Mission: Cavanaugh Baby (12 page)

He was the type of man, Shane concluded, that women enjoyed scratching their eyes out—with more women standing on the sidelines, applauding.

“We’d like you to answer a few questions,” Shane told him.
“Now,”
he intoned as the man opened his mouth again to lodge another protest. “Know what
I
mean?” Shane asked. He looked pointedly at the victim’s former boyfriend.

“What’s this about?” Simon demanded as he reluctantly allowed them to enter his tiny studio apartment.

Walking in, Ashley noted the scattered clothing on the backs of chairs and the sofa. There was more on the unmade bed. A forlorn pizza box was buried headfirst in the overflowing garbage pail.

“A little cramped, isn’t it?” Ashley asked, taking it all in.

“This is just temporary,” Simon informed her dismissively. His tone demanded that she back off with those kinds of questions or suffer the consequences.

This is just temporary,
he’d said. Until he found another woman to sponge off of, Ashley thought with contempt.

“Ask your questions so I can go, okay?” he insisted. He obviously didn’t like the way she was looking at him. As if he were a fascinating train wreck she couldn’t seem to draw her eyes away from.

“When did you last see Monica Phillips?” Shane interjected.

Surprise as well as anger crisscrossed his features. “This is about her?” he asked.

“Answer the question, please,” Shane instructed firmly.

Simon was too busy being indignant and angry to answer any question directly.

“Look, whatever she’s saying, she’s lying,” he said heatedly. “She’s not even my girlfriend anymore. I’ve been seeing someone new, someone who appreciates me. Allison Sales,” he said proudly. “So Monica is just telling you lies.”

“She’s not telling us much of anything,” Ashley countered, wondering if the guy would even care to hear that his former girlfriend had been killed.

“Well, that’s a first,” he declared tersely, as though spitting out an apparent bad taste in his mouth.

“So is death, for her.”

“Yeah. Wait, what? Who’s dead?” he demanded after playing back the words he’d just heard Ashley saying to him.

“Who do you think, Einstein?” Shane asked. His hands itched to take a swing at this guy. Just one swing. He was a poor excuse for a human being, and no one would miss him once he was gone.

Annoyed then puzzled, the man’s face was a mask of confusion for exactly fifteen seconds before it looked as if his brain had suddenly kicked in. He thought hard for a moment. Ashley wondered if the effort was going to cause him to implode.

“You’re not talking about Monica, are you?” he cried, stunned.

Ashley fixed him with a look that dared him to curse. “And if we were?”

“It’s not possible,” Wilson insisted. “I just talked to Monica a couple of days ago. She was alive then,” the genius pointed out. “How can she be dead?”

Shane decided to give him all the details, carefully watching his face as he spoke. “Somebody decided to give her a C-section early—without the benefit of an anesthetic.”

Simon’s liberally tanned face turned completely pale as he clutched at his stomach.

The next moment, his knees buckled beneath his weight—despite the fact that he was rail thin—and he made it to the kitchen, where he promptly purged the contents of his stomach into the sink.

Shane winced as the image and the smell got to him. He expected to see Ashley react in much the same manner. Instead she followed the man into the kitchen and ran the water until the last of the pungent stomach contents had been sent down the drain.

“Need a minute to pull yourself together?” Shane asked the suspect.

The man couldn’t answer. He held his hand up instead, signaling that he couldn’t speak for fear of another bout of purging.

It came, anyway.

Shane’s eyes met Ashley’s. There was a look in them that he couldn’t quite fathom—but it didn’t appear as if she was loaded for bear any longer, at least, not where this man was concerned.

From the looks of it, he and she had arrived at the same conclusion. But he wasn’t the type to count chickens before the nest was even prepared. So instead, he waited for her to be the one to make the statement.

He didn’t have a long wait.

“I don’t think he’s our killer.”

Chapter 11

S
tepping back from the man they were questioning, Shane motioned for her to follow suit. When she did, he asked, “What makes you think he’s innocent?”

