She smiled. “I knew you were good for something.”
He looked at her significantly as the phone on the other end of the line was ringing. “Oh, O’Banyon, you have no idea the things I’m good for.”
It was a joke, a throwaway line that was said and forgotten the next moment, she silently insisted. Why it would create a warm shiver up and down her spine she had absolutely no idea—and no time—to explore either her reaction or the possibilities Cavanaugh was so sensually alluding to. No time at all. Another senior citizen’s life might be coldly and cruelly cut short if she and Cavanaugh didn’t get to the bottom of this, and soon.
* * *
“Why don’t you call it a day and we can get an early start tomorrow?” Duncan suggested the next day at very close to the same time they had simultaneously burned out the night before.
Their shift had ended half an hour ago and they were both still at their desks, still poring over details and news clippings on the internet, trying to find something that might point them in the right direction.
Her eyes were blurry as she stared at the computer monitor. She needed eye drops. “Just another five minutes.”
“That’s what you said half an hour ago,” he told her. The woman needed a keeper. “You’re getting punchy. Go home to your little girl. Get some sleep.”
“Spoken like a man who never had a little girl—or little boy—in his life. Sleep and children do not belong in the same sentence,” she informed him in a voice that echoed of fatigue.
“Okay, ask Lucy to babysit while you catch up on your sleep. We can look at this with fresh eyes tomorrow.” He had a feeling that they would have been further ahead in all this if Brenda had managed to get back to them with her findings, but in true Murphy’s Law fashion, Brenda had come down with a really bad case of the flu and was out of commission for now.
“I’m fresh,” she insisted.
Walking around to her side of the desk, he pushed the keyboard away from her fingers and pulled back the chair she was sitting on. “Far be it from me to contradict a lady, but you’re not fresh, you’re wilting.”
“Look, I should know whether I’m fresh or not.” Even as she said it, she told herself she was going to argue with Duncan for maybe one more round before giving up and going home. Her stubborn streak just didn’t want him to win easily. “Look, Cavanaugh, you can go home if you want, but I’m—”
“Detective Cavanaugh, I’ve got an autopsy report for you, care of CSI supervisor Sean Cavanaugh,” a uniformed policeman announced, putting a long manila envelope on his desk.
Her exhaustion abruptly vanishing, Noelle was on her feet in an instant, rounding her desk and his until she laid hands on the envelope and held it up to him
“Open it, open it,” she cried.
Taking it from her, he was visibly amused as he unsealed the flap.
“What do you think I was going to do with this, have it bronzed?” Duncan asked her, slipping the report out of the envelope.
They saw it together, homing in on it as if there were a spotlight shining on the one line that could torpedo the budding investigation.
The line that said that Teasdale appeared to have died from a heart attack, and that the heart attack subsequently went on to be the cause of his losing control of the vehicle he was driving, ultimately crashing into the tree.
Noelle blew out a breath as for one brief moment, her stomach fell about as far as physically and emotionally possible.
Chapter 12
The next minute, Noelle rallied and snapped out of her momentary funk. “That doesn’t prove anything,” she declared.
To her surprise, Duncan agreed with her.
“You’re right, it doesn’t.” Quickly, he glanced over the rest of the preliminary autopsy information. “There is an outside chance the situation was manipulated. There’re drugs that can simulate a heart attack once they’re in your system. If Teasdale was somehow injected just before he drove off, or more likely, if he unknowingly ingested a drug that could mimic the symptoms of a heart attack, he’d wind up crashing just the way he did and it would look like an unfortunate accident caused by a heart attack.” He went further with his theory. “If there are any witnesses to the accident or if it was caught on a traffic camera, I’d bet that Teasdale was seen clutching at his chest.”
Which meant that they were still looking at murder, she thought. “So what we need is to have a full-on tox screen performed.”
Duncan nodded. “And that’s going to take some time—even with weight thrown around,” he added, anticipating her next suggestion.
She knew that. Knew that tox screen results didn’t just materialize on a page with the wave of a magic wand. Unable to bear the idea of just idly standing around, waiting on lab results, she switched her focus. “I guess we need another body.”
Duncan looked at her. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? That sounded rather cold and the woman he was getting to know behind all those barriers was not cold or unfeeling. Still, he had to clarify what she was saying for himself. “You mean another old person supposedly dropping dead under suspicious circumstances?”
Noelle shook her head. She was fervently hoping that there had been a temporary moratorium declared on dead senior policy holders to avoid further deaths. However, she knew how greedy some people could be and how they felt themselves invulnerable. More than likely, the deaths would continue.
“No, a body,” she stressed. “One that’s already dead. We need to exhume one of the people we found in those obituaries we pulled up.”
“Not exactly easy,” Duncan pointed out. “It’s not like taking a shovel and pail to the beach. We need to get either a court order or permission from next of kin—and these people have no next of kin. That’s the whole point.”
