Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

Daria looked out the window as Connor turned the car around.

“She’ll be fine, Daria. I promise.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You’ve really become attached to her.”

Daria nodded. “I really have. I hope I can keep her.”

“Coliani said no one’s even stepped forward to ask about the dog. Cross had one nephew; he made arrangements for the body to be transferred to a funeral parlor in Virginia when the medical examiner releases it, which will probably happen today. But there wasn’t a word said about the dog.”

“Maybe the detective can tell me who I have to talk to to adopt her.”

“I’m thinking possession is good enough at this point. I doubt anyone’s going to challenge you.”

“Good. That would be good.” Daria rested her head against the back of the seat. “Tell me again where Mr. Cavanaugh lives.”

“Outside of West Chester. It’s not far from here. He said to come up Route 202. Which according to that sign, is right here.”

Connor followed the signs that led them onto a heavily commercial stretch of road that ran several miles through Delaware and into Pennsylvania.

“Did you ever get that package of material from your mother? The one with the PI reports about your brother?”

“What made you think of that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Connor waited for a moment, and when she didn’t answer the question, he said, “Well, did you?”

“It came yesterday or the day before. Vita dropped it off right after Mia and I got home yesterday. The mailman evidently left it at the administration building.”

“When were you going to give it to me?”

“When things slowed down a bit. I figured you have your hands full. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It’s no bother. Did you look through it?”

“I started to yesterday, but to tell you the truth, reading gave me a headache.”

“How’s your head now?”

“Much better. I took some of the pain meds after breakfast and the throbbing is pretty much gone.”

“Good.” He maneuvered the Porsche around a tractor trailer and settled back into the right lane. Traffic was heavy and the road wasn’t particularly smooth, so he did what he could to keep Daria’s head from bouncing around too much.

“Connor, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“Dylan?” Connor slowed for the light. “He died.”

“I know that. How did he die?”

“What brought this up?”

“Just something Mia said.”

“What did she say?”

“That I’d have to ask you about him. As if she didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I imagine she didn’t.” Connor took a deep breath. “Dylan was murdered by Mia’s brother, Brendan.”

Daria’s jaw dropped. She tried in vain for several seconds to close it.

“But they were-”

“Yeah, cousins. Yes, they were.” Connor’s jaw tightened and she wished she could see his eyes behind those dark glasses. “You know how every family has a black sheep? Brendan was ours.”

He pulled in front of a green pickup and gunned the engine. “The thing is, Brendan hadn’t wanted to kill Dylan. That was a mistake. The person he’d wanted to kill-the person he thought he was shooting-was me.”

“God, Connor.” She tried not to gasp. “But why?”

“Long story short, I saw something he didn’t want me to see. I was in Central America on a job, and ran into him while something very bad was going down. He told me he was on the case for the Bureau, that he was shutting down the local operation. I believed him. Later, he and his partner realized it was only a matter of time before I found out that there was no FBI operation. He set me up when I was supposed to be working a drug bust, but there was a change of plans, and Dylan worked that job in my place.”

“What was the bad thing he was into?”

“Selling children on the black market.”

“My God…”

Connor fell silent then. They drove for several miles without speaking.

Finally, Daria said, “Why do you feel responsible for your brother’s death?”

It was a question he had heard before. He’d heard it more times than he’d like to think about, and had never bothered to reply. Not to his brother, Aidan, or his cousin Andrew, or to Mia. Nor to Annie, the woman Dylan had been engaged to when he died. He’d tried to blow off the others, but Annie was a psychologist and wouldn’t permit him to bully her.

He was trying to decide if he wanted to bully Daria into shutting up when she reached over and grasped the hand that was resting on the gear shift.

Neither of them spoke until they arrived at Cavanaugh’s.

“This is it here, I think,” Connor said. “Number 438 Broad Run Road.”

He turned into the drive and followed it up a slight incline until he reached the house, set well back from the road. It was gray stucco and stone, three stories high, and surrounded by tall trees.

Connor parked near the walk that ran next to the drive and before he could say anything, Daria was out of the car.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it? Did you notice that pretty stream when we pulled in?” She gazed around admiringly. “Like a painting.”

He was about to respond when a short, balding, jovial-looking man in a yellow polo shirt and lime green pants came down the walk.

“Agent Shields, I’m guessing,” he called out as he approached.

Connor removed his ID from his pocket and held it up for inspection as the man drew near.

“Mr. Cavanaugh?” Connor asked.

“Yes, yes, let me have a look at that.” He appeared to study it before handing it back. “You’re wondering if I know how to tell if it’s real or not. Well, I can tell you that I do. I have a good friend in your Philadelphia office. Jack Gaffney, you know him?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, he works with the art-theft people. I met him many years ago when he was trying to track down some forged Wyeth watercolors. Damned scandal, that was.” He turned to Daria. “You an agent, too?”

“No, sir. I’m an archaeologist,” Daria told him.

“That so. Well, then come on in. You wanted to talk to me about Elena Sevrenson.” He shook his head with obvious sadness. “Damned fine woman, Elena was. One of my favorite customers. Not just because she bought a lot, and didn’t mind paying top dollar for what she wanted. No, sir. Elena had a real appreciation for the things she collected. Didn’t buy a thing she didn’t love, didn’t matter how trendy or how unfashionable. She bought what she loved. Art and artifacts she respected. Her husband was the same way when he was alive. God rest their souls. I miss them both, and I don’t mind saying it.”

When he held the front door open for them, Daria saw the tears in his eyes. It was clear that Elena Sevrenson had indeed been more than a customer to him. She’d been his friend.

They stepped from the heat of the day into the air-conditioned comfort of the old house. Peter Cavanaugh led them through the front hall and the living room into his office, which was in an addition off the side of the house. An ancient Scottish terrier waddled along behind them.

“Don’t mind Fergus,” he told his guests. “We’re just back from our annual vacation in Maine. It always takes the old boy a few days to get used to things again.”

“You take him with you?” Daria asked.

“Of course I take him. You think I’d kennel my best friend?” Cavanaugh looked indignant. “He just needs to acclimate himself to the house again. I’m thinking he has a form of doggie Alzheimer’s.”

Before either of them could reply, Cavanaugh took a notebook from a desk drawer.