Internal Affair

by Marie Ferrarella

  Maggi held her breath. This couldn’t have gone any better if she’d orchestrated it. When Patrick looked at her, she spread her hands as if to say she was leaving the show up to him. She wasn’t sure if his skeptical expression was intended for her or Wiley.

  “Are you trying to buy us?” Patrick’s emotionless tone gave nothing away.

  “A little bluntly put, but yes.” Wiley saw the look on Maggi’s face. “Don’t look so surprised. Everyone has a price. What’s yours?”

  Why wasn’t McKenna saying anything? Patrick wondered. Why wasn’t she protesting and tossing the offer back in Wiley’s teeth? Patrick had no idea what kind of a game she was playing. He would have sworn that, despite the fact that she was a royal pain in the ass and irritatingly smug, his new partner was honest. But maybe that was something she’d wanted him to believe.

  He kept her in view as he told Wiley, “I’m going to forget you said that, Congressman, because McKenna here seems to think you stand for something.”

  The desperation grew. Wiley struggled to keep it in check. He was a man on a tightrope, afraid of a misstep, afraid of falling onto the rocks below. “I do stand for something—family values—and I’m trying to keep my family together. This’ll kill his mother and sister.”

  Despite the sincerity in Wiley’s voice, Patrick wasn’t buying it. “And this wouldn’t have anything to do with keeping your campaign on track, or making sure that the opposition doesn’t have any mud to fling when you’re up for reelection?”

  “No, damn it, it doesn’t.” Wiley’s temper flared before he could get it under control. “Sorry.” With effort, he tried again. “Don’t you understand? He’s my son. If he can’t make it out in the work world, what chance is he going to have in prison?”

  Almost trembling, Blake still spit out, “Your faith in me is touching, Dad.”

  The comment seemed to push the congressman over the limit. He turned on his son. “If you’d ever given me something to work with, maybe I’d have some faith.” Shutting his eyes, he seemed to center himself. The next moment, he was placing the checkbook on the desk, ready to write. “Now, what’ll it be?”

  Patrick placed his hand over the checkbook. “The truth, Congressman.”

  Wiley stared at him, frozen in disbelief.

  “Since you’re willing to buy our silence, you obviously know more about the situation than you’ve told us.” He told Wiley something they both knew. “Knowing makes you an accessory after the fact.”

  “You’re just trying for a bigger payoff.” One look at the congressman told them that the man fervently hoped he was right. The alternative was something he couldn’t deal with.

  “Yeah,” Patrick allowed, “I guess I am.” He saw the look on Maggi’s face. Did she think he was going to take Wiley up on his offer? How dumb did she think he was? Or did she have him pegged as a corrupt cop? Was that how they did things in San Francisco? “In a manner of speaking,” he said slowly, his tone impassive, his eyes darkening. “I don’t like liars, Congressman. And you lied.”

  “I’m not lying now. You’ve got a choice. You either take what I’m offering and walk away, or I’ll ruin you,” he promised. “I’ve got friends in all sorts of places, Detective, and I can make life hell for you.”

  Patrick looked unfazed. “We all make our own hell, Congressman.” He took out his handcuffs. “And it looks like you’ve made yours.”

  “It was an accident,” Blake suddenly burst out, jumping to his feet and getting in between Patrick and his father.

  “Shut up, Blake.” Wiley’s voice rose an octave.

  Maggi held up her hand to silence the congressman. To encourage his son. “Let him talk.”

  Blake began to sob, his voice bordering on hysteria as he said, “She wanted to get married, said if I didn’t marry her she’d go to my father, tell him how I messed up. Again.”

  She knew it was absurd and that Cavanaugh would ridicule her, but she couldn’t help it—she felt sorry for Blake.

  “So you killed her?” Maggi prodded gently.

  Wiley caught his son’s arm, as if to physically pull him away from the confession. “Blake—”

  Blake yanked his arm free. “What’s the use?” His eyes shifted to Patrick. Imploring. “He said it’d go easier if I told the truth.”

