of him and he said something he couldn’t take back. He was well aware that Ms. Harris and the center held all the cards, forcing him to keep his thoughts to himself. He was doing his best, but the money he earned only stretched so far, and on occasion, he came up short.
There were times, Jackson thought as he turned on the siren and flashing lights that allowed him to cut through the city’s traffic, when he found himself almost regretting that he’d turned his back on a life of crime.
Almost.
In his teens, the guys he hung around with in his old Oakland neighborhood had all dropped out of school and declared that staying on the straight and narrow was only for gutless losers. The thinking back then was that guys with guts could find all sorts of ways of gaming the system, lining their pockets with money and achieving the good life at the expense of others.
More than a few of his so-called friends ridiculed him for his choice to actually work for the money he brought home. But crime had never been an option for him. Jackson had people to take care of.
His mother had walked out on the family when he was ten, and his father, Ethan, although a kindhearted, loving man, had also been a functioning alcoholic who anesthetized his sense of failure with any bottle of alcohol he could get his hands on. He wasn’t choosy. Anything would do. Eventually, Ethan Muldare ceased functioning and just devoted himself exclusively to drinking.
The burden of providing for his family and keeping them together had fallen to Jackson by the time he turned fifteen.
Fourteen years later, he was still shouldering that burden. For the last three years he’d been paying for his father’s tiny room at the board and care residential facility. All those years of drinking had taken their toll on his father’s health as well as on the man’s mental faculties.
And because their mother had taken off and their father had turned to alcohol for solace, his younger brother, Jimmy, had sought relief in drugs by the time he was thirteen.
There were days when Jackson found it hard to keep it all together and keep going. Those were the days when he seriously entertained the idea of getting in his car and just driving as far away from his life as he possibly could.
But that was just the problem. No matter where he went, he always took himself and his sense of responsibility with him.
What that meant was that he had no choice but to do what he did. Someone had to pay the bills and to set an example, such as it was, for Jimmy. On good days Jackson still nursed the minuscule hope that eventually Jimmy would come around and realize that numbing his mind and his soul with drugs was just not the answer.
If anything, it was a death sentence.
Jackson supposed, at bottom, there was just the tiniest bit of an optimist within him.
He felt his phone vibrating again.
Jackson resisted the temptation of pulling it out and shouting that he was on his way. Yelling at Lt. Cohen would most likely get him suspended—or fired. Yelling at whoever he was being paired up with would, at the very least, start him off on the wrong foot, and he already had more than enough to deal with on the home front.
Jimmy had been hostile during the three minutes he’d had to talk to him, and when he’d swung by Happy Pines his father hadn’t recognized him. That was happening more and more often these days. Jackson just wasn’t in the frame of mind to make nice to whoever was on the phone, so he let it continue to vibrate and drove faster.
He was almost there anyway.
* * *
“You know, if I read about this kind of thing online or in the paper, I would have said that someone made it up,” homicide detective Brianna Cavanaugh O’Bannon said, shaking her head as she took in the chaotic scene around her.
“Oh, but you can’t make this kind of stuff up,” Sean Cavanaugh commented.
The head of the Crime Scene Investigative day team frowned as, like his niece, he slowly regarded the partially demolished hotel.
“No, I guess not,” Brianna agreed.
This was, she thought, a case of fact being stranger than fiction. With slow, deliberate movements, she picked her way through the debris, both newly created and old. She was careful not to disturb anything. At this point, it was still difficult sorting out what was part of the crime scene and what was just run-of-the-mill, everyday rubble.
Looking back over her shoulder, Brianna saw the chief of detectives entering the room. It was obvious to her that the tall, distinguished-looking man was temporarily transported back through time as he recalled, “You know, I can remember Aurora High holding their senior prom here the year I graduated.”
“What are you doing here?” Sean asked, no doubt surprised to see his younger brother. “The chief of detectives doesn’t usually come out to a crime scene.”
“He does if the scene is in the Old Aurora Hotel,” Brian Cavanaugh replied. Setting his memories aside, he became practical. “How many bodies?” he asked.
“Six—and counting,” Brianna answered.
Brian Cavanaugh didn’t frown often, but he did now. “Damn,” he murmured.
“That would be the word I’d use,” Sean agreed. “I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to need more medical examiners on the job by the time we finish.”
“Who do we have on it right now?” Brian asked.
Sean nodded toward his left. The ME and her assistant were closing up a body bag and placing the occupant on a gurney.
“Malloy’s wife, Kristin,” Sean answered.
Brian’s smile was grim. “This is turning out to be a regular family affair,” he commented, glancing toward the young woman. “Put the word out,” he told his brother. “We need every available ME reporting to the morgue. I need these bodies identified yesterday,” Brian instructed.
Sean had his cell phone in his hand. “Already on it,” he responded.
“Keep me apprised,” Brian said, leaving. It was unclear if he was addressing Sean or Brianna.
Brianna slowly scanned the area again, even though she had been here for more than half an hour. She and Francisco Del Campo, another homicide detective, had been the first to answer the frantic call that had come in from a patrol officer.
The latter had been the first responder on the scene. Fresh out of the academy, Officer Hal Jacobs had contaminated the crime scene by throwing up after viewing the first decomposing body. When Brianna arrived, she had hustled Jacobs out and had someone get the pale officer a glass of water as more bodies were being discovered.
A noise coming from behind her had Brianna whirling around, one hand on her weapon, ready for anything.
Coming forward, Jackson raised his hands. “If you don’t want me here, all you have to do is say so,” he told Brianna.
Brianna dropped her hand to her side. Although they were in different divisions, she and Jackson had previously worked together on a couple of cases. As far as partners went, he was intelligent and driven. He just wasn’t much
