Cavanaugh Vanguard

by Marie Ferrarella

  * * *

  “Do you think any of what she told us was real?” he asked as they left the residential facility.

  “I do,” Brianna told him with conviction, getting into his car. “It’s undoubtedly mixed in with things she imagined, but I’m willing to bet that what she said has more than an element of truth in it.” She buckled up, her mind whirling as she made plans. “We need to dig into the Old Aurora Hotel’s history, find out the names of the contractors who worked on the place, did renovations, things like that. They would have had to file any upgrades they did with the city.”

  “If they were honest and not working off the books,” Jackson pointed out.

  She sighed. He was right. “There is that,” she agreed.

  Jackson switched lanes. “Might not be a bad idea to check out if there were ever any police reports filed about wild parties, people being arrested in or around the hotel,” he suggested.

  Brianna nodded. “Good point.”

  “Oh, like you wouldn’t have thought of doing that,” Jackson said.

  She was patronizing him, Jackson thought. Probably to get him to drop his guard—and then she’d pounce, ready to convince him to come to that damn gathering she kept pushing.

  “I would have,” she readily agreed. “But you thought of it first and saved us some time.” He had to be the hardest person to compliment, Brianna thought. He seemed to suspect everything. The man must have had one hell of a crummy childhood, she thought, sympathy stirring in her. She switched subjects. “See, I told you this wasn’t going to be a waste of time.”

  “No, you hoped this wasn’t going to be a waste of time,” he pointed out. “There’s a difference.”

  “Do you have to argue about everything?”

  “Do you?” he countered.

  She took a deep breath, doing her best to center herself and walk away from any potential dispute that was brewing. “We got a win here, Muldare. Why don’t we just run with it for now and see where it leads?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “By the way,” she said as Jackson made his way to the freeway on-ramp that would eventually bring them back to Aurora, “how long have you known that you possessed this fatal appeal to women of a certain age?” She was having trouble getting the question out without laughing.

  “Let it go, O’Bannon,” Jackson retorted. “It got her talking and that led to what you seem to think is a break, so why don’t you give me one and let this drop?”

  This was just the normal give-and-take of a relationship that was formed driving to and from work, but Jackson was obviously not happy having to deal with it, Brianna thought.

  “I don’t want to let it drop,” she told him. “If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t possibly be staring down our first large break. That was good work back there with Mrs. Jessop.”

  He looked at her while they were stopped at a light. Brianna sounded genuine enough. Maybe she was trying to be friends despite his rebuff earlier.

  However, what he’d told her was true. He didn’t want friends—all he wanted was some peace and quiet.

  Right, peace and quiet. In the middle of a homicide investigation. Boy, did you ever make the wrong career choice, he mocked himself.

  “She just wanted to talk to someone,” he told Brianna.

  “Not someone,” Brianna corrected. “You. She wanted to talk to you. Don’t forget, I tried to talk to her first. But her eyes didn’t light up until she took a closer look at you.”

  He made a dismissive noise. “Now you’re just making things up.”

  “No,” she argued, “I’m just telling it the way it is. Look, young or old, most women respond to a good-looking man. And if that good-looking man is sympathetic, all the better. You use whatever tools you have to get the job done, Jackson. No shame in that.”

  Most women, he thought. Was she including herself in that? Was she telling him she wanted him to be sympathetic to her? Let it go, Muldare, he ordered. Woman’s getting into your brain and creating scenarios there that have nothing to do with the case.

  “I’m not ashamed,” he told her. “I just think you’re exaggerating.”

  “On occasion,” Brianna agreed. He didn’t have to look at her to know she was grinning again. “But not this time. You do own a mirror, don’t you?”

  “I think there’s one in my bathroom,” he answered drily.

  “Take a look the next time you’re in there,” she advised. “You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Before she could say anything further, Jackson turned on the radio. Loud.

  Chapter 13

  “Feel like grabbing a pizza or something?” Brianna asked once they were finally back in Aurora and driving toward the precinct.

  Traffic from San Francisco had been unusually heavy, and what should have been less than an hour’s drive home had turned into a bumper-to-bumper affair that had lasted close to two and a half.

  “Pizza sounds good,” Jackson answered. Making a sharp right turn at the corner, he glanced at the dashboard. It was after seven. “But I’ve got somewhere else I’m supposed to be,” he told her. Ordinarily, he would have stopped there. But something egged him on to add, “Maybe next time.”

  Damn it, he was getting soft, Jackson thought, immediately regretting the addendum.

  “Need company?” Brianna asked as he pulled into the precinct’s parking lot.

  “No,” he answered flatly, irritated. “You can’t just go inviting yourself along,” he told Brianna, turning off the car’s engine. He knew what had prompted her offer. Somehow, she’d sensed where he was going—or thought she had.

  Well, he wasn’t about to admit to that. Instead, he tried to throw her off. “What if I was meeting someone?” he questioned, then for emphasis added, “What if I was meeting a woman?”

  Her smile told him he wasn’t fooling her.

