Cavanaugh Standoff

by Marie Ferrarella

  “I really doubt it,” she answered Martinez with sincerity.

  The elevator doors parted on the first floor. Ronan spared her a glance just before he got off. He had one word for her.

  “Try.”

  And then he took off again, making her hurry if she wanted to keep up. At about a foot taller than she was, O’Bannon’s stride was a good deal wider than hers.

  “Or,” she suggested, determined to keep pace, “you could try using sentences containing more than just one word.”

  Ronan made no attempt to answer her. He continued walking toward the rear exit and then made his way through the parking lot until he came to where he had parked his vehicle. Only after he released the door locks did he turn toward the other two detectives who’d kept pace with him. He told them the address he’d been given by Carver.

  “Got it,” Martinez said, nodding. It was a given that he was driving the other car. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  It was unclear, at least to Sierra, whether the other detective had said that to O’Bannon or to her in an effort to let her know she wouldn’t be alone with their wooden leader.

  Getting into the passenger side of O’Bannon’s car, Sierra buckled up. The second she secured her seat belt, O’Bannon took off.

  Doing her best to relax, Sierra waited for him to say something.

  But after they had gone two city blocks in complete silence, she realized that this was the way it was going to be, at least until they reached the scene of the murder. While she didn’t expect the detective to engage in rambling chatter, this “silent treatment” or whatever it was, was totally unacceptable to her.

  “You know, it is all right to talk,” she told him, trying to sound cheerful. Unable to “get in his face,” she leaned forward and did the best she could by peering at his profile.

  Aware that she had assumed a very unusual position, Ronan waited until he had driven through the intersection before he finally responded to her statement.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she began patiently, “that’s what people do, especially when they’re thrown together in a situation that was not of their own choosing—like now,” she stressed. “They talk.”

  Accelerating just a little, Ronan drove through the next intersection a shade before the light turned yellow. “I don’t.”

  “Maybe you should,” she countered. She saw him turn his head slightly, as if to look at her, and then apparently he changed his mind. She began to feel as if she was dealing with a robot. Nevertheless, Sierra pushed on. “I’m sure you have something to say,” she told him, knowing she was setting herself up, but it was better than this feeling of being in exile.

  “I’m thinking,” he informed her.

  “Think out loud,” she suggested.

  He obviously hadn’t expected that. “What?”

  “Think out loud,” she repeated. “I know you’re not thrilled with this but, for better or worse, Carver made us partners for this case and partners use each other for sounding boards. That only works if they talk out loud because, despite what my brothers seem to think, I am not a mind reader.” She took a breath and waited. When Ronan still made no response, she told him a bit more forcefully, “So talk to me.”

  Rather than comment on the case they were undertaking, Ronan contradicted what she’d said earlier. “We’re not partners.”

  Caught off guard, she looked at him in surprise. “What?”

  “You said Carver made us partners,” he said. “He didn’t. He put you on my team. There’s a difference,” he informed her.

  Smiling, she said, “Now, was that so hard?”

  Because she wasn’t responding to what he’d just told her, Ronan was momentarily confused. “What?”

  Sierra spelled it out for him. “Talking. You talked in a full sentence. Several of them, actually. So my point is—was that so hard?”

  He didn’t answer her question. Instead, Ronan announced, “We’re here,” as he brought his vehicle to a stop at the curb, parking it several lengths in front of a club named the Shamrock Inn.

  The tavern had originally been considered to be in Tesla, the city neighboring Aurora. But somewhere along the line, someone had redrawn Aurora’s boundaries, placing the establishment partially over the city limits, leaving it in both jurisdictions.

  A cartoon leprechaun was whimsically winking on the sign proclaiming the tavern’s name just above the door. What might have once been regarded mildly amusing in the dark of night now just looked sad in the light of day, Sierra thought, walking up to the squat building.

  She expected Ronan to go in through the front door but he didn’t. Wordlessly, he circled the small tavern with its peeling paint and walked toward the alley behind the Shamrock Inn.

  Suppressing a sigh, Sierra stepped up her pace again and quickly followed him.

  Once in the alley, she saw that the Crime Scene Investigative Unit had reached the area ahead of them. Three investigators, including the head of the unit, Sean Cavanaugh, Ronan’s uncle, were spread out documenting the crime scene. The medical examiner was also there, his attention strictly focused on the victim lying facedown in the alley.

  Sean looked up the moment he heard the detectives arrive in the alley. A tall, distinguished-looking man with a genial way about him, he waited until his nephew reached him before saying anything.

  “Looks like your killer got another one,” he said grimly.

  Ronan nodded as he assessed the lifeless victim. Like the others, the man had a single gunshot to the back of the head. Blood partially covered the tattoo at the nape of his neck. And, like the other victims, one of the man’s hands had been completely—and cleanly—hacked off.

  Ronan looked at his uncle. “How long has he been dead?”

  Sean pointed to the back of the tavern where a thin man of about forty or so was leaning against the wall, looking as if he was about to collapse at any moment. The first responding officer on the scene was next to him.

