Becoming a Cavanaugh Page 11

  Once the other two detectives who were assigned to the task force arrived, Kyle addressed the group, handing out assignments and urging follow-ups to the calls they’d already gotten via regular channels. Everything had to be checked out and nothing—no matter how off-the-wall, trivial or preposterous—could be dismissed. Time and again, they’d discovered that truth was stranger than fiction.

  When he finished, Kyle turned toward Jaren. “You get anywhere with those landscapers?”

  She shook her head. “Not so far. Everyone I’ve contacted hasn’t done any landscaping with a Brazilian hardwood tree. Some of them didn’t even know what I was talking about,” she added.

  But even as Jaren volunteered the information, she knew that she could have been lied to. If she’d spoken to someone who actually knew something, they might have elected to remain silent for their own reasons. A lot of police work boiled down to simple luck. Luck that the killer would slip up, luck that they would stumble onto a clue. Luck that, if she actually found the killer, he could be captured without taking out one of them.

  Despite the fact that she had been the one who advanced the theory in the first place, Jaren wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that the killer actually saw himself with a mission to slay vampires. It could, after all, just be a clever cover. The killer might want to create a general panic and hide the one—or two—murders behind an incredible smoke screen so that his true intent was not discovered.

  How could she decide which was the truth?

  Jaren looked at Kyle and sighed. “There are just too many possibilities here, too many forks in the road that might or might not have been taken.” She supposed she could draw up a flowchart, playing out the various different scenarios. Maybe seeing it in front of her would help her decide which theory to advance.

  “That’s why they pay us the big bucks,” Riley McIntyre quipped as she walked into the squad room, bringing in her own giant container of coffee. “To sift through all the information and come up with some kind of conclusion.” She grinned at Jaren. “Nice to be working with you.” She looked around at the other detectives. “For once, I won’t feel so outnumbered here.”

  “Playtime is later, ladies,” Kyle informed them. He gestured over toward the bulletin board. “Right now, we’ve got work to do.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Riley answered, a bright, wide smile on her lips.

  After two weeks, Jaren felt like she’d been working the vampire-slayer case forever.

  Without any tangible result.

  Although she liked to think that she was patient, the lack of headway was definitely getting to Jaren. Every call that had been received on their tip line was dutifully logged in and investigated. Because of the nature of the murders, she had spoken to a number of men and women whose souls, she was firmly convinced, had been sold or had gone missing in action. People who unwaveringly believed that they had a true connection to the dark side. Detective or not, it was hard for her to reconcile herself to the fact that these people existed.

  And then there was the matter of the book. Instead of a drop due to fear, sales of The Vampire Diaries had gone through the roof.

  “Why?” she murmured to herself under her breath as she read the latest sale figures on the Internet.

  “Why what?” Kyle asked, hearing her mutter the question as he walked by her desk.

  She raised her eyes to look at him, then waved her hand at her monitor in disgust. “That book we found at the scene of the first two murders, The Vampire Diaries. We still don’t know what connection, if any, the book had to the actual murders. Maybe it even triggered the attacks, we don’t know. You’d think that people would avoid having it in their possession, just in case. Instead, the bookstores can’t keep that damn book in stock. It’s literally flying off the shelves. What the hell is the matter with people? They’re all acting like it’s the forbidden fruit and they all want a bite.”

  Except when it came to his job, Kyle had long since given up trying to understand the workings of the average mind. He shrugged now.

  “They want to live dangerously,” he concluded. “For most of them, this is the closest they’ll come to walking on the wild side and they all crave that thrill of danger, that rush that comes with a vicarious ride—because at the bottom they’re certain it is a vicarious ride. Why do people go to slasher movies geared to scare them?” he posed. “Same reason. They want to experience that adrenaline rush without really endangering themselves.”

  She supposed that made as much sense as anything. “You still have the copy you got out of evidence?” she asked.

  He shook his head. Looking the book over had proved to be a waste of time. “No, I logged it back in.”

  The book was over four hundred pages long. “You’re that fast a reader?”

  He laughed. He tended to skim, but he’d never managed to become one of those speed readers who absorbed everything.

  “It wasn’t so much a matter of being fast as it was of being bored.” In his opinion, it was all purple prose, overdone and badly written. “I still don’t understand how that kind of drivel gets published—or manages to gain a legitimate audience. If it wasn’t for these murders giving it publicity, I’m sure the sales would have been abysmal.” And then he recalled that she had a copy. “What made you buy it?”

  “I didn’t,” she informed him. “Someone back in Oakland gave it to me as a going-away gift.” The book had come from Delia, the chief’s administrative assistant, a flighty woman who meant well but was far from being a student of human nature. “Someone who obviously didn’t know me well enough to know what holds my interest.”

  Kyle grinned. “So, you don’t find it exciting to have a lover who likes to sink his teeth into your neck and can sprout wings at the first sign of dusk?”

  She watched him for a long moment. “In my experience, lovers don’t need to see the first signs of dusk to take flight so much as hear the word commitment. In their language, they hear the word trapped and they can’t wait to put distance between themselves and the object of their former affection.”

