Cavanaugh's Bodyguard. Marie Ferrarella
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a mute display of unity.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned. They had been trying to get Seamus to come back out for a visit for years now. But he had always been very adamant about not flying. Because of that, the senior Cavanaugh had missed out on a host of weddings and births.
He’d even passed on what Andrew felt had been a major event in his life: finding Rose again after his wife had gone missing and had been presumed by everyone—everyone but him—to be dead. He never gave up working the case, never gave up looking for the mother of his five children. And eventually, his persistence had paid off. The only thing that remotely came close to spoiling the event for him was that his father had sent his hearty congratulations instead of turning up to celebrate with the rest of the family.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” Andrew told her. “He said he suddenly just got tired of doing nothing with the rest of his life but shooting the breeze with a bunch of old men who were living in the past. He’s decided to turn over a new leaf. Part of that involves flying out here. And, I suspect that he’s anxious to meet his new son.”
Rose smiled. “At his age, Sean can’t exactly be called ‘new,’” she pointed out, amusement curving the generous corners of her mouth.
He looked at it in another way. “Considering the fact that Dad’s never seen him, I think the word ‘new’ could be applied in this case.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Pushing aside the empty juice glass, Rose got to her feet. “Well, I’d better get myself to the store,” she announced. She caught her husband arching his eyebrow in a silent query, which surprised her. “If there’s going to be another one of Andrew Cavanaugh’s famous parties in the very near future, I’ve got a lot of grocery shopping to do. Do you have a list ready for me?”
Instead of producing one, Andrew caught her hand and pulled her over to him, stopping his wife from leaving the room.
“No, no list and no famous party,” he told her. “I think that this time around, Dad meeting his son for the first time will be a private occasion.”
He could have knocked her over with a feather. “Really?” she asked incredulously.
In all the years that she had been part of Andrew’s life, she’d found that absolutely everything was an excuse for a family get-together and a party. “One for all and all for one” wasn’t just a famous phrase written by Alexander Dumas in The Three Musketeers, it was a mantra that she strongly suspected her husband believed in and lived by.
“Dad’s got a pretty tight rein on his emotions,” Andrew explained. Friendly and seemingly outgoing, there was still a part of Seamus Cavanaugh that he kept walled in, strictly to himself. That part grieved over loss and mourned over victims who couldn’t be saved in time. “But this kind of thing can just blow a man right out of the water. If, once he meets Sean, Dad loses it, he definitely won’t appreciate it happening in front of a room full of witnesses.”
Rose laughed. “Since when have we ever been able to fit all our relatives into just a room?” she asked.
“All right, I stand corrected. A house full of witnesses,” Andrew amended. “This is definitely one case of the less people being around for the grand reunion, the better.”
Rose pretended to be disappointed—but the hint of a grin gave her away. “And here I was, planning to sell tickets.”
“C’mere, woman.” Andrew laughed.
He gave her hand a quick tug and swept her onto his lap. He liked having her there just fine. In his mind, because he’d been given a second chance after doggedly searching for her all those years she’d had amnesia and been missing without realizing it, he still felt like a newlywed.
“Anyone ever tell you that you have a fresh mouth?” he asked Rose, doing his best to sound serious.
Rose laced her fingers together behind his neck as she made herself comfortable in her favorite “chair.” “Not that I recall,” she answered with a straight face. “Why? Do you want to sample it?”
The former chief of police grinned and looked every bit the boy whom she had first fallen in love with in second-period American English all those very many years ago.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said just before he kissed her and rocked her world.
Again.
Chapter 3
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