Читать книгу Cavanaugh's Bodyguard - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 9

The good-looking man behind the bar whose biceps were more impressive than his brain cells frowned as he stared at the photograph Josh had placed on the counter in front of him. It was a photograph of the woman who had been found in the alley behind the club where he worked and even though the more gruesome aspects of the murder weren’t detailed, it was obvious that the woman was dead.

Shaking his head, the bartender, who claimed his name was Simon Quest, looked up at the two detectives.

“I’m a lot better with regulars,” he protested. “But yeah, I think she was here last night.”

My kingdom for a witness who actually witnessed something, Josh thought. The bartender sounded far from convincing. For now, he left the photograph on the bar, hoping that it still might jog Quest’s memory.

“Was anyone bothering her?” Josh asked the other man.

Quest shrugged, as if to dismiss the question, but then he stopped abruptly and pulled the photo over to study it.

Josh’s hope sank when he shook his head. “Not that I can recall. It was a happy crowd last night.”

Bridget glanced at the victim’s pale face. “I know at least one of them who didn’t stay that way,” she commented grimly.

“Can you remember anything at all about this woman?” Josh prodded Quest one last time. “Was she the life of the party? Was she in a corner, drinking by herself? Anything at all?” he stressed.

The bartender thought for a long moment; then his expression brightened. “I saw her talking to the people around her. They acted as if they all knew each other.” Pausing, he appeared as if he was trying to remember something.

When the silence went on too long, Bridget urged the man on. “What?”

“There was this one guy,” Simon responded slowly, as if he was envisioning the scene again. “He just kept staring at her.”

“Did he come up and talk to her?” Bridget asked eagerly.

Quest shook his head helplessly. “Not that I saw. It was big crowd,” he explained, then added, “and we were shorthanded last night.”

“What else can you remember about this guy?” Josh asked, hoping they could finally get something to go on.

“Nothing.” The bartender went back to drying the shot glasses that were all lined up in front of him like tiny, transparent soldiers. “He left.”

Maybe they could get a time frame, Bridget thought. “When?”

Quest set down another glass, then shrugged again. “I dunno. Around midnight. Maybe one o’clock. I remember she was gone when we closed down,” he volunteered, then ruined it by adding, “Can’t say when, though.”

This was getting them nowhere, Bridget thought. “Did she leave with anyone?”

The look on Quest’s face said he had no idea if the victim did or not. He lifted his wide shoulders and then let them drop again. “She was just gone.”

Ever hopeful, Bridget tried another approach. “This guy, the one who was staring at her, what did he look like?”

Quest exhaled a frustrated breath. It was obvious that he was regretting he’d ever mentioned the starer. “Just an average guy. Looked like he hadn’t cracked a smile in a real long time.”

Josh tried his hand at getting some kind of useful information out of the vacant-headed bartender. “Was he young, old, fat, skinny, long-haired, bald, white, black—polka dot,” he finally bit off in exasperation when the bartender made no indication that anything was ringing a bell.

“Just average,” Quest repeated. “Maybe he was forty, maybe not. He did have hair,” he recalled. “Kinda messy, like he was trying to look cool but he didn’t know how. And he was a white guy. He wasn’t a regular,” Simon emphasized proudly. “Or I would’ve recognized him.”

Well, he supposed at least it was something, Josh told himself. He took out one of his cards and placed it on the counter, even as he collected the photograph and tucked it back into his inside pocket.

“You think of anything else you forgot to mention, anything comes back to you—” he tapped the card with his finger “—call me.”

Quest shifted his glance toward Bridget. “I’d rather call her.”

Information was information, Bridget reasoned. Inclining her head in silent assent, she placed her card next to Josh’s on the shiny bar.

“Fine. Here’s my card. Just remember,” she informed the man cheerfully as she stepped back, “we’re a set.”

“He was trying to hit on you,” Josh told her as they walked out of the club three minutes later. The fact that it bothered him was only because he was being protective of his partner. Or so he told himself. Bridget seemed unaware that she had this aura of sexuality about her and it was up to him to make sure no one tried to take advantage of that.

Right, like she can’t take care of herself, Josh silently mocked himself.

He blew out a breath. Maybe he needed more aspirins to clear his head a little better.

