Cavanaugh in the Rough

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Did you get a call?” she asked, as she got back into his car.

  “No, not yet, but I think the medical examiner has to be finished with the preliminary report by now. They should know time of death, as well as if they found any skin or fibers under the victim’s nails. I want to find out if there’s any indication that she fought for her life.”

  Suzie sighed, thinking of the victims her father had lulled into a false sense of security before he’d snuffed out their lives. “She might not have realized that she had to,” Suzie said under her breath.

  Making a right turn, he glanced at her quizzically. “Did you say something?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing important.”

  But she had said something, he was sure. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he coaxed. “Sometimes it’s the throwaway lines that lead to solving a case.”

  Suzie frowned. She was about to tell him that it really was nothing, but then thought better of it and shrugged. “I said that she might not have known that she had to fight for her life.” Suzie enunciated each word so she wouldn’t have to repeat them again.

  “You mean because whoever strangled her was someone she trusted.”

  “Or someone who she really wanted to trust,” Suzie added.

  “That’s pretty insightful,” Chris mused.

  “Not really.” Insight had nothing to do with it. Living through the horrible weeks of her father’s trial was what had made her think of it.

  “If Sellers’s alibi holds up,” Chris was saying as he pulled into the police parking lot, “we’re going with that,” he acknowledged, referring to what she had just said.

  He expected her to look pleased. Instead, she almost looked sad. What was up with that?

  Chapter 9

  There was only one live occupant in the medical examiner’s room when he and Suzie walked in, and it was not the person Chris was looking for.

  “Hi, is Kristin around?” he asked the dour man bent over the notes he was inputting on the computer.

  The latter was located on the ME’s undersized, scarred desk, which in turn sat against the wall, out of the way of general foot traffic.

  Dr. Martin Rowe looked at them over the top of his rimless glasses. In his late fifties, with thinning hair that was on its way to being nonexistent in several patches, the ME appeared less than pleased that the police detective invading his space was asking for the whereabouts of a junior colleague.

  “She got called away on family business. You would know more about that than I would,” Rowe told him, pursing his thin lips.

  “Kristin” was Dr. Kristin Alberghetti, the newest “almost Cavanaugh” to have joined the ever-expanding ranks. Engaged to his cousin Malloy, she would be the first doctor in the family once the wedding took place, as his mother had pointed out.

  More than once, as he recalled.

  Chris kept his voice light and friendly. “Just thought she might be here.” And she, he had a feeling, would be a lot easier to get information out of than Dr. Rowe, who looked as if he was less than willing to share anything, much less any medical data.

  “Well, she’s not,” he informed them stiffly. “So unless there’s another specific reason why you’re here—”

  “There is,” Chris said, interrupting him before Rowe could tell them to leave.

  The thin lips drew back into an amazingly wide frown. “Oh joy,” the man declared, his voice indicating that his feelings reflected anything but.

  Chris pushed on as if he’d taken no notice of the ME’s sarcastic tone. “I was hoping that the preliminary report on Bethany Miller was completed.”

  “Hope, such a frail word,” Dr. Rowe commented cynically.

  Suzie found herself taking an instant dislike to the man. O’Bannon might have irritated her, but there was no reason for the medical examiner to be so rude to him. She took offense for the detective. O’Bannon was just doing his job. There was no need to be so waspish with him—or her by association, since she was, after all, partnered up with Chris.

  “We’d like to see the preliminary report on the current victim because it might help us ascertain if this is the work of a serial killer,” Suzie told the older man, cutting in.

  Eyes like small black marbles, perpetually moving, took measure of her over the top of his glasses. “And who might you be? Another privileged Cavanaugh?” He made no effort to hide the sneer in his voice or on his face as he mentioned the name.

  “I’m CSI Susannah Quinn,” she informed the ME, who was just barely taller than she was. “And I work for Sean Cavanaugh, who’s in charge of the day shift at the crime lab. He also happens to be the chief of detectives’ brother. Any other credentials you need to hear before you answer our questions?” she asked sharply.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the approving grin on Chris’s face, but pretended not to.

  Outnumbered, the ME frowned more deeply. It was apparent that he knew he had to give in, but made it clear he wasn’t happy about it.

  “I think I’ve got the report here somewhere,” he said coldly.

  Since it was right on top of his desk, Rowe couldn’t pretend to shuffle papers, looking for the report, for very long. With an annoyed huff, he slapped the folder holding the report in front of Chris.

  “Did you find any skin under her nails?” Chris asked him.

  Rowe gave him a withering glance. “It’s all right there in the report,” he stated. “I’m assuming you can read. Or do you need it read to you?”

  Suzie pulled the folder from beneath the man’s hand. His belittling attitude toward O’Bannon was really beginning to aggravate her. She felt her temper rising, in part because she had no desire to feel so protective of the detective. There was no reason for it. They weren’t even partners, only temporary ones. And yet she wanted to put Rowe in his place.

  “We’ll take it from here,” she informed the ME, all but snarling the words.

