Cavanaugh Hero

by Marie Ferrarella

  “I won’t let that little two-bit ruin you,” Charley declared fiercely, her voice echoing back within the white sedan she drove. “You’re too good for her and you know it!” she cried, all but shouting the words into the cell phone that was mounted on her dashboard.

  A second later, she was finally pulling into the driveway of the modest two-story house Matt had bought in hopes of bringing Melissa here and starting a family with her.

  To Charley’s way of thinking, the house had dodged a bullet—and so had Matt. Now all she had to do was make her brother see it. She could be extremely persuasive when she had to be but this, she knew, was going to take every single trick she had in the proverbial book—and maybe even more than that.

  Putting the sedan into Park, Charley ended her call, tucked the cell into her pocket and got out of the car. She pressed her lips together as she surveyed the front of the house.

  “I swear I don’t know what I’ll do if I find you on the floor, sleeping off a bender,” she muttered to both herself and the brother who wasn’t there.

  Charley fished out the spare key that Matt had given her but found that she had no need of it. Not only was the front door unlocked, it was standing slightly ajar, as well.

  “Well, this is a new low in carelessness for you. Are you daring the neighborhood thief to come in and ransack the place—or think he can do it only to have you get the drop on him? Are you really that hard up for entertainment?” she asked.

  Charley lightly made contact with the door and pushed it a fraction at a time until the door was open all the way off to one side.

  “Matt?” she called out hesitantly. “Are you in there? Matt, it’s me, Charley. I elected myself to drag your sorry butt in to work before your lieutenant gets it into his head to fire you and you decide you have no choice but to move in with me. You know you’ll just wind up cramping my style.”

  Not that she had anything that would have remotely passed for something as structured as a “style.” Charley was far too busy these days trying to work her way up the ladder, trying to make something of herself within the department.

  Trying to, she secretly admitted, to make Matt proud of her.

  Because they were both part of the police force, someone might have thought that Matt and she were in competition with one another, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Matt and she had always been a team, a smooth-running, entirely supportive team. If there were shots to be called, she always let Matt call them.

  Quite simply, unlike most brothers and sisters, Charley adored the ground Matt walked on and she knew the reverse was true as well, even if he never said as much. He didn’t have to. His actions spoke louder than any words.

  Matt was her rock.

  Which was why seeing him this way, consumed with sorrow because of a woman so unequal to even the dirt beneath his fingernails was just killing her. She didn’t know how to snap him out of it. She only knew she had to—because he’d obviously had a relapse.

  “Matt?” she called out again, feeling her heart constrict when she didn’t receive an answer. “Are you here? You’d better be, otherwise leaving this door unlocked was a really stupid move, you know that, right? And if there’s one thing Matthew Michael Holt isn’t, it’s stupid. Except whenever you’re around ‘Fluffy,’” she said, referring to Melissa by the less-than-flattering nickname she’d given the woman. “Then you have the brainpower of an amoeba on drugs.

  “Matt, come out, come out wherever you—”

  That was when she saw him.

  And that was when she stifled the scream that rose up to her throat, a scream that came from Charley, Matt’s sister, not Charley Randolph, police detective.

  Stunned, frightened and in a complete daze, she dropped to her knees beside the body.

  This was a dream, a nightmare, right? This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t!

  “Matt, Matt, what has she done to you? Matt, talk to me,” she pleaded even as she felt his throat for his pulse.

  And found none.

  Somewhere in her horror-stricken haze, Charley managed to pull out her cell phone and press a key that was preset and quickly connected her to the necessary emergency number.

  Her voice trembled as she spoke. “This is Detective Charlotte Randolph.” She rattled off her badge number. “I need a bus. Officer down, I repeat, officer down. At 4832 Wayne Avenue. Hurry,” she begged.

  She’d requested an ambulance rather than the coroner’s wagon because maybe she was too numb to find the pulse, maybe he was still alive, his pulse reduced to a reedy whisper of a beat, hardly detectable at all.

  The pulse Charley was praying that she had somehow missed.

  * * *

  Detective First Class Declan Cavanaugh turned in his swivel chair as he both listened to and watched his about-to-be-ex-partner Hollis Spenser give him the big news. Two years his senior, Hollis was leaving. Leaving the partnership, the department, the force. Leaving Aurora, California, for greener pastures.

  “You’re kidding.”

  Hollis moved the thatch of blond hair out of his eyes. “Nope. My new father-in-law thinks his daughter deserves a husband who comes home at night still breathing.”

  Cavanaugh frowned, regarding the man. “You look like you’re breathing to me.”

  “You know what I mean.” Hollis futilely pushed the hair out of his eyes, subconsciously knowing it would be back to position one in seconds. “Detectives who work in the private sector don’t get shot at.”

  “Usually,” Declan corrected. They all knew exceptions to that rule.

  “Better odds,” his partner of the past fifteen months corrected his almost-ex-partner’s correction. Some habits died hard.

  “Boring odds,” Declan allowed. He shook his head as if he really pitied the man—and, in a way, he did. Hollis had just agreed to go willingly to serve a life sentence—unless this was his trade-off, what he intended to do until something better struck his fancy.

