Cavanaugh's Surrender. Marie Ferrarella
Читать онлайн книгу.
slashed.
Destiny Richardson had spent the past six years diligently working in the crime lab, at first part-time while she went to college and earned her degree in criminology, then, after graduation, full-time. From the very beginning, she had constantly gone the extra mile, putting in longer hours whenever she had a case.
In short order, she impressed Sean Cavanaugh, the man in charge of the crime lab’s day shift. He promoted her to his chief assistant.
The first cardinal rule for a crime scene investigator was not to move or touch anything. But she wasn’t a crime scene investigator tonight. She was Paula’s sister, and she desperately wanted to save her.
But even as she grabbed her sister, ready to pull Paula out of the discolored water and perform CPR to try to save her, she knew it was too late. Paula’s skin was abnormally cold and clammy.
And there was no heartbeat. Not even a faint flutter.
Paula was dead and had been for a number of hours.
“Oh, Paula, Paula, what did you do?” Destiny grieved, sinking down to the floor beside the bathtub. Water soaked into her clothing. She didn’t care.
Because there was no one there and she had never felt so very alone in her life, Destiny allowed herself to break down for a moment.
Just for a moment.
She buried her face against the knees she’d brought up to her chest and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. Because it was.
Chapter 1
If police work wasn’t for all intents and purposes the family business—doubly so now that he, along with the rest of his siblings and his father, had irrefutable proof that they comprised what amounted to the long-lost branch of the Cavanaugh family—Detective Logan Cavanaugh, known until recently as Logan Cavelli, would have been sorely tempted to give serious thought to another career choice.
Granted, Logan would have been the first to admit that he loved being a cop. Loved the idea that in some small way, he was fighting the good fight, righting wrongs and, along with his brothers and sisters, giving Aurora’s everyday citizens that thin blue line that they knew was out there to protect them.
But there were times when the hours that went along with being a detective just about killed him. In the absolute sense, they were the same kind of hours that a doctor was expected to keep.
Doctors and police detectives were always expected to be on call—except that a doctor made a hell of a lot more money than he made, Logan thought darkly as he now drove—alone—to the address his lieutenant had handed to him when the man had torpedoed the very eventful evening he had planned for himself and his utterly luscious date.
One minute.
One lousy little minute. Sixty seconds and counting down, that’s all he’d had left to his shift and then this evening with all its sensual promise would have become a reality.
He had already powered down his computer because Stacy, displaying a rare flair for punctuality, had just waltzed through the squad room door and had instantly made him the envy of every other breathing male in the vicinity.
Stacy, with the hips from heaven and the sinful mouth, who simply by walking across the floor could cause a eunuch to have lustful thoughts, was his date tonight. He was taking her out for dinner, dancing and a hot night of even hotter sex. The blond would-be model was his kind of woman. Gorgeous, passionate and totally uninterested in a permanent relationship.
Tonight had all the makings of an absolutely perfect evening.
But then his lieutenant had summoned him away from the doorway just as he was a hair’s breadth away from being free and clear and making it into the hall.
No, that wasn’t actually true, he thought in resignation, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles were all but straining against his skin. Even if he had been in the middle of that passionate evening, enjoying all of Stacy’s fabulously assembled attributes, his cell would have rung, calling him away from the ecstasy that shimmered before him, beckoning him onward because duty called.
When you’re the next one up, you’re the next one up. It was a simple, albeit hard, fact of life that went along with carrying a shield and a weapon.
So, instead of hot filet mignon, his dinner tonight would probably be the last couple of slices of the cold, leftover pizza in his refrigerator. And instead of a hot woman in his bed, he’d be sleeping alone tonight.
That was, if he got any sleep at all. A homicide detective with four years of experience under his belt, he’d learned that some cases unfurled slowly, inch by painful inch, while others ran you right into the ground from the moment you stepped into the crime scene arena and silently pledged to solve whatever needed solving.
Daylight had receded and the evening was making itself comfortable. He drove, looking for the right building, still wishing that he’d been engaged in a job that defined specific hours where the end of the day was the end of the day.
Wishing wouldn’t make it so. Besides, Stacy, pouting prettily, had perked up at the promise of a rain check.
He laughed softly to himself, wondering if the woman thought that rain was actually involved in a rain check. He wouldn’t put it past her. Luckily, it wasn’t her brain that attracted him. After having to be on his toes all the time, it was nice to kick back sometimes and just let his brain rest.
Pulling up before the right apartment building, Logan saw that there were absolutely no empty spaces available along the long block. He debated driving to the parking structure on the next block, but he decided instead to double-park his vehicle in the fervent hope that his part in this wouldn’t take all that long.
From the sketchy details he’d been given, it sounded pretty much like a cut-and-dried suicide—end of story. Once he verified that it was, maybe he could still even get hold of Stacy and at least get to enjoy the second half of the evening—that was, after all, the only thing that either one of them actually wanted from the other. Hot sex, enjoyable and a few minutes respite from the world they dealt with on a regular basis.
The thought made him smile as he got out of the car and locked it behind him.
The apartment in question was on the third floor. Once he got off the elevator, Logan found he didn’t need to acquaint himself with the floor’s layout or the way the apartment numbers were arranged to locate the one where his services were needed. The yellow tape and the stoic police officer standing guard did that for him.
Vaguely recognizing the weary-looking older officer, he nodded at the man. Their paths had probably crossed at one point or another, Logan thought.
“My dad here yet?”
It was actually meant as a rhetorical question. This was the tail end of the day shift, but his father, the head of the CSI day lab, was dedicated beyond belief. He was the one who had instilled his work ethic in him and his siblings long before they had discovered that they were related to the Cavanaughs.
Besides, there was all this yellow tape across the front of the entrance, a sure sign that his father and some of the team who worked for him were in there, carefully documenting and preserving everything with such precision it would have absolutely stunned the average mind.
The officer, Dale Hanlon, shook his head. “No, not yet.”
Logan stopped, surprised as he turned to regard the officer. Unless there were multiple crime scenes happening at once—something that had yet to occur in Aurora—in the past year—his father had taken to being present with his team at each crime scene that they processed.
This wasn’t making any sense to him. “Then who put up all this yellow tape?” he asked.
“I did.”
The low, controlled female voice came from behind him. The vague thought that the voice was more suited to an intimate dinner