Cavanaugh Watch
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Marie Ferrarella
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Chapter 1
To the untrained ear, it sounded very much like a car, backfiring. To the Cavanaugh ear, the noise sounded exactly like what it was.
A gunshot.
The shot was followed by several more rounds, fired in rapid succession.
Standing at the edge of the steps leading to the county courthouse, Janelle Cavanaugh automatically began turning in the direction of the sound, even as it was drowned out by screams and cries of distress and fear. She never completed the turn because, the next thing she knew, she was pushed to the ground so quickly the very air rushed out of her lungs.
Startled, she still had the presence of mind to protect her head as she went down. This kept a concussion from becoming part of her medical history.
A manâs body spread over the length of hers. A heavy body. Heavy, not in the sense that the person on top of her was fat, or even large boned. Just tall and muscular. And damn near overwhelming.
At first, she thought the man had been shot and was slumped over her. But then she felt his breath against the side of her face and along her neck. Whoever this lead weight was, he didnât breathe like a man struggling for air, or even one particularly taken aback by the preceding events.
âStay down,â the deep male voice ordered harshly when she tried to move. He made her think of a marine drill sergeant, one who took no prisoners, brooked no nonsense. She wondered if that was to mask his fear, or if he just liked bullying people.
Straining, Janelle listened. Growing up with three rambunctious brothers and seven cousins, most of whom were male, she had perfected the ability to hone in on sounds and isolate them. Amid the sounds of panic, she picked out the silence.
No more gunshots.
âWhoever was shootingâs gone,â she informed the man, who was covering her almost as closely as a lid fit over a pot. A man who, for all she knew, was just taking advantage of the situation, playing hero while he copped a feel. âSo if you have the slightest notion of whatâs good for you, youâll get off me.â
âA simple âthank youâ will do,â the man growled in her ear.
The next moment, she felt his weight lessening. Her human shield rose to his feet and then offered her a hand. He did not offer her a smile.
Janelle felt a wave of antagonism rising up inside her. She ignored the hand, preferring to get up on her own power.
She was well-acquainted with the workings of a male mind and she could spot chauvinism. It was right there in the manâs deep blue eyes. Janelle might have tossed her head a little as she got up. She was sorry sheâd worn her blond hair up. The sight of a long mane flying over a shoulder always managed to underscore the look of disdain in her eyes.
Straightening her jacket, Janelle took in a deep breath. As the youngest of the chief of detectivesâ children and, at twenty-nine, the youngest assistant to the assistant district attorney in Aurora, Janelle was acutely aware that she was the target of a great deal of attention, not usually the welcomed sort.
She had, however, never been a target in the traditional sense of the word before.
Youâre not one, now, she told herself. This probably has nothing to do with you.
Still, she glanced down to make sure no holes existed in her anatomy that hadnât been there before sheâd walked out through the courthouseâs electronic doors. Her body felt numbâprobably from having a lumpy torso land on itâbut there was no searing pain. And other than smudges of dirt, she didnât have a mark on her.
When she looked up again, she saw that the man whoâd thrown himself over her like a human blanket was doing the same. Checking her out. Slowly. She could almost feel his eyes pass coolly over her.
Janelle raised her chin. She was tempted to ask if he was looking for something. Or if he liked what he saw. But that would be opening herself up to a lot of things she didnât have time to deal with. The word busy in the dictionary came with her picture beneath it.
âThank you,â she said crisply, finally responding to his admonishment. She would have gotten around to thanking the lug for making like a superhero and she didnât appreciate being prompted.
Just the barest hint of a smile curved a mouth that seemed more accustomed to frowning. âToo bad todayâs not one of those scorchers. The ice might have come in handy, then.â
Ignoring the man and his impossibly broad shoulders, Janelle began to take in her surroundings. There were eight people besides herself, the Human Shield and Assistant D.A. Woods on the courthouse steps. Eight people who had all scattered when the gunshots had come. All of them were out in the open, no better than clay ducks along a shooting gallery wall. Cover was a few steps down, at street level, or several steps back, inside the courthouse building.
