“Definitely.”
He didn’t know whether he wanted to dig deep and ruin a man’s reputation because of principles. Ramirez had been one of the few people he’d allowed himself to call friend.
She saw the doubt on his face as he warred with his thoughts. Was he worried that an investigation would lead to his own dirty hands? Or was he just concerned for a man he’d privately considered a friend?
Instinct told her that if Patrick was dirty, he wouldn’t contemplate shining a light on someone else so close to him.
But maybe that was what she wanted to think.
She hated admitting the possibility that her personal feelings were obstructing what she had to do. She needed distance here, at least for a few hours.
“Look, we’re not going to settle anything tonight,” she pointed out. “You can think about it and tomorrow, if you still agree there’s some chance Ramirez was killed to keep him quiet, I’ll help you dig.”
He raised his eyes from the bottle. “You?”
“Well, you’re going to need to get hold of bank records, information on file, things like that. We already know how proficient you are with a computer, so I figure you’re going to need help.”
There was no use protesting that he could manage alone, not when he was up against technology. Still, he didn’t want her working with him, not on this. A man had to draw the line somewhere. How did he know he could trust her? “This isn’t your concern.”
Her eyes told him that she wasn’t about to budge on this. “It’s about a cop on the police force. How isn’t it my concern?”
He thought of Ramirez, of seeing the life drain out of the man even as he held him in his arms, willing him back to life. “It could get ugly.”
“I can do ugly.”
“Not hardly,” he said under his breath. For now, he wanted to table the discussion. “You hungry?”
She cocked her head. “You offering to buy or taking a survey?”
Something tightened in his gut. He figured it was in protest against hunger. “The former.”
“Then I’m hungry.” Maggi settled back in her seat, not bothering to suppress the smile on her face as he signaled for the waitress to come over.
Tiny, baby steps.
The telephone was ringing when he walked into his condo over an hour later. He and McKenna had gone their separate ways after dinner, although he’d had to struggle against the urge to ask her over to his place. The pretext of a nightcap wasn’t even remotely in his thoughts. What he wanted was to find out if her skin was as smooth as it seemed. All over. If that look in her eyes hid a wildness instinct told him was there.
For a simple man, Patrick knew life had gotten incredibly complicated for him, and this bone about Ramirez was hard enough to chew on. He didn’t need more.
Except Maggi was tormenting him. Need tormented him. A basic need as old as time. That’s all it was, he told himself, taking off his holster. All he wanted was a little gut-wrenching, toe-curling, sweaty sex, nothing more.
The fact that he was contemplating having it with his partner made his mouth curve. Never thought he’d catch himself thinking that.
The phone kept ringing, an irritating noise scratching at the perimeter of his mind. Patrick thought of letting the machine get it, but his natural sense of urgency and order forced him to walk over to it and pick up the wireless receiver.
“Cavanaugh.”
“Just wanted to put in my bid early for Christmas day.”
The familiar voice drew out a smile as Patrick sank down on his sofa. The second he did, he felt as if he’d collapsed. He’d warred with a host of emotions that had made him more tired than a full day out in the field.
He put his feet up on the secondhand coffee table Patience had picked up for him at a garage sale. “You don’t have to put in a bid, Uncle Andrew. It’s a done deal, you know that.”
“No, I don’t,” the other man informed him. “I didn’t think I’d have to call and ask to see you, but apparently it looks like I have to. Your sister’s looking well. She tells me she hasn’t seen much of you, either.”
Patrick grinned. There was something comforting about listening to his uncle’s harping. He’d missed it. “Work. You know how it is.”
He heard his uncle sigh and knew there was more than a little nostalgia echoing in the sound. “Yeah, I know how it is. Still doesn’t give a man an excuse to cut out his family.”
“No cutting,” Patrick assured him, then teased, “trimming maybe.”
“If I asked to see your clock-stopping mug at the table in the next say, three or four days, what do you think my chances would be?”
“Fair to good.”
“But not perfect.”
There were no birds on his uncle’s antennae, Patrick thought fondly. Sometimes he wondered why the man opted to take early retirement. Andrew was still as sharp as ever. “No, not perfect.”
Andrew hesitated for a moment. “You know, Patrick, if a case you’re working on is giving you trouble, I’d be happy to have you bounce a few things off me. The brain still works pretty well.”
Patrick glanced at a stack of mail on the corner of the table. It was beginning to pile up. He supposed he’d have to get around to going through it one of these days, before a utility company decided to shut off something he found useful. “So I’ve heard, but I just wrapped up a case.”
Patrick could hear the trap snapping as soon as he made the admission. He’d been set up.
“Well, then, I guess you’ve got no excuse not to come over.”
The private part of him liked leaving himself a little leeway, although he did enjoy going to his uncle’s house for breakfast. His thoughts shifted to the conversation he’d had at dinner. “I’m working on something else right now.”
“A new case?”
