Internal Affair (4 page)

“You’ve got a healthy appetite,” he commented when she reached for her fourth piece.

“He speaks. Wow.”

“Forget I said anything.”

“No, please, now that the floodgates have opened up, continue.” When he made no comment, she shook her head. “You keep this up and I’m going to be forced to practice my ventriloquist act on you.”

“Your what?”

“That’s when the sane person makes the wooden creation beside her talk. In other words, putting words into your mouth. Like ‘Thanks for the lunch, Maggi. Remind me to return the favor.”’

Patrick stared at her. She’d done a fair imitation of his voice, all without moving her lips.

“Want me to continue?” she offered.

“No, you made your point.” He rose, passing a ten in her direction. “You’re crazy.”

“I said lunch was on me.” She was on her feet, striding after him to the car. Catching up, she pushed the money back into his pocket. “Do we have to argue about this, too?”

He felt her hand as she withdrew it from his pants pocket. The tightening in his loins was purely instinctive. And annoying. As was she.

“Why not? You seem to like it.”

She pulled open the door on her side and got in. “I’d like a little agreement better.” Buckling her seat belt, she sighed. “Tell you what, I’ll let you yell at me some more if you want to.”

About to start the car, he paused to look at her. “I don’t yell.”

“Okay, growl. Lip-synch, something. Just talk. Say something, anything.”

“Why?” Starting the car, he pulled out of the parking area.

“Because I want to get to know you. Partners should know something about each other and I really don’t know anything about you, other than what I’ve heard and the fact that if these were Roman times, your scowl would put Zeus to shame.”

He came to a stop at a red light. “Jupiter.”

“What?”

The light turned green again and he stepped on the accelerator. “Zeus was a Greek god, Jupiter was the Roman equivalent.”

So he knew something beyond police procedure. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who knew mythology. “Impressive. I’ll still go with Zeus. You look more like a Greek god than a Roman god anyway.”

She was flirting with him, he thought, but when he shot her a look, McKenna’s expression was totally guileless. Was she putting him on? Didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to last long enough for that to become a problem.

“You were damn lucky today that things turned out the way they did and no one was hurt. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

“I’ve always been pretty lucky.” His profile hardened even more. “Hey, don’t underestimate the part luck plays when it comes to our line of work.” She thought of the wound that had put her out of commission for a month a couple of years back. She’d kept that bit of information from her father. The man had enough on his mind. Thinking of it, she patted the region several inches below her shoulder. “Two inches to the left and this scar might have been the last one I ever got instead of just one of many.”

“Scars? You’re talking about scars?” What kind of a woman was she? As far as he knew, women didn’t exactly go out of their way to draw attention to something that was considered to be a blemish.

“Sure. Don’t you have any?”

“I have enough.”

“Where?” she asked innocently.

“Out of the light of day.”

For just the slightest second, she caught herself wondering just where on his very hard anatomy those scars were located. The next moment, she roused herself, hauling her mind back into focus. “Then you know what I’m talking about. About luck, I mean.”

Turning right, he shook his head. “Mary Margaret, I’m beginning to think I don’t have a damn clue what you’re talking about most of the time.”

She wished he wouldn’t use her name, but she knew if she said anything, he would only do it more often. “The subject is luck. The visual aids are scars.” Grabbing her jacket and blouse, she undid some buttons and pulled both articles back. “Like this one.”

Patrick glanced in her direction and almost forgot to look back at the road. He’d only caught a glimpse, but that provided more than enough fodder. He swerved to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him.

“Damn it, Mary Margaret, you always go exposing your breasts to people you hardly know?”

All she’d shown him was a little more skin than had already been evident. “It’s called cleavage and I’m not exposing myself, I’m showing you a scar that’s well above the bad-taste line. If I was into exposing, there are other scars I could show you.”

Patrick didn’t have to look at her to know she was grinning. He heard it in her voice. He was about to ask her just where on her anatomy they were situated, but he didn’t need to go there. The interior of the car was warm enough as it was.

Maggi moved the fabric back into place. “Anyway, my point is that luck has
everything
to do with it. And I’ve been luckier than most.”

She not only had hair like a Barbie doll, but the intelligence of one as well, Patrick thought darkly.

“Luck has a nasty habit of running out when you least expect it.”

“God, but you are Mr. Sunshine, aren’t you?”