She moved around the Shield, uncomfortably aware that the man was watching her.
And thinking what? Who the hell was he? She came across a great many people on the job. More at Uncle Andrewâs house whenever the retired chief of police threw one of his many parties. To her recollection, sheâd never seen this man before.
Because taking the initiative was what sheâd been taught to do from a very early age, Janelle raised her voice and asked as calmly as possible, âIs anyone hurt?â
It took her a second to realize that Stephen Woods, the flamboyant assistant district attorney she had been working with since the beginning of the year, was just now getting to his feet.
She watched him uncertainly. The A.D.A. looked thoroughly shaken. âStephen?â
Running his hand through hair that was just a little too black, Woods took a moment to pull himself together. He held up his hand, warding off her concern. âIâm all right, Janelle,â he assured her. âAnd you?â he tagged on after a beat, as if he realized heâd been remiss.
She flashed a smile, brushing off a dried leaf from her straight navy blue skirt.
âShaken, not stirred,â she responded. Looking around, she saw that everyone began to get up. There were no sudden cries of anguish, no one screaming as if injured. In fact, the only upset had to do with frazzled nerves.
Thank God for small favors, she thought. âLooks like whoever was shooting had rotten aim.â
âOr very good aim.â
Janelle looked back at her shield. He was stripping off the tie heâd had on. Stuffing it into his pocket, he offered another explanation for the hitless drive-by shooting. âMaybe âwhoeverâ just wanted to send a message to someone.â
Since heâd left the statement dangling, Janelle pressed for an answer. âWhich would be?â
There was no emotion in his eyes, she realized, and none on his chiseled features. No indication that he had just been through a harrowing experience, or even that it had left any sort of mark on him. The man obviously had ice water in his veins.
When he spoke, it could have been the voice of the shooter for all the inflection it held. âToe the line, or next time, I wonât miss.â
Who the hell was he? Janelle wondered again. And was he tied to this somehow? âAnd that line would be?â she asked.
The broad shoulders beneath the tan sports jacket rose and fell carelessly. He wasnât quoting gospel, just the world as he knew it. âDonât testify, donât pursue the case, and donât dig too deep.â His eyes met hers. âTake your pick.â
It took her a second to draw her eyes away from his. She couldnât shake the feeling that she had just been scrutinized. Delved into. Janelle watched the stranger unbutton his collar. It made her think of a prisoner finally throwing open the door to his cell.
The image almost made her smile since it was a familiar one. Her brothers all hated wearing ties, which seemed rather ironic, given that they did it five days a week. More if the cases they were working necessitated their presence on days off.
Vehement dislike of anything formal was probably one of the main reasons her brother Jared had been so eager to volunteer to go undercover last year. He didnât have to be within spitting distance of a tie when he posed as a chef at a trendy restaurant suspected as a front for money laundering. His holiday from ties had gotten him a commendation when heâd nabbed the people responsible. It had also, indirectly, gotten him a wife.
That made Janelle the last of them. The last of the Cavanaughs who wasnât married or at least engaged to be marriedâif she didnât count her father. But Brian Cavanaugh had already been married once. For twenty-five years before his wife had died.
She herself had never gone that route. Had never pledged her heart to anyone, although sheâd been mildly tempted once. With Barry, someone sheâd met while clerking for Judge Teal, before she ever came to work for the D.A.âs office.
But whatever chances Barry might have had were aborted when heâd told her one night about wanting to âcut her out of the herd.â The âherdâ was the way heâd referred to her family. According to Barry, he felt as if he were competing against her family for her affections. An only child raised by parents who, as far as she could discern, made machines seem emotional, Barry couldnât fathom the concept of family loyalty. Moreover, he couldnât see why Sunday dinnersâwhere everyone who could showed up at Uncle Andrewâs specially made, oversize dining table to talk and catch upâwere so important to her.
Barry had become history before they could make any. They had parted company almost two years ago, when there were still a few single Cavanaughs left.
