Internal Affair

by Marie Ferrarella

  “No. I’m not letting it, and you shouldn’t, either. We’re not dating, Cavanaugh, we’re working together. I know partners tend to get closer than some married people, but you certainly don’t strike me as someone who’d leave himself open to that. You probably never even learned Ramirez’s first name or knew anything about him.”

  His expression never changed. “Eduardo. He had a wife and three kids. Anything else you want to get wrong about me?”

  She blew out a breath. Maybe the man did have feelings and she’d just stepped on them.

  “Okay, look, I’m sorry. We’ll start over.” Before he could respond, she extended her hand to Patrick. “Hi, I’m Detective McKenna. According to the captain, we’re supposed to be working together. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. You have any questions, any problems, call me. Anytime. We’ll work something out. Deal?”

  He regarded her hand for a moment before silently gripping it with his own.

  Ochoa popped his head in. “Hey, you two just about through in here? You’re making enough racket to raise the dead.” He pretended to look over to the steel drawers that were the temporary resting places for the bodies he had yet to examine.

  “Just leaving, Dr. Ochoa.” Maggi looked at Patrick pointedly. “See you later, partner.”

  The doctor paused to watch as the young detective made her exit. Sighing, he shook his head wistfully. “That woman’s got one mighty fine rear view.” He glanced at Patrick. “Wonder if she makes that much noise when she’s making love.”

  Patrick rose. “I wouldn’t know.”

  And it was something he damn well wasn’t planning on finding out.

  Chapter 7

  It was the last booth in an out-of-the-way coffee shop that still believed that the only ingredient necessary for a decent cup of coffee was caffeine. John Halliday, the head of Internal Affairs, had elected to meet with her here for a progress report.

  Maggi kept her eyes on the door rather than on the heavyset, aging man sitting opposite her. She was afraid someone she knew might walk in. To the untrained observer, she and John probably looked like a father sharing an early cup of black energy with his daughter before they hurried off to their separate worlds.

  She warmed her hands around the cup, knowing that Halliday was waiting for an answer. She didn’t have one to give him. It was lack of evidence she was finding herself up against, not proof of innocence. Exoneration by default was not what they were looking for.

  “So far, nothing,” she told him. “The man puts in a long, full day, then goes home.” The surface of her coffee shimmered, catching the weak overhead light just before she brought the cup to her lips. It was hotter than it was good.

  The thin lips beneath the shaggy mustache drew together in a tight frown. “Are you getting close to him?”

  “Not yet.” And it wasn’t for lack of trying. The half shrug beneath her gray jacket was curtailed frustration. “He’s like a fortress.”

  Halliday’s brown eyes were steady as they regarded her. “Are you familiar with the story about the Trojan horse?”

  Maggi laughed softly to herself. “I guarantee that if Cavanaugh had been inside that fort with the Greeks, he would have burned the Trojan horse down before he’d ever allow them to bring it inside.” She hoped Halliday knew better than to think she was throwing in the towel at this point.

  “That’s why I figured you were the best one for the job.”

  “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Because you’re good,” he countered. His eyes swept over her in a manner she found almost unnervingly impartial. He was dissecting and reassembling her in the space of time it took to draw a long breath. “Of course, being an attractive woman doesn’t hurt, either.”

  The coffee was growing on her. She took another long sip. “Thanks, but I don’t think Cavanaugh’s noticed.”

  Halliday’s amusement surprised her. “Trust me, Maggi, dead men notice that you’re attractive.”

  She tried to read between the lines. If he was looking for someone to go above and beyond the regulations, he’d selected the wrong woman. She wasn’t about to give new meaning to the term “undercover” just to get the assignment done.

  “You’re not suggesting—”

  “No,” Halliday interrupted quickly. “I’m not. Just use a little of what they used to call feminine wiles in my day.”

  Right, as if that would work on a man like Cavanaugh. She grinned. “I think they still call them that, but I’m not sure I have them.”