She wasn’t comfortable admitting that there were areas in her law enforcement education that still needed filling in. “How should we go about getting a court order?” she asked.
To her relief, her partner didn’t take the opportunity to ridicule her lack of knowledge—and he could have, given his background. Cavanaugh was turning out to be a really nice guy.
“We have to show probable cause,” Duncan answered. “And a hunch doesn’t qualify if that’s what you’re going to suggest.”
“Actually,” she said out loud, “I wasn’t going to say that. I was just going to recall that at your brother’s wedding, I thought I heard someone call one of the guests ‘Judge,’” she told him. “If he’s a friend of the family—”
It had taken him a while to get everyone straight in this new branch of the family that had been accidentally uncovered a little more than a year ago, getting names, faces and in some cases, careers down pat. Not everyone was as obsessive as he was, but despite his laid-back manner, Duncan liked keeping things straight. It gave him a sense of order.
“Actually,” he corrected, “there are two judges in the family itself.”
Her eyes lit up and the sight all but mesmerized him for a moment. They had to be the brightest shade of green he’d ever seen.
“Great,” she exclaimed.
“Not so great,” he contradicted. “This isn’t like having an inside track on something. If anything, it makes things a little more difficult. We still have to show probable cause, even with one of our own. Probably more so with our own so that the actions—or results—aren’t held suspect.
“You know,” he said, thinking it over slowly, “We might have an easier time of it with either one of those friends of your grandmother.”
“You mean Sally and Henry?” When he nodded in response, she had her doubts about the wisdom of his suggestion. “Why should it be easier? She wasn’t related to either one of them.”
There were times when extenuating circumstances could be taken into consideration. “B
ut she was a close friend to them, right?”
“Right,” Noelle agreed. “I think Lucy was most likely Henry’s only friend,” she speculated, remembering. “If his funeral was anything to go on.”
He was trying to pull together all the information he could that might be useful to make their case. “She paid for that, didn’t she?”
“Technically.” When he gave her a puzzled look, she explained, “From what I gathered, Henry had set some money aside to cover the funeral expenses. He did give Lucy access to the account.”
“So technically,” he emphasized, “Lucy was the executor of Henry’s estate, right?” Duncan was fishing for the right wording that would allow them to pursue this autopsy.
Noelle eyed her partner as the light suddenly went off in her head. Why hadn’t she considered that? Maybe she was more tired than she thought.
“Right,” she agreed.
“Okay,” he said, “first thing in the morning, we see about the proper steps to be taken to get the exhumation process started.”
She saw him turning off his computer. “Why not now?” she protested.
“Because,” he explained patiently, “the powers that be who can sign off on these things like to get their beauty sleep, which I suggest we do, as well.” Pushing his desk drawer closed, he paused to glance in her direction. “Although you don’t need any help in that department from where I’m standing.”
As she closed down her own computer, it took her a second to play back his words and make sense of them. “Was that a compliment?”
Duncan laughed shortly. “If you have to ask, then either it didn’t come out very well or you’re more tired than either one of us thinks.”
“It wouldn’t work, you know,” Noelle told him as she stopped to double-check if she had everything she wanted to take with her. Satisfied, she pushed her chair into her desk.
The comment had come out of left field and he wasn’t sure just what his partner was talking about. “What wouldn’t work?”
Turning, she began to head for the hall. “Something between us,” Noelle answered. She nodded at one of the few remaining detectives in the squad room as she passed his desk. “It wouldn’t work.”
Duncan caught up to her in two strides, crossing the threshold a half step behind her only because he didn’t want to crowd her. “What makes you say that?”
She frowned as she kept her eyes straight ahead and walked to the elevators. “Because I’m the Black Queen.”
“I think the term you’re looking for is Black Widow, not Black Queen.” He laughed at the mistake only because of the strange image the latter title conjured up in his head. Something out of a feature-length cartoon he’d seen as a kid. “Man, you really are punchy, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” She punched the down button extra hard. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Unless, of course,” she threw out offhand, “you have a death wish.”
“Not a death wish,” he corrected, then did own up to a quirk he possessed, “but I do like to live life on the edge.”
The elevator arrived and she stepped in. Because of the hour, the shift change had already taken place and they were alone in the small car. “And working in Vice with a side order of homicide isn’t enough ‘edginess’ for you?”
Reaching around her, his arm brushing against the side of her arm, he pressed the first-floor button. “I like to leave myself open to having new experiences.” Arriving at the first floor, he let her step out first as the doors opened. “Hey, you feel like stopping at Malone’s for a beer?” he suggested.
She’d been to the establishment regarded as a cop bar only twice: once as a uniformed police officer and once when she’d received her promotion. For the most part, after a full day, all she wanted to do was seek out the comfort of her home and her small family. But she knew of others who made a point to stop at Malone’s every night after their shift just to unwind before going home.
