Marie Ferrarella - Cavanaugh Or Death

Moira made up her mind.

“Want to find out?” she asked him. When he didn’t answer immediately, she decided he probably thought she was putting him on, so she went on to try to convince him to join forces.

“My lieutenant’s giving me forty-eight hours to figure out why someone would be messing with a grave at the cemetery. I could use some help. Two sets of eyes are always better than one,” she added quickly, hoping that would convince him to agree to join her.

“I don’t work in your division,” he pointed out evenly.

Moira waved away the observation. “That’s no problem. Detectives get loaned out and cross department lines all the time. I could put in a request with your lieutenant—”

“Captain,” he corrected.

Moira never lost a beat. “With your captain,” she said, “and ask him to allow you to help me with the investigation.”

“What would you say was your reason?” he asked, then challenged, “Why would you need my help over someone else’s, say, like, in your own department?”

She had an answer ready for that, as well. “I could tell him that you were there at the time, that you think you saw something—”

Davis cut her off. “I saw the same thing that you did.”

Why was he fighting her on this? Didn’t he want to investigate these potential grave robbers? And if he didn’t, why didn’t he? Was there something here she was missing?

“Still,” she continued, “you were in the cemetery at the same time they were—and you chased after them, causing them to flee the premises, possibly before they could finish doing whatever it was they were doing.” The more she talked, the more she sold herself on the idea, growing excited at the same time. “So, what do you say?” she asked brightly.

His was not the face of a man who had been won over, Moira couldn’t help noticing.

“I say that I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to fix.” She put her hand out. “I’m Detective Moira Cavanaugh, robbery division.”

He made no effort to take her hand. Instead he repeated her name. “Cavanaugh.”

Moira dropped her hand. She knew adversity when she saw it. “One of the many.”

She attempted to read his expression and found it utterly impossible. It was like trying to guess at the thoughts of a glass of water. Was he one of the ones on the force who outright resented her because of her name? She would like to believe that if he was, something in his eyes would give his feelings away. Disdain. Annoyance. Something.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look down his nose at her. Didn’t reel off his list of imagined Cavanaugh offenses.

All he’d done was repeat her name.

So she tried again. “So, what do you say?”

He appeared unmoved. “I say that there’s probably nothing to investigate.”

“How can you be sure?” she asked. Then she qualified her question, aware that what she’d say would probably get to him. “Unless, of course, you’re the one who disturbed the grave and those two characters in black surprised you at it.”

She watched the man’s face as she delivered her last guess. But there was no telltale look to give him away.

Damn but he was a hard nut to crack.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a wild imagination?” he asked her.

Well, at least she’d gotten a reaction out of him, Moira thought. “If cops didn’t have wild imaginations, half the crimes wouldn’t be solved. Thinking outside the box is what does it.”

“There’s thinking outside the box and then there’s thinking outside the whole house,” he countered.

It was easy to see which he thought she was guilty of.

“You still haven’t given me an answer,” she pointed out, crossing her fingers as she asked, “Want to partner up for this?”

“No,” he replied flatly.

What Moira couldn’t possibly know was that the last thing he wanted was a partner. He’d lost two, not to mention both his parents, and at this point, he felt that bad luck always followed in his wake, striking down anyone he interacted with. He and everyone else would be better off if he just remained a loner, the way he was.

The man on the staircase had aroused her curiosity to a higher level, but even so, Moira knew she couldn’t force him to be her partner. Nor could she get him to answer all the questions that were, even now, popping up and multiplying in her head.

“Why?” she asked. “Tell me. Please.” Getting answers would have to be done with finesse, but only if she could get this man to talk to her on a regular basis—which she could, but only if they partnered up.

The old saying about leading a horse to water but not being able to make him drink ran through her head.

“My answer is just no,” he replied.

Now what?

Moira took a conscious, figurative step back and shrugged. “Your loss, Detective...?” She let her voice trail off, waiting for him to fill in a name.

Instead he replied, “That is a matter of opinion.”

He hadn’t responded the way she’d hoped he would. The man just didn’t know how to play the game, she thought, frustrated.

Or maybe he did but just refused to.

Moira took one more stab at it. “Oh c’mon, you’ve got to have a name.”

“Yes, I do.”

For just the tiniest split second she entertained the idea of justifiable homicide. Then, taking a deep breath, she asked, “So what is it?”

If nothing else, the woman had succeeded in making him curious as to how far she was going to go with this. “There’s no reason for you to know.”

“Detective,” she said, a slight edge working its way into her voice, “there’re just the two of us in this stairwell and accidents can happen at any place, any time.”

Disciplined restraint kept him from laughing at her. “I’m no expert, but my guess is that I outweigh you by a good fifty pounds.”

She was one step below him and from this vantage point, he towered over her. Moira Cavanaugh didn’t give an inch as a fire came into her eyes. “The first rule of martial arts is using your opponent’s weight against them.”

To Moira’s surprise, she heard a dry laugh escape the detective’s lips.

“You really are determined to get your own way, aren’t you?” he asked her. “Let me guess, you’re an only child who was always indulged.”

Boy, did he have the wrong number. “I’m one of seven who had to fight her way to the top each and every time. Nobody indulged anybody in my family,” she informed him proudly.

There was no point in his telling her that she wasn’t the only one trained in martial arts—his parents had signed him up for classes to help build his confidence because he had been small for his age and had been picked on in school. What he’d learned at that very young age had helped him hold more than his own in life.

He regarded her in prolonged silence, then, just as she appeared ready to walk away, said, “I’ll talk to my captain myself.”

Stunned—she’d been ready to give up on the man for now—Moira wanted to make sure she understood what he was telling her. “Are you telling me that you’re willing to partner up with me?”

He didn’t answer her directly. “You said your lieutenant gave you forty-eight hours.”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “I guess I can put up with anything for forty-eight hours—as long as that’s the real time limit,” he qualified, looking at her as if he could easily tell if she was lying.

She met his scrutiny head-on. “That’s the real time limit he gave me.”

He caught the last three words she’d added on and wondered if that was the loophole she was giving herself. Not that it really mattered. He’d been thinking about looking into the disturbed grave himself, just in his off-hours. What this woman proposed gave him official capacity to do it, which made the investigation that much easier to undertake.