Cavanaugh Cold Case by Marie Ferrarella Page B

“Those ideas have already gotten ‘got.’ By the way,” Malloy said, switching subjects before she had time to get worked up, “you were right.”
    â€œAbout?”
    He took a turn down a side street. “I think you being there for Professor Sullivan when I broke the news about his daughter actually helped him process it.”
    He spared Kristin a glance as he was forced to stop at a red light. “I have to admit I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a hand-holder. Especially since you’re a medical examiner.”
    â€œIt’s not always a patient’s bedside where bedside manner comes into play. I’ve had to be there for my share of identifications,” she told him.
    He’d seen her with Sullivan, and it certainly seemed as if she felt the man’s pain. But if that was the case, something didn’t make any sense to him.
    â€œIf you have all this bottled-up compassion, why is it that you choose to cut up dead bodies instead of ministering to live ones?”
    She thought they’d already gone through this. Obviously not to Malloy’s satisfaction. His question reminded her of her mother’s oh-so-frequently voiced lament. “Now you’re beginning to sound like my mother again.”
    â€œThen I guess it’s a lucky thing for you that we’re back,” he announced, pulling up into the precinct’s rear parking lot.
    Kristin got out of the car while the engine was still running. To her surprise, it continued running. When she looked back into the car, she saw that Malloy hadn’t unbuckled his seat belt.
    â€œAren’t you coming?”
    â€œI thought I’d take your advice and take a ride to UCA,” he told her, referring to the local university. Abby Sullivan had attended the Aurora branch of the University of California. “Maybe I can find a few answers that might lead us to her killer—and if we’re really lucky, to the killer of all those other young women. I’ll check in with you later to see if you’ve managed to identify any of the other victims,” he said, putting the car into reverse.
    â€œSomething to live for,” Kristin cracked, stepping away from the car.
    The window on his side of the vehicle was rolled down. Malloy craned his neck in order for her to hear him through the open window on the passenger side.
    â€œIt could be,” he told her, underscoring his sentence with that same smile that was beginning to twist into the recesses of her mind like a swiftly boring corkscrew, unsettling it.
    In order to negate the effect, she waved a hand at the detective without even bothering to turn around as she headed to the stairs and away from the parking lot.
    And away from Malloy.
    She could have sworn she heard him laugh as he drove away, but maybe that was just the sound of the wind. At least she could hope it was.
    * * *
    Malloy had always had an easy time of getting whatever he needed by managing to effortlessly utilize his charm. Thus, what might have taken another, more abrupt detective several hours, if not days, to get his hands on, took Malloy next to no time at all.
    After just a minimum of well-selected words on his part had been exchanged with Elizabeth Reid, the dour-looking administrative assistant who had put in more than thirty years in the registrar’s office, she was only too happy to track down Abby Sullivan’s classes and the names of the professors who had taught them. The fact that the schedule was twenty years old didn’t seem to be daunting to her.
    â€œI’m afraid more than half those educators have either retired or moved on,” the woman told him after she had returned from the archives. Elizabeth Reid had disappeared for a full half hour and had emerged with the former student’s schedules for the two semesters that she had attended the university.
    She held up the fruits of her labor. Two photocopied sheets, one