Cavanaugh on Duty - By Marie Ferrarella Page 0,16
to dealing with this man. At the very least, she wanted to know exactly who she was trusting to have her back.
“Fernandez?” Morrow inquired, obviously as stunned by his transformation as she briefly had been.
Esteban glanced over toward the lieutenant just as he reached his desk—since the desk was so blatantly empty, except for the computer and the coffee container, he’d made a logical deduction that it was going to be his.
For as long as he decided to remain here, he silently added as a footnote to placate himself.
“Yeah?” he asked the lieutenant.
Morrow looked far from pleased with this latest addition to his department. “It’s customary to report to your commanding officer when you first join a department,” he said, his gravelly voice rife with displeasure.
“Sorry, sir, I just now walked in,” Esteban pointed out needlessly. Right before he’d visited Miguel in prison, he’d made his decision to continue his association with the police department until he could figure out how to get back into undercover work. He’d gotten caught in morning rush-hour traffic on the drive back from the penitentiary, which accounted for his less than timely appearance.
His eyes met Kari’s and he gave her what amounted to the smallest, most imperceptible of nods, acknowledging her presence.
It was a start, she thought.
Kari heard Morrow grumble almost inaudibly under his breath. All she caught was something that made a vague reference to his retirement still being too far off. Then the man said more distinctly, “No time to make small talk right now. You and the hyphen here are up. She’s got the address. I’ll talk to you later,” he emphasized, looking accusingly at the newest member of his team before he went back into his glass-enclosed office.
“The hyphen?” Esteban repeated, looking at Kari. He’d told himself that for the most part, after last night, he was just going to ignore her, but for once his curiosity got the better of him.
“Cavelli-Cavanaugh,” she reminded him. “It’s hyphenated.”
He shook his head in disbelief. The last three years his very survival had depended on traveling under the radar, not attracting any attention to himself. He saw her name as being the exact opposite.
“You’re really using both?” he asked her.
To Kari, it was the only logical way to go and it made perfect sense.
“Since I thought I was born the one, but was really born the other and there’s family attached to both names, I figured...why not?” she asked.
Esteban shrugged indifferently in response to her rhetorical question. “Makes no difference to me,” he told her. “I don’t care what you call yourself as long as you answer if I call you.”
This, she thought, was going to be one hell of an interesting partnership—for as long as it lasted, and she still had her doubts it would live out the week, given his attitude.
“By the way, coffee’s yours,” she told him just as he was about to walk back toward the doorway.
Esteban stopped and regarded the container with less than enthusiastic interest. “I didn’t—”
“No,” she cut in, anticipating what he was about to say, “but I did.” Then, just in case he wasn’t following her—or possibly wasn’t even listening to her—she clarified, “I bought coffee for you. Sort of a welcome-to-the-department offering,” she explained before Fernandez could ask her why she had bothered to buy him coffee at all.
Esteban picked the container up and fell in place beside her.
“You were that sure I was going to come in?” he wanted to know. If that was the case, that put her one up on him, he thought, since he hadn’t known he was coming in until a couple of hours ago.
“You said you would,” she reminded him, leading the way down the hall to the elevator.
His laugh was dry and completely devoid of humor. “And you believed me?”
She would be the first to admit that she was entirely too trusting in her dealings with people. As a detective, that worked against her. As a human being, though, she felt it didn’t.
“You haven’t given me a reason not to yet,” she replied.
“The day’s still young,” he countered. He took the lid off the container and took a sip of the black brew. “It’s cold,” he told her. It wasn’t a complaint so much as an observation about the state of the liquid. Hot or cold, as long as the coffee was black, he wasn’t fussy. It all went down the same way.
“It wasn’t when I got it,” she told him pointedly.
It was a little after eight