Cavanaugh Pride. Marie Ferrarella
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“Why? Is something wrong? You did say you could use more of a staff.”
“Yes, but I meant someone from our homicide division.” He’d never thought someone from the outside would be brought in. He didn’t have time to integrate this woman. “Maybe Taylor, or—”
“Granted, we have the superior police department,” Brian agreed, tongue in cheek. Mission Ridge’s police department numbered twelve in all, but he’d been given White Bear’s record and found it exemplary. “But I thought, since the captain called from Mission Ridge and the killer’s M.O. was exactly the same as the serial killer we’re dealing with, that it wouldn’t hurt to bring in a fresh set of eyes.” That said, Brian leaned back in his chair to study his stepson. “Is there a problem?”
Other than feeling as if he was being invaded, no, Frank thought, there wasn’t a problem. At least, not yet. And then he replayed his own words in his head before speaking. He was coming across like some kind of grumpy malcontent.
Leaning back, Frank blew out a breath and then shook his head. “No, I guess I just would have liked a heads-up.”
“Sorry I couldn’t give you one,” Brian apologized, then added, “I’m sure that the dead women would have liked to have been given a heads-up that they were about to become the serial killer’s next victims.”
“Point taken,” Frank murmured. Brian was right. Nothing really mattered except clearing this case and getting that damn serial killer off the streets before he killed again. If bringing in some detective from a nearby town accomplished that, so be it. And then, because it was Brian, the man who used to bring him and his siblings toys when they were little, the man who he’d secretly wished was his father when he was growing up, Frank let down his guard and told him what was really bothering him. “I just thought that maybe you thought—”
“If I didn’t think you were up to the job, Frank, I wouldn’t have let you head up the task force,” Brian informed him. “My marrying your mother has nothing to do with what I think of you as a law-enforcement officer. And if I have something to say about your performance, I won’t resort to charades—or to undermining your authority. You know me better than that,” he emphasized.
“Yeah, I do,” Frank agreed, feeling just a little foolish for this flash of insecurity. This, too, was new to him. Self-confidence was normally something he took for granted.
“I hear that White Bear’s good,” Brian continued. “Maybe what she has to contribute might help you to wind up this case.”
If only, Frank thought. Out loud, he said, “Maybe,” and stood up, turning toward the door. He’d wasted enough of the chief’s time.
“Frank?” Brian called after him.
Frank stopped and looked at the man over his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”
“Go home at a reasonable hour tonight,” Brian instructed. “Get some sleep. You’re no good to me—or anyone else—dead on your feet.”
Frank turned to face him again. “I’m not dead on my feet,” he protested.
They both knew he was, but Brian inclined his head, allowing the younger man the benefit of the charade. “Almost dead on your feet.”
The last thing he wanted was preferential treatment. There’d already been some talk making the rounds about that. Since his mother had married Brian, there’d been rumors sparked by jealousy. He was beginning to have new respect for what the younger Cavanaughs had to put up with, working on the force.
“Just one thing.” He saw Brian raise a quizzical brow. “Are you speaking as the chief of detectives, or as my new stepfather?”
Brian was not quick to answer. “Now that you mention it, both,” he finally said, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “And if you don’t comply, I’ll tell your mother.” He punctuated his threat with a grin.
“Message received, loud and clear.” For the first time in two days, Frank McIntyre grinned.
“And if you get a chance,” Brian added just before his stepson went out the door, “Andrew would like to see you at breakfast tomorrow.”
Everyone knew about Andrew Cavanaugh’s breakfasts. More food moved from the former chief of police’s stove to the table he’d had specially built than the ordinary high-traffic restaurant. The family patriarch welcomed not just his immediate family, but his nieces and nephews and their significant others as well. There was no such thing as too many people at his table and, like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, Andrew never seemed to run out of food no matter how many people turned up at his door.
“If I get the time,” Frank answered.
“Make the time,” Brian replied. There was no arguing with his tone.
“Is that an order, sir?”
At which point, Brian smiled. “That’s just a friendly suggestion. You really wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Andrew.”
It was an empty threat. Even though everyone knew that in his day, Andrew Cavanaugh was a formidable policeman, when it came to matters concerning his family, Andrew always led with his heart. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Frank promised.
“You do that, Frank. You do that. And don’t forget to tell me what you think of this White Bear—once you give her a chance,” he added knowingly.
Frank nodded. “Will do.”
He still wasn’t all that happy as he went back to the cubbyhole that served as the task force’s work area. Becoming integrated into the Cavanaugh family was enough of an adjustment without having some outsider suddenly thrust upon him. It was the last thing he needed.
At any other time, he thought, pausing in the doorway and quietly observing the newest addition to his task force, he would have welcomed someone who looked like Julianne. The woman was a head-turner, no doubt about that. But he was in charge of the task force and that changed the rules.
He’d never much liked rules, Frank thought with an inward sigh, but there was no arguing the fact that he was bound by them.
Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the room.
“So, did Riley get you all caught up?” Frank asked as he came up behind Julianne.
Five victims were on the board, five women from essentially two different walks of life who, at first glance, didn’t appear to have anything in common. If there was a prayer of solving this case and bringing down the serial killer, each victim would require more than just a glance. More like an examination under a microscope. No way could she have even scratched the surface in the amount of time that he’d been gone.
Was he testing her?
“She gave me a thumbnail sketch of each victim,” Julianne answered guardedly, watching his face for an indication of his thoughts. “It’s going to take me a while to actually get caught up.” She pulled a folder out from the bottom of the pile of files she’d been given and placed it on top. “While I’m at it, you might want to go over Millie Klein.”
The name was unfamiliar to him. “Millie Klein?” he repeated.
“The woman found in the Dumpster in Mission Ridge,” Julianne elaborated.
She leaned back in her chair as last Tuesday came rushing back at her. The woman, an estate planning lawyer, had been her first dead body. When she closed her eyes, Julianne could still see the grayish, lifeless body half buried in garbage, her bloodshot eyes open wide and reflecting surprise and horror.
“It looks like your guy was off on a field trip when he had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to kill another woman,” she speculated.