Cavanaugh Vanguard

by Marie Ferrarella

  Chapter 21

  Dressed in her azure-blue scrubs, Kristin entered the morgue and crossed to Brianna and Jackson. She was carrying a thick folder.

  “All right,” she said, opening the folder while two of her assistants worked in the background, “I have good news, I have better news and I have somewhat perplexing news.” Her eyes swept over the two detectives. “Which do you want first?”

  Brianna exchanged looks with Jackson. It was obvious that he was leaving the choice up to her.

  “Why don’t we pick middle ground and start with the good news?” she suggested.

  “All right,” Kristin agreed, flipping through the folder. “The good news is that as it turns out, one of the more recent victims found in the hotel debris is Mandy Prentice.”

  “And the better news?” Jackson asked, waiting for a shoe to drop.

  “We found traces of Damien Aurora’s DNA on Mandy’s body. As it turns out, I even managed to lift a partial print from her throat. I think that it’s safe to say that Damien Aurora strangled Mandy Prentice—although there are indications that some kind of wire was used as well.”

  “Could he have used both? The wire and manual strangulation?” Jackson asked.

  “A bit of overkill,” the ME allowed. “No pun intended, but yes, it’s possible.”

  Brianna sighed, relieved. She’d puzzle over the details later. “Two for two,” she declared. “We’ve got him!” And then, because things never went a hundred percent well, she tempered her response. “Or at the very least, a crack in that impenetrable wall so we can finally get in.”

  Glancing at Jackson, Brianna could tell by his expression that he wasn’t about to start celebrating just yet.

  “And what’s the perplexing news?” Jackson asked.

  “There’s someone else’s DNA on Mandy’s body as well,” Kristin told them.

  Brianna groaned. “It never gets easier, does it? Whose DNA is on her?”

  Kristin raised her eyes to look at the detectives. “It’s a filial match,” Kristin answered.

  “Filial match,” Jackson repeated. “Two different DNA samples mean that two people killed her. Damien and...?”

  “Someone in his family,” Kristin concluded. It was all she had at the moment. “In this case it’s a close filial match.”

  “So that’s what?” Brianna asked. “Father? Mother?” Neither of Damien’s parents were likable people, especially not his mother. She could see either person being involved in the dead girl’s murder—but why?

  “Either-or,” Kristin agreed.

  “How about a sibling?” Jackson asked.

  Brianna looked unconvinced. “The only sibling Damien has is a sister,” she reminded her partner. “Jocelyn Aurora is a mouse compared to the barracudas in her family.”

  “Maybe there’s a sibling we don’t know about,” Jackson speculated.

  Brianna looked at him. “What? Somebody chained up in the attic they’ve never owned up to?” It hardly seemed plausible.

  “No stone unturned,” Jackson replied. For now, he looked at what they had established. “But at least we have the name of a victim and we know someone in the Aurora family is responsible for her death.” He looked at Brianna, pleased. “We’ve got that thread you were talking about.”

  Brianna’s eyes were all but dancing. “We do, don’t we? C’mon. Let’s go pay Damien and his family a visit.” She paused long enough to hug Kristin. “Great work, Kris! Thank you!”

  “It’s what I’m here for,” she replied, but Brianna had already hurried out of the morgue with Jackson right behind her.

  * * *

  The gaunt-faced man who opened the door in response to the doorbell looked entirely unapproachable. Officially, Tom Howard was Winston Aurora’s estate manager, recently hired, it turned out, by the head of security, Rollins.

  Howard preferred to think of himself as a majordomo, but everyone who came in contact with the man thought of him as a butler, which was what he would have been called a hundred years ago.

  Brianna and Jackson held up their IDs simultaneously for the majordomo’s benefit. Lusterless eyes assessed the two detectives and gave every indication that it pained the man standing in the doorway to do so.

  “Detectives O’Bannon and Muldare to see Damien Aurora,” Brianna told him.

  “Mr. Damien is not receiving guests,” Howard informed them disdainfully.

