Cavanaugh Cold Case (20 page)

“Even if this does turn out to be Parker, what we still don't have,” Malloy said more to himself than to her, “is a reason for all these dead people in the first place. Having Parker—if it
is
Parker—in the mix just muddies up any working theory we have now.”

And then Malloy took a deep breath, as if to organize his priorities.

“Identifications first, working theory last,” he told Kristin. “And while you're trying to locate X-rays for our mystery guest's less than pearly whites,” he commented, looking down at the skull's rather uneven, yellowish teeth, “I'm going to see if I can get the lowdown on that nursery's previous owner.”

Malloy made it all the way to the doorway before he stopped and turned around to look at her. In the mounting excitement, it had slipped his mind—until now. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

Kristin was already trying to gain access to a dental database that had begun being compiled years back. She glanced up when he'd crossed over to her again.

“What?”

The only way to get through this was to bluntly state it, he told himself. “You and your mother are invited.”

Kristin stared at him. “Back up, Cavanaugh,” she ordered, terminating the call she was in the middle of placing regarding the database. “Invited to what and by whom?”

“I ran into Uncle Sean in the hallway.”

The man had just left the morgue after talking to her. So far, Malloy wasn't telling her anything new. “Go on.”

The way she was watching him, he had a hunch he was not dealing with the sort of woman he'd been accustomed to. Those had been accommodating above all else.

Malloy pushed on. “And he happened to mention that Andrew hadn't thrown one of his famous get-togethers in a while.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Define ‘a while.'” Was this going to be some kind of a blowout? Her mother hated noise.

“A couple of weeks,” he admitted with a dismissive shrug. “That's not the point.”

Kristin instinctively braced herself, although she couldn't really logically explain why. “What is the point?”

“That Uncle Andrew is throwing one now—this Saturday—and that you and your mother are invited.”

“He said that specifically?” she asked, a little thrown. “He said to invite me
and
my mother?” That didn't make any sense, she thought. “And you know that for a fact?” she pressed, as if taking the offensive. “How would he even know about us?” she questioned. So far, she hadn't allowed Malloy to take a deep breath and circle the wagons, something she knew he was good at.

She wasn't letting him answer.

“He's Andrew Cavanaugh. He's all knowing. Your mother will enjoy herself,” he promised, handling two sets of questions at the same time.

Kristin shot him an exasperated look. “I wasn't thinking about her, I was thinking about me.” Her mother was not going to be happy meeting a whole slew of strangers.

“I'll take care of that part,” he said, a gleam entering his eyes.

“Not with your usual flair you won't,” she informed him. “My mother's progressive, but she's not
that
progressive.”

He laughed, thoroughly amused. “Parents have a way of surprising us,” he told her.

“Not
that
much,” she assured him. “Trust me.” She could just hear the thousand and one questions that would precede this event.

“But you will come.” It wasn't a question, it was an assumption.

“We'll see,” she replied vaguely.

“I might have given you the impression that there was a choice,” he told her now. And then he set the record straight. “There isn't. Not really. On the plus side, nobody's ever had a bad time attending one of Andrew's gatherings.”

It would be a house full of strangers. Her mother did best in situations where she knew most of the people. “My mother might feel funny.”

“Not from what you told me.”

“Okay,
I
might feel funny,” she corrected.

That was one excuse that wasn't going to fly. He grinned at her.

“You'll get over it.”

Then, before she could offer any more arguments, Malloy made himself scarce.

Chapter 19

T
he County Registrar's office was given to red tape and endless waiting. Going there was not something Malloy was even remotely looking forward to. Since he still hadn't been able to reach Harrison's lawyer regarding the purchase of the nursery, the registrar was his only available option.

Busy psyching himself up for the task ahead, Malloy was preoccupied when he stepped off the elevator on the ground floor. It almost made him miss the exchange between the desk sergeant at the reception desk and the tall, thin, somewhat greenish-looking man looming over her. The latter was definitely peevish and losing what little temper he had left—fast.

“I said I'm looking for a Detective Cavanaugh,” the visitor said irritably, raising his voice.

Sergeant Ellen McNally was known for her easygoing manner, which was probably why she'd been given this position in the first place. She laughed good-naturedly at the man's request.

“Well, you've certainly come to the right place, I can tell you that. We've got a whole array of those in practically all the different departments. Any particular Cavanaugh you'd like to see?” the young blonde asked, thoroughly amused.

“I didn't come here to play guessing games,” the man snapped as he mopped his brow with a well-creased handkerchief. “I want to see the one who left me twelve messages on my phone, none of which I can make out,” he complained, holding his cell phone aloft to display the number of missed calls. “Look, I've just been on a ten-day cruise from hell where everything that could go wrong
did
go wrong, including a rip-roaring case of dysentery, something I thought I'd eluded until just now. Now, where is this guy so I can answer his questions like a good, upstanding citizen and then go home, crawl into my bed and die?”

