Mission: Cavanaugh Baby

by Marie Ferrarella

  In contrast to his state, the woman in his kitchen glanced over her shoulder and offered him a complacent smile.

  “I was beginning to think they were holding you hostage at the precinct. I was all set to call Dad and tell him to go rescue you.”

  Shane slid his gun back into its holster. “Kari, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “And hello to you, too,” his sister responded brightly. Kari stepped back from the stove so that he could see for himself what she was doing here. “Obviously your keen eyes of observation are not so keen—another reason you should have come home earlier. Otherwise you would have been able to figure out that I was cooking a late dinner for you.”

  While he appreciated his sister fussing over him, he didn’t like the idea that she thought he needed to be fussed over. “You don’t have to cook me dinner, Kari, late or otherwise.”

  “Sure I do,” she contradicted. “Otherwise, I won’t know if you’re eating or not.”

  He hated the fact that his family kept eyeing him as if they were expecting him to self-destruct or lapse into deep mourning.

  “I’m fine, Kari. Really,” he insisted. “You don’t have to hover over me.”

  With a dismissive sniff, Kari set the spatula in her hand down on the side of the stove and turned around to face him.

  “Haven’t you heard? Cavanaughs do not hover. We protect, we offer emotional and moral support, but we don’t hover like some commercial airplane in a holding pattern.”

  “Well, you certainly took to waving the Cavanaugh banner pretty quickly,” he observed.

  Kari shrugged casually, the way she approached and viewed almost everything in life. “It’s been ours all along. We just weren’t made aware of it. So why not use it?” she asked.

  He envied Kari’s laidback manner. He emulated it, but with him it was a studied pose, not a genuine reaction the way it was with Kari.

  “Well, for the record, you hover,” he insisted. “Speaking of hovering, shouldn’t you be with that fearless fiancé of yours?”

  She didn’t see the reason for the adjective. “Fearless?”

  “He’s marrying you, isn’t he?” The question drew a swing from his sister. Her fisted hand connected solidly with his shoulder. Hard enough to get him to vibrate even though he did his best not to. “Which reminds me,” he said as he pulled out of reach. “I still have to take him aside and tell him some of the things he can hold over your head whenever you’re driving him crazy—which, knowing you, will be pretty much all the time.”

  “You’re my brother,” she pointed out. “You’re supposed to be loyal to me.”

  “You don’t need any help,” he told her. “However, Esteban just might.”

  She glanced at the fried chicken she’d heaped on a plate, then reached for it. “Maybe I’ll just take dinner back with me.”

  Shane was quicker than she was and caught her hand, stopping her from carrying out the threat. “No, don’t. I take it all back. This smells too good to let it escape.” He took another deep whiff to underline his point. “But seriously, Kari,” he told her, “you can stop worrying. I’m fine.”

  “Your partner got shot and would have died if you hadn’t held his insides in your hand, pressing down to stop the bleeding, and then your fiancée uses this as a reason to walk out on you less than a week before the wedding. How does that make you fine?” she challenged. Before he could offer up any sort of an answer, she pointed out what to her was a glaring fact. “Although I hope you realize that you dodged a bullet. Any woman who puts her needs above those of the man she’s supposed to love—a man who clearly needs her in a time of stress—well, in my humble opinion, she doesn’t have it in her to make a marriage work.”

  He laughed. “Since when is anything about you humble?” he asked. “And what makes you such an authority on the subject of marriage? You’re not even married yet.”

  “Yet.” She seized on the word he’d used and underscored it. Her wedding to Esteban was not all that far away. “Besides, being in love with a great guy makes me see what a really solid relationship is all about.” Kari placed her hand on his shoulder. Her teasing tone had vanished, and there was genuine concern in her eyes now as they met his. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  He grinned broadly. “I just caught my very first homicide case. I’m more than fine,” he assured her.

  “Unlike the victim of the homicide,” she countered glibly. She knew better than to push the matter any further now. And maybe he was coming around a little. Work was a great distracter. “Well, seeing as how you’re breathing and I just left you a great dinner, I guess that qualifies you as being okay for now.” She wiped her hands on a nearby kitchen towel. “So I will be getting back to Esteban.” She paused to brush a quick kiss on his cheek. “Call me if you need me.”

  Shane nodded. “I’ll just look out my window and beckon over the first hovering aircraft that I see,” he promised.

  Kari rolled her eyes. He was impossible. “You don’t deserve me.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. Making his way to the door, he opened it for her, his inference crystal clear. “Leave. Make me suffer.”

  “Idiot.” She laughed, cuffing him on the side of his head just before she left.

  He was lucky, Shane thought as he closed the door after his sister’s departing back. Whenever he needed someone, even during the years that he was growing up, there was always a parent or sibling to turn to.

  Just as there was now.

  When Kitty had knocked him for a loop by calling off the wedding and walking out on him that way, everyone in his family rallied around him, forming a tight circle about him as if they were trying to keep anything bad from coming through.