  Still, Declan didn’t back off right away. “You’re going to be doing what, taking photographs of cheating husbands cheating on their wives, wives cheating on their husbands? Is that really what you want to be doing with your life ten years from now? Trying to do with your life?” he amended in case the battle wasn’t going to be won with just one major skirmish.

  “The pay’s a lot better,” Hollis confided with a triumphant air. “I’m going to be earning at least three times as much as what I get here. And no more 2:00 a.m. calls. I can sleep in.”

  “You sleep in half the time now,” Declan pointed out to the man, his expression completely deadpan.

  Hollis snorted as he went on packing up his desk. Eighteen months amounted to three boxes—full to capacity. “You’re just jealous.”

  “Hey, you’ve got a pretty girl there, no doubt about it,” he acknowledged, referring to his partner’s new wife—everyone in the department had been invited to the reception and he had seen the woman up close and personal—or as personal as an ice cube could get. “But if regular hours means I’ve got to get married first, then you’re welcome to regular hours.

  “As for me, I’m never settling down just to constantly keep finding the same warm body next to me in bed morning in, morning out. I’m just not made that way. Can’t think of anything worse,” he admitted, adding in a shiver to underscore his feelings.

  “Suit yourself,” Hollis told him with a shrug. “But loving the same woman for the rest of your life, it has a lot going for it. I should know.”

  Yeah, Declan thought, he should. But it was obvious that his ex-partner didn’t. He’d been brainwashed by a pro, if he knew his women.

  “Enjoy it for both of us,” he said philosophically, then sighed. “I guess this means that I’ve got to break in a new partner—again.”

  Hollis grinned. The look didn’
t suit him. It made him appear a little goofy, as if his energy was just flowing away. “Operative word here being break?”

  “Hey, if they’re not tough, they’ve got no business being a detective in Major Crimes,” Declan pointed out. He had no patience with weakness of any kind and a police officer displaying those traits was worse than useless, no matter how charming this partner could be on his own.

  “Yeah. Well, go easy on whoever the new partner they send up is. The department’s only got so many detectives to go around.” Hollis put his hand out to Declan. “It’s been an experience, Declan. Keep in touch—and let me know if you ever want to start keeping regular hours. I’m sure the old man can find something for someone like you.”

  Declan supposed that was meant to flatter him. It failed, through no fault of his well-intentioned about-to-be-ex-partner. “Not me. I like things to be unstructured,” Declan told him. “Listen, I’ll buy you a drink after hours—provided something else doesn’t come up.”

  Hollis nodded. “You’re on.”

  The acting lieutenant for Major Crimes stuck his head into Declan’s tiny cubicle. “Hey, Cavanaugh, we got a call just now. Some officer got shot inside his own house.”

  “Domestic dispute?” Declan asked, saying the first thing that came to mind. He was already reaching into the drawer for the weapon he’d placed there.

  “No details yet, just that another one of our detectives went to check on him and found the body in the living room. Check it out. And when you come back, come see me. We’ve got to look into getting you a new partner now that this one’s making a break for it.” He jerked a thumb in Hollis’s direction.

  “Just making plans to live the good life, Lieu, just making plans to live the good life,” Hollis told his superior innocently.

  “Yeah, well, come tell me that in six months,” the lieutenant said. He stopped listening to the exchange between the two men the moment he turned away from them and headed back to his office.

  “Looks like he’s not going to be throwing you any farewell parties,” Declan quipped. “Guess it’s all up to me—if I can find anyone who knows who the hell you are,” he added with a laugh.

  Hollis could only shake his head. But he knew his limitations. Knew, too, that he might have very well invited a viper into his home space. With this in mind, he shook his head and proclaimed, “Nice, Cavanaugh, real nice.”

  Declan spread his hands wide, accentuating his innocent shrugs. “Hey, I just tell it the way I see it, man.”

  “Give my condolences to your new partner,” Hollis called after him.

  Declan nodded, then stopped short of the doorway and made a prediction as he shrugged into his jacket. “You’ll be back.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, Cavanaugh,” he chuckled, heading in the opposite direction. “You’ll get old, waiting.”

  Declan shook his head. Had to be some kind of an epidemic, he decided. Some kind of a bug that was inducing people he knew—including his own siblings—to abandon their single existence, an existence that was highlighted by freedom and a myriad of choices in all directions—just to be yoked to another person, presumably for life.

  And while he had to admit that he really liked and got along with the people that his brothers and sisters chose to become their “other halves,” the very hint of marriage, at least in his case, sounded far too much like a prison sentence, he thought.

  And that was definitely not for him.

  Chapter 2

  The sound of raised voices greeted Declan the minute he got out of his car, thanks to the wide-open door leading into the victim’s house. Someone was having an argument, he thought, listening closely as he made his way up the walk.

  “Look, Detective, there’s no pulse,” the paramedic with the two days’ growth on his face argued. He gestured in exasperation toward the body on the sofa. “The officer’s dead. There’s nothing we can do for him. You’ve already made us apply the paddles once. There is no jump-starting this guy,” he enunciated. “He’s gone. You don’t need an ambulance for him, you need the coroner’s wagon. He’s dead.”

