Cavanaugh Pride

by Marie Ferrarella

  “He’s good at that,” Riley commented. “Years of being the youngest and having to take everything the rest of us dished out undoubtedly had him storing up a lot of lectures.” She smiled at her brother, giving his face an affectionate pat before he pulled back. “Don’t get carried away. We need every single body we can get. Live bodies,” she qualified, looking at Julianne. They’d started going over the women’s apartments yesterday but were by no means finished. “Want to hit the streets, or sit here and listen to Frank pontificate?”

  She hardly finished her question before Julianne was reaching for her jacket. “Did you really have to ask?”

  Riley laughed. “No, I guess not. Streets it is,” she declared, pulling out her car keys. “I’ll drive.”

  Since she didn’t know her way around yet, that only made sense, Julianne thought. “No problem.”

  Her answer drifted back to him as she and his sister left the room.

  No problem.

  But there was a big problem, Frank, thought as he watched as Julianne make her way down the hall next to Riley. The detective loaned out from Mission Ridge was getting to him. Through no fault of her own, or his.

  Tamping down any further thoughts, he went to get a cup of coffee. His stomach rumbled, making him acutely aware that there were consequences to skipping out on one of Andrew’s breakfasts.

  The smell of despair was everywhere within the four-story pre-1950s walk-up. In the dark hallways with its peeling paint and its scribbled obscenities, echoing in the cries of neglected babies and rising up in the acrid odor of human waste. She was accustomed to poverty. She wasn’t accustomed to this.

  “Even a dog knows not to go where he sleeps,” she murmured under her breath.

  “Dogs are smarter than some people,” Riley answered.

  Julianne did her best not to shiver as she followed Riley into the run-down one-room apartment. The place had once belonged to Rachel Reed, the first prostitute to have made the serial killer’s list.

  The building was located in the poorer section of Aurora. Here the sun never shone, she thought. Here were housed the hopeless and the just barely not homeless, trying to hang on for just another day until they either died or somehow wandered into the path of a stray miracle. Either way, their misery would be over.

  Had Mary lived in such a place? Or was this horrid place actually something she would have aspired to? Mary might have huddled somewhere out on the street, fighting for a space that had no vermin, no bugs that would crawl along her body while she slept.

  Oh God, Mary, why didn’t I take you with me? I’m sorry, so sorry.

  Riley glanced in her direction, interpreting her reaction. “Pretty grim, isn’t it? Hard to picture someone actually living like this.”

  “Yeah,” was all Julianne permitted herself to say. And then she looked at Riley. “How can you sound so upbeat?” she asked. The woman sounded as if none of this, the squalor, the wasted lives affected her on any significant level.

  “Because if I let it get to me,” Riley answered simply, “I don’t function. And these women need me to function so that I can get the bastard who cut them down in the prime of their lives.” That said, she started to go through the prostitute’s meager belongings. “Well, let’s see if there’s something that might have been missed the first time,” Riley murmured. Sanchez and Hill had gone over the one-room apartment initially. There was always hope something had been overlooked. “Not much to see,” she speculated. “Shouldn’t take us too long.”

  “Hard to believe that this is the sum total of someone’s life,” Julianne murmured, opening up the single, narrow closet. Only a few items of clothing were hanging inside.

  Riley and Julianne methodically went through everything, including the miniature refrigerator. They were finished almost before they started. There wasn’t much in the apartment. No books, no signs that this was anything but a place for the victim to put her head down, except for the television set.

  Julianne paused in front of it the old-fashioned analog type TV with rabbit ears. Possibly left behind by a previous tenant, she judged. She turned it on. Nothing but snow appeared on the screen even when she flipped to a few different channels. It seemed to emphasize that there was nothing in the victim’s life. She shut the set again.

  A couple of fliers the woman might have picked up along the way were on top of the set. One from a homeless shelter somewhere in the vicinity, the other from a fast-food place she noted was around the corner.