  “Wait for Christopher,” Wiley pleaded.

  But it was too late for that. Years too late. Blake suddenly looked like a deflated doll. “I’m tired of taking orders, Dad.”

  They needed the confession before Wiley got to his son and sent for their lawyer. “How was it an accident?” Maggi coaxed.

  Blake sank back down in the chair. “We argued. She came at me, beating me with her fists. I hit her.” He looked at Maggi, his eyes begging her to believe him. “Just once, that’s all, just to get her to stop. I didn’t want to hurt her.” He swallowed, remembering. “She lost her balance, fell, hitting her head on the coffee table. She wasn’t breathing.” Tears flowed down his cheeks, for himself, for the dead woman. “I tried to revive her, I did, but she just didn’t come around. There was no pulse.” He licked his lips nervously. “I panicked and called my father.” He didn’t look at the congressman but kept his eyes fixed on Maggi. “He told me what to do. I put her into the car, drove to the river and pushed it over the side.” He looked at them, some of the terror he’d lived with evident in his eyes. “It was an accident,” he ended helplessly.

  Wiley was quick to pick up the slack. “You can see it wasn’t premeditated. My son didn’t want to kill her. He was just being inept, as always. What good would it do to arrest him?”

  Patrick couldn’t tell if the man was serious, if he really expected them to go along with what he was saying. “I’m afraid you’ve forgotten the way the system works, Congressman. Shame on you.”

  “God damn it, man, just let me give you this money.” Quickly he wrote down a figure that would have assured them both of a life of leisure from this day forward. He held it up to Patrick. “You and your partner can split it any way you want to.” When Patrick made no move to take the check, Wiley demanded, “What do you make?”

  “Not nearly enough to put up with this kind of garbage,” Patrick assured him. Taking Blake by the arm, he drew him up to his feet. “Blake Wiley, you’re under arrest for the death of Joanne Styles.” Putting the cuffs on him, Patrick glanced at Maggi, then nodded at Wiley. “You want to do the honors with the congressman?”

  “Me?” Wiley demanded, stunned. “On what charge?”

  “Take your pick. Obstructing justice, accessory after the fact.” Patrick looked at him pointedly. “Bribing an officer of the law. And that’s just for starters. Now, I hate reading the Miranda rights, so I’d appreciate it if you’d both listen closely.”

  As he began to recite, Patrick motioned Blake out of the office. Maggi followed close behind with the congressman. She spared him the indignity of being handcuffed.

  All up and down the hallway, staff members emerged to stare incredulously at the strange parade as Patrick’s voice droned on.

  “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, what you say can and will be held against you. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, the court will…”

  Chapter 9

  It took them hours to wade through the paperwork, the onslaught of lawyers and the sea of news reporters who’d swarmed in like sharks in a feeding frenzy. None of this fanfare tarnished Maggi’s feeling that, in the end, this had been a job well-done. They had solved a homicide in a relatively short time. So many crimes went unsolved years after they had taken place.

  The case also helped push other feelings into the background. Feelings that were now crowding her, elbowing out a place for themselves beside the satisfaction. Feelings of ambivalence over her true purpose for being here. Things had blurred since she’d come on the job.

  Everything had been fine when she’d thought Cavanaugh was guilty, when she’d been pretty much assured
by his aloof attitude that he was what the department feared he was.

  But now she wasn’t so sure.

  She wasn’t even half-sure. He’d turned down one hell of a substantial bribe right before her eyes.

  Maggi sat at her desk, staring at the last page of the report she’d finished filing. Not seeing it at all.

  Granted, the scene with the congressman could have played out as it had because she’d been there and she was, as far as Cavanaugh was concerned, still an untried commodity. Even allowing him to believe that she wasn’t as straight as she’d initially let on might not have convinced him to take a chance. To accept the liberal bribe that had been waved under his nose. After all, how did he know she wouldn’t turn him in?

  The irony of the situation was not lost on her.