Bridget headed straight for the car. “He’s lucky I didn’t hit him back,” she retorted, then complained, “I thought bartenders were supposed to have such great memories.”

“Sometimes they’re paid not to have them,” Josh speculated, aiming his remote at the car. It squawked in response as four side locks sprang up at attention.

Bridget paused beside the vehicle. “You think he knows more than he’s saying?”

Josh laughed shortly. He looked at her over the car’s roof. “It would be hard for him to know less. Let’s talk to her boyfriend and find out if he knows who she was partying with last night.”

She nodded. “Maybe one of them remembers something about this guy who was staring at her.”

Getting into the front passenger seat, Bridget buckled up and then let out a loud sigh. After Josh pulled out of the area and back onto the road again, she turned toward him and asked, “So, what kind of a dog?” When he didn’t answer and just looked at her as if she had lapsed into monosyllabic gibberish, she added, “For your mother. You said you were getting a dog for your mother, remember?”

Now her question made sense. But he’d mentioned the dog over an hour ago, before they had gone in to question the bartender.

“Boy, talk about your long pauses.” Josh laughed. “That almost came out of nowhere.”

It was all connected in her head. She didn’t see why he was having such a hard time with it. “Well, talking about the dog in your mother’s future didn’t exactly seem appropriate while we were questioning that bartender about a homicide right behind the club where he works,” she told Josh, then got back on track. “So? Have you decided what kind you’re getting?”

He hadn’t gone much beyond the fact that he was getting his mother a canine companion sometime in the near future. If she had a pet to take care of, she wouldn’t have as much time to nag him about settling down and giving her grandchildren.

“I thought maybe one of those fluffy dogs,” he answered.

Off the top of her head, she could think of about twenty breeds that matched that description. “Well, that narrows it down.”

She’d managed to stir his curiosity. “Why are you so interested in what kind of dog I’m going to wind up giving to my mother?”

She was just trying to be helpful. “A couple of the Cavanaughs actually don’t strap on a gun in the morning. One of them is a vet who also works with Aurora’s canine division, does their routine checkups, takes care of them if they get hurt, things like that. I think her name’s Patience. Anyway, I thought you might want to talk to her, ask her some questions about the best kind of dog for your mother.”

That didn’t sound like a half-bad idea, he supposed since he didn’t really know what he was doing. When he was a kid, he’d never owned a dog, never wanted to get attached to anything after his father’s death.

“Maybe I will.” He flashed Bridget a grin as he sailed through a yellow light. “When I talk to her, can I tell her that her ‘Cousin Bridget’ sent me?”

If he was going to use every topic to make another joke about her new family, then she shouldn’t have even bothered making the suggestion.

She waved a dismissive hand at her partner. “Forget I said anything.”

He was silent for a moment, as if content to let the quiet in the car prevail. But he’d been chewing on something for a while now. This last display of irritation on Bridget’s part told him that his observation over the last two months was probably right. Ever since his partner had learned about the mix-up in the hospital nearly fifty years ago, a mix-up that made her a Cavanaugh instead of a Cavelli, she’d seemed somewhat preoccupied and not quite her usual self.

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” he asked in a voice devoid of all teasing.

“You getting a dog for your mother instead of growing up and having a meaningful relationship with a woman that lasts longer than a half-time program at the Super Bowl?” she asked glibly, deliberately avoiding his eyes. “No, not really.”

She’d used a lot of words to describe a topic that she supposedly didn’t care about, but that was a question to explore some other time, Josh thought. Right now, he was more concerned about Bridget’s state of mind regarding the recent change in her immediate family. He might get on her case from time to time, but his three-year relationship with Bridget was the longest one he’d ever had with a woman, besides his mother. Beneath the barbs, the quips and the teasing, he really did care about Bridget. Cared about her a great deal. Sometimes more than he should, he told himself. He definitely didn’t like seeing her like this.

“You know damn well I’m talking about the fact that your father found out that he’d been switched at birth with another male newborn and that he—and consequently you and those brothers and sisters of yours—are really Cavanaughs.”

Bridget blew out a breath as she stared straight ahead at the road. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about, I was just hoping you’d take the hint and back off.” She spared him a frown. “I should have known better.”