  “You would have led with that. Besides,” she said, unfazed, “you’ve kind of established that you don’t have a social life.”

  “When?” Jackson asked, stunned. “When did I establish that?”

  Brianna’s smile was mysterious as she slid out of the passenger seat. Turning to close the door, she leaned in through the open window and said, “You’re a detective, Muldare. Think about it. It’ll come to you,” she said easily. “See you in the morning.”

  They weren’t parting company just yet, Jackson thought, beginning to get out on his side.

  “Where are you going?” Brianna asked.

  He jerked his thumb toward the precinct. “I’ve got to sign out.”

  But Brianna shook her head, stopping him before he had both feet on the ground. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll sign out for you. I need to check on something before I call it a night.”

  She waited a beat for Jackson to ask her what she was checking on, but he didn’t. Sitting back down in the driver’s seat, Jackson just started up his car again and drove out of the parking lot without so much as a backward glance.

  Brianna laughed softly to herself. “Better man than I, Gunga Din,” she murmured under her breath.

  If the tables had been turned, her own curiosity would have urged her to ask Jackson what he was checking on in the squad room. But he was obviously content not knowing.

  How the hell did that man ever make it to detective, Brianna wondered. Curiosity was supposed to be a natural component in the makeup of a police detective, yet he didn’t seem to possess it, at least not outside of work-related topics.

  Shaking her head, Brianna got on the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

  The squad room was mostly empty when she walked in. The detectives who usually populated the room, unless they were actively on call, had gone home for the night.

  Del Campo’s desk was vacant, as was Johansson’s. The two
detectives either hadn’t made it back from their wine-country excursion or they had wrapped up the interview and gone straight home. Knowing Del Campo, she mused, they were probably still there, although not still interviewing the former hotel resident.

  Since she hadn’t received any calls on her cell phone, Brianna checked the phone on her desk for messages. The light on it was blinking. The first message turned out to be from Del Campo.

  “Best interview you’ve ever sent me out on, Bri,” she heard him say enthusiastically. “The old guy rambled a lot and he wasn’t all there, so the interview wasn’t really productive, but damn, this really is pretty country. I know where I want to live when I retire. Check in with you in the morning.”

  The second call, surprisingly, was from Andrew Cavanaugh. The former chief of police didn’t usually call her directly.

  “Don’t know if you’ve heard by now, but the family hasn’t gotten together for over a month, and I feel it’s about time. Brian tells me that you’ve been working a rather tough case, which means that you and your team could use a break for a few hours. I’m having a gathering at my place Saturday. Nothing fancy, just the usual. Good food, good company. Usual time, too, but you can come earlier if you want. Door’s always open.”

  Brianna smiled as the message ended. She supposed that far more urbane, sophisticated people would probably laugh at her, but there was something immensely reassuring and comforting about that deep, warm voice extending an invitation and telling her something that she had heard many times before—that she was welcome.

  This was something, she was fairly certain, that Jackson never had in his life. She really wished that the solemn detective would let her in. She was positive that if she could get him to open up, he would wind up feeling better overall.

  She came to attention as the phone clicked and launched into the third message. She recognized that voice, too, but without the same warm reaction she’d had to Andrew’s.

  “Detective, this is Winston Aurora. Sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering how you were doing with the case. Every morning I find myself perspiring as I wait for the story to break on the local news. So far it hasn’t, and I thank you for that. None of us in the family wants to deal with intrusive reporters asking nonsensical questions. I do want to remind you of your promise to call me the moment you find any information about the killer. I’m interested in justice being done as much as you are. Thank you for all your fine work and your consideration. Again, please call me. Night or day.”

  “‘Interested in justice being done.’ Now, there’s a phrase to hang up on your wall. Just what are you so antsy about, Mr. Aurora?” she asked as the machine clicked again, this time shutting off after the last new message. “You know more than you’re telling, don’t you? But what is it that you know, and how do I get you to tell me?”

  Nothing but silence greeted her words, and nothing came to mind. Brianna decided that she was just too tired tonight to deal with an intricate mental puzzle. Tackling something like that required her being rested and sharp. Right now she felt totally dull and incapable of putting two and two together, much less finding the common link between the old and new murders.

  Tomorrow, she told herself. She would approach all this from a fresh angle tomorrow.

  After all, she reasoned, the victims wouldn’t be any deader tomorrow than they were now.

  She took what she needed from her desk and locked up for the night. Going home and getting some rest were sounding pretty good to her right about now, Brianna thought.

  But first, she had two more stops to make before she could make home—and bed—a reality.

  * * *

  “How are you doing, Jimmy?” Jackson asked, walking into his young brother’s small, utilitarian room at the rehab center. Jimmy was sitting in the room’s lone chair, reading a worn paperback collection of Mark Twain’s short stories, a book he’d read more than once as a kid.

  Surprise registered on Jimmy’s gaunt face. The smile that instantly rose to his lips disappeared after a beat, replaced by a look of annoyance.

