Cavanaugh or Death (11 page)

She'd already had a less than friendly meeting with Carver who—despite the fact that she had solved the B and E case in a rather short time span—was immensely displeased, to put it mildly, that she had gone over his head to the chief to request being put back on “this freakin' nonexistent case you're so obsessed to crack.”

Rather than attempt to explain her reasoning again, Moira had remained silent and let the lieutenant rant at her for a few minutes until he'd apparently completely run out of steam.

At that point he'd ordered her out of his office and, rather than give her the usual order regarding his door, had done the honors himself, slamming it in her wake.

She was acutely aware that Carver was glaring at her through his door and that all eyes in the squad were on her as she walked into the hall.

And that was exactly when Davis Gilroy confronted her.

“You're going to have to be clearer than that,” Moira said, attempting to gather herself together after Carver's tongue-lashing. The last thing she wanted to do was to come off vulnerable.

“Don't play innocent with me,” Davis began, exasperated.

“I'm not playing,” she retorted, struggling not to lose her temper. She reminded herself it wasn't Gilroy she was angry with, it was Carver. “Now, exactly what are you asking me?”

About to tell her, Davis abruptly stopped and looked at her more closely. He saw what she was trying so hard to cover up: frustration and weariness. He found himself feeling sorry for her, which in turn annoyed him, but it didn't change his reaction. Damn it, what was it about this woman that kept getting to him?

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Other than having the lieutenant and now you yell into my face, I'm just peachy,” she quipped sharply, doing her best to hide hurt feelings.

Davis saw through the flippant rhetoric. “Why is he yelling at you?”

“Most likely for the same reason you are, but I won't know that for sure until you tell me exactly what you're asking.”

He had a feeling she knew exactly what he was asking, but he went through the motions of an explanation anyway. “The Chief of Ds called my captain, who then called me into his office to tell me that I was ‘back' on the cemetery case. I thought we'd already decided that there
is
no cemetery case,” he said to her. “You change your mind?”

Moira shrugged, avoiding his probing eyes. “I had it changed for me.”

“By whom?” he asked.

“More like a what.”

The other detective paused for a long moment before finally asking, “Okay, I'll bite.” He was being more accommodating than she'd thought he'd be. “What?”

At least she could give him the facts. “I found another grave that was disturbed.”

The expression on his face was nothing short of amazed—and suspicious. “When?”

“Earlier today.”

That didn't sound right to him. “You still staking out the cemetery?”

“Not exactly,” she answered then left it there. She hadn't left the flowers on his parents' grave to get any sort of credit—or even to admit it to him.

The truth of the matter was that she hadn't really thought it out, other than wanting to find a way to make amends for treading on the detective's private wound.

“I was at the cemetery earlier,” she finally said, “looking around, to see if I could find something that might open up the case again. I really feel that there's something going on there,” she added quickly. That was the key to the whole thing; her gut feeling that just wouldn't allow her to leave the matter alone.

“I see,” he replied thoughtfully. “And did you find that disturbed grave before or after you left the roses on my parents' grave?” he asked.

Moira's mouth dropped open.

Chapter 10

“F
lower basket?” Moira asked, trying to sound as if she had no idea what he was talking about when she finally found her voice.

Davis laughed drily, though there was little humor in his voice.

“Well, now I know you can't act. Do me a favor, Cavanaugh. If we wind up having to fabricate something in order to get information out of a possible suspect—if we manage to get that far in this case—you let me do the talking.”

Moira deliberately ignored the obvious insult and went straight to the heart of what he was subtly telling her.

“Then you
are
on board for the investigation?” She didn't bother to try to hide the hopeful note in her voice.

The look he gave her was far from a happy one. He still had a problem with being partnered with anyone. But when the chief of detectives issued an order—no matter how politely—there was only one path open for him to take.

“I'd say more like I was being shoved on board—but I'm in, if that's what you're asking. And before you say anything that remotely sounds like ‘thanks,' I'd like to draw your attention to the fact that I have no choice in the matter.”

Moira nodded. This man apparently wouldn't admit to doing a good thing even if
not
admitting it meant being drawn and quartered.

“Thanks nonetheless,” she replied. Then, because she knew he didn't want to waste any time, she told him the plan—at least the one she'd come up with for now. “I thought we'd see if we can track down a next of kin for this newest dearly departed who's had her grave disturbed.”

Davis went to the logical immediate next step. “That means we have to talk to Weaver again, doesn't it?”

By her expression, he judged that she didn't like it any better than he did. “Unless we get lucky and there's someone else in the chapel office.”

“How lucky do you feel?” he asked her.

Moira paused to look at him for a long moment. She had expected Gilroy to be dragged back into the investigation kicking and screaming. That he'd agreed so readily—even if he'd had no choice in the matter—surprised her. It also reinforced her feelings that she wasn't the only one who thought there was more going on at the cemetery than met the eye.