“Sunshine was never my department.” This time, he took on the yellow light, making it through the intersection before it had a chance to turn red. The faster he got this annoying woman back to the precinct, the better. “That’s the realm of cockeyed optimists.”

“Would it help you to know that I can back up my cockeyed optimism?”

“How? A Ouija board?”

She glanced at her watch. They’d eaten lunch in less than twenty-five minutes. “We’ve got a little time left. Take me to the firing range.”

“We’ve still got a homicide to solve,” he reminded her.

“This’ll only take a few minutes and it might make you feel a whole lot better.”

What would make him feel a whole lot better, he thought, was finding out that she was just part of another one of his bad dreams.

Growling an oath under his breath, Patrick turned the car around.

Chapter 4

T
he fiftyish, barrel-chested man behind the desk at the firing range smiled warmly the moment he saw her walking in, transforming his round face from intimidating to surprisingly boyish in appearance. “Hey, back for more, Annie Oakley?”

Reaching behind his desk, the officer, Miles Baker, produced a box of ammunition before Maggi could make a formal request and slid it across the counter toward her.

Inclining her head, Maggi took the box from him. “Just here to see if my edge hasn’t dulled.”

Baker laughed. “Even dulled, you’d still be better than the rest of us.” His deep-set brown eyes shifted toward Patrick. Since the other detective made no request for shells, he left a second box where it was. “Hey, you ever seen this lady in action?”

Against his will, Patrick thought about the incident at the bank. At the time, he’d been sure she’d lost her nerve. To be honest, McKenna had pulled her weapon out pretty quickly.

He looked at Maggi. “Depends on what you mean by action.” He noted that she had the good grace to look just a shade uncomfortable.

Baker raised hamlike hands, warding off any stray thoughts. “Hey, I don’t go there.”

His denial was a bit too vehement. Patrick was willing to bet the man had had a sensual thought or two about the woman he was grinning at. Baker wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t. Besides, Patrick had seen the way the man had brightened the second he’d recognized her.

“I’m talking about with a gun in her hand.” Baker kissed the tips of his fingers before spreading them wide again as if to release the phantom kiss into the air. “Thing of beauty to watch.”

Patrick still wasn’t sure if the officer was referring to the way she shot or just McKenna in general. He supposed, if pinned down, he’d have to agree to the latter. But beauty had little to do with their line of work. If anything, it got in the way.

“Apparently that’s why I’m here.” Resigned, Patrick looked at what he hoped was his temporary partner expectantly. “Okay, you want to show me something, show me.”

Though his expression remained impassive, she knew Cavanaugh was challenging her. Ordinarily she didn’t go out of her way to prove anything about herself to anyone. She figured people who did were braggarts.

But this wasn’t a case of bragging or showing off. This was a case of proving herself to the man she’d supposedly been partnered with. This was showing him that she could be trusted to at least cover his back when the time called for it. And, in her experience, one trust usually led to another.

At least, that was what she was counting on.

“All right.” She turned on her heel to lead the way to the firing range. “Let’s go.”

“Hey, don’t forget these.” Leaning over the counter, Baker held up two sets of earphones. “Don’t want to go around the rest of the day deaf, do you?”

Patrick doubled back and took both pairs from the officer. He handed one set to Maggi.

“All right, Mary Margaret,” he said gamely, “impress me.”

No pressure there.
Going to the rear, Maggi chose a slot, then donned the earphones before pressing a button that sent her paper target flying down the field away from her.

Patrick watched as the blackened target became smaller and smaller. The woman with the gun made no effort to halt its progress. Just how far was she sending it?

“You planning on stopping that thing anytime soon? Nobody expects you to shoot at a perp fleeing the scene in Nevada.”

The target still hadn’t gone as far as she could shoot, but Maggi pressed the button to oblige Patrick. The paper target looked little bigger than a suspended stray piece of confetti.

Closing one eye, she took careful aim and fired.

Curious, Patrick didn’t wait for her to discharge the weapon again. Holding his hand up to stop her from firing, he pressed the button to retrieve the target. When it came back, he saw that she’d hit it dead center. He felt he had to assume that it was just a freakish coincidence, but for argument’s sake, he gave her the benefit of the doubt.

“Not bad,” he conceded, releasing the target, “if you’ve got the time to line up your shot.”