  “That white-as-a-sheet-looking patron tripped over our victim at around two in the morning—right around closing time—so the victim’s been dead for at least that long. My guess is that he most likely departed this earth an hour before that.”

  “The victim’s hand was cut off,” Sierra noted, struggling to separate herself from the horror of the scene. She saw that the appendage had been thrown haphazardly near the Dumpster and looked quizzically at CSI unit leader. “But the killer didn’t take it.” The act made no sense to her. Why cut off a hand and then just leave it? She would have thought the killer would have wanted it as a souvenir of his crime.

  “He never does,” Sean told her. Looking at Ronan, he said, “You’ve got a new member,” and then smiled at Sierra. “Welcome to the party—such as it is,” he added. “A fresh pair of eyes might see something we don’t.”

  “Yeah.” Ronan exhaled the word with a touch of impatience. He didn’t notice Sierra making her way to the police officer, nor did he notice her talking to him. He was focused on the victim. Moving in, he squatted down for a closer view of the man. The victim was dressed in what appeared to be designer jeans, undoubtedly boosted from some venue, Ronan guessed, and an ordinary T-shirt, now blood-stained. Like his neck, the back of the dead man’s arms had several tattoos, but nothing that struck Ronan as outstanding.

  “Another gang member?” he asked his uncle.

  “Looks that way,” Sean replied cautiously. “Working theory is still that this is a retaliation for the last killing.”

  Martinez and Choi stood on either side of the body, bracketing the three people already there.

  “But Fearless Leader’s gut says it isn’t, right, Fearless Leader?” Martinez asked, looking at Ronan. The latter returned a laser-like expression that effectively wiped the wide smile from Martinez’s face. “
Sorry,” he murmured, backing off.

  “How soon can you get an autopsy done on this one?” Ronan asked.

  That was an easy question to answer. “As soon as we get the body back to the morgue. It’s not like there’re bodies piling up, waiting for the ME to work on them,” he added, looking at the medical examiner who was methodically working on the body, preparing it for transport. “Technically, if the killer had waited until Mr. Walker here had done his drinking in his own city, this wouldn’t even be our call, but because the Shamrock Inn is partially located just inside our city limits, that makes the homicide ours.”

  “How do you know his name?” Ronan asked.

  “Victim was nice enough to have his wallet on him,” Sean answered. “And apparently his killer wanted us to know who his latest victim was, so he left it untouched.”

  “Just like the others,” Choi commented.

  Joining the rest of the team, Sierra looked at the gregarious detective. “What do you mean?”

  Sean supplied the answer. “None of the other victims lived in Aurora, either.”

  “Come to Aurora and die,” Ronan murmured grimly under his breath as he continued looking at the dead man on the ground.

  Chapter Two

  “I don’t think that’ll catch on as a slogan,” Sierra commented, overhearing what Ronan had just said to himself.

  Ronan glanced up at her as if she had suddenly started babbling nonsense. “What won’t catch on?”

  “You just said ‘Come to Aurora and die’ and—” Sierra waved her hand at him. She might as well save her breath. “Never mind.”

  One look at Ronan’s impassive expression and she knew that she could talk herself blue in the face and he still wouldn’t really understand what she was saying, or why. More importantly, he wouldn’t crack a smile. The man was in serious need of a sense of humor, she thought. She firmly believed that, at times, a sense of humor was the only thing that could see a person through the harder times.

  Working with O’Bannon was definitely going to be a challenge, she decided. But then, she wasn’t being paid to have a good time, Sierra stoically reminded herself. Her job was to keep the residents who lived in Aurora safe any way she could. And right now, working with O’Bannon and his team was the best way she could do that.

  Squaring her shoulders, Sierra looked at the lead detective. “All right, what would you like me to do?” she asked since Ronan had gone back to intently studying the victim. When he raised his eyes to look at her, she instinctively knew what Ronan was about to say and voiced it before he could. “Besides going back to the squad room.”

  Rising to his feet, Ronan addressed the other two detectives who were first on the scene. “You two see what you can find out from the guy with the sickly green complexion—” he nodded toward the man still leaning against the wall “—and also find out who was tending bar last night. Maybe the bartender noticed if our victim was hanging out with someone. It would be nice if we could finally come up with a real witness who saw something we can use.”

  Determined not to be ignored, Sierra spoke up. “You think the victim was in the bar before he was killed?”

  Forced to acknowledge her, Ronan said, “It’s a safe bet.”

  Choi leaned in over the body and took a deep breath. His expression became slightly pained. “Oh, yeah, he still smells like he was soaked in alcohol.”

  “That could be because the guy who found him threw up when he realized what he’d just tripped over,” Sierra pointed out. “And according to the statement that guy gave the officer on the scene,” she said, “he’d been in the Shamrock drinking for hours. I just talked to the officer,” she added before any of the detectives could ask her how she had found that piece of information out.