Ashley frowned at the wording he used. “I wouldn’t exactly call Simon innocent,” she returned. There was contempt in her eyes when she glanced over at the retching man. “He’s guilty of absolutely reprehensible behavior—but I don’t think he killed Monica Phillips.” She winced slightly as Simon went through another round of what by now amounted to dry heaves. “
Nobody
throws up on cue like that. Not without two fingers going down their throat or a dose of ipecac.”

Shane nodded. “I tend to agree with you,” he said. Looking over at their former suspect, he told the man, “We’re going now. Do yourself a favor and don’t leave town for a while.”

Simon made an unintelligible response, his throat obviously raw at this point.

“You realize that this brings us back to square one,” Shane told her as they left the victim’s former boyfriend’s studio apartment.

Ashley chewed on lower lip for a moment. “Not necessarily.”

Her assertion caught him off guard. What had he missed? “Okay,” he urged. “Enlighten me.”

She’d been wrestling with her thoughts about the heinous nature of the crime and why anyone would choose to do it the exact way they had rather than just hit the victim over the head, or better yet, stab her through either the heart or a major artery if they just wanted her dead. The method was very precise. “I think she was killed
for
her baby.”

Shane was open to anything. “You mean, like for a black market ring?” he asked. “I don’t know. Seems kind of barbaric to me. There are plenty of women willing to give up their unwanted babies, especially if there’s any kind of a monetary incentive involved. Sadly, there’s no shortage of unwanted babies,” he pointed out. “We see those kinds of headlines all the time—Baby Found in Dumpster—that sort of thing.”

She was still fairly certain she was right. “The fact that the killer took an unborn baby might mean that it was more personal. I don’t think this was a baby meant to be sold. This was one the perp was going to keep, or give to someone close to him or her who might have lost a baby.”

As she warmed to her subject—and grew more convinced that she was right—Ashley’s voice swelled in volume. “Whoever did this wanted an infant, a baby from ‘scratch,’ so to speak, so that the perp could raise it from the first moment it drew breath.” Her eyes met his, and she could see that he thought her theory had merit. “Could be someone who lost a baby during childbirth, and the need to replace that baby was just too overwhelming to ignore.”

Shane looked at her for a long moment. There was something in her voice that caught his attention; that made him think that this was more than just a theory for her. Did she know someone like that, someone who’d lost an infant and had entertained a desperate plan to fill the hole that had to have been left in that person’s heart after going through that sort of loss?

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” he said quietly. “Are you?”

For a moment Ashley had lost herself in the past without realizing it. She reconnoitered quickly.

“What? Me? No,” Ashley denied quickly and with feeling. “I’ve just got a large capacity for empathy, that’s all.”

There was no way she was about to share something as personal as the loss of her baby with him. Nine months of preparing, of coming to terms with the situation of being a single mother and then, near the end, of looking forward to it only to be faced with a cold reality and forced to make the best of it—as if there
was
a best to it—without a drop of emotional support from anyone. Because there had been no one, a fact that, coupled with her loss, had very nearly broken her. But then she’d rallied.

She always rallied.

“Empathy usually means that you’ve gone through the same thing,” Shane told her, his eyes still on hers.

“Sympathy,” Ashley said, stressing every syllable of the word. “I meant sympathy.” And then her indignation took hold. “Are we trying to solve a murder or correct my word choice?” Ashley asked impatiently.

“Nothing in the handbook that says we can’t do both,” Shane told her mildly.

Her frustration was beginning to mount. Ashley could feel herself on the edge of an explosion, and no good could come from that. He could easily get her dismissed from the case, and at this point, she felt invested in it.

“You know, you’re right,” she said with a false brightness. “We should call it a night. I don’t know about you, but it’s way past my bedtime.”

He knew it was all an act—a man didn’t grow up with three sisters and remain clueless to such things—but it was also for the best. They were both getting a little punchy, and that was when accidents happened and details got overlooked. His first homicide was way too important to him for him to take any chances that might mess him up.

