Cavanaugh Standoff

Oh, Lord, he is going to be truthful, Sierra realized. Didn’t he know that there was a time when the truth wasn’t welcome?

“No, it was quick,” she assured the older woman, talking quickly and deliberately avoiding eye contact with O’Bannon.

Her goal right now was to make sure Mrs. Walker didn’t fall apart. As long as the woman held it together, there was a good chance she would remain coherent and maybe even answer a few more questions for them.

“Was your son having trouble with anyone?” Ronan asked. “Any unusual arguments? Had anyone threatened him lately?”

“Well, this wasn’t done by a friend now, was it?” Mrs. Walker snapped sarcastically, then immediately appeared to regret her show of temper as tears filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. This is all such a shock. You spend every day worrying something’s going to happen to your kid, but when it does you’re just not ready for it.”

Sierra placed a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. Mrs. Walker released a shuddering sigh. For a moment she looked as if she was about to dissolve into tears, but then she managed to rally again.

“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Walker,” she told the woman with genuine feeling. “Is there anyone we could call for you?”

The woman laughed softly, although the sound was completely devoid of any humor. She shook her head. “No one who would come if they saw the police around.”

It wasn’t an accusation but a simple statement of fact. Sniffling, she took out a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes, then returned the tissue back to her pocket.

“When can I claim his bod—my son?” she asked, choking up.

“The medical examiner has to do an autopsy first, but as soon as your son’s body is released, we’ll let you know,” Sierra assured her. “Until then, here’s my card. If you think of anything to add, please call. Or if you just need someone to talk to—” Sierra gave the woman’s hand a squeeze as she gave her a business card “—call me.”

Mrs. Walker grimly nodded her head. The card went into the same pocket as the tissue. She tried to choke out a thank-you, but the words seemed to stick in her mouth.

“Thank you for your time,” Ronan said, rising. “We’ll let ourselves out.”

* * *

“WELL, THAT WOMAN’S never going to be the same again,” Sierra observed sadly as soon as they walked out of the almost airless little apartment.

“Nobody who loses someone ever really is,” Ronan commented drily.

Something in his voice caught her attention and Sierra looked at the tall man walking next to her. But his face was impassive, so if there had been an expression she could have interpreted, it was gone in an instant.

Ronan remained silent as they walked to his car. She decided it was just as well because he was undoubtedly disappointed that nothing new had been learned.

It wasn’t until they had pulled away from the curb and were driving back to the precinct that Ronan spoke again. To her surprise it wasn’t about the fact that they had learned nothing new about the victim.

“You weren’t half-bad in there.”

Sierra blinked, stunned as well as puzzled. “I’m sorry, I’m confused,” she confessed. “Are you praising the half-full glass or criticizing it because it’s half-empty?”

Ronan upbraided himself for having said anything, but since he had, he knew he needed to clarify it or Carlyle would just go on asking questions. He was beginning to realize she was just built that way.

“What I’m saying is that you handled an awkward situation without making it worse.”

Sierra suppressed a laugh. “That really is a left-handed compliment, you know.”

His eyes on the road, Ronan shrugged. “It’s all I’ve got.”

This time she did laugh. There was a decent human being in there somewhere, he just had to be dug out. She wondered if he was even aware of that fact.

“I really doubt that,” she told him.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Your mother’s a really nice, savvy woman,” Sierra said, hoping that would put what she said into perspective for him.

“So?”

She leaned back in her seat. “Never mind.”

“No, out with it,” Ronan ordered, sparing her one quick glance. “You started to say something, so now finish it.”

“And if I do, you’ll have reason to get rid of me?”

Did she really think he was that petty? What did he care what she thought about him? he asked himself the next second.

But he had pushed this and he wanted it resolved. “We’ll talk consequences later. Now, out with it. What are you trying to say?”

Sierra chose her words carefully, aware he would examine each one. “Your mother’s a really great, outgoing woman—”

“You already covered that part,” Ronan told her impatiently.

She supposed she could sugarcoat this, but she couldn’t get herself to lie. So she didn’t. “And you act as if you’d been raised by a she-wolf in a cave.”

Well, that was certainly straightforward enough, he thought. This woman obviously didn’t have any trouble telling the truth. He supposed that was a valuable asset—to both him and the team. Still, they weren’t going to get anywhere with this investigation if they kept clashing all the time.

“If you have a problem with the way I do things, Carlyle, you can always transfer out,” he told her. There was no emotion in his voice.

That just made her angry. “I don’t quit things,” she informed him.

“Then I’d say you have a problem.”

“I guess I do.”

He had no idea where she stood after saying that. And he certainly couldn’t just leave it. Easing into a stop at an intersection, he looked at her. “So, what’s it going to be? Are you in or are you out?”

She was probably going to regret this, Sierra thought, squaring her shoulders. But she’d told him the truth. She didn’t quit things. That left her only one answer. “I’m in—but don’t expect me to stop trying to get through that stony exterior,” she told him, qualifying her answer.

“What I expect,” Ronan stated deliberately, “is that you do your part to solve the crime to get whoever’s playing vigilante off the streets.”

The word he used caught her attention. “So now you think it’s a vigilante?”

He reminded himself that she was brand-new to the team and as such wasn’t apprised of pertinent details. He reviewed them in a nutshell. “This is the fifth street thug who’s been ‘executed’ this way. Three from one gang—the War Lords—and two from another—the Terminators. If it’s not a vigilante, what’s your take on it?”

“Well, off the top of my head,” she said, working through the problem as she spoke, “maybe it’s the work of a third gang, trying to get rid of the competition.”

“Aurora doesn’t have a gang. We had a few nerdy types a few years ago who tried to flex their muscles by spray-painting a couple of buildings, but the fact that they’d painted slogans using four-and five-syllable words gave them away. They were tracked down pretty quickly and turned over to their parents. That was the end of Aurora’s one and only ‘gang,’” he declared. “Anything else?”