Internal Affair (19 page)

“You don’t know what you missed out on,” the sergeant confided. “It tasted like heaven.” He patted his all-too-large belly fondly. “Gets me hungry just thinking about it.”

Patrick had a feeling that the man grew hungry thinking about almost anything.

“So—” Getting himself as comfortable as possible, the sergeant looked from one to the other. “What can I do for you?”

“Has it been slow here, Phil?” she asked.

Patrick stared at her, surprised she was being so direct. When she’d said she knew the sergeant, he’d expected her to execute some kind of diversion to distract the man while he slipped into the evidence room and got the bullet in question.

“Having trouble keeping my eyes open, Maggi. It’s always like this around the holidays. People even forget I’m down here.”

“You know what you need?” she told him. “A quick run to the vending machine on the first floor. Get some energy food. Saw some of those chocolate marshmallow bars you’re so partial to.”

Warren seemed to understand immediately. His eyes shifted toward the man next to her and then back again. Maggi nodded, silently answering his question. Patrick was to be trusted. “Sounds like a good idea, but I don’t have anyone to cover for me.”

“That’s okay, I can hang around for a bit, make sure anyone who might come along signs in first.”

Warren was already coming around the desk. “You always were a good girl, Maggi.” Standing close to her, he dropped his voice even though it was just the three of them here. “Ten minutes, Mag, can’t give you more than that.”

“More than enough,” she assured him. “I’ll be standing right here when you get back. And Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

The man nodded, making his way down the long hallway that led to the elevator bank at the end of the corridor. Maggi waited until she couldn’t hear his footfalls any longer. She turned toward Patrick.

“Okay. Go.”

He pushed open the door that led to the dark, ill-lit room. “One surprise after another,” he murmured again.

Maggi stood guard, hoping no one would come. Hoping that Patrick would be able to find the proper area. She’d only been inside the evidence room once. It was comprised of rows and rows of gray metal shelves with carefully tagged evidence.

Human nature being what it was, it was easy to misfile things. Chances would have doubled of finding the evidence involved in Ramirez’s shooting if she’d gone in with Cavanaugh, but she couldn’t very well leave the desk unmanned. If a superior officer just happened to come by, the sergeant’s job and subsequent pension would be on the line. That was no way to pay Warren back for going out on a limb.

She held her breath until Patrick came out of the room again. His expression was grim, but any questions she wanted to ask had to be put on hold. She heard the sergeant walking down the hall. He’d returned as promised, ten minutes to the second.

Warren laid his stash of six candy bars on the desk. “You were right. They had the marshmallow bars. Want one?”

“Thanks, I’ll pass. I’m still working off my share of the chocolate cheesecake.”

“You look just fine,” the sergeant told her. “Doesn’t she, Cavanaugh?”

“Just fine,” Patrick echoed.

“I’ll see you later,” Maggi told the sergeant as he busily peeled back the wrapper on his snack. Warren nodded in response.

“Well?” she asked Patrick eagerly the second they put some distance between themselves and the evidence room.

“It’s not there.”

Her eyes widened. They weren’t talking about an incident that had happened several years ago. This was recent. If the evidence was missing, it was on purpose. “The bullet? What do you mean it’s not there? Are you sure you were in the right area?”

“Of course I’m sure.” She could hear the frustration in his voice. He held open the stairwell door for her. “It’s not there. Neither is Dugan’s service revolver. They’re both missing.”

Her heels hit the metal stairs, echoing as she made her way to the first floor. “Or were taken.”

He set his mouth firmly. “It’s beginning to look like a conspiracy, isn’t it?”

She sighed. “Hate that word, but yes, it does. Considering the kinds of deposits Ramirez made, this could be very, very big.” She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to look at him. “Are you sure he never said anything to you?”

He felt a flare of temper and banked it down. “I don’t lie, Mary Margaret. I’ve got my faults, but that’s not one of them.”

No,
she thought,
it’s one of mine.

“I know,” she said quietly. She began to yank the door open only to have him put his hand over the knob and do it for her.

“You’re looking a little green around the gills. You okay?”

