (#u83bd265b-047c-590d-ab1d-16d90aa3b746)
Prologue (#u00c5decb-b548-5646-a210-40a2960de781)
Chapter One (#u0a0afabb-b564-539c-8ff8-631819d5fea1)
Chapter Two (#u8d241c12-c9e2-5008-98b0-4315f71fa515)
Chapter Three (#u7bbf5a31-4db1-559d-b1e1-80f5018126ca)
Chapter Four (#u453f5da5-4aff-52a2-a60c-2555abfa7ae6)
Chapter Five (#u03151ad6-585a-5e1b-afb2-3e5fc6d07f60)
Chapter Six (#ud05c2bc6-65c4-59e1-a3b8-6ee937cb3d04)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
The first kill had been easy.
All it had taken was a sense of detachment—and that had been there, hovering like a dark specter, growing closer and closer for the last two years.
Detachment had been the only way to survive ever since it had happened.
“It.” The event that had turned the world completely upside down, draining everyday life of all happiness, of what made life worthwhile. The event that had left nothing but a pile of ashes in its wake.
Placing the gun barrel up against that worthless scum’s head and then firing, had brought with it an unexpected, tremendous release of pent-up anger.
And just as unexpectedly, it had caused a sense of purpose to return to the emptiness loosely termed as “life.”
The first kill had originated from a chance encounter. After that, a plan had been born. A plan that had required a great deal of careful research, coordination and, above all, meticulous timing. But every risk, every dangerous moment, was ultimately so worth it.
And now? Now, finally, the end of the road was within sight.
Five bodies down, four to go. This would take more planning because they were on their guard now. But it didn’t matter.
However long it took, they were going to die.
Every single one of them!
The target had already been chosen, his day-to-day movements committed to memory. Just like the others.
If a conscience had been involved, it had long since been numbed into nonexistence.
Four more to go.
The words hummed like an enticing siren song. Four more people to kill and the score would finally be even.
Four more and then maybe, just maybe, life could begin to get back to normal.
And if not—and there was a big possibility that it wouldn’t—well, those evil, cold-blooded bastards all had it coming. Their deaths would be no loss to the world because they all dealt in death as if it was of no great consequence. With all of them wiped from the face of the earth, maybe someone else would go on living rather than have their life snuffed out as if they didn’t matter.
Maybe the self-righteous defenders of the public safety would even see it as a public service. Because that was what it was.
A public service.
A public that would be a little safer once those people were all dead.
And maybe, just maybe, sleep would finally return, bringing with it some measure of peace.
Peace, after two years.
Finally.
At least, there was a sliver of hope that it would. Something that had been missing all these many long months.
Chapter One (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“Heads up, O’Bannon, your serial killer’s body count just went up by one.”
The declaration came from the Homicide Department’s lieutenant, Jacob Carver, as he came out of his office and walked toward the lead detective assigned to the unusual case.
A twenty-three-year-old veteran of the Aurora Police Department, the lieutenant had a Countdown-to-Retirement calendar prominently displayed on his wall. It was the first thing anyone saw entering his office. The second thing they noticed was the pile of travel brochures amassed on his desk, a pile that seemed to increase weekly.
But any hope the lieutenant had of having the time until his retirement go by quietly had evaporated with the advent of multiple murders—executions, actually—that pointed to a serial killer having invading the northern perimeter of their normally peaceful city.
Ronan Cavanaugh O’Bannon frowned. “Are they sure the body is courtesy of our serial killer?” he asked.
If it was the work of the serial killer who was selectively eliminating members of not just one gang but two, that brought the body count up to a frustrating five. Maybe this time the killer had gotten sloppy and left behind something that could be construed as a clue.
“One bullet to the back of the head, execution style, and, according to the first officer on the scene, the guy’s right hand was cut off,” Carver recited.
“Yup, sounds like our boy,” Detective Sebastian Choi, also assigned to the case, agreed. He shuddered. “Lot of anger there.”
“So you still like the theory you came up with?” Carver asked, sounding rather skeptical. He looked from Choi to O’Bannon, to Nick Martinez, Choi’s partner and also assigned to the case. “That it’s just gang retaliation, with one gang attacking another to even the score?”
“It could still be that,” Ronan allowed, the note of certainty missing from his low, deep voice. His frown deepened. “But according to the ME reports on the other four victims, all the killings were done exactly the same way. That points to one killer, not a mixed bag of executioners, the way we first thought.”
Carver’s gaze was unwavering as he looked at his lead detective. “Is that your gut talking?”
It was hard to miss the sarcasm but Ronan wasn’t the type to be intimidated. He was long past something like that. “It’s a family thing,” was all he said.
The lieutenant sighed, clearly impatient. Everyone knew what it looked like to retire with something of this magnitude left unsolved on his record. It was tantamount to a black mark. He needed this solved. Yesterday. “And that’s as far as you’ve gotten in the investigation?”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, Loo,” Ronan replied quietly.
“No,” Carver agreed. “But it was demolished and fell apart pretty quickly.”
“What’s the big deal?” John Deeks, one of the squad room detectives who was eavesdropping, asked. “I mean, as long as these so-called gang members are only doing away with one another, that means there’s less of them to turn on the decent residents of their own cities, much less Aurora. Everyone remembers that drive-by shoot-out just within the city limits two years ago. Maybe this’ll teach them to keep away.”
Ronan turned his chair in Deeks’ direction. “Our job is to catch killers regardless of who they kill,” he informed the detective coldly.
“Yeah, they don’t pay us enough to pass judgment on the lifestyle and character of the victim,” Choi spoke up, joining in.
Deeks raised and then dropped his wide, sloping shoulders, retreating. “I’m just saying...”
Ronan leveled a steely gaze at the other man. “Everyone knows exactly what you’re saying.”
“Hey, back to your corners, everybody,” Carver ordered sharply. “I want to see this kind of energy out in the field, not here.” He turned his attention to Ronan and got down to the other reason he’d come out of his office rather than summon the detective in to see him. “Since the body count is up to five, I’m thinking maybe you need a little extra help.”
Ronan’s expression darkened just a shade. He had Choi and Martinez working with him. He didn’t want any “extra” help. Nor did he like what was being inferred. That he couldn’t do the job.
“We’ll get him,” he told Carver with the sort of finality that was known to end discussions.
Another man might have backed off, but dark looks and growled responses had no effect on Carver. In general, that was his domain. “I know you will.”
Whether that was meant to be patronizing or it was actually an honest statement was anyone’s guess, Ronan thought. But an inner voice told him to brace himself.
He watched as Carver turned, glanced over his shoulder to the far end of the squad room and then beckoned. “Carlyle, mind coming over here?” It was not a question but a civilly worded command.
Having been forewarned a few minutes earlier by Carver as to what the lieutenant proposed to have happen, Detective Sierra Carlyle was on her feet as soon as he uttered her name.
Aware that more than one set of eyes was on her, she wove her way between the desks that littered the squad room until she reached Carver.
Although she didn’t make eye contact with Ronan, she was instinctively aware of the fact that he appeared to be glaring at her. Well, she thought, this hadn’t been her choice, but now that it had been made, she intended to go along with it to the best of her ability. Her job was to follow a superior’s orders whenever possible, not to buck them.
With an acknowledging nod in her direction, Carver turned back to the man he’d selected to head the current investigation.
“Okay, O’Bannon,” Carver announced, “as of right now, consider Detective Carlyle part of your team.”
Ronan did not look pleased. “I don’t get a say in this?” he asked, his voice all but rumbling from deep within the caverns of his chest.
“Sure you do,” Carver loftily answered the younger man. “You get to say yes.” The lieutenant glanced around at the team, now increased by one. “You take that empty desk,” he told Sierra, pointing to the one butted up against O’Bannon’s. “Any other questions?” When no one said anything in response, Carver nodded, satisfied. “Didn’t think so.”
Placing the piece of notepaper he was holding with the current crime scene’s address on Ronan’s desk, he stepped back.
“All right, that’s the location of your newest dead body,” he told Ronan. “A drunk patron of the Shamrock Inn tripped over the body while apparently trying to duck out the back way to avoid paying his tab.” Carver laughed under his breath. “Seeing that body lying there was definitely enough to scare him sober,” he commented. He spared one last glance at the now team of four. “Okay. Do me proud. Solve this damn thing before it gets completely out of hand.”
“You ask me, it’s already out of hand,” Choi murmured under his breath the moment the lieutenant left the scene. Turning his attention to the detective who had just been added to their team, the father of three smiled broadly at her. “You can ride with me to the crime scene.”
Nick Martinez instantly came to attention. He moved in to flank Sierra’s other side. “If you want to arrive there in one piece, Carlyle, you can ride with me,” he offered.
Choi appeared annoyed at the inference. “Hey, what’s wrong with the way I drive?”
Martinez gave the other man a look that quipped, “Really?” Out loud he said, “Can’t go into it now. It would take too long and we’ve got to get to the crime scene.”
Ronan turned from his desk, his dark green eyes washing over the two men he’d been working with for a couple of months now. And then he looked at the woman Carver had added to the mix without so much as a warning—as if the situation wasn’t already difficult enough.
“You’re coming with me before these two jokers decide to play tug-of-war with you.” There wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice as he made the pronouncement.
The last thing Sierra wanted to do was appear to take sides in what she perceived to be some sort of unspoken power struggle.
“If you give me the address,” she told Ronan, who had already slipped the paper Carver had given him into his pocket, “I can drive there myself.”
“Good to know,” Ronan answered drily, making no move to take the paper out of his pocket and show her the address.
O’Bannon had just given her what amounted to a non-answer in her book. And now he was walking out of the squad room. Biting back a comment, she forced herself to hurry to keep up. Martinez and Choi were right behind her.
“So do you want me to drive myself over to the scene of the crime or not?” Sierra asked.
“Not,” Ronan answered, pressing for the elevator.
The elevator arrived the second he took his index finger off the down button. Ronan walked into the empty car and was quickly followed by the other three members of his team.
“Not very talkative, are you?” Sierra said, moving so that she was standing right next to him.
“Pet rocks have been known to talk more than O’Bannon does,” Choi told her. Both he and Martinez were behind her and the lead detective.
Not to be left out, Martinez assured her, “You’ll get used to it.”
Sierra slanted a look at the man to her right. He seemed oblivious to the conversation around him, although she couldn’t see how he didn’t hear them.
“I really doubt it,” she answered Martinez with sincerity.
The elevator doors parted on the first floor. Ronan spared her a glance just before he got off. He had one word for her.
“Try.”
And then he took off again, making her hurry if she wanted to keep up. At about a foot taller than she was, O’Bannon’s stride was a good deal wider than hers.
“Or,” she suggested, determined to keep pace, “you could try using sentences containing more than just one word.”
Ronan made no attempt to answer her. He continued walking toward the rear exit and then made his way through the parking lot until he came to where he had parked his vehicle. Only after he released the door locks did he turn toward the other two detectives who’d kept pace with him. He told them the address he’d been given by Carver.
“Got it,” Martinez said, nodding. It was a given that he was driving the other car. “We’ll be right behind you.”
It was unclear, at least to Sierra, whether the other detective had said that to O’Bannon or to her in an effort to let her know she wouldn’t be alone with their wooden leader.
Getting into the passenger side of O’Bannon’s car, Sierra buckled up. The second she secured her seat belt, O’Bannon took off.
Doing her best to relax, Sierra waited for him to say something.
But after they had gone two city blocks in complete silence, she realized that this was the way it was going to be, at least until they reached the scene of the murder. While she didn’t expect the detective to engage in rambling chatter, this “silent treatment” or whatever it was, was totally unacceptable to her.
“You know, it is all right to talk,” she told him, trying to sound cheerful. Unable to “get in his face,” she leaned forward and did the best she could by peering at his profile.
Aware that she had assumed a very unusual position, Ronan waited until he had driven through the intersection before he finally responded to her statement.
“Why?”
“Because,” she began patiently, “that’s what people do, especially when they’re thrown together in a situation that was not of their own choosing—like now,” she stressed. “They talk.”
Accelerating just a little, Ronan drove through the next intersection a shade before the light turned yellow. “I don’t.”
“Maybe you should,” she countered. She saw him turn his head slightly, as if to look at her, and then apparently he changed his mind. She began to feel as if she was dealing with a robot. Nevertheless, Sierra pushed on. “I’m sure you have something to say,” she told him, knowing she was setting herself up, but it was better than this feeling of being in exile.
“I’m thinking,” he informed her.
“Think out loud,” she suggested.
He obviously hadn’t expected that. “What?”
“Think out loud,” she repeated. “I know you’re not thrilled with this but, for better or worse, Carver made us partners for this case and partners use each other for sounding boards. That only works if they talk out loud because, despite what my brothers seem to think, I am not a mind reader.” She took a breath and waited. When Ronan still made no response, she told him a bit more forcefully, “So talk to me.”
Rather than comment on the case they were undertaking, Ronan contradicted what she’d said earlier. “We’re not partners.”
Caught off guard, she looked at him in surprise. “What?”
“You said Carver made us partners,” he said. “He didn’t. He put you on my team. There’s a difference,” he informed her.
Smiling, she said, “Now, was that so hard?”
Because she wasn’t responding to what he’d just told her, Ronan was momentarily confused. “What?”
Sierra spelled it out for him. “Talking. You talked in a full sentence. Several of them, actually. So my point is—was that so hard?”
He didn’t answer her question. Instead, Ronan announced, “We’re here,” as he brought his vehicle to a stop at the curb, parking it several lengths in front of a club named the Shamrock Inn.
The tavern had originally been considered to be in Tesla, the city neighboring Aurora. But somewhere along the line, someone had redrawn Aurora’s boundaries, placing the establishment partially over the city limits, leaving it in both jurisdictions.
A cartoon leprechaun was whimsically winking on the sign proclaiming the tavern’s name just above the door. What might have once been regarded mildly amusing in the dark of night now just looked sad in the light of day, Sierra thought, walking up to the squat building.
She expected Ronan to go in through the front door but he didn’t. Wordlessly, he circled the small tavern with its peeling paint and walked toward the alley behind the Shamrock Inn.
Suppressing a sigh, Sierra stepped up her pace again and quickly followed him.
Once in the alley, she saw that the Crime Scene Investigative Unit had reached the area ahead of them. Three investigators, including the head of the unit, Sean Cavanaugh, Ronan’s uncle, were spread out documenting the crime scene. The medical examiner was also there, his attention strictly focused on the victim lying facedown in the alley.
Sean looked up the moment he heard the detectives arrive in the alley. A tall, distinguished-looking man with a genial way about him, he waited until his nephew reached him before saying anything.
“Looks like your killer got another one,” he said grimly.
Ronan nodded as he assessed the lifeless victim. Like the others, the man had a single gunshot to the back of the head. Blood partially covered the tattoo at the nape of his neck. And, like the other victims, one of the man’s hands had been completely—and cleanly—hacked off.
Ronan looked at his uncle. “How long has he been dead?”
Sean pointed to the back of the tavern where a thin man of about forty or so was leaning against the wall, looking as if he was about to collapse at any moment. The first responding officer on the scene was next to him.
“That white-as-a-sheet-looking patron tripped over our victim at around two in the morning—right around closing time—so the victim’s been dead for at least that long. My guess is that he most likely departed this earth an hour before that.”
“The victim’s hand was cut off,” Sierra noted, struggling to separate herself from the horror of the scene. She saw that the appendage had been thrown haphazardly near the Dumpster and looked quizzically at CSI unit leader. “But the killer didn’t take it.” The act made no sense to her. Why cut off a hand and then just leave it? She would have thought the killer would have wanted it as a souvenir of his crime.
“He never does,” Sean told her. Looking at Ronan, he said, “You’ve got a new member,” and then smiled at Sierra. “Welcome to the party—such as it is,” he added. “A fresh pair of eyes might see something we don’t.”
“Yeah.” Ronan exhaled the word with a touch of impatience. He didn’t notice Sierra making her way to the police officer, nor did he notice her talking to him. He was focused on the victim. Moving in, he squatted down for a closer view of the man. The victim was dressed in what appeared to be designer jeans, undoubtedly boosted from some venue, Ronan guessed, and an ordinary T-shirt, now blood-stained. Like his neck, the back of the dead man’s arms had several tattoos, but nothing that struck Ronan as outstanding.
“Another gang member?” he asked his uncle.
“Looks that way,” Sean replied cautiously. “Working theory is still that this is a retaliation for the last killing.”
Martinez and Choi stood on either side of the body, bracketing the three people already there.
“But Fearless Leader’s gut says it isn’t, right, Fearless Leader?” Martinez asked, looking at Ronan. The latter returned a laser-like expression that effectively wiped the wide smile from Martinez’s face. “Sorry,” he murmured, backing off.
“How soon can you get an autopsy done on this one?” Ronan asked.
That was an easy question to answer. “As soon as we get the body back to the morgue. It’s not like there’re bodies piling up, waiting for the ME to work on them,” he added, looking at the medical examiner who was methodically working on the body, preparing it for transport. “Technically, if the killer had waited until Mr. Walker here had done his drinking in his own city, this wouldn’t even be our call, but because the Shamrock Inn is partially located just inside our city limits, that makes the homicide ours.”
“How do you know his name?” Ronan asked.
“Victim was nice enough to have his wallet on him,” Sean answered. “And apparently his killer wanted us to know who his latest victim was, so he left it untouched.”
“Just like the others,” Choi commented.
Joining the rest of the team, Sierra looked at the gregarious detective. “What do you mean?”
Sean supplied the answer. “None of the other victims lived in Aurora, either.”
“Come to Aurora and die,” Ronan murmured grimly under his breath as he continued looking at the dead man on the ground.
Chapter Two (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“I don’t think that’ll catch on as a slogan,” Sierra commented, overhearing what Ronan had just said to himself.
Ronan glanced up at her as if she had suddenly started babbling nonsense. “What won’t catch on?”
“You just said ‘Come to Aurora and die’ and—” Sierra waved her hand at him. She might as well save her breath. “Never mind.”
One look at Ronan’s impassive expression and she knew that she could talk herself blue in the face and he still wouldn’t really understand what she was saying, or why. More importantly, he wouldn’t crack a smile. The man was in serious need of a sense of humor, she thought. She firmly believed that, at times, a sense of humor was the only thing that could see a person through the harder times.
Working with O’Bannon was definitely going to be a challenge, she decided. But then, she wasn’t being paid to have a good time, Sierra stoically reminded herself. Her job was to keep the residents who lived in Aurora safe any way she could. And right now, working with O’Bannon and his team was the best way she could do that.
Squaring her shoulders, Sierra looked at the lead detective. “All right, what would you like me to do?” she asked since Ronan had gone back to intently studying the victim. When he raised his eyes to look at her, she instinctively knew what Ronan was about to say and voiced it before he could. “Besides going back to the squad room.”
Rising to his feet, Ronan addressed the other two detectives who were first on the scene. “You two see what you can find out from the guy with the sickly green complexion—” he nodded toward the man still leaning against the wall “—and also find out who was tending bar last night. Maybe the bartender noticed if our victim was hanging out with someone. It would be nice if we could finally come up with a real witness who saw something we can use.”
Determined not to be ignored, Sierra spoke up. “You think the victim was in the bar before he was killed?”
