Cavanaugh's Bodyguard (4 page)

“And you don’t look a day over twenty-seven and a half,” he deadpanned.

Bridget sighed and settled back in her seat. It was going to be a very long morning, she thought. She could tell.

* * *

“Andrew, are you all right? You look a little pale,” Rose Cavanaugh said to her husband, stopping short.

She’d just walked into the state-of-the-art kitchen to get a glass of juice. This was where the former chief of police and the love of her life spent a great deal of his time each day. He could be found here creating or re-creating meals for any one of a vast number of relatives who had a standing invitation to drop by whenever the occasion allowed, or they were in the neighborhood. She’d never known anyone who loved cooking—and family—as much as Andrew did.

But it was obvious that right now, he had more on his mind than cooking. Like the person he’d just finished talking to.

“Who was on the phone?” she asked him as Andrew hung up the receiver.

He tried to offer his wife a smile, but he was still sorting out the news he’d just received. “That was my father.”

The family patriarch, Seamus Cavanaugh, was the first of the family to join the police department and work his way through the ranks, back when Aurora was unincorporated and considered an off-shoot of Sacramento. For the last dozen years or so the retired police chief had been living in Miami Beach, Florida, enjoying the company of some of his old friends from the force who had also migrated there.

Rose smiled fondly. Her father-in-law liked to check in from time to time. He did it in order to keep his sons from worrying, although he insisted that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

“What’s he up to?” she asked, wondering what had prompted this particular call. If she knew Seamus, the man was probably in love—again—and asking Andrew what he thought about getting a new “mother.”

“About thirty thousand feet,” Andrew answered matter-of-factly.

Rose cocked her head, trying to make sense out of what her husband was saying. “Come again?”

“He is,” Andrew confirmed. “Coming back again.” After taking a fresh cup from the cabinet next to the sink, Andrew poured himself some of the coffee he’d just brewed right before the phone had rung. Holding the cup in both hands, he sat down before he attempted to clarify his statement. “Dad’s flying back to Aurora right now, even as we’re having this conversation.”

Sitting down opposite him, Rose placed her hand on top of her husband’s in a mute display of unity.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned. They had been trying to get Seamus to come back out for a visit for years now. But he had always been very adamant about not flying. Because of that, the senior Cavanaugh had missed out on a host of weddings and births.

He’d even passed on what Andrew felt had been a major event in his life: finding Rose again after his wife had gone missing and had been presumed by everyone—everyone but him—to be dead. He never gave up working the case, never gave up looking for the mother of his five children. And eventually, his persistence had paid off. The only thing that remotely came close to spoiling the event for him was that his father had sent his hearty congratulations instead of turning up to celebrate with the rest of the family.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Andrew told her. “He said he suddenly just got tired of doing nothing with the rest of his life but shooting the breeze with a bunch of old men who were living in the past. He’s decided to turn over a new leaf. Part of that involves flying out here. And, I suspect that he’s anxious to meet his new son.”

Rose smiled. “At his age, Sean can’t exactly be called ‘new,’” she pointed out, amusement curving the generous corners of her mouth.

He looked at it in another way. “Considering the fact that Dad’s never seen him, I think the word ‘new’ could be applied in this case.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Pushing aside the empty juice glass, Rose got to her feet. “Well, I’d better get myself to the store,” she announced. She caught her husband arching his eyebrow in a silent query, which surprised her. “If there’s going to be another one of Andrew Cavanaugh’s famous parties in the very near future, I’ve got a lot of grocery shopping to do. Do you have a list ready for me?”

Instead of producing one, Andrew caught her hand and pulled her over to him, stopping his wife from leaving the room.

“No, no list and no famous party,” he told her. “I think that this time around, Dad meeting his son for the first time will be a private occasion.”

He could have knocked her over with a feather. “Really?” she asked incredulously.

In all the years that she had been part of Andrew’s life, she’d found that absolutely
everything
was an excuse for a family get-together and a party. “One for all and all for one” wasn’t just a famous phrase written by Alexander Dumas in
The Three Musketeers
, it was a mantra that she strongly suspected her husband believed in and lived by.