“Very,” she replied.

“Then let's go,” Davis urged. As they walked toward the elevator, he asked, “Do you want to drive this time?”

Moira shook her head. “Nah, why mess up a good thing?” she asked casually. “Besides, I've gotten used to being chauffeured around.”

“Now
that
I can believe,” Davis remarked, coming up to the elevator doors.

“Let's use the stairs,” she unexpectedly suggested, going to the stairwell door just beyond the elevator.

That succeeded in getting her a rather surprised, approving nod in response.

“Don't have to twist
my
arm,” Davis told her, opening the stairwell door.

Not only were the stairs faster for him when he factored in the time spent waiting for the elevator car to arrive, he also viewed them as being far less confining than an elevator car.

Moira snapped her fingers at the so-called missed opportunity. “And here I was looking forward to inflecting physical pain on you.”

His eyes met hers and held for just a moment. “Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe,” she agreed, ignoring the sudden, unexpected flutter she was feeling in the pit of her stomach.

At the bottom of the stairs, Davis reached the outer door first and stepped to the side as he held it open for her.

“Thanks,” she told him as she walked past him. Maybe chivalry wasn't dead after all, she thought, even though the man looked rather rough around the edges.

He merely nodded. “They were nice, by the way,” he told her, following her out.

Moira looked at him, caught off guard by the remark that seemed completely out of left field. When he said nothing further, she prodded a little, trying to get him to elaborate.

“And by ‘they,' you mean?”

Davis didn't spare her a glance. “The flowers you left at my parents' grave.”

She still didn't know how he had concluded that she was the one who had brought them. There'd been no card in the basket to give her away. “Just how did you figure out they'd come from me?”

Davis gave her a penetrating look as they exited the building. “You really have to ask that?”

Was he telling her that no one else ever left flowers at his parents' grave? That struck her as sad, but she knew better than to ask.

Thinking back to the first time she realized what he was doing at the cemetery at that hour, she recalled that there hadn't been any other flowers to be seen except for the ones that he had left on the grave himself.

“I guess not,” she murmured.

“My car's parked over there,” Davis pointed it out, officially changing the subject.

In deference to their renewed association, Moira left it alone.

* * *

“So much for being lucky,” Moira murmured to her reluctant partner as they walked into the old-fashioned, quaint chapel and then from there into the small office.

No one seemed to be around the office, but they could see Weaver through the back window, working on the property.

“We don't even know if he knows how to work a computer,” Davis added, thinking the information they were currently looking for had to be on the cemetery's hard drive.

Moira considered his statement. “Well, the man looks like he's probably under fifty and I've got a feeling that he's not as dumb as he pretends to be, so the odds are most likely in our favor.”

“Don't count on it,” Davis advised. “He might not be dumb, but the last time he wasn't exactly cooperative, either.”

Moira agreed, but that was then, this was now—and she had an idea regarding that. “Maybe the threat of spending a little time behind bars for interfering with a criminal investigation might do wonders for Mr. Weaver's sense of cooperation.”

“Maybe,” Davis allowed, but it was obvious to her that the other detective really did not sound all that convinced.

They found the groundskeeper doing what amounted to bare minimum maintenance by the first row of tombstones. He was raking away clusters of leaves that appeared to be newly fallen by virtue of the fact they still looked green instead of a faded shade of brown.

At least Weaver did something to earn his keep besides being stubbornly uncooperative when it came to giving out information, Moira thought.

Coming up behind him, Moira raised her voice as she addressed Weaver's back. “Excuse me.”

“Yes?” the groundskeeper asked, preoccupied as he turned around. The partial smile on his thin lips faded immediately when he saw who it was trying to get his attention. “You again.”

Moira flashed a wide, completely insincere smile at the man.

“Did you miss us?” she quipped.

Heavy eyebrows pulled together in a scowl. “No,” Weaver answered dourly.

“Then I guess it's unanimous,” Moira said, conveying her speculation to Gilroy as if it were a revelation. “Let's see if we can make this quick for all our sakes,” she told Weaver. “We need some background information on Marjorie Owens.”

Weaver's sloping shoulders rose and fell in a dismissive shrug. “Don't know who that is,” he told her.

He turned his back on the two detectives and returned to his raking.

“Was,” Moira corrected. Then added, “She's buried here.”

“Lots of people are buried here,” Weaver replied, still keeping his back to them. “Doesn't mean I know their names.”

“Fair enough,” Moira conceded, circling around Weaver until she was facing him. “But we're not asking if you dated her. We just want to find out who paid for the plot and who notified whoever was in charge here twenty years ago of the eminent burial.”

Weaver stared intently at the ground as he raked harder. “Don't know that, either.”

Was the man being deliberately obtuse? Or was there another reason for his stonewalling? Moira couldn't help wondering. In either case, he was making this difficult for them.