Forced to acknowledge her, Ronan said, “It’s a safe bet.”
Choi leaned in over the body and took a deep breath. His expression became slightly pained. “Oh, yeah, he still smells like he was soaked in alcohol.”
“That could be because the guy who found him threw up when he realized what he’d just tripped over,” Sierra pointed out. “And according to the statement that guy gave the officer on the scene,” she said, “he’d been in the Shamrock drinking for hours. I just talked to the officer,” she added before any of the detectives could ask her how she had found that piece of information out.
Making no comment, Ronan looked at Choi and Martinez. “When you’re done, come back to the station.”
“Okay,” Choi readily agreed. “Is that where you’re going to be?”
In response, Ronan first turned toward his uncle. “Let me take a look at that wallet you found,” he requested.
Sean handed the plastic-encased wallet to him. It had been placed inside the envelope with its two sides spread open so that the driver’s license was visible. Ronan read the address, then handed the secured evidence back to his uncle.
“I’m going to Walker’s apartment to see if he lived with anyone who might be able to shed some light on the situation, tell us if Walker was targeted recently by anyone.”
“You mean like a note from his friendly neighborhood serial killer saying, ‘you’re next’?” Sierra asked with a touch of sarcasm.
Ronan shot her an annoyed look. “You think this is a joke?”
“Not at all, but at least I got you to talk to me.”
Ronan was already turning away. Sierra began to talk more quickly. “I guess since you didn’t give me a separate assignment, you want me to go with you.”
He had to admit that her persistence reminded him of his sisters, but he gave no outward indication as he asked, “And what makes you think that?”
“Simple process of elimination,” Sierra responded without any hesitation.
He knew he had to utilize her somehow and maybe she could to be useful. “All right, you might as well come along. You might come in handy if there’s a next of kin to notify.” Ronan began walking back to his car. “I’m not much good at that.”
“I’m surprised,” Sierra commented.
Reaching the car, Ronan turned to look at her. “If you’re going to be sarcastic—”
“No, I’m serious,” she told him then went on to explain her rationale. “You’re so detached, I just assumed it wouldn’t bother you telling a person that someone they’d expected to come home was never going to do that again. It would bother them, of course,” she couldn’t help adding, “but not you.”
Ronan got into his vehicle, buckled up and pulled out in what seemed like one fluid motion, all the while chewing on what this latest addition to his team had just said. Part of him just wanted to let it go. But he couldn’t.
“I’m not heartless,” he informed her. “I just don’t allow emotions to get in the way and I don’t believe in using more words than are absolutely necessary,” he added pointedly since he knew that seemed to bother her.
“Well, lucky for you, I do,” she told him with what amounted to the beginnings of a smile. “I guess that’s what’ll make us such good partners.”
He looked at her, stunned. He viewed them as being like oil and water—never being able to mix. “Is that your take on this?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes,” she answered cheerfully.
The fact that she appeared to have what one of his brothers would label a “killer smile” notwithstanding, Ronan just shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, you’ll get to believe it soon enough,” she told him. Before he could say anything, Sierra just continued talking to him and got down to the immediate business at hand. “I’m going to need to see your files on the other murders once we’re back in the squad room so I can be brought up to date.”
He didn’t even spare her a look. “Fine.”
“Are you always this cheerful?” she asked, “or is there something in particular that’s bothering you?”
This time Ronan did slant a quick glance in her direction. The woman sounded as if she was actually asking that, not just being nosy. He’d grown up in a family with talkative sisters and there was a time when the noise of constant chatter hadn’t bothered him. But that had been before life had taken the drastic, horrible turn that it had, changing all the ground rules on him.
Forever changing his life.
These days he preferred work and quiet, but for now, it looked like one of those ingredients would be seriously missing from the equation.
Moreover, he had the distinct feeling that if he mentioned to Carlyle that she was talking too much, she’d only get worse despite any so-called “efforts” to rein herself in. So, for now, he fell back on a plausible, albeit vague, excuse.
“I don’t like serial killers,” he said between clenched teeth.
That wasn’t it and she knew it. Her guess was that O’Bannon didn’t like being saddled with her, but he was just going to have to make the best of it. She intended to make him glad she was on his team rather than viewing it as some sort of cross he had to bear.
“I don’t think anyone does,” she said conversationally. “Anyone normal, anyway,” she added just before she flashed him another thousand-watt smile. “Lucky thing for you, you’re in the business of getting rid of them.”
He spared her a look that defied reading, so she put her best guess to it. He was probably labeling her a Pollyanna in his mind, but there was really more to her philosophy than that.
“You have to always find the upside to everything, no matter how bad it might seem to you at the time,” she told him. “That’s something my dad once told me.” And then she dropped the bombshell, thinking it was best if he found this little piece of information out sooner than later. “I think he picked it up from your mom.”
For a second Ronan didn’t think he’d heard her correctly. But he had keen hearing and he had heard everything the loquacious detective he’d been forced to add to his team had said since Carver had called her over to his desk, so he reasoned he hadn’t misheard. That raised an immediate question.
“You know my mother?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, I do.” Then, before he could ask, she volunteered just how her father knew his mother. “The ambulance company she runs is attached to the firehouse my dad oversees.” Which was just another example of what a small world this really was.
Granted he didn’t know anything about her background, but then he didn’t know any more than he had to about either Martinez or Choi. It was what they brought to the table as detectives that had always mattered to him.
Ronan glanced at her for half a second before looking back on the road. “Your dad’s a fireman?” he asked in disbelief.
It was an old, standing joke that firemen and policemen were natural rivals. How did she square being in the police department with her family?
Sierra seemed completely comfortable with her admission. “He is. So are my three brothers. Everyone at the fire station thinks your mother’s a great lady—and a hell of an ambulance driver in her day, too,” she added.
She wasn’t certain if that praise would somehow annoy O’Bannon—or make him proud. She didn’t know him well enough yet to make that kind of a call. But she had told him the truth and she didn’t see any reason not to say as much. She knew that she always liked hearing good things about her family from other people.
“Yeah, I know,” Ronan responded, his voice so low it almost sounded as if he was talking to himself rather than answering her.
Low voice or not, it was a start. Maybe, in time, she’d wear him down and actually draw O’Bannon into a normal conversation that didn’t require pulling teeth.
Focused on getting O’Bannon to talk to her, she hadn’t really been paying attention to the area they were driving through. But when he brought his vehicle to a stop a few minutes later, Sierra looked around for the first time.
They definitely weren’t in Aurora anymore.
The buildings on both sides of the streets all had a worn, run-down feel to them. Poverty, desperation and fear almost seemed to waft through the air. This was the kind of area people with any sort of ambition typically strove to leave behind, not come home to night after night.
And yet, for many, there was no other choice.
Eventually the streets won and the area beat people down, stripping them of all their hopes and dreams, as well as their dignity, leaving them with nothing to hold on to.
Ronan glanced at her. “You wanted to come along,” he said gruffly.
It was as if he could intuit what was going through her head, Sierra thought, doing her best to banish her reflections.
“I’m not complaining,” she told him, getting out on her side.
“Maybe I am,” Ronan murmured, hardly audible enough for her to hear.
The address on Walker’s license coincided with a five-story brown building that had gone up in the early seventies. Situated in the middle of a block, there was a bakery right next door to a shoe repair shop. A boarded-up dry cleaner’s was on the other side.
The building where Walker had lived had a front stoop. Several men, ranging from the ages of around seventeen to their midtwenties, were either sitting or standing in the stoop’s general vicinity. There were five of them, just enough so that, immobile, they all but barred access to the entrance.
“Mind getting out of the way?” Ronan asked evenly. His no-nonsense tone told the loiterers that they had no choice in the matter.
Mumbling, the five men moved only enough to create a small, accessible space to the door. Ronan went first, creating the path.
When Sierra started to follow him, one of the men on the stoop shifted just enough to keep her from entering the building.
Ronan never even turned around. “I heard one of you shifting. That had better be to give her more space, not less,” he warned.
The immediate shuffling noise that followed told him that the offender had moved out of the detective’s way.
“That’s a neat trick,” Sierra told him, falling into place beside Ronan once she’d crossed the threshold and had gotten inside the building. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head, too?”
“Don’t test me,” he told her. He expected that to be the end of it.
“Don’t tempt me,” she countered.
Since it didn’t appear as if there was an elevator, Ronan walked to the base of the staircase. “You always have to have the last word?” he asked.
“Not always,” she answered. Her cheerful response told him more than her words. “Lead the way, Fearless Leader.”
He looked back at her and frowned. “Don’t call me that.”
“Choi did,” she reminded him, using that as her excuse.
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Want me to tell him to stop?” she offered, still searching for a way to get on O’Bannon’s good side—if there was such a thing.
“I want you to be quiet and stay sharp,” he told her, looking around the poorly lit area carefully. The dim lighting on the stairs made it difficult to see beyond a few feet, which in Ronan’s mind placed them at a definite disadvantage.
“I can do both,” she told him, but for the sake of peace—and pleasing O’Bannon—she deliberately kept quiet as they carefully made their way up the next five flights of stairs.
Coming to the landing, Sierra blew out a breath. She exercised daily and felt she was in decent shape, but climbing all those stairs still took a bit of a toll on her, given that she was trying to keep up with O’Bannon’s pace.
“Wow, I’d hate to have to do that after a long day at work,” she commented.
“Could be why Walker and his so-called ‘friends’ didn’t work,” Ronan said cryptically, adding, “At least not in the traditional sense.”
Finding the apartment number he was looking for, Ronan knocked on the door. He gave it the count of ten and was about to knock again when they heard the sound of several locks being opened on the other side. Then someone pulled the apartment door back a crack. There was a chain holding the door in place.
The wary-looking woman on the other side of the door appeared as if she had once been very attractive. But it was obvious she had weathered more than her share of the worst that life had to offer.
Dark brown eyes regarded them both suspiciously, coming to her own conclusions. “If you’re selling religion, I tried it but it didn’t work.”
With that she began to close the door on them but Ronan put his foot in the way, which prevented her from shutting it.
“Hey!” she shouted in protest.
Ronan held up his badge so she could see it. “We’re with the police department.”
“I tried them, they didn’t work, either,” the woman informed him. There was a deep chasm of bitterness in her voice.
“Are you related to John Walker?” Sierra’s question was an attempt to cut through any further protest the woman might have to offer.
A flicker of despair passed through the woman’s eyes. “I’m his mother, why? What’s he done this time?” she demanded. There was anger in her voice as well as weariness that went clear down to the bone.
“May we come in?” Sierra asked politely.
But the older woman held her ground.
“No. You have something to say, you tell me from where you’re standing. What’s he done?” Walker’s mother demanded again, looking from Sierra to the man who still had his foot in her doorway.
Despite Ronan’s thoughts to the contrary, she had never had to break this sort of news to a deceased’s family member before. Sierra could feel a lump forming in her throat as she struggled to push the words out.
It almost felt surreal as she listened to her voice saying, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you—”
“Oh, Lord, he’s dead, isn’t he?” Mrs. Walker cried. Her small, frail body began to shake. She struggled as she removed the chain from the slot where it was anchored. “I told him,” she cried with anguished frustration. “I told him that the kind of life he was leading would kill him.” The woman sobbed, looking as if she was going to dissolve where she stood.
Once inside the apartment, Sierra tried to put her arms around the woman to keep her from sinking to the floor.
Walker’s mother fought her for a moment and then gave up as she broke down, sobbing against her shoulder. And then, after several minutes, Mrs. Walker straightened, seeming to tap into an inbred resilience.
Squaring her bowed shoulders and holding her head high, she looked at Sierra. “How did it happen?”
“Someone shot him. His body was found in the alley behind the Shamrock Inn,” Ronan told the woman, reciting the words in almost a clinical fashion.
Mrs. Walker nodded numbly, led the way into her small, cluttered living room and sank onto a sagging sofa that was all but threadbare.
“Tell me everything,” she requested in a hoarse whisper.
Chapter Three (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
Although it made him uncomfortable, Ronan had no choice but to take a seat beside the victim’s mother on the sofa.
Sierra, he noted, sat on the woman’s other side. Looking at her, he saw nothing but compassion in the detective’s eyes.
Maybe he should have dispatched her to do the notification on her own, but there’d been no way of knowing who Walker lived with ahead of time and he couldn’t just cavalierly put her life in danger because he was uncomfortable notifying a thug’s mother of her son’s demise.
Taking a breath, Ronan told the victim’s mother, “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell, Mrs. Walker. Your son was found in the alley behind the Shamrock Inn. A single gunshot delivered to the back of his head was the cause of death.”
The woman jolted as if she’d been touched by a live wire but, struggling, she managed to regain some of her composure.
“He didn’t suffer, did he?” she asked, obviously trying to rein in her emotions.
“Well, it looked—” Ronan began.
Oh, Lord, he is going to be truthful, Sierra realized. Didn’t he know that there was a time when the truth wasn’t welcome?
“No, it was quick,” she assured the older woman, talking quickly and deliberately avoiding eye contact with O’Bannon.
Her goal right now was to make sure Mrs. Walker didn’t fall apart. As long as the woman held it together, there was a good chance she would remain coherent and maybe even answer a few more questions for them.
“Was your son having trouble with anyone?” Ronan asked. “Any unusual arguments? Had anyone threatened him lately?”
“Well, this wasn’t done by a friend now, was it?” Mrs. Walker snapped sarcastically, then immediately appeared to regret her show of temper as tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. This is all such a shock. You spend every day worrying something’s going to happen to your kid, but when it does you’re just not ready for it.”
Sierra placed a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. Mrs. Walker released a shuddering sigh. For a moment she looked as if she was about to dissolve into tears, but then she managed to rally again.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Walker,” she told the woman with genuine feeling. “Is there anyone we could call for you?”
The woman laughed softly, although the sound was completely devoid of any humor. She shook her head. “No one who would come if they saw the police around.”
It wasn’t an accusation but a simple statement of fact. Sniffling, she took out a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes, then returned the tissue back to her pocket.
“When can I claim his bod—my son?” she asked, choking up.
“The medical examiner has to do an autopsy first, but as soon as your son’s body is released, we’ll let you know,” Sierra assured her. “Until then, here’s my card. If you think of anything to add, please call. Or if you just need someone to talk to—” Sierra gave the woman’s hand a squeeze as she gave her a business card “—call me.”
Mrs. Walker grimly nodded her head. The card went into the same pocket as the tissue. She tried to choke out a thank-you, but the words seemed to stick in her mouth.
“Thank you for your time,” Ronan said, rising. “We’ll let ourselves out.”
* * *
“WELL, THAT WOMAN’S never going to be the same again,” Sierra observed sadly as soon as they walked out of the almost airless little apartment.
“Nobody who loses someone ever really is,” Ronan commented drily.
Something in his voice caught her attention and Sierra looked at the tall man walking next to her. But his face was impassive, so if there had been an expression she could have interpreted, it was gone in an instant.
Ronan remained silent as they walked to his car. She decided it was just as well because he was undoubtedly disappointed that nothing new had been learned.
It wasn’t until they had pulled away from the curb and were driving back to the precinct that Ronan spoke again. To her surprise it wasn’t about the fact that they had learned nothing new about the victim.
“You weren’t half-bad in there.”
Sierra blinked, stunned as well as puzzled. “I’m sorry, I’m confused,” she confessed. “Are you praising the half-full glass or criticizing it because it’s half-empty?”
Ronan upbraided himself for having said anything, but since he had, he knew he needed to clarify it or Carlyle would just go on asking questions. He was beginning to realize she was just built that way.
“What I’m saying is that you handled an awkward situation without making it worse.”
Sierra suppressed a laugh. “That really is a left-handed compliment, you know.”
His eyes on the road, Ronan shrugged. “It’s all I’ve got.”
This time she did laugh. There was a decent human being in there somewhere, he just had to be dug out. She wondered if he was even aware of that fact.
“I really doubt that,” she told him.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Your mother’s a really nice, savvy woman,” Sierra said, hoping that would put what she said into perspective for him.
“So?”
She leaned back in her seat. “Never mind.”
“No, out with it,” Ronan ordered, sparing her one quick glance. “You started to say something, so now finish it.”
“And if I do, you’ll have reason to get rid of me?”
Did she really think he was that petty? What did he care what she thought about him? he asked himself the next second.
But he had pushed this and he wanted it resolved. “We’ll talk consequences later. Now, out with it. What are you trying to say?”
Sierra chose her words carefully, aware he would examine each one. “Your mother’s a really great, outgoing woman—”
“You already covered that part,” Ronan told her impatiently.
She supposed she could sugarcoat this, but she couldn’t get herself to lie. So she didn’t. “And you act as if you’d been raised by a she-wolf in a cave.”
Well, that was certainly straightforward enough, he thought. This woman obviously didn’t have any trouble telling the truth. He supposed that was a valuable asset—to both him and the team. Still, they weren’t going to get anywhere with this investigation if they kept clashing all the time.
“If you have a problem with the way I do things, Carlyle, you can always transfer out,” he told her. There was no emotion in his voice.
That just made her angry. “I don’t quit things,” she informed him.
“Then I’d say you have a problem.”
“I guess I do.”
He had no idea where she stood after saying that. And he certainly couldn’t just leave it. Easing into a stop at an intersection, he looked at her. “So, what’s it going to be? Are you in or are you out?”
She was probably going to regret this, Sierra thought, squaring her shoulders. But she’d told him the truth. She didn’t quit things. That left her only one answer. “I’m in—but don’t expect me to stop trying to get through that stony exterior,” she told him, qualifying her answer.
“What I expect,” Ronan stated deliberately, “is that you do your part to solve the crime to get whoever’s playing vigilante off the streets.”
The word he used caught her attention. “So now you think it’s a vigilante?”
He reminded himself that she was brand-new to the team and as such wasn’t apprised of pertinent details. He reviewed them in a nutshell. “This is the fifth street thug who’s been ‘executed’ this way. Three from one gang—the War Lords—and two from another—the Terminators. If it’s not a vigilante, what’s your take on it?”
“Well, off the top of my head,” she said, working through the problem as she spoke, “maybe it’s the work of a third gang, trying to get rid of the competition.”
“Aurora doesn’t have a gang. We had a few nerdy types a few years ago who tried to flex their muscles by spray-painting a couple of buildings, but the fact that they’d painted slogans using four-and five-syllable words gave them away. They were tracked down pretty quickly and turned over to their parents. That was the end of Aurora’s one and only ‘gang,’” he declared. “Anything else?”
Sierra grinned. “Nope. Not at this time.”
He caught her expression out of the corner of his eye as he continued to the precinct. “Then why do you look like some damn cat that swallowed a canary?”
“Because that’s the most number of words you’ve said to me since I became part of your team. I knew you had it in you.”
Ronan shook his head, exasperated. He didn’t trust himself to say anything in response so the rest of the ride to the precinct was made in silence.
* * *
THE MOMENT HE reached the squad room, Ronan walked straight to Martinez and Choi’s desks. “You guys learn anything?” he demanded.
Choi spoke first. “In between a bout of dry heaves, Billie, the guy who tripped over our victim, swore he’d never seen him before. I tend to believe him,” he said and then explained why before Ronan could ask. “The guy thought he was going to die and most people tend to tell the truth when they think they’re going to die.”
