Is a killer back for more?
A Cavanaugh Justice story by USA TODAY bestselling author Marie Ferrarella
A series of gruesome murders brings together an unlikely pair of homicide detectives: outgoing Brianna Cavanaugh O’Bannon and lone wolf Jackson Muldare. These utter opposites work around the clock together to solve these crimes. In the process, Jackson and Brianna must trust each other with their lives and secrets as they become closer than they ever imagined.
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Marie Ferrarella
“Good banter and a charismatic detective are the highlights of this romance, along with an engaging, well-crafted plot.”
—RT Book Reviews on Cavanaugh Cold Case
“A charming romance wrapped up in a great suspense story.”
—Fresh Fiction on Cavanaugh Fortune
“Crisp storytelling coupled with a solid, engaging plot makes for an entertaining read.”
—RT Book Reviews on Cavanaugh or Death
“Fans of shows like Bones and NCIS will absolutely enjoy this newest Cavanaugh episode...a wonderful addition to an already favorite series.”
—Fresh Fiction on Cavanaugh Cold Case
“Fans of romantic suspense will find this book refreshing and entertaining.”
—Harlequin Junkie on How to Seduce a Cavanaugh
Dear Reader,
Did you ever watch cartoons where one of the characters is painting the floor and he winds up painting himself into a corner with no way out? Eventually, the character paints a door on the wall and is able to get out. Well, coming up with a unique mystery is kind of like the same thing. In wanting to make the story unusual, I found that I had painted myself into a corner and I really wasn’t sure how to get out of it.
In this story, a venerable old hotel is finally sold to make way for more residential developments. A construction company wins the bid and brings in their crew. However, as the wrecking ball brings down the hotel’s walls, bodies start turning up. How the bodies got into the walls without anyone noticing was the corner I had painted myself into.
Solving the case is what homicide detective Brianna Cavanaugh O’Bannon and major crimes detective Jackson Muldare are up against. As the story progresses, Jackson finds he has a far better chance of solving the forty-five-year-old cold case than getting Brianna to stay out of his life. Read this to find out who wins—and who killed all those people.
As always, I thank you very much for taking the time to read one of my books, and from the bottom of my heart, I wish you someone to love who loves you back.
All the best,
Marie Ferrarella
CAVANAUGH VANGUARD
Marie Ferrarella
USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award–winning author Marie Ferrarella has written more than two hundred and fifty books for Harlequin, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website, marieferrarella.com.
Books by Marie Ferrarella
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Cavanaugh Justice
Mission: Cavanaugh Baby
Cavanaugh on Duty
A Widow’s Guilty Secret
Cavanaugh’s Surrender
Cavanaugh Rules
Cavanaugh’s Bodyguard
Cavanaugh Fortune
How to Seduce a Cavanaugh
Cavanaugh or Death
Cavanaugh Cold Case
Cavanaugh in the Rough
Cavanaugh on Call
Cavanaugh Encounter
Cavanaugh Vanguard
The Coltons of Red Ridge
Colton Baby Rescue
The Coltons of Shadow Creek
Colton Undercover
The Coltons of Texas
Colton Copycat Killer
The Pregnant Colton Bride
The Coltons of Oklahoma
Second Chance Colton
Harlequin Intrigue
Cavanaugh Justice
Cavanaugh Standoff
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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To
Sherry & Rick
Congratulations!
Fifty Down,
Fifty To Go
The First One Hundred Years
Are The Hardest,
After That, It’s A Piece Of Cake!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Excerpt from Colton and the Single Mom by Jane Godman
Prologue
“Hey, boss man, I think you’re going to want to see this!”
Javier Hernandez, head foreman of Preston, Butler & Cowan Construction, which had, after an intense bidding war, wound up submitting the winning bid to tear down the Old Aurora Hotel, the city of Aurora’s oldest landmark still in existence, emerged out of the building in a dead run. The tall, sinewy foreman was searching for the company’s owner.
Warren Preston was just about to get into his silver-gray 4x4. The freshly waxed, newly purchased truck had been Preston’s gift to himself after landing the contract.
It was Preston’s habit to visit a site on the first day that work was to begin. He’d done it with his very first project, and over the years what had begun as a display of involvement for his men had turned into a superstition, one that he had never taken lightly or ignored. No matter how busy he was, Preston made a point to show up on that crucial first day and remain for at least a few hours. After day one, his visits were sporadic at best—unless there was a problem.
Turning away now from his new pride and joy, he left the door of his truck open as he looked at the foreman rushing toward him.
Judging by the expression on Javier’s face, there was definitely a problem.
