Internal Affair

by Marie Ferrarella

  Maggi raised her chin. “You don’t need to make excuses for him.”

  “No—” he squeezed her hand “—but maybe you do.”

  “If you’re bucking for Father of the Year, you’ve already got the award. Now get out there and start getting our guests seated—” she set the bottle of cider down on the sideboard “—while I go and bring in the turkey. Remember, Captain Reynolds sits as far away from me as possible. His teeth blind me when he smiles.”

  “Not a problem.” He stopped only long enough to kiss the top of her head. “Attagirl, Maggi. You do me proud. But then, you always did.”

  She thought she’d gotten proper control over her emotions. That idea went out the window the second she saw him walking into the squad room. She had to struggle with the very strong urge to throw something heavy at him.

  Bastard.

  She took a deep breath. What the hell was the matter with her? She felt like some kind of Ping-Pong ball being lobbed back and forth over the net in a championship tournament.

  It wasn’t easy, but she managed to compose herself by the time he reached her desk. “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

  He’d dreaded this ever since he’d gotten up this morning. Yesterday, he’d behaved like the kind of man he’d always despised. He’d acted like a coward. Instead of coming over to her house, or at least calling with some kind of half-assed excuse, he’d ignored the situation entirely in hopes it would go away.

  Like it could.

  “It was okay.” Patrick felt as if he stared down at a bomb he didn’t know how to defuse. Because he didn’t. Women were a complete unknown to him. Being close to Patience hadn’t educated him in the slightest. But then, Patience had never stirred these kinds of emotions within him.

  “I went to my uncle’s,” he began, then stopped abruptly, frustrated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tried to render an excuse. “Look, I know I should have called—”

  “There was so much noise, I probably wouldn’t have heard anyway.” She shrugged carelessly. “Hey, no big deal. I thought it might be nice, that’s all. But you don’t owe me an explanation.” Yes, you do, and you’re doing a damn poor job of it. “I told you once there’re no strings and I meant it.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” He lowered his voice, not wanting anyone else to hear. “It’s just that something’s going on here, between us,” he clarified when she looked at him in surprise, “something I can’t begin to figure out.”

  Ditto. “Not everything can be reduced to a black-and-white equation you can plot out with graph paper, Cavanaugh. Some things just are,” she emphasized. And then, because she wasn’t up to dealing with her own feelings, she changed the subject to something they could both work with. “I’ve been doing a little more thinking about this thing concerning your ex-partner.” There was still no word about the man who had supposedly shot him, and she had an uneasy feeling there wouldn’t be. Dugan was still missing. “The bullet they dug out of his body, they logged that in as evidence, didn’t they?”

  “Sure. But they already know it belonged to Dugan’s gun.” Relieved to put the awkward situation on hold for the time being, he gratefully sank his teeth into the tidbit she offered up. “Why, what are you getting at?”

  Maybe something, maybe nothing, she thought. “I’m just fishing. Follow me for a second,” she urged. “Maybe the bullet didn’t really come from Dugan’s gun. Maybe someone else shot Ramirez and Dugan was ‘persuaded’ to take the fall for someone else. Someone higher up.”

  If that was true, Patrick thought, the very foundations of the department would come crumbling down. “Who?”

  “That part I don’t know yet.” She smiled ruefully at him. “I guess being around you has gotten me slightly paranoid.”

  “Paranoid is better than oblivious.” He sat down in the chair beside her desk, glad to be working. Glad not to let his thoughts drift too far into uncharted waters. Facing down an unknown enemy was a lot easier than dealing with unknown emotions. “I’ve tried talking to some of the other people who were there that day, as well as his old partner, Foster, and either no one else knows anything—”

  She ended the sentence for him. “Or they’re not saying anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  The day was slow. Maybe because of the season, Death had called a holiday and there were no new homicides on the board. It gave most of the detectives who hadn’t taken the day off to be with their families time to play catch-up with their paperwork. No one would notice if they were missing for a while.

  Maggi leaned forward. “What do you say we get on down to the evidence room and see what we can find?”

  He’d been toying with the same idea, but he wanted to go alone. And after dark. “The sergeant there isn’t just going to let us waltz in there.”

  Maggi rose from the desk. “You let me handle Sergeant Warren.”

  He followed her out of the squad room. “You know him?”

  The man had been at her table yesterday. “According to my father, he was the man who held the camera when my parents gave me my first bath.”

  Patrick shook his head as they entered the stairwell that led down to the basement and the evidence room. “You’re just one surprise after another, aren’t you?”

  “Keeps life interesting.”

  That was one way to put it, Patrick thought.

  Sergeant Philip Warren was a corpulent man with a booming laugh, very little hair and six months to go before retirement. When he saw Maggi and her partner walking toward him, he set aside the copy of Fish and Stream and greeted them heartily. Visitors were scarce down in the bowels of the evidence room and Sergeant Warren liked to talk.

  He winked broadly at Maggi. “Hey, long time no see. What’s it been? Twenty, twenty-one hours?” he joked. “Great meal, Maggi, thanks again for having me over.”

