“Not bad,” he conceded, releasing the target, “if you’ve got the time to line up your shot.”
Maggi said nothing. Instead, reaching over him, she pressed the button again, sending the target back even farther away than before. This time, Patrick made no comment about the target’s proximity but waited until she stopped it herself. And then, just when the target had reached the end of its run, she pressed for its return.
Once the line was activated again, Maggi began firing, sending off five rounds before the paper target came back to its place of origin.
Without a word, Patrick examined the target. She’d sent all five rounds into the same vicinity as the first. Two of the shots were almost on top of each other, the rest close enough to make the hole bigger.
Staring at it, Patrick had to admit to himself that she was impressive. But he’d never admit this to her.
“Not bad,” he said again, “if the perp is running in a straight line and not firing back.”
He was doing it to annoy her, Maggi thought. He wasn’t the first man she’d had to prove herself to, and losing her temper wasn’t part of the deal. She loaded a fresh clip into her weapon.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait for the right occasion,” she told him calmly.
“I guess. We done here?”
She squared her shoulders, feeling a slow boil begin. She could have gone on firing, but obviously it didn’t prove anything to this lug. “We’re done.”
“Good.” Patrick took off his earphones and walked back to the front desk.
He was a hard man, Maggi thought, but then she already knew that. And she also knew that she’d made her point. Taking a deep breath, she hurried back to the front desk and handed in the remainder of the box of ammunition to Baker, as well as the earphones.
Baker looked surprised that she had cut her time so short.
“Fun time’s over, Baker,” she explained. “We’ve got to get back to the station.”
The officer put the earphones away. “See you around, Annie Oakley,” he chuckled.
Patrick stood at the door, waiting for her. “He knows you.”
She walked out first. “We’ve talked.”
He had a feeling she talked to everyone and everything, living or not. “So, how long have you had this supervision?”
It was a backhanded compliment. Nevertheless, she accepted it gladly. She barely suppressed the smile that rose to her lips, but Maggi knew he’d think she was preening. She walked briskly beside him to the car.
“I don’t. What I had was a father who was on the job for twenty-two years. He put a gun in my hand when I was old enough to hold one and took me out to the firing range.” She still remembered the first time. The weapon had weighed a ton, but she’d been far too proud to say anything.
“Some people would frown on that.” He passed no judgments himself. People were free to live their lives any way they saw fit, as long as it didn’t impinge on others. Or him.
“Yeah, well, my father wasn’t exactly your average guy. He wanted me to have a healthy respect for guns and to know what one could or couldn’t do.”
Patrick heard the pride in her voice, and the affection. It was the same tone he heard in his cousins’ voices when they talked about their fathers. He wondered what that was like, having a father you were close to, you were proud of. It seemed like such a foreign concept to him.
“A little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing,” he pointed out.
Her father had taught her how to take a gun apart first, piece by piece, and then clean it before reassembling it. She’d had to wait a long time before he allowed her to handle cartridges.
“Maybe, but enough of it sets you free,” she countered.
“Whatever.” Getting into the car, he waited until she buckled up. “So, how does your father feel about you being on the police force?”
“He worries.” Maggi slid the metal tongue into the groove, snapping the belt into place. “He’s a father first, a police officer second. But he’s proud of me.” She knew that without asking. It made her determined never to let him down. “He’s the reason I joined up.” She thought of the upbringing she’d had. Blue uniforms populated her everyday world. “I never knew anything else.”
Starting the car, he backed out of his space. “What’s your mother got to say about it?”
Maggi kept her face forward. “Nothing. She died when I was nine. He and his buddies raised me.”
Her profile had gotten a little rigid. He’d hit a nerve, he thought. Miss Sunshine had a cloud on her horizon. Interesting. “His buddies?”
Maggi nodded. Her profile was relaxed again and she was as animated as before. Just his luck. “The other police officers. I was their mascot.”
