An Intimate Murder (The Catherine O'Brien Series) (6 page)

He finished drying the last dish and put it away.

“And that’s why I watch the
Weather Channel
. So don’t complain.”

He leaned against the cabinet. Only a few hours earlier I had been running my fingers over the dark hairs on that chest and feeling my toes curl when he kissed me. I glanced at the apple in my hand, thought about my rumbling stomach, and decided I rather devour my husband than an apple.

Hell, it wasn’t the first time I’d gone without eating and it wouldn’t be the last. At least this time I had a good reason. I was in desperate need of a Gavin fix.

I tossed the apple into the garbage. Gavin grunted his disapproval.

“Don’t tell me that apple was bad too.”

“Nope, the apple was fine.”

“Then why did you throw it away?” He looked as though he were ready to dive in after the apple.

“I thought of something else I wanted more.” I took a step toward him.

He still stared into the garbage as if he could resurrect the apple.

“What?”

I slid my finger under the waistband of his jeans and gave a sharp tug. The snap above his fly popped open with a satisfying click.

“You.”

The look on his face went from mild surprise to complete understanding.

“Oh.” He gave me a lusty smile. “Are you sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I inched my hands from the front of his waistband to the back, then down the back of his underpants. I squeezed his bare butt cheeks, then let go.

Gavin wrapped his arms around my waist. He lifted me off the floor in a bear hug. I wrapped my legs around him in a python embrace.

“Floor, couch, or bed?” he asked. “Ladies choice.”

“Hmm.” I tapped my chin with my index finger. “Since I’m going to fall asleep immediately afterward, you’d better make it the bed.”

He planted a huge kiss on my lips, and then walked toward the front stairway.

“Are you sure you can carry me all the way up the stairs?” I mumbled against his lips, unwilling to leave his kiss for a minute.

“If not,” he mumbled back. “You’ll have to sleep on the stairs.”

The alarm clock on my nightstand blared to life at five-thirty in the morning. I sat up half on and half under the comforter, with my t-shirt wrapped around my neck like a scarf. The rest of my body was naked and shivering.

I blinked to clear the sleep from my eyes.

“Shut up!”

I slapped my palm down on the wide button of the clock and silenced the incessant ree, ree, ree. The dog woofed at me from the foot of the bed and I shoved him off.

Gavin poked his head out from the master bathroom, which wasn’t quite a master bathroom yet. At the moment, it was more of a stud-walled closet with bathroom fixtures in it.

Victorian houses didn’t come equipped with master bathrooms, so my husband decided to correct this design flaw. He does after all own his own remodeling company. They renovate and remodel huge old buildings in a matter of months. A small master bathroom project, right in his own home, shouldn’t take more than a few weeks to complete.

That was over eight years ago.

True, all the amenities that traditionally classify a room as a
bath
were in place. The toilet, sink, and tub were all functional but not yet in their permanent location. The walls were just studs, insulation, and vapor barrier.

An intricate network of extension cords, which had to be a huge safety no-no, supplied the power for the bathroom. The only light was a portable, metal, clamp-light clipped to a stud by the sink, and was so hot that every morning I felt like I were giving a make-up applying demonstration on stage at the Ordway Theater.

“Good morning sunshine,” he chimed.

I grunted, and tugged the comforter across my legs to ward off the cold.

“I’m almost finished and then the bathroom’s all yours,” he said.

The only thought that kept skipping through my consciousness was,
why did I marry a morning person
? Every morning he was cheery and it pissed me off; at least until after four or twelve cups of coffee.

After a few irritating seconds of blow dryer whine, Gavin emerged. He tucked his t-shirt into his Levis and moved to his side of the bed. The sweatshirt he pulled from the nightstand drawer had his company’s logo embroidered on the left side. He tugged the shirt over his head.

“I’ll get the coffee started.”

It was the first thing he’d said all morning that made me smile.

He braced himself on the mattress and kissed my cheek. I made a halfhearted pucker, which was the best I could manage.

Gavin left with KC close on his heel. I watched his butt as he left. A little more inspiration to start the day right.

My life could be a lot worse. I could be married to a morning person who didn’t have such a nice ass. Plus, he knew how to make a hell-of-a cup of coffee.

Blinking at the wall didn’t produce any results in the getting dressed department, so I snaked my way out from under the blankets, padded over to my dresser to assemble a clean outfit.

The shower did wonders to open my eyes, but the coffee that Gavin left steaming on the nightstand in my favorite Star Trek mug, pushed the trolley off the cliff. Gavin had read my bleary eyes and used an extra scoop of coffee this morning. The result was high-octane jet fuel in a cup.

I sucked down the coffee without pause and then wandered, one step above the living dead, down the stairs to get another cup.

Gavin waited for me in the kitchen, the dog sitting at his feet. He held out a plate containing a fried egg sandwich, one of his many culinary specialties.

“No, thanks.” I grabbed the coffee pot off the burner. “I have all the breakfast I need right here.”

“Not good enough.” He stuffed the toasted bread, egg and cheese concoction between my teeth. “Bite.”

I chomped down only because I knew the sandwich would remain lodged in my teeth until I did.

“You didn’t eat anything last night, so you are going to eat the whole sandwich.”

“But I’m in a hurry.”

I topped off my mug and put the pot back.

Gavin trapped my free hand on its return and closed my fingers around the edge of the sandwich crust.

“The beauty of the sandwich design, my dear, is that it is portable. You can finish your breakfast in the car.”