How could there be a problem? Preston wondered. The workday was barely a couple of hours old.
This morning the demolition ball had mightily swung into the rear wall of what had once been an elegant structure. When the Old Aurora Hotel had first gone up, it had been the first of its kind, not just in the newly formed town, but in the county as well. George Aurora was said to have worked on the building himself.
A great many people in and around Aurora had fought the historic hotel’s demise, wanting to preserve the sprawling three-story structure for a host of reasons.
But, as was often the case, money trumped history and sentiment. The land on which the old, boarded-up hotel stood was worth a fortune. Aurora had grown from a small, three-traffic-light town surrounded by farmland to a thriving, ever-expanding city. A city where, it seemed, everyone wanted to live.
Land was at a premium, and an old hotel that was no longer of any use became a casualty of that siren song. Decisions were made, money changed hands and the hotel was to be demolished to make way for
a brand-new, state-of-the-art residential development.
After a run of bad luck and investments that hadn’t panned out, Warren Preston was counting on this development to put his construction company back on the map—and in the running for more construction bids farther down south.
That was why everything had to go smoothly with this job.
“Javi, I’m late for a meeting. Can’t this wait?” Preston asked impatiently. With one foot still in his truck, Preston was ready to take off the second his foreman backed off.
“I don’t think so, sir,” Javier answered.
The foreman’s stance and his body language made clear that he was waiting to reenter the building he’d just vacated—but only with his boss in tow.
“What’s with the long face, Javi?” Preston asked, resigned to the fact that he would be late for his meeting. Leaving his vehicle, Preston closed the door. “Buck up—this is the first day of a brand-new project. Everything’s still fresh and new. Hell, man, you look like somebody died.”
“That’s just it, boss,” Javier answered solemnly. “I think somebody did.”
Bushy eyebrows drew together above small brown eyes, looking for all the world like two caterpillars awkwardly attempting to rise up as Preston glared at the man who had worked for him for over fifteen years.
“What the hell are you talking about, Hernandez?” he demanded. “Who died?”
Rather than answer, Javier was beckoning for his boss to follow him.
Taller than Preston and leaner than his boss by half his weight, Javier had a lengthy stride that put more and more distance between his boss and him. Clearly agitated, Javier seemed to be restraining himself from breaking into a run.
Hernandez insisted, “You have to see this for yourself.”
“See what?” Preston snapped, trying to catch up with the younger man. “I don’t have time for guessing games, Hernandez,” he warned.
“It’s not a game, boss,” the foreman assured Preston. “I only wish it was.”
He brought the construction company owner into the rear of the hotel that had been designed to emulate an elegant Southern mansion.
The dining room had been considered exceptionally stylish and upscale in its day, but time and the elements that had seeped into the structure had not been kind. The expensive wallpaper that had graced the walls had long since begun peeling.
Standing in the doorway, Preston fisted his hands at his ample waist as he irritably scanned the area. Daylight was coming in through the hole where the wrecking ball had made first contact.
“Okay, so what’s this big emergency?” Preston demanded.
“Right there, sir.”
Javier pointed to the reason he had urgently called for both workers and machinery to come to an absolute grinding halt. To the right of where the wrecking ball had left its first startling imprint, knocking down part of a wall, what looked like a skeletal hand reached up out of the gaping hole.
Chapter 1
Major crimes detective Jackson Muldare had just exited the southbound 5 freeway when he felt the inside pocket of his sports jacket vibrating.
Again.
He didn’t need to pull his cell phone out to know who was calling. It was either his superior, Lieutenant Jonathan Cohen, or the lead homicide detective he was going to be working with at the latest crime scene. Either one of them undoubtedly had the same question for him: Why wasn’t he there already?
There was a simple answer for that, but not one he was willing to go into right now.
Just as he was leaving his apartment, he’d got the call to head out to the Old Aurora Hotel. Although he’d said he’d be there, his first destination of the morning wasn’t the site of the old hotel, or even the police precinct. Instead, he’d headed to the Safe Haven Rehab Center. Not because he wanted to but because he had to.
A police detective’s salary—at least an honest one’s—only stretched so far, and he had already paid the monthly fee for his father’s room at Happy Pines, the board and care facility where his father had been living these last three years. Jackson was consequently late with his payment to Safe Haven, the rehab center where Jimmy was currently staying.
He made it to the center with his check by the skin of his teeth. Though sympathetic, Alice Harris, the administrator who was in charge of the center’s business office, had told him that if he hadn’t come through with the payment by the end of this business day, Jackson’s younger brother would have found himself back out on the street.
