Cavanaugh Standoff

by Marie Ferrarella

  Short of asking for a transfer or wearing a bag over her head when she came to work, she had no idea how to make this any easier for Ronan.

  You can do whatever you can to solve this case and then leave the team, she told herself.

  “Anything wrong?”

  She nearly jumped when she heard Ronan’s voice. Startled, she said, “You’re back.”

  “I work here—at least, I did last time I checked. Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?” he asked, looking at her suspiciously.

  “I just got off the phone with my father.”

  “The fireman?” he asked.

  Uneasy, she fell back on her tool of choice: sarcasm. “My father, the superhero, and I don’t talk very much so, yes, that was my father, the fireman.”

  Annoyance creased his forehead. “Just trying to orient myself with the facts. Did he say something to upset you?”

  Yes, he told me all about what you went through. How do I tell you how sorry I am? And how much I wish I didn’t remind you of her.

  Shrugging and doing her best to look nonchalant, Sierra asked, “Isn’t that a father’s job? To make his daughter crazy?”

  “Well, not being a daughter and not having a father,” he replied, “I couldn’t begin to answer that question.” He nodded at her computer. Standing on the other side of it, he didn’t realize she had already shut it down. “Find out anything useful?”

  “Just that the victims were busy little thugs—involved in drugs and petty crimes—but no more than any of the other members of their gangs. Either of the gangs,” she corrected herself. “I still couldn’t find a reason why they might have been singled out for execution while other members of the gangs weren’t.”

  He regarded what she’d said thoughtfully. “What’s to say that our serial killer is finished?”

  She hadn’t considered that. “You think the executions will continue?”

  He didn’t answer the question one way or another. “Bloodlust has a way of feeding on itself, if that’s the main reason behind it.”

  “‘Bloodlust,’” she repeated. He hadn’t mentioned that before. “Is that what your CIs told you?”

  He shook his head, feeling pretty drained right about now. “They had no information to give me, but they promised to ask around and see what they could find out.” He looked over to where Choi and Martinez usually sat. Both their desks were empty. “Did Choi and Martinez have any luck?”

  When the two detectives had returned to the squad room, she’d made a point of asking what they’d found out. She told Ronan what they’d told her.

  “The Ramirez girl did party—hard, according to the bartender they talked to at that bar you sent them to. But when they asked around the neighborhood, no one had anything to say to them. Nobody in that area wants to talk to the police,” she told him. It was more or less a given in certain neighborhoods, but she still found it exceedingly frustrating.

  “And the surveillance camera videos?” he asked.

  “Are down in the computer lab. Your uncle promised to get back to us as soon as they could isolate something on them.”

  He nodded and took in a deep breath. “I’m wiped out. How about you?”

  “That pretty well describes it,” she agreed.

  “How about grabbing a drink at Malone’s?” he asked completely out of the blue. “I’m buying.”

  It took Sierra a moment to recover from the friendly overture. Rising from her desk, she said, “Sure. Best offer I’ve had all day.”

  She couldn’t help marveling at the change in Ronan’s attitude toward her and at the same time wondering if the fact that she looked like his dead fiancée had anything to do with it.

  Chapter Nine

  It was understood that Ronan and she would drive to Malone’s in separate vehicles. After agreeing to go, Sierra wasn’t quite sure he would actually show up. After all, for the most part, O’Bannon had behaved as if it was a hardship for him to interact with her during work hours. Why would he want to be around her when they were off the clock?

  Still, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. O’Bannon had been the one to tender the invitation, not the other way around, so she felt she needed to give him a chance to show up.

  Parking her car as close to the front of the tavern as she could, she turned off the ignition, took a deep breath and got out.

  Here goes nothing, she thought and made her way to the entrance. Once inside, there was the old, familiar feeling of having arrived home. She knew that was intentional and by design. Malone’s was owned by a retired cop and, on any given evening, three-quarters of the clientele milling around inside were active law-enforcement agents or recently retired members of the department.

  As with any good establishment, it wasn’t the alcohol that drew them, it was the company. And the knowledge that no matter what they were going through on the job, someone else in the crowd understood and perhaps had even had a similar experience and could offer words that would help navigate whatever it was that a colleague-in-arms needed help with.

  Sierra looked around quickly, scanning the area. For a second she thought she spotted him, then realized it was just someone who resembled him. Considering that Ronan had a couple of brothers and a large number of cousins, that was to be expected.

  O’Bannon wasn’t there.

  He’d undoubtedly changed his mind. Sierra shook her head; she hated it when the optimist in her suffered a defeat. She considered going back out, but decided that would look strange to anyone who might be absently watching—after all, she knew some of the people who frequented Malone’s—so she went up to the bar.

  “Hey, is it Christmas already?” the bartender, a retired patrolman named Wade Preston, asked her.

  Sierra was just about to say hello to the man and was thrown off guard by his question. “What?”

  Rubbing at an imaginary spot on the counter, the big, burly man drew closer to her. “The last time you were here was for the department’s Christmas party last year. You don’t show up here very often,” he pointed out.