“And the bartender?” Ronan asked. So far, this wasn’t going well, he thought dourly.
“The guy who opened up the tavern wasn’t the guy on duty last night. He had that guy come down, but the evening bartender wasn’t all that helpful. According to Dave, the guy tending bar last night,” Martinez interjected, “it was really crowded and our victim didn’t make much of an impression on him. He said he ‘thought’ he saw our victim downing some tequilas with some sexy little number making eyes at him, but when Dave came back to that side of the bar, our victim and the woman who might or might not have been with him were gone.”
“There was no sign of a woman being in the alley,” Choi reminded the others.
“Maybe she left before anything happened,” Martinez speculated.
“Or maybe she saw what was happening and managed to get away before the killer saw her. That would make her a witness,” Sierra said, looking at Ronan to see whether he liked that idea.
Ronan nodded to himself. “Maybe you’ve got something there, Carlyle. It’s worth exploring.” He turned toward Choi and Martinez. “Go back to the bartender. See if he’ll sit with our sketch artist and describe this ‘sexy little number’ so we can pass it around Walker’s neighborhood, see if anyone recognizes her,” Ronan instructed.
“On our way,” Choi said, leaving the squad room with Martinez right behind him.
He’d gone with her theory, Sierra thought, rather surprised Ronan hadn’t given her an argument first. She turned toward him, a wide smile on her lips, and asked, “Still annoyed that Carver assigned me to the team?”
Ronan was practically stone-faced. “You waiting for a pat on the head?”
“No, but a ‘hey, not a bad idea’ might be in order,” she countered.
The expression on his face was dark. “Okay. Hey, not a bad idea. Happy?” he asked.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”
“They haven’t made a nutcracker tough enough for that,” he told her as he began to walk to the break room.
“Don’t count on it,” she called after him.
She saw him stop for a second then resume walking. She got to him, she thought with a satisfied smile. Step one.
* * *
WHEN RONAN RETURNED to the squad room half an hour later, he was halfway to his desk when he stopped dead. There was a bulletin board mounted on wheels pushed up against the wall nearest their desks.
He walked straight to Sierra. “Where did that come from?” he asked sharply.
Busy tacking up a few last-minute things she’d jotted down, she didn’t turn around as she answered, “The store room.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“I thought we could do with some visual aids,” she told him. Finished, she turned around to face him. “Might stimulate our thinking.”
The woman was taking over, he thought, and he didn’t run things that way. “I think my thinking is stimulated enough right now,” he warned her. There was a definite edge in his voice. “Where did you get those?” he asked, waving a hand at the board.
There were five photographs tacked on the board, each with a name and time of death listed beneath it.
“I pulled up the list of victims and then scanned their photos, the ones off the DMV records,” she explained, adding, “because the others were too gruesome. I put those up along with the date and time of their deaths.” She kept talking even though she could see that, so far, her answers were annoying him. Her hope was that if she bombarded him with enough facts, he’d see things her way. “I thought that having them up there like that might get us to see something we’re missing.”
His eyes met hers, pinning her to the spot. “Who told you to do that?”
“No one. It’s call initiative. Isn’t that why I’m here?”
He felt as if she’d pushed him to the edge. “Frankly, I don’t know why you’re here. I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“Here’s a hint. It’s to help with the investigation,” she told him.
He could feel his temper rising. “You can ‘help’ by following orders.”
“Which would be okay if there were any orders to follow,” she countered. “Look, other homicide detectives find having this kind of board up is helpful.” When he continued to glare and said nothing, she blew out a frustrated breath. She wasn’t trying to challenge his authority, she was trying to help, but this was still his team to manage. “You want me to take the photos down and take the board back to the storeroom?”
The look of anger on his face abated somewhat. Ronan glanced at the bulletin board again.
“No, leave it up,” he told her in a resigned voice. “Just next time check with me before you do anything.”
She still couldn’t help feeling as if she was being tethered. But if she wanted to work this case—and she really did—she was going to have to abide by his rules.
Inclining her head, Sierra said, “I’m going to the break room for lunch now, is that okay with you?”
Damn, but she was irritating. “If you’re trying to get under my skin, Carlyle, you’ve already done it,” he told her.
“Lunch?” she repeated innocently, still waiting for him to tell her it was all right.
He waved his hand at her impatiently. “Go. And if you solve the case over your ham-and-cheese sandwich, let me know first before you run off to cuff anyone.”
“It’s roast beef,” Sierra corrected. “And you’ll be the first to know if I solve the case,” she promised, elaborately drawing a cross over her heart. The next second she turned on her heel to leave—all but running into a tall, dark, younger, smiling version of Ronan. “Sorry,” she mumbled, withdrawing.
“What was that about?” Detective Christian O’Bannon asked, coming up to his older brother. He took one last look over his shoulder at the disappearing woman. “Is she telling you she loves you?”
Ronan’s mouth dropped opened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Chris jerked a thumb in the direction of the departing detective. “She just crossed her heart. I thought she was miming ‘I love you.’”
Ronan scowled at him. “Did you come here to make an already bad day worse?”
Chris’s face seemed to almost light up. “No, actually I came to ask you to be best man.”
“I already am the best man. I always have been,” Ronan answered wryly.
“At my wedding, you idiot,” Chris said, giving Ronan a friendly shove. “Suzie Q and I are getting married.”
That caught Ronan’s attention. “For real?”
If possible, the grin on Chris’ face widened. “As real as it can get. Priest, flowers, everything.”
Ronan shook his head. “Damn, I thought she had more sense than that.”
“Show a little respect or you’ll be demoted,” Chris warned. “The position of flower girl hasn’t been filled yet.”
“I have a lot of respect for Suzie,” Ronan said honestly, referring to the absent detective. “It’s you I don’t have all that much respect for,” he added drolly. “Never have.”
“Then that’s a yes?” Chris asked, a touch of anxiousness surfacing in his voice. “I know you don’t care for all that attention.”
Ronan shrugged. “Nobody’s going to be looking at me, they’ll be looking at Suzie—and the lucky stiff who’s marrying her.”
Chris wanted to nail things down and he needed a direct answer. “Again, is that a yes?”
Ronan grinned, genuinely happy for his younger brother. “Try and keep me away. Just tell me where and when.”
Relieved, Chris answered, “I’ll tell you a lot more than that, but this’ll do for now.”
Ronan shook his head and smiled as he watched his younger brother leave. He envied Christian, he really did. He could remember being that happy. Once.
Chapter Four (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“You should do that more often,” Sierra said.
Ronan turned, surprised to see her standing near him. He thought she was still in the break room and hadn’t even heard her come up.
“Do what?” he demanded.
“Smile.” Even as she said it, his expression went back to its normal impassive look. Still, determined to make him come around, she pushed on. “You don’t look quite as scary when you smile.”
He caught himself almost smiling again and wondered what it was about this woman that had him responding in ways he hadn’t for a long time. “You’re missing the point,” he told her gruffly. “Why wouldn’t I want to look scary?”
“Well, you got me there,” she answered, tongue in cheek. “If you don’t know, I can’t explain it to you.”
“Good.” Ronan turned back to look at the photographs she’d put on the bulletin board, waiting for something to nudge his brain. But nothing came. He glanced at Sierra. The latter had gone back to the desk that had been assigned to her for the duration of this case. “Anything occur to you?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she admitted honestly. “But it’s still early.”
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, turning back to the bulletin board. He frowned a little as he told her, “You know, this isn’t a half-bad idea, using the bulletin board.”
She made no effort to hide her stunned expression. “Wow, two half compliments in one day. Aren’t you afraid that I’ll get a big head?”
“Bigger than it already is?” he asked.
She took no offense. She had a hunch he felt he had to say something like that to counter the left-handed compliment he’d just tendered.
“I don’t have a big head,” she told him. “I just know my capabilities.”
Ronan began to say something about the extent of her “so-called” capabilities when he saw her suddenly sit up and look alert. For just a second, the expression in her eyes captivated him. She looked almost ethereal. Definitely beautiful. And that was when he realized that when she held her head a certain way, she reminded him of Wendy.
Startled, he quickly got hold of himself. This wasn’t the time to think about Wendy. He wasn’t ready to go there now. Maybe he never would be.
The next second he turned to see Martinez and Choi walking back into the squad room. He crossed to them. “Anything?” he asked.
Martinez refrained from letting his disappointment show. “If anyone recognizes her—” Martinez nodded at the sketch put together from the bartender’s recollection “—they’re not talking. But in their defense, that is a pretty generic-looking sketch. Pretty girl, wavy hair, nothing really outstanding.”
“What about the surveillance camera?” she asked.
“The one in the back alley’s inoperable,” Ronan informed her dismissively. It was the first thing that had been checked by his uncle and the team Sean had taken with him.
“Okay,” she allowed, “how about the one inside the tavern?”
“There isn’t one. The owner’s got one up strictly for show,” Ronan told her. “But it doesn’t record.”
“And the one outside, by the entrance?” she pressed, recalling seeing it as they’d passed the front door to get to the alley.
Ronan didn’t answer her. Instead he headed out of the squad room.
Sierra was on her feet immediately, hurrying after him. Moving fast, she managed to catch up to him by the elevator. “You’re going down to the CSI lab to take a look at that surveillance video, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Don’t you have files to go through?” he asked Sierra crisply.
“You know I do, you gave them to me. But they can wait until later,” she answered. “I want to see if we can isolate the footage and find our mystery woman. Maybe she can help us solve this thing.”
He doubted it. Things didn’t just resolve themselves this way. “You realize she could just be someone playing up to anyone who’ll buy her a drink,” Ronan said just as the elevator arrived.
Sierra got in the second the elevator doors opened, not taking a chance he would leave her behind. “I know. But she could still be a witness.”
“She could still be a witness,” he admitted grudgingly, echoing what she’d said. And then his frown deepened. “Don’t grin so hard, Carlyle. Your face’ll crack.”
“There’s a few years left on my warranty, so I’m safe for now,” she said cheerfully.
“Right,” he murmured to himself. Just what he needed on his team—to be saddled with a crazy woman. A crazy woman who reminded him of his own loss. “C’mon, then,” he ordered as the doors opened in the basement.
Sierra didn’t have to be asked twice.
* * *
“THERE, THAT’S GOT to be her!” Sierra cried excitedly, pointing to the image on the monitor in the viewing bay. “Rewind it!”
They had been watching the surveillance video from the Shamrock Inn for the last half hour. The footage wasn’t exceptionally clear because the camera was at least ten years old and the video being used had been taped over and over countless times to save money. As well, the camera had lost its ability to time stamp so they had been unable to isolate the hours they’d needed, which had forced them to review the entire video recorded over the last ten hours.
Ronan had already hit Pause and then Rewind. When he played the tape forward, he did it in slow motion, allowing them to study the scene.
“She wasn’t with anyone when she came in,” Sierra observed.
Annoyed, Ronan looked at her over his shoulder. “I’ve got eyes, Carlyle. I can see.”
“Sorry.” The apology was automatic. “Just getting excited, that’s all.”
“Save your energy. It’s going to be a long haul,” he told her.
He hit Pause again, then got up from the desk he’d been using. He went to find his uncle.
Bringing him back, he indicated the surveillance tape they had been reviewing. “I’m going to need a hard copy of that woman,” he told Sean.
“You mean other than the one you already have?” Sean asked, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“What are you talking about?” Ronan asked, puzzled.
Rather than answer his nephew, Sean pointed to the colored print of the woman entering the tavern that Sierra was holding in her hand.
Ronan stared at the print. “Where did you—”
“I got it off the printer,” Sierra told him innocently, anticipating his question. And then she smiled, adding, “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Sean nodded his approval. “Nice to have good help,” Sean told his nephew. “Well, if you don’t need anything else...” He looked at Ronan pointedly. It was obvious he had more than his share of work to get back to.
“Not from you at this time,” Ronan acknowledged. “Thanks for letting us look through the video.”
“We all want the same thing,” Sean answered. “To get whoever’s doing this off the streets and behind bars.” He started to leave. “I’ll have the ME send the autopsy report up to you when it’s done, but I don’t expect that there’ll be any surprises.”
“Will that include a tox screen?” Sierra asked, suddenly turning around just before entering the hallway behind Ronan.
Homicide’s lead detective stopped in his tracks, reluctantly turning around.
“Of course,” Sean answered. “Tox screens can include a wide range of tests. Are you looking for something specific?”
She answered his question with a question of her own. “Does that include checking for date-rape drugs?”
That pulled both men up short.
“Not in this case. Why?” Sean asked, crossing back to her. “What are you thinking?”
“Well, it’s just an idea...” Sierra began. “But whoever lured Walker away and executed him would have wanted Walker to come along peacefully and not try to fight him off, right?”
Ronan exchanged looks with his uncle. “Makes sense to me,” Sean agreed. “I’ll get a more specified tox screen done on Walker and let you know what it comes up with,” he promised.
They left the lab and she turned to Ronan as they waited for the elevator. “Now aren’t you glad I came along?”
“The jury’s still out on that,” Ronan said wryly.
“Are you reverting back to the strong, silent type again?” she asked. “I’ve seen you smile, O’Bannon. You can’t fool me.”
The elevator arrived and they got on. Ronan pushed the button for their floor rather forcefully. “I’ve got a question for you, Carlyle. Do you ever stop talking?”
“On occasion,” she replied.
“Do you think that this could be one of those occasions?” he asked. “I think better when there’s silence.”
She laughed softly. “Considering the squad room we work in, you’re pretty much out of luck.”
Ronan looked at her pointedly. “I know.”
“But, if it helps, I’ll stop talking—for now,” she said gamely. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on anyway.”
Ronan made no comment, afraid that if he uttered a single word, it would set her off again and she’d launch into yet another long, winding topic. He really did want to savor a few moments of peace before something else came up.
* * *
SIERRA SPENT THE rest of the day, as well as the next, reading and rereading the files that had been compiled on the five victims. All of them had belonged to neighborhood gangs and all the killings had been identical: one bullet to the back of the head, then removal of one of the hands. In the first four cases, it was the right one that had been severed.
But the last victim had had his left hand removed, not his right.
“Why just one?” Sierra asked, looking up from the file.
All three men on the team were at their desks, working. Martinez and Choi were currently on phone duty, fielding calls from people who swore they had either just seen the serial killer or had just barely escaped being another one of his victims. Each call had to be taken no matter how baseless it turned out to be, but doing so was tedious, not to mention wearing on the detectives’ nerves, as well.
Hearing Sierra’s question, Ronan looked up in her direction. “What did you say?”
He knew he would regret asking because he was all but giving her an invitation to start running off at the mouth again and it had been really pretty peaceful for the last few hours. But she’d asked a question and since she’d been dead-on about the surveillance video, he couldn’t afford to ignore her just for the sake of his own peace and quiet.
“Why does the killer just cut off one of his victim’s hands?” she asked.
Ronan shrugged. “Because it’s the victim’s dominant hand most likely.”
“Okay. And?” She waited for more of an explanation. It wasn’t enough to satisfy her and she had a feeling that if they had an answer, it would get them one step closer to finding who was behind the killings.
Ronan frowned. “And what?”
Taking a breath, Sierra worded her question more succinctly. “Why would the killer want to cut off the victim’s dominant hand?”
“How the hell should I know?” Ronan asked. Frustrated, he scrubbed his hand over his face. “The guy’s a whack job.”
“A whack job who knows how to practically surgically remove a hand from its wrist,” she said pointedly.
Ronan frowned. “Anyone wielding a meat cleaver with a little momentum could do the same thing.”
“I suppose you’ve got a point,” she was forced to admit.
“Why are you focusing on the way the killer cuts off his victim’s hands?” Choi asked, finally getting off the phone. “You think the killer’s a Jack the Ripper type? Some people thought he was a doctor, the way he vivisected those prostitutes.”
“I thought maybe if our killer had some kind of medical background, we might be able to narrow the suspect pool,” she explained.
“We have a suspect pool?” Martinez asked, glancing from Sierra to Ronan and then Choi. “You mean you think that somebody other than the members of those two gangs still left standing is behind this?”
She waved away Martinez’s facetious question. “Right now, I’m just thinking out loud,” Sierra said with a shrug. “Spit-balling ideas until something winds up sticking, I guess.”
Ronan had a thoughtful expression on his face. “And what are your thoughts about why the killer cuts off just one of his victim’s hands? The dominant hand.” His tone underscored the word.
Sierra was surprised he was asking her for input rather than simply telling her not to think out loud until she had something worthwhile to share.
“Like you said, it’s the victim’s dominant hand,” Sierra said. She kept coming back to that. It had to mean something. “The hand he uses to shoot his gun with.”
Ronan’s eyes met hers. “You think these killings are payback for something.” It wasn’t a question so much as an assumption. And it made as much sense right now as any of this did.
“Maybe,” she answered, leaving herself a little leeway. “But I can’t find a connection between the two gangs, other than they pretty much stayed out of each other’s way.”
And that was what was frustrating her. There had to be something. But what?
“At least for the last couple of years,” Choi recalled.
“Until these killings started,” Martinez spoke up. “Now, according to what I hear from my friends on the Tesla police force, there’ve been a number of revenge killings.” He pulled up a recent story he’d read earlier on the internet. “See?” He turned his monitor so that it was visible to the others.
Choi scanned the story quickly. “Maybe this is all just gang-related in one way or another,” he suggested, looking at O’Bannon.
One of the newer lab techs from the CSI unit had just walked into the squad room and crossed to Ronan. He was carrying a large manila envelope.
“Captain Cavanaugh wanted me to bring this to you, Detective,” the lab tech said, referring to Sean. “He said you were waiting for it.”
“We all are.” Accepting the envelope, Ronan began opening it. “Tell him thanks. I really didn’t think he’d get it to me so quick.”
“He had the lab rush it,” the tech said before leaving.
Eager to know if she was right, Sierra was on her feet and rounding her desk to get to Ronan’s side.
“You planning on reading this over my shoulder, Carlyle?” Ronan asked, still holding the envelope. The reports were only partially showing.
She offered him a quick, quirky smile. Without saying yes or no to his question, Sierra told him, “I speed-read.”
He shook his head. The woman had an answer for everything. “Of course you do.”
Removing the papers from the envelope, he found that in addition to the autopsy report, it also contained the extended tox screen Sierra had requested.
He picked up the latter first, knowing it was what really interested Sierra. Now that she had raised the point, so was he.
Before he could scan down to the portion he was looking for, he heard Sierra exclaim behind him, “I was right. Walker was drugged. The tox screen shows that he had a date-rape drug in him when he died.”
“Well, that explains why there was no sign of a struggle in the alley,” Martinez said. Looking in Sierra’s direction, he inclined his head in silent tribute.
Sierra’s mind was going a mile a minute. “Can we get a tox screen panel worked up on the other victims?” she asked Ronan eagerly.
“Not likely,” he answered. He’d only taken over the case after the third victim had surfaced. “Three of the victims have already been buried. We’d have to get court orders to exhume their bodies.”
He saw a flash of frustration in Sierra’s eyes. For just a second he was caught up by the way her blue eyes seemed to almost change color, from light to dark, depending on the feelings that were surfacing.