“Fine, terrific,” she lied as her stomach suddenly lurched. This had to be what feeling seasick was like, she thought. Miserable. “Nothing a little antacid won’t cure.” She didn’t want to think about her stomach. If she kept busy, this strange, queasy feeling would go away again the way it had yesterday. “Let’s get started on making up a list of people in the department Ramirez had contact with.”

That took them far beyond the realm of friends and the list that he had written up himself. “That could take forever.”

She looked at him. “Got any better ideas?”

“Not at the moment.” He blew out a breath. “Okay, let’s get to it.”

Chapter 19

T
he silence within the small, pale blue tiled bathroom was almost deafening.

Maggi stood staring at the slender stick in her hand. She wasn’t sure just how much time had gone by. The darkened color at one end told her the same thing that the three other indicators now rudely housed inside her bathroom wastebasket had.

She was pregnant.

As if life wasn’t already complicated enough.

Biting off several choice words about fate’s rotten sense of humor, she threw the stick into the basket with the rest of the pregnancy testing paraphernalia.

Damn it, anyway.

She’d been throwing up for a week now, every morning like clockwork. The minute her eyes were open, her stomach insisted on crawling up into her throat. Once purged, she’d start to feel better and her nervousness would begin to fade. She’d gotten the kits just to put her own mind at ease, to convince herself that she was only experiencing some new kind of flu and nothing more.

Maggi took a deep breath as she struggled to pull herself together.

A baby. Cavanaugh’s baby.

Ain’t that a kick in the head?

Now she had two secrets to keep from him. She didn’t want him to know she was carrying his baby, not when the situation was so dicey. There was no real indication that Patrick had any stronger feelings for her than those that lasted the duration of their lovemaking. If she told him about the baby and then he asked her to marry him, she’d never know if he had any feelings at all because, in her mind, the proposal would strictly be motivated because of the baby. And if she told him and he backed away from her, well, that would hurt too much to bear.

Silence was the best option. The only option.

Maggi looked at herself in the mirror.
Great little dilemma you’ve gotten yourself into, Mag.

She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do beyond the next moment. She needed to get dressed and go on with her life for as long as she could.

Like a cadet reporting for duty, Maggi squared her shoulders. She had a report to file and a partner to back, although the latter, she suspected, would not be for very much longer.

Maggi ignored the pang she felt in her heart.

Hearing the almost furtive knock on his doorjamb, the tall, distinguished man sitting behind the desk looked up. The moment he did, every nerve ending in his body went on the alert.

His voice was deceptively calm, gracious. His ability to seem warm and outgoing had gotten him to where he was. And would eventually see him to where he wanted to be.

“What’s up?”

Officer Foster licked his almost nonexistent lower lip. “We’ve got a problem.”

The man’s eyebrows moved together a fraction of an inch. “Close the door.”

Foster quickly shut it behind him. He glanced at the chair in front of the desk but made no move to take it. He knew better than to sit without being invited. Or to talk out of turn even though the words were hovering in his mouth, vying for release.

The man at the desk closed the file he was looking over. “All right, what’s wrong?”

The words flew out in a rush. “He’s still nosing around, asking questions, talking to some of the guys. Taylor saw him and his partner coming out of the stairwell.” Foster swallowed nervously. “They might have been down in the evidence room.”

The man laughed shortly. “And they might have been groping each other in a dark, private place.”

Unsure if the remark was meant to be humorous, Foster attempted a grin. A smile spasmodically came and went. “Wouldn’t mind doing that myself with her, but not him. Cavanaugh’s not like that. He doesn’t mix business with pleasure. Hell, we’re not even sure he has any pleasures.”

There was no humor evident in the other man’s dark eyes. “Has he talked to you?”

“Yeah, right at the start. I told him Ramirez was a square deal when we were working together.” Foster added quickly, eager to show that he could keep his wits about him, “but I’m not sure he believed me.”

The gaze was flat, the scrutiny deep. Unable to endure it, Foster shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“You’ve got the face of a damn angel,” his superior retorted. “Why wouldn’t he believe you?”

“That’s why I came to you.” Foster looked nervously over his shoulder, afraid the door would open at any moment and someone would overhear. “Because he says he wants to talk to me again when I’ve got a little time.”