“Sir, I really am going to need a first name from you,” Sergeant McNally told him. “As I said, we do have a great many Cavanaughs on the force, and I don't want to waste your time—”

“Too late,” the man snapped curtly.

Malloy crossed the lobby and made his way to the sickly looking man brow-beating the desk sergeant.

“I'll take it from here, McNally,” he told her. He was rewarded with a very relieved smile.

“Who the hell are you?” the man asked. He held on to the desk, most likely for balance, as he turned to look at whoever was talking to him.

Malloy gave the man his most congenial smile. “I'm sorry, I couldn't help overhearing,” he began. “Would you happen to be Roy Harrison's lawyer?”

Now very obviously holding on to the desk for support, the man regarded him with nonexpressive brown eyes. “William James,” he said, identifying himself. “And you are?”

“Probably the Detective Cavanaugh you're looking for. Malloy,” he added since the lawyer didn't seem to know his first name. He examined James more closely. “If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look so good.”

James's breathing was becoming somewhat audible, as if he'd been running. Except that he hadn't. “Tell me about it,” the man moaned.

“Do you want some water?” Malloy offered, about to ask McNally to get some for the man.

But James was quick to refuse the offer. “I think that's what started this whole thing in the first place. There was something wrong with the water,” he complained. “Almost everyone on the ship came down with this except for a few of us. I thought I'd lucked out—if you could call it that—until I was on my way over here in a cab.” There was perspiration gathering on his brow. “What I want is to clear up whatever's going on. Harrison was almost incoherent when I got his call a few minutes ago. Something about it costing him a fortune because work couldn't continue because of the bodies that were found.” His eyes were growing watery as he turned them on Malloy. “What bodies?”

Malloy moved to take the man's arm and lead him to an elevator. “Why don't we go upstairs and talk in one of the conference rooms?” he suggested.

“You mean one of the interrogation rooms?” James countered. “I've got a better suggestion. Why don't we just sit out here in the lobby, and after I answer your questions, I'll have a shorter walk to the outside of the building.”

Malloy gestured to one of several chairs in the lobby. “Take your pick,” he told him.

The lawyer dropped into the chair that was closest to him. He looked as if he'd barely made it.

“Now, what's this about finding bodies on my client's property?” he asked, struggling to maintain a professional air.

Malloy quickly told James as much as he felt the man needed to know in order for the lawyer to volunteer the necessary information. “We're trying to identify who these women are, and we need to know the name of the previous owner, the person who sold the property to your client.”

Rather than volunteer the name, James shook his head, or attempted to. “That's not as straightforward as you might think.”

Why should this be any different from the rest of this case?
Malloy thought wearily.

Out loud Malloy said, “Mind if I ask why?”

Sweating and beginning to radiate heat, James still had a counteroffer. “Not if I get to ask my question first.”

Malloy curbed his impatience. “Go ahead.”

“Why would you need the previous owner's name?” he asked.

Looking as if he was fading fast, James was still every inch a lawyer, Malloy thought.

“These murders all took place at least twenty years ago. So unless your client was using that part of the property as a killing field back then and suddenly decided he wanted to take actual possession of the land—”

“No, of course not,” the lawyer protested. And then he held up his hand as he covered his mouth with his handkerchief. The next moment he was coughing almost violently into it. His eyes were considerably more watery by the time he stopped and looked up.

“Sure I can't get you anything?” Malloy asked. He wasn't much of an expert on sick people, but the man appeared as if he was going to pass out at any moment.

“Other than a gun to shoot myself with, no,” James answered, clearly miserable.

Taking out his smartphone, the man proceeded to flip through several sections before he found what he was looking for.

Exhaling a ragged breath, he said, “I didn't deal with the actual owner, but I can tell you who I did deal with in order to buy the property.” He squinted as he read the name written on one of his calendar entries. “An Enrique Montoya.” James swiped the phone closed, but he continued clutching it in his hand, as if it somehow helped to keep him sitting upright in the chair. “Montoya was the last of the original owner's employees. In this particular case, he was given power of attorney by the owner of the nursery to conduct the sale. Montoya was the one who signed all the legal papers. Everything's aboveboard,” he emphasized sharply, as if he had just been challenged.

“That seems rather odd,” Malloy commented. “Where's the original owner?”

James shifted, not because the questions made him uncomfortable, but because his mounting illness did.

“Don't remember,” he confessed. “Montoya showed me all the proper documentation, so I dealt with him. I saw no problem with that.”

“All right,” Malloy said gamely. “Can you tell me where I can find this Enrique Montoya?”

Malloy waited for a response, eyeing the other man. The latter's complexion was growing progressively greener, and he had a feeling that it was just a matter of time before the lawyer would become too miserable and sick to talk.

James was apparently struggling to remember details now. “Montoya said he was moving down to San Diego to live with his daughter and her family the second the ink dried on the deed.”

“And you have that number?” Malloy asked.

