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    Cavanaugh On Call
    Cavanaugh On Call
    Cavanaugh On Call
    Ebook268 pages7 hours

    Cavanaugh On Call

    By Marie Ferrarella

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    A detective and his mysterious new partner must crack an impossible case in USA TODAY bestselling author Marie Ferrarella's thrilling new novel! 

    Detective Bryce Cavanaugh already has one tough investigation–an elusive home–invasion team on a dangerous crime spree. And his enigmatic fellow cop Alexandra “Scottie” Scott keeps throwing him curves. She's relentless at taking charge–and running down leads. But getting the stunning blonde to reveal her secrets is a challenge Bryce just can't resist. 

    Scottie prefers to solve cases and save those close to her on her own. Keeping one step ahead of Bryce's hardheaded persistence is difficult enough. But tension–filled nights and high–adrenaline days are only fueling the passion between them and putting an inescapable target on their backs!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins Publishers Australia
    Release dateMay 1, 2017
    ISBN9781489238115
    Cavanaugh On Call

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      Book preview

      Cavanaugh On Call - Marie Ferrarella

      Prologue

      Alexandra Scott eased herself slowly into the closest chair at the kitchen table. Her eyes were still half closed even though she’d already showered, dressed and poured the obligatory mug of inky-black coffee that she needed to jump-start her day.

      Holding the oversize mug with both hands, she forced herself to take a deep sip of the brew. It tasted like hot sludge. Scottie hated black coffee, but she wasn’t drinking it for pleasure. She was drinking it because she had to. If she didn’t, she was liable to wind up sleepwalking through half her day—if not more.

      The strong, black liquid landed in the pit of her stomach, spreading out like an oil slick: thick and impenetrable. Slowly it flowed through her entire body, rousing everything in its path until the sum total of her was not only awake but keenly alert.

      Setting down the mug, the homicide detective took a deep breath and then blew it out again. Her breath made the wayward strands of dark blond bangs move ever so slightly.

      She pushed them back impatiently. She wasn’t one who fussed with her hair, but it would be nice if it could stay put.

      How was it that mornings kept arriving faster and faster these days? It felt as if she had just laid her head down on her pillow and here it was, time to get up again and face a full day.

      There should be a law, Scottie thought as she reached for the paper she’d automatically picked up at her front door and brought in with her, that mornings weren’t allowed to arrive until after a person had had six decent hours’ sleep. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d been out carousing, enjoying Aurora’s limited nightlife. She’d been out keeping the citizens of that same city safe so that they could enjoy carousing or whatever it was that people enjoyed doing these days. She really wouldn’t know about that. Working one job or another since before she’d turned eighteen, for the last few years she’d been a homicide detective and that had consumed almost all of her life.

      Not that she minded, but it would be nice to get a good night’s sleep every now and then.

      Stifling a yawn, Scottie blinked once and tried to focus on the newspaper in front of her.

      The local paper was her one attachment to her past. While everyone she knew got their news in sound bites or from the internet, Scottie still preferred to get hers from newsprint. Her late grandfather, the man she’d been named after, had been a journalist and, in a way, though the man had died when she was seven, reading the newspaper—when she had the time for it—made her feel close to the man.

      She missed those days. Missed not feeling as if the world was on her shoulders.

      C’mon, Scottie, drink up. Don’t dawdle, she urged herself under her breath. You’ll be late for work and you don’t want th—

      Scottie almost dropped the mug she’d raised to her lips. Moving like someone in a dream, she set the mug down, her eyes never leaving the story above the fold. The one she’d just fleetingly—and unconsciously—glanced at.

      She’d had no intention of reading any of the stories on page one. She’d only meant to glance at a few words here and there in passing, drink the rest of the vile black brew and go. But something had just jumped out at her, commandeering her eyes and grabbing her full attention. When she thought about it later, she wouldn’t have even been able to explain why. There was just something—something—about the story that forced her to sit up and actually absorb the words.

      Scottie got no further than the first three lines of the first paragraph before the taste of bile rose in her throat and filled her mouth at the same time she felt the pit of her stomach sink, pinching the sides together.

      No!

      No, no, no, no! she cried out loud, her voice bordering on outrage. "This isn’t happening. This has to be someone else. It has to be."

