Marie Ferrarella - Cavanaugh Cold Case

Sean looked from his nephew to the young woman he felt was capable of great things. He knew all about Malloy’s reputation. He’d raised several sons like that himself and knew firsthand that it took a while for the kinks to work themselves out. Malloy was a good cop and ultimately an even better human being. The name of the game was patience.

Sean, in turn, smiled at the young woman between his nephew and him. “I’m sure that Dr. Alberghetti will let us all know when she’s had time to formulate a scientific opinion regarding this unfortunate treasure trove of death that the construction crew stumbled across.”

Easygoing almost to a fault, Brian Cavanaugh’s somewhat slightly older brother had just finished his sentence as a teeth-jarring, crowing sound pierced the air again.

The closest thing to a dirty look passed over Sean’s face as he glanced over his shoulder. “Doesn’t that blasted bird ever just stop making noise and go to sleep? That’s the third time he’s crowed since we got here. Isn’t he supposed to be tuned in to some inner clock or something?”

“I don’t know about an inner clock, but it’s too bad that he can’t talk,” Malloy commented, his eyes sweeping over the immediate area, then taking in the weather-battered trailer in the distance, as well. He had to be getting back to the unfriendly owner. “Maybe then he could give us some insight on what happened here.”

“He wouldn’t be able to,” Kristin said flatly, not bothering to look up. “Roosters live about ten years. Fifteen at most. These bodies all appear to be older than that.”

Taken aback, Malloy looked at her quizzically. “You actually know how long roosters live?” He raised his eyes to meet his uncle’s. “Wow, she’s just a regular font of miscellaneous information, isn’t she?”

Sean smiled in response. “She reads a lot in her downtime,” he told his nephew. “Although there isn’t going to be very much downtime in her immediate future, I’m afraid.”

“She also has excellent hearing,” Kristin interjected without pausing what she was doing.

“My apologies, Kristin,” Sean told her, willingly taking the blame. “That was rude.”

This time Kristin did stop what she was doing. When she spoke, her words were addressed only to the older man, who she considered to be her mentor despite the fact that he had no medical degree.

“You could never be rude, sir. He, however,” she went on, casting one dismissive glance in Malloy’s direction, “is an entirely different story.”

“Ouch.” Malloy pretended to wince. “Moving right along—”

“Please, do,” Kristin murmured just audibly enough to be overheard.

Roy Harrison picked that moment to approach the trio, a dark, impatient scowl all but embedded on his long, thin face. “Hey, when is she going to be finished?” he demanded, irritably waving his hand at Kristin.

Kristin was about to speak up and put the sour-looking man in his place when she heard someone else doing it for her.

“When she’s done,” Malloy informed the disgruntled new owner of the nursery in no uncertain terms, his tone far removed from his usual friendly cadence.

Kristin looked at the detective in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to come to her defense. Part of her waited for Malloy to add, “Just kidding,” but he didn’t.

“Is she going to keep on digging straight down to the other side of the world until she turns up all the bones from here to there?” Harrison retorted.

“Nope, just the ones that are buried along the perimeter of your property,” Sean told him pleasantly. His words didn’t match the chief’s expression.

Apparently, Malloy thought, sarcasm was wasted on the nursery’s new owner, because he took the head of the CSI unit seriously.

“My bulldozer can go a lot faster,” Harrison told them.

It didn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that the man’s only interest in the matter was speed, and that he couldn’t care less about any sort of resolution as far as solving the crime went. The abrupt cessation of work was costing him a considerable amount of money for each minute that went by, and not only was money the bottom line, apparently as far as Harrison was concerned it was the only line.

“Your bulldozer can also crush a lot of those bones beyond recognition,” Malloy told him before Kristin could speak up.

In his estimation, Harrison was clearly a Neanderthal type, and anything that the medical examiner had to say, Malloy knew, wouldn’t carry any weight. There was no point in having her hit her head against a brick wall.

“It’s not like they’re exactly a pretty sight right now,” the frustrated nursery owner snapped.

“Mr. Harrison, the less time you spend standing here, talking and tying us up, the faster this’ll go and the faster you’ll be able to get back to building up your nursery,” Malloy pointed out. “Now, if you really want to talk, that’s great,” he continued cheerfully. “I have plenty of questions I’d like to ask you.”

At this point, the scowl on Harrison’s face was going clear down to the bone. Second-guessing the detective’s question, he snapped, “No, I didn’t kill anybody.”

The smile that flashed across Malloy’s lips was entirely superficial and empty. “That’s very reassuring to know, Mr. Harrison, but that wasn’t going to be my question.”

“Oh.” Harrison looked somewhat taken aback. “Well, what was it, then?” the nursery owner asked, trying not to look flustered.

To get out of the medical examiner’s way—and possibly on her good side—Malloy began to inch his way up the incline, leading the nursery owner back toward the uninviting trailer. “How did you come to be the owner of this property?”

Following the detective, Harrison looked at him as if he were simpleminded. “The usual way. I bought the damn thing.”

“From?” Malloy asked, attempting to coax more information out of him.

Harrison’s expression grew even more condescending as he looked at the man asking him these questions. “The person selling it.”

Malloy blew out a breath, trying not to let his temper get the better of him. This wasn’t anything new. He’d dealt with idiots before. “I need a name, Mr. Harrison. Who sold you the property?”

Harrison stopped walking. “My lawyer handled it. He dealt with some long-time employee who worked here. The guy was acting on behalf of the owner.”

The man was definitely a challenge to his patience, Malloy thought. “I still need a name, Mr. Harrison.”

“I don’t have a name,” Harrison snapped irritably. “I already told you. My lawyer handled all that. He does all my transactions.”

“All right, then I’ll need his name,” Malloy said, the calm timbre of his voice belying the way he really felt about this verbal square dance.

Part of him would have felt a certain amount of satisfaction if he could have discovered that Harrison was behind these murders. He made a mental note to investigate the man’s background and his general whereabouts twenty years ago—although he would have been very young at the time.

“Fine,” Harrison bit off. “I’ve got his card in that tin can of an office up there.” He waved his hand contemptuously toward the trailer.

“Lead the way,” Malloy said amicably, fairly certain that Harrison wasn’t aware that he was being led up to that trailer already.

Harrison frowned at the former owner’s living accommodations. “First thing in the morning, I’m having that piece of junk hauled off and getting a real RV set up in its place until I can have a building erected.” He aimed a penetrating glare at the detective next to him. “Unless that’s against the law, too.”