  He thought of what Ashley had mentioned to him earlier—most likely unintentionally, given what a private person she was—about bouncing from one foster home to another when she wasn’t being sent back to the group home. She was clearly in distress at being so alone, and her withdrawing from the world was her way of dealing with it. She was all but acting out a scenario with dialogue that fairly screamed, “You don’t want me, fine. I don’t want you more.”

  How had she done it? How had she managed to survive a childhood like that? And then wound up wanting to be a cop? The sort of upbringing she’d had—or lack thereof—produced closet psychos and sociopaths, sometimes without the benefit of a closet.

  He realized that he was feeling sorry for her.

  The next moment, as he helped himself to a crisply fried chicken leg from the platter his sister had left for him, Shane couldn’t help but laugh. He had a hunch that if Ashley even suspected that he felt sorry for what she’d had to go through, she would probably wind up handing his head to him.

  Literally.

  Preoccupied, he took a bite of the fried chicken Kari had prepared for him, and his attention immediately focused on the happy explosion of flavor taking place in his mouth and on his tongue. Damn, but that was good.

  If he was any judge, it looked as if Kari took after their newly discovered Uncle Andrew, who was famous for his impromptu spreads, the ones that were rumored to be able to feed untold masses.

  Apparently cooking was in the genes, even if those genes were unaware of their connection to the Cavanaugh dynasty until just the past year.

  Shane ate a few more pieces of chicken with relish, but even as he quickly consumed what was on his plate, he couldn’t help but wonder if Ashley was eating alone, or if she even bothered to eat dinner. Was her cupboard only filled with dog food? After spending the day together, she struck him as someone who made a habit of putting herself last.

  It occurred to him as he cleared off his table and put the dishes into the compact dishwasher that he was really looking forward to seeing her again.

  * * *

  W
hen he walked into the squad room the next morning, he found that Ashley was already there. He really wasn’t all that surprised. He supposed he was somewhat surprised that she hadn’t just stayed here last night. But a change of clothes—she was wearing civilian clothing rather than her uniform—told him that she’d gone home, at least for a little while.

  Since she was on temporary loan from her department, for the moment replacing his wounded partner, his captain had put her at his partner’s desk. He figured that once either his partner was back, or he and Ashley solved the homicide—whichever came first—Ashley would be back to driving around, searching for strays.

  He didn’t know if the idea bothered him or not. He supposed he’d figure it out after they spent some more time together.

  “You’re here bright and early,” he commented, placing the cup of tea he’d gotten for himself on his desk and holding out the other one to her.

  When she looked at it quizzically but made no effort to accept the offering, he told her, “Take it. It’s tea, not a bomb.”

  Reaching over, she accepted the container. “Why are you bringing me tea?”

  “I figured it was the fastest way to administer poison,” he quipped, deadpan, then asked her his own question. “Why do you think?”

  She regarded the warm container in her hands in silence for a moment, then mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Thanks” as she removed the lid. A small scented plume rose from the container like a tiny smoke signal. The contents beneath smelled faintly like vanilla.

  Seeing Shane walk in and having him offer her the cup of tea had temporarily made her forget what she’d uncovered by being on the computer for the past hour. She wasn’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of anything but grief.

  Remembering, she announced, “I found her next of kin.” When Shane greeted her words with a blank look, she quickly elaborated. “Our involuntary C-section. Monica Phillips. I found her parents. Or, more accurately,” she amended, “I found her father.”

  Shane sank into the chair at his desk. The thought of what lay ahead of him was more than a little daunting. He’d never had to inform a next of kin about the death of a loved one before. It wasn’t an experience he was looking forward to by any stretch of the imagination. “I forgot about that.”

  “About what?” Ashley queried. Judging by his expression, whatever he was referring to wasn’t good, she thought.

  “About notifying the next of kin about what’s happened.”

  That had to rank as the least favorite duty of any detective: telling parents that their child’s eyes were never going to open again, never look at them with love again, she thought. And she could relate.

  Finding out had very nearly broken her.

  “I’ll go with you,” Ashley heard herself saying.

  Chapter 12

  Her offer to come along surprised him.

  As did the feeling of relief that came almost simultaneously.

  “Okay, let’s go, if you’re determined to come with me.” Shane pushed his chair away from his desk and rose to his feet. About to walk out, he glanced over his shoulder. Ashley had made no move to follow him. Had she changed her mind about coming along after all?

  A closer look at her face told him that mentally, she appeared to be miles away. “You okay?”

  The question broke through the layers of years that had temporarily closed in on her. Ashley blinked and tossed her head, shaking off the memories that only served to hurt her heart.

  “Sure,” she answered a bit too cheerfully. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You had this strange expression on your face,” Shane told her. “Like for a second, you weren’t here at all.”

  She was going to have to work on her poker face, Ashley upbraided herself, waving his words away with a careless gesture.

  “Just thinking.” Ashley pulled out the small, thin messenger bag she’d deposited into the bottom drawer and slung it over her shoulder. “You want me to go tell the father?” she offered.