Upbraiding himself for the momentary lapse, he focused on the business at hand. “It can be done, but not as easily as you might think. We’d need a really compelling reason. For now, I can find out if victim number four is still in the morgue. From what I’ve heard, I don’t think anyone has come forward to claim his body yet.”
Glancing at Sierra, he saw her face change. He’d expected her to be elated. Instead she seemed really sad. “What’s with you?” he asked. “I’d thought you’d be happy to hear that.”
“I’m glad we’ve got another body to test,” she said, “but think about how awful that is, to be dead and not have anyone come forward to claim your body.”
“Don’t waste your pity. That’s the kind of life these thugs signed on for,” Martinez told her, trying to make her feel better in his own way.
“I’m just glad we’ve got another body to run a tox screen on without having to get any court orders,” Ronan said.
He expected her to say something cryptic, like “You’re welcome,” but she didn’t.
He suppressed a sigh. Apparently, Carlyle was more complicated than he’d initially given her credit for. That was all he needed. A complicated woman on his team, stirring things up.
Stirring him up.
The thought came and went in a split second. He blocked its return. He didn’t have time for anything but solving the case, he silently insisted.
Chapter Five (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“Son of a gun, that new team member of yours was right,” Sean told his nephew, calling Ronan once he’d had the opportunity to run the requested tox screen on the serial killer’s fourth victim. “Looks like she’s two for two.”
“Joggers found that fourth victim in the park,” Ronan recalled. “The last victim probably ingested Special K in his drink. How did this one get it into his system? We didn’t find a flask or anything like that near the body and he wasn’t dumped there. There was blood from his wound on the ground, which meant that he had to be killed there.”
“Glad you asked. Juan Marley got his the old-fashioned way,” Sean told him. “The ME found a very small hole just behind his ear. He’s ashamed to say that he missed that the first time around.”
“The drug was injected?” Ronan asked.
“That would be my guess,” Sean told him. “Your serial killer is very cold-blooded, very methodical. And he’s got surgical skills. Those hands that were cut off from the victims, there were no hesitation cuts. Each amputation was clean, precise. This guy knew what he was doing and he apparently wasn’t squeamish.”
“Yes, that’s what we’re thinking,” Ronan said, playing back what Sierra had said earlier. “Did the killer use Special K again?”
“No, this time it was Rohypnol. Maybe he couldn’t get his hands on his drug of choice,” Sean told him. “Tesla’s facing a backup of bodies so they’ve asked to borrow our ME for a couple of days—unless you feel that there’s a reason to keep him here.”
“As long as you can get him back if this serial killer takes down another victim.”
“I’ve already made that a provision with their chief medical examiner,” Sean said.
“Thanks for the info, Uncle Sean.”
He laughed drily. “I’d say my pleasure, but it really isn’t. Just catch this bastard as soon as you can, Ronan. I know that some people think he’s doing a public service, killing thugs and gang members, but that’s not our call to make. First and foremost, the victims were all people and it’s our job to make sure that everyone’s kept safe.”
“We’re all doing our best, sir,” Ronan said just before he terminated the call.
Returning the receiver to its cradle, he saw Sierra watching him. He knew she was waiting for the lab results and was surprised that she didn’t immediately jump on him, demanding to know what his uncle had said. He decided to put her out of her misery and tell her the results.
“Well, you’re two for two,” he told her.
“The tox screen for victim number four was positive for a date-rape drug?” she asked, unable to keep the note of hope out of her voice.
Ronan nodded. “The ME found traces of Rohypnol in the victim’s system.”
Choi looked up. “Roofies?” he questioned.
“That’s the popular name for it,” Ronan confirmed. “Maybe he couldn’t get his hands on Special K.”
“Ketamine is what vets use,” Martinez said, getting into the conversation. “My dog Ralph got attacked by this pit bull that got loose in my neighborhood early one morning. Damn dog tore holes in Ralph. I didn’t think he was going to make it when I drove him to the vet. Dr. Lai had to knock Ralph out with ketamine before she could sew him up.”
“You named your dog Ralph?” Sierra asked.
“I didn’t. His last owner did. I got Ralph from a shelter after his owner was reported for abusing him,” Martinez answered. “Poor dog shook for, like, two weeks until he got used to me and the girls,” he said, referring to his wife and daughters. “Anyway, Dr. Lai told me that Special K knocked Ralph out for four hours.”
“How big is Ralph?” Sierra asked.
“He’s a ninety-three-pound Labrador,” Martinez said proudly.
“All the killer would need would be to knock out his target for half an hour or less,” Ronan speculated. “Special K or a roofie would do the trick.”
Choi asked what everyone was thinking. “You think our serial killer might be a vet—the kind that deals with animals not battlefields?” he clarified.
“Either that, or someone with access to those kinds of drugs,” Sierra suggested.
“The question is,” Ronan said, getting up from his desk and crossing over to the bulletin board, “why would a vet—or someone with access to a vet’s drugs—” he acknowledged, glancing in Sierra’s direction, “be executing gang members?”
When no one answered, Sierra decided to give it a shot.
“Off the top of my head, maybe one or more of these guys ran up a bill with the vet and didn’t pay it and things escalated from there. Or maybe they shot up the vet’s place of business and this is his way of getting even?” Sierra proposed.
“Sounds plausible enough, except for our initial problem,” Ronan pointed out. “These are two different gangs we’re talking about. When did they ever do anything in concert?”
Choi sighed. “You really are a killjoy, you know that?” he asked.
Sierra had an idea. “Have you tried exploring social media?” Sierra asked.
He turned toward her, as did Choi and Martinez. “I know I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but would you add a few more words to that? Exactly what do you want us to do with social media?” Ronan asked.
She had a strong feeling that Ronan spent as little time on the computer as possible and had no social accounts. Even her father kept in touch with some members of the family who lived out of state that way.
She made it simple for Ronan, doing her best not to make him feel that she was talking down to him. “These guys are all under thirty. For the most part, that age group posts everything they do on their media pages. They’d certainly brag on the internet if they felt they had something to brag about. Why don’t we start looking there?” she suggested to Ronan. “Something’s got to give us a clue as to how these deaths are connected because I’m willing to bet my shield that these were not random murders.”
“You volunteering for the job?” Ronan asked her, seizing on her wording.
“Don’t we have techs in the computer lab who do that sort of thing?” she asked him.
Ronan recalled what his brother had said about his last trip to the computer research part of the CSI unit. “Last time I checked, they were backed up until the turn of the century.”
Sierra sighed. “Then I guess I’m volunteering to find out if any of these jokers posted online,” she said with resignation.
* * *
HIS CONSCIENCE GOT the better of him.
He’d done his best to ignore it. After all, it had been Carlyle’s suggestion and everyone in the department pulled their own weight, so there was no reason why she shouldn’t be the one doing the heavy lifting on this internet search she’d brought up.
But he had assumed that she would approach the job like any normal person, taking breaks and time out for meals. But the woman hadn’t budged from her desk since he’d put her on the task.
And that had been hours ago.
Choi and Martinez had left for the night a little while ago, as had a good many of the detectives in the squad room. Even Lieutenant Carver had gone home about half an hour ago.
As for him, he’d walked out as well. But he’d gotten as far as the break room and then forced himself to double back after making an all-important pit stop at the vending machine.
“You know,” Ronan said, setting a can of diet soda on Sierra’s desk, “when I told you to see what you could find on these guys from anything that they might have posted on social media pages, I didn’t mean for you to exhaust all the search engines before you could finally go home.”
Reading, Sierra didn’t immediately look up. “I know,” she answered Ronan. “I just kind of got caught up in it.”
He sat on the edge of her desk but she still didn’t look up. She was busy trying to make sense of something she was reading.
“There’s ‘caught up’ and there’s ‘obsessive,’” Ronan pointed out.
She glanced in his direction for half a minute. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn into one of those people who forgets to shower or change their clothes,” she promised. “It’s just that each thing I check out just feeds into something else.” It astonished her how mindless some people could be, to be proud of hurting people and getting by without doing any work. “These guys were really maniacal, crazy people.” Sierra shook her head.
“Well, at least we agree on something.”
That caught her attention and she looked up. “I’ve got a feeling that we’d probably agree on a lot of things, once you stop thinking of me as the enemy.”
“I don’t think of you as the enemy,” he told her, tamping down his temper.
“No? Try being on my side of this thing,” she told him. “The lieutenant brought me over to your team and you acted like you’d just been given an infestation of body lice.”
“That’s getting a little carried away, don’t you think?”
She raised her eyes to his. “Am I?”
“Go home, Carlyle. Get some sleep. The internet’ll still be here in the morning.”
“I know that,” she answered. “I just wanted to find something to get us a step closer to getting this guy.” She looked up at Ronan as she made her point. “So that you’d see I could be an asset.”
He frowned, debating whether or not to let that go or to say what he knew should be said. It was late, he was tired, and maybe that influenced him into deciding to give her her due.
“You came up with the idea that the victims were given drugs to keep them from fighting back. The rest of us hadn’t thought of that. That puts a gold star under your name. Now go home and get something to eat,” he ordered gruffly.
Arguing was in Sierra’s nature, but she refrained. She paused, then nodded. “I guess I am hungry.” She looked back at her monitor and something occurred to her. “Just five more minutes and I’ll close everything down.”
Ronan watched her for a long moment, knowing that if he left, there was no telling how long she would remain at her desk, going from one site to another. She had to be the most stubborn woman he had ever encountered, and that included his mother and sisters—which was saying a lot.
“Carlyle,” he said sternly, “go home.”
“I will,” she promised, the keys clicking beneath her fingers. “In a minute.”
Ronan got off her desk. Moving behind it, he bent and flipped a switch on the power strip beneath her desk.
“Now,” he ordered, getting up.
Her jaw dropped. “You just shut off my computer,” she complained.
He appeared completely unfazed by the accusation in her voice. “I gave you a direct order and you ignored it.”
She drew herself up, ready to go a few rounds with this annoying man. “You’re lead detective, not my supreme leader,” she informed him hotly.
A hint of a smile played along his lips. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
With that, he turned away and began to walk out of the squad room.
She raised her voice as she called after him. “I know your mother and I’ll tell her what a hard time you’ve been giving me.”
Ronan turned then and slowly crossed back to her desk. “Did you just threaten me with my mother?” he asked in disbelief. “What are we, twelve?”
She braced herself. “I’m not. But I’m not sure about you.”
“You’re tired. I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. Now go home.”
He might be the lead detective and in charge, but she was not about to be intimidated. “Why are you acting like I’m the invading force?”
“Because you’re the invading force,” he retorted. He’d had no choice in the matter when Carver had brought her over. He had to work with her and he didn’t appreciate not being given a choice.
“Hey, you’re a Cavanaugh,” she reminded him. “Nobody invades you,” she pointed out. “You guys practically are the police department. I’m just trying to do my part. I don’t want the credit,” she stressed. “You can have the credit for solving this thing.”
“This isn’t about credit,” he informed her, annoyed she thought that way.
“Then what is it about?” she demanded, confused. “Why do I get the feeling that you don’t want to be in the same space with me?”
Denial was on his tongue but he never voiced it. Possibly because she’d stumbled onto something. “Because you remind me of someone,” he finally said, struggling to keep from yelling the words at her.
“Who?”
“Someone,” was all he trusted himself to say and then, before she could attempt to grill him any further, he stalked out.
“That’s not an answer!” she countered.
Grabbing her bag, Sierra quickly headed out of the squad room after him.
But when she got to the hallway, Ronan was nowhere to be seen.
He’d probably caught the elevator. For a second she thought of taking the stairs and ambushing him on the ground floor, but she had a feeling that would just lead to more of the same. He wasn’t about to tell her anything. Most likely, he regretted having said as much as he had just now.
The bottom line was that she needed answers and O’Bannon wasn’t about to give them to her.
But she thought she knew someone who just might be able to.
Taking the elevator to the ground floor, she hurried to the parking lot and made her way to her car. Once she got into her vehicle, she put her key in the ignition but she didn’t start the engine.
Instead she took out her cell phone and placed a call.
Once the call connected, she heard a deep, gravely voice answer. “Carlyle.”
“Hi, Dad,” she said with more cheer than she was feeling. “It’s me. Sierra.”
“Sierra?” her father repeated. “Wait, wait, I know that name, just give me a second. Sierra, Sierra—” he repeated as if doing that would unearth some memories, help him recall who she was.
“Very funny, Dad. Okay, I know I haven’t called or been by lately, but I’ve been a little busy,” she told him.
“I take it that the police department has been working you hard, chaining you to your desk and all that. Okay, so why is the black sheep of the family suddenly calling me?”
He’d called her that the day she had told him she was applying to the police academy instead of signing up for the fire department like the rest of her family. In time, he’d come to terms with it, but he still wasn’t exactly thrilled.
“Dad, I work in the police department, not for some escort service. There’s no reason to call me a black sheep.”
“Sure there is,” the deep voice rumbled in her ear. “You didn’t go into the family business the way you were supposed to.”
Sierra sighed. “This is why I don’t call very often,” she told her father.
“Okay, okay, I’ll make nice,” her father promised. “To what do I owe this unexpected but delightful call?”
“You’re laying it on way too thick, Dad, but I’ll let that ride for now. I need your help,” she said seriously. “I want you to find something out for me.”
“You mean like detective work?” he asked, a touch of surprise in his voice. “Isn’t that your field of expertise?”
“Yes, but this is more up your alley if you’d only stop trying to make me feel like I failed you and just listen?” she asked.
“I guess I’d better,” her father conceded, “or you’ll hang up, right?”
She wasn’t going to get sucked into that. Instead she asked, “Do you still talk to Maeve O’Bannon?”
“She’s a damn fine woman,” her father said with feeling. “Why shouldn’t I still talk to her? She had the good sense to work alongside the fire department, unlike the rest of her family.”
Sierra ignored that, as well, and went straight to the heart of her request. “I want you to ask her something for me.”
“All right,” Chief Craig Carlyle said. “What do you want me to ask?”
She braced herself for her father’s possible reaction. “Could you ask her what her son Ronan’s story is?”
“Come again?”
Sierra decided to give her father as much background as she felt he’d need to understand why she was making the request. “I’m working with Ronan and he let it slip that I remind him of someone. I need you to ask Maeve if he ever had a problem with someone who looked like me.”
“I’ve got a suggestion,” her father said. “Why don’t you ask Ronan?”
“It’s kind of complicated, Dad.”
“Isn’t he treating you right?” her father asked.
She knew all she had to do was say that he wasn’t and her father would be right there, in Ronan’s face. She didn’t need him to champion her. All she needed him to do was what she’d asked.
“Please, Dad, just ask Maeve,” she repeated.
She heard her father sigh deeply. “Look, Sierra, I always told you what cops were like. If Maeve’s son isn’t treating you with the respect you deserve, quit,” he told her. “You know I can always use you on my team. Your brothers’ll show you the ropes and we can make this a whole family affair.”
She closed her eyes, searching for strength and the right words. “Dad.”
“What?”
“Just ask her for me, okay? Thanks. I’ll call again soon.”
With that, she ended the call. She loved her father—and her brothers—more than anything, but there were times when talking to the man could make her feel so drained.
And then she smiled to herself. She supposed that could be viewed as a two-way street. She was fairly certain her father probably felt the same way about her.
Chapter Six (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“Well, this is a surprise,” Andrew Cavanaugh said to his younger brother as he opened his front door. “Come on in, Brian.” Closing the door again, he said, “You don’t usually stop by in the middle of the week like this.” Since the kitchen had become the hub of his activity, the former chief of police led the current chief of detectives to the kitchen. “Things a little slow at the police department these days?”
“Actually,” Brian answered, crossing the threshold into the state-of-the-art kitchen, “they’re a little more hectic than usual.”
As the oldest, Andrew had always been able to read his brother like a book. But this time there was a note he couldn’t quite identify in Brian’s voice.
“Something wrong?” he asked, stopping by the counter and studying his brother more closely. “Something you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”
Brian smiled for a long moment. “Not in the way you think.”
Andrew crossed to the industrial-size refrigerator. “Well now you really have me curious. Want a beer? Something harder?” he asked when Brian didn’t take him up on the beer.
Brian glanced toward the refrigerator. “You have any of that cake left over that you served at the last gathering?”
Praise, even implied praise, never got old, Andrew thought. He’d been a dedicated chief of police in his time, but the culinary arts had always been his passion. He’d put himself through school that way and it was a love that lingered to the present day.
“No, but I whipped up a new cake if you’re interested.”
“I’m always interested in cake, you know that,” Brian said, taking a seat at the extra-long, custom-made kitchen table. He grinned ruefully. “Lila says if I keep this up, I’m going to have to go on a diet. I thought I’d just remedy the situation by putting another notch on my belt.”
“That doesn’t mean what it used to, does it?” Andrew’s wife, Rose, asked as she came into the kitchen. She smiled warmly at her brother-in-law.
Brian laughed softly. “Not since before Jared was born,” he told her, referring to the first of his four adult children, three of whom were police detectives. The fourth, Janelle, was an assistant DA.
“Okay, other than my cake, what’s brought you out on a school night like this?” Andrew asked, placing a healthy slice of amaretto cake in front of his brother.
Fork poised over his serving, he looked at Andrew and Rose. “You two aren’t having any?” Brian asked. “I feel strange, being the only one eating.”
“Like I believe that.” Andrew laughed. “But I’ll have a small slice to keep you company. Rose?” he asked his wife as he cut himself a slice that was half the size of the one he’d just given his brother.
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Marie Ferrarella
For homicide detective Ronan Cavanaugh O'Bannon, this time it's personal…and totally baffling! The body of a police friend is found executed in the same manner as rival gang members. There's no progress in finding Aurora's serial killer…until Sierra Carlyle joins the team.The perky young newbie is as chatty and extroverted as Ronan is taciturn and closed off. Frankly, she irritates him, but she's a brilliant, relentless investigator. Working together, facing danger, Sierra's warmth begins to thaw Ronan's iciness. But acting on their undeniable attraction proves unwise now. There's a killer to find and stop…before he sets his sights on a Cavanaugh!
The Cavanaughs are back to doing what they do best—fighting crime—in this electrifying new novel by USA TODAY bestselling author Marie Ferrarella!
For homicide detective Ronan Cavanaugh O’Bannon, this time it’s personal…and totally baffling! The body of a police friend is found executed in the same manner as rival gang members. There’s no progress in finding Aurora’s serial killer…until Sierra Carlyle joins the team.
The perky young newbie is as chatty and extroverted as Ronan is taciturn and closed off. Frankly, she irritates him, but she’s a brilliant, relentless investigator. Working together, facing danger, Sierra’s warmth begins to thaw Ronan’s iciness. But acting on their undeniable attraction proves unwise now. There’s a killer to find and stop…before he sets his sights on a Cavanaugh!
“I’m not heartless,” he informed her.
“I just don’t allow emotions to get in the way, and I don’t believe in using more words than are absolutely necessary,” he added pointedly since he knew that seemed to bother her.
“Well, lucky for you, I do,” she told him with what amounted to the beginning of a smile. “I guess that’s what’ll make us such good partners.”
He looked at her, stunned. He viewed them as being like oil and water—never being able to mix. “Is that your take on this?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes,” she answered cheerfully.