Now there was only her. And her dad, she thought whimsically.
The next moment, Janelle mentally pulled back. Where had that even come from? Maybe it was a theme and variation of having your life flash before your eyes when you were in a life-and-death moment. The only problem with that theory was that she hadnât really been aware of it being a life-and-death situation, until after the last of the shots had died away.
Maybe this was a delayed reaction. It was as good an explanation as any, she supposed. Not to mention, she had trouble staying in the moment. Could be shock.
Her eyes were drawn back to the tall man in the tight jeans and loose jacket who had thrown himself on top of her. He had one of those faces that made you wonder. Wonder where heâd been, who he was and what had left its mark chiseled onto the planes and angles of his face.
She made a calculated observation. âYou seem to know a lot about these kinds of dire circumstances.â
If sheâd hit close to home, he never showed it. âJust taking an educated guess.â
Without a word of parting, he headed down the few steps to the sidewalk and the parking lot beyond. As she watched, wondering what to make of this man who had been there for her in the right place at the right time, she noticed him going toward a beaten-up vehicle. Its blue paint fading, the car had undoubtedly seen at least one complete rotation around the odometer, if not more.
Not someone high up on the crime food chain, Janelle decided.
âAre you all right, Nelle?â
The question came from behind her but she didnât have to turn around to see who the voice belonged to. Dax. When she did turn, she saw that her brother seemed genuinely concerned.
âI was just inside the building.â He jerked his thumb at the electronic doors as he joined her.
Behind them at least a dozen people spilled out of the courthouse to see for themselves what was happening. The cry of âShots fired!â had echoed over more than one walkie-talkie as bailiffs and security guards hurried into the center of the crowd.
She was vaguely aware that her brother was supposed to testify before a grand jury convened in one of the rooms on the second floor. These days, she was so busy, one of the few times she got to see her family was when their paths crossed during her workday.
She knew that Dax still tended to think of her as the little girl who had trouble tying the laces on her sneakers, instead of the quick-fisted tomboy who could sucker punch him at the drop of a hat. She silently prayed he wouldnât embarrass her in front of Stephen.
âIâm fine, Dax,â she told him. âReally. Some guy threw himself on top of me at the first sound of shots. If anything, my bones are crushed, but the rest of me is intact.â
Dax took hold of her shoulders anyway, as if he didnât trust her to tell him the truth. She did have a way of trying to brazen things out, which went back to the years when she had tagged along after him, Jared and Troy, determined not just to keep up with them but to show them up whenever possible. She knew sheâd been the thorn in their sides, but theyâd all been protective of her.
When she shrugged him off, he dropped his hands to his sides. âGood. Because I sure as hell didnât want to be the one to tell Dad that his baby girl got shot on the courthouse steps.â
âHow very touching,â she quipped. âThanks for the concern.â
âAnytime.â And then his expression grew serious as he looked over her head at the assistant district attorney. âEither one of you know of anyone who might have it in for you?â
âOther than my immediate family?â Janelle deadpanned. She followed it up with a âNo,â uttered a little too quickly. She realized her mistake the moment the word was out of her mouth. If she hadnât, the look on Daxâs face would have alerted her. She knew that look. He didnât believe her.
At her side, Stephen shifted slightly.
Oh please, donât pick now to be straightforward with a question. Telling Dax anything about the major case they were handling would only make her older brother worry about her. And it wouldnât change anything. Certainly not her involvement in the case. The one that promised to be the biggest of her career so far. Perhaps the biggest one she would ever have. It was certainly big by any standards.
Anthony Wayne, the son of Marco Wayne, reputed first lieutenant within an organized crime network that had bedeviled all efforts to dismantle it for more than the last fifteen years, had been brought up on charges of possession of cocaine with intent to sell. The story went that the third-year premed student was supplementing his income with drugs, cutting into his fatherâs turf, as it were.