  The look he gave her told her that he knew better. “And if I believe that, there’s a bridge out there with my name on it.”

  Maggi finished her coffee and placed the cup down on the cracked saucer.

  “You never know, there might be.” Her smile faded as she glanced at her watch. It was getting late. The less explaining she had to do to Cavanaugh, the better. “I should get going.” Sliding to the end of the booth, she sighed before she got up. “I’m beginning to feel like a spy.”

  Halliday signaled the waitress for a refill. “That’s good, because you are.”

  Spies were only glamorous in the movies, Maggi thought. In real life, they felt ambivalent and gritty because of the secrets they were forced to carry around with them. Lines began to blur the moment people entered into the picture. Her assignment and her loyalties had been crystal clear when she’d started out, but now part of her couldn’t help feeling like a voyeur.

  That was because she was ascribing her own set of values to Cavanaugh, she reminded herself. And that was probably a fallacy that would lead her down the wrong road. Cavanaugh wasn’t her. If he’d had her values, he wouldn’t be under suspicion for being on the take to begin with.

  “See you around.” Rising, Maggi made her way past the waitress.

  Patrick didn’t bother glancing up when she walked into the cubicle. He could tell it was McKenna by the sound of her heels making contact with the vinyl flooring. She had a certain gait, just distinct enough to stick in his mind. He found that annoying, too.

  “You’re late.”

  “Stopped to get you breakfast.” Maggi set down a white paper bag with a doughnut-shop logo imprinted on the side on his desk.

  Breakfast. It reminded him of his phone call with his sister the other day and the fact that he hadn’t been by his uncle’s house for breakfast in several weeks. Retired, Uncle Andrew liked to gather his family together around the table whenever possible. Cooking was his passion now that his days on the force were over.

  Patrick assuaged his conscience by reminding himself that he’d put in an appearance at Thanksgiving, although that had been partially a matter of self-preservation. Not to have shown up might have brought about a family schism. In all likelihood, his uncle would have sent one or more of his cousins to his apartment to drag him back to the table. Uncle Andrew took his holidays seriously.

  He caught himself wanting to smile but resisted the urge. Instead, he moved the bag she’d brought to the side as if it were an annoyance that had fallen in his path.

  “I don’t do breakfast.”

  She’d picked up the jelly doughnuts on her way out of the coffee shop to give herself an alibi. Even so, it bothered her to have him reject her offering.

  “Save it for lunch, snack, wear it—I don’t care.” Reining in her temper, she sat down in the cubicle and swung her chair around to face him instead of her desk. What the hell was his problem, anyway? “I’m just trying to be nice here.”

  “No need.”

  The words were curt, meant to shut her out. Again. She felt like pounding on him.

  Whoa, get a grip, Mag. You’re not going to get anywhere if you lose your cool.

  “You know,” she began, measuring out her words, “you are a damn hard man to get close to.”

  This time, he raised his eyes to her. “We’re not supposed to be close, Mary Margaret. We’re just supposed to be working together.”

  “That doesn’t seem to be going all that
well, either, Paddy.”

  If she meant to get a rise out of him, she failed. He merely nodded toward the exit. “You know the way to the door.”

  This wasn’t getting her anywhere. Determined to gain his confidence, she did a complete one-eighty and focused her attention on the homicide they were handling. “Okay, so where are we on the Styles case?”

  Patrick never missed a beat. He indicated the time line on the back wall of the cubicle. They’d pieced it together from information they’d garnered since the body had been found.

  “My money’s on the congressman.” He looked at her pointedly, waiting for her to contradict him. Waiting to cut her argument down.

  She surprised him.

  “I tend to agree, especially since we found out that Mrs. Wiley didn’t attend the party and several other people thought they saw Wiley with Joanne at least once during the course of the evening. That makes his performance in the office about not recognizing her immediately a little suspect.” She stopped, his scrutiny getting to her. “What are you staring at?”