  “But he is in,” Brianna deduced from the way the man had worded his response.

  “He is not receiving guests,” Howard repeated more forcefully.

  At that moment, the sound of raised, angry voices shattered the mansion’s silence.

  “Are you out of your mind? What the hell were you thinking?” Winston Aurora could be heard bellowing, his voice coming from somewhere within the mansion, presumably somewhere closer to the front of the house than farther.

  “But Damien is receiving a tongue-lashing, from the sound of it,” Brianna surmised.

  When she took a step toward the doorway, the tall, thin man shifted so that he was blocking her way.

  “I’m sorry—you cannot come in,” Howard informed her as if he was reciting an unwritten law.

  Rather than argue with the man, Brianna turned toward Jackson. “Did you just hear a cry for help? I definitely heard someone crying for help from inside the house.”

  “That’s a cry for help, all right,” Jackson agreed flatly.

  “Sorry,” Brianna informed the human roadblock, moving him forcefully aside with her arm. “It’s our duty to answer that cry for help.”

  Howard turned, furious. “There is no cry for help,” he insisted.

  But they were already inside, and Brianna was hurrying toward the raised voices and cursing coming from the downstairs library. Jackson made sure that the majordomo didn’t stop her.

  The second they entered the library, the anger felt almost palpable. Appearing almost frenzied, Winston Aurora was doing most of the yelling, berating his son while his daughter, also in the room, hung back, her face oddly expressionless.

  His back to the door, Winston was screaming at his only son, “You have to get out now! I’ll arrange for the flight out of the country and then I am through covering for you, do you understand? Through! It was bad enough when your grandfather was alive, causing mayhem, it turned out, without a single thought to what it was costing the family. What it wound up costing me!” Winston cried. “When he died and I realized what he’d done, I thought we were all done for. But it didn’t come to light and I was finally done with it! Finally free!

  “I won’t be put through this again, do you understand?” Winston fairly snarled. “I won’t! Once you are out of the country, you are on your own. I never want to see you again! Do I make myself clear?” Winston shouted, his voice almost hoarse. The veins in his neck were standing out so prominently, they appeared ready to burst at any moment.

  “Very clear, Mr. Aurora,” Brianna said in a distinct voice.

  Startled, Winston spun around. He appeared torn between assuming his usual genial persona and being the furious man who found himself standing in the center of hell.

  Finding his voice, Winston stiffly choked out, “You’re not invited here. Please leave!”

  For his part, Damien Aurora looked like a cornered animal searching for an avenue of escape.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Aurora, but I think we’re way past polite invitations,” Brianna replied. “Detective Muldare, do you want to do the honors?” she asked, nodding toward Damien.

  Jackson already had his handcuffs in his hand. “Damien Aurora, you’re under arrest for the murder of Mandy Prentice.” As he came toward Damien, Jackson began to recite, “You have the right to remain silent—”

  Uttering a guttural cry, Damien lunged for his father’s oversize mahogany desk and yanked open the side dra
wer. Before anyone knew what was happening, Damien had grabbed his father’s handgun.

  Holding the gun in both hands, the younger Aurora moved the muzzle of the weapon back and forth a full ninety degrees. The gun seemed like some sort of deadly windshield wiper going from one side to the other and then back again.

  “No, you have the right to remain silent,” he screamed, an almost crazed look in his eyes. “So shut up! I’m getting out of here and no one’s going to stop me, understand?”

  “Damien, think of the family,” his father ordered sharply.

  “Yes, the family.” Damien laughed almost hysterically. “The wonderful, saintly family—you mean like Great-Grandfather George, who never met a woman he didn’t want to ravage and enshrine in cement?” The younger Aurora was reeking with contempt. “Hell of a family, Dad. I’m an improvement.”

  “Put the gun down, Damien,” Brianna told him in a calm, low voice. “There’s no reason for anyone else to die. We can help you.”

