But Patrick did make it extremely difficult to concentrate, difficult to think of him as possibly being guilty of the allegations anonymously brought against him.
Just after she’d finished her shift, she’d been summoned to meet with her superior over another tepid cup of coffee at yet another out-of-the-way diner. She waited only long enough for the waitress to withdraw before expressing her doubts about the necessity of continuing the charade.
Maggi thought of the way Cavanaugh had looked when she’d suggested his late partner had been on the take. “The man can be colder than last week’s toast, but he’s a good cop,” she insisted.
Halliday poured enough cream into his coffee to turn it a pale shade of tan. “Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.”
She didn’t like the idea that Halliday thought she could be manipulated. “I don’t think he ‘wants’ me to see anything. He doesn’t care what I think of him, what anyone thinks of him. He’s just out to do his job.” It was stupid, but she felt protective of Cavanaugh. Felt the way, she realized, she would about a real partner she cared about.
If Halliday even noticed or was disturbed by her defense of the detective, he gave no indication. “It’s early days and no one said he wasn’t good at what he does. Maybe it’s too soon for him to relax around you, to let his guard down.”
She thought of the dark bar and the kiss across a wobbly table. And the way her heart had stood still. “I think he’s as relaxed as he’s going to get.”
“Early days,” Halliday repeated.
She felt a little as though she was telling tales out of school, but then, that was what she was supposed to be doing, right? Halliday had a right to know what she and Cavanaugh were investigating in their free time. And it might cast him in a good light. “There’s more.”
Halliday looked attentive. “Such as?”
Though the booths on either side of them were empty, she still leaned over the table and lowered her voice so that only Halliday could hear. “Cavanaugh suspects his late partner might have been on the take.”
Halliday’s eyes were flat as they regarded her. “Suspects, or wants you to suspect?”
She didn’t want Halliday thinking that Cavanaugh was orchestrating anything. “He doesn’t even want himself to suspect and he’s been against my getting involved in this from the beginning.”
The role of devil’s advocate fit Halliday like a well-tailored, custom-made glove. “Because it’ll point to his culpability.”
“No,” Maggi insisted, stopping just shy of being heated, “because Cavanaugh liked Ramirez, because he wants to help the man’s wife and kids.” She paused for a moment, knowing she was pulling things out of the air, setting them down out of order. “Let me start at the beginning.”
Quickly she filled her superior in on what they’d learned about the situation, being careful to skip just how the information came into her hands. She had a feeling that unless there was a trial involved, Halliday didn’t care about the means, only the end.
Halliday listened quietly, his hands wrapped around the almost cold cup of coffee. When she was finished, he nodded, as if sorting through the information and slipping the various pieces into different slots in his head. He fixed her with a meaningful look. “There are at least two sides to everything.”
“And?” She realized she held her breath and willed herself to draw air back into her lungs.
“And with two sides, things can be turned around a full hundred and eighty degrees.”
She knew where he was going with this and part of her actually resented it on Patrick’s behalf. “Meaning he’s dirty and he wants to draw attention away from himself and onto someone else.”
Halliday’s look went right through her, clear down to her bones. “Wouldn’t that be the way you’d do it if it you were in his shoes?”
She sighed and stared at the table. The Formica surface had long since turned a yellow tinge, showing signs of wear as well as ingrained stains that she guessed were probably older than she was.
“Yes.”
Her answer was quiet, swallowed up by the late afternoon din of people stopping by the diner for a quick bite before hurrying back to their lives. Right now, she envied them, envied what she imagined was the simplicity of their lives.
Halliday drained his cup, then set it down. He folded his hands before him, a theoretician stating his argument. “Don’t you think it’s rather odd that if Ramirez was dirty, Cavanaugh didn’t know it? The two worked together for over two years. Cavanaugh isn’t exactly fresh off the turnip truck.”
No, she thought, he wasn’t. He was one of the sharpest people she’d ever met. Which was why she was afraid that sooner rather than later, Cavanaugh was going to catch on to what she was doing.
“But if you’re not looking for something, you might not see it,” she insisted. And then her eyes widened as she thought she understood. “Is this why you’re having me investigate him? Because of Ramirez?”
Halliday was quick to put her theory to rest. “No, we didn’t know about Ramirez. But if it is true, it only solidifies our suspicions.”
“I don’t know. I’m still not buying it.”
A hint of a smile played along his thin lips. “Doubt is good. Always doubt.”
That was the problem. She was doubting. Doubting Cavanaugh, doubting herself and doubting her ability to remain impartial no matter what.
If she couldn’t properly defend Cavanaugh’s reputation, even for herself, the least she could do was find out some information for the man she’d been sent to defame. “What about Dugan?”
There was a pause. The look in Halliday’s eyes told her he was debating whether or not to answer.
“We’re looking for him,” he finally said. “The department’s psychologist said he was a no-show for his appointment. That was over two weeks ago. Right now, from what you’re telling me, it fits in with the puzzle, that Dugan shot Ramirez on purpose rather than by accident.”