  Declan looked from the two frustrated paramedics to the woman they were arguing with. The woman who, with her back to the entrance, was deliberately blocking the paramedics’ exit.

  “Try the paddles again,” she ordered.

  There was something vaguely familiar about the voice and the woman’s stance, even though she had her back to him. Declan had the feeling that he knew her or, at the very least, that their paths had crossed once.

  “He’s gone, Detective,” the other, older paramedic insisted, although his voice was gentler, more understanding than his partner’s.

  The woman rested her hand on the hilt of the weapon holstered at her side. The inference was difficult to miss.

  “Just one more time,” she told them evenly. “You can’t be in that much of a hurry to leave.”

  The two paramedics exchanged looks, and then the younger one saw him standing in the doorway behind the detective. A silent appeal went out to Declan.

  Declan inclined his head as if to say, “Humor her.” The hope was that she would be easier to deal with if she was humored.

  With a sigh, the taller of the two paramedics took out the defibrillator again, set it up to three hundred and held the flat surfaces out so that his partner could apply gel to the paddles. The first paramedic waited for thirty seconds, then cried out, “Clear!” just before applying the paddles to Matt’s chest.

  The officer’s lifeless body jolted macabrely, rising an inch or so from the sofa, then fell back again, as devoid of any spark of life now as he had been the first time the paddles had been applied.

  Still holding the paddles, the paramedic looked at her. “See?” he asked.

  “Satisfied?” the other paramedic asked, more than ready to wrap things up and be on his way.

  Charley closed her eyes, struggling to keep the hot tears back. She wasn’t going to cry over Matt until she was alone, away from any prying eyes. She owed her brother that much, to conduct herself with dignity in public. Matt hated scenes.

  “No,” she said in what amounted to a strangled whisper. She wasn’t satisfied at all. “But you can go.”

  The voice finally registered, setting off a chain reaction in Declan’s head. He knew who she was now.

  “Charlotte?” Declan asked, coming around to look at the detective’s face. “Charlotte Randolph?” he asked for good measure, although he was fairly certain that he’d guessed correctly, identifying the powerhouse of a detective as the rookie he’d met while attending the academy. She’d been a go-getter back then, too—and married as he recalled. She was the one unattainable goddess all the male rookies fantasized about.

  Charley looked up, climbing out of the temporary mental haze she’d descended into as the two paramedics made their way out of her brother’s house, pushing the empty gurney before them. It took her a second to clear the fog from her brain.

  Once she did, she immediately recognized the man who’d said her name. Declan Cavelli. Tall, gorgeous, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped Declan Cavelli. Best-looking would-be rookie cop at the academy. She vividly remembered wondering what it would have felt like, slipping her fingers through his thick, midnight-black hair, touching the silky straight strands. There probably wasn’t a woman who crossed his path who didn’t have fantasies about the man. And she was no exception.

  Because routine was all she had now, she nodded her acknowledgment of his presence. “Cavelli.”

  Declan grinned. Thanks to his father, Sean, Declan and his siblings had discovered that due to a mix-up at the hospital where his father was born, they were actually Cavanaughs and not Cavellis as they had previously thought. It took some getting used to, but he was fine with it now. They all were.

  “It’s Cavanaugh now.�
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  “You get married?” she deadpanned, doing her best to divorce herself from the very real body that was still on the sofa, waiting for proper documentation before the final fateful pickup conducted by the coroner’s office.

  “Long story,” Declan quipped. “I’ll tell you sometime—over drinks,” he added. “Unless that jealous husband of yours still objects.”

  Even as he said it, he looked down at Charley’s left hand. He was surprised to discover that it was as devoid of any jewelry as her right.

  Did that mean she was divorced, or just trying to preserve her wedding ring?

  Charley saw where the detective was looking and knew what he had to be wondering. “Long story,” she said, echoing his words back to him.

  Except that her story wasn’t long. It was nonexistent.

  She’d never been married to begin with, but the class of rookies she had attended the academy with were a particularly aggressive group with testosterone all but swirling to overflowing—and Declan had been the biggest offender, as she recalled. It was a great deal easier just saying she was married than coming up with excuses and perpetually fending off the class of would-be Romeos. She attended the academy to learn everything there was about police work. Going out with any one of a number of the rookies—especially Declan—would have only served to blur her focus.

  So she opted to pretend she was already off the market and married. Only a handful had tried to change her mind about remaining faithful to her vows and they soon gave up when she showed no signs of coming around to their way of thinking.

  “I like long stories,” he told her. “We’ll trade them.” Then, turning his attention to the reason he’d been called out to begin with, he nodded at the dead man. He would have had to have been deaf and blind to miss the distress in her voice and on her face and he was neither. “He a friend of yours?”

  “We knew each other,” Charley answered, keeping her reply deliberately vague. If she admitted to Declan that Matt was her half brother, she knew that there wouldn’t be a chance in hell she would be allowed to work on his murder. And right now that was the most important thing in the world to her.