Cavanaugh's Bodyguard. Marie Ferrarella
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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