James took offense at the question. “Of course I have that number. What kind of a lawyer do you think I—” Another coughing fit interrupted the question.

Malloy glanced over to the sergeant at the desk. The latter was already dialing a number. Hopefully, McNally was calling for an ambulance, Malloy thought.

Rather than tell Malloy the phone number, James turned on his smartphone again and jabbed an index finger at the screen.

Malloy looked and quickly committed the name and number he saw to memory even as he took out the notepad he carried in his pocket. His memory was excellent, but he'd learned that it never hurt to back up everything, whether they were computer files or ones that were in actual memory.

He heard one of the elevator doors opening as he finished writing. Putting away his notepad, he registered the sound of high heels hitting travertine. The sound grew louder.

“What are you feeling?” a soft voice asked.

Kristin.

Startled, Malloy turned around to look at her. Kristin was obviously the one who had gotten out of the elevator.

The next moment he realized that she wasn't talking to him. Her question was directed at the man sitting in the chair beside him.

The man who looked as if he was going to pour out of his chair and onto the floor any second.

“Who are you?” James asked weakly, vainly trying to project his voice and remain in control.

“I'm Dr. Alberghetti. Tell me your symptoms,” she urged, even as she took his pulse.

“Nausea, fever, ringing in my ears...” He was about to continue when his own labored breathing cut him off.

“You need more than I can do for you here,” Kristin said gently.

Within another minute, she had the desk sergeant calling for an ambulance.

“That's what I was going to tell her to do,” Malloy said. And then he asked, “What are you doing here?” Her sudden appearance seemed like far too much of a coincidence.

“The sergeant called me,” Kristin said, nodding at the woman behind the desk. “I am a doctor, you know,” she reminded him.

Because the fire station was only, literally, down the block, the ambulance arrived almost immediately.

Malloy stepped back as the two attendants strapped James onto the gurney. “Here's hoping he doesn't wind up like all your other dead patients,” he quipped.

William James's eyes grew huge as he stared at Kristin while the attendants wheeled him away.

Kristin waited until the attendants were gone and McNally went back to her desk. “Learn anything useful?” she asked Malloy.

Malloy turned away from the doors. “Actually, I did. The person acting on the former owner's behalf is currently residing with his daughter and her family down in San Diego.”

That seemed like a rather sweeping statement. “San Diego's a big place,” she commented, fairly certain that Malloy was playing this out for effect. For the moment, she went along with it. “Do you happen to have an address or a phone number?”

A Cheshire cat-type grin took over his mouth. “I have both,” Malloy replied.

So, there was another possible lead again. “When are you planning on going?”

He looked as if he was seriously considering her question. And then he innocently asked, “Are you and your mother coming to Uncle Andrew's party?”

She couldn't believe he was doing this. “You're kidding. Are you trying to blackmail me into coming to this party and bringing my mother along?”

“
Blackmail
is such an ugly word,” he told her. “Why don't we just call it a trade? Remember, technically, since I don't expect to find any dead bodies down in San Diego, there's no reason for you to come with me. Bringing you along is all strictly up to my discretion.”

Kristin's eyes narrowed. “You don't play fair,” she accused.

Malloy was the picture of complete innocence. “Never said I did.”

She
needed
to be included in this investigation. She was certain the solution was out there, just within reach, and she hated the idea that it
could
be reached without her. She was far too invested in this to just docilely drop out now.

This
was
blackmail, pure and simple, and she didn't want to give in because of the principle of the thing. But she really did want to be included, and her relationship—if it could be called that—with Malloy had gotten complicated. She didn't want it to end yet, and if she really refused this invitation, it just might.

Wavering, Kristin chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, then grudgingly bit off a single word. “Fine.”

“Fine, what?” he asked innocently.

“Fine, we'll come. My mother and I will come,” she spelled out in case there was any misunderstanding or he accused her of being fast and loose with rhetoric.

He peered into her eyes, as if he could see if she were lying. “I have your word?”

Okay, enough was enough. “You'll have my fingers around your throat very quickly if you keep this up.”

“Hot temper.” He grinned broadly. “I like that in a woman.”

“I wasn't hot tempered until I met you,” Kristin accused.

He nodded his head, pleased. He knew her well enough now to realize that she wouldn't go back on her word no matter how much she wanted to.

“Even better.” He began to move to one side for privacy. “Let me give Mr. Montoya a call and tell him we'd like to talk to him about his former employer.” But even before he stepped to one side and started pressing the keypad, he paused to look at Kristin. “It's going to be a really long drive down to San Diego. Are you sure you want to go?”

There was no way that he was leaving her behind. “I'm sure.”

He glanced toward the elevator and the rest of the building it symbolized. “Won't they need you in the morgue?”

“For the moment, ‘Death' seems to have called a moratorium since we started working this cold case. A couple of my assistants are working today, and besides, I have some vacation time coming if I need to go that route. One way or another, I'm coming with you. We are going to solve this case,” she concluded with conviction.