  Making no comment, Ronan looked at Choi and Martinez. “When you’re done, come back to the station.”

  “Okay,” Choi readily agreed. “Is that where you’re going to be?”

  In response, Ronan first turned toward his uncle. “Let me take a look at that wallet you found,” he requested.

  Sean handed the plastic-encased wallet to him. It had been placed inside the envelope with its two sides spread open so that the driver’s license was visible. Ronan read the address, then handed the secured evidence back to his uncle.

  “I’m going to Walker’s apartment to see if he lived with anyone who might be able to shed some light on the situation, tell us if Walker was targeted recently by anyone.”

  “You mean like a note from his friendly neighborhood serial killer saying, ‘you’re next’?” Sierra asked with a touch of sarcasm.

  Ronan shot her an annoyed look. “You think this is a joke?”

  “Not at all, but at least I got you to talk to me.”

  Ronan was already turning away. Sierra began to talk more quickly. “I guess since you didn’t give me a separate assignment, you want me to go with you.”

  He had to admit that her persistence reminded him of his sisters, but he gave no outward indication as he asked, “And what makes you think that?”

  “Simple process of elimination,” Sierra responded without any hesitation.

  He knew he had to utilize her somehow and maybe she could to be useful. “All right, you might as well come along. You might come in handy if there’s a next of kin to notify.” Ronan began walking back to his car. “I’m not much good at that.”

  “I’m surprised,” Sierra commented.

  Reaching the car, Ronan turned to look at her. “If you’re going to be sarcastic—”

  “No, I’m serious,” she told him then went on to explain her rationale. “You’re so detached, I just assumed it wouldn’t bother you telling a person that someone they’d expected to come home was never going to do that again. It would bother them, of course,” she couldn’t help adding, “but not you.”

  Ronan got into his vehicle, buckled up and pulled out in what seemed like one fluid motion, all the while chewing on what this latest addition to his team had just said. Part of him just wanted to let it go. But he couldn’t.

  “I’m not heartless,” he informed her. “I just don’t allow emotions to get in the way and I don’t believe in using more words than are absolutely necessary,” he added pointedly since he knew that seemed to bother her.

  “Well, lucky for you, I do,” she told him with what amounted to the beginnings of a smile. “I guess that’s what’ll make us such good partners.”

  He looked at her, stunned. He viewed them as being like oil and water—never being able to mix. “Is that your take on this?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” she answered cheerfully.

  The fact that she appeared to have what one of his brothers would label a “killer smile” notwithstanding, Ronan just shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Oh, you’ll get to believe it soon enough,” she told him. Before he could say anything, Sierra just continued talking to him and got down to the immediate business at hand. “I’m going to need to see your files on the other murders once we’re back in the squad room so I can be brought up to date.”

  He didn’t even spare her a look. “Fine.”

  “Are you always this cheerful?” she asked, “or is there something in particular that’s bothering you?”

  This time Ronan did slant a quick glance in her direction. The woman sounded as if she was actually asking that, not just being nosy. He’d grown up in a family with talkative sisters and there was a time when the noise of constant chatter hadn’t bothered him. But that had been before life had taken the drastic, horrible turn that it had, changing all the ground rules on him.

  Forever changing his life.

  These days he preferred work and quiet, but for now, it looked like one of those ingredients would be seriously missing from the equation.

 
Moreover, he had the distinct feeling that if he mentioned to Carlyle that she was talking too much, she’d only get worse despite any so-called “efforts” to rein herself in. So, for now, he fell back on a plausible, albeit vague, excuse.

  “I don’t like serial killers,” he said between clenched teeth.

  That wasn’t it and she knew it. Her guess was that O’Bannon didn’t like being saddled with her, but he was just going to have to make the best of it. She intended to make him glad she was on his team rather than viewing it as some sort of cross he had to bear.

  “I don’t think anyone does,” she said conversationally. “Anyone normal, anyway,” she added just before she flashed him another thousand-watt smile. “Lucky thing for you, you’re in the business of getting rid of them.”

  He spared her a look that defied reading, so she put her best guess to it. He was probably labeling her a Pollyanna in his mind, but there was really more to her philosophy than that.

  “You have to always find the upside to everything, no matter how bad it might seem to you at the time,” she told him. “That’s something my dad once told me.” And then she dropped the bombshell, thinking it was best if he found this little piece of information out sooner than later. “I think he picked it up from your mom.”

  For a second Ronan didn’t think he’d heard her correctly. But he had keen hearing and he had heard everything the loquacious detective he’d been forced to add to his team had said since Carver had called her over to his desk, so he reasoned he hadn’t misheard. That raised an immediate question.

  “You know my mother?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, I do.” Then, before he could ask, she volunteered just how her father knew his mother. “The ambulance company she runs is attached to the firehouse my dad oversees.” Which was just another example of what a small world this really was.

  Granted he didn’t know anything about her background, but then he didn’t know any more than he had to about either Martinez or Choi. It was what they brought to the table as detectives that had always mattered to him.