Read Online Cavanaugh's Surrender by Marie Ferrarella - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marie Ferrarella
Tags: Suspense
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her really smile. It was a nice smile and not one of those smirky, snarky smiles that had a person bracing for some sort of witty, biting put-down. Hers was a sunrise-type smile that brought warmth with it. Definitely lit up the recipient, he realized, charmed.
“You know, you’re really not supposed to be working on this,” he reminded her tactfully.
He was aware that his father wouldn’t take her to task for this. He’d already demonstrated as much. But the homicide lieutenant who had put him on this case, he was a different story. He liked things by the book. So had he, Logan thought—when he was twelve. Now, solving cases was more of an improvisational theater at work. He made things up as he went along, and when it worked it was fantastic.
Destiny pointed to the square silver clock on the opposite wall. “I start work at nine. This is still before my workday.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him and dug in. She really couldn’t seem to concentrate with him here. It was as if he was eating up her oxygen and making the room very, very warm. “Anything else?”
He remembered what his father had just mentioned. “Yeah. Did you find anything else besides the fact that the prescription with her name on it didn’t really belong to your sister?” he asked. Then, because his question had caught her off guard, he added, “I stopped to talk to my father this morning. He filled me in.”
She just naturally assumed that meant that Logan had stopped by the lab to check on the progress being made on the case. Why else would he be here? She had to admit that the detective’s thoroughness took her by surprise. Cavanaugh or not, she wouldn’t have thought that Logan was that dedicated to his job. He hadn’t given her that kind of an impression when she’d spoken with him yesterday.
For once it was nice to discover she was wrong.
“Yes, actually, I did find out something.” And then she raised her eyes to his and qualified, “I think.”
“That sleeping with your head on your desk will give you a pretty bad crick in your neck?” he guessed.
“Besides that,” she told him. She turned her monitor so that he had a better view of the screen. “I think I found a pattern,” she said excitedly.
Actually, there was no “think” about it. Destiny knew she had. The cases, all appearing to be singular in nature, were far too similar to one another for this to be some unhappy coincidence occurring again and again—especially since there had been five other cases in as many years.
“What kind of a pattern?” Logan asked, looking at her rather than at the screen.
“The kind of pattern that involves apparent “suicides” of attractive young women ranging between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five who, according to the police files, killed themselves after breaking up with—or being dumped by—a mysterious boyfriend whom their family and friends not only didn’t get to meet, but didn’t even know by name.” Finished, she looked at him again. “Sound familiar?”
Sounded identical, he thought, but he was never one to get ahead of himself on a case. “If they were called suicides, why were there police reports filed?” he asked.
That was a good point—and she had an equally good answer. She’d known the only way to sell this was to stay one step ahead of Logan. “Because in all the cases, someone in the family didn’t think that it was suicide, that the so-called mysterious boyfriend did it.” She stopped for a second, straightening and pulling her shoulders back so that a minor cracking noise was heard, like the salute of old-fashioned cap pistols going off one at a time.
“They’re all open cases,” she informed him, sitting back now. “In each case there was not enough evidence to lead them to a suspect.” And then she frowned slightly as she leaned back in her chair and rocked. “I didn’t think so in the beginning, but it looks like we might have a serial killer on our hands.
“You know, you’re really not supposed to be working on this,” he reminded her tactfully.
He was aware that his father wouldn’t take her to task for this. He’d already demonstrated as much. But the homicide lieutenant who had put him on this case, he was a different story. He liked things by the book. So had he, Logan thought—when he was twelve. Now, solving cases was more of an improvisational theater at work. He made things up as he went along, and when it worked it was fantastic.
Destiny pointed to the square silver clock on the opposite wall. “I start work at nine. This is still before my workday.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him and dug in. She really couldn’t seem to concentrate with him here. It was as if he was eating up her oxygen and making the room very, very warm. “Anything else?”
He remembered what his father had just mentioned. “Yeah. Did you find anything else besides the fact that the prescription with her name on it didn’t really belong to your sister?” he asked. Then, because his question had caught her off guard, he added, “I stopped to talk to my father this morning. He filled me in.”
She just naturally assumed that meant that Logan had stopped by the lab to check on the progress being made on the case. Why else would he be here? She had to admit that the detective’s thoroughness took her by surprise. Cavanaugh or not, she wouldn’t have thought that Logan was that dedicated to his job. He hadn’t given her that kind of an impression when she’d spoken with him yesterday.
For once it was nice to discover she was wrong.
“Yes, actually, I did find out something.” And then she raised her eyes to his and qualified, “I think.”
“That sleeping with your head on your desk will give you a pretty bad crick in your neck?” he guessed.
“Besides that,” she told him. She turned her monitor so that he had a better view of the screen. “I think I found a pattern,” she said excitedly.
Actually, there was no “think” about it. Destiny knew she had. The cases, all appearing to be singular in nature, were far too similar to one another for this to be some unhappy coincidence occurring again and again—especially since there had been five other cases in as many years.
“What kind of a pattern?” Logan asked, looking at her rather than at the screen.
“The kind of pattern that involves apparent “suicides” of attractive young women ranging between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five who, according to the police files, killed themselves after breaking up with—or being dumped by—a mysterious boyfriend whom their family and friends not only didn’t get to meet, but didn’t even know by name.” Finished, she looked at him again. “Sound familiar?”
Sounded identical, he thought, but he was never one to get ahead of himself on a case. “If they were called suicides, why were there police reports filed?” he asked.
That was a good point—and she had an equally good answer. She’d known the only way to sell this was to stay one step ahead of Logan. “Because in all the cases, someone in the family didn’t think that it was suicide, that the so-called mysterious boyfriend did it.” She stopped for a second, straightening and pulling her shoulders back so that a minor cracking noise was heard, like the salute of old-fashioned cap pistols going off one at a time.
“They’re all open cases,” she informed him, sitting back now. “In each case there was not enough evidence to lead them to a suspect.” And then she frowned slightly as she leaned back in her chair and rocked. “I didn’t think so in the beginning, but it looks like we might have a serial killer on our hands.
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