Marie Ferrarella - Cavanaugh On Call

The local paper was her one attachment to her past. While everyone she knew got their news in sound bites or from the internet, Scottie still preferred to get hers from newsprint. Her late grandfather, the man she’d been named after, had been a journalist and, in a way, though the man had died when she was seven, reading the newspaper—when she had the time for it—made her feel close to the man.

She missed those days. Missed not feeling as if the world was on her shoulders.

“C’mon, Scottie, drink up. Don’t dawdle,” she urged herself under her breath. “You’ll be late for work and you don’t want th—”

Scottie almost dropped the mug she’d raised to her lips. Moving like someone in a dream, she set the mug down, her eyes never leaving the story above the fold. The one she’d just fleetingly—and unconsciously—glanced at.

She’d had no intention of reading any of the stories on page one. She’d only meant to glance at a few words here and there in passing, drink the rest of the vile black brew and go. But something had just jumped out at her, commandeering her eyes and grabbing her full attention. When she thought about it later, she wouldn’t have even been able to explain why. There was just something—something—about the story that forced her to sit up and actually absorb the words.

Scottie got no further than the first three lines of the first paragraph before the taste of bile rose in her throat and filled her mouth at the same time she felt the pit of her stomach sink, pinching the sides together.

No!

“No, no, no, no!” she cried out loud, her voice bordering on outrage. “This isn’t happening. This has to be someone else. It has to be.”

But even as she shouted the words at the news article on page one, Scottie had a sick feeling she wasn’t being paranoid.

She was correct.

Ethan.

She had to call her brother and once she had him on the phone, he’d tell her she was wrong. Not in so many words, but by his tone, his inflection. By the unspoken hurt in his voice that she would even think he was involved. She’d known Ethan his entire life and she’d know if he was lying or trying to keep the truth from her.

Willing her hand not to tremble, Scottie hit the number on her cell that would connect her directly to Ethan’s phone, all the while telling herself that this was just a coincidence. An awful, unsettling coincidence. She had worked much too hard to get him back to the straight and narrow and he had worked with her. He’d been clean and out of trouble for almost five years now. Five whole years.

He wouldn’t do this.

Not to himself.

Not to her.

“This isn’t you!” she fairly shouted at the newspaper as she listened to the phone on the other end ring.

On the sixth ring, Scottie snapped to attention. She heard Ethan’s voice.

“This is Ethan Loomis. I’m not available right now. Please leave a message and your number and I’ll get back to you.”

Fear and anger had her throat suddenly so dry she could barely get the words out. “Ethan, this is Scottie. Call me. Now!”

When she terminated the call, Scottie picked up the newspaper and finished reading the article.

Her hands were shaking.

Chapter 1

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Detective Bryce Cavanaugh watched in disbelief as his partner, Detective Peter Phelps, a tall, thin man whose suit jackets hung loosely off his body, packed the last of his personal items into a cardboard box. “You’re actually leaving?” Bryce questioned.

“And they said you’d never amount to anything as a detective,” Phelps said dryly, tossing a half-empty bag of stale chocolate-covered wafers from last Halloween into the box. “Yeah,” the older man said more seriously. “You figured it out. I’m leaving.”

“Was it something I said?” Bryce’s voice cracked, trying to cover up the fact that if this was on the level, it left him far from happy and somewhat surprised. He wasn’t averse to change, but he didn’t exactly welcome a major shake-up, either.

“Hell, it’s everything you said,” Phelps answered tongue in cheek as he opened one drawer after another, checking for anything he might have left behind. “But if you’re asking why I’m leaving the police department, you don’t have anything to do with it.”

Bryce took a seat on the edge of his partner’s desk, crossing his arms before him. “Then educate me, Phelps. Why are you suddenly spring-cleaning your desk two months late?”

The frown on Phelps’s long, gaunt face went clear to the bone. “Alice’s mom is sick,” he said, referring to his wife’s only living parent.

Bryce knew enough to look immediately sympathetic. “Hey, I’m sorry to hear that.” Still perched on the desk, he leaned in to get into his partner’s face. “But I still don’t see the connection.”

Phelps put down a copy of the 1983 Dodger Annual yearbook for his favorite baseball team, pressed his thin lips together and sighed. The sigh sounded as if it came straight from his toes. “The kind of sick where she needs her family around her, doing stuff for her.”

Bryce still didn’t see the problem. “So? Bring her out here. You’ve got those extra bedrooms since your kids went off to college—” He didn’t get a chance to finish.

Phelps eyed him as if he’d lost his mind. “Look, I feel bad for her, but there’s no way that harpy’s moving in with us. Not unless you wanna see my face on a mug shot posted in Homicide with the words ‘Rogue Cop’ over it.”

Bryce was trying very hard to understand what the other man was saying. “So what’s the plan? You and Alice’re moving in with her?”

Phelps shivered. “Different scenario, same results. Alice and I are renting a place up there.”

“There” being Fresno, Bryce recalled.

“She’s going to play Florence What’s-Her-Name and I guess I’m gonna see if I can finally write that crime thriller I’m always talking about.” The contented, wistful expression on his face faded and Phelps got back to the present. “Officially, for now I’m taking an extended leave of absence. Don’t look so glum. I’ll be back,” Phelps promised. “After all, you never forget your first,” he added with a wicked grin, followed by a heartfelt sigh.

Bryce shot the man a look that said he wasn’t amused. “Seriously, just how long is this ‘extended’ leave going to be?”

Bony shoulders rose and fell beneath the loose-fitting jacket. “A few months. Six on the outside. Doctors say that the old girl’s on her way out. Could be anytime now,” he said a little wistfully. And then reality set in. “’Course, she’s got the constitution of a rock. She just might hang around for another ten, twenty years just to stick it to me.” Phelps laughed dryly as he put the last of his things into the cardboard box.

He paused. “Not everybody’s as lucky as you are, partner. Your family gets along and they all have each other’s backs no matter what.” He picked up the box then put it back down again and, only half kidding, said, “Any chance I could get adopted? I wouldn’t take up much space.”

Bryce laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to ask.” And then he sobered as he scanned the squad room. “It won’t seem the same without you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll forget about me the second I walk out the door.” Phelps saw that his partner was looking at something or someone over his shoulder. Turning, he saw a slender blonde crossing the threshold, a miniature version of his cardboard box in her hands. “Sooner, maybe,” he commented. “Well, off I go.” He put his hand into Bryce’s, shaking it. “It’s been good. Maybe with luck, I’ll see you soon.”

And then Phelps looked around. “Anyone know where I can pick up some hemlock, cheap?” he asked, raising his voice so that it carried to the rest of the inhabitants of the squad room.