Cavanaugh Pride

by Marie Ferrarella

  She didn’t like being singled out, especially since she really wasn’t part of the group. It made her feel as if she was on a tightrope. But Solis was expecting an answer, so she gave him one—in the form of a question. “Are you aware that none of the women were raped, Special Agent?”

  Unfazed, Solis shrugged his shoulders. His black jacket barely moved. “Just means he’s impotent, that’s all. More to be angry about.”

  She didn’t think so. “No, if he were impotent and this was about sexual rage, he’d used anything he could get his hands on to penetrate them. Rebar, a stick, a bottle, whatever did the trick if that was his ultimate goal. Plenty of things like that in the Dumpsters—and most likely wherever the murder happened.” Because, like Frank, she subscribed to the theory that all the women were killed somewhere other than where they were found.

  It was obvious that Solis wasn’t pleased with her take on it. “So what are you saying, he’s ‘respectfully’ murdering them?”

  She wished she hadn’t started this. But if the special agent intended on making her squirm, he was going to be disappointed, she thought. “No, I’m saying that maybe he’s just trying to get rid of them, to rid the world of them,” she elaborated, and then added, “And I don’t think he’s homeless.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose as he pinned her with a skeptical look. It was all Frank could do to keep from laughing. “Oh?”

  Julianne forged ahead, even though she fought back an urge to tell the profiler what he could so with his high-handed, disapproving tone.

  “More than half the women are professional career women. They’d never let a homeless man near them. Neither would the prostitutes.” She saw Riley look at her in surprise. “Homeless men don’t have the kind of money the hookers are looking to make.”

  Solis snorted, dismissing her theory. “And how long have you been profiling?”

  “About an hour,” she answered evenly. “But I’ve been observing people for a lot longer than that,” she added just as a smug expression began to come over the man’s angular face.

  Sensing that they were on the verge of having the situation become really uncomfortable, Brian quickly intervened.

  “Special Agent Solis, are you going to be sticking around to help us with this case?” Forewarned was forearmed, he’d always believed. The man had said nothing about this possibility when he’d arrived, so Brian was hoping the answer to his question was no.

  And it was. “Sorry, but I’ve got to be getting back,” Solis told him. “I was just asked to come out and form a profile of the man you’re looking for.” He looked pointedly at Julianne. “Now that I have—”

  “You need to be getting back to the field office, I completely understand.” Without wasting any time and afraid that the man might change his mind, Brian looked over toward Hill. “Detective Hill, would you mind driving Special Agent Solis to the airport?”

  Hill looked a little surprised at being chosen, then inclined his head. One outsider was enough to get used to. This one was going to make too many waves in the way they worked.

  “No problem.” He offered Solis a large, toothy smile. “Come with me, Special Agent.”

  Once the profiler had left, Brian looked at Julianne. “Well, I was going to ask if you’d found a niche for yourself, but I guess I’ve got my answer.”

  Julianne pressed her lips together. At least he wasn’t reprimanding her. “I didn’t mean to step on any toes, it’s just that I don’t think that Solis’s right. I think whoever this serial killer is, the women trust him. Trust him enough to let them come within five feet of them. That’s not someone who’s been living on the streets, or gives off vibes that he’s sexually frustrated.”

  Riley picked up on the word Julianne used. “Trust him how? Like a priest?”

  Julianne thought about it. “No. Only two of these women were Catholics.” The rest were a scattering of different religions and at least one was an avowed atheist. “Why would the others seek out a priest?”

  Offhand, there was no answer for that. “So we’re back to square one?” Brian asked.

  “Not exactly square one,” she said. They had learned a few things, she thought. “More like version one point one.”

  Like software, Brian thought. He supposed it was something. “Keep at it,” he said to Frank. “The city’s getting very jumpy about having a serial killer in their midst.”

  Frank knew his stepfather would have rather kept the whole thing under wraps without involving the news media, but the papers broke the story several weeks ago. Since then, they’d set up a tip line. It was almost never silent. And nothing had come of it.

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Frank theorized. “It’ll make women be more careful.”

  “Or paranoid,” Brian countered. He’d been around long enough to have seen these kinds of things go bad. “That’s all I need, a city full of women with concealed weapons, ready to Taser—or worse—the next poor slob who make the mistake of tapping them on the shoulder.”

  “At least they’ll both be alive,” Riley pointed out. “And that’s a good thing.”

  “Just get this loony for me,” Brian requested with weary feeling. Before leaving, he turned toward Julianne. “And, White Bear?”

  She’d been waiting for the chief to get around to her. She had embarrassed a special agent with the FBI and now it was time to pay the piper. Was he going to send her away? “Yes, sir?”

  Brian smiled at her warmly. “Nice job just now.”

  She blinked, confused. Praise was something she was essentially unacquainted with. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Coming up with your own profile,” the chief explained, amused by her disoriented expression. “I think yours works better than the one that special agent gave us.”

