Cavanaugh Stakeout

“Stubbornness really is an asset in my line of work,” Nik assured him. Hoping he might be weakening, she added, “You’ve got nothing to lose if we work together…and everything to gain.”

Finn finished off his beer in one long draw. It was clear to him that he was not about to get that peace of mind he’d come in for so he might as well leave.

“I’m not in the market for a hundred-pound headache,” he told her, putting his empty mug squarely down on the bar.

Nik considered his remark. He obviously was referring to her. “Flattering,” she called out to his back. “But I’m actually a hundred and twenty pounds.”

“Even worse,” Finn said over his shoulder as he walked out of Malone’s.

For a moment Nik thought about following him out and continuing to try to win him over, but although she was every bit as stubborn as she claimed, it wasn’t in her to try to wear him down by making a pest of herself. She was fairly confident that Cavanaugh would come around eventually.

And if he didn’t, she had other contacts to turn to. Contacts who would let her know if and when Finn Cavanaugh and his team made any headway in the search for Marilyn and why she’d been part of that carjacking.

She remained where she was, nursing her drink until she was certain that Cavanaugh had driven away, and then she left Malone’s.

The phone rang at a little after two o’clock in the morning, jarring Finn out of an unusually sound sleep. Focusing on the light his cell phone emitted, he was almost tempted to ignore it, thinking that that pushy woman had somehow gotten his phone number.

But being a cop was too ingrained in him to let his phone ring without answering it.

He picked up the cell and swiped open the screen. “Finn Cavanaugh,” he all but barked into the phone.

“Yeah, I know,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, Cavanaugh, but I think you’re going to want to hear about this.” Recognition sank in. The voice belonged to the man who was sometimes his partner, Joe Harley.

Sleep instantly evaporated from his brain. Instincts honed on the job, as well as at family gatherings, told him this had to be about his current case.

“Go on,” he urged.

“It looks like that woman who carjacked the chief’s father’s car might have just added murder to her list of offenses,” Harley told him.

Maybe he was sleepy, Finn thought. He wasn’t processing what Harley had just told him. Taking a breath, he waited for the information to make sense. “Start from the beginning,” he insisted.

“Okay.” Harley paused, then said, “A homeless guy looking for food in a Dumpster behind a restaurant found more than he bargained for.”

Impatience flared. “Harley, I’m not in the mood for games.”

“You’re even less fun after midnight than you are before,” his occasional partner complained. Enunciating very slowly, Harley told him, “A homeless guy found the body of a woman. She’s been dead for less than a day,” he added.

The way Harley had worded it, the body didn’t belong to their suspect. So why—? “And you’re telling me this because—?”

“The dead woman was clutching a piece of paper in her hand,” Harley said. “CSI managed to get a print off it.” He paused dramatically. “Guess who that print matches?”

At this point, Finn was really having trouble holding on to his temper. “Surprise me,” he said between gritted teeth.

“It belongs to that girl you’re looking for in connection with your granddad’s mugging.”

Since this investigation had started, he had already corrected Harley three times, explaining that Seamus was his grandfather’s brother, not his grandfather. He decided that there was no point in restating that fact to Harley again. Besides, that wasn’t the important part.

“Where’s the dead woman now?” Finn asked, throwing off his covers and getting out of bed. There was no way he was going to be getting back to sleep at this point.

“They just took her body to the medical examiner for an autopsy.”

So far, that was standard procedure. “And where are you?” Finn asked.

“Still at the crime scene.” There was a pause and Finn assumed that the man was checking with someone, or looking at a street sign. “McFadden and Adams,” Harley added.

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Finn said, walking toward his closet to get his clothes.

“The CSI night-shift team is almost finished collecting all the data they found near and around the body,” Harley told him.

“Still want to see the crime scene for myself,” Finn said, juggling his phone against his ear as he pulled on his slacks. They might have overlooked something. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, Finn thought.

Harley sighed. “Knew you’d feel that way. I’ll stay here.”

Almost dressed, Finn looked around for his shoes. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he promised.

“That’s about the only good thing about coming out at this time of night,” Harley responded. “There’s no traffic to hold you up.”

That didn’t mitigate the fact that he would have much rather slept through the night. “I’ll try to remember that,” Finn said just before he terminated Harley’s phone call.

Jake Newman, the head of the night-shift team, was just about to finish packing up so he and his people could leave, when Finn arrived. Newman’s perpetually pained look deepened as he looked up to see who had pulled up.

“Can I help you, Detective Cavanaugh?” the rather nondescript, slightly hunched man asked.

“Did you find out the victim’s name yet?” Finn asked as he came toward Newman.

Instead of answering him, Newman had a question of his own. “Things rather slow in the robbery division, I take it?” he asked as he snapped shut his kit.

Finn didn’t care for the man’s attitude, but he wasn’t about to get into an argument with him if he could help it. “I have reason to believe that this is tied into Seamus Cavanaugh’s carjacking case.”

Newman sighed. He knew when to back off. “I won’t have any answers for you until I’ve had a chance to go over everything. I’ll leave anything I find for your uncle on the day shift.” Newman couldn’t help himself and let off one zinger. “Or do you people just operate by using mental telepathy?”

“No telepathy,” Finn replied in a voice that was completely devoid of any emotion. “Just the regular forms of communication.”

Newman frowned, picking up his case. “I’ll try to remember that,” the night-shift CSI leader said coldly.

Finn bit his tongue to keep from uttering a retort. Mainly he did it because he realized that the somewhat belligerent night-shift leader was using some of the same chip-on-his-shoulder comments that he had used when he’d talked to that stubborn insurance investigator.

He didn’t care for being on the receiving end, he thought.

And she probably didn’t care for it, either, Finn admitted. He supposed that he owed her some sort of an apology.

Later.

It took him until five in the morning to finish going over the crime scene to his own satisfaction, and also to stop wrestling with his conscience. He found the business card that the insurance investigator had given him. At the time, to keep from littering, he had shoved the card into his pocket. And then promptly forgot about its existence.

Because he’d changed his clothes, it had taken him a little while to locate the card. When he finally did, he called the number printed on it, expecting to talk to a recorded announcement at best. He was prepared to leave a message.

He wasn’t prepared to hear the phone on the other end ring only once before it was picked up. And he definitely wasn’t prepared to hear her voice breathing huskily in his ear. Nor was he expecting to feel that warm shiver dancing down his spine in response.