Yeah, she should have, Josh thought. “So why does this bother you so much?” he wanted to know. “I know people in the department who’d give their right arm to wake up one morning and find out that they’re related to the Cavanaughs. The very name carries a lot of weight in the department. I mean, think of it, they’re an entire family of law enforcement agents and not a dirty one in the lot.” He wasn’t saying anything that they both didn’t already know. “Hell, it’s like the city’s own personal branch of Camelot.”

“So what’s your point?” she asked, annoyed.

Driving into the parking lot of an apartment complex, Josh brought the car to a stop in the first empty space he saw.

“My point is, what’s the problem you seem to be having with this?” he asked.

He was a guy. She didn’t expect him to understand. Hell, she could barely understand all the tangled emotions herself. This unexpected twist made her life seem so confused, so jumbled up. There were times when she didn’t know what to think, what to feel.

“The problem, oh insensitive one, is what do I do about my ‘old family?’ Uncle Adam, Uncle Tony, Aunt Angie, Aunt Anna.” She went down the list of the people she’d believed until two months ago were her father’s brothers and sisters. “Are they just strangers to me now? What are they to me and to the others?” she demanded with frustration. “Not to mention what are they to my dad? How am I supposed to regard them now that I know we’re not blood relatives?” she asked, frustrated.

Everything had turned upside down for her. She couldn’t be laid-back about the whole thing, the way her older brother Tom was. For her, all this had brought up real questions, real concerns. Moreover, it had left her with a dilemma on her hands that she had no idea how to resolve. Who was her family?

Josh still didn’t really see what the problem was. Maybe because, in a remote way, he’d found himself in the same sort of position, except that in his case, the positions had been reversed. He’d lost his real father and found himself on the receiving end of a whole handful of generous “fathers.”

“Well, speaking for myself, the word ‘family’ doesn’t strictly refer to people with the same blood in their veins as you. After my dad was killed, a lot of his old buddies made it a point to come around to check on my mom and me to see if we were okay. The lot of them took turns looking out for us. After a while, it was like having five surrogate fathers around. They weren’t my dad and they couldn’t take my dad’s place, but they did help to fill the void he left. They were the ones who got my mother through those dark times. I loved the lot of them and I think of all of them as family.

“The uncles and aunts you started out with before all this came to light are still your uncles and aunts in spirit if not in the strict definition of that according to the law. And let’s face it, the way you feel about a person is all that counts.”

Bridget looked at her partner for a long, silent moment, more impressed than she wanted to let on. “That’s pretty profound coming from you. I guess even a stopped clock has to be right twice a day.”

He grinned. Now that was the Bridget he knew and loved. “I have my moments,” he acknowledged.

“Yeah,” she agreed with a half smile. “Every twenty years or so, you do.”

“Have you thought about talking to your Uncle Adam about how you feel about this? I mean, he is a priest and all and they’re supposed to be able to offer guidance when one of their ‘flock’ has an emotional crisis to deal with.” He raised his eyebrows in a unified query. “Right?”

She shook her head, vetoing the idea. “It might feel a little weird for both of us, considering that he’s part of that crisis.”

“He might surprise you.”

“Two surprises in one day? I don’t think I could handle that,” she said flippantly. “Having you actually make sense is earth-shaking enough for me to try to come to terms with. Going for two might be asking for trouble. Who knows, the next thing that might happen is I’ll be hearing the hoofbeats of the four horsemen.”

Getting out of the car, he looked around the sprawling, newly upgraded complex. “I’d rather settle for that than what we’re about to do next,” he murmured under his breath.

They’d arrived at the apartment complex that was listed as Karen Anderson’s last known residence. A residence the serial killer’s latest victim had shared with her boyfriend.

Remaining beside the car, Josh scanned the area more intently, searching for apartment number 189. He was in no hurry to find it and in less of a hurry to do what he had to do.

His feet felt glued to the asphalt.

“Poor guy doesn’t know what’s about to hit him,” he muttered grimly. Spotting a map of the area posted behind glass and next to the mailboxes, he made his way over to it. Bridget followed. “His girl goes out without him for a night out on the town and comes back dead.”

