Cavanaugh Stakeout. Marie Ferrarella

holding on to his temper. “Surprise me,” he said between gritted teeth.

      “It belongs to that girl you’re looking for in connection with your granddad’s mugging.”

      Since this investigation had started, he had already corrected Harley three times, explaining that Seamus was his grandfather’s brother, not his grandfather. He decided that there was no point in restating that fact to Harley again. Besides, that wasn’t the important part.

      “Where’s the dead woman now?” Finn asked, throwing off his covers and getting out of bed. There was no way he was going to be getting back to sleep at this point.

      “They just took her body to the medical examiner for an autopsy.”

      So far, that was standard procedure. “And where are you?” Finn asked.

      “Still at the crime scene.” There was a pause and Finn assumed that the man was checking with someone, or looking at a street sign. “McFadden and Adams,” Harley added.

      “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Finn said, walking toward his closet to get his clothes.

      “The CSI night-shift team is almost finished collecting all the data they found near and around the body,” Harley told him.

      “Still want to see the crime scene for myself,” Finn said, juggling his phone against his ear as he pulled on his slacks. They might have overlooked something. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, Finn thought.

      Harley sighed. “Knew you’d feel that way. I’ll stay here.”

      Almost dressed, Finn looked around for his shoes. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he promised.

      “That’s about the only good thing about coming out at this time of night,” Harley responded. “There’s no traffic to hold you up.”

      That didn’t mitigate the fact that he would have much rather slept through the night. “I’ll try to remember that,” Finn said just before he terminated Harley’s phone call.

      Jake Newman, the head of the night-shift team, was just about to finish packing up so he and his people could leave, when Finn arrived. Newman’s perpetually pained look deepened as he looked up to see who had pulled up.

      “Can I help you, Detective Cavanaugh?” the rather nondescript, slightly hunched man asked.

      “Did you find out the victim’s name yet?” Finn asked as he came toward Newman.

      Instead of answering him, Newman had a question of his own. “Things rather slow in the robbery division, I take it?” he asked as he snapped shut his kit.

      Finn didn’t care for the man’s attitude, but he wasn’t about to get into an argument with him if he could help it. “I have reason to believe that this is tied into Seamus Cavanaugh’s carjacking case.”

      Newman sighed. He knew when to back off. “I won’t have any answers for you until I’ve had a chance to go over everything. I’ll leave anything I find for your uncle on the day shift.” Newman couldn’t help himself and let off one zinger. “Or do you people just operate by using mental telepathy?”

      “No telepathy,” Finn replied in a voice that was completely devoid of any emotion. “Just the regular forms of communication.”

      Newman frowned, picking up his case. “I’ll try to remember that,” the night-shift CSI leader said coldly.

      Finn bit his tongue to keep from uttering a retort. Mainly he did it because he realized that the somewhat belligerent night-shift leader was using some of the same chip-on-his-shoulder comments that he had used when he’d talked to that stubborn insurance investigator.

      He didn’t care for being on the receiving end, he thought.

      And she probably didn’t care for it, either, Finn admitted. He supposed that he owed her some sort of an apology.

      Later.

      It took him until five in the morning to finish going over the crime scene to his own satisfaction, and also to stop wrestling with his conscience. He found the business card that the insurance investigator had given him. At the time, to keep from littering, he had shoved the card into his pocket. And then promptly forgot about its existence.

      Because he’d changed his clothes, it had taken him a little while to locate the card. When he finally did, he called the number printed on it, expecting to talk to a recorded announcement at best. He was prepared to leave a message.

      He wasn’t prepared to hear the phone on the other end ring only once before it was picked up. And he definitely wasn’t prepared to hear her voice breathing huskily in his ear. Nor was he expecting to feel that warm shiver dancing down his spine in response.

      “Hello?” He had woken her up, he thought. Why that threaded a warm, sexy feeling through him was completely beyond him—and definitely not welcome.

      Recovering, he asked, “Is this the pushy pain in the neck?”

      Any trace of sleep on Nik’s end vanished instantly. “Detective Cavanaugh, how lovely to hear from you. What can I do for you?” she asked.

      He heard rustling on the other end and assumed that she was getting out of bed. He instantly shut down that image and forced himself to focus on the reason he was calling. “You can wipe that smile off your face for openers.”

      Nik grinned. “I’m not smiling, Detective.”

      There was no way he was going to believe that. “Yeah, you are.”

      “And what makes you say that?” she asked, looking for her clothes. She wasn’t the neatest person when it came to her own things.

      “Because you know I’m calling you because I—” He paused as he forced himself to form the words. She deserved to know why he was calling.

      “Because?” she prompted, waiting.

      It took him another minute before he could get the words out without choking on them. “Because I might need your help.”