The fact that she appeared to have what one of his brothers would have labeled a killer smile notwithstanding, Ronan just shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, you’ll get to believe it soon enough,” she told him.
Cavanaugh Standoff
Marie Ferrarella
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author MARIE FERRARELLA has written more than two hundred and fifty books for Mills & Boon, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website, www.marieferrarella.com (http://www.marieferrarella.com).
To
Adelynn Marie Melgar
Welcome to the World
Little One
Contents
Cover (#u7379d250-bf99-5e20-9224-be6f0ee06c38)
Back Cover Text (#u96f992e7-b3d1-5032-b845-b8ade2d121c3)
Introduction (#u243482ad-6457-5c29-94c0-4cb5ae529d12)
Title Page (#u6ddd4f49-8944-5cb9-a37c-fcccaf82bc16)
About the Author (#u623c2b11-9a9f-50a5-bc30-c332ed044c0e)
Dedication (#u83bd265b-047c-590d-ab1d-16d90aa3b746)
Prologue (#u00c5decb-b548-5646-a210-40a2960de781)
Chapter One (#u0a0afabb-b564-539c-8ff8-631819d5fea1)
Chapter Two (#u8d241c12-c9e2-5008-98b0-4315f71fa515)
Chapter Three (#u7bbf5a31-4db1-559d-b1e1-80f5018126ca)
Chapter Four (#u453f5da5-4aff-52a2-a60c-2555abfa7ae6)
Chapter Five (#u03151ad6-585a-5e1b-afb2-3e5fc6d07f60)
Chapter Six (#ud05c2bc6-65c4-59e1-a3b8-6ee937cb3d04)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
The first kill had been easy.
All it had taken was a sense of detachment—and that had been there, hovering like a dark specter, growing closer and closer for the last two years.
Detachment had been the only way to survive ever since it had happened.
“It.” The event that had turned the world completely upside down, draining everyday life of all happiness, of what made life worthwhile. The event that had left nothing but a pile of ashes in its wake.
Placing the gun barrel up against that worthless scum’s head and then firing, had brought with it an unexpected, tremendous release of pent-up anger.
And just as unexpectedly, it had caused a sense of purpose to return to the emptiness loosely termed as “life.”
The first kill had originated from a chance encounter. After that, a plan had been born. A plan that had required a great deal of careful research, coordination and, above all, meticulous timing. But every risk, every dangerous moment, was ultimately so worth it.
And now? Now, finally, the end of the road was within sight.
Five bodies down, four to go. This would take more planning because they were on their guard now. But it didn’t matter.
However long it took, they were going to die.
Every single one of them!
The target had already been chosen, his day-to-day movements committed to memory. Just like the others.
If a conscience had been involved, it had long since been numbed into nonexistence.
Four more to go.
The words hummed like an enticing siren song. Four more people to kill and the score would finally be even.
Four more and then maybe, just maybe, life could begin to get back to normal.
And if not—and there was a big possibility that it wouldn’t—well, those evil, cold-blooded bastards all had it coming. Their deaths would be no loss to the world because they all dealt in death as if it was of no great consequence. With all of them wiped from the face of the earth, maybe someone else would go on living rather than have their life snuffed out as if they didn’t matter.
Maybe the self-righteous defenders of the public safety would even see it as a public service. Because that was what it was.
A public service.
A public that would be a little safer once those people were all dead.
And maybe, just maybe, sleep would finally return, bringing with it some measure of peace.
Peace, after two years.
Finally.
At least, there was a sliver of hope that it would. Something that had been missing all these many long months.
Chapter One (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“Heads up, O’Bannon, your serial killer’s body count just went up by one.”
The declaration came from the Homicide Department’s lieutenant, Jacob Carver, as he came out of his office and walked toward the lead detective assigned to the unusual case.
A twenty-three-year-old veteran of the Aurora Police Department, the lieutenant had a Countdown-to-Retirement calendar prominently displayed on his wall. It was the first thing anyone saw entering his office. The second thing they noticed was the pile of travel brochures amassed on his desk, a pile that seemed to increase weekly.
But any hope the lieutenant had of having the time until his retirement go by quietly had evaporated with the advent of multiple murders—executions, actually—that pointed to a serial killer having invading the northern perimeter of their normally peaceful city.
Ronan Cavanaugh O’Bannon frowned. “Are they sure the body is courtesy of our serial killer?” he asked.
If it was the work of the serial killer who was selectively eliminating members of not just one gang but two, that brought the body count up to a frustrating five. Maybe this time the killer had gotten sloppy and left behind something that could be construed as a clue.
“One bullet to the back of the head, execution style, and, according to the first officer on the scene, the guy’s right hand was cut off,” Carver recited.
“Yup, sounds like our boy,” Detective Sebastian Choi, also assigned to the case, agreed. He shuddered. “Lot of anger there.”
“So you still like the theory you came up with?” Carver asked, sounding rather skeptical. He looked from Choi to O’Bannon, to Nick Martinez, Choi’s partner and also assigned to the case. “That it’s just gang retaliation, with one gang attacking another to even the score?”
“It could still be that,” Ronan allowed, the note of certainty missing from his low, deep voice. His frown deepened. “But according to the ME reports on the other four victims, all the killings were done exactly the same way. That points to one killer, not a mixed bag of executioners, the way we first thought.”
Carver’s gaze was unwavering as he looked at his lead detective. “Is that your gut talking?”
It was hard to miss the sarcasm but Ronan wasn’t the type to be intimidated. He was long past something like that. “It’s a family thing,” was all he said.
The lieutenant sighed, clearly impatient. Everyone knew what it looked like to retire with something of this magnitude left unsolved on his record. It was tantamount to a black mark. He needed this solved. Yesterday. “And that’s as far as you’ve gotten in the investigation?”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, Loo,” Ronan replied quietly.
“No,” Carver agreed. “But it was demolished and fell apart pretty quickly.”
“What’s the big deal?” John Deeks, one of the squad room detectives who was eavesdropping, asked. “I mean, as long as these so-called gang members are only doing away with one another, that means there’s less of them to turn on the decent residents of their own cities, much less Aurora. Everyone remembers that drive-by shoot-out just within the city limits two years ago. Maybe this’ll teach them to keep away.”
Ronan turned his chair in Deeks’ direction. “Our job is to catch killers regardless of who they kill,” he informed the detective coldly.
“Yeah, they don’t pay us enough to pass judgment on the lifestyle and character of the victim,” Choi spoke up, joining in.
Deeks raised and then dropped his wide, sloping shoulders, retreating. “I’m just saying...”
Ronan leveled a steely gaze at the other man. “Everyone knows exactly what you’re saying.”
“Hey, back to your corners, everybody,” Carver ordered sharply. “I want to see this kind of energy out in the field, not here.” He turned his attention to Ronan and got down to the other reason he’d come out of his office rather than summon the detective in to see him. “Since the body count is up to five, I’m thinking maybe you need a little extra help.”
Ronan’s expression darkened just a shade. He had Choi and Martinez working with him. He didn’t want any “extra” help. Nor did he like what was being inferred. That he couldn’t do the job.
“We’ll get him,” he told Carver with the sort of finality that was known to end discussions.
Another man might have backed off, but dark looks and growled responses had no effect on Carver. In general, that was his domain. “I know you will.”
Whether that was meant to be patronizing or it was actually an honest statement was anyone’s guess, Ronan thought. But an inner voice told him to brace himself.
He watched as Carver turned, glanced over his shoulder to the far end of the squad room and then beckoned. “Carlyle, mind coming over here?” It was not a question but a civilly worded command.
Having been forewarned a few minutes earlier by Carver as to what the lieutenant proposed to have happen, Detective Sierra Carlyle was on her feet as soon as he uttered her name.
Aware that more than one set of eyes was on her, she wove her way between the desks that littered the squad room until she reached Carver.
Although she didn’t make eye contact with Ronan, she was instinctively aware of the fact that he appeared to be glaring at her. Well, she thought, this hadn’t been her choice, but now that it had been made, she intended to go along with it to the best of her ability. Her job was to follow a superior’s orders whenever possible, not to buck them.
With an acknowledging nod in her direction, Carver turned back to the man he’d selected to head the current investigation.
“Okay, O’Bannon,” Carver announced, “as of right now, consider Detective Carlyle part of your team.”
Ronan did not look pleased. “I don’t get a say in this?” he asked, his voice all but rumbling from deep within the caverns of his chest.
“Sure you do,” Carver loftily answered the younger man. “You get to say yes.” The lieutenant glanced around at the team, now increased by one. “You take that empty desk,” he told Sierra, pointing to the one butted up against O’Bannon’s. “Any other questions?” When no one said anything in response, Carver nodded, satisfied. “Didn’t think so.”
Placing the piece of notepaper he was holding with the current crime scene’s address on Ronan’s desk, he stepped back.
“All right, that’s the location of your newest dead body,” he told Ronan. “A drunk patron of the Shamrock Inn tripped over the body while apparently trying to duck out the back way to avoid paying his tab.” Carver laughed under his breath. “Seeing that body lying there was definitely enough to scare him sober,” he commented. He spared one last glance at the now team of four. “Okay. Do me proud. Solve this damn thing before it gets completely out of hand.”
“You ask me, it’s already out of hand,” Choi murmured under his breath the moment the lieutenant left the scene. Turning his attention to the detective who had just been added to their team, the father of three smiled broadly at her. “You can ride with me to the crime scene.”
Nick Martinez instantly came to attention. He moved in to flank Sierra’s other side. “If you want to arrive there in one piece, Carlyle, you can ride with me,” he offered.
Choi appeared annoyed at the inference. “Hey, what’s wrong with the way I drive?”
Martinez gave the other man a look that quipped, “Really?” Out loud he said, “Can’t go into it now. It would take too long and we’ve got to get to the crime scene.”
Ronan turned from his desk, his dark green eyes washing over the two men he’d been working with for a couple of months now. And then he looked at the woman Carver had added to the mix without so much as a warning—as if the situation wasn’t already difficult enough.
“You’re coming with me before these two jokers decide to play tug-of-war with you.” There wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice as he made the pronouncement.
The last thing Sierra wanted to do was appear to take sides in what she perceived to be some sort of unspoken power struggle.
“If you give me the address,” she told Ronan, who had already slipped the paper Carver had given him into his pocket, “I can drive there myself.”
“Good to know,” Ronan answered drily, making no move to take the paper out of his pocket and show her the address.
O’Bannon had just given her what amounted to a non-answer in her book. And now he was walking out of the squad room. Biting back a comment, she forced herself to hurry to keep up. Martinez and Choi were right behind her.
“So do you want me to drive myself over to the scene of the crime or not?” Sierra asked.
“Not,” Ronan answered, pressing for the elevator.
The elevator arrived the second he took his index finger off the down button. Ronan walked into the empty car and was quickly followed by the other three members of his team.
“Not very talkative, are you?” Sierra said, moving so that she was standing right next to him.
“Pet rocks have been known to talk more than O’Bannon does,” Choi told her. Both he and Martinez were behind her and the lead detective.
Not to be left out, Martinez assured her, “You’ll get used to it.”
Sierra slanted a look at the man to her right. He seemed oblivious to the conversation around him, although she couldn’t see how he didn’t hear them.
“I really doubt it,” she answered Martinez with sincerity.
The elevator doors parted on the first floor. Ronan spared her a glance just before he got off. He had one word for her.
“Try.”
And then he took off again, making her hurry if she wanted to keep up. At about a foot taller than she was, O’Bannon’s stride was a good deal wider than hers.
“Or,” she suggested, determined to keep pace, “you could try using sentences containing more than just one word.”
Ronan made no attempt to answer her. He continued walking toward the rear exit and then made his way through the parking lot until he came to where he had parked his vehicle. Only after he released the door locks did he turn toward the other two detectives who’d kept pace with him. He told them the address he’d been given by Carver.
“Got it,” Martinez said, nodding. It was a given that he was driving the other car. “We’ll be right behind you.”
It was unclear, at least to Sierra, whether the other detective had said that to O’Bannon or to her in an effort to let her know she wouldn’t be alone with their wooden leader.
Getting into the passenger side of O’Bannon’s car, Sierra buckled up. The second she secured her seat belt, O’Bannon took off.
Doing her best to relax, Sierra waited for him to say something.
But after they had gone two city blocks in complete silence, she realized that this was the way it was going to be, at least until they reached the scene of the murder. While she didn’t expect the detective to engage in rambling chatter, this “silent treatment” or whatever it was, was totally unacceptable to her.
“You know, it is all right to talk,” she told him, trying to sound cheerful. Unable to “get in his face,” she leaned forward and did the best she could by peering at his profile.
Aware that she had assumed a very unusual position, Ronan waited until he had driven through the intersection before he finally responded to her statement.
“Why?”
“Because,” she began patiently, “that’s what people do, especially when they’re thrown together in a situation that was not of their own choosing—like now,” she stressed. “They talk.”
Accelerating just a little, Ronan drove through the next intersection a shade before the light turned yellow. “I don’t.”
“Maybe you should,” she countered. She saw him turn his head slightly, as if to look at her, and then apparently he changed his mind. She began to feel as if she was dealing with a robot. Nevertheless, Sierra pushed on. “I’m sure you have something to say,” she told him, knowing she was setting herself up, but it was better than this feeling of being in exile.
“I’m thinking,” he informed her.
“Think out loud,” she suggested.
He obviously hadn’t expected that. “What?”
“Think out loud,” she repeated. “I know you’re not thrilled with this but, for better or worse, Carver made us partners for this case and partners use each other for sounding boards. That only works if they talk out loud because, despite what my brothers seem to think, I am not a mind reader.” She took a breath and waited. When Ronan still made no response, she told him a bit more forcefully, “So talk to me.”
Rather than comment on the case they were undertaking, Ronan contradicted what she’d said earlier. “We’re not partners.”
Caught off guard, she looked at him in surprise. “What?”
“You said Carver made us partners,” he said. “He didn’t. He put you on my team. There’s a difference,” he informed her.
Smiling, she said, “Now, was that so hard?”
Because she wasn’t responding to what he’d just told her, Ronan was momentarily confused. “What?”
Sierra spelled it out for him. “Talking. You talked in a full sentence. Several of them, actually. So my point is—was that so hard?”
He didn’t answer her question. Instead, Ronan announced, “We’re here,” as he brought his vehicle to a stop at the curb, parking it several lengths in front of a club named the Shamrock Inn.
The tavern had originally been considered to be in Tesla, the city neighboring Aurora. But somewhere along the line, someone had redrawn Aurora’s boundaries, placing the establishment partially over the city limits, leaving it in both jurisdictions.
A cartoon leprechaun was whimsically winking on the sign proclaiming the tavern’s name just above the door. What might have once been regarded mildly amusing in the dark of night now just looked sad in the light of day, Sierra thought, walking up to the squat building.
She expected Ronan to go in through the front door but he didn’t. Wordlessly, he circled the small tavern with its peeling paint and walked toward the alley behind the Shamrock Inn.
Suppressing a sigh, Sierra stepped up her pace again and quickly followed him.
Once in the alley, she saw that the Crime Scene Investigative Unit had reached the area ahead of them. Three investigators, including the head of the unit, Sean Cavanaugh, Ronan’s uncle, were spread out documenting the crime scene. The medical examiner was also there, his attention strictly focused on the victim lying facedown in the alley.
Sean looked up the moment he heard the detectives arrive in the alley. A tall, distinguished-looking man with a genial way about him, he waited until his nephew reached him before saying anything.
“Looks like your killer got another one,” he said grimly.
Ronan nodded as he assessed the lifeless victim. Like the others, the man had a single gunshot to the back of the head. Blood partially covered the tattoo at the nape of his neck. And, like the other victims, one of the man’s hands had been completely—and cleanly—hacked off.
Ronan looked at his uncle. “How long has he been dead?”
Sean pointed to the back of the tavern where a thin man of about forty or so was leaning against the wall, looking as if he was about to collapse at any moment. The first responding officer on the scene was next to him.
“That white-as-a-sheet-looking patron tripped over our victim at around two in the morning—right around closing time—so the victim’s been dead for at least that long. My guess is that he most likely departed this earth an hour before that.”
“The victim’s hand was cut off,” Sierra noted, struggling to separate herself from the horror of the scene. She saw that the appendage had been thrown haphazardly near the Dumpster and looked quizzically at CSI unit leader. “But the killer didn’t take it.” The act made no sense to her. Why cut off a hand and then just leave it? She would have thought the killer would have wanted it as a souvenir of his crime.
“He never does,” Sean told her. Looking at Ronan, he said, “You’ve got a new member,” and then smiled at Sierra. “Welcome to the party—such as it is,” he added. “A fresh pair of eyes might see something we don’t.”
“Yeah.” Ronan exhaled the word with a touch of impatience. He didn’t notice Sierra making her way to the police officer, nor did he notice her talking to him. He was focused on the victim. Moving in, he squatted down for a closer view of the man. The victim was dressed in what appeared to be designer jeans, undoubtedly boosted from some venue, Ronan guessed, and an ordinary T-shirt, now blood-stained. Like his neck, the back of the dead man’s arms had several tattoos, but nothing that struck Ronan as outstanding.
“Another gang member?” he asked his uncle.
“Looks that way,” Sean replied cautiously. “Working theory is still that this is a retaliation for the last killing.”
Martinez and Choi stood on either side of the body, bracketing the three people already there.
“But Fearless Leader’s gut says it isn’t, right, Fearless Leader?” Martinez asked, looking at Ronan. The latter returned a laser-like expression that effectively wiped the wide smile from Martinez’s face. “Sorry,” he murmured, backing off.
“How soon can you get an autopsy done on this one?” Ronan asked.
That was an easy question to answer. “As soon as we get the body back to the morgue. It’s not like there’re bodies piling up, waiting for the ME to work on them,” he added, looking at the medical examiner who was methodically working on the body, preparing it for transport. “Technically, if the killer had waited until Mr. Walker here had done his drinking in his own city, this wouldn’t even be our call, but because the Shamrock Inn is partially located just inside our city limits, that makes the homicide ours.”
“How do you know his name?” Ronan asked.
“Victim was nice enough to have his wallet on him,” Sean answered. “And apparently his killer wanted us to know who his latest victim was, so he left it untouched.”
“Just like the others,” Choi commented.
Joining the rest of the team, Sierra looked at the gregarious detective. “What do you mean?”
Sean supplied the answer. “None of the other victims lived in Aurora, either.”
“Come to Aurora and die,” Ronan murmured grimly under his breath as he continued looking at the dead man on the ground.
Chapter Two (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“I don’t think that’ll catch on as a slogan,” Sierra commented, overhearing what Ronan had just said to himself.
Ronan glanced up at her as if she had suddenly started babbling nonsense. “What won’t catch on?”
“You just said ‘Come to Aurora and die’ and—” Sierra waved her hand at him. She might as well save her breath. “Never mind.”
One look at Ronan’s impassive expression and she knew that she could talk herself blue in the face and he still wouldn’t really understand what she was saying, or why. More importantly, he wouldn’t crack a smile. The man was in serious need of a sense of humor, she thought. She firmly believed that, at times, a sense of humor was the only thing that could see a person through the harder times.