“Ordinarily, if this didn’t have the Lady Killer’s MO all over it, I would have reminded you that your ‘poor guy’ would most likely be considered a person of interest. First rule of thumb in a homicide investigation, remember?” she said glibly.

“Thanks,” Josh said with a touch of sarcasm. “I didn’t know that.” And then he grew a little more serious. “He still might be a person of interest, you know,” Josh speculated.

That caught her by surprise. “You think this guy’s our serial killer?”

“No.” He doubted if they would get this lucky this early in this year’s cat-and-mouse game with the Lady Killer. “But I think he might have taken advantage of the fact that there was a Valentine serial killer on the loose the last two years, done his homework and done away with his freewheeling girlfriend by copying the serial killer’s MO. It’s not like that hasn’t been done before,” he reminded her, “hiding a murder in the middle of a bunch of other murders.”

Bridget nodded. The theory did make a lot of sense—as if they needed the extra confusion. “Just when I start to think of you as just another handsome face, you actually have a thought and blow everything out of the water,” she pretended to lament.

“I am another handsome face,” he acknowledged teasingly, “but I also like keeping you on your toes, Cavanaugh.” The moment the surname had slipped out of his mouth, he slanted a look at her face, waiting to see—or hear—her reaction.

As expected, she frowned—but not as deeply as he thought she might.

“Don’t call me that yet,” she requested. “Not until I get used to the sound of it. Deal?”

“Deal,” he echoed. “Whatever you want.” And then he pretended to be feeling her out. “Is it okay to call you Bridget?”

Bridget laughed and shook her head. Leave it to Josh to lighten the moment. It was a quality she really liked in him. “That’s not about to change, so yeah, you can call me Bridget.”

“The apartment’s over in that direction,” he announced, pointing to an area to their left. “It’s just after the duck pond.”

“Duck pond?” she echoed.

“That’s what it says on the map. Looks more like a duck puddle if you ask me,” he declared as they walked by it. “One way or another, we need to get this over with sooner than later.”

She completely agreed. She never liked putting off anything just because she found it unpleasant to deal with. “Man after my own heart.”

Leading the way, Josh turned and looked at her over his shoulder and winked. “You should be so lucky.”

The wink sent a ripple through her that she deliberately ignored. “Ha! The luck,” she fired back, happy to be bantering with him again, “would be all yours.” What they did, day in, day out, was dark enough. A little lightness was more than welcome.

He probably would be the lucky one in this, he thought. If he were in the market for something stable and permanent—

Which he wasn’t, he reminded himself firmly before his mind could go wandering.

This wasn’t the time.

They stopped in front of the ground-floor garden apartment door with the appropriate numbers affixed on it and rang an anemic-sounding bell.

When no one answered, they rang it again.

Bridget raised her hand to try ringing the bell for a third time when the door suddenly opened.

“Finally decide to come home?” a deep, humorless male voice asked. “What’s the matter, lose your key again? Or did you throw it away?”

Both questions came from a semi-wet man wearing a bath towel precariously wrapped around his rather lean hips. He was standing in the doorway and his eyes filled with wonder as he looked at them with surprise. He stopped drying his hair.

His demeanor changed instantly and his expression darkened.

“Hey, I’m not giving to anything or converting to anything so go bother someone else,” he said curtly. With that the man grabbed the doorknob and started closing the door.

Josh put his foot in the way and effectively provided an immovable object that stopped the other man from closing the door.

“We’re not selling anything,” he told the other man. “Are you James King?”

“Yeah,” the man answered, his eyes shifting suspiciously from one to the other. “Who are you?”

Bridget took out her badge and ID at the same time that Josh did.

Josh made the introductions. “I’m Detective Youngblood. This is Detective Cavelli.” He’d faltered for a second, then decided, in order to avoid any confusion, to state the name that she still had printed on her identification. “We’d like a few words with you. Mind if we come in?”

The man remained standing exactly where he was. The suspicion deepened on his face. “What’s this all about?” he demanded.

“Mr. King, really, this will be a lot easier on everyone if we step inside your apartment. You’re not going to want to hear this standing out here like this, half naked,” Bridget told him, her voice taking on a gentle note.

After a moment, the man took a step into his apartment, opening the door wider so that his unexpected visitors could enter.