Maggi said nothing. Instead, reaching over him, she pressed the button again, sending the target back even farther away than before. This time, Patrick made no comment about the target’s proximity but waited until she stopped it herself. And then, just when the target had reached the end of its run, she pressed for its return.

Once the line was activated again, Maggi began firing, sending off five rounds before the paper target came back to its place of origin.

Without a word, Patrick examined the target. She’d sent all five rounds into the same vicinity as the first. Two of the shots were almost on top of each other, the rest close enough to make the hole bigger.

Staring at it, Patrick had to admit to himself that she was impressive. But he’d never admit this to her.

“Not bad,” he said again, “if the perp is running in a straight line and not firing back.”

He was doing it to annoy her, Maggi thought. He wasn’t the first man she’d had to prove herself to, and losing her temper wasn’t part of the deal. She loaded a fresh clip into her weapon.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait for the right occasion,” she told him calmly.

“I guess. We done here?”

She squared her shoulders, feeling a slow boil begin. She could have gone on firing, but obviously it didn’t prove anything to this lug. “We’re done.”

“Good.” Patrick took off his earphones and walked back to the front desk.

He was a hard man, Maggi thought, but then she already knew that. And she also knew that she’d made her point. Taking a deep breath, she hurried back to the front desk and handed in the remainder of the box of ammunition to Baker, as well as the earphones.

Baker looked surprised that she had cut her time so short.

“Fun time’s over, Baker,” she explained. “We’ve got to get back to the station.”

The officer put the earphones away. “See you around, Annie Oakley,” he chuckled.

Patrick stood at the door, waiting for her. “He knows you.”

She walked out first. “We’ve talked.”

He had a feeling she talked to everyone and everything, living or not. “So, how long have you had this supervision?”

It was a backhanded compliment. Nevertheless, she accepted it gladly. She barely suppressed the smile that rose to her lips, but Maggi knew he’d think she was preening. She walked briskly beside him to the car.

“I don’t. What I had was a father who was on the job for twenty-two years. He put a gun in my hand when I was old enough to hold one and took me out to the firing range.” She still remembered the first time. The weapon had weighed a ton, but she’d been far too proud to say anything.

“Some people would frown on that.” He passed no judgments himself. People were free to live their lives any way they saw fit, as long as it didn’t impinge on others. Or him.

“Yeah, well, my father wasn’t exactly your average guy. He wanted me to have a healthy respect for guns and to know what one could or couldn’t do.”

Patrick heard the pride in her voice, and the affection. It was the same tone he heard in his cousins’ voices when they talked about their fathers. He wondered what that was like, having a father you were close to, you were proud of. It seemed like such a foreign concept to him.

“A little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing,” he pointed out.

Her father had taught her how to take a gun apart first, piece by piece, and then clean it before reassembling it. She’d had to wait a long time before he allowed her to handle cartridges.

“Maybe, but enough of it sets you free,” she countered.

“Whatever.” Getting into the car, he waited until she buckled up. “So, how does your father feel about you being on the police force?”

“He worries.” Maggi slid the metal tongue into the groove, snapping the belt into place. “He’s a father first, a police officer second. But he’s proud of me.” She knew that without asking. It made her determined never to let him down. “He’s the reason I joined up.” She thought of the upbringing she’d had. Blue uniforms populated her everyday world. “I never knew anything else.”

Starting the car, he backed out of his space. “What’s your mother got to say about it?”

Maggi kept her face forward. “Nothing. She died when I was nine. He and his buddies raised me.”

Her profile had gotten a little rigid. He’d hit a nerve, he thought. Miss Sunshine had a cloud on her horizon. Interesting. “His buddies?”

Maggi nodded. Her profile was relaxed again and she was as animated as before. Just his luck. “The other police officers. I was their mascot.”

He laughed to himself, taking a hard right. “That would explain it.”

Maggi found she had to brace herself to keep from leaning toward the window. “Explain what?”

“The cocky attitude.”

“I don’t have a cocky attitude,” she informed him. “I just know what I’m capable of and, since you’re my partner, I wanted you to know, too,” she added quickly before he could accuse her of showing off.

“You shouldn’t have put yourself out.”

Turning her head, she caught him sparing her a glance. She couldn’t fathom what was in his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re not going to be my partner for that long.”

Guess again, Cavanaugh.
“You know something I don’t?”