Working with O’Bannon was definitely going to be a challenge, she decided. But then, she wasn’t being paid to have a good time, Sierra stoically reminded herself. Her job was to keep the residents who lived in Aurora safe any way she could. And right now, working with O’Bannon and his team was the best way she could do that.
Squaring her shoulders, Sierra looked at the lead detective. “All right, what would you like me to do?” she asked since Ronan had gone back to intently studying the victim. When he raised his eyes to look at her, she instinctively knew what Ronan was about to say and voiced it before he could. “Besides going back to the squad room.”
Rising to his feet, Ronan addressed the other two detectives who were first on the scene. “You two see what you can find out from the guy with the sickly green complexion—” he nodded toward the man still leaning against the wall “—and also find out who was tending bar last night. Maybe the bartender noticed if our victim was hanging out with someone. It would be nice if we could finally come up with a real witness who saw something we can use.”
Determined not to be ignored, Sierra spoke up. “You think the victim was in the bar before he was killed?”
Forced to acknowledge her, Ronan said, “It’s a safe bet.”
Choi leaned in over the body and took a deep breath. His expression became slightly pained. “Oh, yeah, he still smells like he was soaked in alcohol.”
“That could be because the guy who found him threw up when he realized what he’d just tripped over,” Sierra pointed out. “And according to the statement that guy gave the officer on the scene,” she said, “he’d been in the Shamrock drinking for hours. I just talked to the officer,” she added before any of the detectives could ask her how she had found that piece of information out.
Making no comment, Ronan looked at Choi and Martinez. “When you’re done, come back to the station.”
“Okay,” Choi readily agreed. “Is that where you’re going to be?”
In response, Ronan first turned toward his uncle. “Let me take a look at that wallet you found,” he requested.
Sean handed the plastic-encased wallet to him. It had been placed inside the envelope with its two sides spread open so that the driver’s license was visible. Ronan read the address, then handed the secured evidence back to his uncle.
“I’m going to Walker’s apartment to see if he lived with anyone who might be able to shed some light on the situation, tell us if Walker was targeted recently by anyone.”
“You mean like a note from his friendly neighborhood serial killer saying, ‘you’re next’?” Sierra asked with a touch of sarcasm.
Ronan shot her an annoyed look. “You think this is a joke?”
“Not at all, but at least I got you to talk to me.”
Ronan was already turning away. Sierra began to talk more quickly. “I guess since you didn’t give me a separate assignment, you want me to go with you.”
He had to admit that her persistence reminded him of his sisters, but he gave no outward indication as he asked, “And what makes you think that?”
“Simple process of elimination,” Sierra responded without any hesitation.
He knew he had to utilize her somehow and maybe she could to be useful. “All right, you might as well come along. You might come in handy if there’s a next of kin to notify.” Ronan began walking back to his car. “I’m not much good at that.”
“I’m surprised,” Sierra commented.
Reaching the car, Ronan turned to look at her. “If you’re going to be sarcastic—”
“No, I’m serious,” she told him then went on to explain her rationale. “You’re so detached, I just assumed it wouldn’t bother you telling a person that someone they’d expected to come home was never going to do that again. It would bother them, of course,” she couldn’t help adding, “but not you.”
Ronan got into his vehicle, buckled up and pulled out in what seemed like one fluid motion, all the while chewing on what this latest addition to his team had just said. Part of him just wanted to let it go. But he couldn’t.
“I’m not heartless,” he informed her. “I just don’t allow emotions to get in the way and I don’t believe in using more words than are absolutely necessary,” he added pointedly since he knew that seemed to bother her.
“Well, lucky for you, I do,” she told him with what amounted to the beginnings of a smile. “I guess that’s what’ll make us such good partners.”
He looked at her, stunned. He viewed them as being like oil and water—never being able to mix. “Is that your take on this?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes,” she answered cheerfully.
The fact that she appeared to have what one of his brothers would label a “killer smile” notwithstanding, Ronan just shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“Oh, you’ll get to believe it soon enough,” she told him. Before he could say anything, Sierra just continued talking to him and got down to the immediate business at hand. “I’m going to need to see your files on the other murders once we’re back in the squad room so I can be brought up to date.”
He didn’t even spare her a look. “Fine.”
“Are you always this cheerful?” she asked, “or is there something in particular that’s bothering you?”
This time Ronan did slant a quick glance in her direction. The woman sounded as if she was actually asking that, not just being nosy. He’d grown up in a family with talkative sisters and there was a time when the noise of constant chatter hadn’t bothered him. But that had been before life had taken the drastic, horrible turn that it had, changing all the ground rules on him.
Forever changing his life.
These days he preferred work and quiet, but for now, it looked like one of those ingredients would be seriously missing from the equation.
Moreover, he had the distinct feeling that if he mentioned to Carlyle that she was talking too much, she’d only get worse despite any so-called “efforts” to rein herself in. So, for now, he fell back on a plausible, albeit vague, excuse.
“I don’t like serial killers,” he said between clenched teeth.
That wasn’t it and she knew it. Her guess was that O’Bannon didn’t like being saddled with her, but he was just going to have to make the best of it. She intended to make him glad she was on his team rather than viewing it as some sort of cross he had to bear.
“I don’t think anyone does,” she said conversationally. “Anyone normal, anyway,” she added just before she flashed him another thousand-watt smile. “Lucky thing for you, you’re in the business of getting rid of them.”
He spared her a look that defied reading, so she put her best guess to it. He was probably labeling her a Pollyanna in his mind, but there was really more to her philosophy than that.
“You have to always find the upside to everything, no matter how bad it might seem to you at the time,” she told him. “That’s something my dad once told me.” And then she dropped the bombshell, thinking it was best if he found this little piece of information out sooner than later. “I think he picked it up from your mom.”
For a second Ronan didn’t think he’d heard her correctly. But he had keen hearing and he had heard everything the loquacious detective he’d been forced to add to his team had said since Carver had called her over to his desk, so he reasoned he hadn’t misheard. That raised an immediate question.
“You know my mother?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, I do.” Then, before he could ask, she volunteered just how her father knew his mother. “The ambulance company she runs is attached to the firehouse my dad oversees.” Which was just another example of what a small world this really was.
Granted he didn’t know anything about her background, but then he didn’t know any more than he had to about either Martinez or Choi. It was what they brought to the table as detectives that had always mattered to him.
Ronan glanced at her for half a second before looking back on the road. “Your dad’s a fireman?” he asked in disbelief.
It was an old, standing joke that firemen and policemen were natural rivals. How did she square being in the police department with her family?
Sierra seemed completely comfortable with her admission. “He is. So are my three brothers. Everyone at the fire station thinks your mother’s a great lady—and a hell of an ambulance driver in her day, too,” she added.
She wasn’t certain if that praise would somehow annoy O’Bannon—or make him proud. She didn’t know him well enough yet to make that kind of a call. But she had told him the truth and she didn’t see any reason not to say as much. She knew that she always liked hearing good things about her family from other people.
“Yeah, I know,” Ronan responded, his voice so low it almost sounded as if he was talking to himself rather than answering her.
Low voice or not, it was a start. Maybe, in time, she’d wear him down and actually draw O’Bannon into a normal conversation that didn’t require pulling teeth.
Focused on getting O’Bannon to talk to her, she hadn’t really been paying attention to the area they were driving through. But when he brought his vehicle to a stop a few minutes later, Sierra looked around for the first time.
They definitely weren’t in Aurora anymore.
The buildings on both sides of the streets all had a worn, run-down feel to them. Poverty, desperation and fear almost seemed to waft through the air. This was the kind of area people with any sort of ambition typically strove to leave behind, not come home to night after night.
And yet, for many, there was no other choice.
Eventually the streets won and the area beat people down, stripping them of all their hopes and dreams, as well as their dignity, leaving them with nothing to hold on to.
Ronan glanced at her. “You wanted to come along,” he said gruffly.
It was as if he could intuit what was going through her head, Sierra thought, doing her best to banish her reflections.
“I’m not complaining,” she told him, getting out on her side.
“Maybe I am,” Ronan murmured, hardly audible enough for her to hear.
The address on Walker’s license coincided with a five-story brown building that had gone up in the early seventies. Situated in the middle of a block, there was a bakery right next door to a shoe repair shop. A boarded-up dry cleaner’s was on the other side.
The building where Walker had lived had a front stoop. Several men, ranging from the ages of around seventeen to their midtwenties, were either sitting or standing in the stoop’s general vicinity. There were five of them, just enough so that, immobile, they all but barred access to the entrance.
“Mind getting out of the way?” Ronan asked evenly. His no-nonsense tone told the loiterers that they had no choice in the matter.
Mumbling, the five men moved only enough to create a small, accessible space to the door. Ronan went first, creating the path.
When Sierra started to follow him, one of the men on the stoop shifted just enough to keep her from entering the building.
Ronan never even turned around. “I heard one of you shifting. That had better be to give her more space, not less,” he warned.
The immediate shuffling noise that followed told him that the offender had moved out of the detective’s way.
“That’s a neat trick,” Sierra told him, falling into place beside Ronan once she’d crossed the threshold and had gotten inside the building. “Do you have eyes in the back of your head, too?”
“Don’t test me,” he told her. He expected that to be the end of it.
“Don’t tempt me,” she countered.
Since it didn’t appear as if there was an elevator, Ronan walked to the base of the staircase. “You always have to have the last word?” he asked.
“Not always,” she answered. Her cheerful response told him more than her words. “Lead the way, Fearless Leader.”
He looked back at her and frowned. “Don’t call me that.”
“Choi did,” she reminded him, using that as her excuse.
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Want me to tell him to stop?” she offered, still searching for a way to get on O’Bannon’s good side—if there was such a thing.
“I want you to be quiet and stay sharp,” he told her, looking around the poorly lit area carefully. The dim lighting on the stairs made it difficult to see beyond a few feet, which in Ronan’s mind placed them at a definite disadvantage.
“I can do both,” she told him, but for the sake of peace—and pleasing O’Bannon—she deliberately kept quiet as they carefully made their way up the next five flights of stairs.
Coming to the landing, Sierra blew out a breath. She exercised daily and felt she was in decent shape, but climbing all those stairs still took a bit of a toll on her, given that she was trying to keep up with O’Bannon’s pace.
“Wow, I’d hate to have to do that after a long day at work,” she commented.
“Could be why Walker and his so-called ‘friends’ didn’t work,” Ronan said cryptically, adding, “At least not in the traditional sense.”
Finding the apartment number he was looking for, Ronan knocked on the door. He gave it the count of ten and was about to knock again when they heard the sound of several locks being opened on the other side. Then someone pulled the apartment door back a crack. There was a chain holding the door in place.
The wary-looking woman on the other side of the door appeared as if she had once been very attractive. But it was obvious she had weathered more than her share of the worst that life had to offer.
Dark brown eyes regarded them both suspiciously, coming to her own conclusions. “If you’re selling religion, I tried it but it didn’t work.”
With that she began to close the door on them but Ronan put his foot in the way, which prevented her from shutting it.
“Hey!” she shouted in protest.
Ronan held up his badge so she could see it. “We’re with the police department.”
“I tried them, they didn’t work, either,” the woman informed him. There was a deep chasm of bitterness in her voice.
“Are you related to John Walker?” Sierra’s question was an attempt to cut through any further protest the woman might have to offer.
A flicker of despair passed through the woman’s eyes. “I’m his mother, why? What’s he done this time?” she demanded. There was anger in her voice as well as weariness that went clear down to the bone.
“May we come in?” Sierra asked politely.
But the older woman held her ground.
“No. You have something to say, you tell me from where you’re standing. What’s he done?” Walker’s mother demanded again, looking from Sierra to the man who still had his foot in her doorway.
Despite Ronan’s thoughts to the contrary, she had never had to break this sort of news to a deceased’s family member before. Sierra could feel a lump forming in her throat as she struggled to push the words out.
It almost felt surreal as she listened to her voice saying, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you—”
“Oh, Lord, he’s dead, isn’t he?” Mrs. Walker cried. Her small, frail body began to shake. She struggled as she removed the chain from the slot where it was anchored. “I told him,” she cried with anguished frustration. “I told him that the kind of life he was leading would kill him.” The woman sobbed, looking as if she was going to dissolve where she stood.
Once inside the apartment, Sierra tried to put her arms around the woman to keep her from sinking to the floor.
Walker’s mother fought her for a moment and then gave up as she broke down, sobbing against her shoulder. And then, after several minutes, Mrs. Walker straightened, seeming to tap into an inbred resilience.
Squaring her bowed shoulders and holding her head high, she looked at Sierra. “How did it happen?”
“Someone shot him. His body was found in the alley behind the Shamrock Inn,” Ronan told the woman, reciting the words in almost a clinical fashion.
Mrs. Walker nodded numbly, led the way into her small, cluttered living room and sank onto a sagging sofa that was all but threadbare.
“Tell me everything,” she requested in a hoarse whisper.
Chapter Three (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
Although it made him uncomfortable, Ronan had no choice but to take a seat beside the victim’s mother on the sofa.
Sierra, he noted, sat on the woman’s other side. Looking at her, he saw nothing but compassion in the detective’s eyes.
Maybe he should have dispatched her to do the notification on her own, but there’d been no way of knowing who Walker lived with ahead of time and he couldn’t just cavalierly put her life in danger because he was uncomfortable notifying a thug’s mother of her son’s demise.
Taking a breath, Ronan told the victim’s mother, “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell, Mrs. Walker. Your son was found in the alley behind the Shamrock Inn. A single gunshot delivered to the back of his head was the cause of death.”
The woman jolted as if she’d been touched by a live wire but, struggling, she managed to regain some of her composure.
“He didn’t suffer, did he?” she asked, obviously trying to rein in her emotions.
“Well, it looked—” Ronan began.
Oh, Lord, he is going to be truthful, Sierra realized. Didn’t he know that there was a time when the truth wasn’t welcome?
“No, it was quick,” she assured the older woman, talking quickly and deliberately avoiding eye contact with O’Bannon.
Her goal right now was to make sure Mrs. Walker didn’t fall apart. As long as the woman held it together, there was a good chance she would remain coherent and maybe even answer a few more questions for them.
“Was your son having trouble with anyone?” Ronan asked. “Any unusual arguments? Had anyone threatened him lately?”
“Well, this wasn’t done by a friend now, was it?” Mrs. Walker snapped sarcastically, then immediately appeared to regret her show of temper as tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. This is all such a shock. You spend every day worrying something’s going to happen to your kid, but when it does you’re just not ready for it.”
Sierra placed a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. Mrs. Walker released a shuddering sigh. For a moment she looked as if she was about to dissolve into tears, but then she managed to rally again.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Walker,” she told the woman with genuine feeling. “Is there anyone we could call for you?”
The woman laughed softly, although the sound was completely devoid of any humor. She shook her head. “No one who would come if they saw the police around.”
It wasn’t an accusation but a simple statement of fact. Sniffling, she took out a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes, then returned the tissue back to her pocket.
“When can I claim his bod—my son?” she asked, choking up.
“The medical examiner has to do an autopsy first, but as soon as your son’s body is released, we’ll let you know,” Sierra assured her. “Until then, here’s my card. If you think of anything to add, please call. Or if you just need someone to talk to—” Sierra gave the woman’s hand a squeeze as she gave her a business card “—call me.”
Mrs. Walker grimly nodded her head. The card went into the same pocket as the tissue. She tried to choke out a thank-you, but the words seemed to stick in her mouth.
“Thank you for your time,” Ronan said, rising. “We’ll let ourselves out.”
* * *
“WELL, THAT WOMAN’S never going to be the same again,” Sierra observed sadly as soon as they walked out of the almost airless little apartment.
“Nobody who loses someone ever really is,” Ronan commented drily.
Something in his voice caught her attention and Sierra looked at the tall man walking next to her. But his face was impassive, so if there had been an expression she could have interpreted, it was gone in an instant.
Ronan remained silent as they walked to his car. She decided it was just as well because he was undoubtedly disappointed that nothing new had been learned.
It wasn’t until they had pulled away from the curb and were driving back to the precinct that Ronan spoke again. To her surprise it wasn’t about the fact that they had learned nothing new about the victim.
“You weren’t half-bad in there.”
Sierra blinked, stunned as well as puzzled. “I’m sorry, I’m confused,” she confessed. “Are you praising the half-full glass or criticizing it because it’s half-empty?”
Ronan upbraided himself for having said anything, but since he had, he knew he needed to clarify it or Carlyle would just go on asking questions. He was beginning to realize she was just built that way.
“What I’m saying is that you handled an awkward situation without making it worse.”
Sierra suppressed a laugh. “That really is a left-handed compliment, you know.”
His eyes on the road, Ronan shrugged. “It’s all I’ve got.”
This time she did laugh. There was a decent human being in there somewhere, he just had to be dug out. She wondered if he was even aware of that fact.
“I really doubt that,” she told him.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Your mother’s a really nice, savvy woman,” Sierra said, hoping that would put what she said into perspective for him.
“So?”
She leaned back in her seat. “Never mind.”
“No, out with it,” Ronan ordered, sparing her one quick glance. “You started to say something, so now finish it.”
“And if I do, you’ll have reason to get rid of me?”
Did she really think he was that petty? What did he care what she thought about him? he asked himself the next second.
But he had pushed this and he wanted it resolved. “We’ll talk consequences later. Now, out with it. What are you trying to say?”
Sierra chose her words carefully, aware he would examine each one. “Your mother’s a really great, outgoing woman—”
“You already covered that part,” Ronan told her impatiently.
She supposed she could sugarcoat this, but she couldn’t get herself to lie. So she didn’t. “And you act as if you’d been raised by a she-wolf in a cave.”
Well, that was certainly straightforward enough, he thought. This woman obviously didn’t have any trouble telling the truth. He supposed that was a valuable asset—to both him and the team. Still, they weren’t going to get anywhere with this investigation if they kept clashing all the time.
“If you have a problem with the way I do things, Carlyle, you can always transfer out,” he told her. There was no emotion in his voice.
That just made her angry. “I don’t quit things,” she informed him.
“Then I’d say you have a problem.”
“I guess I do.”
He had no idea where she stood after saying that. And he certainly couldn’t just leave it. Easing into a stop at an intersection, he looked at her. “So, what’s it going to be? Are you in or are you out?”
She was probably going to regret this, Sierra thought, squaring her shoulders. But she’d told him the truth. She didn’t quit things. That left her only one answer. “I’m in—but don’t expect me to stop trying to get through that stony exterior,” she told him, qualifying her answer.
“What I expect,” Ronan stated deliberately, “is that you do your part to solve the crime to get whoever’s playing vigilante off the streets.”
The word he used caught her attention. “So now you think it’s a vigilante?”
He reminded himself that she was brand-new to the team and as such wasn’t apprised of pertinent details. He reviewed them in a nutshell. “This is the fifth street thug who’s been ‘executed’ this way. Three from one gang—the War Lords—and two from another—the Terminators. If it’s not a vigilante, what’s your take on it?”
“Well, off the top of my head,” she said, working through the problem as she spoke, “maybe it’s the work of a third gang, trying to get rid of the competition.”