He heard the interest in his uncle’s voice. Not being part of the force anymore, Uncle Andrew still had more connections than anyone Patrick knew. Maybe he’d heard something useful. But it was still too early to think of letting more people know about this. It chaffed him that McKenna was in on it.
“Not exactly.” He paused. “I’ll let you know if I need to ask you hypothetical questions.”
“My best area,” Andrew assured him. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Unless something comes up, you don’t have to be in to work. Always a place for you at the table. Breakfast is eight-thirty. Try to make it.”
“I’ll try.”
Patrick made himself a promise to do more than just try as he hung up. If his job kept him grounded, being around his uncle and cousins reminded him why he was still doing what he did, that there were times when the good guys actually did outnumber the bad.
With a sigh, he reached for the stack of mail.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Matthew McKenna moved back out of the way as he opened his front door farther. “Why didn’t you use your key? You don’t have to knock. This is still your house.”
“I know and I appreciate that, Dad, but I didn’t want to barge in.” She winked. “You might have been entertaining a lady.”
He shut the door, following her into the living room. “The only lady I want to entertain keeps making herself scarce.” He looked at her pointedly.
She took off her jacket and tossed it on the side of the sofa. “Oh, Dad, don’t act like I never come by.”
His smile was fond. “Not nearly enough, Mag-pie, not nearly enough.”
Maggi knew he wasn’t trying to make her feel guilty, but she felt it just the same. Juggling family and work wasn’t easy. “You and Mom should have had more kids.”
He looked over toward the array of framed photographs on the wall along the stairway. They chronicled his life together with the two women who’d meant the most to him, his wife and his daughter. “Yes, we should have, but I’m afraid the good Lord didn’t see it that way.” He smiled at her. “He gave us all of heaven wrapped up in one little girl.”
She gave him a warning
look. “Dad, you keep that up and I’m leaving.”
He laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll behave. Is this one of your whirlwind visits, or can you stay for dinner?”
Her father’s idea of dinner was taking something out of the freezer and introducing it to the microwave. “Already ate.”
He was on his way to the kitchen to get her one of the diet soft drinks he kept on hand for her. “Alone?”
As she talked, she began to gather up the newspapers he’d left where he’d read them. The man needed a maid, she thought. “There were people in the restaurant.”
“You went to a restaurant by yourself?” Returning, he handed her a can. “Why didn’t you give me a call? I could have met you—”
He was fishing and she knew it. She tossed him a tidbit. “I wasn’t by myself.”
He beamed at her with satisfaction. “So, you did go with someone.”
After placing the newspapers in the recycle bin, she turned around and looked at him. Amusement played along her lips.
“Were you this heavy-handed when you were investigating a crime?”
He shrugged carelessly, making himself comfortable on the sofa. “It’s the father thing, brings out the clumsiness. I just want to see you happy.”
“I am happy.” Picking up the can again, she sat down opposite him. “I’m also curious.”
“Oh, so this isn’t just a casual visit. You’ve got questions. About?”
She looked at his left hip, remembering what had gone through her mind when she’d stood over him in the hospital, not sure if he was going to make it despite what the doctor had assured her. Her father had been shot in the shoulder and the hip and his chances were not the best. Twenty-nine or not, she wasn’t ready to be an orphan yet.
“Are you sure that was an accident?”
His brows drew together. “You mean did I see the guy who shot me? No. There was a lot going down that day, Mag-pie. Shots were flying everywhere. One second, we were making a good bust, the next minute, all hell broke loose. The guy we were coming for had reinforcements. There were shooters everywhere. They matched the bullet I caught in my chest to the gun some dead punk was holding in his hand. Why?”
“Just trying to get a few things straight in my head. You said it was a policeman’s service revolver,” she reminded him.
“If you’re asking me how the scum got a hold of it, I can’t help you.” He told her what she knew was in the report. “The guy it belonged to caught a bullet in the head.”
This information had bothered her then and it bothered her now. “Why take his gun when there were obviously so many others on the scene?”
He lifted his right shoulder, letting it fall again. “A sick sense of humor, maybe. Or he lost his own weapon. Who knows? All I know is that every day I thank your mother for watching over me.” He nodded upward. “Another inch over and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” And then he looked at her more closely. “Why are we having this conversation?”
Talking to Cavanaugh had made her start to compare the two incidents. Both had been deemed as tragic mistakes. Both men had been shot with service revolvers, but that was where the similarities ended. Or did they? She couldn’t get past the feeling that maybe there was a connection of some kind.
“I can’t really put it into words, Dad. It’s just a feeling I have.”
“About?” he prodded gently.
“That maybe this is part of something else.”
“Like what?”
She couldn’t tell him about Ramirez, or her assignment, but she could talk to him about what had happened to him. “Like maybe someone tried to get you out of the way—you said the bullet almost cost you your life. Or if not out of the way, then at least off the force.” She could feel an excitement building in her, but it had no outlet yet. “Is there anything you might know that could be a danger to someone?”
He laughed and shook his head. “You’ve been watching that TV show about the CIA again, haven’t you?”