  “You can’t possibly remember that.”

  The smile on Wade’s broad face widened. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Sierra inclined her head. “You are,” she admitted. “How did you remember that?”

  “I remember the pretty ones,” he answered with a wink. “So, what’ll be? Or are you meeting someone here and want to wait?”

  “I thought I was,” she admitted, “but, no, I don’t want to wait. I’ll have a screwdriver—heavy on the orange juice,” she specified.

  Wade laughed. “Usually when I get an order it’s the other way around.”

  “I’m my own designated driver,” Sierra told him, “so my alcohol intake has to be at a minimum.”

  “You got it, Detective,” Wade told her. He took two bottles from the shelf behind him and quickly mixed the drink for her. After finishing with a flourish, he placed the tall, frosted glass on the bar in front of her. “There you go, one screwdriver, heavy on the orange juice, as requested.”

  Sierra took out her wallet and placed a ten on the bar beside her glass.

  Picking the bill up, Wade told her, “I’ll get your change.”

  “That’s okay, keep it,” she said, picking up her drink. She look a long sip, then sighed with satisfaction. There was just the barest hint of vodka detectable, which was all she wanted. “Perfect,” she pronounced.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Wade said with a chuckle. Someone called out his name. “Gotta go. Duty calls. Let me know if you decide you want another,” he added just before he went down the bar to attend to another customer.

  “You starting without me?”

  Turning around, she was surprised to see that O’Bannon had come up behind her.

&n
bsp; “To be honest, I thought you’d had a change of heart and I felt rather dumb just coming in and then going out again, so I ordered a drink. My one and only drink of the evening,” she added.

  Ronan looked at the tall glass. He wasn’t into mixed drinks. As far as he was concerned, the mixes got in the way of the taste of alcohol. “What are you having?”

  “Nothing exotic. Just a screwdriver. I told him to go heavy on the orange juice,” she added in case Ronan wondered why the liquid in the glass looked so terribly orange in color.

  Ronan merely nodded. “Wade probably wishes all his customers were like you. The charge is the same, even if he uses less alcohol.”

  She shrugged. The news didn’t faze her. “He’s got to make a living,” she said philosophically.

  “Oh, I think he does rather well here,” Ronan said with certainty. Raising his hand, he succeeded in making eye contact with the bartender. “Scotch on the rocks,” he called out. Wade gave him the high sign. Turning toward Sierra, he asked, “You want to get a table or stay at the bar?”

  “I’m okay either way,” she answered. “I’m only staying until I finish my drink, but I intend to nurse it, so it’s your call.”

  “Why don’t we get a table, then?” He didn’t wait for her reply. Wade had just put his drink on the bar so he picked it up, leaving a bill in its place, and walked away from the bar. Sierra quickly picked up her own drink and followed him. She nodded at several people as she passed them.

  Ronan sat at an empty table for two. Sierra took her seat opposite him.

  There was noise all around them—it had obviously been a rough day for everyone, she thought—but all Sierra was really aware of was the silence that existed at their table. She had never been good with silence. It usually made her want to fill the space with words. Any sorts of words.

  She thought back to the conversation she’d had with her father just before Ronan had gotten back to the squad room. It was, she decided, as good a place as any to start.

  “My dad thinks very highly of your mother. Everyone at the firehouse does,” she added when Ronan made no comment.

  He took a tentative sip of his drink, then put it back on the table. “What made you become a cop?”

  The question, coming out of the blue the way it did, surprised her. She wasn’t even sure that she had heard him correctly. “What?”

  “Everyone in your family’s a firefighter.” He knew that because he’d done a little digging into her background, telling himself it was only because he needed to know if there was something in her background that might be a liability to the team. “But you broke rank and became a cop. Why?”

  She had her hands around the glass but it remained on the table in front of her, its contents untouched. “Is this a job review or something?” she asked him, somewhat confused. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t all that interested in extraneous conversation, which was the category his question fell under.

  “I’m just curious,” he told her with a careless shrug. Pausing for a beat, he threw back his drink. “I mean, there’s always been an unofficial rivalry between cops and firefighters, so I’m just wondering why you would opt to break rank and work for the APD? Didn’t that get your father and brothers angry?”

  “My dad and brothers were upset to begin with,” she granted, “but they all came around eventually. My dad had raised all of us to follow our dreams.”

  “And you dreamed of strapping on a gun and chasing bad guys?” He had two sisters and both were detectives with the police department, but he always felt that Brianna and Shyla were different from the average female, thanks to their family background.

  “No, of helping people,” Sierra corrected, “and that’s what you and I do, really. We help people.” She emphasized the word. “And to be honest, I think my dad’s a little relieved that he doesn’t have to worry about me running into burning buildings.”

  “No,” he conceded, adding sarcastically, “just running into a bullet.”

  She let the remark pass.