“Are you trying to ply me with liquor?” she deadpanned.
He laughed. “One beer is not plying.”
“Okay, how many beers does it take to qualify for plying?” she asked as they walked down the hallway to the back exit.
He thought for a moment. “At least four if your tolerance is low.”
“Let’s say it is, then what happens?” she asked.
At the door, he pushed it opened and then held it for her. “Then I can’t let you drive. I’d have to drive you home.”
Walking out, she turned toward him. The wind had picked up and rippled through her hair, causing strands to playfully glide along his face. “Whose home?”
For the slightest second, he felt his stomach tighten. Duncan sternly reminded himself that she was his partner, not his date. The thought seemed to get lost in translation.
“Whoever’s home you want it to be,” he answered significantly.
Noelle made no comment on that, didn’t really trust herself to at the moment. Instead, she asked, “And if the reverse happens?”
“You mean you plying me?” he asked, surprised that she would pose the question. Further surprised when she nodded in response. “That’s easy. Then I’d count on you driving me home.”
She stopped on the bottom step of the building before heading toward her car in the parking lot. “Same question.”
His mouth slowly curved, the impression all the more sensual looking for its speed. “Same answer,” he countered.
She took a breath, made her decision and dove in. “Okay.”
He was unclear as to what she had just agreed to. “Okay what?”
Noelle unconsciously wet her lips before replying. “Okay, let’s go to Malone’s for that beer and see what happens.”
Surprised and momentarily taken aback, it took Duncan a second to get moving.
* * *
Noelle slowly looked around as she followed Duncan into Malone’s, taking in the atmosphere. It appeared to be more crowded tonight than it had the other two times she’d been here.
The din seemed to envelop her the moment she crossed the threshold, but rather than be the source of stress or annoyance, the din was somehow warm and soothing rather than jarring.
They were making their way toward the bar and she found she had to lean in to Duncan to make herself heard. “If I were a civilian, I’d feel very safe in here,” she told him. “The place has wall-to-wall cops. The last time I saw so many cops was at your brother’s wedding.”
He glanced around as he continued to forge a path for them to the bar to place their order.
“Actually—” Duncan hazarded a guess “—I think there were more there than here, but I might be wrong.” Arriving at the bar, he turned to her as he signaled for the bartender. “So, beer?” he asked, double-checking.
She’d never cared for the bitter taste. Noelle shook her head. “Club soda.”
Duncan arched one eyebrow in amusement. “So, I take it that you’ve changed your mind about seeing what happens?”
“Just saving you from disaster,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve decided that I like having you as a partner and I really don’t want death to be entering that equation.”
He looked at her for a long moment before saying, “I thought it already had.” The bartender had reached them at this point, so Duncan gave the man their order. “Scotch on the rocks and one club soda for the lady.”
“Not someone else’s death,” she corrected as the bartender moved to the side to retrieve a bottle of Scotch. “Yours.”
Returning, the bartender poured the dark amber liquid over the ice in the glass. “You really do believe in that stuff, don’t you?” Duncan asked.
“Doesn’t have anything to do with believing or not believing. It happened,” she answered matter-of-factly. She nodded at the bartender as the latter partial
ly emptied an individual-size bottle of club soda into a glass and moved that in front of her. “I buried two fiancés,” Noelle added solemnly.
Duncan paused to take one sip of his drink, then looked at her thoughtfully. “So I’ll be okay as long as we don’t get engaged.”
Because of the swelling noise level in the bar, he was forced to repeat the words into her ear in order for her to hear him.
A warm shiver, generated by his breath along her skin, had her reacting in ways she didn’t welcome. Ways that seemed to seep into her soul with an intensity that took her breath away.
She closed her eyes for a second, pushing the sensation back and getting a tight rein over herself. Or trying to.
“Right,” she murmured, forcing the word out since her mouth had decided to suddenly go very dry, causing the words to stick to her tongue. “No engagement.”
Glass in hand, he smiled over the rim. The smile went directly into her chest. “Problem solved.”
“No,” she contradicted strongly, or thought she did, “problem just started.”
* * *
They remained at Malone’s for the better part of half an hour, interacting with members of the force, trading pleasantries and trying to pretend that the work they did had obligingly remained at the threshold when they had entered the establishment.
But the evening was getting on and eventually they began to make their way back to the entrance.
The outside world hit them with a blast of cool night air, made cooler still by the contrast of the atmosphere inside the bar and outside of it.
“Looks like you won’t be needing that ride home,” he commented, referring to her very sober state.
“How about you?” she asked.
He laughed shortly at the question. “If one drink could render me incapable of driving, then I’m in big trouble.”
She slowly shook her head. “No, I mean why don’t you come home with me?”
He looked at her for a long moment, wondering if she actually knew what she was saying—wondering if he knew for that matter. “Sure.”
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