“Dad’s got a pretty tight rein on his emotions,” Andrew explained. Friendly and seemingly outgoing, there was still a part of Seamus Cavanaugh that he kept walled in, strictly to himself. That part grieved over loss and mourned over victims who couldn’t be saved in time. “But this kind of thing can just blow a man right out of the water. If, once he meets Sean, Dad loses it, he definitely won’t appreciate it happening in front of a room full of witnesses.”

Rose laughed. “Since when have we
ever
been able to fit all our relatives into just a room?” she asked.

“All right, I stand corrected. A house full of witnesses,” Andrew amended. “This is definitely one case of the less people being around for the grand reunion, the better.”

Rose pretended to be disappointed—but the hint of a grin gave her away. “And here I was, planning to sell tickets.”

“C’mere, woman.” Andrew laughed.

He gave her hand a quick tug and swept her onto his lap. He liked having her there just fine. In his mind, because he’d been given a second chance after doggedly searching for her all those years she’d had amnesia and been missing without realizing it, he still felt like a newlywed.

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a fresh mouth?” he asked Rose, doing his best to sound serious.

Rose laced her fingers together behind his neck as she made herself comfortable in her favorite “chair.” “Not that I recall,” she answered with a straight face. “Why? Do you want to sample it?”

The former chief of police grinned and looked every bit the boy whom she had first fallen in love with in second-period American English all those very many years ago.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said just before he kissed her and rocked her world.

Again.

Chapter 3

T
he good-looking man behind the bar whose biceps were more impressive than his brain cells frowned as he stared at the photograph Josh had placed on the counter in front of him. It was a photograph of the woman who had been found in the alley behind the club where he worked and even though the more gruesome aspects of the murder weren’t detailed, it was obvious that the woman was dead.

Shaking his head, the bartender, who claimed his name was Simon Quest, looked up at the two detectives.

“I’m a lot better with regulars,” he protested. “But yeah, I think she was here last night.”

My kingdom for a witness who actually witnessed something,
Josh thought. The bartender sounded far from convincing. For now, he left the photograph on the bar, hoping that it still might jog Quest’s memory.

“Was anyone bothering her?” Josh asked the other man.

Quest shrugged, as if to dismiss the question, but then he stopped abruptly and pulled the photo over to study it.

Josh’s hope sank when he shook his head. “Not that I can recall. It was a happy crowd last night.”

Bridget glanced at the victim’s pale face. “I know at least one of them who didn’t stay that way,” she commented grimly.

“Can you remember anything at all about this woman?” Josh prodded Quest one last time. “Was she the life of the party? Was she in a corner, drinking by herself? Anything at all?” he stressed.

The bartender thought for a long moment; then his expression brightened. “I saw her talking to the people around her. They acted as if they all knew each other.” Pausing, he appeared as if he was trying to remember something.

When the silence went on too long, Bridget urged the man on. “What?”

“There was this one guy,” Simon responded slowly, as if he was envisioning the scene again. “He just kept staring at her.”

“Did he come up and talk to her?” Bridget asked eagerly.

Quest shook his head helplessly. “Not that I saw. It was big crowd,” he explained, then added, “and we were shorthanded last night.”

“What else can you remember about this guy?” Josh asked, hoping they could finally get something to go on.

“Nothing.” The bartender went back to drying the shot glasses that were all lined up in front of him like tiny, transparent soldiers. “He left.”

Maybe they could get a time frame, Bridget thought. “When?”

Quest set down another glass, then shrugged again. “I dunno. Around midnight. Maybe one o’clock. I remember she was gone when we closed down,” he volunteered, then ruined it by adding, “Can’t say when, though.”

This was getting them nowhere, Bridget thought. “Did she leave with anyone?”

The look on Quest’s face said he had no idea if the victim did or not. He lifted his wide shoulders and then let them drop again. “She was just gone.”