“Mine, too,” he told her. “I’ll drive you back to the precinct so you can get your car, then head on home myself.”

Ashley merely nodded in response to his offer. She didn’t trust herself to conduct a conversation with him at this point. Her emotions were much too close to the surface, stirred up as they had been by some of the details of this case.

* * *

When Shane drove into the precinct’s parking lot some twenty minutes later, he absently noted that most of the cars had left for the night. He pulled up beside hers. Unable to wait a second longer, Ashley fairly bolted out of his vehicle.

“See you in the morning?” Shane called after her.

His question caught her by surprise. It also pleased her. Part of her had been braced for a confrontation since she’d thought Cavanaugh would want to handle the rest of the investigation by himself. That he had just assumed she was in it for the long haul was a weight off her shoulders. Her energy would be better spent on the investigation and not on second-guessing him.

However, given what she’d experienced in her formative years—that nothing was ever done altruistically—she was rather suspicious about the detective’s motives.

“Sure,” she finally answered. “I’ll come up to your squad room in the morning.” Ashley assumed that Cavanaugh would prefer her coming up to his department rather than his coming down to hers. That was fine with her. The space in Animal Control was rather limited and austere, even by department standards.

Shane nodded just before he drove away. “Good,” he called out.

But Ashley was already getting into her car, and if she heard his last word, she gave no indication.

* * *

Shane had no idea what to make of her, but he knew he was ready to try to unravel the mystery that was Ashley St. James. The fact that he wanted to amazed him in itself. After Kitty, he had been certain that he didn’t want to approach anything that even remotely felt like a relationship. The intrigued way he felt about Ashley just told him that nothing was carved in stone.

He smiled to himself. His father always encouraged him to remain flexible....

He saw the light immediately.

The light was on in his ground-floor apartment. Shane was positive that he’d turned all the lights off before he’d left this morning.

Which meant that someone was in his apartment.

He never took his eyes off the front door as he pulled his car up into the carport right in front of the apartment.

One hand on his weapon, Shane eased his key into the lock and slowly turned it, taking care not to make any noise as he opened the door.

There
was
someone in his tiny kitchen. He recognized her just as his weapon cleared his holster.

His body, completely rigid and on high alert less than a second earlier, relaxed now as he blew out a long, exasperated breath.

In contrast to his state, the woman in his kitchen glanced over her shoulder and offered him a complacent smile.

“I was beginning to think they were holding you hostage at the precinct. I was all set to call Dad and tell him to go rescue you.”

Shane slid his gun back into its holster. “Kari, what the hell are you doing here?”

“And hello to you, too,” his sister responded brightly. Kari stepped back from the stove so that he could see for himself what she was doing here. “Obviously your keen eyes of observation are not so keen—another reason you should have come home earlier. Otherwise you would have been able to figure out that I was cooking a late dinner for you.”

While he appreciated his sister fussing over him, he didn’t like the idea that she thought he
needed
to be fussed over. “You don’t have to cook me dinner, Kari, late or otherwise.”

“Sure I do,” she contradicted. “Otherwise, I won’t know if you’re eating or not.”

He hated the fact that his family kept eyeing him as if they were expecting him to self-destruct or lapse into deep mourning.

“I’m fine, Kari. Really,” he insisted. “You don’t have to hover over me.”

With a dismissive sniff, Kari set the spatula in her hand down on the side of the stove and turned around to face him.

“Haven’t you heard? Cavanaughs do
not
hover. We protect, we offer emotional and moral support, but we don’t hover like some commercial airplane in a holding pattern.”

“Well, you certainly took to waving the Cavanaugh banner pretty quickly,” he observed.

Kari shrugged casually, the way she approached and viewed almost everything in life. “It’s been ours all along. We just weren’t made aware of it. So why not use it?” she asked.