“Aurora doesn’t have a gang. We had a few nerdy types a few years ago who tried to flex their muscles by spray-painting a couple of buildings, but the fact that they’d painted slogans using four-and five-syllable words gave them away. They were tracked down pretty quickly and turned over to their parents. That was the end of Aurora’s one and only ‘gang,’” he declared. “Anything else?”
Sierra grinned. “Nope. Not at this time.”
He caught her expression out of the corner of his eye as he continued to the precinct. “Then why do you look like some damn cat that swallowed a canary?”
“Because that’s the most number of words you’ve said to me since I became part of your team. I knew you had it in you.”
Ronan shook his head, exasperated. He didn’t trust himself to say anything in response so the rest of the ride to the precinct was made in silence.
* * *
THE MOMENT HE reached the squad room, Ronan walked straight to Martinez and Choi’s desks. “You guys learn anything?” he demanded.
Choi spoke first. “In between a bout of dry heaves, Billie, the guy who tripped over our victim, swore he’d never seen him before. I tend to believe him,” he said and then explained why before Ronan could ask. “The guy thought he was going to die and most people tend to tell the truth when they think they’re going to die.”
“And the bartender?” Ronan asked. So far, this wasn’t going well, he thought dourly.
“The guy who opened up the tavern wasn’t the guy on duty last night. He had that guy come down, but the evening bartender wasn’t all that helpful. According to Dave, the guy tending bar last night,” Martinez interjected, “it was really crowded and our victim didn’t make much of an impression on him. He said he ‘thought’ he saw our victim downing some tequilas with some sexy little number making eyes at him, but when Dave came back to that side of the bar, our victim and the woman who might or might not have been with him were gone.”
“There was no sign of a woman being in the alley,” Choi reminded the others.
“Maybe she left before anything happened,” Martinez speculated.
“Or maybe she saw what was happening and managed to get away before the killer saw her. That would make her a witness,” Sierra said, looking at Ronan to see whether he liked that idea.
Ronan nodded to himself. “Maybe you’ve got something there, Carlyle. It’s worth exploring.” He turned toward Choi and Martinez. “Go back to the bartender. See if he’ll sit with our sketch artist and describe this ‘sexy little number’ so we can pass it around Walker’s neighborhood, see if anyone recognizes her,” Ronan instructed.
“On our way,” Choi said, leaving the squad room with Martinez right behind him.
He’d gone with her theory, Sierra thought, rather surprised Ronan hadn’t given her an argument first. She turned toward him, a wide smile on her lips, and asked, “Still annoyed that Carver assigned me to the team?”
Ronan was practically stone-faced. “You waiting for a pat on the head?”
“No, but a ‘hey, not a bad idea’ might be in order,” she countered.
The expression on his face was dark. “Okay. Hey, not a bad idea. Happy?” he asked.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”
“They haven’t made a nutcracker tough enough for that,” he told her as he began to walk to the break room.
“Don’t count on it,” she called after him.
She saw him stop for a second then resume walking. She got to him, she thought with a satisfied smile. Step one.
* * *
WHEN RONAN RETURNED to the squad room half an hour later, he was halfway to his desk when he stopped dead. There was a bulletin board mounted on wheels pushed up against the wall nearest their desks.
He walked straight to Sierra. “Where did that come from?” he asked sharply.
Busy tacking up a few last-minute things she’d jotted down, she didn’t turn around as she answered, “The store room.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“I thought we could do with some visual aids,” she told him. Finished, she turned around to face him. “Might stimulate our thinking.”
The woman was taking over, he thought, and he didn’t run things that way. “I think my thinking is stimulated enough right now,” he warned her. There was a definite edge in his voice. “Where did you get those?” he asked, waving a hand at the board.
There were five photographs tacked on the board, each with a name and time of death listed beneath it.
“I pulled up the list of victims and then scanned their photos, the ones off the DMV records,” she explained, adding, “because the others were too gruesome. I put those up along with the date and time of their deaths.” She kept talking even though she could see that, so far, her answers were annoying him. Her hope was that if she bombarded him with enough facts, he’d see things her way. “I thought that having them up there like that might get us to see something we’re missing.”
His eyes met hers, pinning her to the spot. “Who told you to do that?”
“No one. It’s call initiative. Isn’t that why I’m here?”
He felt as if she’d pushed him to the edge. “Frankly, I don’t know why you’re here. I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“Here’s a hint. It’s to help with the investigation,” she told him.
He could feel his temper rising. “You can ‘help’ by following orders.”
“Which would be okay if there were any orders to follow,” she countered. “Look, other homicide detectives find having this kind of board up is helpful.” When he continued to glare and said nothing, she blew out a frustrated breath. She wasn’t trying to challenge his authority, she was trying to help, but this was still his team to manage. “You want me to take the photos down and take the board back to the storeroom?”
The look of anger on his face abated somewhat. Ronan glanced at the bulletin board again.
“No, leave it up,” he told her in a resigned voice. “Just next time check with me before you do anything.”
She still couldn’t help feeling as if she was being tethered. But if she wanted to work this case—and she really did—she was going to have to abide by his rules.
Inclining her head, Sierra said, “I’m going to the break room for lunch now, is that okay with you?”
Damn, but she was irritating. “If you’re trying to get under my skin, Carlyle, you’ve already done it,” he told her.
“Lunch?” she repeated innocently, still waiting for him to tell her it was all right.
He waved his hand at her impatiently. “Go. And if you solve the case over your ham-and-cheese sandwich, let me know first before you run off to cuff anyone.”
“It’s roast beef,” Sierra corrected. “And you’ll be the first to know if I solve the case,” she promised, elaborately drawing a cross over her heart. The next second she turned on her heel to leave—all but running into a tall, dark, younger, smiling version of Ronan. “Sorry,” she mumbled, withdrawing.
“What was that about?” Detective Christian O’Bannon asked, coming up to his older brother. He took one last look over his shoulder at the disappearing woman. “Is she telling you she loves you?”
Ronan’s mouth dropped opened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Chris jerked a thumb in the direction of the departing detective. “She just crossed her heart. I thought she was miming ‘I love you.’”
Ronan scowled at him. “Did you come here to make an already bad day worse?”
Chris’s face seemed to almost light up. “No, actually I came to ask you to be best man.”
“I already am the best man. I always have been,” Ronan answered wryly.
“At my wedding, you idiot,” Chris said, giving Ronan a friendly shove. “Suzie Q and I are getting married.”
That caught Ronan’s attention. “For real?”
If possible, the grin on Chris’ face widened. “As real as it can get. Priest, flowers, everything.”
Ronan shook his head. “Damn, I thought she had more sense than that.”
“Show a little respect or you’ll be demoted,” Chris warned. “The position of flower girl hasn’t been filled yet.”
“I have a lot of respect for Suzie,” Ronan said honestly, referring to the absent detective. “It’s you I don’t have all that much respect for,” he added drolly. “Never have.”
“Then that’s a yes?” Chris asked, a touch of anxiousness surfacing in his voice. “I know you don’t care for all that attention.”
Ronan shrugged. “Nobody’s going to be looking at me, they’ll be looking at Suzie—and the lucky stiff who’s marrying her.”
Chris wanted to nail things down and he needed a direct answer. “Again, is that a yes?”
Ronan grinned, genuinely happy for his younger brother. “Try and keep me away. Just tell me where and when.”
Relieved, Chris answered, “I’ll tell you a lot more than that, but this’ll do for now.”
Ronan shook his head and smiled as he watched his younger brother leave. He envied Christian, he really did. He could remember being that happy. Once.
Chapter Four (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“You should do that more often,” Sierra said.
Ronan turned, surprised to see her standing near him. He thought she was still in the break room and hadn’t even heard her come up.
“Do what?” he demanded.
“Smile.” Even as she said it, his expression went back to its normal impassive look. Still, determined to make him come around, she pushed on. “You don’t look quite as scary when you smile.”
He caught himself almost smiling again and wondered what it was about this woman that had him responding in ways he hadn’t for a long time. “You’re missing the point,” he told her gruffly. “Why wouldn’t I want to look scary?”
“Well, you got me there,” she answered, tongue in cheek. “If you don’t know, I can’t explain it to you.”
“Good.” Ronan turned back to look at the photographs she’d put on the bulletin board, waiting for something to nudge his brain. But nothing came. He glanced at Sierra. The latter had gone back to the desk that had been assigned to her for the duration of this case. “Anything occur to you?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she admitted honestly. “But it’s still early.”
“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, turning back to the bulletin board. He frowned a little as he told her, “You know, this isn’t a half-bad idea, using the bulletin board.”
She made no effort to hide her stunned expression. “Wow, two half compliments in one day. Aren’t you afraid that I’ll get a big head?”
“Bigger than it already is?” he asked.
She took no offense. She had a hunch he felt he had to say something like that to counter the left-handed compliment he’d just tendered.
“I don’t have a big head,” she told him. “I just know my capabilities.”
Ronan began to say something about the extent of her “so-called” capabilities when he saw her suddenly sit up and look alert. For just a second, the expression in her eyes captivated him. She looked almost ethereal. Definitely beautiful. And that was when he realized that when she held her head a certain way, she reminded him of Wendy.
Startled, he quickly got hold of himself. This wasn’t the time to think about Wendy. He wasn’t ready to go there now. Maybe he never would be.
The next second he turned to see Martinez and Choi walking back into the squad room. He crossed to them. “Anything?” he asked.
Martinez refrained from letting his disappointment show. “If anyone recognizes her—” Martinez nodded at the sketch put together from the bartender’s recollection “—they’re not talking. But in their defense, that is a pretty generic-looking sketch. Pretty girl, wavy hair, nothing really outstanding.”
“What about the surveillance camera?” she asked.
“The one in the back alley’s inoperable,” Ronan informed her dismissively. It was the first thing that had been checked by his uncle and the team Sean had taken with him.
“Okay,” she allowed, “how about the one inside the tavern?”
“There isn’t one. The owner’s got one up strictly for show,” Ronan told her. “But it doesn’t record.”
“And the one outside, by the entrance?” she pressed, recalling seeing it as they’d passed the front door to get to the alley.
Ronan didn’t answer her. Instead he headed out of the squad room.
Sierra was on her feet immediately, hurrying after him. Moving fast, she managed to catch up to him by the elevator. “You’re going down to the CSI lab to take a look at that surveillance video, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Don’t you have files to go through?” he asked Sierra crisply.
“You know I do, you gave them to me. But they can wait until later,” she answered. “I want to see if we can isolate the footage and find our mystery woman. Maybe she can help us solve this thing.”
He doubted it. Things didn’t just resolve themselves this way. “You realize she could just be someone playing up to anyone who’ll buy her a drink,” Ronan said just as the elevator arrived.
Sierra got in the second the elevator doors opened, not taking a chance he would leave her behind. “I know. But she could still be a witness.”
“She could still be a witness,” he admitted grudgingly, echoing what she’d said. And then his frown deepened. “Don’t grin so hard, Carlyle. Your face’ll crack.”
“There’s a few years left on my warranty, so I’m safe for now,” she said cheerfully.
“Right,” he murmured to himself. Just what he needed on his team—to be saddled with a crazy woman. A crazy woman who reminded him of his own loss. “C’mon, then,” he ordered as the doors opened in the basement.
Sierra didn’t have to be asked twice.
* * *
“THERE, THAT’S GOT to be her!” Sierra cried excitedly, pointing to the image on the monitor in the viewing bay. “Rewind it!”
They had been watching the surveillance video from the Shamrock Inn for the last half hour. The footage wasn’t exceptionally clear because the camera was at least ten years old and the video being used had been taped over and over countless times to save money. As well, the camera had lost its ability to time stamp so they had been unable to isolate the hours they’d needed, which had forced them to review the entire video recorded over the last ten hours.
Ronan had already hit Pause and then Rewind. When he played the tape forward, he did it in slow motion, allowing them to study the scene.
“She wasn’t with anyone when she came in,” Sierra observed.
Annoyed, Ronan looked at her over his shoulder. “I’ve got eyes, Carlyle. I can see.”
“Sorry.” The apology was automatic. “Just getting excited, that’s all.”
“Save your energy. It’s going to be a long haul,” he told her.
He hit Pause again, then got up from the desk he’d been using. He went to find his uncle.
Bringing him back, he indicated the surveillance tape they had been reviewing. “I’m going to need a hard copy of that woman,” he told Sean.
“You mean other than the one you already have?” Sean asked, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“What are you talking about?” Ronan asked, puzzled.
Rather than answer his nephew, Sean pointed to the colored print of the woman entering the tavern that Sierra was holding in her hand.
Ronan stared at the print. “Where did you—”
“I got it off the printer,” Sierra told him innocently, anticipating his question. And then she smiled, adding, “This isn’t my first rodeo.”
Sean nodded his approval. “Nice to have good help,” Sean told his nephew. “Well, if you don’t need anything else...” He looked at Ronan pointedly. It was obvious he had more than his share of work to get back to.
“Not from you at this time,” Ronan acknowledged. “Thanks for letting us look through the video.”
“We all want the same thing,” Sean answered. “To get whoever’s doing this off the streets and behind bars.” He started to leave. “I’ll have the ME send the autopsy report up to you when it’s done, but I don’t expect that there’ll be any surprises.”
“Will that include a tox screen?” Sierra asked, suddenly turning around just before entering the hallway behind Ronan.
Homicide’s lead detective stopped in his tracks, reluctantly turning around.
“Of course,” Sean answered. “Tox screens can include a wide range of tests. Are you looking for something specific?”
She answered his question with a question of her own. “Does that include checking for date-rape drugs?”
That pulled both men up short.
“Not in this case. Why?” Sean asked, crossing back to her. “What are you thinking?”
“Well, it’s just an idea...” Sierra began. “But whoever lured Walker away and executed him would have wanted Walker to come along peacefully and not try to fight him off, right?”
Ronan exchanged looks with his uncle. “Makes sense to me,” Sean agreed. “I’ll get a more specified tox screen done on Walker and let you know what it comes up with,” he promised.
They left the lab and she turned to Ronan as they waited for the elevator. “Now aren’t you glad I came along?”
“The jury’s still out on that,” Ronan said wryly.
“Are you reverting back to the strong, silent type again?” she asked. “I’ve seen you smile, O’Bannon. You can’t fool me.”
The elevator arrived and they got on. Ronan pushed the button for their floor rather forcefully. “I’ve got a question for you, Carlyle. Do you ever stop talking?”
“On occasion,” she replied.
“Do you think that this could be one of those occasions?” he asked. “I think better when there’s silence.”
She laughed softly. “Considering the squad room we work in, you’re pretty much out of luck.”
Ronan looked at her pointedly. “I know.”
“But, if it helps, I’ll stop talking—for now,” she said gamely. “I’ve got some reading to catch up on anyway.”
Ronan made no comment, afraid that if he uttered a single word, it would set her off again and she’d launch into yet another long, winding topic. He really did want to savor a few moments of peace before something else came up.
* * *
SIERRA SPENT THE rest of the day, as well as the next, reading and rereading the files that had been compiled on the five victims. All of them had belonged to neighborhood gangs and all the killings had been identical: one bullet to the back of the head, then removal of one of the hands. In the first four cases, it was the right one that had been severed.
But the last victim had had his left hand removed, not his right.
“Why just one?” Sierra asked, looking up from the file.
All three men on the team were at their desks, working. Martinez and Choi were currently on phone duty, fielding calls from people who swore they had either just seen the serial killer or had just barely escaped being another one of his victims. Each call had to be taken no matter how baseless it turned out to be, but doing so was tedious, not to mention wearing on the detectives’ nerves, as well.
Hearing Sierra’s question, Ronan looked up in her direction. “What did you say?”
He knew he would regret asking because he was all but giving her an invitation to start running off at the mouth again and it had been really pretty peaceful for the last few hours. But she’d asked a question and since she’d been dead-on about the surveillance video, he couldn’t afford to ignore her just for the sake of his own peace and quiet.
“Why does the killer just cut off one of his victim’s hands?” she asked.
Ronan shrugged. “Because it’s the victim’s dominant hand most likely.”
“Okay. And?” She waited for more of an explanation. It wasn’t enough to satisfy her and she had a feeling that if they had an answer, it would get them one step closer to finding who was behind the killings.
Ronan frowned. “And what?”
Taking a breath, Sierra worded her question more succinctly. “Why would the killer want to cut off the victim’s dominant hand?”
“How the hell should I know?” Ronan asked. Frustrated, he scrubbed his hand over his face. “The guy’s a whack job.”
“A whack job who knows how to practically surgically remove a hand from its wrist,” she said pointedly.
Ronan frowned. “Anyone wielding a meat cleaver with a little momentum could do the same thing.”
“I suppose you’ve got a point,” she was forced to admit.
“Why are you focusing on the way the killer cuts off his victim’s hands?” Choi asked, finally getting off the phone. “You think the killer’s a Jack the Ripper type? Some people thought he was a doctor, the way he vivisected those prostitutes.”
“I thought maybe if our killer had some kind of medical background, we might be able to narrow the suspect pool,” she explained.
“We have a suspect pool?” Martinez asked, glancing from Sierra to Ronan and then Choi. “You mean you think that somebody other than the members of those two gangs still left standing is behind this?”
She waved away Martinez’s facetious question. “Right now, I’m just thinking out loud,” Sierra said with a shrug. “Spit-balling ideas until something winds up sticking, I guess.”
Ronan had a thoughtful expression on his face. “And what are your thoughts about why the killer cuts off just one of his victim’s hands? The dominant hand.” His tone underscored the word.
Sierra was surprised he was asking her for input rather than simply telling her not to think out loud until she had something worthwhile to share.
“Like you said, it’s the victim’s dominant hand,” Sierra said. She kept coming back to that. It had to mean something. “The hand he uses to shoot his gun with.”
Ronan’s eyes met hers. “You think these killings are payback for something.” It wasn’t a question so much as an assumption. And it made as much sense right now as any of this did.
“Maybe,” she answered, leaving herself a little leeway. “But I can’t find a connection between the two gangs, other than they pretty much stayed out of each other’s way.”
And that was what was frustrating her. There had to be something. But what?
“At least for the last couple of years,” Choi recalled.
“Until these killings started,” Martinez spoke up. “Now, according to what I hear from my friends on the Tesla police force, there’ve been a number of revenge killings.” He pulled up a recent story he’d read earlier on the internet. “See?” He turned his monitor so that it was visible to the others.
Choi scanned the story quickly. “Maybe this is all just gang-related in one way or another,” he suggested, looking at O’Bannon.
One of the newer lab techs from the CSI unit had just walked into the squad room and crossed to Ronan. He was carrying a large manila envelope.
“Captain Cavanaugh wanted me to bring this to you, Detective,” the lab tech said, referring to Sean. “He said you were waiting for it.”
“We all are.” Accepting the envelope, Ronan began opening it. “Tell him thanks. I really didn’t think he’d get it to me so quick.”
“He had the lab rush it,” the tech said before leaving.
Eager to know if she was right, Sierra was on her feet and rounding her desk to get to Ronan’s side.
“You planning on reading this over my shoulder, Carlyle?” Ronan asked, still holding the envelope. The reports were only partially showing.
She offered him a quick, quirky smile. Without saying yes or no to his question, Sierra told him, “I speed-read.”
He shook his head. The woman had an answer for everything. “Of course you do.”