  She smiled warmly. “Just a simple turkey dinner, Sergeant. This is my partner, Patrick Cavanaugh. He would have been there yesterday—” she couldn’t help giving him one zinger “—but he was detained.”

  “You don’t know what you missed out on,” the sergeant confided. “It tasted like heaven.” He patted his all-too-large belly fondly. “Gets me hungry just thinking about it.”

  Patrick had a feeling that the man grew hungry thinking about almost anything.

  “So—” Getting himself as comfortable as possible, the sergeant looked from one to the other. “What can I do for you?”

  “Has it been slow here, Phil?” she asked.

  Patrick stared at her, surprised she was being so direct. When she’d said she knew the sergeant, he’d expected her to execute some kind of diversion to distract the man while he slipped into the evidence room and got the bullet in question.

  “Having trouble keeping my eyes open, Maggi. It’s always like this around the holidays. People even forget I’m down here.”

  “You know what you need?” she told him. “A quick run to the vending machine on the first floor. Get some energy food. Saw some of those chocolate marshmallow bars you’re so partial to.”

  Warren seemed to understand immediately. His eyes shifted toward the man next to her and then back again. Maggi nodded, silently answering his question. Patrick was to be trusted. “Sounds like a good idea, but I don’t have anyone to cover for me.”

  “That’s okay, I can hang around for a bit, make sure anyone who might come along signs in first.”

  Warren was already coming around the desk. “You always were a good girl, Maggi.” Standing close to her, he dropped his voice even though it was just the three of them here. “Ten minutes, Mag, can’t give you more than that.”

  “More than enough,” she assured him. “I’ll be standing right here when you get back. And Phil?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  The man nodded, making his way down the long hallway that led to the elevator bank at the end of the corridor. Maggi waited until she couldn’t hear his footfalls any long
er. She turned toward Patrick.

  “Okay. Go.”

  He pushed open the door that led to the dark, ill-lit room. “One surprise after another,” he murmured again.

  Maggi stood guard, hoping no one would come. Hoping that Patrick would be able to find the proper area. She’d only been inside the evidence room once. It was comprised of rows and rows of gray metal shelves with carefully tagged evidence.

  Human nature being what it was, it was easy to misfile things. Chances would have doubled of finding the evidence involved in Ramirez’s shooting if she’d gone in with Cavanaugh, but she couldn’t very well leave the desk unmanned. If a superior officer just happened to come by, the sergeant’s job and subsequent pension would be on the line. That was no way to pay Warren back for going out on a limb.

  She held her breath until Patrick came out of the room again. His expression was grim, but any questions she wanted to ask had to be put on hold. She heard the sergeant walking down the hall. He’d returned as promised, ten minutes to the second.

  Warren laid his stash of six candy bars on the desk. “You were right. They had the marshmallow bars. Want one?”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass. I’m still working off my share of the chocolate cheesecake.”

  “You look just fine,” the sergeant told her. “Doesn’t she, Cavanaugh?”

  “Just fine,” Patrick echoed.

  “I’ll see you later,” Maggi told the sergeant as he busily peeled back the wrapper on his snack. Warren nodded in response.

  “Well?” she asked Patrick eagerly the second they put some distance between themselves and the evidence room.

  “It’s not there.”

  Her eyes widened. They weren’t talking about an incident that had happened several years ago. This was recent. If the evidence was missing, it was on purpose. “The bullet? What do you mean it’s not there? Are you sure you were in the right area?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” She could hear the frustration in his voice. He held open the stairwell door for her. “It’s not there. Neither is Dugan’s service revolver. They’re both missing.”

  Her heels hit the metal stairs, echoing as she made her way to the first floor. “Or were taken.”

  He set his mouth firmly. “It’s beginning to look like a conspiracy, isn’t it?”

  She sighed. “Hate that word, but yes, it does. Considering the kinds of deposits Ramirez made, this could be very, very big.” She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to look at him. “Are you sure he never said anything to you?”

  He felt a flare of temper and banked it down. “I don’t lie, Mary Margaret. I’ve got my faults, but that’s not one of them.”

  No, she thought, it’s one of mine.

  “I know,” she said quietly. She began to yank the door open only to have him put his hand over the knob and do it for her.

  “You’re looking a little green around the gills. You okay?”

  “Fine, terrific,” she lied as her stomach suddenly lurched. This had to be what feeling seasick was like, she thought. Miserable. “Nothing a little antacid won’t cure.” She didn’t want to think about her stomach. If she kept busy, this strange, queasy feeling would go away again the way it had yesterday. “Let’s get started on making up a list of people in the department Ramirez had contact with.”

  That took them far beyond the realm of friends and the list that he had written up himself. “That could take forever.”

  She looked at him. “Got any better ideas?”

  “Not at the moment.” He blew out a breath. “Okay, let’s get to it.”

  Chapter 19

  The silence within the small, pale blue tiled bathroom was almost deafening.

  Maggi stood staring at the slender stick in her hand. She wasn’t sure just how much time had gone by. The darkened color at one end told her the same thing that the three other indicators now rudely housed inside her bathroom wastebasket had.

  She was pregnant.

  As if life wasn’t already complicated enough.

