Cavanaugh Watch. Marie FerrarellaЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 Andrew’s house whenever the retired chief of police threw one of his many parties. To her recollection, she’d never seen this man before.
Because taking the initiative was what she’d been taught to do from a very early age, Janelle raised her voice and asked as calmly as possible, “Is anyone hurt?”
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. “Stephen?”
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. “I’m all right, Janelle,” he assured her. “And you?” he tagged on after a beat, as if he realized he’d been remiss.
She flashed a smile, brushing off a dried leaf from her straight navy blue skirt.
“Shaken, not stirred,” 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. “Looks like whoever was shooting had rotten aim.”
“Or very good aim.”
Janelle looked back at her shield. He was stripping off the tie he’d had on. Stuffing it into his pocket, he offered another explanation for the hitless drive-by shooting. “Maybe ‘whoever’ just wanted to send a message to someone.”
Since he’d left the statement dangling, Janelle pressed for an answer. “Which would be?”
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. “Toe the line, or next time, I won’t miss.”
Who the hell was he? Janelle wondered again. And was he tied to this somehow? “And that line would be?” she asked.
The broad shoulders beneath the tan sports jacket rose and fell carelessly. He wasn’t quoting gospel, just the world as he knew it. “Don’t testify, don’t pursue the case, and don’t dig too deep.” His eyes met hers. “Take your pick.”
It took her a second to draw her eyes away from his. She couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 he’d 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 wasn’t married or at least engaged to be married—if she didn’t 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 she’d been mildly tempted once. With Barry, someone she’d met while clerking for Judge Teal, before she ever came to work for the D.A.’s office.
But whatever chances Barry might have had were aborted when he’d told her one night about wanting to “cut her out of the herd.” The “herd” was the way he’d 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 couldn’t fathom the concept of family loyalty. Moreover, he couldn’t see why Sunday dinners—where everyone who could showed up at Uncle Andrew’s specially made, oversize dining table to talk and catch up—were 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 hadn’t 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 he’d been, who he was and what had left its mark chiseled onto the planes and angles of his face.
She made a calculated observation. “You seem to know a lot about these kinds of dire circumstances.”
If she’d hit close to home, he never showed it. “Just taking an educated guess.”
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.
“Are you all right, Nelle?”
The question came from behind her but she didn’t have to turn around to see who the voice belonged to. Dax. When she did turn, she saw that her brother seemed genuinely concerned.
“I was just inside the building.” 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 “Shots fired!” 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 wouldn’t embarrass her in front of Stephen.
“I’m fine, Dax,” she told him. “Really. 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.”
Dax took hold of her shoulders anyway, as if he didn’t trust her to