  Patrick shrugged, the movement careless. “Nothing. Just a little surprised that you’re willing to come around, that’s all.”

  “I’m not ‘willing to come around,’ Cavanaugh. I’m willing to let the evidence speak to me.” Of all the prejudice, bigoted, thickheaded chauvinists, why did this one have to be her assignment? “What do you think—I’ve got a crush on the man and refuse to see any other viewpoint than the official party line?”

  There was just the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Or was that a badly concealed smirk? “Something like that.”

  “One, I don’t get crushes.” Even as she set him straight, she had a feeling her words were falling on deaf ears. “Two, I’m a police detective and a damn good one. That means I deal in facts and do my job to the best of my abilities.”

  “Nice to know.” Leaning back in his chair, Patrick studied her for a long moment, trying to see beyond the long, blond silky hair and the mouth that always seemed to be moving. The mouth that was so quick to smile and generate a warm, seductive atmosphere around her. “Okay, if this was your case, what’s your next move?”

  “This is my case,” she reminded him tersely. “But if you mean what would I do if I were the primary on it, I’d go back to see the congressman again, ask him a few more questions. Try to see if maybe I could jog his memory a little in light of the fact that at least three people saw him talking to Joanne Styles at some time during the party.” She waited for him to shoot down her suggestion and braced herself to rebut him.

  Instead, he rose from his chair. “Sounds like a plan to me.” With that, he began to head for the door. He stopped only long enough to look over his shoulder. “You coming?”

  “Yes.”

  The man was a trial, she thought as she grabbed her coat. A real trial.

  “Of course I might have talked to her,” Wiley allowed less than forty-five minutes later. He’d prefaced their audience by saying he only had five minutes before heading out for a meeting.

  Wiley took a long drag of his cigarette before continuing. Beside him, a tall, slender air purifier was doing double duty in an attempt to help clear the air.

  “But you have to understand, I talked to a great many people during the course of that party. During the course of any party. That’s both the up- and downside of my position. I have to glad-hand a great deal. After a while, the names and faces begin to swim together.” Though he made a point of looking at both of them, more than half his words were directed at Maggi. “Unfortunately for me, I don’t have one of those photographic memories so I have to pretend that I know everyone to keep from offending someone. Sounds a little shallow, I know, but in my line of work I try to offend as few people as absolutely possible.” He flashed a quick, disarming smile. “Every vote counts, you know.”

  Tapping his cigarette ash into the full ashtray on the corner of his desk, he seemed to note the way Maggi watched him. His grin was almost sheepish. “Yes, I know, it’s a terrible habit.”

  There was no judgment intended on her part. “I was just thinking that this is supposed to be a smoke-free environment.” According to state law, all public places of work in California were to be kept smoke free.

  “Busted,” Wiley admitted. He nodded at the tall, silent column. “Hence the air purifier. I’m really trying to cut down, but with the pace of the campaign and the stress of the job, I’m finding it difficult. But I guess it’s better than drinking, and I never let myself be photographed with a cigarette.” He looked as if he was debating snuffing out the cigarette, then decided not to. “Don’t want to be a bad role model for the kids.” The grin grew more sheepish. “I try to limit myself to five, but sometimes I cheat by emptying out the ashtray. That makes it look as if I haven’t had any and, well…” His voice trailed off as he looked at Maggi.

  Maggi’s smile in response was soft, easy. “I understand.”

  To Patrick’s disgust, his partner was really beginning to sound as if she was awestruck by the man. He would have thought after what she’d said in the office, just before they left for here, she could see through this tin demigod.

  “Let me empty that for you,” she offered.

  Then, before the congressman could demur, Maggi took the ashtray and threw its contents into the waste-paper basket beside his desk. Wiley smiled at her.

  It wasn’t the smile of a predator, Patrick thought, trying to be fair. But with little effort, it could have been.

