Cavanaugh Standoff. Marie Ferrarella
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caught her attention. “So now you think it’s a vigilante?”
He reminded himself that she was brand-new to the team and as such wasn’t apprised of pertinent details. He reviewed them in a nutshell. “This is the fifth street thug who’s been ‘executed’ this way. Three from one gang—the War Lords—and two from another—the Terminators. If it’s not a vigilante, what’s your take on it?”
“Well, off the top of my head,” she said, working through the problem as she spoke, “maybe it’s the work of a third gang, trying to get rid of the competition.”
“Aurora doesn’t have a gang. We had a few nerdy types a few years ago who tried to flex their muscles by spray-painting a couple of buildings, but the fact that they’d painted slogans using four-and five-syllable words gave them away. They were tracked down pretty quickly and turned over to their parents. That was the end of Aurora’s one and only ‘gang,’” he declared. “Anything else?”
Sierra grinned. “Nope. Not at this time.”
He caught her expression out of the corner of his eye as he continued to the precinct. “Then why do you look like some damn cat that swallowed a canary?”
“Because that’s the most number of words you’ve said to me since I became part of your team. I knew you had it in you.”
Ronan shook his head, exasperated. He didn’t trust himself to say anything in response so the rest of the ride to the precinct was made in silence.
* * *
THE MOMENT HE reached the squad room, Ronan walked straight to Martinez and Choi’s desks. “You guys learn anything?” he demanded.
Choi spoke first. “In between a bout of dry heaves, Billie, the guy who tripped over our victim, swore he’d never seen him before. I tend to believe him,” he said and then explained why before Ronan could ask. “The guy thought he was going to die and most people tend to tell the truth when they think they’re going to die.”
“And the bartender?” Ronan asked. So far, this wasn’t going well, he thought dourly.
“The guy who opened up the tavern wasn’t the guy on duty last night. He had that guy come down, but the evening bartender wasn’t all that helpful. According to Dave, the guy tending bar last night,” Martinez interjected, “it was really crowded and our victim didn’t make much of an impression on him. He said he ‘thought’ he saw our victim downing some tequilas with some sexy little number making eyes at him, but when Dave came back to that side of the bar, our victim and the woman who might or might not have been with him were gone.”
“There was no sign of a woman being in the alley,” Choi reminded the others.
“Maybe she left before anything happened,” Martinez speculated.
“Or maybe she saw what was happening and managed to get away before the killer saw her. That would make her a witness,” Sierra said, looking at Ronan to see whether he liked that idea.
Ronan nodded to himself. “Maybe you’ve got something there, Carlyle. It’s worth exploring.” He turned toward Choi and Martinez. “Go back to the bartender. See if he’ll sit with our sketch artist and describe this ‘sexy little number’ so we can pass it around Walker’s neighborhood, see if anyone recognizes her,” Ronan instructed.
“On our way,” Choi said, leaving the squad room with Martinez right behind him.
He’d gone with her theory, Sierra thought, rather surprised Ronan hadn’t given her an argument first. She turned toward him, a wide smile on her lips, and asked, “Still annoyed that Carver assigned me to the team?”
Ronan was practically stone-faced. “You waiting for a pat on the head?”
“No, but a ‘hey, not a bad idea’ might be in order,” she countered.
The expression on his face was dark. “Okay. Hey, not a bad idea. Happy?” he asked.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”
“They haven’t made a nutcracker tough enough for that,” he told her as he began to walk to the break room.
“Don’t count on it,” she called after him.
She saw him stop for a second then resume walking. She got to him, she thought with a satisfied smile. Step one.
* * *
WHEN RONAN RETURNED to the squad room half an hour later, he was halfway to his desk when he stopped dead. There was a bulletin board mounted on wheels pushed up against the wall nearest their desks.
He walked straight to Sierra. “Where did that come from?” he asked sharply.
Busy tacking up a few last-minute things she’d jotted down, she didn’t turn around as she answered, “The store room.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“I thought we could do with some visual aids,” she told him. Finished, she turned around to face him. “Might stimulate our thinking.”
The woman was taking over, he thought, and he didn’t run things that way. “I think my thinking is stimulated enough right now,” he warned her. There was a definite edge in his voice. “Where did you get those?” he asked, waving a hand at the board.
There were five photographs tacked on the board, each with a name and time of death listed beneath it.
“I pulled up the list of victims and then scanned their photos, the ones off the DMV records,” she explained, adding, “because the others were too gruesome. I put those up along with the date and time of their deaths.” She kept talking even though she could see that, so far, her answers were annoying him. Her hope was that if she bombarded him with enough facts, he’d see things her way. “I thought that having them up there like that might get us to see something we’re missing.”
His eyes met hers, pinning her to the spot. “Who told you to do that?”
“No one. It’s call initiative. Isn’t that why I’m here?”
He felt as if she’d pushed him to the edge. “Frankly, I don’t know why you’re here. I’m still trying to figure it out.”
“Here’s a hint. It’s to help with the investigation,” she told him.
He could feel his temper rising. “You can ‘help’ by following orders.”
“Which would be okay if there were any orders to follow,” she countered. “Look, other homicide detectives find having this kind of board up is helpful.” When he continued to glare and said nothing, she blew out a frustrated breath. She wasn’t trying to challenge his authority, she was trying to help, but this was still his team to manage. “You want me to take the photos down and take the board back to the storeroom?”
The look of anger on his face abated somewhat. Ronan glanced at the bulletin board again.
“No, leave it up,” he told her in a resigned voice. “Just next time check with me before you do anything.”
She still couldn’t help feeling as if she was being tethered. But if she wanted to work this case—and she really did—she was going to have to abide by his rules.
Inclining her head, Sierra said, “I’m going to the break room for lunch now, is that okay with you?”
Damn, but she was irritating. “If you’re trying to get under my skin, Carlyle, you’ve already done it,” he told her.
“Lunch?” she repeated innocently, still waiting for him to tell her it was all right.
He waved his hand at her impatiently. “Go. And if you solve the case over your ham-and-cheese sandwich, let me know first before you run off to cuff anyone.”
“It’s roast beef,” Sierra corrected. “And you’ll