He laughed to himself, taking a hard right. “That would explain it.”
Maggi found she had to brace herself to keep from leaning toward the window. “Explain what?”
“The cocky attitude.”
“I don’t have a cocky attitude,” she informed him. “I just know what I’m capable of and, since you’re my partner, I wanted you to know, too,” she added quickly before he could accuse her of showing off.
“You shouldn’t have put yourself out.”
Turning her head, she caught him sparing her a glance. She couldn’t fathom what was in his eyes. “Why?”
“Because you’re not going to be my partner for that long.”
Guess again, Cavanaugh. “You know something I don’t?”
Arriving at the station, he pulled into his spot and stopped the car. Sure shot or not, someone who looked like her didn’t belong out in the field. It was like waving a red flag in front of every nut case in the area who wanted to get his rocks off. The sooner she wasn’t his responsibility, the better.
Patrick got out, slamming the door. “Yeah, I know how long people in your position last, on the average.” He took the front stairs to the entrance quickly, then paused at the door. She was right behind him.
Maggi grinned up at him as she walked through the door he held open for her. “Haven’t you noticed, Cavanaugh? I’m not average.”
Yeah, he thought as he followed her inside the building, that’s just the trouble, I’ve noticed.
“Definitely died before she went into the water,” the medical examiner, Dr. Stanley Ochoa, informed them with the slightly monotonous voice of a man who had been at his job too long.
Maggi couldn’t help looking at the young woman on the table, stripped of her dignity and her clothes, every secret exposed except her identity and why she’d died.
Poor baby, you look like a kid. Maggi raised her eyes to the M.E. “And we know this how?”
Instead of answering immediately, Ochoa turned to Patrick. A hint of amusement flickered beneath his drooping mustache. “Eager little thing, isn’t she?”
“And, oddly enough, not deaf or invisible,” Maggi cheerfully informed the M.E. as she placed herself between the two men, both of whom towered over her. She missed the glimmer of a smile on Patrick’s face. “Now, how do you know she didn’t drown?”
“Simple. No water in the lungs. She wasn’t breathing when she went over the side.”
“Because she was already dead. Makes sense.” Maggi looked at the gash on the woman’s forehead. It looked as if there’d been a line of blood at one point. If she’d bled, that meant she’d still been alive when she’d sustained the blow. “That bump on her head—did she get it hitting her forehead against the steering wheel when she went over the railing?”
Ochoa dismissed the guess. “Might have, but at first glance it looks deeper than something she could have sustained from that kind of impact.”
Patrick’s face was expressionless. “The air bag was deployed.”
Maggi bit the inside of her lip. She’d forgotten that detail and knew it made her look bad in his eyes. She regarded the victim again. “Could the air bag have suffocated her? She’s a small woman.”
Again the M.E. shook h
is head. “No, suffocation has different signs. This was a blunt force trauma to the head. Something heavy.”
Because Cavanaugh wasn’t saying anything, Maggi summarized what they’d just ascertained. “So someone killed her, then put her into the sports car and drove her into the river to make it look like an accident.”
Ochoa nodded. The overhead light shone brightly on his forehead, accentuating his receding hairline. “Looks like.”
Patrick had been regarding the victim in silence, as if he was conducting his own séance with her. He raised his eyes to look at the overweight medical examiner. “Anything else?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting on the blood work results and I haven’t conducted the autopsy. Check back with me tomorrow.”
Patrick was aware that Maggi wasn’t beside him as he reached the door. Turning around, he saw her still standing by the table. He thought she was studying the victim for enlightenment until he saw the expression on her face.
With an annoyed sigh, he retraced his steps. “We don’t mourn them, Mary Margaret, we just make sure whoever did this to them pays the price.”
He probably thought she was weak, Maggi thought. The woman’s death just seemed like such a sad waste. “Yeah, right.” Squaring her shoulders, she walked out of the room.
