Cavanaugh Judgment (10 page)

And he’d been right about the TV program. There was some old, classic Western playing on the set. His father favored Westerns, complaining that the current crop of filmmakers didn’t have a clue how to make a decent one. For last Christmas, he’d gifted the old man with a complete DVD collection of John Wayne’s more famous Westerns. Alexander Kincannon knew the dialogue to every one of them.

“You don’t have to keep watching that,” Blake told his unwanted houseguest as he walked up behind her. “My father’s asleep.”

She smiled, looking at her dozing companion. There was a note of affection in her voice as she told Blake, “He lasted about fifteen minutes. It’s probably the food. Eating as much as he did tonight makes a person sleepy.”

“So does being in his early seventies,” the judge pointed out. Right now, he mused, it was hard to believe that he was looking at a decorated war hero. His father seemed so docile. “I’ll take him up to bed,” he told her, stooping for a moment so that he could take one of his father’s arms and slip it over his shoulders for leverage. He rose slowly, bringing the man up with him. The channel on the set remained the same. Still asleep, his father grunted as Blake brought him to his feet. “I said you didn’t have to watch that,” he told Greer again.

“I heard you, Judge.” She made no effort to reach for the remote. “I happen to like Westerns.”

One arm tucked around his father’s midriff, the other holding the man’s arm over his shoulders, Blake paused for a moment, studying her.

And then he shook his head. “You’re a strange woman, Detective O’Brien.”

Greer flashed a grin. “I’ve been told that. And if we’re going to be housemates for a few days, you might as well call me Greer. It’s less cumbersome on the tongue.” The word
tongue
set his imagination off before he could rein it in. Like slowly running his along the slope of her neck—and parts beyond. A warmth came over him. He wasn’t having very pillar-of-the-community-like thoughts.

Had to be because he was tired, he thought defensively.

“Greer,” he repeated. Not an ordinary name. Not an ordinary woman, he thought as he began to slowly guide his father away from the sofa.

“Need help?” she offered.

“I’ve done this before,” he answered. Then, after a beat, he added, “But thanks for offering.”

The corners of her mouth curved. That cost him, she thought. The man was human, but it cost him. “Don’t mention it.”

Roused, his father opened one sleepy eye. “Movie over?” he wanted to know, mumbling his words. Releasing a huge sigh, he all but sank to his knees. Blake tightened his arm around the older man’s waist.

“Yup,” Blake lied.

Alexander’s eyes drooped down again, shutting. “Who won?”

“The good guys, Dad,” Blake answered. “Work with me here, Dad. We’re coming to the first step.”

“Step,” Alexander repeated without any comprehension of the word. But he did raise his foot obligingly.

His back was to her and Blake couldn’t see it, but he would have sworn that he
felt
the detective’s smile widening.

After spending a generally restless, fitful night, Blake decided to get an early start on the day. As he came down the next morning, the aroma of fresh coffee greeted him. Fresh coffee and a scent he couldn’t immediately place. All he knew was that it wasn’t anything he’d smelled in the morning in his own house.

Not since before Margaret died.

Had to be his imagination, he told himself. That momentary sexual awakening he’d experienced yesterday had played havoc with his senses. That obviously included his sense of smell, he concluded.

His eyes shifted toward the sofa as he passed by the living room.

It was empty.

The bedding he’d given the detective was now neatly folded and stacked on a corner of the sofa.

Was she gone?

He doubted if he was going to be that lucky.

Making his way into the kitchen, he saw that he was right. She was in the kitchen, talking to his father. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee was her doing, he suspected.

How? As far as he knew, there was no coffee in the house.

As he walked in, his father turned and looked over his shoulder at him. “Pull up a chair, Blake. O’Brien’s making us breakfast.”

Confused, Blake looked down at the scrambled eggs with bits of ham that the detective had just put on a second plate—his, he assumed.

“Breakfast?” he echoed. “Out of what?” he wanted to know. “I’m fairly certain there’s no recipe that turns beer into scrambled eggs and coffee.” Nonetheless, he eased himself into the chair that was opposite the one his father was in. “Miracles a sideline of yours, Greer? Or did you sneak out to the grocery store early this morning?”