  “Alcohol doesn’t make a difference, does it? You’re just as gloomy with it as without it. I obviously seem to bring out the worst in you, so why don’t I just call it a night and go?” she suggested, pushing her drink aside and getting to her feet.

  Ronan caught her wrist, managing to surprise both of them, he reasoned, judging by the expression on Sierra’s face. His eyes met hers.

  “Stay put,” he ordered and then his voice softened. “You don’t bring out the worst in me. This isn’t my worst, not by a long shot.”

  “Oh, Lord, is that a warning?” Sierra asked, pretending to be uneasy.

  “Just a statement of fact,” Ronan stated, then went on to say, “Look, I might have ridden you a little too hard. If I did, it was just to find out what kind of mettle you’re made of.”

  “And does my ‘mettle’ pass your test?”

  “Well, despite some less-than-warm ‘fireside moments,’” he pointed out, “you didn’t run to Carver, asking to be taken off my team.”

  Quitting had never been an answer in her book. “I fight my own battles.”

  Raising his hand to get Wade’s attention, Ronan indicated the need for a refill.

  The bartender nodded, then poured another Scotch into a new glass. He handed it off to a waitress who proceeded to bring it over to their table. Ronan traded a bill for the drink.

  “Yeah, I got that impression. Sure you don’t want anything stronger?” he asked, nodding at the tall, mostly filled glass in front of her.

  Looking at the waitress, she shook her head. The woman withdrew, taking Ronan’s empty glass with her.

  “Not when I’m driving home,” Sierra told him.

  “I could always call you a cab.”

  She noticed that he didn’t offer to drive her home. Did that mean he intended to consume a lot tonight, or hadn’t the thought of taking her home even occurred to him?

  Why?

  For one second that thought stuck in her head and she was tempted to explore it from all angles, but that way lay only complications and, right now, she had more than she could handle. Having the very somber Ronan take her home, despite his looks and rock-solid body, would only be asking for trouble, and that was one thing she definitely didn’t need.

  But, obviously, that thought hadn’t even occurred to O’Bannon.

  “I don’t like spending money needlessly,” she told him after a beat.

  He shrugged, taking a long sip of his new drink. “I’d pay for it.”

  “Don’t like spending other people’s money, either,” she said.

  He laughed, shaking his head as he drained his second drink, waiting for it to hit him. He’d built up a rather large tolerance since Wendy had died. And today marked two years since he’d lost her. The very thought corkscrewed into his soul, tearing holes as it went.

  “Well, that makes you a rare woman.” Looking at his glass, he was almost surprised to find it was empty. Rather than wave to the bartender again, Ronan stood.

  “Leaving already?” she asked.

  “What?” Belatedly, her question registered. “No, I’m just going to get another drink.”

  “Maybe I should drive you home,” Sierra suggested.

  “I can hold my liquor,” he informed her gruffly.

  “So can that glass.” She nodded at the glass he had clutched in his hand. “But I wouldn’t trust a glass to drive me home.”

  “That’s because they don’t drive,” he said flippantly, going to the bar.

  Well, at least he wasn’t weaving, but if he continued downing drinks the way he was, it wouldn’t be long before walking a straight line would be an impossibility.

  He was back before she could think of a course of action. Sitting at the table, he took a sip of the Scotch before p
utting his glass down. “Don’t worry about me,” he told her.

  “I’m not worried about you,” she informed him, even though that was exactly what she was worried about. “I’m worried about the other people on the road.”

  Ronan’s face darkened and he looked annoyed. It was unclear whether it was the conversation he was annoyed with, or her, but the man had a habit of getting annoyed so, at this point, she just accepted it as his standard behavior.

  She intended to remain until he was ready to go home. There was no way she would let him drive, even if she had to drag him to her car.

  He looked at her face and surprised her by laughing. “Put your wings away, Carlyle, I’ll be fine.”

  “I have no doubt,” she replied, this time deliberately flashing a wide smile. “But I’m still staying. You invited me to Malone’s for a drink.”

  He nodded at the barely touched screwdriver in front of her. “You said you were only having one.”

  “Yes, but it’s not done.” She pointed toward it as if it was exhibit A.

  Ronan shook his head. “Never saw anyone nurse one drink for so long.”

  “We all have our special talents,” she remarked. Searching for something to say—she didn’t want to turn the conversation toward the serial killer they were pursuing—she thought of what he had just asked her. “So, why did you become a cop?”

  His eyebrows drew together in a quizzical squiggle. “What?”

  “You asked me why I became one,” she reminded him. “I thought it would only be fair to ask you the same question.”

  “Well, yeah,” he murmured then paused as if he was trying to form an answer to give her. But when he spoke, it was as if he was addressing another question. “I ask myself the same question,” he said in a quiet voice.

  She had a feeling she’d accidentally stumbled into a dark area. Her mind worked quickly. Since his fiancée had been killed by a stray bullet when someone had been gunning for him, it wasn’t a stretch to think that O’Bannon blamed himself for her death, thinking that if he had just gone into another profession, she might still be alive.