Free Cavanaugh Cold Case by Marie Ferrarella Page A

bones that were throughout the room “—instead of working in a hospital or a doctor’s office?”
    She hadn’t even told her mother about the little boy who had died on her watch, or how she’d felt as if her insides were gutted because he had done so despite her best efforts to save him. What she said was, “Because the dead don’t talk back.” And then her voice became cooler as she said, “I’m sorry, but when did this suddenly turn into a therapy session?”
    Malloy pretended to be taken aback by her question. “I’m sorry, I thought we were sharing.”
    â€œWe are—we’re sharing information,” she said pointedly. And then she realized that her response still left it wide open. “ Work information,” she emphasized, then added, “Unless you’re not interested in ID’ing one of the bodies.”
    Excitement entered both his voice as well as the expression on his face. Everything else was pushed into the background. “You actually managed to identify one of the victims?” he asked.
    She couldn’t help thinking that he sounded like a kid at Christmas. Kristin was beginning to think that Malloy Cavanaugh was far more complicated than the image he liked to project—or the reputation that had preceded him.
    â€œNo,” she answered honestly, “but I found a way for you to do it.”
    He’d really thought that this was going to take weeks of chasing after imaginary leads that eventually led nowhere. The prospect that it might be otherwise filled him with hope.
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œOne of the women had a hip replacement—”
    He immediately jumped on the morsel she’d held out. “Those things are numbered, aren’t they?” he asked, anticipation echoing in his voice.
    She nodded. “The prosthetic has an ID number. If we can track that down, we have the name of one of our victims.”
    â€œWait,” he said as his thoughts were coming together. “Did you say a hip prosthetic?”
    â€œI realize you probably would rather work with a breast implant,” she said dryly, “but—”
    â€œThat’s not it,” he told her, waving the suggestion down and for once not making a wise crack about said body part. “But I thought you said that the victims were all between the ages of eighteen to thirty.”
    â€œThat’s what it looks like,” Kristin confirmed. “What’s the problem?” she asked.
    â€œWell, wouldn’t she have to be older to warrant a hip replacement?” he asked. Senior citizens got hip replacements, not girls right out of high school or college.
    â€œNo.” Kristin shot down his assumption. “There are a lot of reasons for a young woman to get a hip replacement.” To convince him, Kristin ticked off only a few of the ways the need might have come up. “She could have been in a car accident, or just been unlucky enough to fall and break her hip. There’s also juvenile arthritis. Then there are some dancers who have the grave misfortune of wearing out certain joints and body parts way before their time—want me to go on?”
    Yes, he did, but not about hip replacements. He would have preferred a far more intimate subject to be up for discussion.
    â€œNo, you’ve convinced me,” he told her. “Did you happen to write down the number of that prosthetic?”
    â€œNo, I thought that I’d transmit it to you by mental telepathy,” she answered dryly, reaching for a piece of paper she’d placed on the next table. “Here.”
    He glanced at the numbers she’d written down as she handed the lined paper to him.
    â€œToo bad. I was looking forward to our minds melding.” When she said nothing, he felt the need to explain the comment. “That’s a term out of—”
    â€œ Star Trek , yes,” Kristin said, cutting him