Arriving at the station, he pulled into his spot and stopped the car. Sure shot or not, someone who looked like her didn’t belong out in the field. It was like waving a red flag in front of every nut case in the area who wanted to get his rocks off. The sooner she wasn’t his responsibility, the better.

Patrick got out, slamming the door. “Yeah, I know how long people in your position last, on the average.” He took the front stairs to the entrance quickly, then paused at the door. She was right behind him.

Maggi grinned up at him as she walked through the door he held open for her. “Haven’t you noticed, Cavanaugh? I’m not average.”

Yeah,
he thought as he followed her inside the building,
that’s just the trouble, I’ve noticed.

“Definitely died before she went into the water,” the medical examiner, Dr. Stanley Ochoa, informed them with the slightly monotonous voice of a man who had been at his job too long.

Maggi couldn’t help looking at the young woman on the table, stripped of her dignity and her clothes, every secret exposed except her identity and why she’d died.

Poor baby, you look like a kid.
Maggi raised her eyes to the M.E. “And we know this how?”

Instead of answering immediately, Ochoa turned to Patrick. A hint of amusement flickered beneath his drooping mustache. “Eager little thing, isn’t she?”

“And, oddly enough, not deaf or invisible,” Maggi cheerfully informed the M.E. as she placed herself between the two men, both of whom towered over her. She missed the glimmer of a smile on Patrick’s face. “Now, how do you know she didn’t drown?”

“Simple. No water in the lungs. She wasn’t breathing when she went over the side.”

“Because she was already dead. Makes sense.” Maggi looked at the gash on the woman’s forehead. It looked as if there’d been a line of blood at one point. If she’d bled, that meant she’d still been alive when she’d sustained the blow. “That bump on her head—did she get it hitting her forehead against the steering wheel when she went over the railing?”

Ochoa dismissed the guess. “Might have, but at first glance it looks deeper than something she could have sustained from that kind of impact.”

Patrick’s face was expressionless. “The air bag was deployed.”

Maggi bit the inside of her lip. She’d forgotten that detail and knew it made her look bad in his eyes. She regarded the victim again. “Could the air bag have suffocated her? She’s a small woman.”

Again the M.E. shook his head. “No, suffocation has different signs. This was a blunt force trauma to the head. Something heavy.”

Because Cavanaugh wasn’t saying anything, Maggi summarized what they’d just ascertained. “So someone killed her, then put her into the sports car and drove her into the river to make it look like an accident.”

Ochoa nodded. The overhead light shone brightly on his forehead, accentuating his receding hairline. “Looks like.”

Patrick had been regarding the victim in silence, as if he was conducting his own séance with her. He raised his eyes to look at the overweight medical examiner. “Anything else?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting on the blood work results and I haven’t conducted the autopsy. Check back with me tomorrow.”

Patrick was aware that Maggi wasn’t beside him as he reached the door. Turning around, he saw her still standing by the table. He thought she was studying the victim for enlightenment until he saw the expression on her face.

With an annoyed sigh, he retraced his steps. “We don’t mourn them, Mary Margaret, we just make sure whoever did this to them pays the price.”

He probably thought she was weak, Maggi thought. The woman’s death just seemed like such a sad waste. “Yeah, right.” Squaring her shoulders, she walked out of the room.

The moment they were in the corridor, Patrick’s cell phone rang. He had it out before it could ring a second time.

“Cavanaugh.”

Curiosity ricocheted through her as she walked beside him, waiting for Cavanaugh to say something to the voice talking in his ear. She wanted to figure out the nature of his call. Her real assignment was still foremost in her mind, but she wanted to find the person who’d wantonly ended the life of the young woman on the table in the morgue.

If she was hoping for clues, she was disappointed. All Cavanaugh said before disconnecting was “Thanks.”

Impatient, she tried not to sound it as she asked, “Well?”

He wasn’t accustomed to answering to anyone. The only partner he’d ever gotten along with had always given him his space, waiting for him to say something but never really pressing him. But then, this woman wasn’t Ramirez. What she was was a royal pain in the butt. “That was Goldsmith.”

Maggi knew Goldsmith was the officer he’d asked to track down the sports car license. She was surprised that Cavanaugh recalled the man’s name. He didn’t strike her as the type to put names to people; he seemed more likely to just label everyone “them” and “me.” “And?”