area. Becoming integrated into the Cavanaugh family was enough of an adjustment without having some outsider suddenly thrust upon him. It was the last thing he needed.
At any other time, he thought, pausing in the doorway and quietly observing the newest addition to his task force, he would have welcomed someone who looked like Julianne. The woman was a head-turner, no doubt about that. But he was in charge of the task force and that changed the rules.
He’d never much liked rules, Frank thought with an inward sigh, but there was no arguing the fact that he was bound by them.
Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the room.
“So, did Riley get you all caught up?” Frank asked as he came up behind Julianne.
Five victims were on the board, five women from essentially two different walks of life who, at first glance, didn’t appear to have anything in common. If there was a prayer of solving this case and bringing down the serial killer, each victim would require more than just a glance. More like an examination under a microscope. No way could she have even scratched the surface in the amount of time that he’d been gone.
Was he testing her?
“She gave me a thumbnail sketch of each victim,” Julianne answered guardedly, watching his face for an indication of his thoughts. “It’s going to take me a while to actually get caught up.” She pulled a folder out from the bottom of the pile of files she’d been given and placed it on top. “While I’m at it, you might want to go over Millie Klein.”
The name was unfamiliar to him. “Millie Klein?” he repeated.
“The woman found in the Dumpster in Mission Ridge,” Julianne elaborated.
She leaned back in her chair as last Tuesday came rushing back at her. The woman, an estate planning lawyer, had been her first dead body. When she closed her eyes, Julianne could still see the grayish, lifeless body half buried in garbage, her bloodshot eyes open wide and reflecting surprise and horror.
“It looks like your guy was off on a field trip when he had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to kill another woman,” she speculated.
“That the way you see it?” Frank asked. Crossing his arms before him, he leaned back and perched on a corner of the desk that Riley had cleared off for the Mission Ridge detective.
McIntyre studied her more intently than was warranted, Julianne thought.
Stare all you want, I’m not leaving.
“Right now, yes,” she said flatly. “There’s no other reason for him to have strayed from his home ground. Plenty of ‘game’ for him right here.” She’d already gotten a list of clients that Millie had seen that week she was murdered, but so far, everyone had checked out. And every one of them lived in Mission Ridge.
“Maybe it’s not the serial killer.” He studied her face to see if she was open to the idea—and caught himself thinking she had the most magnificent cheekbones he’d ever seen. “People have been found in Dumpsters before this serial killer started his spree.”
“Not in Mission Ridge,” she informed him. “We don’t have a homicide division in Mission Ridge. Stealing more than one lawn gnome is considered a major crime spree. It’s a very peaceful place,” she concluded.
Frank’s eyes narrowed. He’d been laboring under a basic misunderstanding. “Then you’re not a homicide detective?”
“I’m an all-around detective,” she answered succinctly. Then, in case he had his doubts and was already labeling her a hick on top of what he probably perceived as her other shortcomings, she was quick to assure him, “Don’t worry, I won’t get in your way.”
It didn’t make any sense. Why would they send over someone with no experience? And why had Brian agreed to this? “If you don’t mind my asking, why were you sent here?”
That, at least, was an easy enough question to answer. “Because Captain Randolph isn’t the kind of man who sweeps things under the rug, or just lets other people do his work for him. This is kind of personal.”
Riley walked by just then and without breaking her stride, or saying a word to her brother, dropped off one of the two cans of soda she’d just gotten from the vending machine, placing it on Julianne’s desk. Julianne smiled her thanks as she continued.
“Millie Klein was the granddaughter of a friend of his, and he wants justice for his friend. That means seeing her killer pay for her murder. You have the superior department,” she informed him without any fanfare. “It just made sense for him to send the case file over here as well as someone with it.”
Okay, he’d buy that. But he had another question. “Why you?” She’d just admitted to not having experience and from the looks of her, she couldn’t have been a detective that long. They had to have someone over at Mission Ridge with more seniority than this lagoon-blue-eyed woman.
Julianne studied him for a long moment before she said anything. “Is your problem with me personal or professional?”
“I don’t know you personally.”
And he knew better than to think that just because the woman was beautiful she’d gotten ahead on her looks. If he would have so much as hinted at something like that, his sisters—along with all the female members of the Cavanaugh family—would have vivisected him.
So he was saying that his beef with her was professional? She took just as much offense at that as she would have had he said it was personal.
“Professionally, I worked my tail off to get to where I am.” Her eyes darkened, turning almost a cobalt blue. “And you don’t need to know me personally not to like me ‘personally.’” She set her jaw hard. “I’ve run into that all my life.”
Prejudice was something he’d been raised to fight against and despise. “Because you’re Native American,” he assumed.
“You don’t have to be politically correct,” she told him. “Indian will do fine.” The term had never bothered her, or any of the other people she’d grown up with. She didn’t see it as an insult. “Or Navajo if you want to be more specific.”
“Navajo,” Frank repeated with a nod. He’d bet his badge that there was more than just Navajo to her. Those blue eyes of hers didn’t just come by special delivery. “And you won’t find that here,” he informed her.
“Other Navajos?”
“No, prejudice because you happen to be something someone else isn’t. I don’t care if you’re a Native American—”
“Indian,” she corrected.
“Indian,” he repeated. “What I don’t like is not having a say in who works for me.” But even that could be remedied. “But you prove to me that you can pull your weight, and we’ll get along fine.”
That sounded fair enough. “Consider it pulled,” Julianne told him.
With