“Make the time,” the man instructed quietly. His eyes pinned his subordinate. “And you know what to do.”

Foster ran his fingertips over his sweaty palms. He’d been afraid of this. “I don’t know if I can.”

The other man didn’t bother masking his disgust. Men like Foster were necessary drones, expendable pawns, and nothing more.

“Think of it as laying the foundations for your retirement plan.” He shifted, leaning over his desk, holding Foster prisoner in his gaze. “You can either spend your golden years on some warm, inviting beach, or in a maximum security prison, courtesy of the state. The choice is yours. That is, if you actually make it to trial,” he added significantly.

Foster knew what that meant. That he would meet a fate similar to Ramirez’s, whose only misfortune was in being in the wrong place at the wrong time and whose conscience had finally gotten the better of him. Or like Dugan, whose body hadn’t been found yet and probably would never be.

“The choice is yours,” the man repeated softly, curdling the blood in Foster’s veins.

Foster nodded, knowing what he had to do. Not liking it at all. He hadn’t signed on for this. Garnering protection money from wealthy store owners who could well afford it in exchange for favors and protection was one thing. The cold-blooded elimination of problems, which was what he was being told to do, was a completely different matter.

But it all boiled down to self-defense. If he didn’t do this, didn’t defend himself against what might happen if Cavanaugh stumbled across the truth, he would die. That was guaranteed. And he knew he wasn’t ready for that.

“Okay,” Foster said, his mouth so dry he felt like choking, “I’ll do it.”

“Good man. Let me know how it goes. And Foster,” he said just as the smaller man was about to leave.

“Yes?”

“Don’t screw up.”

“No, sir,” Foster promised. He hurried out of the room, knowing he had to leave before he threw up.

Patrick’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides as he walked down the long corridor.

He’d done nothing wrong, absolutely nothing wrong.

That still didn’t ameliorate the uneasy feeling that insisted on dancing through him. He’d been summoned to appear before John Halliday, the head of IA.

Now.

A summons usually meant that he was either under investigation or required to give testimony about someone who was. Anticipation introduced a foul taste into his mouth. Either scenario was not one he remotely welcomed.

Although Internal Affairs was a necessary evil, like everyone else, Patrick thought of the people who worked for IA as belonging to the rat squad. They were people whose sole function was to ferret out the bad in everyone. A few well-placed chosen words could turn almost anything into a suspicious act.

And now those words would concern him.

Maybe this was about Ramirez, he thought. Could be someone higher up had gotten wind of the same thing he had about his late partner and was now doing some digging into the man’s dealings. Which probably meant that he was also a suspect. Just as he figured Foster might be mixed up in all this. Only difference being that he assumed someone was innocent until he found evidence to the contrary. IA worked in the reverse. You were guilty until proved innocent.

It was a little like the KGB, Patrick thought as he stopped before Halliday’s door. He paused before knocking. Damn, but he hated this. Any way he sliced it, he was about to walk into an unpleasant experience.

He hadn’t even told Maggi where he was going. The less involved she was in this, the better.

There he went again, he upbraided himself, wanting to protect her. He was going to have to do something about that.

And while he was at it, he was going to have to do something about the way all his days seemed to wind up at her apartment. In her bed. And he was going to have to do something about the way he could think of nothing else but taking her into his arms and making love with her.

Patrick shook his head. He felt as if his own will had been stolen and someone else’s had wantonly been substituted. He didn’t know whether to laugh and enjoy it while it lasted or run for the hills. Because he wanted it to last forever.

He still hadn’t spent an entire night with her and there was still a part of himself he was holding back. But his hold was slipping. Eventually, he knew he’d lose his grip on it altogether. And give all of himself to her.

Patrick knocked and waited.

A deep voice on the other side of the door instructed a genial “Come in.”

Braced and ready for anything, Patrick turned the knob and walked in.

And discovered that he wasn’t really braced at all. Or ready for anything. Especially not for what he saw. Not for Maggi sitting there in the room.

“Leave her out of this,” he snapped, forgoing any attempt at a perfunctory greeting. “Whatever you think you have on me, she has nothing to do with any of it. She hasn’t even been my partner for very long.”