  “Nothing,” Riley sighed, shaking her head as she finished going through a rickety bureau that contained several pairs of undergarments, some sweaters and a graduation yearbook that was several years old. The victim’s, or was it something she’d stolen? She decided it might bear a look. Turning, she glanced over at the dark-haired woman across the room. “Anything stand out for you?”

  Julianne looked around at the dust and dirt. “Only that she wasn’t a very good housekeeper.”

  Riley grinned. “Well, if that was a crime, the jails would be really overcrowded.” Picking up the yearbook, she gave the place one last scan. “Might as well get back.”

  “Drop me off at McFadden,” Julianne told her as Riley closed up the apartment. The boulevard was only a few blocks away from where they were right now.

  “Why?” Riley asked as they started back down the stairs. “What’s there?”

  Maybe she’d gotten her information wrong. “Isn’t that the place where most of the prostitutes gather?”

  “Not so much before dusk.”

  “Still, there might be some out, getting an early start and who knows, someone might have seen something suspicious.”

  “We’ve already canvassed the area,” Riley pointed out. “Right after each hooker was found.”

  “Can’t hurt to show some of the photographs around again.” She was thinking of the copy she had with her of Mary’s photo. “Maybe you missed talking to one of them, someone who could remember a detail.” She was grasping at straws, but stranger things had happened. “And it’s not like we have any leads to chase down,” Julianne told her.

  Riley thought it over. “Okay, we’ll both go. It’ll go faster that way,” she theorized. About to get into her car, she heard her cell phone going off. Half a beat later, so did Julianne’s.

  “McIntyre.”

  “White Bear.”

  Riley looked over the roof of her vehicle at Julianne. It was obvious that they were getting the same call from two difference sources. She saw the other woman’s eyes widen. And then she heard why.

  “Two?” Riley echoed in disbelief. She struggled to keep the horror out of her voice.

  But Julianne heard her and she nodded as she closed her cell phone and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket. “That’s what the man said. I think our killer is looking for a greater high,” Julianne said grimly. The deaths were happening closer together. According to the files, the first had been almost a year ago. Now only days separated one from another.

  The killer’s bloodlust was growing.

  Riley started the car. McFadden was going to have to wait. They had a date with two Dumpsters. “Either that, or he’s enjoying rubbing our noses in it.”

  Julianne shook her head. Something in her gut told her that it wasn’t that. “It’s not about us, I don’t think. It’s about them. His victims.”

  Riley looked at her sharply. “You found something you want to share?”

  Something had occurred to her, but she wasn’t ready to elaborate just yet. “I’ll let you know after we see the latest victims.” Even as she said it, she started to brace herself for the ordeal that lay ahead. She glanced at Riley’s profile and saw her own feelings reflected in the set of the woman’s jaw. She remembered what Riley’d said to her. “It doesn’t get easier, does it?”

  “Nope,” Riley replied as she turned on the siren. “It really doesn’t.”

  Victims number eight and nine were both very successful in their chosen fields. Zoe
Martin was a criminal lawyer from one of the more renowned law firms in the country and Christina Wayne was an interior decorator with her own business and a client list that extended to the rich and famous—the very rich and famous.

  Their bodies were discovered buried beneath a thin layer of debris in two different Dumpsters arranged side by side behind one of the fancier hotels located in the heart of the city. The debris was not meant to hide them so much as to highlight the fact that, like the rotting food and refuse, the dead women were trash, too.

  The crime-scene investigators, three of them, were already on the scene when she and Riley arrived. As was Frank. Sanchez and Hill were just pulling up.

  Julianne got out and strode over to the first Dumpster. Steeling herself off, she climbed up and looked in, virtually over the shoulder of one of the crime-scene investigators. Without a word, she climbed down and then went to the second Dumpster. The second C.S.I. had just finished taking pictures.