  There was a significant enough amount of passion behind her words for Kyle to make the logical conclusion. “Someone take off on you, Rosetti?”

  She raised her chin and in so doing, dropped a curtain down between them. Her frustration had made her sloppy, she told herself. “I was thinking about a couple of my girlfriends.”

  He watched her expression, not fully buying into her explanation. “But not you.”

  “But not me,” she affirmed with feeling. While friendly, she still didn’t believe in allowing people into her private life until she trusted them. She didn’t know O’Brien well enough. “I’m too busy to lay any foundations for a relationship that would frighten off a lover,” she told him matter-of-factly.

  It wasn’t often that his curiosity was aroused when it came to something other than a case. But Rosetti had succeeded in making him curious. “Recently, or always?” he asked.

  “Are you interrogating me, O’Brien?”

  A careless shrug prefaced his answer. “Nope. Just taking time to get to know the new kid,” he told her with sufficient disinterest.

  They’d all been putting in extra time, trying to solve the case before another victim turned up with a piece of wood driven through his chest. Every spare piece of energy was dedicated to finding the killer. Why was O’Brien suddenly wasting time with personal questions? And why, given her friendly nature, did that make her squirm inside? “And just how’s getting to know me going to help solve this case?”

  “It won’t solve the case,” he told her seriously, his voice low. “But it’s good to know a little about the person who’s supposed to have your back.”

  He had her there. She could understand the validity of his reasoning. But, since he opened the door, she had a question of her own, one that had been knocking around the back chambers of her mind.

  “Okay, I’ll buy that,” she granted. He was about to get u
p when she stopped him with her question. “Why did you bring me a puppy?”

  The question had come out of nowhere. He thought they’d already settled that the evening he gave her the puppy.

  Kyle sank back down in his seat. “Excuse me?”

  “Kyle. The retriever,” Jaren specified, in case he thought she was referring to him by his first name. Lately, she only did that in the privacy of her own mind, where she could get intimate without consequence. “Why did you bring her to me that night?”

  The expression on his face was meant to tell her that what he’d done was no big deal, just a matter of logic, nothing more. “I told you, my sister was trying to find homes for her dog’s puppies.”

  No, he’d gone out of his way to get her address and to be deliberately kind to her. This, after making her feel like an outsider. She just wanted to understand which the real Kyle O’Brien was. “I couldn’t have been the only dogless person you knew.”

  He rose again, signaling the conversation was over. “You’d be surprised.”

  It wasn’t over for her. “You always avoid answering questions this way?”

  “No. Sometimes I don’t say anything at all.” He paused. He hadn’t meant to sound so curt, but lack of sleep was getting to him, as well. “Okay, you want to know why I brought over the puppy? You looked like you needed a friend and I figured that I’d been kind of rough on you that day. It just seemed like a good match at the time.” He had a feeling that Rosetti was the type who never let up so he diverted the conversation away from his motives. “Speaking of which, how’s it going?”

  “You were right,” she admitted, allowing a fond smile to surface. The smile was actually meant for the puppy they were discussing. “It was a good match. She’s really smart and she learns fast.”

  “Must be the name,” he commented.

  She didn’t bother suppressing the grin that came to her lips. “Must be.”

  “C’mon,” he urged. “Let’s hit the pavement. I want to reinterview a couple of the neurosurgeon’s former patients. Since there haven’t been any more slayings, I’m thinking that maybe the idea that one murder was planned and the others done as a cover-up might not be that far-fetched.”

  Jaren was on her feet before he finished his statement.

  They’re coming!

  Sweating profusely, he bolted upright in bed. His heart was pounding so hard, it almost exploded out of his chest.

  That was Derek’s voice, calling to him. Warning him. Derek always knew where the danger was.

  There were lights everywhere, but still his eyes darted around, searching the corners of his vast bedroom. Safe, he wanted to be safe.

  When was he ever going to be safe?

  Despite all the crosses he had hung about the room and the large gold one he wore around his neck—a gift from his protector, “To keep you safe when I can’t,” he’d told him—he was still afraid.

  Afraid because he’d heard the warning. Derek’s warning that they were regrouping.

  And coming for him.

  Unless he got them first.

  Hands shaking, he threw off the covers and got out of bed. He was fully clothed. He never undressed anymore. Not since the Protector had been taken from him. He had to be ready to flee into the night if it came to that.

  He knew he had to destroy the next one. The one that was out there, waiting for him. After the last, he’d thought, hoped, prayed that he was finally safe.

  But he wasn’t, he thought, angry tears gathering in his eyes. He was never going to be safe. Not until every one of them was dead.

  Such a monumental task, and he was only one lone warrior. But it had to be done. He knew the consequences if it wasn’t.

  For a second, he closed his eyes, praying. Seeking strength in his holy battle against the undead. The words the Protector had taught came back to him. They, and the cross he wore—he told himself, his fingers curling around it now—would keep him safe. And someway, somehow, he was going to kill them all. And only then would he have everlasting peace.

  He went to arm himself.

  Chapter 11

  It was another long, tiring, fruitless day.