Removing the papers from the envelope, he found that in addition to the autopsy report, it also contained the extended tox screen Sierra had requested.
He picked up the latter first, knowing it was what really interested Sierra. Now that she had raised the point, so was he.
Before he could scan down to the portion he was looking for, he heard Sierra exclaim behind him, “I was right. Walker was drugged. The tox screen shows that he had a date-rape drug in him when he died.”
“Well, that explains why there was no sign of a struggle in the alley,” Martinez said. Looking in Sierra’s direction, he inclined his head in silent tribute.
Sierra’s mind was going a mile a minute. “Can we get a tox screen panel worked up on the other victims?” she asked Ronan eagerly.
“Not likely,” he answered. He’d only taken over the case after the third victim had surfaced. “Three of the victims have already been buried. We’d have to get court orders to exhume their bodies.”
He saw a flash of frustration in Sierra’s eyes. For just a second he was caught up by the way her blue eyes seemed to almost change color, from light to dark, depending on the feelings that were surfacing.
Upbraiding himself for the momentary lapse, he focused on the business at hand. “It can be done, but not as easily as you might think. We’d need a really compelling reason. For now, I can find out if victim number four is still in the morgue. From what I’ve heard, I don’t think anyone has come forward to claim his body yet.”
Glancing at Sierra, he saw her face change. He’d expected her to be elated. Instead she seemed really sad. “What’s with you?” he asked. “I’d thought you’d be happy to hear that.”
“I’m glad we’ve got another body to test,” she said, “but think about how awful that is, to be dead and not have anyone come forward to claim your body.”
“Don’t waste your pity. That’s the kind of life these thugs signed on for,” Martinez told her, trying to make her feel better in his own way.
“I’m just glad we’ve got another body to run a tox screen on without having to get any court orders,” Ronan said.
He expected her to say something cryptic, like “You’re welcome,” but she didn’t.
He suppressed a sigh. Apparently, Carlyle was more complicated than he’d initially given her credit for. That was all he needed. A complicated woman on his team, stirring things up.
Stirring him up.
The thought came and went in a split second. He blocked its return. He didn’t have time for anything but solving the case, he silently insisted.
Chapter Five (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“Son of a gun, that new team member of yours was right,” Sean told his nephew, calling Ronan once he’d had the opportunity to run the requested tox screen on the serial killer’s fourth victim. “Looks like she’s two for two.”
“Joggers found that fourth victim in the park,” Ronan recalled. “The last victim probably ingested Special K in his drink. How did this one get it into his system? We didn’t find a flask or anything like that near the body and he wasn’t dumped there. There was blood from his wound on the ground, which meant that he had to be killed there.”
“Glad you asked. Juan Marley got his the old-fashioned way,” Sean told him. “The ME found a very small hole just behind his ear. He’s ashamed to say that he missed that the first time around.”
“The drug was injected?” Ronan asked.
“That would be my guess,” Sean told him. “Your serial killer is very cold-blooded, very methodical. And he’s got surgical skills. Those hands that were cut off from the victims, there were no hesitation cuts. Each amputation was clean, precise. This guy knew what he was doing and he apparently wasn’t squeamish.”
“Yes, that’s what we’re thinking,” Ronan said, playing back what Sierra had said earlier. “Did the killer use Special K again?”
“No, this time it was Rohypnol. Maybe he couldn’t get his hands on his drug of choice,” Sean told him. “Tesla’s facing a backup of bodies so they’ve asked to borrow our ME for a couple of days—unless you feel that there’s a reason to keep him here.”
“As long as you can get him back if this serial killer takes down another victim.”
“I’ve already made that a provision with their chief medical examiner,” Sean said.
“Thanks for the info, Uncle Sean.”
He laughed drily. “I’d say my pleasure, but it really isn’t. Just catch this bastard as soon as you can, Ronan. I know that some people think he’s doing a public service, killing thugs and gang members, but that’s not our call to make. First and foremost, the victims were all people and it’s our job to make sure that everyone’s kept safe.”
“We’re all doing our best, sir,” Ronan said just before he terminated the call.
Returning the receiver to its cradle, he saw Sierra watching him. He knew she was waiting for the lab results and was surprised that she didn’t immediately jump on him, demanding to know what his uncle had said. He decided to put her out of her misery and tell her the results.
“Well, you’re two for two,” he told her.
“The tox screen for victim number four was positive for a date-rape drug?” she asked, unable to keep the note of hope out of her voice.
Ronan nodded. “The ME found traces of Rohypnol in the victim’s system.”
Choi looked up. “Roofies?” he questioned.
“That’s the popular name for it,” Ronan confirmed. “Maybe he couldn’t get his hands on Special K.”
“Ketamine is what vets use,” Martinez said, getting into the conversation. “My dog Ralph got attacked by this pit bull that got loose in my neighborhood early one morning. Damn dog tore holes in Ralph. I didn’t think he was going to make it when I drove him to the vet. Dr. Lai had to knock Ralph out with ketamine before she could sew him up.”
“You named your dog Ralph?” Sierra asked.
“I didn’t. His last owner did. I got Ralph from a shelter after his owner was reported for abusing him,” Martinez answered. “Poor dog shook for, like, two weeks until he got used to me and the girls,” he said, referring to his wife and daughters. “Anyway, Dr. Lai told me that Special K knocked Ralph out for four hours.”
“How big is Ralph?” Sierra asked.
“He’s a ninety-three-pound Labrador,” Martinez said proudly.
“All the killer would need would be to knock out his target for half an hour or less,” Ronan speculated. “Special K or a roofie would do the trick.”
Choi asked what everyone was thinking. “You think our serial killer might be a vet—the kind that deals with animals not battlefields?” he clarified.
“Either that, or someone with access to those kinds of drugs,” Sierra suggested.
“The question is,” Ronan said, getting up from his desk and crossing over to the bulletin board, “why would a vet—or someone with access to a vet’s drugs—” he acknowledged, glancing in Sierra’s direction, “be executing gang members?”
When no one answered, Sierra decided to give it a shot.
“Off the top of my head, maybe one or more of these guys ran up a bill with the vet and didn’t pay it and things escalated from there. Or maybe they shot up the vet’s place of business and this is his way of getting even?” Sierra proposed.
“Sounds plausible enough, except for our initial problem,” Ronan pointed out. “These are two different gangs we’re talking about. When did they ever do anything in concert?”
Choi sighed. “You really are a killjoy, you know that?” he asked.
Sierra had an idea. “Have you tried exploring social media?” Sierra asked.
He turned toward her, as did Choi and Martinez. “I know I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but would you add a few more words to that? Exactly what do you want us to do with social media?” Ronan asked.
She had a strong feeling that Ronan spent as little time on the computer as possible and had no social accounts. Even her father kept in touch with some members of the family who lived out of state that way.
She made it simple for Ronan, doing her best not to make him feel that she was talking down to him. “These guys are all under thirty. For the most part, that age group posts everything they do on their media pages. They’d certainly brag on the internet if they felt they had something to brag about. Why don’t we start looking there?” she suggested to Ronan. “Something’s got to give us a clue as to how these deaths are connected because I’m willing to bet my shield that these were not random murders.”
“You volunteering for the job?” Ronan asked her, seizing on her wording.
“Don’t we have techs in the computer lab who do that sort of thing?” she asked him.
Ronan recalled what his brother had said about his last trip to the computer research part of the CSI unit. “Last time I checked, they were backed up until the turn of the century.”
Sierra sighed. “Then I guess I’m volunteering to find out if any of these jokers posted online,” she said with resignation.
* * *
HIS CONSCIENCE GOT the better of him.
He’d done his best to ignore it. After all, it had been Carlyle’s suggestion and everyone in the department pulled their own weight, so there was no reason why she shouldn’t be the one doing the heavy lifting on this internet search she’d brought up.
But he had assumed that she would approach the job like any normal person, taking breaks and time out for meals. But the woman hadn’t budged from her desk since he’d put her on the task.
And that had been hours ago.
Choi and Martinez had left for the night a little while ago, as had a good many of the detectives in the squad room. Even Lieutenant Carver had gone home about half an hour ago.
As for him, he’d walked out as well. But he’d gotten as far as the break room and then forced himself to double back after making an all-important pit stop at the vending machine.
“You know,” Ronan said, setting a can of diet soda on Sierra’s desk, “when I told you to see what you could find on these guys from anything that they might have posted on social media pages, I didn’t mean for you to exhaust all the search engines before you could finally go home.”
Reading, Sierra didn’t immediately look up. “I know,” she answered Ronan. “I just kind of got caught up in it.”
He sat on the edge of her desk but she still didn’t look up. She was busy trying to make sense of something she was reading.
“There’s ‘caught up’ and there’s ‘obsessive,’” Ronan pointed out.
She glanced in his direction for half a minute. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn into one of those people who forgets to shower or change their clothes,” she promised. “It’s just that each thing I check out just feeds into something else.” It astonished her how mindless some people could be, to be proud of hurting people and getting by without doing any work. “These guys were really maniacal, crazy people.” Sierra shook her head.
“Well, at least we agree on something.”
That caught her attention and she looked up. “I’ve got a feeling that we’d probably agree on a lot of things, once you stop thinking of me as the enemy.”
“I don’t think of you as the enemy,” he told her, tamping down his temper.
“No? Try being on my side of this thing,” she told him. “The lieutenant brought me over to your team and you acted like you’d just been given an infestation of body lice.”
“That’s getting a little carried away, don’t you think?”
She raised her eyes to his. “Am I?”
“Go home, Carlyle. Get some sleep. The internet’ll still be here in the morning.”
“I know that,” she answered. “I just wanted to find something to get us a step closer to getting this guy.” She looked up at Ronan as she made her point. “So that you’d see I could be an asset.”
He frowned, debating whether or not to let that go or to say what he knew should be said. It was late, he was tired, and maybe that influenced him into deciding to give her her due.
“You came up with the idea that the victims were given drugs to keep them from fighting back. The rest of us hadn’t thought of that. That puts a gold star under your name. Now go home and get something to eat,” he ordered gruffly.
Arguing was in Sierra’s nature, but she refrained. She paused, then nodded. “I guess I am hungry.” She looked back at her monitor and something occurred to her. “Just five more minutes and I’ll close everything down.”
Ronan watched her for a long moment, knowing that if he left, there was no telling how long she would remain at her desk, going from one site to another. She had to be the most stubborn woman he had ever encountered, and that included his mother and sisters—which was saying a lot.
“Carlyle,” he said sternly, “go home.”
“I will,” she promised, the keys clicking beneath her fingers. “In a minute.”
Ronan got off her desk. Moving behind it, he bent and flipped a switch on the power strip beneath her desk.
“Now,” he ordered, getting up.
Her jaw dropped. “You just shut off my computer,” she complained.
He appeared completely unfazed by the accusation in her voice. “I gave you a direct order and you ignored it.”
She drew herself up, ready to go a few rounds with this annoying man. “You’re lead detective, not my supreme leader,” she informed him hotly.
A hint of a smile played along his lips. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
With that, he turned away and began to walk out of the squad room.
She raised her voice as she called after him. “I know your mother and I’ll tell her what a hard time you’ve been giving me.”
Ronan turned then and slowly crossed back to her desk. “Did you just threaten me with my mother?” he asked in disbelief. “What are we, twelve?”
She braced herself. “I’m not. But I’m not sure about you.”
“You’re tired. I’ll pretend you didn’t say that. Now go home.”
He might be the lead detective and in charge, but she was not about to be intimidated. “Why are you acting like I’m the invading force?”
“Because you’re the invading force,” he retorted. He’d had no choice in the matter when Carver had brought her over. He had to work with her and he didn’t appreciate not being given a choice.
“Hey, you’re a Cavanaugh,” she reminded him. “Nobody invades you,” she pointed out. “You guys practically are the police department. I’m just trying to do my part. I don’t want the credit,” she stressed. “You can have the credit for solving this thing.”
“This isn’t about credit,” he informed her, annoyed she thought that way.
“Then what is it about?” she demanded, confused. “Why do I get the feeling that you don’t want to be in the same space with me?”
Denial was on his tongue but he never voiced it. Possibly because she’d stumbled onto something. “Because you remind me of someone,” he finally said, struggling to keep from yelling the words at her.
“Who?”
“Someone,” was all he trusted himself to say and then, before she could attempt to grill him any further, he stalked out.
“That’s not an answer!” she countered.
Grabbing her bag, Sierra quickly headed out of the squad room after him.
But when she got to the hallway, Ronan was nowhere to be seen.
He’d probably caught the elevator. For a second she thought of taking the stairs and ambushing him on the ground floor, but she had a feeling that would just lead to more of the same. He wasn’t about to tell her anything. Most likely, he regretted having said as much as he had just now.
The bottom line was that she needed answers and O’Bannon wasn’t about to give them to her.
But she thought she knew someone who just might be able to.
Taking the elevator to the ground floor, she hurried to the parking lot and made her way to her car. Once she got into her vehicle, she put her key in the ignition but she didn’t start the engine.
Instead she took out her cell phone and placed a call.
Once the call connected, she heard a deep, gravely voice answer. “Carlyle.”
“Hi, Dad,” she said with more cheer than she was feeling. “It’s me. Sierra.”
“Sierra?” her father repeated. “Wait, wait, I know that name, just give me a second. Sierra, Sierra—” he repeated as if doing that would unearth some memories, help him recall who she was.
“Very funny, Dad. Okay, I know I haven’t called or been by lately, but I’ve been a little busy,” she told him.
“I take it that the police department has been working you hard, chaining you to your desk and all that. Okay, so why is the black sheep of the family suddenly calling me?”
He’d called her that the day she had told him she was applying to the police academy instead of signing up for the fire department like the rest of her family. In time, he’d come to terms with it, but he still wasn’t exactly thrilled.
“Dad, I work in the police department, not for some escort service. There’s no reason to call me a black sheep.”
“Sure there is,” the deep voice rumbled in her ear. “You didn’t go into the family business the way you were supposed to.”
Sierra sighed. “This is why I don’t call very often,” she told her father.
“Okay, okay, I’ll make nice,” her father promised. “To what do I owe this unexpected but delightful call?”
“You’re laying it on way too thick, Dad, but I’ll let that ride for now. I need your help,” she said seriously. “I want you to find something out for me.”
“You mean like detective work?” he asked, a touch of surprise in his voice. “Isn’t that your field of expertise?”
“Yes, but this is more up your alley if you’d only stop trying to make me feel like I failed you and just listen?” she asked.
“I guess I’d better,” her father conceded, “or you’ll hang up, right?”
She wasn’t going to get sucked into that. Instead she asked, “Do you still talk to Maeve O’Bannon?”
“She’s a damn fine woman,” her father said with feeling. “Why shouldn’t I still talk to her? She had the good sense to work alongside the fire department, unlike the rest of her family.”
Sierra ignored that, as well, and went straight to the heart of her request. “I want you to ask her something for me.”
“All right,” Chief Craig Carlyle said. “What do you want me to ask?”
She braced herself for her father’s possible reaction. “Could you ask her what her son Ronan’s story is?”
“Come again?”
Sierra decided to give her father as much background as she felt he’d need to understand why she was making the request. “I’m working with Ronan and he let it slip that I remind him of someone. I need you to ask Maeve if he ever had a problem with someone who looked like me.”
“I’ve got a suggestion,” her father said. “Why don’t you ask Ronan?”
“It’s kind of complicated, Dad.”
“Isn’t he treating you right?” her father asked.
She knew all she had to do was say that he wasn’t and her father would be right there, in Ronan’s face. She didn’t need him to champion her. All she needed him to do was what she’d asked.
“Please, Dad, just ask Maeve,” she repeated.
She heard her father sigh deeply. “Look, Sierra, I always told you what cops were like. If Maeve’s son isn’t treating you with the respect you deserve, quit,” he told her. “You know I can always use you on my team. Your brothers’ll show you the ropes and we can make this a whole family affair.”
She closed her eyes, searching for strength and the right words. “Dad.”
“What?”
“Just ask her for me, okay? Thanks. I’ll call again soon.”
With that, she ended the call. She loved her father—and her brothers—more than anything, but there were times when talking to the man could make her feel so drained.
And then she smiled to herself. She supposed that could be viewed as a two-way street. She was fairly certain her father probably felt the same way about her.
Chapter Six (#u41bc55eb-9b0f-51a0-8913-f2c07dcb4e3c)
“Well, this is a surprise,” Andrew Cavanaugh said to his younger brother as he opened his front door. “Come on in, Brian.” Closing the door again, he said, “You don’t usually stop by in the middle of the week like this.” Since the kitchen had become the hub of his activity, the former chief of police led the current chief of detectives to the kitchen. “Things a little slow at the police department these days?”
“Actually,” Brian answered, crossing the threshold into the state-of-the-art kitchen, “they’re a little more hectic than usual.”
As the oldest, Andrew had always been able to read his brother like a book. But this time there was a note he couldn’t quite identify in Brian’s voice.
“Something wrong?” he asked, stopping by the counter and studying his brother more closely. “Something you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”
Brian smiled for a long moment. “Not in the way you think.”
Andrew crossed to the industrial-size refrigerator. “Well now you really have me curious. Want a beer? Something harder?” he asked when Brian didn’t take him up on the beer.
Brian glanced toward the refrigerator. “You have any of that cake left over that you served at the last gathering?”
Praise, even implied praise, never got old, Andrew thought. He’d been a dedicated chief of police in his time, but the culinary arts had always been his passion. He’d put himself through school that way and it was a love that lingered to the present day.
“No, but I whipped up a new cake if you’re interested.”
“I’m always interested in cake, you know that,” Brian said, taking a seat at the extra-long, custom-made kitchen table. He grinned ruefully. “Lila says if I keep this up, I’m going to have to go on a diet. I thought I’d just remedy the situation by putting another notch on my belt.”
“That doesn’t mean what it used to, does it?” Andrew’s wife, Rose, asked as she came into the kitchen. She smiled warmly at her brother-in-law.
Brian laughed softly. “Not since before Jared was born,” he told her, referring to the first of his four adult children, three of whom were police detectives. The fourth, Janelle, was an assistant DA.
“Okay, other than my cake, what’s brought you out on a school night like this?” Andrew asked, placing a healthy slice of amaretto cake in front of his brother.
Fork poised over his serving, he looked at Andrew and Rose. “You two aren’t having any?” Brian asked. “I feel strange, being the only one eating.”
“Like I believe that.” Andrew laughed. “But I’ll have a small slice to keep you company. Rose?” he asked his wife as he cut himself a slice that was half the size of the one he’d just given his brother.
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Marie Ferrarella
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: For homicide detective Ronan Cavanaugh O′Bannon, this time it′s personal…and totally baffling! The body of a police friend is found executed in the same manner as rival gang members. There′s no progress in finding Aurora′s serial killer…until Sierra Carlyle joins the team.The perky young newbie is as chatty and extroverted as Ronan is taciturn and closed off. Frankly, she irritates him, but she′s a brilliant, relentless investigator. Working together, facing danger, Sierra′s warmth begins to thaw Ronan′s iciness. But acting on their undeniable attraction proves unwise now. There′s a killer to find and stop…before he sets his sights on a Cavanaugh!