      But even as she shouted the words at the news article on page one, Scottie had a sick feeling she wasn’t being paranoid.

      She was correct.

      Ethan.

      She had to call her brother and once she had him on the phone, he’d tell her she was wrong. Not in so many words, but by his tone, his inflection. By the unspoken hurt in his voice that she would even think he was involved. She’d known Ethan his entire life and she’d know if he was lying or trying to keep the truth from her.

      Willing her hand not to tremble, Scottie hit the number on her cell that would connect her directly to Ethan’s phone, all the while telling herself that this was just a coincidence. An awful, unsettling coincidence. She had worked much too hard to get him back to the straight and narrow and he had worked with her. He’d been clean and out of trouble for almost five years now. Five whole years.

      He wouldn’t do this.

      Not to himself.

      Not to her.

      This isn’t you! she fairly shouted at the newspaper as she listened to the phone on the other end ring.

      On the sixth ring, Scottie snapped to attention. She heard Ethan’s voice.

      This is Ethan Loomis. I’m not available right now. Please leave a message and your number and I’ll get back to you.

      Fear and anger had her throat suddenly so dry she could barely get the words out. "Ethan, this is Scottie. Call me. Now!"

      When she terminated the call, Scottie picked up the newspaper and finished reading the article.

      Her hands were shaking.

      Chapter 1

      "You’ve got to be kidding me."

      Detective Bryce Cavanaugh watched in disbelief as his partner, Detective Peter Phelps, a tall, thin man whose suit jackets hung loosely off his body, packed the last of his personal items into a cardboard box. "You’re actually leaving?" Bryce questioned.

      And they said you’d never amount to anything as a detective, Phelps said dryly, tossing a half-empty bag of stale chocolate-covered wafers from last Halloween into the box. Yeah, the older man said more seriously. You figured it out. I’m leaving.

      Was it something I said? Bryce’s voice cracked, trying to cover up the fact that if this was on the level, it left him far from happy and somewhat surprised. He wasn’t averse to change, but he didn’t exactly welcome a major shake-up, either.

      Hell, it’s everything you said, Phelps answered tongue in cheek as he opened one drawer after another, checking for anything he might have left behind. But if you’re asking why I’m leaving the police department, you don’t have anything to do with it.

      Bryce took a seat on the edge of his partner’s desk, crossing his arms before him. Then educate me, Phelps. Why are you suddenly spring-cleaning your desk two months late?

      The frown on Phelps’s long, gaunt face went clear to the bone. Alice’s mom is sick, he said, referring to his wife’s only living parent.

      Bryce knew enough to look immediately sympathetic. Hey, I’m sorry to hear that. Still perched on the desk, he leaned in to get into his partner’s face. But I still don’t see the connection.

      Phelps put down a copy of the 1983 Dodger Annual yearbook for his favorite baseball team, pressed his thin lips together and sighed. The sigh sounded as if it came straight from his toes. The kind of sick where she needs her family around her, doing stuff for her.

      Bryce still didn’t see the problem. So? Bring her out here. You’ve got those extra bedrooms since your kids went off to college— He didn’t get a chance to finish.

      Phelps eyed him as if he’d lost his mind. Look, I feel bad for her, but there’s no way that harpy’s moving in with us. Not unless you wanna see my face on a mug shot posted in Homicide with the words ‘Rogue Cop’ over it.

      Bryce was trying very hard to understand what the other man was saying. So what’s the plan? You and Alice’re moving in with her?

      Phelps shivered. Different scenario, same results. Alice and I are renting a place up there.

      There being Fresno, Bryce recalled.

      She’s going to play Florence What’s-Her-Name and I guess I’m gonna see if I can finally write that crime thriller I’m always talking about. The contented, wistful expression on his face faded and Phelps got back to the present. Officially, for now I’m taking an extended leave of absence. Don’t look so glum. I’ll be back, Phelps promised. After all, you never forget your first, he added with a wicked grin, followed by a heartfelt sigh.

      Bryce shot the man a look that said he wasn’t amused. Seriously, just how long is this ‘extended’ leave going to be?

      Bony shoulders rose and fell beneath the loose-fitting jacket. A few months. Six on the outside. Doctors say that the old girl’s on her way out. Could be anytime now, he said a little wistfully. And then reality set in. ’Course, she’s got the constitution of a rock. She just might hang around for another ten, twenty years just to stick it to me. Phelps laughed dryly as he put the last of his things into the cardboard box.