  Shoulders braced, she reminded him of a soldier about to go into battle. It was obvious to him that she hadn’t heard what he’d just said when he’d gotten up. She really had been a million miles away. He couldn’t help wondering where that was—and exactly what had triggered her sudden journey.

  “No, I’m primary on this, that’s my job,” he told her, much as he hated the thought of what he had to do. But if he wanted to work in Homicide, it was all part of the territory. He might as well get used to it. Still, her offer did make him curious as to what had motivated it. “Why? You want to do it?”

  “I’m willing,” she said, deliberately sidestepping a direct answer to his question.

  He laughed shortly as they headed out of the squad room. There was very little humor in the sound. “Get much practice by telling people their pets have been flattened?”

  She looked very serious as she replied, “No, not really.”

  Why would someone volunteer to take on something so spirit-crushing if they didn’t have to do it, or had at least grown immune to doing it? He needed an answer. Maybe that would begin to unlock the puzzle that Officer Ashley St. James clearly was.

  “Then why?”

  She shrugged carelessly, avoiding his eyes as she pushed the down button for the elevator. Why couldn’t the man just accept help and not try to examine it under a microscope? “Because you looked as if it would really bother you to have to do it.”

  So this was just an act of charity on her part? Again, why? “And it wouldn’t bother you?”

  The elevator doors opened. She went in, turned around and pressed the button for the first floor, still avoiding his eyes. “It would, but I’ve learned how to block out whatever bothers me,” she told him.

  He supposed that was as good an answer as any. In any event, he sensed it was the only one he was getting. “Thanks, but no. It’s my job. I’ll do it.” He saw her slant a glance in his direction. Unless he missed his guess, she was probably having second thoughts about going along. “But I wouldn’t mind a little moral support accompanying me,” he added, hitting the ball into her court.

  Ashley nodded, understanding his meaning. He was asking her to come along without actually asking her to come along. “One dose of moral support coming up,” she promised.

  “Now I just need the address—” He never got a chance to finish.

  “Way ahead of you,” she announced, holding up the page she’d printed a few minutes before he’d walked into the squad room.

  He took it from her, glancing at the address she’d tracked down, thanks to the DMV. “Lake Ellsinore?” he said. That was more inland, to the east of where Aurora was located.

  “I guess to someone from there, Aurora’s like the big city,” Ashley mused, one side of her mouth going up in a half smile. The elevator brought them to the ground floor and opened. They walked toward the rear exit and the larger parking lot. “One helpful thing. According to what I could find out, her father’s a minister.”

  He didn’t quite see her reasoning. “Why is that especially helpful?” He truly wanted to know.

  “Well, if her father’s a man of the cloth, his religion will help him through this—or at least, it should. That in turn should make our job—your job,” she amended, “a little easier. You know, God’s will and all that.”

  They walked out of the building. The morning sky looked ominous and the air smelled like rain, which was highly unusual, given that it was September, when the devil winds blew in from the desert and everything felt as if it was on the verge of possibly bursting into flames. This was ordinarily the worst part of the fire season.

  “We’ll see,” he told her.

  She found that rather a strange answer, given that he seemed like the optimist in this partnership. “You don’t think it wil
l?” she asked as they went down the back steps.

  Shane had come across a few less than kindhearted men of God. “Let’s just say that all men of the cloth were not created equal.”

  “Don’t care for them?” Ashley ventured, following him to where he parked his sedan.

  “I didn’t say that,” he pointed out, correcting her impression. “I’ve got an uncle who’s a priest and one of the finest men I know, but there’s no cookie cutter out there, turning out ministers and priests with Uncle Adam’s qualities.”

  She was far from an expert on the members of the Cavanaugh dynasty, but she thought she would have picked up on this fact. “I didn’t know there were any Cavanaughs in the priesthood,” Ashley said, surprised.

  “There aren’t,” he told her. “Uncle Adam is a Cavelli.” Stopping at the sedan, he glanced at her as he opened the driver’s-side door. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the story about my father.” It seemed to him that everyone at the precinct had heard it, quite possibly everyone in the state since the circumstances were rather unusual and it had been carried as a human interest story in some of the local papers.

  “Okay, I won’t tell you,” she replied cavalierly. “But just so you know, I had no idea which Cavanaugh your father was before yesterday. I don’t follow the news much,” she admitted.

  At least she wasn’t trying to dazzle him with her familiarity with his family, he thought, which was a point in her favor. Too many people inside the department tried to make it appear that they knew everything there was to know about his family members, both new and old. Nothing turned him off faster than that.

  “My dad was accidentally switched at birth in the hospital with another infant whose first name was Sean and whose last name was Cavelli—same first three letters,” he pointed out. “Story goes that the nurse who was responsible for the switch was grieving over the death of her fiancé and didn’t realize her mistake.”

  “So you grew up thinking you were part of one family when you were actually part of another?”