  Kyle and Jaren had reinterviewed several people but their efforts yielded no more information. For the most part, they all had the same thing to say about the slain neurosurgeon. Dr. Barrett was an excellent surgeon, with few equals, but no one had wanted to share even an elevator ride with him. He had made no attempt to hide his God complex.

  “I don’t see wanting to kill someone because he was cold and detached,” Jaren commented as they walked away from their last interview—Dr. James Wiley, an orthopedic surgeon Dr. Barrett had treated a year ago. Dr. Wiley had made time for them during his weekly golf game.

  “And yet, someone killed him,” Kyle countered as they walked to his vehicle.

  “Maybe Dr. Barrett was one of the camouflage murders,” she suggested. “If we’re working with that theory,” she added, glancing toward Kyle.

  “For lack of anything better.” Fantastic as it seemed, he kept coming back to the vampire-slayer theory. Her initial theory. Kyle felt he might need a vacation. “I don’t know about you, but my brain is beginning to hurt.”

  “I’m getting a headache,” she admitted. “How many more of the doctor’s patients do you want to interview?”

  Jaren tried not to be obvious about glancing at her watch, but it was past their regular shift. Again.

  “There’s only one left on the list, but he’ll keep until tomorrow.” He felt in need of rejuvenation. “Want to get a drink?”

  The suggestion caught her by surprise.

  “I’d love to,” she told him honestly. Most of the detectives gathered at a local bar, which she’d found to be rather pleasant as well as atmospheric. However, thanks to Kyle, she wasn’t her own person anymore. “But I’ve got someone waiting for me at home.”

  “Oh.”

  She saw him withdrawing and realized that he’d misunderstood.

  “A certain four-footed furry creature who needs her dinner,” she explained, then heard herself suggesting, “We could have a drink at my place. I’ve got some wine in the refrigerator.”

  He knew that he should say thanks, but no thanks. Knew that what he needed right now was the noise of a familiar crowd where he could unwind and then go home for perhaps a semi-decent night’s sleep.

  Even so, Kyle caught himself nodding. “You talked me into it.”

  The drive to her apartment wasn’t far.

  Kyle parked within the parking structure, in one of the free spaces near Jaren’s assigned space, then followed her to her door.

  The second she unlocked it and turned the knob to open the door, a caramel-colored ball of fluff came charging out, launching herself at what she obviously took to be her liberator. Because he was standing to the right of Jaren, Kyle turned out to be the recipient of his namesake’s wild enthusiasm.

  Kyle picked up the dog and immediately found himself on the receiving end of a madly working pink tongue.

  “Hold it, hold it,” he laughed, drawing the dog back in order to get a better look at it, and to bring a halt to the impromptu face washing. “She’s grown,” he said to Jaren.

  “They have a habit of doing that,” Jaren agreed with a laugh, locking the door behind them.

  Very carefully, she removed her service revolver with its holster, placing it next to the microwave oven on the counter.

  Kyle put the dog back on the floor and followed suit, depositing his hardware beside hers. With that done, he glanced out toward the living room. The last time he’d been here, the room was filled with towering boxes.

  “Looks a lot bigger this way,” he commented.

  She’d broken down the last of the empty boxes and thrown them in the recycle bin just this past weekend. She smiled now.

  “Yeah, I know. Gives Kyle a lot of room to run around. I’d leave the balcony open for her but she’s such a friendly dog, she’d probably make a dive dow
n at the first person she sees.”

  Opening the refrigerator, Jaren reached in and took out the white wine. The bottle, Kyle noted, hadn’t been opened yet.

  “Saving it for a special occasion?” he asked.

  He also took note of the fact that the refrigerator was bare aside from a carton of orange juice.

  “Just for my first guest,” she answered. “I thought the occasion might be worth celebrating.” She glanced at the bottle and noticed the date on it. “2007 was a very good year,” she commented, tongue in cheek.

  “If you say so.” Kyle shrugged. “One year’s more or less like another to me.”

  He didn’t elaborate that 2007 was the year his mother had fallen ill. And a little more than a year before the bottom had fallen out of his world when he and his siblings had been told that they’d been fathered by Brian Cavanaugh’s older brother, Mike.

  After getting the corkscrew, Jaren sank it into the cork and brought the wings down in order to raise it out of the bottle. Meanwhile Kyle, she noticed, had picked up the puppy’s small rubber ball and was rolling it to her. The Labrador was overjoyed as she chased after the red object and brought it back to his feet.

  Jaren grinned as she took in the game. “You know, you’re not nearly the hard-ass you like to pretend you are.”

  Kyle let the puppy keep the ball and chew on it. He rose to his feet and crossed back to Jaren in the kitchen. “Just ask my brother and sister, they’ll tell you otherwise.”

  She’d always wished that her parents had had more children. She spent a good deal of her childhood yearning for a sibling, someone to share secrets with.

  Jaren emptied a can of dog food into the puppy’s bowl. She’d barely finished before the Lab came flying over and began eating. With a pleased laugh, she reached into the cabinet directly over the microwave, took out two glasses and set them on the counter.