  Something in her gut told Maggi he wouldn’t have taken the bribe even if she hadn’t been there to witness it. Something in her gut and in his eyes.

  But the look in his eyes could have been faked, she argued. Cavanaugh might be more of an actor than was evident. As for her gut, well, she had her suspicions it was unduly influenced by other things. Things she wasn’t even going to visit until after they’d died away.

  Rising from her desk, she stretched, exhausted. She couldn’t even remember the beginning of the day. It felt as if it had taken place a decade ago. Her stomach reminded her that lunch had been an unsatisfactory hamburger and dinner was only a thought. Still, the idea of falling straight into bed held a great of appeal.

  “Want to go and grab a couple of beers to unwind?” When she jumped in response to the sound of his voice, he stepped back, afraid of colliding with her. “Hey, you okay, Mary Margaret?”

  Turning, she looked at him. After all the evenings she’d tried to get him to come out with her, to perhaps maybe open up a little after hours, only to be flatly turned down, this invitation out of the blue caught her completely off guard.

  “I didn’t know you were there. Just tired,” she explained when he looked at her dubiously.

  He put his own interpretation on her words and started to leave. “Okay, rain check, then.”

  She made a grab for his arm. When he looked at her quizzically, she let the sleeve go. “No, a beer sounds great. I just didn’t think you unwound.”

  “Even machines power down.”

  Her mouth curved. “So, is that what you are, a machine?”

  “Some people think I am.” He started to leave and looked at her expectantly. “You coming or not?”

  “Coming,” she responded. “Definitely coming.” She found she had to hurry to keep up. It took effort. Cavanaugh had to be a laugh riot on a date, she thought. “Ever think of cutting down your stride? Not everyone has legs like a giraffe, you know.”

  He grinned. “Most people think of necks when they think of giraffes.”

  Her eyes met his. “Most people don’t see the whole picture.”

  Patrick was already heading down the hall. “But you do.”

  She couldn’t help wondering if he was baiting her. The evening ahead promised to be interesting at the very least. “I try.”

  “We’ll see,” he murmured, as if irritated once again.

  Was he was putting her on some kind of notice, or just making conversation? In either case, tiny volts of electricity sparked the adrenaline in her veins to flow faster as she stepped into the elevator car beside Patrick.

  They didn’t go to the local police hangout the way she’d expected. Was he taking her to his place instead? Somehow, she didn’t think so. He didn’t strike her as the type who liked having his inner sanctum invaded.

  Driving ahead of her, he led Maggi to a small bar, closer to where he lived. Fading neon lights proclaimed its name for all interested parties: Saints and Sinners, except that the second S was burned out, turning it into Saints and inners, which was a joke all its own. The bar was part of a strip mall that had seen better decades. Even in the dark, it evidently needed renovation.

  After stopping her car beside his in the all but empty lot, she got out and took a longer look at the bar. The building had a sadness to it she found hard to shake. Did Cavanaugh have that same sadness?

  She was getting too philosophical, she upbraided herself. What she needed was sleep, not a beer. But maybe he’d feel more inclined to share something with her tonight, closing the case and all. Sleep was just going to have to wait.

  Maggi fell into step beside Patrick. “So this is where you hang out at the end of the day?”

  He deliberately avoided giving her a direct answer. To hang out depicted a pattern, and he had no routine other than work and sleep. Everything else was just happenstance.

  “This is where I go for beer if there’s none in the refrigerator.”

  He was watching her as much as she was watching him, she thought. Was he sizing her up, wondering if he could let her in beyond the first layer of his armor? Or was he just trying to figure out if she was worth the effort of bedding?

  She couldn’t tell. Nothing in his eyes gave him away. She hoped there was nothing in hers that would betray her.

  He led the way inside, holding the door open for her. Once he let it go, the room wrapped itself around her, shutting off the outer world. Making her a part of this one.

