Читать книгу Cavanaugh Vanguard - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 13

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.

“Malloy’s wife, Kristin,” Sean answered.

Brian’s smile was grim. “This is turning out to be a regular family affair,” he commented, glancing toward the young woman. “Put the word out,” he told his brother. “We need every available ME reporting to the morgue. I need these bodies identified yesterday,” Brian instructed.

Sean had his cell phone in his hand. “Already on it,” he responded.

“Keep me apprised,” Brian said, leaving. It was unclear if he was addressing Sean or Brianna.

Brianna slowly scanned the area again, even though she had been here for more than half an hour. She and Francisco Del Campo, another homicide detective, had been the first to answer the frantic call that had come in from a patrol officer.

The latter had been the first responder on the scene. Fresh out of the academy, Officer Hal Jacobs had contaminated the crime scene by throwing up after viewing the first decomposing body. When Brianna arrived, she had hustled Jacobs out and had someone get the pale officer a glass of water as more bodies were being discovered.

A noise coming from behind her had Brianna whirling around, one hand on her weapon, ready for anything.

Coming forward, Jackson raised his hands. “If you don’t want me here, all you have to do is say so,” he told Brianna.

Brianna dropped her hand to her side. Although they were in different divisions, she and Jackson had previously worked together on a couple of cases. As far as partners went, he was intelligent and driven. He just wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but according to the job description, that wasn’t a prerequisite.

“Nice of you to join the party, Detective Muldare,” she said.

Rather than explain why he’d arrived late, Jackson merely said, “I got held up in traffic. What are we looking at?”

“The stuff nightmares are made of,” she told him. “You ever been here before?”

“You mean to the hotel?” he asked. When she nodded, he told her, “I didn’t grow up in Aurora. And I’m guessing the place would have been a little out of my price range if I had grown up here.”

Brianna looked around, trying to envision the hotel the way it used to be in what she’d heard referred to as its “glory days.” It made her sad to see the way time had ravaged it.

“It was a hell of a showplace in its time. I saw pictures in a magazine once,” she explained. “Aurora was celebrating its fortieth anniversary of being incorporated as a city and the magazine article was a then-and-now kind of retrospective. I really doubt that anyone would have ever suspected that this highly regarded showplace was where someone was hiding bodies.”

“Hiding bodies?” Jackson echoed.

Brianna nodded, repeating what she’d heard from the nauseated first responder. “They were in the walls,” she told him. “The wrecking ball uncovered them.”

The macabre revelation had Jackson staring at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

Brianna turned toward the major crimes detective. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of his reaction. The tall, dark-haired man seemed woefully uninformed about the nature of the crime scene he had entered. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Cohen just said to get my butt out here,” Jackson answered. “Look, I’m with major crimes,” he pointed out even though he knew that she knew that. “And while this is all pretty gruesome, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here.” He looked at Brianna. “Way I see it, since you’re with homicide, this case is right up your alley.”

“You’ve been with the police department for how long now?” she asked him, her voice almost mild and deceptively conversational.

He didn’t see what that had to do with anything, but he answered her. “Going on six years now.”

“Six years,” she repeated, as if she was rolling the information over in her head. “Don’t take much of an interest in the city’s history, do you?”

Jackson looked at the woman. Like so many other members of the police department he had run into, she was part of the Cavanaugh family, a legend throughout the precinct. Cavanaughs, he’d found, set the bar high, each and every one of them.

“Not particularly,” he answered. “Why?”

“Well, if you did know a little of the city’s history,” she told him, “you’d know that initially this was all farmland that belonged to one family. The Aurora family.”

“All right,” he allowed, still waiting to hear where she was going with all this.

Out of the corner of her eye, Brianna saw the ME, Kristin Alberghetti-Cavanaugh, wheeling another one of the newly unearthed victims out of the hotel. She stepped to one side, never missing a beat of the story she was telling Jackson.

“George Aurora was the original patriarch of the family. He started taking the money the family made selling their crops and investing it. The investments were solid, so he decided to use some of the profits to build a small town, which he named after himself.

“Everything in and around Aurora belonged to the Aurora family. Including the Aurora Hotel,” she pointed out, adding, “which, it turns out, Winston Aurora, George’s oldest grandson, recently sold to the city so that Aurora could continue to expand.”

“Winston’s the one who throws all those fund-raisers, raising money to build that new children’s hospital and new schools for the city, right?” Jackson said, recalling things that he’d heard.

“One and the same,” Brianna confirmed. “No one wants to risk getting on the wrong side of the man or his two brothers if they don’t have to, so I’m told that major crimes was called in to treat this whole thing—and the Aurora family—with kid gloves.”

The strained smile on her face as she concluded told Jackson just what she thought of that idea, seeing as how he was the one the major crimes lieutenant had chosen to represent the division.

Jackson read between the lines. “Are you saying you think Mr. Fund-Raiser is responsible for the dead bodies?”

“I’m saying we’re supposed to look at everyone else first before we even so much as think of pointing a finger at him or anyone else in his family. Having major crimes join homicide in the investigation is supposed to be the police department’s way of being thorough,” Brianna told him. “That means crossing every single t and dotting every single i. And if I recall correctly from the last couple of times you and I worked together, you are not exactly known as Mr. Diplomacy, so maybe I should be the one to talk to the Auroras.”

“Are we going to be questioning the Auroras first?” Jackson asked.

“No, not in the way you mean,” Brianna answered, thinking he was referring to interrogating the family. “We’re just going to inform them of what the construction crew discovered when they started knocking down the walls.”

Brianna paused for a moment. She’d been told more than once that she had a habit of taking over and leaping into the heart of things before others around her had a chance to digest what was happening. Since she and Muldare were going to be working together on this, she knew she had to do her best not to come on as strong as she had a tendency to. “Unless you have a different idea on the matter,” she added tactfully.

Jackson lifted his wide shoulders then let them fall again in a careless shrug. “My only thought is that maybe we should hold off talking to Mr. Fund-Raiser or anyone in his family until we have a final body count.”

She supposed that Jackson did have a point, but there was a problem with this idea. She glanced over toward where Sean and his team were working.

“I’m not sure how long that would take,” she said honestly. “The building only has three stories, but it’s unusually wide. Consequently, there are a lot of walls to take into account.”

“You really think there are more bodies in them?” Jackson questioned.

She wouldn’t have thought that there were any bodies in the walls, but that certainly hadn’t turned out to be the case.

“You think there aren’t?” Brianna countered.

“Sounds a little unbelievable, don’t you think?” Jackson asked, getting out of the way as another gurney with a body bag was being wheeled out.

“I think finding a single body buried inside a hotel wall is unbelievable, but according to what I’ve been told, they’ve uncovered six,” Brianna answered.

“Seven,” Sean called out.

Brianna and Jackson both turned in the man’s direction.

“Seven?” Brianna asked, stunned.

Sean nodded. “Destiny just told me that the team pulled out another body,” he replied, referring to his top CSI investigator, his son Logan’s wife.

Brianna closed her eyes for a moment, trying to absorb the information and ignore the effect the discovery was having on her stomach.

What kind of a monster had they just stumbled across? And, more important, was that monster still walking among them, or was this the work of someone who had vanished?

Best-case scenario was that the killer was dead. But what if the killer wasn’t dead and hadn’t vanished? What if the killer had just moved his desire to kill to another location?

“You okay?” Jackson asked. He saw his new partner shiver. It definitely wasn’t cold in the room, despite the fact that there was one wall missing.

“I will be,” Brianna answered with zeal. “Once we find the SOB responsible for this.”