      He paused. Not everybody’s as lucky as you are, partner. Your family gets along and they all have each other’s backs no matter what. He picked up the box then put it back down again and, only half kidding, said, Any chance I could get adopted? I wouldn’t take up much space.

      Bryce laughed and shook his head. Yeah, I’ll be sure to ask. And then he sobered as he scanned the squad room. It won’t seem the same without you.

      Yeah, yeah, you’ll forget about me the second I walk out the door. Phelps saw that his partner was looking at something or someone over his shoulder. Turning, he saw a slender blonde crossing the threshold, a miniature version of his cardboard box in her hands. Sooner, maybe, he commented. Well, off I go. He put his hand into Bryce’s, shaking it. It’s been good. Maybe with luck, I’ll see you soon.

      And then Phelps looked around. Anyone know where I can pick up some hemlock, cheap? he asked, raising his voice so that it carried to the rest of the inhabitants of the squad room.

      A cacophony of voices answered him as he made his way, nodding through the maze of desks and detectives, toward the exit.

      He passed the blonde who was walking in. Assuming that she was there to take his place, Phelps nodded in her direction and, in a low voice, said, The desk’s in the rear of the room. So’s your partner. And then he smiled broadly. Good luck with that.

      * * *

      Scottie’s arm tightened around the small box she was carrying. It was only half filled, but she hadn’t been able to find a smaller box when she’d cleaned out her space in Homicide.

      The transfer had come through so quickly, Scottie thought, it had almost taken her breath away. She’d been prepared to make several requests and to write long petitions before she got the okay to make the transfer from Homicide to Robbery. She’d been certain she would have to plead her case and be movingly convincing before the approval was given. After all, she’d been fairly certain she had done a more than decent job in Homicide.

      She’d certainly managed to clear all her cases. But then, on the other hand, Aurora was not exactly a snake pit of crime. It habitually made the FBI’s top ten list of safest US cities for its size and she liked to think she was part of the reason for that. She worked hard, kept to herself and never challenged authority. As far as she knew, that was the winning formula for a valuable employee.

      She’d thought that her commanding officer would have put up more of a fuss about losing her. But to her surprise, after she’d put in her request, stating only that she felt rather burned out working Homicide—it was the only thing that occurred to her to use as her reason for requesting the transfer—it had been granted the next morning. The captain hadn’t even tried to talk her out of it.

      Her partner, Joe Mathias, had appeared a little surprised as well as dismayed when he’d learned she was transferring, but not enough to try to get her to change her mind or to attempt to block the transfer.

      They had worked well together, but only in the way that two cogs located on the same machine worked well. They had never socialized after hours—her choice—and they didn’t even know any personal details about one another—also her choice. Mathias had tried—he had pictures of his wife and kids on his desk and on occasion would tell her about something he and his family had done over the weekend—but Scottie had zealously kept her private life just that.

      Private.

      Part of the reason for her secrecy was that she didn’t want anyone to find out about Ethan. He was not only her half brother, at one point she had also been his legal guardian. Her gut instincts had her hiding their connection—just in case.

      And now just in case had happened—maybe.

      For now, it proved to her that she’d been right about deciding to keep her private life under wraps. If her hunch was right, and Ethan was involved in what was now going on, there’d be no way that she would be allowed to work on the break-ins that had suddenly begun to plague the good citizens living in some of the more upscale neighborhoods of Aurora.

      If anyone knew about Ethan and the nefarious life he had supposedly left behind, she would be barred from doing any sort of investigation that could clear his name—if Ethan was part of this. It was a phrase she kept hanging on to. She still had no actual proof that he was involved.

      But then there was her gut, which compelled her to move forward. Always forward for him—just in case.

      * * *

      Newly seated, Bryce rose again to get a better look at the woman taking long, measured steps as she crossed the squad room. Just the faintest of hip movement marked every step she took.

      He had trouble drawing his eyes away.

      His first thought was that she was a hell of what his grandfather would have referred to as a looker. His second was that she was one of the city’s residents coming in to file a complaint involving goods stolen during the execution of some sort of a robbery.