  “Help me?” Damien mocked. “You want to help me?” he asked, growing incensed. “Get the hell out of my way, that’s how you can help me,” he shouted, motioning them away, his eyes on the doorway and escape.

  “Leave him alone!” Jocelyn cried suddenly. As everyone turned to look at her, she moved away from the shelter of the wall she’d been all but pressed up against while her father and brother were shouting at each other. “He didn’t do it.” The nondescript young woman raised her chin defiantly. “I did.”

  “Shut up, Joss,” Damien ordered. “Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  But like someone in a trance, Jocelyn slowly moved toward her brother, almost transforming right before their eyes.

  “I killed them. I killed all five of those tramps. That’s what they were,” she went on, her voice growing stronger. “All worthless whores, throwing themselves at Damien, trying to trap him with their bodies. He was just too good to see what they were doing, but I saw. I saw it!”

  “Stop talking, Joss!” Damien cried. “Stop talking!”

  But she just went on as if he hadn’t said anything.

  “I saw it and put an end to it. Each and every time,” she said with a pride that was unsettlingly eerie. The smile curving her mouth was chilling. “It felt good to kill them,” she said, almost talking to herself now. “They were a blight, a stain on the earth.” And then she looked at her brother. “Why didn’t you learn? Why couldn’t you stop associating with those awful women and be with me? Love me like I loved you?”

  She was barely an inch away from Damien now, and rather than being protective of his sister, his eyes were widening in terror. Somehow, she’d managed to grab the gun from him, and in a blink of an eye, she was now pointing the weapon at him.

  “Put that gun down, Joss,” he begged. “You don’t want to shoot me.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she said with an odd little laugh. “I do. I’m tired of all this, waiting for you to come to your senses. But more than shooting you for being so heartlessly blind, I want to shoot her,” Jocelyn suddenly declared, pivoting to point the gun at Brianna. “I saw the way you two were looking at each other. You want him, don’t you?” she demanded, glaring at Brianna. “Sorry, not this time!”

  But Jocelyn never had a chance to execute what she clearly intended to do. Grabbing her from the side, Jackson grappled for the weapon with the woman.

  A shot went off, digging into the far wall as he managed to elevate the deranged Jocelyn’s arms. A second shot went wild, hitting the ceiling.

  There was no telling where the next one would have gone if Jackson hadn’t swung a right cross directly to Jocelyn’s chin, knocking her unconscious. Damien’s criminally deranged, jealous sister crumpled to the floor as Jackson finally pulled the gun out of her hand.

  Almost beside himself, Winston cried, “This—this isn’t what it looks like, Detective.” He was all but gasping for air as he looked down at his daughter, anticipating the depth of the scandal that was to come.

  “Oh, we think it’s exactly what it looks like,” Brianna informed the billionaire.

  Sweat was popping up along Winston’s high forehead. It was obvious that he was frantically looking for a way to perform damage control. “Look, there’s still time to fix this. To make it right,” he cried, close to begging. He grabbed Brianna’s arm. “If you just—”

  Brianna yanked her arm away. She didn’t want to hear it. She knew the way the man’s mind worked, and she was not about to listen to talk of bribes, monetary or otherwise, tendered in order to bury this scandal as deeply as the bodies of all those poor victims had once been buried.

  “I suggest you just stop talking, Mr. Aurora,” she told him coldly. “You’re only going to make this worse for yourself and your homicidal offspring.”

  “You won’t get any of it to stick!” Winston cried frantically. “None of it! I’ll make you sorry you ever crossed me!”

  “I wouldn’t bet the farm on that,” Jackson told him as he put handcuffs on Damien as well as Damien’s unconscious sister. “Or whatever it is you’ll have left to bet after the board at the Aurora Corporation is finished voting,” he added.

  Brianna called the precinct for backup, then closed her phone and looked up at Jackson.

  “I don’t remember ever seeing you smile that widely before,” she commented.

  Jackson was about to shrug off her observation and say something flippant in response when he took a closer look at her. There was blood on her forehead. And it was alarmingly fresh.