The moment they were in the corridor, Patrick’s cell phone rang. He had it out before it could ring a second time.
“Cavanaugh.”
Curiosity ricocheted through her as she walked beside him, waiting for Cavanaugh to say something to the voice talking in his ear. She wanted to figure out the nature of his call. Her real assignment was still foremost in her mind, but she wanted to find the person who’d wantonly ended the life of the young woman on the table in the morgue.
If she was hoping for clues, she was disappointed. All Cavanaugh said before disconnecting was “Thanks.”
Impatient, she tried not to sound it as she asked, “Well?”
He wasn’t accustomed to answering to anyone. The only partner he’d ever gotten along with had always given him his space, waiting for him to say something but never really pressing him. But then, this woman wasn’t Ramirez. What she was was a royal pain in the butt. “That was Goldsmith.”
Maggi knew Goldsmith was the officer he’d asked to track down the sports car license. She was surprised that Cavanaugh recalled the man’s name. He didn’t strike her as the type to put names to people; he seemed more likely to just label everyone “them” and “me.” “And?”
The more she pushed, the more he felt like resisting. It wasn’t a logical reaction, but this woman was pressing all the wrong buttons. Buttons that weren’t supposed to be being pressed.
“C’mon, Cavanaugh, stop making me play twenty questions. Who does the car belong to?”
“Congressman Jacob Wiley.”
She vaguely remembered the last election. Mind-numbing slogans had littered the airwaves, as well as most available and not-so-available spaces. But one of the few people she’d genuinely liked was Congressman Jake Wiley, “the people’s candidate,” according to the literature his people distributed.
“The family values man?” She glanced over her shoulder toward the morgue, reluctant to make the connection. Her father had taught her long ago not to jump to conclusions. There could be a great many explanations as to what a young, pretty girl was doing dead in a car that belonged to the congressman.
“One and the same,” Patrick confirmed. He was already heading out the door again.
Maggi had to lengthen her stride to catch up.
Congressman Jacob Wiley had a build reminiscent of the quarterback he’d once been. Blessed with an engaging smile that instantly put its recipient at ease, he flashed it now at the two people his secretary ushered in. He’d been informed that they were from the local police and there was a hint of confusion in the way he raised his eyebrows as he rose from his cluttered desk to greet them.
Wiley extended his hand first to Maggi, then to Patrick. “Always glad to meet my constituents so I can thank them in person for their vote.” His tone was affable.
Patrick’s eyes were flat as he took full measure of the man before him. He found the smile a little too quick, the manner a little too innocent. “To set the record straight, I didn’t vote for you.”
“But I did,” Maggi said to cut the potentially awkward moment. “You’ll have to forgive my partner, Congressman. He left his manners in his other squad car. I’m afraid this is official business. We need to ask you a question.”
“Ask away.” Lacing his hands together, Wiley sat on the edge of his desk as if he was about to enter into a conversation with lifelong friends. “I believe in fully cooperating with the police.”
She held up the digital photograph that had been printed less than half an hour ago. “Do you know this woman?”
Patrick watched the congressman’s eyes as he took the photograph in his hands. There was horror on his face as he looked at the dead woman. “Oh, God, no.” He turned his head away.
“Are you sure?” Patrick pressed, his voice low, steely. “She was found in your car.”
Light eyebrows drew together in mounting confusion. “My car? My car’s right outside.” He pointed toward the window and the parking lot beyond.
Patrick’s expression didn’t change. “Navy blue sports car. Registered to you.”
A light seemed to dawn in the older man’s face. “Oh, right.” As if to dissuade any rising suspicion, the man explained, “I have more than one car, detectives. I’ve got five kids, three of them drive. Of course, there’s my wife,” he tagged on. “But she prefers the Lincoln.” He paused, sorting out his thoughts. “And then, sometimes I let one of my people borrow a car when they’re running an errand for me.”