A thought came to her. “Maybe he didn’t shoot Ramirez on purpose. Maybe he was aiming for Cavanaugh and got the other man by accident.”
Halliday considered it. “It’s a possibility.” He wanted to get her reasoning, see if it fit in with his own. “Why would he be shooting at Cavanaugh?”
Maggi was getting up a full head of steam now. “Because they wanted Cavanaugh out of the way. Maybe they were afraid he was getting too close to the truth and if he found out, he’d turn them in.”
Halliday’s face was impassive. “Still want him to be innocent, don’t you, McKenna?”
Maggi resented the veiled implication that she’d doctor details to suit her purpose. “No, I just want the truth and I don’t want a good cop to be sacrificed.”
Halliday suddenly seemed weary. “Nobody’s sacrificing anyone, Detective. We’re both after the truth.”
She sincerely hoped so. As far as she knew, Halliday was an honorable man who had managed to keep above the taint that this kind of job dealt with.
But he had planted enough doubts in her mind to have her not only wondering about Cavanaugh, but about Halliday and what he wanted as well. Halliday was close to retiring. Was he after one last spectacular cleanup before he handed in his shield?
She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
It was time to leave. “Let me know if you ever find Dugan,” she said, rising.
Halliday nodded. “And McKenna—”
“Yes?”
His eyes held hers and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was probing her. “This is a good thing you’re doing.”
She allowed the corners of her mouth to curve slightly. “If it’s such a good thing, why do we have to keep meeting like a couple of clandestine lovers every time you want to debrief me?”
“It’s just the way the system works.”
Maggi pressed her lips together. “I’m beginning to think that maybe the system needs an overhaul,” she commented just before she left.
She got into he
r car, feeling disgruntled and gritty. It had been that kind of a day. Just before she’d met with Halliday she and Cavanaugh had gone to see Alicia again, to confront her with what they had found. This time, Patrick hadn’t hung back.
“We know about the bank account, Alicia. The joint one you have with your late mother.” His eyes had narrowed. “The one that was opened after she died. Why is the account under her social security number?”
Alicia had looked upset, like a good little Catholic girl caught playing hooky instead of going to mass.
“Eddie said it was better that way, that we wouldn’t have to pay taxes. I know it was wrong, but—” She stopped, the look on Patrick’s face halting her flow of words. “What is it?”
“This goes deeper than just trying to avoid taxes, Alicia.”
She’d looked from Maggi to her husband’s partner, confusion on her pretty face. “I don’t understand.”
“We’re afraid your husband might have been mixed up in something,” Maggi had said tactfully, watching Alicia’s expression.
“Something?” Alicia had echoed.
“Shady,” Patrick put in.
The woman rose from sofa, her face clouding over. She seemed to understand the implication if not the actual details. “Get out of my house.”
“Alicia—” Patrick began.
Alicia pointed to the door. “Get out of my house,” she repeated. “You come here and trash my husband’s name when he can’t defend himself?” Outrage echoed in her voice. “Get out of my house!”
So they had left, convinced that Alicia knew nothing beyond what she’d said. That she’d opened the account because her husband had assured her it involved avoiding taxes and nothing more.
Even now, driving home, Maggi could remember the accusing look on the woman’s face. She hated it. Hated anticipating the one she knew she would eventually see on Cavanaugh’s face.
It had been one hell of a day.
Matthew McKenna opened the front door on the third ring. In the background, his favorite movie, Unforgiven, was playing. He knew the dialogue by heart. It only enhanced his enjoyment of the viewing experience.
The expression on his daughter’s face had him forgetting all about Clint Eastwood. Concerned, he ushered her in. “You look like you lost your best friend.”
Her smile seemed tired to him. “No, you’re still here.”
Matthew shut the door behind her. “Don’t try to snow me, Mag-pie. What’s up?”
She’d driven around for a bit after leaving the diner and Halliday. The adult thing would have been to drive home, but she didn’t feel very adult right now. She felt like a child in need of comforting. In need of knowing that there were no monsters in the closet and that things were going to turn out for the best once morning came.
Shedding her coat, she dropped it on the back of the sofa. “I can’t tell you that.”
Picking up the remote, he shut off the video and then the set. He motioned her to the kitchen. He knew there were things about the job that people kept to themselves. He could respect that, but it was hard when his own daughter was the one involved.
For her sake, he tried to sound chipper. “What’ll you have?”
Maggi dropped down into a chair. “A shoulder to lean on and a cup of hot chocolate.”
“You’ve already got the shoulder, you knew that when you walked in. And as for the cup of hot chocolate, this sounds serious.” Taking out a saucepan, he poured what he knew by practice was a ten-ounce glass of milk, then turned the burner on low. He sat down at the table, giving his daughter his full attention. “Okay, give me a hypothetical.”
She cloaked her words as best she could. “Hypothetically, I think I’ve lost my way. The investigation I’m on has me completely turned around and I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Matthew covered her folded hands with one bearlike paw. He wasn’t a large man, but his individual features were powerful looking.