  She saw three people sitting at the bar. But when she began to walk toward an empty stool, he motioned her toward one of the small tables. Taking a seat, he held up two fingers for the bartender to see. The tall, world-weary, broad-shouldered man behind the counter nodded, putting up two bottles of beer for the waitress to bus over to their table.

  Maggi waited until the woman withdrew. She took one long sip to fortify herself. She needed a little push tonight to do what she had to do. Setting the bottle back down, she raised her eyes to his. “Did you mean it?”

  “Mean what?” Patrick asked. He couldn’t help wondering what made her tick, what made a woman like her opt to put her life on the line every day as she got out of bed.

  The thought of her getting out of bed, of being in bed in the first place, sent hot pulses snaking through his body. He chalked it up to a pure physical reaction and reminded himself that he didn’t act on those unless there was the promise of no repercussions. Being with McKenna would guarantee repercussions. He knew that without being told.

  “Back at the congressman’s office, when you called me your partner.” She’d been surprised when he had. Surprised and oddly pleased. She shouldn’t have been, she told herself, but the feeling had remained for more than a moment.

  He shrugged, taking a drag from the bottle he preferred to the usual mug of beer. He liked wrapping his hand around the amber glass, feeling its weight. There was something basic about that. He liked basic things.

  When he set the bottle back down again, he laughed. “I couldn’t exactly call you my pain in the butt, now, could I? We were supposed to be a united front.”

  She studied his face and found herself getting sidetracked by its planes and rugged angles. “So I still haven’t passed inspection as far as you’re concerned.”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, Patrick’s ice-blue eyes swept over her. Maggi felt as if her clothes melted away. The thought sent shivers of anticipation up her spine. It’d been a long time since she’d been with a man. Maybe too long. But long or not, Cavanaugh couldn’t be a candidate. There was a huge conflict of interest involved.

  Lacing his hands behind his head, Patrick leaned back, his eyes still creating havoc inside the pit of her stomach. “Mary Margaret, I’m pretty willing to bet you could pass any inspection you wanted to.”

  She blinked, trying to sound urbane, feeling she was grasping at straws. “Are you coming on to me, Cavanaugh?”

  He savored the seductive note in her voice, knowing it could go no further. He was still having trouble accepting her as his partner. Anything else couldn’t begin to enter into it.

  But a man was allowed fantasies.

  His voice was as low as hers. “Just stating the obv
ious.”

  The job. She needed to get her mind back on the job, not on what it would feel like having his hands run along her body instead of just his eyes. She dug deep for a question.

  “Weren’t you tempted?” Too late she realized what he would think she meant and hurried to add, “When Wiley offered you that bribe.”

  His eyes remained on her face, raising her body temperature by slow increments. She shifted in her seat. “Were you?” he responded.

  She wondered if drinking a single beer could make you feel unnaturally warm. She couldn’t blame the rising heat or sensation of depleting air on an undue press of bodies. She’d rather think it was the beer than the company.

  “I asked you first.”

  Distancing himself wasn’t easy, but then he specialized in the not easy. “You give in once, they have you forever. They get control of your life.”

  The way he worded it reinforced her feelings that Patrick felt at odds with the immediate world. The man was a loner with a capital L. She sincerely doubted anyone would ever get complete control over this man. Not his work, not his family. He went through life solo even in a crowd. She found that rather sad.

  Hoping to score a piece of information, another piece to the puzzle that was Patrick Cavanaugh, she said more than asked, “And control is important to you.”

  “Control,” he told her, his eyes pinning her in place, his voice a whisper, “is everything.”

  Maggi wasn’t sure exactly how it had happened. One moment, Cavanaugh was talking to her, the next moment, he was blowing the room apart.

  He’d leaned in over the tiny, scarred table and was kissing her.

  Or maybe she leaned into him. She wouldn’t have been able to testify as to the exact chain of events if she was on trial for her life. All she knew was that it had happened. And that she was ultimately grateful there was a table between them, that no other body parts were touching except for their lips, because she knew that restraint wouldn’t have been a viable option for her if they were.