  She wasn’t sure how to react. Something warm opened up in her chest. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Chief will do,” Brian told her. Sir made him feel as if he was ready to be put out to pasture. With a new bride at home, out to pasture was definitely one place he wasn’t ready to occupy.

  “Chief,” Julianne echoed with a nod of her head. The corners of her mouth curved ever so slightly.

  “Anything else strike you about this man?” Frank asked as soon as his stepfather had left the room.

  Julianne shook her head. “Nothing I can think of, offhand.” She paused, then added, “Except that maybe he has a nice face.”

  “A nice face,” Frank echoed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “A nice face,” she repeated. “Again, like someone you’d trust. Like someone who looks like he’d never even think of hurting anyone, much less a perfect stranger.”

  Sanchez joined their circle. “You mean like Ted Bundy?”

  The infamous serial killer had been able to conduct his bloodthirsty spree because he was so good-looking and so nonthreatening in appearance. No one suspected him of being capable of the gruesome crimes he actually committed.

  Julianne nodded. “Something like that.”

  “You think this serial killer stalked them?” Frank asked, wondering just how much thought White Bear had put into this and if it all was just speculation on her part, or if she was working with some sort of insider information they didn’t know about.

  Confronted with the question, Julianne thought for a moment. “I think he comes across them in his daily life and then, yes I think he starts watching them until he feels the time is right.”

  “And when is the time right?” Riley pressed eagerly, caught up in the theory.

  Julianne shook her head, frustrated. “That I don’t know.”

  Frank said nothing as he went back to his office. There was a great deal to think about, though.

  He put her on phone duty, explaining that everyone had a turn listening and taking down what eventually turned out to be false pieces of information, usually rendered with the best of intentions.

  Several hours of that had all but flattened her ear and made her feel as if she was c
lose to being brain dead. She had a hard time not commenting on obvious stupidity, but somehow, Julianne managed to make it through the shift.

  Returning to the squad room for her things, she passed Frank’s office. Everyone else had already gone home for the day. Mercifully, there’d been no other sightings, no other bodies discovered in Dumpsters.

  In his office, his back was to the entrance and he was on the phone. She was about to knock on his door to give him the courtesy of saying she was leaving.

  But since she had no idea how long he was going to be, she turned on her heel, about to leave, when she heard him say, “I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Captain Randolph. I’d also appreciate it if you keep this conversation just between the two of us. Right,” he said, answering something the man on the other end of the phone said. “I agree. She wouldn’t understand. Glad you do, sir. Good night.”

  All sorts of thoughts ricocheted through her head. The second McIntyre hung up, she charged into his office, ready for a confrontation. Her initial thought had been just to get away. But that never solved anything. Besides, she was mad. Who the hell did he think he was, checking up on her?

  “You called Captain Randolph about me?” she demanded hotly.

  Startled, Frank swung around in his chair. He hadn’t even heard her walk up. “Julianne, I thought you were gone.”

  It was the first time she’d heard him say her first name. Somehow, that made everything that had just happened that much more personal. And it made her angrier.

  “Well, I’m not!” she snapped. Her hands were on her hips as her eyes flashed blue lightning. “Were you just pumping Captain Randolph for information about me?”

  “Just trying to get a few things straight,” he answered vaguely, then added, “And I’d tone my voice down a few notches if I were you.” He didn’t appreciate her tone of voice, no matter how magnificent she looked when angry.

  “Well, you’re not me,” she fired back. “Nobody just delved into your life history—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “Not exactly your life history—”

  She charged right over it. “Then what ‘exactly’?” she demanded, her temper flaring higher. Digging her knuckles into his desk top, she leaned over it, her face inches from his. “What could you have possibly asked the captain that you couldn’t ask me firsthand?”

  He rose from his desk, his eyes darkening to match his expression. “And if I asked you questions, you would have answered them?”

  “Yes!” she snapped at him.

  He had his doubts. Everything about the woman was secretive. She played her cards close to the vest. “Truthfully?”

  Her eyes widened. The question all but took her breath away. This was her integrity he was bandying about. “So now you suspect I’m a liar as well as whatever else is going on in your mind?”

  He backtracked. “I just wanted to be sure about you.”

  “Sure about what?” she demanded. What was he accusing her of?

  “That you were here because he sent you, that you didn’t falsify your papers—”

  She let him get no further. “Falsify my—” She was too stunned to finish the sentence. “Why the hell would I do that?” she cried.

  “Because you seemed to know a lot about the killer,” he told her honestly. “I thought maybe there was some kind of connection.”

  “There is.” Her voice was dangerously low. “He killed my cousin.”

  Frank shook his head, dismissing her answer. “I mean more than that.”

  “Did you also accuse the FBI profiler?” she asked. “He claimed to know what made the serial killer tick. Why didn’t you check him out? Why just me?”

  “Because you seem to be dead-on.” He looked at her for a long moment. Had she seen the killer? When that one woman was murdered in Mission Ridge, had White Bear stumbled across him and let him go for some reason? Had guilt brought her here, and now she wanted to make amends?