Jackson had paid the woman, telling her solemnly that it wouldn’t happen again. He’d left quickly before his temper got the better of him and he said something he couldn’t take back. He was well aware that Ms. Harris and the center held all the cards, forcing him to keep his thoughts to himself. He was doing his best, but the money he earned only stretched so far, and on occasion, he came up short.
There were times, Jackson thought as he turned on the siren and flashing lights that allowed him to cut through the city’s traffic, when he found himself almost regretting that he’d turned his back on a life of crime.
Almost.
In his teens, the guys he hung around with in his old Oakland neighborhood had all dropped out of school and declared that staying on the straight and narrow was only for gutless losers. The thinking back then was that guys with guts could find all sorts of ways of gaming the system, lining their pockets with money and achieving the good life at the expense of others.
More than a few of his so-called friends ridiculed him for his choice to actually work for the money he brought home. But crime had never been an option for him. Jackson had people to take care of.
His mother had walked out on the family when he was ten, and his father, Ethan, although a kindhearted, loving man, had also been a functioning alcoholic who anesthetized his sense of failure with any bottle of alcohol he could get his hands on. He wasn’t choosy. Anything would do. Eventually, Ethan Muldare ceased functioning and just devoted himself exclusively to drinking.
The burden of providing for his family and keeping them together had fallen to Jackson by the time he turned fifteen.
Fourteen years later, he was still shouldering that burden. For the last three years he’d been paying for his father’s tiny room at the board and care residential facility. All those years of drinking had taken their toll on his father’s health as well as on the man’s mental faculties.
And because their mother had taken off and their father had turned to alcohol for solace, his younger brother, Jimmy, had sought relief in drugs by the time he was thirteen.
There were days when Jackson found it hard to keep it all together and keep going. Those were the days when he seriously entertained the idea of getting in his car and just driving as far away from his life as he possibly could.
But that was just the problem. No matter where he went, he always took himself and his sense of responsibility with him.
What that meant was that he had no choice but to do what he did. Someone had to pay the bills and to set an example, such as it was, for Jimmy. On good days Jackson still nursed the minuscule hope that eventually Jimmy would come around and realize that numbing his mind and his soul with drugs was just not the answer.
If anything, it was a death sentence.
Jackson supposed, at bottom, there was just the tiniest bit of an optimist within him.
He felt his phone vibrating again.
Jackson resisted the temptation of pulling it out and shouting that he was on his way. Yelling at Lt. Cohen would most likely get him suspended—or fired. Yelling at whoever he was being paired up with would, at the very least, start him off on the wrong foot, and he already had more than enough to deal with on the home front.
Jimmy had been hostile during the three minutes he’d had to talk to him, and when he’d swung by Happy Pines his father hadn’t
recognized him. That was happening more and more often these days. Jackson just wasn’t in the frame of mind to make nice to whoever was on the phone, so he let it continue to vibrate and drove faster.
He was almost there anyway.
* * *
“You know, if I read about this kind of thing online or in the paper, I would have said that someone made it up,” homicide detective Brianna Cavanaugh O’Bannon said, shaking her head as she took in the chaotic scene around her.
“Oh, but you can’t make this kind of stuff up,” Sean Cavanaugh commented.
The head of the Crime Scene Investigative day team frowned as, like his niece, he slowly regarded the partially demolished hotel.
“No, I guess not,” Brianna agreed.
This was, she thought, a case of fact being stranger than fiction. With slow, deliberate movements, she picked her way through the debris, both newly created and old. She was careful not to disturb anything. At this point, it was still difficult sorting out what was part of the crime scene and what was just run-of-the-mill, everyday rubble.
Looking back over her shoulder, Brianna saw the chief of detectives entering the room. It was obvious to her that the tall, distinguished-looking man was temporarily transported back through time as he recalled, “You know, I can remember Aurora High holding their senior prom here the year I graduated.”
“What are you doing here?” Sean asked, no doubt surprised to see his younger brother. “The chief of detectives doesn’t usually come out to a crime scene.”
“He does if the scene is in the Old Aurora Hotel,” Brian Cavanaugh replied. Setting his memories aside, he became practical. “How many bodies?” he asked.
“Six—and counting,” Brianna answered.
Brian Cavanaugh didn’t frown often, but he did now. “Damn,” he murmured.
“That would be the word I’d use,” Sean agreed. “I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to need more medical examiners on the job by the time we finish.”
“Who do we have on it right now?” Brian asked.
Sean nodded toward his left. The ME and her assistant were closing up a body bag and placing the occupant on a gurney.
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