  Biting off several choice words about fate’s rotten sense of humor, she threw the stick into the basket with the rest of the pregnancy testing paraphernalia.

  Damn it, anyway.

  She’d been throwing up for a week now, every morning like clockwork. The minute her eyes were open, her stomach insisted on crawling up into her throat. Once purged, she’d start to feel better and her nervousness would begin to fade. She’d gotten the kits just to put her own mind at ease, to convince herself that she was only experiencing some new kind of flu and nothing more.

  Maggi took a deep breath as she struggled to pull herself together.

  A baby. Cavanaugh’s baby.

  Ain’t that a kick in the head?

  Now she had two secrets to keep from him. She didn’t want him to know she was carrying his baby, not when the situation was so dicey. There was no real indication that Patrick had any stronger feelings for her than those that lasted the duration of their lovemaking. If she told him about the baby and then he asked her to marry him, she’d never know if he had any feelings at all because, in her mind, the proposal would strictly be motivated because of the baby. And if she told him and he backed away from her, well, that would hurt too much to bear.

  Silence was the best option. The only option.

  Maggi looked at herself in the mirror. Great little dilemma you’ve gotten yourself into, Mag.

  She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do beyond the next moment. She needed to get dressed and go on with her life for as long as she could.

  Like a cadet reporting for duty, Maggi squared her shoulders. She had a report to file and a partner to back, although the latter, she suspected, would not be for very much longer.

  Maggi ignored the pang she felt in her heart.

  Hearing the almost furtive knock on his doorjamb, the tall, distinguished man sitting behind the desk looked up. The moment he did, every nerve ending in his body went on the alert.

  His voice was deceptively calm, gracious. His ability to seem warm and outgoing had gotten him to where he was. And would eventually see him to where he wanted to be.

  “What’s up?”

  Officer Foster licked his almost nonexistent lower lip. “We’ve got a problem.”

  The man’s eyebrows moved together a fraction of an inch. “Close the door.”

  Foster quickly shut it behind him. He glanced at the chair in front of the desk but made no move to take it. He knew better than to sit without being invited. Or to talk out of turn even though the words were hovering in his mouth, vying for release.

  The man at the desk closed the file he was looking over. “All right, what’s wrong?”

  The words flew out in a rush. “He’s still nosing around, asking questions, talking to some of the guys. Taylor saw him and his partner coming out of the stairwell.” Foster swallowed nervously. “They might have been down in the evidence room.”

  The man laughed shortly. “And they might have been groping each other in a dark, private place.”

  Unsure if the remark was meant to be humorous, Foster attempted a grin. A smile spasmodically came and went. “Wouldn’t mind doing that myself with her, but not him. Cavanaugh’s not like that. He doesn’t mix business with pleasure. Hell, we’re not even sure he has any pleasures.”

  There was no humor evident in the other man’s dark eyes. “Has he talked to you?”

  “Yeah, right at the start. I told him Ramirez was a square deal when we were working together.” Foster added quickly, eager to show that he could keep his wits about him, “but I’m not sure he believed me.”

  The gaze was flat, the scrutiny deep. Unable to endure it, Foster shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

  “You’ve got the face of a damn angel,” his superior retorted. “Why wouldn’t he believe you?”

  “That’s why I came to you.” Foster looked nervously over his shoulder, afraid the door would open at any moment and someone would overhea
r. “Because he says he wants to talk to me again when I’ve got a little time.”

  “Make the time,” the man instructed quietly. His eyes pinned his subordinate. “And you know what to do.”

  Foster ran his fingertips over his sweaty palms. He’d been afraid of this. “I don’t know if I can.”

  The other man didn’t bother masking his disgust. Men like Foster were necessary drones, expendable pawns, and nothing more.

  “Think of it as laying the foundations for your retirement plan.” He shifted, leaning over his desk, holding Foster prisoner in his gaze. “You can either spend your golden years on some warm, inviting beach, or in a maximum security prison, courtesy of the state. The choice is yours. That is, if you actually make it to trial,” he added significantly.

  Foster knew what that meant. That he would meet a fate similar to Ramirez’s, whose only misfortune was in being in the wrong place at the wrong time and whose conscience had finally gotten the better of him. Or like Dugan, whose body hadn’t been found yet and probably would never be.

  “The choice is yours,” the man repeated softly, curdling the blood in Foster’s veins.

  Foster nodded, knowing what he had to do. Not liking it at all. He hadn’t signed on for this. Garnering protection money from wealthy store owners who could well afford it in exchange for favors and protection was one thing. The cold-blooded elimination of problems, which was what he was being told to do, was a completely different matter.

  But it all boiled down to self-defense. If he didn’t do this, didn’t defend himself against what might happen if Cavanaugh stumbled across the truth, he would die. That was guaranteed. And he knew he wasn’t ready for that.

  “Okay,” Foster said, his mouth so dry he felt like choking, “I’ll do it.”

  “Good man. Let me know how it goes. And Foster,” he said just as the smaller man was about to leave.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t screw up.”

  “No, sir,” Foster promised. He hurried out of the room, knowing he had to leave before he threw up.

  Patrick’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides as he walked down the long corridor.