Leaving him and his father unattended would be committing a dereliction of duty and they both knew it.
Trying to trip me up, Judge?
she wondered.

“Neither,” she replied cheerfully. “Uncle Andrew had Aunt Rose slip some basic supplies into the trunk of my car when we weren’t paying attention. He told me what he did just as we were leaving. I put them into the refrigerator when you were working in the den.”

So that was what the chief had whispered to O’Brien last night. No doubt about it—the family was strange. “I earn a decent salary,” he told her. “I don’t need charity, however well intentioned.”

She felt herself growing protective of the family patriarch—not that he needed her to defend him. She supposed that meant that she was really becoming a Cavanaugh.

“Uncle Andrew doesn’t see it as charity. He calls it sharing. My new half sister, Patience, tells me that it’s a habit of his. To refuse is an insult,” she added.

Too busy eating and enjoying his breakfast, Alexander had remained silent during the exchange. Swallowing now, he put in his two cents.

“Try this, Blake,” he urged, pushing the other plate closer to his son. “It’s damn good.” And then Alexander turned his attention to the woman who had so unexpectedly come into their lives, and, as far as he was concerned, brightened them. “You weren’t kidding when you said you could cook.”

“No point in lying about something like that,” she answered, pleased that he seemed to be enjoying her efforts so much. She noticed that the judge left his plate untouched.

She got him a cup of coffee. Leaving it black, she moved it next to his plate and waited.

“You married, O’Brien?” Alexander asked her without warning.

“No.” She’d come close once or twice, but then she’d come to her senses and broken it off. Relationships made her uneasy. They required too much commitment and yielded too much disappointment.

“Spoken for?” the senior Kincannon prodded.

“Dad,” Blake said sharply. Alexander didn’t appear to hear.

“No,” Greer answered the older man’s question.

Alexander pinned her with a look and asked, half seriously, “How do you feel about a retired marine?”

Unable to keep it back any longer, Greer allowed a smile to emerge. Humor danced in her eyes. “Respectful.”

Greer answered the older man’s question just as his son uttered another, far more exasperated, “Dad!”

What the hell had gotten into his father? Blake wondered. Yes, the woman was attractive, and yes, there was something about her that transcended the sum of her parts, something that could readily arouse a man if he wasn’t careful, but he gave his father more credit than to behave like a smitten adolescent.

“Fella’s got a right to know if he’s got a chance,” Alexander answered, clearly annoyed that his son felt he had to reprimand him like some errant kid. The retired marine shifted his attention back to Greer. “Do I?” The twinkle in his eye told her he was teasing her.

Greer shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re just too young for me, Gunny.”

Before either father or son could make a comment, Greer’s cell phone began to ring. Putting down the spatula she was holding, she took the phone out of her pocket and flipped it open.

Turning her back to the two men she’d just served, Greer said, “This is Detective O’Brien.”

Her partner didn’t waste time with greetings or preambles. This wasn’t a social call. “They found the stolen ambulance.” His tone indicated that it wasn’t a good find.

The bailiff’s frightened face flashed through her mind. Greer tensed. “And?”

She heard Jeff take a breath before answering. “The bailiff was still inside.”

She made the only logical guess she could. “Dead?”

“No, not then. The kid hung on long enough to reach the hospital. But he died on the operating table,” Jeff told her.

What a waste. The second he’d agreed to help Munro escape, he’d been a dead man. It was all just a matter of when the bullet would find him. “Did he say anything before he died?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did. He said to tell the judge he was sorry, but he had to do it. They threatened to kill his family.”

There was no comfort in knowing she’d guessed right. The man was still dead before he’d had a chance to live.

“And?” she prodded when Jeff didn’t continue. “What about the family? Were they at the house?”

“Yeah.” There was a long pause. “The wife was shot dead,” Jeff told her grimly.

She felt her stomach tightening into a hard knot. “And the baby?” Greer forced herself to ask. Her voice came out in a whisper.

“Seems Munro—or one of his people at any rate—draws the line at killing babies,” her partner answered. “The police found the baby wet and dirty and screaming…but alive. The chief’s got your brother looking for the bailiff’s next of kin.”