  “You haven’t been returning any of my calls,” Jimmy accused.

  “I’m working a new case,” Jackson explained. “And you need to feel like you can stand up on your own two feet when I’m not around. I can’t always be around,” Jackson emphasized.

  “You’re my brother,” Jimmy cried, his emotions getting the better of him. “I’m supposed to be able to count on you.”

  “I am and you can,” Jackson told him calmly. “But more, you’re supposed to be able to count on yourself.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jimmy answered sarcastically. “How can I?” he demanded the next moment. “I’m a product of the old man and her.”

  Jimmy hadn’t used the word Mom since she had walked out on them.

  “So am I,” Jackson responded quietly. “So am I.”

  Jimmy looked at him as if this was a revelation, and from the expression on his face, in a way, it was. Wrapped up in self-pity, it was something Jimmy had never quite considered before. “You are, huh?” he repeated like a man who had stumbled across something that could very well unlock the secret of life—or at least give him the key that would help him try to work the lock.

  “I am,” Jackson said in the same quiet voice, putting his hand over his brother’s, silently recognizing and strengthening the bond between them.

  Jackson wasn’t prepared for his brother to start crying. The sight of tears made him uncomfortable and left him feeling as if there was something lacking inside him—compassion, perhaps. The truth was that he usually had no idea what to do or say in this sort of a situation.

  This time, however, even though he still didn’t give voice to any sentiments, some sort of protective instinct kicked in. Without a word, Jackson took his sobbing brother into his arms and just held him.

  He held Jimmy like that for a long time, until his brother’s tears and sobs finally receded.

  * * *

  No two ways about it, Jackson thought. He felt completely wiped out when he pulled into his designated parking spot at his apartment.

  The scene at the rehab center with Jimmy had turned out to be cathartic for both of them. Certainly for Jimmy, but he was surprised that it had affected him, too. For the first time in he didn’t know how long, Jackson felt something toward his brother other than frustrated anger.

  Maybe being around Brianna was rubbing off.

  Not that he was about to say anything of the sort to her, he thought the next moment. The woman was bossy enough as it was. If he attributed something positive to her constant harping and preaching, he’d never hear the end of it.

  No, this was something that he definitely intended to keep to himself, Jackson silently promised himself.

  Turning off the engine, Jackson sat in his car for another moment or so, allowing himself to dwell, just a little, on the good feeling he was experiencing.

  Exhaustion, however, was diminishing that good feeling’s aura. As was hunger. His stomach was making all sorts of strange noises at this point. Jackson tried to remember if there was anything even vaguely edible in his pantry or his refrigerator.

  The only thing that came to mind was a box of cereal he’d opened more than a month ago. The cereal turned out not to be to his liking, but he hadn’t got around to throwing it out yet. And it had to be really stale by now.

  Still, he thought as he got out and locked his car, if stale cereal was the only thing he had to eat in the house, he would have to make do. After all, the flakes weren’t poisonous—as far as he knew.

  As he drew closer to his ground-floor garden apartment, he saw something on the ground right in front of his door.

  A flat square box.

  Jackson frowned.

  Any packages that didn’t fit in the mailbox were left in the complex manager’s office. Packages were definitel
y not left on an apartment doorstep.

  Suspicious, Jackson looked around to see if there was any sign of someone watching him, waiting for him to pick up the box or at least examine it.

  There was no one.

  He took a step closer to the box. The breeze shifted, and that was when he smelled it.

  The very strong, tempting aroma of freshly baked pizza was coming from the box.

  The tantalizing aroma went along with the logo printed on the box.

  Mario’s Pizza.

  Jackson carefully looked around again for whoever had left the box.

  Still nobody.

  He crouched down and saw a small piece of paper tucked into one side of the box. Carefully taking it out so he didn’t rip it, Jackson unfolded the paper.

  Knew you’d forget to stop to get dinner. Thought you might be really hungry by now. This is my favorite—pizza with everything. Enjoy! O’Bannon. PS How did your visit with your brother go?

  Stunned, Jackson sat back on his heels, staring at the note. Damn, this was positively eerie, he thought. On two counts.

  How did O’Bannon know where he lived?

  And how the hell did she know he had gone to see his brother? He hadn’t been a hundred percent sure that he was going to the rehab facility until he’d actually got out of the car there. Halfway there, he’d almost changed his mind and turned his car around to go home.

  “This proves it,” Jackson muttered under his breath. “The woman’s a witch, pure and simple.” Holding on to the pizza box, he rose to his feet. “There’s no other explanation for it.”

  The smell of the pizza was making him salivate, and the box still felt hot. What had she done, raced over with it?

  Why?

  What made her do something like that? It wasn’t as if they were actual friends. They weren’t even close. He’d purposely tried to squelch her attempts to get closer to him, or to share any sort of personal thoughts.

  What did it take to make the woman take a hint and finally back off?

  Obviously he hadn’t stumbled across the secret to that because if this pizza was any indication, O’Bannon was coming full steam ahead.