  “If you don’t remember speaking to her, then just how did she get into your car, Congressman?” Patrick wanted to know.

  Rather than looking annoyed or cornered, Wiley simply spread his hands out in puzzled consternation.

  “I really don’t have an answer to that.” All he could do was reiterate what he’d previously said. “As I already told you, I allow my staff access to my cars.”

  “There’s no log, no record?” Patrick pressed.

  The sheepish grin was back. That was for people like McKenna, Patrick thought. He just wasn’t buying it.

  “I’m afraid I’m lax that way.”

  From what he’d learned, Wiley was a very organized man. What he maintained didn’t jibe with the established image.

  “Can you remember who had it last?”

  Wiley shook his head. “You’ll have to ask my office manager, Travis Abbott. He handles the everyday details for me. But I just want you to know that everyone on my staff is trustworthy,” he added as if he felt honor-bound to make the statement. “I’ve never had a pair of cuff links stolen, much less a car.”

  Maggi could feel herself being led further and further away from the heart of the original discussion. “This is a lot bigger than car theft, Congressman,” she said.

  The congressman sobered. “I know, murder.” His hands folded before him, he shook his head. “I still can’t believe it, one of my own people. It’s so ugly.”

  “Uglier still when the victim was pregnant,” Patrick told him.

  Wiley’s eyes widened in shock. “Pregnant? She was pregnant?”

  “Coroner says seven weeks.” Patrick’s voice, like his expression, was grim.

  Wiley covered his mouth, as if to keep back words wreathed in horror. “My God, that poor girl.”

  There was appeal in his eyes as he looked at Maggi, although it wasn’t clear to her just what he was appealing to. She chalked it up to confusion.

  “I had no idea.” The congressman took another drag of his cigarette, a long one this time. Ashes hung suspended on the end of it, defying gravity. “I had no idea,” he repeated quietly.

  Just then, there was a knock on the door and a pert brunette they’d interviewed several days ago stuck her head in. She nodded toward them, then looked at Wiley.

  “Sorry to bother you, Congressman, but you have a meeting with Mr. Donovan in less than half an hour and really should be going. Todd has the car waiting for you out front.”

  “Right.” He rose, still
appearing a little dazed. He extended his hand to Maggi out of purely ingrained habit.

  As Patrick watched, Maggi brushed her hand against her jacket before shaking Wiley’s hand. Had she done that because her hand was damp and she didn’t want Wiley to know? Damn it, the last thing they needed now was a case of hero-worship getting in their way.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” Wiley apologized.

  “Don’t underestimate yourself, Congressman,” she said sweetly. “You’ve been a great deal of help.”

  Wiley smiled, nodded at Patrick and then hurried away to the waiting car.

  Patrick lingered a moment before leaving the office. And then he walked out the door, struggling to hold on to a temper that seemed to come out of nowhere, flaring. As he punched the button for the elevator, he turned on her and demanded, “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” She braced herself.

  “Back there.” He jerked a thumb at the office they’d walked out of. “Cleaning up after him, wiping your hand so that it wasn’t offensive when you shook his. Are you opting to fill the dead girl’s place?”

  She stared at him, torn between taking umbrage and just laughing at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sounded jealous.”

  Leave it to a woman to come up with the most ridiculous take on something. Her accusation almost didn’t merit a response, but he decided to put her in her place. The elevator arrived and he walked in, jabbing for the first floor before she got in behind him. “To be jealous, I’d have to care.”

  “And you don’t.”

  “All I care about is how the department comes off, having you do pirouettes around the man who likely killed what might very well have been his pregnant mistress.” Arriving at the first floor, they got out.

  Maggi hurried to keep up, silently damning his long legs. She was going to have to start working out again if she was going to finish this assignment in good condition.

  “He didn’t know she was pregnant,” she told him as Patrick unlocked the car. “You can’t fake that kind of look.”

  He got in but didn’t buckle up. “You can fake any kind of a look, any kind of response.”