Ever hopeful, Bridget tried another approach. “This guy, the one who was staring at her, what did he look like?”

Quest exhaled a frustrated breath. It was obvious that he was regretting he’d ever mentioned the starer. “Just an average guy. Looked like he hadn’t cracked a smile in a real long time.”

Josh tried his hand at getting some kind of useful information out of the vacant-headed bartender. “Was he young, old, fat, skinny, long-haired, bald, white, black—polka dot,” he finally bit off in exasperation when the bartender made no indication that
anything
was ringing a bell.

“Just average,” Quest repeated. “Maybe he was forty, maybe not. He did have hair,” he recalled. “Kinda messy, like he was trying to look cool but he didn’t know how. And he was a white guy. He
wasn’t
a regular,” Simon emphasized proudly. “Or I would’ve recognized him.”

Well, he supposed at least it was
something
, Josh told himself. He took out one of his cards and placed it on the counter, even as he collected the photograph and tucked it back into his inside pocket.

“You think of anything else you forgot to mention, anything comes back to you—” he tapped the card with his finger “—call me.”

Quest shifted his glance toward Bridget. “I’d rather call her.”

Information was information, Bridget reasoned. Inclining her head in silent assent, she placed her card next to Josh’s on the shiny bar.

“Fine. Here’s my card. Just remember,” she informed the man cheerfully as she stepped back, “we’re a set.”

“He was trying to hit on you,” Josh told her as they walked out of the club three minutes later. The fact that it bothered him was only because he was being protective of his partner. Or so he told himself. Bridget seemed unaware that she had this aura of sexuality about her and it was up to him to make sure no one tried to take advantage of that.

Right, like she can’t take care of herself,
Josh silently mocked himself.

He blew out a breath. Maybe he needed more aspirins to clear his head a little better.

Bridget headed straight for the car. “He’s lucky I didn’t hit him back,” she retorted, then complained, “I thought bartenders were supposed to have such great memories.”

“Sometimes they’re paid not to have them,” Josh speculated, aiming his remote at the car. It squawked in response as four side locks sprang up at attention.

Bridget paused beside the vehicle. “You think he knows more than he’s saying?”

Josh laughed shortly. He looked at her over the car’s roof. “It would be hard for him to know less. Let’s talk to her boyfriend and find out if he knows who she was partying with last night.”

She nodded. “Maybe one of them remembers something about this guy who was staring at her.”

Getting into the front passenger seat, Bridget buckled up and then let out a loud sigh. After Josh pulled out of the area and back onto the road again, she turned toward him and asked, “So, what kind of a dog?” When he didn’t answer and just looked at her as if she had lapsed into monosyllabic gibberish, she added, “For your mother. You said you were getting a dog for your mother, remember?”

Now
her question made sense. But he’d mentioned the dog over an hour ago, before they had gone in to question the bartender.

“Boy, talk about your long pauses.” Josh laughed. “That almost came out of nowhere.”

It was all connected in her head. She didn’t see why he was having such a hard time with it. “Well, talking about the dog in your mother’s future didn’t exactly seem appropriate while we were questioning that bartender about a homicide right behind the club where he works,” she told Josh, then got back on track. “So? Have you decided what kind you’re getting?”

He hadn’t gone much beyond the fact that he
was
getting his mother a canine companion sometime in the near future. If she had a pet to take care of, she wouldn’t have as much time to nag him about settling down and giving her grandchildren.

“I thought maybe one of those fluffy dogs,” he answered.

Off the top of her head, she could think of about twenty breeds that matched that description. “Well, that narrows it down.”

She’d managed to stir his curiosity. “Why are you so interested in what kind of dog I’m going to wind up giving to my mother?”

She was just trying to be helpful. “A couple of the Cavanaughs actually
don’t
strap on a gun in the morning. One of them is a vet who also works with Aurora’s canine division, does their routine checkups, takes care of them if they get hurt, things like that. I think her name’s Patience. Anyway, I thought you might want to talk to her, ask her some questions about the best kind of dog for your mother.”