Maggi bit her tongue. Her father had no idea that she worked undercover for Internal Affairs and she meant to keep it that way. She wasn’t sure exactly how he would take it, even if her motives were pure.
“Yeah, maybe I have. But if you think of anything, give me a call.”
“You’ll be the first to know.” He dug himself out of the sofa and rose to his feet. “Now come in the kitchen and keep me company while I have my dinner. You can have some if you want.”
She really hadn’t eaten all that much at dinner. “What are you having?”
“Stroganoff. The brand you like,” he added.
“Got an extra one in the freezer?”
He grinned. “Don’t I always?”
She’d lost her taste for frozen dinners since she’d grown up, but here there was a bit of nostalgia attached to it. She felt like being nostalgic tonight, felt like remembering a time when dirty meant something that needed a little soap and water to come clean. “Okay, you twisted my arm.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “I thought I might.”
Chapter 12
He’d had better ideas in his time.
Patrick frowned as he turned down a street. One side looked out onto a golf course, dormant now in deference to the inclement weather. The other, to his left, was lined with houses peering over a gray cinder-block wall. He was on his way to McKenna’s apartment. She’d gotten to him at a weak point, when he’d been fresh from a visit to his uncle’s.
Early this morning he’d swung by Patience’s place. He’d picked her up and the two of them had breakfast with the others. Best medicine in the world. Going there helped ward off the darkness that threatened to seep into his soul. Not only did he get to see Shaw, Callie, the twins and Rayne, but two of his other cousins, as well, although Uncle Brian was a no-show.
Patrick hadn’t done much talking, but he’d listened. And basked in the normalcy of the gathering. He’d lowered his guard just enough so that when McKenna called to ask him if he wanted to go ahead and start digging into Ramirez’s records, he’d said the first thing that had come to his mind—yes.
The next thing he knew, he was listening to directions on how to get to her apartment. The radar that ordinarily saw him through dangerous, dicey moments kicked in immediately.
Dangerous and dicey. He figured she could be placed under that heading, although he was starting to think she belonged in a subcategory all her own.
“Why your apartment?”
“Do you have a computer?”
“No.” He saw absolutely no use for one. Gadgets annoyed him. They required patience and reading, not to mention babying. If something was to work, it should do so at the flip of a switch, like a lightbulb or a television set, not because you were armed with an instructions manual big enough to choke a Clydesdale.
“I didn’t think so,” she said. He didn’t particularly care for her smug tone. “The main thing you need if you’re trying to get access to computer files is a computer.”
He saw the woman five long days a week. Why was he even contemplating giving up his weekend to subject himself to more of the same? “Don’t get smart with me, Mary Margaret.”
He heard her laugh and instantly saw her in his mind’s eye, her eyes bright, her mouth wide. Patrick wondered what the hell was happening to his control.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He asked for a rain check. She talked him out of it. He placed several obstacles in the path; she knocked them down. The end result was that he found himself here, entering her apartment complex, searching for a parking place.
He told himself if he didn’t find one in five minutes, he would just turn around and go back. But then a spot opened up. Grudgingly he took it.
Her ground-floor apartment faced the back of the complex. He had no trouble finding it. Apart from the identifying number on the door, his attention would have still been drawn to it. McKenna’s door was completely gift wrapped in gold foil wit
h a wreath topping it off.
The woman obviously had never found the word restraint in the dictionary.
Feeling surlier than usual, Patrick rang the doorbell. Christmas carols echoed in response. It figured.
Maggi unlocked the door even before his thumb was off the bell. “Hi, you showed up.”
He tried not to notice that she was barefoot and her jeans fit her as if she’d just this moment painted them on. The powder-blue pullover she had on needed at least three inches to meet the top of her jeans. Her flat belly peeked out flirtatiously and made his palms itch.
“Told you I’d be here,” he growled in response.
She opened the door wider. “I figured you’d come up with a last-minute excuse.”
He gave her a look and remained where he was, on the opposite side of the threshold. “I could go.”
Maggi stepped out of the way, her invitation clear. “Staying is easier.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” he muttered under his breath. He still thought coming here was a mistake, but he’d never been one to back away from something that made him uneasy.
Following her into the two-bedroom apartment, he made it past the small kitchen before stopping dead. The whole apartment was saturated with toys of all shapes and sizes, wrapping paper and ribbons everywhere he looked.
And smack in the middle of the living room was a floor-to-ceiling Scotch pine jammed into a tree holder, its head slightly bent under the weight of the star affixed to it. There were decorations, multicolored lights and tinsel reflecting back at the viewer from every angle.
If there was a Santa Claus, he would have had less going on in his workshop than was happening here, Patrick thought.
“Someone die and leave you a toy shop?” He turned to look at her. “What are you doing with so many toys? You actually know this many kids?”
She led him to the rear of the room. There was a small desk against the wall. It hosted a computer and flat panel, leaving just enough room for a notepad. The printer sat on the floor to the right of the desk.
Internal Affair Page 13