As was usually the case, the D.Aâs office had come by their information purely by accident. Vice had busted a minor player whoâd managed to land a decent public defender whoâd finessed a deal for him. Sammy Martine, aka Sam Martinez, a two-bit criminal facing a third conviction and a lifetime of prison, had offered up Tonyâs name in exchange for a more lenient sentence that still had parole attached to it. The search warrant had turned up more than a kilo of cocaine in Tonyâs apartment. Vice had been waiting for Tony when heâd gotten home from classes and had arrested him. The case seemed airtight. A slam dunk that would put a feather in the hat of the D.A. and anyone else associated with the case.
Now that sheâd had a couple of minutes to reflect, with the good Samaritanâs deep voice echoing in her head, she knew that this could have been a warning from Tonyâs father to back off. To do whatever had to be done on their part to get the charges against Anthony dropped so that his son could once more be out on the street, a free man.
Not damn likely, Janelle silently vowed. It was going to take more than a few bullets fired into the air to intimidate anyone at the D.A.âs office, even Stephen Woods. For one thing, the district attorney was a seasoned war veteran who had actually seen combat as a young man. More than anything, he relished a good fight. And this was a good fight. And as for Woods, he saw it as his moment to shine.
Suddenly, Janelle could have sworn she saw a light dawning in Daxâs eyes.
Oh damn, he knew.
She should have known better than to hope that word about the Wayne case wouldnât spread. It was almost a given. Apparently there was no such thing as secrets in the law-enforcement world. Somehow, things always managed to leak out, at least to their own, despite the best precautions. Wedded to the courts the way law enforcement was, there always seemed to be an overlap of information. In the interest of keeping the informant alive, the D.A.âs office had tried to keep the case under wraps until it actually came to trial.
By the look on Daxâs face, theyâd failed. But she had a feeling that her brother still might be in the dark about who was going to be second chair on the case.
The position was hers.
Sheâd earned it. Not by coasting on her fatherâs name, the way some in the D.A.âs officeâthose who didnât know herâmaintained. But by working twice as hard as anyone else in her position. It was the same kind of situation her brothers all had faced. And her cousins, as well. While she and her brothers were the children of the current chief of detectives, five of her cousins were the offspring of the former chief of police.
Only Patrick and Patience hadnât had to struggle out from beneath that sort of heavy mantle because their late father had never risen up through the ranks. Officer Michael Cavanaugh had been killed in the line of duty while still a uniformed patrolman. Even so, Patrick had still, on occasion, been accused of riding on his uncleâs coattails. Only Patience had eluded that insult altogether. A veterinarian, Patience was the only one of them who had a âcivilianâ career. The only contact she had with the police department, other than at the table or with her husband, was when she cared for the forceâs K-9 squad.
Janelle had been given the position of second chair on the Wayne case a little more than two weeks ago as a reward for all the long hours and extensive work sheâd put in since she had come to the D.A.âs office.
When Stephen Woods had called her into his office to tell her the news her first impulse had been to call home. To tell her father, her brothers, her cousins that she was finally getting somewhere.
Her second impulse had to do with family, as well. It had to do with shielding them because, even though they were all on the force, they tended to worry about one another. Because they all knew what could happen, knew all the ins and outs, all the chances that were taken and the odds of coming out unscathed.
It made surviving within the framework of the family difficult sometimes, especially as a female. But she knew she would rather struggle within that framework than live tranquilly outside of it. Being a Cavanaugh, living up to the familyâs standards, was of paramount importance to her. It always had been.
Dax frowned. âThis is all about the Wayne case, isnât it?â It was a rhetorical question, posed to the A.D.A. rather than to her.
âMight be,â Woods allowed.
âOr it might be an argument that got out of hand. Some guy getting even with someone who stole his girl,â Janelle offered quickly, hoping to throw her brother off. âYou wonât know until you question everyone here.â To make her point, she indicated the vehicle that her so-called protector was just about to enter. The dark blue sports car was old, but a classic. And small. From where she stood, getting into it didnât look as if it would be easy for him. Well over six feet tall, the man seemed almost as big as the car. âIncluding the guy whoâs just getting into that awful heap.â
