Cavanaugh on Duty - By Marie Ferrarella Page 0,18

identified herself and her silent partner some fifteen minutes later.

There was a look of contempt on his pockmarked face as he eyed the IDs that were held up for him. “I was just about to use the bolt cutters on the lock and open the unit myself.”

Rather than risk further undermining their authority by making excuses to the already hostile man, Kari deftly changed the subject, “Then you don’t have keys to the unit?”

The manager—Alfred Jennings, according to the sun-bleached stencil on the door of his closetlike office—looked annoyed that the female detective should even ask that question.

“Can’t you read?” he demanded, every syllable dripping with sarcasm. “Didn’t you see the words Self-Storage outside? That means the renter provides his or her own lock with its own key. Gives them privacy,” he added with a condescending snort.

“It also costs you less if they provide their own lock,” Esteban pointed out somberly. The manager began to scowl but confronted by the dark look on Esteban’s face, he quickly backed off.

“Take us to the unit,” she instructed. “And bring along your bolt cutters, please.”

“Sure thing,” Jennings bit off. Circumventing the two detectives, he got out in front of them and led the way to the storage unit in question, which was located at the rear of the facility.

Kari made a quick assessment of her surroundings as she and Esteban followed the manager.

At first glance, the facility looked like a mock-up movie set that had been abandoned before the designers could decide what it was supposed to look like. A haphazard collection of attached, short, single-story gray structures occupied the small lot.

At this hour of the morning, there were no other people about, taking inventory of their possessions or searching for that one elusive thing they were certain had to be in the storage unit because it hadn’t shown up anywhere else. As Kari and her partner walked behind Jennings, a sickening, somewhat putrid smell started to become evident. Once noted, it seemed to swiftly increase in intensity.

There was no breeze this morning and, unimpeded, the smell seemed to fill up every square inch of available air, hovering over them like an ominous, thick cloud.

Fighting back a gagging reflex, Kari automatically covered her nose and mouth with her hand.

He’d stopped before the offending unit. “You see? You see what I mean?” Jennings demanded, his tone of voice bordering on hysteria. “It wasn’t like this yesterday.”

Kari sincerely doubted that, unless whatever it was that was causing this smell had been deposited in the unit sometime during the night. “Were you here yesterday?” she asked Jennings.

“No,” he snapped, “but the guy who was here didn’t say anything about this stink to me.”

“He probably never left the office,” Esteban theorized, his deep, monotone voice rumbling across the surface of the would-be dispute.

Surprised that Esteban had actually offered an opinion, Kari bit back the desire to cry out, “He speaks.” She didn’t have to be a genius to know that Fernandez would be less than thrilled to be teased in front of a third party, but she did flash him a look of feigned shock at the two cents he’d inserted into the verbal exchange.

The storage-utility manager said nothing in response. Instead, he muttered something under his breath that was surely less than flattering.

“This is it,” Jennings said needlessly, gesturing toward the padlocked door of unit number 2041 as he choked out the words.

Kari nodded at the lock. “Go ahead, cut off the lock,” she ordered, uttering the words on a single breath. She was struggling to inhale as little as possible. Jennings raised the bolt cutters he’d brought with him. Opening the jaws, his biceps shook as he applied the cutters to the lock.

The pressure he exerted was not enough. The lock remained intact. A second attempt was as futile as the first.

Disgusted, Kari was about to take the tool from Jennings and attempt to cut the lock herself when she found her way blocked. To her surprise, Esteban commandeered the tool with the authority of someone who was accustomed to having no opposition—and not tolerating any if he did.

Taking the bolt cutters in his big, manly hands, he opened the tool as far as it would go, securely fitted the cutting edge around the lock and, with one quick, reverberating snap of his forearms, cut the lock clean off.

Useless, the heavy metal object fell to the floor with a solid thud.

Stepping back from the defunct lock, Esteban handed the bolt cutters back to Jennings with