  The second woman had been tossed in just like the first, as if she was nothing more than just trash, not even worthy of an afterthought. God, but this was one cold S.O.B. they were dealing with, she thought grimly.

  “Well?” Riley asked as Julianne moved away from the second Dumpster.

  “Well what?” Frank asked. He’d crossed over to them and caught the expectant note in his sister’s voice.

  Riley turned toward him, more than willing to share. “Julianne thinks she might have a theory about our serial killer.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” Frank said. “At this point, I’m ready to go with anything if it makes the slightest bit of sense.”

  “He’s killing the same woman,” Julianne told him, trying in vain to distance herself from what she’d just seen. Like Mary, these women were going to haunt her for a very long time.

  Frank looked at her. “What do you mean, the same woman?”

  What had set her thinking along this path was Mary’s wig. “They all have the same coloring, are approximately the same age—give or take. Somewhere along the line, our killer was rejected by a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman with high cheekbones and undoubtedly higher standards. Standards that he didn’t measure up to. Mary had black hair, but you found a blond wig in the Dumpster with her. Maybe she was trying to disguise herself, to pretend to herself that it wasn’t her. The point is, this guy’s got it in for blondes. Rejection seems to be the likely conclusion.”

  “So if he’s taking revenge, why didn’t he rape them?” Riley asked.

  It was a good question, and she only had a partial answer. “Maybe he thought that was withholding the ultimate intimacy, something he’s not capable of or didn’t want to share.”

  There was merit in the thought, Frank decided. “You think it all started with the first victim? That she was his real target and he just got carried away?” he asked her.

  She hadn’t worked that out yet. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he didn’t have enough courage to kill the woman who actually rejected him. Could have been a girlfriend, could have been his mother, but somewhere along the line, she rejected him and he’s been nursing his wounds until now.” She moved out of the way as another C.S.I. set down a plastic marker to denote where a piece of jewelry was found on the ground. “Once started, he kept taking his frustrations out on the surrogates he’s been picking out.”

  “Why now?” Frank posed. “Why not earlier? What makes now different?”

  Again, she had no answers except this feeling in her gut. She shook her head. “Some kind of trigger. A meltdown, a personal tragedy, I don’t know, but something set him off and he’s not going to stop until we stop him. Which means there’ll probably be more dead women.”

  Even as she said the words, Julianne had to struggle not to shiver.

  Chapter 7

  Frank looked at the woman before him thoughtfully. Obviously, there was more to her than just an undercurrent of sensuality and quiet beauty.

  “That’s pretty good,” he finally acknowledged. “Ever consider working as a profiler?”

  “For the FBI?” Even as she asked, Julianne shook her head. The bureau was the last place she’d want to work. “Too many rules and regulations.”

  That was an odd thing to say, Frank thought, considering her present position. “And being a police detective has less?”

  It all depended on whether you worked in the big city, or a small township. She’d chosen accordingly. “In Mission Ridge it does. Captain Randolph gives me pretty much free rein. But then, there’s hardly any crime in Mission Ridge.” Which could account for the lax regulations. It wasn’t a matter of “them” versus “us.” To a greater extent, they were all just neighbors with jobs to do. “Kids joyriding once in a while. Lawn sculptures placed in suggestive poses, things like that.”

  He’d thought places like that only existed in idyllic novels. “I can see why you wouldn’t have wanted to have a dead body on your hands. Spoils paradise.”

  Paradise. She’d never thought of Mission Ridge in those terms. “Wouldn’t exactly call it that,” she told him. “In my experience, paradise doesn’t exist. There’re too many people around out for only themselves for that to happen.” Even in Mission Ridge. After all, her uncle had lived on the outskirts of the town.

  One rotten apple…

  Definitely in need of Cavanaugh exposure, Frank judged, looking at Julianne. And as soon as possible. The woman with the incredible blue eyes was in pain, whether she realized it or not. And he hated seeing anyone in pain. The fact that he was attracted to her would have to be put on hold. Helping her, however, was necessary, what he needed to do.