“No, just long enough,” Halliday responded. “Take a seat, Detective.”

Patrick drew himself up even straighter, giving redwoods a run for their money. “I prefer to stand.”

Halliday’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a request. Sit, Detective Cavanaugh,” he ordered. “You’re making me nervous.”

Reining in the very strong desire to grab Maggi’s hand and just walk out of the office, Patrick sat down on the other chair. He kept his gaze fixed on the man who’d called him in. He hated the fact that Maggi was being dragged into this because of him.

Steepling his fingers, Halliday leaned back in his chair as he kept his eyes on his subject.

“I’ve heard some very good things about you, Cavanaugh. And some bad. It’s up to me to figure out which are true, which aren’t. I can’t do that kind of thing without help.” He paused significantly, letting the words sink in.

Patrick’s eyes shifted to Maggi, trying to read her expression. She looked uneasy. What had gone down here? What had Halliday made her do? He would swear on his life that she wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t implicate him in anything just to save her own career.

So what was she doing here?

“What am I being accused of?” Patrick demanded abruptly.

In contrast, Halliday’s voice was calm, soothing. “All in due time, Detective.”

He wasn’t about to wait while Halliday played games to amuse himself. “I’ve got a right to know
now.
”

Halliday merely smiled. “Most people sitting in that chair would be asking for legal counsel and to have their representative called in by now.”

“I don’t need a representative. I haven’t done anything wrong,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“You’re not pure as the driven snow, Cavanaugh.” The smile on Halliday’s lips was unreadable. “I know you’ve bent your share of rules.” He glanced down at the neatly typed report on his desk, the one signed by Mary Margaret McKenna. “But there’s no evidence to prove that you’re guilty of what you were initially accused of.”

Patrick was losing patience fast. With little to no provocation, he’d leap over the desk and shake the answers out of Halliday.

“What?” Patrick demanded. “Just what the hell am I accused of? And by who?”

“It was an anonymous call, stating that you were responsible for Ramirez’s death. And that you were up to your neck in dirty tricks. Scamming, bribery, collecting protection money from the locals. The man called you a dirty cop on the take and said that when Ramirez found out and was going to blow the whistle on you, you forced Dugan to kill him and make it look like an accident.”

Patrick clutched at the armrests, all but breaking them off. “That’s a lie.”

Halliday moved his chair slightly to face Maggi. “That’s what Detective McKenna tells me.”

So that was it, they were grilling Maggi, trying to make her turn against him. Talk about misjudging characters. “Leave her out of this.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Halliday informed him, his voice mild. “I was the one who sent her into this. To investigate you,” he added when Cavanaugh continued to stare at him darkly. He indicated the report on his desk. “She’s cleared you.”

But Patrick’s brain had stopped processing information, halted by Halliday’s first remark. “You did what?”

“Bottom line is that you’re cleared, Cavanaugh. You could run for president and withstand media micro-scrutiny based on the report McKenna turned in to me.”

Patrick’s eyes pinned Maggi to the wall. “You’re with him?”

The accusation pierced her like two arrows.

“She’s part of IA,” Halliday told him. “Undercover, actually. Having her here while I talk to you flies in the face of protocol, but it was at her own insistence.” He glanced at Maggi. Halliday deemed himself to be a fair judge of people. “I imagine she was hoping to smooth things out.”

Patrick rose to his feet, his expression stony. Ignoring Maggi, he addressed Halliday. “Am I free to go now?”

Halliday flipped Patrick’s file closed. “Yes.” But as Patrick began to leave, he added, “And Cavanaugh, leave the internal investigation to us. We’ll be looking into Ramirez’s connections and ties,” he told him pointedly, “not you.”

“Whatever you say,” Patrick replied curtly.

Turning on his heel, he walked out of the room.

In the space of ten minutes, Patrick’s entire universe had been turned completely upside down. The woman who had somehow managed to slip into his world through the cracks and become closer to him than he’d ever allowed anyone else to get, had been part of the rat squad all along, sent in to spy on him.

Spy on him. The words echoed inside his brain, mocking him.

Damn, so much for trusting his own instincts. He was worse than some wet-behind-the-ears recruit, he thought in utter self-disgust.