Breakfast really wasn’t my meal. Even the little bit I had swallowed was turning flip-flops in my stomach.

“I suppose I can’t convince you with the distracted driving argument?”

Gavin scrubbed at his chin.

“Maybe you’re right.”

He took the Star Trek mug from my hand.

“Leave the coffee; it will be too distracting for you.”

I sucked in a deep, shocked breath.

“You win, Gavin James O’Brien.” I opened and closed my fingers in the air like a child saying gimme, gimme. “Just don’t think I’m going to forget this little incident.”

“Don’t worry, I know you won’t. You still remember little incidents from before we were married.” He kissed my cheek. “You’re like an elephant.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Did you just call me fat?”

Gavin put his arm around my waist and pulled me toward the front door. “Yep, that’s why I’m forcing you to eat. I like my women with a little meat on them. Now go to work.”

He jerked open the front door, then grabbed my purse from the banister, and hung it around my neck.

“You’re in a hurry. Remember?”

“If I were a suspicious woman I’d think you were trying to get rid of me for a reason.”

I leaned in and kissed Gavin. At the same time, I tossed what was left of the sandwich to KC. He snapped it out of midair and trotted away to eat in private.

“Call me later,” he said. “Let me know if you’ll be home for dinner.”

With the new case we were working on, I had a better chance of becoming the next President of the United States. I agreed to call and left.

Although I live less than ten miles from work there were two sections of my commute that bottlenecked with commuters jostling their way into the city. Up until a few years ago, my commute had been a breeze, and then the City of Saint Paul made a big push to get businesses back into downtown. Urban renewal scoured the city of its industrial past and turned the downtown warehouses into luxury condominiums, hip, trend topping bars and restaurants.

This renewal is what had probably brought the Luther family to Saint Paul, after the murder of Chad’s Grandmother, instead of one of the equally well to do suburban neighborhoods. Trying to disconnect the murder of the Grandmother from the murder of Chad’s parents yesterday was like trying to shove a watermelon up your nose — it doesn’t fit.

Louise was already in the office and on the phone. She waved a good morning. I toasted her with my coffee mug, which was in desperate need of a refill.

I dropped my purse on the floor, kicked it into its customary place under my desk, and then went to the break room. Once I had refueled, I returned, and dropped into my chair.

Mounds of paperwork littered the top of my desk. A delicate dance of ordered chaos, all of my own design, except for the section of newspaper displayed in the center of my blotter with a bright, red circle around one of the articles.

I leaned in to get a better look.

“Oh, shit.”

“Way to go, O’Brien.” Bob Shackelford leaned over my shoulder and tapped the newspaper. “Front page. I think that’s a first for you. Usually your tirades are limited to interoffice email. You’re really stepping up in the world.”

“Thanks, Shackelford. Say, you oughta have that growth looked at.”

“What growth.”

I pointed to his head. “Oh, never mind, it’s your face.”

“Haw, haw, O’Brien. Very childish”

He was right but it was the best I could manage on limited coffee.

He lifted the paper from my desk and unfolded it in mid-air. “At least the story appears on the bottom half of the front page. Hardly anyone looks at the bottom half.”

The headline read,
Saint Paul Police Defensive Over Botched Investigation
. Under the headline was a photo of me in front of Pam Hind’s house. The photographer had snapped the photo while I was speaking. My lips curled back from my teeth and I was pointing into the crowd. I looked like KC when he sees the neighbor’s cat on our porch.

Shackelford tweaked the edge of the paper. “It took me a whole ten seconds to skim down far enough to see this article.”

I snatched the paper from his hands and began to read.

Officer Catherine O’Brien, a seven-year veteran of the Saint Paul Police Department, gave an impromptu press conference outside the house of Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Luther who were murdered inside their Saint Paul area home Tuesday morning.

Officer O’Brien, stumbled drunkenly down the sidewalk, scolded the media, and referred to the press as “vultures” after attempts to question the officer about the path of the homicide investigation. This outburst is just the latest in what has become a pattern of denial and hostility by the Saint Paul Police Department and crime lab when questions regarding investigative
procedures arise.

The story went on to outline the perceived pattern the reporter was seeing, whether real or concocted by them to sell papers. Too bad this reporter hadn’t managed to convince her editors to run the story above the fold. Police corruption and incompetence always sells.

“The Chief’s been on the phone all morning,” Shackelford said. “He’s been fielding calls from all the local stations about the story.”

“Shit.” I buried my face in the papers on my desk. “Why do I come here in the mornings?”

I rolled my head to the side so I wouldn’t breathe in newsprint.

“I could have been a cage cleaner at the zoo.”

Shackelford gave a short laugh. “With people skills like yours, O’Brien, I’m surprised you weren’t a social worker.”

Louise dropped her phone back onto the cradle.

“Leave her alone, Bob. Don’t you have some work to do today? If not, clock out and go home. Stop wasting taxpayer’s money.”

“She made the whole department look bad, Montgomery.” His tone changed to a bleating sound.

“The article is a lie. You should know how the media twists a story better than anyone.”

Last January, Shackelford faced charges of beating a guy who was out of his mind on crystal meth. The family sued the city and the department. Unfortunately, for the drug addict, he didn’t realize that all holding areas are video taped. The tape was proof that he sustained his injuries from repeated attempts to ram through the cell door with his forehead. Of course, by that time the Police Department suffered permanent damage to its reputation. The story with the truth of what had happened ran on page ten of the metro section of the paper.