  Doing her best to calm down, Suzie counted to ten as they walked out of the autopsy room. “That man has a serious attitude problem,” she said, glaring over her shoulder when they reached the hall.

  Chris laughed shortly. “Welcome to my world.”

  She looked at him as they neared the elevator. “You mean because you’re a Cavanaugh?” She’d never thought about that side of it. Never assumed that there was a downside to being a member of that family.

  He pressed the elevator call button. “Don’t get me wrong. Most of the time it’s pretty great. The generation before me carved out some really nice niches and created a lot of respect for the rest of us. Not to mention that Uncle Andrew throws some damn good parties. And on occasion, because of our connection, some of us might have availed ourselves of a few shortcuts here and there—all in the line of duty for the greater good,” he was quick to add, thinking of his last visit to Valri to get the benefit of her rather incredibly extensive computer expertise.

  “But there are people on the force who dislike anyone named or related to a Cavanaugh for the very things I mentioned. And those people are never going to be brought around, no matter what any of us do to try and make them see that we’re all on the same team. That we’re just hardworking, decent people like they are.”

  “I know,” Suzie acknowledged quietly, remembering how people had turned on her family once what her father had done became public knowledge. Everything she had held dear was ripped away from her. Even the people who didn’t turn on her couldn’t believe that she hadn’t known what her father was up to—which made her, her brother and her mother accessories after the fact.

  It seemed no one could believe that they had been duped like the rest of the town. That had hurt most of all. There were times when she felt that was even more heartbreaking than being betrayed by the father she had so blindly worshipped.

  “You ‘know?’” Chris repeated, somewhat mystified. There’d been a glimmer of something in her voice, but he couldn’t pin it down. So instead, he teased her. “
Are you a closet Cavanaugh?” he asked with a laugh.

  Suzie roused herself. “No. I mean, I can sympathize what you’re going through,” she said dismissively.

  It was more than that, Chris thought. He’d definitely seen something in her eyes, just for a moment. It wasn’t sympathy, more like empathy. Like someone who knew what it was like to have been on the receiving end of envy. Or hate.

  Despite his claim to preferring to get information firsthand, Chris decided that he needed to do a little digging into CSI Susannah Quinn’s background. The pile of questions he had about her was mounting.

  He wanted answers.

  Realizing that their conversation had been left dangling, he tied up the ends. “Thanks,” he said, to her proclamation of sympathy.

  They got on the empty elevator. He was still holding the folder she’d given him.

  “Are you going to read that report or just carry it around?” she asked, trying to change the subject. She didn’t want him asking her any questions or probing into her life, and he had that look in his eyes that made her leery.

  “I see our bonding moment is over,” he noted. “Since we’ve got some time to kill before happy hour, let’s go up to squad room to read this and do a little research on the internet.”

  “Happy hour?” she questioned. Was he talking about going out drinking? When had she given him any indication that she wanted to be included in that? The last thing she wanted was to socialize with him after hours.

  He nodded. “That’s when we go to The Saint to see if Sellers’s alibi holds up. According to what he said, that’s when his cronies will be there.”

  “What if he gets there ahead of us to coach the bartender and his friends?” Suzie asked. “For all we know, Sellers might have just given us a list of people he knew were always there around this time, and he’d be going to go to the bar to tell them to say he was there on Sunday.”

  “Good point,” Chris agreed. She was giving Sellers’s guilt a lot of thought. Had she changed her mind? “But I thought you were the one who didn’t think he was guilty.”

  “I don’t, but anything’s possible,” she told the detective. “Making sure that Sellers’s story is actually on the level is just covering all the bases.”

  Chris laughed. He liked the way her mind worked. “Damn, no wonder Uncle Sean is so impressed with you,” he told her.

  “He just makes working easy.”

  And so do you, Suzie Q, Chris thought. At least, easy on the eyes.

  *

  Having lifted Sellers’s picture from a copy of his driver’s license online, Chris used that to show the bartender, after the man had seen their credentials and badges.

  “Was this man here on Sunday night?” Chris asked.

  The bartender took one glance at the photo Chris had put on the counter. “Yeah, and I wish he wasn’t.”

  Chris took the photo and replaced it into his wallet. “We were under the impression that he spends a lot of money drinking here.”

  “He does, but he also brings the place down,” the bartender complained. He smiled at Suzie. “Every night, Sellers is here, going on and on about how this hot model chick broke his heart.”

  “And he was here Sunday night?” Chris questioned. “You’re sure?”

  The guy went back to polishing the counter. The surface was dull, but buffed clean. “I’m sure. After a while, the other customers asked me to turn up the sound on the game that was on that night, to drown him out.”

  “You have any security cameras here?” Chris asked, looking around the rather small area. He didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t around.

  “Not in the place,” the bartender admitted, “but I have one right outside the door. I got it for security reasons, in case there’s a robbery. There’s one facing the alley, as well.” He stopped buffing to think. “If you’re interested, you could probably see Sellers coming in and then leaving sometime later. I had to call him an Uber, then help him into it.”