  “Hey, you’re bleeding,” he cried. He examined her left eyebrow, where there was a small trickle of blood. “Did the bullet graze you?” he demanded, framing her head with his hands for a closer look.

  “I don’t know. I guess it must have,” Brianna answered, although in all the excitement, she hadn’t felt anything.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at the blood on her forehead.

  “Honestly?” Her grin couldn’t be any wider. “On top of the world.”

  Winston laughed nastily. “Well, brace yourself, girlie. It’s a long way down from there,” the billionaire warned her.

  With the sound of approaching sirens growing louder, Brianna offered the man a phony smile. “You ought to know, Mr. Aurora.”

  “I can buy and sell your family,” he shouted into her face. “And I will! And then destroy it!” he vowed, turning almost beet red.

  Brianna caught Jackson’s arm before he could defend her with a well-deserved swing at the man. In this day and age, doing something like that would cost him more than it would ultimately cost Aurora, and she wasn’t about to let that happen, as much as she would love to pummel the man herself.

  Summoning inner strength, Brianna appeared utterly unfazed by the patriarch’s threat and looked up at the man whose family was essentially responsible for creating the city and developing it.

  “Prepare to be very disappointed, Mr. Aurora,” she told Winston. “My family doesn’t lie down and play dead—ever.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Winston retorted as police officers came pouring into the library.

  “There’ll be nothing to see after I finish telling them about Great-Grandpa, Dad,” Damien announced. It was a gleeful threat delivered by a man who felt that he no longer had anything to lose.

  “Okay,” Jackson declared, turning the people he’d handcuffed over to the police officers. He saw the chief of Ds coming in with the others. The situation was under control, Jackson decided. He turned his attention back to Brianna.

  “Time to take you to the hospital,” he told her in a no-nonsense voice.

  “I’m not going to the hospital,” Brianna informed him firmly.

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “The hell you’re not. You have a head wound.”

  “I have a head scratch,”
Brianna argued, “which can easily be dealt with using a Band-Aid.”

  Jackson gave her a look that said she wasn’t going to win. “Too bad you can’t be dealt with that easily,” he told her. “But I’m learning,” he promised. “I’m learning. Now get into the car, O’Bannon, before I carry you into it. We’re going to the hospital.”

  “The hell we are,” Brianna said, digging in as they left the mansion.

  Brian caught the exchange between his niece and Jackson as they left the premises. He smiled to himself.

  “This shows promise,” he murmured under his breath, nodding with approval as he watched the pair disappear.

  Epilogue

  It took nearly a month of intense, diligent work to finally identify all the women who had been entombed in the walls of the Old Aurora Hotel and tie them to George Aurora, or to his granddaughter, Jocelyn.

  “Apparently,” Brianna told Brian Cavanaugh as she and Jackson sat in the chief of Ds’ office, giving him a final summation of what they had uncovered, “there was a diary. George took special delight in documenting the ‘clever’ way he lured unsuspecting, clueless young women into trusting him. A lot of them came from out of state, would-be starlets wanting to be discovered. He was the ‘kindly benefactor,’ who was there, offering to help,” she said, the words leaving an awful taste in her mouth. “Until he wasn’t.

  “According to his diary, he felt he’d found a perfect way to satisfy both his lust and his need to ‘punish’ those young women for tempting him and ‘leading him astray.’” She shook her head. “The whole thing sounds like an Edgar Allan Poe book. Kind of like The Tell-Tale Heart meets The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

  “There’s a happy image,” Jackson commented. “Speaking of happy images,” he told the chief. “The look on Winston’s face when he found out that his grandfather’s diary hadn’t been destroyed the way he thought was priceless.”

  “Almost as priceless as the look on his face when we told him that Damien boasted to us that he’d rescued the diary from the fireplace where Winston had thrown it after setting it on fire. Apparently Aurora the younger used said diary as a primer, a how-to book for homicidal maniacs, if you will.”