He envied Kari’s laidback manner. He emulated it, but with him it was a studied pose, not a genuine reaction the way it was with Kari.

“Well, for the record, you hover,” he insisted. “Speaking of hovering, shouldn’t you be with that fearless fiancé of yours?”

She didn’t see the reason for the adjective. “Fearless?”

“He’s marrying you, isn’t he?” The question drew a swing from his sister. Her fisted hand connected solidly with his shoulder. Hard enough to get him to vibrate even though he did his best not to. “Which reminds me,” he said as he pulled out of reach. “I still have to take him aside and tell him some of the things he can hold over your head whenever you’re driving him crazy—which, knowing you, will be pretty much all the time.”

“You’re my brother,” she pointed out. “You’re supposed to be loyal to me.”

“You don’t need any help,” he told her. “However, Esteban just might.”

She glanced at the fried chicken she’d heaped on a plate, then reached for it. “Maybe I’ll just take dinner back with me.”

Shane was quicker than she was and caught her hand, stopping her from carrying out the threat. “No, don’t. I take it all back. This smells too good to let it escape.” He took another deep whiff to underline his point. “But seriously, Kari,” he told her, “you can stop worrying. I’m fine.”

“Your partner got shot and would have died if you hadn’t held his insides in your hand, pressing down to stop the bleeding, and then your fiancée uses this as a reason to walk out on you less than a week before the wedding. How does that make you fine?” she challenged. Before he could offer up any sort of an answer, she pointed out what to her was a glaring fact. “Although I hope you realize that you dodged a bullet. Any woman who puts her needs above those of the man she’s supposed to love—a man who clearly needs her in a time of stress—well, in my humble opinion, she doesn’t have it in her to make a marriage work.”

He laughed. “Since when is anything about you humble?” he asked. “And what makes you such an authority on the subject of marriage? You’re not even married yet.”

“Yet.” She seized on the word he’d used and underscored it. Her wedding to Esteban was not all that far away. “Besides, being in love with a great guy makes me see what a really solid relationship is all about.” Kari placed her hand on his shoulder. Her teasing tone had vanished, and there was genuine concern in her eyes now as they met his. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He grinned broadly. “I just caught my very first homicide case. I’m more than fine,” he assured her.

“Unlike the victim of the homicide,” she countered glibly. She knew better than to push the matter any further now. And maybe he was coming around a little. Work was a great distracter. “Well, seeing as how you’re breathing and I just left you a great dinner, I guess that qualifies you as being okay for now.” She wiped her hands on a nearby kitchen towel. “So I will be getting back to Esteban.” She paused to brush a quick kiss on his cheek. “Call me if you need me.”

Shane nodded. “I’ll just look out my window and beckon over the first hovering aircraft that I see,” he promised.

Kari rolled her eyes. He was impossible. “You don’t deserve me.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. Making his way to the door, he opened it for her, his inference crystal clear. “Leave. Make me suffer.”

“Idiot.” She laughed, cuffing him on the side of his head just before she left.

He
was
lucky, Shane thought as he closed the door after his sister’s departing back. Whenever he needed someone, even during the years that he was growing up, there was
always
a parent or sibling to turn to.

Just as there was now.

When Kitty had knocked him for a loop by calling off the wedding and walking out on him that way, everyone in his family rallied around him, forming a tight circle about him as if they were trying to keep anything bad from coming through.

He thought of what Ashley had mentioned to him earlier—most likely unintentionally, given what a private person she was—about bouncing from one foster home to another when she wasn’t being sent back to the group home. She was clearly in distress at being so alone, and her withdrawing from the world was her way of dealing with it. She was all but acting out a scenario with dialogue that fairly screamed, “You don’t want me, fine. I don’t want you more.”

How had she done it? How had she managed to survive a childhood like that? And then wound up wanting to be a cop? The sort of upbringing she’d had—or lack thereof—produced closet psychos and sociopaths, sometimes without the benefit of a closet.