“We don't expect you to know that off the top of your head, Weaver,” Davis growled at him, succeeding, Moira noted, in making the groundskeeper nervous. “But the cemetery does keep records and I'm guessing that those records are on that nifty-looking computer I saw on a desk in the office in the chapel.”

Again Weaver shrugged, obviously determined to remain out of this investigation. “Wouldn't know. I'm not allowed on that computer.”

Moira exchanged glances with Davis. She could well believe Weaver. She wouldn't want the groundskeeper touching anything electronic of hers, either.

“Okay,” she said evenly, doing her best not to lose her temper with this man and his singsong answers. “Who is allowed to touch that computer?”

Weaver continued raking. He acted as if he was talking to himself rather than to the two police detectives. “The man in charge.”

“Who is...?” Davis asked, his tone making it quite clear that he was reaching the end of his patience with the groundskeeper's so-called “innocent bystander” performance.

“Mr. Montgomery,” Weaver answered, raking harder as he continued to avoid making eye contact with either of them, especially Gilroy.

Moira gritted her teeth. She wondered if Weaver realized how close he was to being arrested for impeding an investigation. “Does this ‘Mr. Montgomery' have a first name?”

“Yeah,” he answered, raking diligently even though the section he was working was now clear of leaves.

She glanced toward Gilroy, wondering if it was going to come down to flipping a coin to see which of them would strangle the man first. She could tell by the expression on Gilroy's face that he was entertaining the same kinds of feelings about the groundskeeper that she was.

“And that is...?” she asked tersely, waiting for the man to volunteer Montgomery's first name.

Weaver finally spat out the name begrudgingly. “Robert.”

Still raking, the groundskeeper was about to try to distance himself to another area until Davis suddenly took a firm hold of the rake's handle, immobilizing the garden tool—and Weaver.

“This Robert Montgomery anywhere on the property?” he asked, grinding out each word.

When Weaver finally looked up—afraid not to—he was almost shaking. “I haven't seen him today.”

“Does he have a number where he can be reached?” Davis asked. The look in his eyes dared the groundskeeper to try to stall even for a couple of minutes.

“He's got a number.” The groundskeeper's phrasing was not wasted on either of them. For what it was worth, Weaver was obviously going to continue to try to drag the matter out.

“We'd appreciate it if you gave us that number,” Moira told him.

The note in her voice warned him that there would be grave consequences if he didn't volunteer the number immediately. The fear element came in when she
didn't
specify just what those consequences would be.

“I haven't got it,” Weaver informed them, attempting to make one final stand.

His bravado vanished into thin air when he saw the male detective take a step toward him.

“But I can get it for you,” he quickly volunteered, nervously looking toward the chapel.

“That would be very nice,” Moira told him, adding a firm, “Now,” in case the groundskeeper missed the salient point.

Dropping his rake, Weaver all but ran into the chapel, sparing one nervous glance in Gilroy's direction as he took off.

Davis didn't allow the groundskeeper to get too far ahead of them.

Entering the office, Weaver went directly to the desk and conducted a quick search through a large black leather-bound address book propped up next to the computer.

Pages stuck together beneath his nervous fingers as the groundskeeper pawed his way through a couple of earmarked sections before he found what he was looking for.

“Here it is,” Weaver announced, holding the address book up like an offering to them.

Moira took possession of the book, made a mental notation of the phone number and handed the address book back to the other man who regarded her with curiosity.

“Don't you have to write it down?” Davis asked as she took out her cell phone. It was apparent that she intended to place a call to the number in the address book.

“No,” Moira replied, beginning to press the keypad. “I have a tendency to remember things once I look at them.”

“You mean like one of those photographic memory things?” Weaver asked, obviously fascinated with the very notion of that capability.

“Something like that,” Moira replied.

Hearing the line on the other end of her cell phone being picked up, she held up her hand for silence in the office.

Less than five minutes later, after identifying herself and explaining to the man on the other end of the cell phone why she was calling, Moira terminated her call.

“He's on his way,” she told Gilroy in response to the silent question she saw in his eyes. She tucked her phone away. “According to Montgomery, he doesn't live all that far away from here.”

“Is it okay for me to leave now?” the groundskeeper asked almost timidly, addressing his question to Gilroy rather than to her.

“By ‘leave' you mean the office or the cemetery?” Davis asked.

The question just made the groundskeeper appear even more timid.

“The office,” he replied hoarsely, watching Gilroy as if he expected the man to lunge at him at any given moment.

Davis waved the man out of the room. Weaver lost no time in scurrying out.

“Do you strike fear into people's hearts on a regular basis, or is this a recent hobby you just picked up?” Moira asked him, amused.

“It comes in handy,” Gilroy told her. Then, moving closer, he looked at her more intently. “You don't look like you're afraid.”