  Suzie exchanged looks with Chris. “An Uber?” she questioned. “Why? Sellers lives within walking distance of this place.”

  “According to him he does, but Sunday he wasn’t in any condition to walk,” the bartender told them. “Don’t get me wrong, I feel sorry for the guy. But there’s just so much carrying on people can take. Personally, I hope he buys himself a bottle and just stays home, drinking, until he’s got this thing out of his system.” He looked at the two of them, his curiosity obviously aroused. “Why are you asking all these questions about Sellers? Something happen to him?” As if realizing that his last statement might have been taken in the wrong light, he quickly told them, “I wasn’t serious about wanting him to stay away.”

  “We’re just trying to verify something,” Chris answered noncommittally. “Mind if we see the feed on the security camera?”

  Still looking somewhat concerned that he might have misspoken, the bartender beckoned them to his back office. “No problem,” he said obligingly.

  *

  “Well, I guess that puts the brokenhearted ex-boyfriend in the clear,” Chris said when they finally left The Saint.

  Suzie got into the passenger side of his vehicle. “There’s nothing helpful in the preliminary autopsy report, either.” There was a note of frustration in her voice as she buckled up.

  About to start the car, Chris looked at her. Something wasn’t making sense to him. “When did you read the autopsy report?”

  “While you were driving to The Saint.”

  He’d noticed her flipping through the report, but he hadn’t thought she’d read it thoroughly. “You read the whole thing?” he questioned now.

  “Yes.”

  “But it was about a ten-minute drive from the precinct to the bar,” he said. The preliminary report was about ten pages long, with a lot of medical jargon. Single-spaced. How could she read so fast?

  “It wasn’t exactly War and Peace,” she pointed out. And then, because she sensed he was waiting for more, she told him, “I speed-read.”

  “Of course you do,” he said. The woman was one surprise after another. “Anything else about you I should know?”

  “I think you know enough.”

  He hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface. There was a lot more to Susannah Quinn than met the eye.

  “That is a matter of opinion.”

  Was she going to have trouble with this man, after all? This was what she got for allowing her guard to drop temporarily.

  “All right,” she amended. “Let’s put it this way. You know enough for us to work this case together.”

  Chris sincerely doubted that, but there was no point in arguing with her about it. He had a feeling he wouldn’t win. This was going to take strategy—and sneakiness. “All right, why don’t you tell me what was in the report.”

  A whole lot of nothing, she couldn’t help thinking. Obliging him, she recited what she had read. “There was nothing underneath her fingernails, no traces of any kind of fiber on her anywhere. Time of death was estimated to be sometime between 11:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m. And she was strangled—from behind. According to the report, there was more pressure applied to the left side of her neck than the right. That means—”

  “That the killer was most likely left-handed,” Chris said.

  She nodded. That was the only piece of information in the whole report that might give them something to work with. “That’s something. I think,” she qualified.

  “Well, since only ten percent of the population is left-handed, that does shrink the suspect pool—in a manner of speaking,” he said, then reminded her, “Sellers is right-handed.”

  “I know,” she said with a sigh. The man was conclusively ruled out. Which brought them back to square one. “So where do we go from here?”

  He stopped at a red light. It was his third in a row. This time of day, traffic trickled rather than moved. “Why don’t we take a closer look at your serial killer theory?”

  “It’s no
t my theory,” she protested.

  If something went wrong with this investigation, she didn’t want to risk him blaming her for it—even though she was strongly leaning in that direction. She was just worried that her personal experience was coloring her viewpoint.

  “Okay, let’s take a closer look at the possibility of this being the work of a serial killer,” Chris rephrased, putting the theory in more general terms. “Does that satisfy you?”

  Now he was talking down to her. “You don’t have to humor me,” she told him.

  “Then what do I have to do to get on the right side of you?” he asked, throwing up his hands.

  “Why would you want to get on the right side of me?” Suzie questioned. She was nothing to him. There was no reason for them to be in harmony.

  “Because it makes working together a hell of a lot easier,” Chris pointed out. Then he sighed. “Damn, but you are high maintenance.”

  She thought of herself as the exact opposite. “No, I’m not.”

  “Okay,” he said, playing along. “Your evil twin is high maintenance.”

  She could see the barely contained annoyance just beneath the surface. Maybe she had been pushing too hard. He was, after all, attempting to be even-handed with her, and she did appreciate that.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he told her, “just do us both a favor and relax a little, because given half a chance, you are a damn good investigator. You’ve just got this baggage you keep tripping over.”

  Her eyes widened. Up until the last sentence, he’d been complimentary, and she’d considered relenting. But now she was worried. Did O’Bannon know? Had he somehow found out about her father? And who else knew?

  She could feel her stomach tightening.

  “I don’t have baggage,” she protested strongly.

  “Okay,” he allowed, then reworded his observation. “This invisible elephant you keep tripping over. Whatever it is, get rid of it, get over it, just get it out of your way, okay?” he implored. Having gotten that out of his system, he said, “Now, it’s getting late and I’m hungry, so why don’t we grab a bite to eat and then call it a night?”