  “So I’m better at putting some of the pieces together than he is. Is that a crime?” Angry, insulted, Julianne drew herself up. “Look, if you don’t want my help, just say the word.”

  They’d gone around about this thing just the other day. And she’d asked to stay. Was she changing her mind now? “You’d go back to Mission Ridge?” he asked incredulously.

  “No, I’d take some time off and try to find this sicko on my own.” And then she allowed sarcasm to enter her voice. “But don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your work.”

  He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he studied her for a long, unnerving moment.

  “Under the heading of ‘Works and plays well with others,’ did you get straight ‘unsatisfactories’ when you were in elementary school?” he finally asked her. A hint of a smile played on his lips as he asked.

  Julianne tossed her head. “I was a happy kid,” she informed him defiantly.

  “So what happened?”

  He was standing much too close to her. Invading her space. She would have taken a step back if it wouldn’t have given him the impression that he intimidated her—because he didn’t.

  “I grew up.”

  He watched her mouth as she fired back at him and felt something stir inside. He was more than familiar with the reaction.

  Too bad, he lamented silently.

  “Takes more than that,” he told her. He wanted to know what pressed this woman’s buttons. Why she looked as if she was a firecracker about to go off without warning. Maybe if he knew, it would curb his desire to find out what her mouth tasted like. “Tell you what, why don’t we grab a drink and we can talk about it?”

  What was it with these people and their attention spans? “I told you, I don’t—”

  “Drink, right, I know. Water, then,” he suggested easily. “What we’re doing as we talk isn’t important. Talking is.”

  “Frustrated shrink?” she guessed sarcastically at his reasons.

  “Frustrated detective.” He looked at her pointedly. “Won’t cost you to talk to me.”

  She supposed he wanted to go to his usual place. She didn’t. She didn’t want to be on display for all the other members of the police department to gap at. “Rafferty’s?”

  He shrugged. “Or someplace else. The drink and the place don’t matter,” he emphasized.

  Okay, so what would it hurt? If he was determined to spend some time with her after hours, she might as well get something out of it. “All right. You can buy me dinner.”

  Frank grinned. “Consider it done.”

  He was grinning. She wished he wouldn’t grin. It got to her.

  The word mistake whispered across her brain as she left the squad room with him.

  Chapter 8

  Frank brought her to a well-lit family-style restaurant with checkered tablecloths and friendly ambience. The food, although not fancy, was appetizing, and the service was fast.

  Ordering a Black Russian for himself, he was surprised when Julianne agreed to the waiter’s suggestion of sparkling cider. He watched with interest as Julianne drained her glass while waiting for their dinners to arrive. The waiter came by to refill the glass after setting their meals down in front of them.

  For a woman who didn’t imbibe, Frank mused, she certainly did do justice to her drink.

  He waited until he was fairly certain that Julianne had taken the edge off her hunger before he asked the question that had been on his mind since she first walked into the squad room.

  “All right, Detective White Bear, tell me what makes you so angry.”

  She raised her eyes to his, wondering, at the same time, why the room was just the slightest bit out of focus. “I’m not angry.”

  He said nothing in response. Instead, he put down his fork and he took out his cell phone. Aiming it at her, he snapped a picture. Then, switching the camera’s function to the still mode, he placed his phone on the table and turned it upside down so that she could see it.

  “Then I’d say that you’re doing
a good imitation.”

  Snapping the phone shut, she pushed it back to him. “Okay,” she allowed grudgingly. “Point taken. Maybe, if I look angry,” she qualified, not giving in completely, “it’s because I don’t have any control over where I’m being sent. One day, I’m at Mission Ridge dealing with the city’s first homicide in ten years, the next, I’m here, being shoved in with a group of people who all know each other and most likely resent having someone forced on them, but are too polite to say it.” She paused, taking another sip to wash down her words before continuing, “Maybe I’m angry because this serial killer found Mary before I could—and took her away forever.” She drew in a breath, her head swimming just a little. “And maybe I’m angry because despite the fact that the group leader is invading my space and thinks someone appointed him my social director, I’m so attracted to him, I’m having trouble concentrating.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, she appeared more surprised than he did to hear them. Eyes widening at what she viewed to be a very basic tactical error, Julianne looked down at the empty glass beside her in awakening horror. “That’s not just apple cider, is it?”

  Well, that explained that, he thought. Playing along, Frank reached over for her glass and sniffed it.

  “Nope,” he confirmed. “I’m no expert, but I’d say that was some form of white wine. It does have a hint of apples to it,” he allowed, setting the glass back down on the table. He couldn’t resist asking, “Couldn’t you tell the difference?”

  She drew herself up, trying to appear formidable. At five-four and with a slight build, she usually relied on her expression to do the trick. Right now, lightning was all but shooting from her eyes.

  It wasn’t his fault, she reminded herself, trying to be fair. McIntyre hadn’t ordered the drink for her, she had, going with the waiter’s suggestion.