He gave her the only advice he could. “Your instincts, Maggi, trust your instincts. You haven’t gone wrong yet. How could you?” Getting up to tend to the milk, he paused long enough to wink at her. “You’re my daughter.”
She felt a little better even before the chocolate was poured.
Dashing around to get ready, Maggi belatedly registered the ringing in her brain. She dug into her pocket to retrieve her cell and put it against her ear. “Hello?”
“You up, Mary Margaret?”
Patrick’s deep voice filled her ear, sending echoing waves through her, swirling around in her insides. She took a controlled breath before answering.
“Up and at ’em, why?”
“Because I need a ride in and I’m on your way.” She heard the strain in his voice. He didn’t like asking for favors.
“Car trouble?” she guessed, moving the conversation along. She paused before her reflection in the microwave door to run a hand through her too-flat hair.
“Yeah. Alternator died.” His uncle had promised to come by this afternoon to take a look at it, just perpetuating the legend Uncle Andrew could do anything when he had to. Not like his own father who’d always put things off and accepted defeat before it ever arrived. To him, Andrew had always been the better man. “Can you pick me up or what?”
She was tempted to ask him just what comprised an “or what,” but had a feeling that would just put him off. “Consider yourself picked up. It’ll be a first for me,” she heard herself saying, although for the life of her, she didn’t know where this had come from. “I’ve never picked up a man before.”
That he could readily believe. Women who looked like McKenna always had men hitting on them. They didn’t need to think about picking up men. “Aren’t you going to ask for the address?”
“I know where you live. Part of my self-orientation program,” she added, picturing the scowl on his face as he thought of having his space invaded. “I told you, I like knowing what I’m getting into.”
“And knowing my address helps?”
“Just part of the whole picture, Cavanaugh, just part of the whole picture.”
Ramirez had been as invasive as she was. And yet, not quite the same way. He’d also never been remotely tempted to kiss Ramirez. The urge was still very much with him, getting in his way. “Anything else on that canvas I should know about?”
“Not that comes to mind,” she told him cheerfully. “See you in twenty minutes.”
She made it in fifteen.
Patrick lived in a modern, two-story condo in one of the newer residential areas in Aurora. That he owned property was in itself a surprise to her. From the bio she’d been given on him, she couldn’t picture Patrick owning anything—not a pet, not a plant, certainly not a place to live. A home represented ties to something and the image he projected was of someone who wanted no ties to anything.
But she was learning that the image she’d gleaned from his department file didn’t really do Patrick justice or cover nearly all the bases. Like the ties she’d discovered he had to his family. Or the fact that being with him in small, tight places did things to her respiratory system over and above the expected result that came of sharing oxygen.
After leaving her car in guest parking, she walked the short distance to his front door. The first thing she noticed was that, unlike a good many of his neighbors, Patrick’s door had no wreath or any other sign of holiday decor on it.
No wreath, no lights, no token holly. This lack of festivity was definitely more in keeping with her image of Patrick Cavanaugh.
It struck her as sad.
She rang his bell. The door swung open a moment later. He was still buttoning his shirt. The obligatory tie was hanging out of his front pocket.
“You’re early.” Turning away, he picked up his gun and holster.
“Just three minutes.” She peered into the house. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow in response.
“You’re not going to be here long eno
ugh to come in.”
Patrick was already reaching for his jacket and slipping it on. Maggi maneuvered around him to get a better view of the inside of the condo, stepping inside.
“Like you said, I’m early.” The place looked neat. That surprised her. It was also relatively empty. That didn’t.
Because he disliked it most, he put his tie on last. “You just want to snoop around.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. A grin flashed. “Busted.”
He tried to ignore the effect it had on him and tried to concentrate on the fact that she was yet again staging an invasion. “No, but that’s what you’re currently doing to a certain part of my anatomy.”
Maggi barely paid attention to the protest. She swung around to face him. “You have no Christmas tree.”
He knew he should be annoyed. Why he was amused made no sense to him. “Sharp. I can see why they made you a detective. With observation powers like yours, you could rise all the way to the top.”
“But it’s Christmas.” Even her father put up a tree. He said it was to appease her, but she knew the tree made him think of her mother and the Christmases they had shared.
“Technically,” he pointed out, “not for another few days.” Patrick tried to remember the exact date on the calendar and couldn’t. He glanced over to the wall next to the sink in the kitchen.
“So when are you going to put it up?”
Taking her by the arm, Patrick began to usher her out of the living room and toward the door again. “Does the twelfth of never ring a bell?” She had that look on her face, the one that could undo a knot the size of Baltimore. “Look, Mary Margaret, what do I want with a tree? There’s one at my uncle’s house. A big one,” he emphasized. “That’s where I go for Christmas.”
“But you need a tree.”
She was really getting worked up about this, wasn’t she? He found it oddly amusing. And kind of sweet. Not that he’d tell her. “Why?”
“Because it’s a tradition.”
He shrugged carelessly. “Maybe I’m not a lemming.”
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