Patrick made a notation in his notepad, deliberately making the congressman wait. “So at any given time of the day or night, you don’t know where your cars are.”
Wide, muscular shoulders rose and fell beneath a handmade suit. “I’m afraid not.” Maggi began to take the photograph back, but Wiley stopped her at the last moment. “Wait, let me look at that again.” The air was still as he studied the face in the photograph more closely. After a beat, the impact of death seemed to fade into the background. And then recognition filtered into his eyes. “This is Joan, no, Joanne, that’s it. Joanne Styles.” Wiley looked first at Maggi, then Patrick. “She works for me.”
“Worked,” Patrick corrected, taking the photograph back.
Disbelief was beginning to etch itself into the congressman’s handsome face. “What happened to her?”
Patrick gave him just the minimal details. “She was found in the river this morning, in your sports car. It appears she went over the side of the road sometime last night.”
Veering to the more sympathetic audience, Wiley looked at Maggi. “She drowned?”
“Someone would like to have us believe that,” Patrick interjected, his eyes never leaving the man’s face.
Confusion returned. “Then she didn’t drown? She’s alive?”
“Oh, she’s dead all right,” Patrick confirmed emotionlessly. “But she didn’t die in the river. She died sometime before that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do we. For the moment.” Patrick pinned him with a look. “Where were you last night, Congressman, if you don’t mind my asking?”
The congressman’s friendly expression faded. “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, I do mind your asking.”
“Just doing our job, Congressman,” Maggi interjected smoothly, her manner respectful. “Pulling together pieces of a puzzle. It might help us find Ms. Styles’s killer if we could reconstruct the evening.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry,” he apologized to Patrick. “This has me a little rattled. I never knew anyone who was a murder victim before. I was at a political fund-raiser at the Hyatt Hotel.” He looked at Patrick and added, “With several hundred other people.”
“Was
Ms. Styles there?” Maggi prodded gently.
“I imagine so, although I really couldn’t say for certain. All of my staff was invited,” he explained.
“Looks like those several hundred people certainly didn’t help keep her alive, did they?” Patrick asked.
“If we could get a guest list, that would be very helpful. Could you tell us who was in charge of putting the fund-raiser together?” Maggi felt as if she was tap-dancing madly to exercise damage control.
“Of course. That would be Leticia Babcock.” Picking up a pen, Wiley wrote down the name of the organization the woman worked for. Finished, he handed the paper to Maggi. He glanced at Patrick, but his words were directed to the woman before him. “Anything I can do, you only have to ask.”
Patrick took the slip of paper from Maggi and tucked it into his pocket. His eyes never left the congressman’s face. “Count on it.”
Chapter 5
Hurrying to catch up to her partner, Maggi pulled the collar of her jacket up. It began to mist. The weather lately had been anything but ideal.
“You get more flies with honey than with vinegar, Cavanaugh.”
Patrick reached his car and unlocked the driver’s side. He looked at her over the roof. “I’m not interested in getting flies, Mary Margaret, I’m interested in getting a killer.”
She blew out a breath as she got in on her side. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”
Patrick closed the door and flipped on the headlights. The sun had decided to hide behind dark clouds. They were in for a storm. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”
Her father had named her after his two sisters. She wished he’d been born an only child. “Yes it is. That doesn’t mean I like hearing it—” Maggi turned in her seat to glare at him as she delivered the last word “—Pat.”
The nickname she tossed at him was fraught with bad memories. Only his father had ever called him that, when the old man was especially drunk and reveling in the whole myth of “Pat and Mike,” something Patrick gathered had come by way of a collection of Irish stories about two best friends. According to Uncle Andrew, a number of Irish-flavored jokes began that way, as well. In any case, he and his father didn’t remotely fit the description of two friends, and it was only when he was in a drunken haze that his father could pretend that he’d created a home life for his family. In reality, home life was just barely short of a minefield, ready to go off at the slightest misstep.
Internal Affair Page 5