  He still had a crazed serial killer on his hands, not to mention a new, double homicide to contend with. He had a gut feeling that the new victims weren’t taken and killed at the same time. One victim had to precede the other, the medical examiner would sort out.

  And it was up to them to do everything else.

  “Okay, people, you know the drill,” Frank announced, raising his voice so that Hill and Sanchez could hear him as well. “Canvas the area. Talk to everyone with a pulse. Somebody has to have seen something,” he insisted. “This bastard can’t continue being the luckiest S.O.B. on the face of the earth. His luck has to run out some time.” When he saw Riley begin to leave with Julianne, he called out, “Wait up.” Both women turned around, waiting for him to give them further instructions. “White Bear, you’re with me. Riley, get the names of the hotel guests on the second and third floors facing the alley. I want them all giving statements.”

  With that, Frank quickly walked out of the alley. Julianne hurried after him. The man had freakishly long legs, she thought, having almost to run in order to catch up.

  “Don’t trust me?” she asked when she was finally abreast of him. Was that why he suddenly had her pairing up with him?

  He gave her a look that told her she was off base. “I like to rotate positions when I work,” was all he said to her.

  She knew there had to be more and, because she was the outsider, she was pretty certain that her first assessment was accurate. He wanted to keep an eye on her. Something she’d done or said had gotten under his skin.

  For the moment, she played along with his answer. “Too bad, your sister and I were beginning to hit a routine.”

  “Now you can hit a routine with me.” He stood back and let her go through the hotel’s revolving door first. Except that she didn’t. Stepping to the side, she pulled open the door that was on the side.

  Everything she did made him wonder about her. This was no exception. But for now, a desk clerk needed questioning and an initial report compiling. His own, personal questions were just going to have to wait.

  When the task force finally made it back to the squad room several hours later, Brian Cavanaugh was waiting for them. With him was a solemn-faced, dark-haired man who looked as if he’d emerged from a standard government agency cookie press. He had on a black suit, a white shirt and appeared to Julianne as if his face had never enterta
ined even a glimmer of a smile in his forty-something years on the planet.

  Brian made the introductions quickly. “This is Special Agent Elliot Solis,” he said, then pointed out each of his detectives by name, refraining from mentioning that his stepson and daughter were in the group. Julianne was introduced separately, with an addendum that she was on loan from a neighboring town. “I was just showing him the task force area.”

  Frank was instantly on guard. There was only one reason the FBI would send one of their agents. “Are you here to take over?”

  Julianne glanced at him. He was being territorial. She could understand that. It gave them something in common.

  The man’s expression remained unchanged. “No, just to give you the benefit of my expertise.”

  “You’re a profiler,” Julianne guessed, her voice just as expressionless as his face.

  “Yes, I am. And Chief Cavanaugh has been filling me in on the case.” Julianne thought she detected a touch of elitism in his tone. She wondered if Frank took offense at it. He must.

  The special agent looked at the bulletin boards. Sanchez was just tacking up the two latest photographs beside the lone photograph that bore silent testimony to Mary’s murder. Until they located better photographs, the ones taken at the dump site of the last two would have to do.

  “He’s escalating,” Solis commented.

  Frank folded his arms before him. He reminded her of a portrait of a warrior she’d once seen. “Certainly looks that way,” he agreed stoically.

  Moving toward the bulletin boards, Solis glanced from one photograph to another in silence, then turned around. He wasted no time in rendering his profile.

  “Most likely, you’re searching for a loner, someone who’s always been on the outside, looking in. He’s white, between the ages of late twenties to early forties and he has trouble holding down a job. He might even be homeless, which just feeds his rage.” As he spoke, he looked from one detective to another, as if to watch his words sink in. “Women won’t give him the time of day and he’s sexually frustrated.” The FBI profiler stopped. “You’re frowning, detective.” His observation was addressed to Julianne. “Something I said?”