Cavanaugh On Call. Marie Ferrarella
You and Alice’re moving in with her?”
Phelps shivered. “Different scenario, same results. Alice and I are renting a place up there.”
“There” being Fresno, Bryce recalled.
“She’s going to play Florence What’s-Her-Name and I guess I’m gonna see if I can finally write that crime thriller I’m always talking about.” The contented, wistful expression on his face faded and Phelps got back to the present. “Officially, for now I’m taking an extended leave of absence. Don’t look so glum. I’ll be back,” Phelps promised. “After all, you never forget your first,” he added with a wicked grin, followed by a heartfelt sigh.
Bryce shot the man a look that said he wasn’t amused. “Seriously, just how long is this ‘extended’ leave going to be?”
Bony shoulders rose and fell beneath the loose-fitting jacket. “A few months. Six on the outside. Doctors say that the old girl’s on her way out. Could be anytime now,” he said a little wistfully. And then reality set in. “’Course, she’s got the constitution of a rock. She just might hang around for another ten, twenty years just to stick it to me.” Phelps laughed dryly as he put the last of his things into the cardboard box.
He paused. “Not everybody’s as lucky as you are, partner. Your family gets along and they all have each other’s backs no matter what.” He picked up the box then put it back down again and, only half kidding, said, “Any chance I could get adopted? I wouldn’t take up much space.”
Bryce laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to ask.” And then he sobered as he scanned the squad room. “It won’t seem the same without you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll forget about me the second I walk out the door.” Phelps saw that his partner was looking at something or someone over his shoulder. Turning, he saw a slender blonde crossing the threshold, a miniature version of his cardboard box in her hands. “Sooner, maybe,” he commented. “Well, off I go.” He put his hand into Bryce’s, shaking it. “It’s been good. Maybe with luck, I’ll see you soon.”
And then Phelps looked around. “Anyone know where I can pick up some hemlock, cheap?” he asked, raising his voice so that it carried to the rest of the inhabitants of the squad room.
A cacophony of voices answered him as he made his way, nodding through the maze of desks and detectives, toward the exit.
He passed the blonde who was walking in. Assuming that she was there to take his place, Phelps nodded in her direction and, in a low voice, said, “The desk’s in the rear of the room. So’s your partner.” And then he smiled broadly. “Good luck with that.”
* * *
Scottie’s arm tightened around the small box she was carrying. It was only half filled, but she hadn’t been able to find a smaller box when she’d cleaned out her space in Homicide.
The transfer had come through so quickly, Scottie thought, it had almost taken her breath away. She’d been prepared to make several requests and to write long petitions before she got the okay to make the transfer from Homicide to Robbery. She’d been certain she would have to plead her case and be movingly convincing before the approval was given. After all, she’d been fairly certain she had done a more than decent job in Homicide.
She’d certainly managed to clear all her cases. But then, on the other hand, Aurora was not exactly a snake pit of crime. It habitually made the FBI’s top ten list of safest US cities for its size and she liked to think she was part of the reason for that. She worked hard, kept to herself and never challenged authority. As far as she knew, that was the winning formula for a valuable employee.
She’d thought that her commanding officer would have put up more of a fuss about losing her. But to her surprise, after she’d put in her request, stating only that she felt rather burned out working Homicide—it was the only thing that occurred to her to use as her reason for requesting the transfer—it had been granted the next morning. The captain hadn’t even tried to talk her out of it.
Her partner, Joe Mathias, had appeared a little surprised as well as dismayed when he’d learned she was transferring, but not enough to try to get her to change her mind or to attempt to block the transfer.
They had worked well together, but only in the way that two cogs located on the same machine worked well. They had never socialized after hours—her choice—and they didn’t even know any personal details about one another—also her choice. Mathias had tried—he had pictures of his wife and kids on his desk and on occasion would tell her about something he and his family had done over the weekend—but Scottie had zealously kept her private life just that.
Private.
Part of the reason for her secrecy was that she didn’t want anyone to find out about Ethan. He was not only her half brother, at one point she had also been his legal guardian. Her gut instincts had her hiding their connection—just in case.
And now “just in case” had happened—maybe.
For now, it proved to her that she’d been right about deciding to keep her private life under wraps. If her hunch was right, and Ethan was involved in what was now going on, there’d be no way that she would be allowed to work on the break-ins that had suddenly begun to plague the good citizens living in some of the more upscale neighborhoods of Aurora.
If anyone knew about Ethan and the nefarious life he had supposedly left behind, she would be barred from doing any sort of investigation that could clear his name—if Ethan was part of this. It was a phrase she kept hanging on to. She still had no actual proof that he was involved.
But then there was her gut, which compelled her to move forward. Always forward for him—just in case.
* * *
Newly seated, Bryce rose again to get a better look at the woman taking long, measured steps as she crossed the squad room. Just the faintest of hip movement marked every step she took.
He had trouble drawing his eyes away.
His first thought was that she was a hell of what his grandfather would have referred to as “a looker.” His second was that she was one of the city’s residents coming in to file a complaint involving goods stolen during the execution of some sort of a robbery.
But then he took a second look at the box in her hands, a far smaller one than Phelps had used to carry out his possessions, but still a box. That caused Bryce to reassess his initial take.
As he watched the leggy blonde walk in his direction, Bryce was vaguely aware that he wasn’t the only one assessing the woman. Small wonder. The statuesque blonde had a no-nonsense gait that captured a man’s attention from the very first moment she entered his line of sight. Slender, she was wearing a straight, light gray skirt that stopped a few inches above her knee, making her look as if she was all leg.
And what legs! he caught himself thinking. They were the kind of legs that walked right into a man’s dreams and had him fantasizing all sorts of things he had no business fantasizing about—especially if it turned out that there was some sort of a working relationship that had to happen.
Snapping out of his momentary reverie, Bryce crossed over to the newcomer as he summoned his most inviting smile.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The low voice he heard in response sounded as if it had been wrapped in honey and dipped in warm whiskey before being poured over a glass of ice.
“With what?”
The woman’s response caught him off guard. Bryce heard himself say the first two things that came into his head. “With the box you’re holding. With finding whoever you’re looking for. Anything,” he concluded, leaving the offer open-ended.
“The box isn’t heavy,” she replied, tightening her hold on the box with its meager contents—just a few basic manuals she’d found useful during the execution of her job. “And I’m not looking for a