      But then he took a second look at the box in her hands, a far smaller one than Phelps had used to carry out his possessions, but still a box. That caused Bryce to reassess his initial take.

      As he watched the leggy blonde walk in his direction, Bryce was vaguely aware that he wasn’t the only one assessing the woman. Small wonder. The statuesque blonde had a no-nonsense gait that captured a man’s attention from the very first moment she entered his line of sight. Slender, she was wearing a straight, light gray skirt that stopped a few inches above her knee, making her look as if she was all leg.

      And what legs! he caught himself thinking. They were the kind of legs that walked right into a man’s dreams and had him fantasizing all sorts of things he had no business fantasizing about—especially if it turned out that there was some sort of a working relationship that had to happen.

      Snapping out of his momentary reverie, Bryce crossed over to the newcomer as he summoned his most inviting smile.

      Can I help you? he asked.

      The low voice he heard in response sounded as if it had been wrapped in honey and dipped in warm whiskey before being poured over a glass of ice.

      With what?

      The woman’s response caught him off guard. Bryce heard himself say the first two things that came into his head. With the box you’re holding. With finding whoever you’re looking for. Anything, he concluded, leaving the offer open-ended.

      The box isn’t heavy, she replied, tightening her hold on the box with its meager contents—just a few basic manuals she’d found useful during the execution of her job. And I’m not looking for a ‘who,’ I’m looking for a desk.

      The grin was instantaneous, widening his mouth to reveal two rows of snowstorm-white teeth. Fortunately the one next to mine just happens to be empty, Bryce told her, pivoting on the ball of his foot and doing a 180 so that he was once again facing the direction he had come from.

      Fortunately, Scottie echoed, her emotionless tone giving no indication she thought it was anything of the kind.

      Since he had pointed to the newly vacated desk, Scottie walked toward it. Bryce was right behind her. He took the opportunity to drink in every nuance of her body from that vantage point before hurrying to catch up so that he could at least be at her side when she set her things down.

      Which he was.

      I guess you’re taking Detective Phelps’s place, Bryce said as she put the small box on the desk.

      Ordinarily, Bryce didn’t have to search for an icebreaker or an opening line. In his experience, women, even those who were as easy on the eyes as this one was, didn’t need much encouragement when it came to making conversation. They were usually all too eager to do three-quarters of the talking, if not more.

      But this one was different. She didn’t seem inclined to talk, which in itself was unusual. Unlike a couple of his brothers, Bryce had never fancied himself to be the strong, silent type. Besides, he’d found that the more someone talked, the more they wound up revealing about themselves. He had never been one who cared for surprises.

      He liked knowing things right from the start, liked having things all laid out in front of him, nice and visible.

      The blonde at Phelps’s desk obviously didn’t subscribe to that philosophy. At least, it didn’t seem that way.

      Apparently, the leggy blonde said as she almost bonelessly slid into Phelps’s chair.

      Having gotten involved in observing what was nothing short of poetry in motion, Bryce blinked then narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at the newcomer.

      Excuse me?

      Scottie recreated the last two bits of dialogue. You said it looked like I was taking Phelps’s place. I said ‘apparently.’ There, she announced in a tone that was nothing short of dismissive. I think that we’re all caught up.

      Bryce pulled over his own chair, positioning it so that it was inches away from facing hers, and then straddled it. He crossed his arms over the top of the creased black padding as he looked at her. His sharp green eyes all but bored right into her, giving the impression that he could glimpse everything clear down to the bone, every thought, every fear, everything.

      All caught up? Bryce echoed with just the slightest bit of mockery in his voice. No, I don’t think so. Not by a long shot. And then his easygoing manner returned as he asked, Don’t you want to know my name?

      Soft, expressive blue eyes rose to look into his. Bryce Cavanaugh, she replied.

      Bryce’s amused grin widened. So she’d done her homework. But why? Was this woman his new partner? And how did everyone but him know that he was getting a new partner?

      Okay, so you know my name, Bryce conceded. Don’t you want to know anything else?

      The same slightly disinterested tone she’d used before now accompanied the single word that emerged next from her lips.

      No.

      Undaunted, Bryce informed her, "Well, I want to know some things." When his seatmate raised her eyes to his again, giving him the impression that she was waiting

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