A family man even in the worst of times, she thought. “Which one?” she asked.

There was momentary silence on the other end. And then Jeff answered, “Whichever one he can find.”

“No, I mean which brother has he got out looking for the next of kin?”

She heard Jeff laugh shortly. “Oh, yeah, I forgot, you’ve got two of them. Ethan. And there’s more news,” he continued. “Someone tampered with the judge’s car. It blew up when it was started. The officer never stood a chance.” Greer closed her eyes. She’d had a feeling. Damn but there were days she hated being right. “By the way,” Jeff was saying, “how’s the babysitting detail going?”

“Better than it went for the bailiff and the officer,” she commented darkly. And then, because she had to ask even though she had a feeling she already knew the answer, Greer asked, “No sign of Munro?”

“If there was, I would have told you that right off the bat,” Jeff said.

“I was hoping you were saving the best was for last,” Greer told him with a sigh. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” And with that, her partner broke the connection.

When she turned around again, slipping her phone back into her pocket, she found Blake staring at her.

“Tell me.” The words came from Blake. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

Chapter 8

B
lake’s somber expression masked his thoughts as he listened to the sketchy details of what had happened to his bailiff, Tim Kelly, and the fact that his car had been wired to blow up the moment he started it. He made no comment during her swift narrative.

Kincannon looked almost preoccupied, but Greer knew better. The judge had heard and digested every word she’d said.

“And Tim’s little girl?” he asked quietly. “Where is she?”

This, at least, she thought, was somewhat positive. “The chief of detectives is trying to locate the bailiff’s next of kin before the social services system has a chance to swallow her up.”

Blake nodded, taking the information in. They all knew that once a child was within the system, there were miles of red tape to untangle before that child could be extricated.

“Tim has—had,” the judge corrected himself and she could see that the bailiff’s death and the manner in which it happened had affected him far more deeply than the destruction of his vehicle, “an aunt who raised him. She lives in Santa Barbara.” He paused, thinking. “Donna McClosky, I think he said her name was.”

Greer had her phone out again. “This is really going to help, Judge,” she told him. Two seconds later, her partner answered and she passed the information on. After terminating the call, she flipped the phone shut and tucked it away. “My partner’s going to let the chief know what you said and get right on it.” She paused for a second, debating asking the next question. Curiosity got the better of her. “You were close to the bailiff?” she asked, studying his expression.

Blake heard the note of sympathy in her voice. He didn’t respond well to sympathy. It was too close to pity and that reminded him of other things.

Looking away, he shrugged carelessly. “He talked, I listened. Close?” he repeated the word, as if weighing it. “No. But he was young and enthusiastic and extremely likeable.” He deliberately drew the focus away from himself by adding, “Everyone who knew him could tell you that.”

Quietly sipping his black coffee, listening, his father looked at him. “Sounds like Scottie,” Alexander commented.

“Scottie?” This was a new name, one she was unfamiliar with. Greer looked from one man to the other, waiting for one of them to enlighten her. By the look on his face, she had a feeling that her answer wasn’t going to come from the judge.

“My younger son,” Alexander told her stoically.

The older man, she noted, was staring at the remaining black liquid in his cup, avoiding her eyes. This was the first she’d heard of a sibling. “You have a brother?” she asked Blake.

“Had,” Blake corrected tersely, grinding out the word almost against his will.

She waited for details, and, as she expected, it was the older Kincannon who ultimately filled her in. “Scottie was killed saving his platoon in Afghanistan. He was a marine,” his father said with pride.

“He died a hero,” Greer concluded.

Blake’s face was stony. “Bottom line, he died,” he said, his voice hollow.

A wave of compassion washed over her. Kincannon certainly had had his share of tragedies, she thought, her heart going out to him.

“A hero,” Alexander repeated firmly, daring his remaining son to contradict him.

Blake had no desire to get into an argument this early in the morning. Scottie had wanted nothing more than their father’s approval and had rushed off to enlist to fight for his country the minute he graduated college. It had been an utter waste of a decent human being.