Cavanaugh Hero by Marie Ferrarella Page A

complex nature was involved. The information didn’t link up to databases from other states. There were a great many gaps that needed bridging.
    In less than ten years, it appeared as if the computer—and especially its research component, the internet—had grown exponentially until it seemed as if it was invading every aspect of absolutely everything. And while it made law enforcement’s job easier on the one hand, on the other, it created a lot of the problems that law enforcement was challenged to work with and try to eliminate.
    But tonight he had managed to do what he had been trying to do ever since his father, Shamus, had come to him with a problem wrapped in a request. Shamus wanted to find his long-lost younger brother, the child his father had taken off with to parts unknown right after his parents had divorced.
    If this was right, Andrew thought, looking at the list of names his discovery had helped him compile, his father’s young sibling, Murdoch, had given birth to a very active branch of the family.
    There really were enough Cavanaughs to populate a small town, he mused. Maybe even a large one. Not only that, but the whole bunch of them had been practically under his nose the whole time, working at, of all things, a police force located only one city removed from Aurora.
    Grinning to himself, he picked up the phone and called his father.
    The phone, a landline, was picked up on the other end just before the fourth ring.
    “You know what time it is?” a less-than-cheerful voice on the other end of the line demanded.
    “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. As I recall it, you taught me how to tell time when I was about three,” Andrew answered.
    The man on the other end snorted, clearly disgruntled. “Didn’t I teach you better than to make crank calls in the middle of the night?” Shamus asked, sounding definitely cranky.
    “Ten o’clock is hardly the middle of the night, Dad,” Andrew pointed out.
    “Depends on who you are and how long you’ve been up,” Shamus countered.
    “You want me to call back tomorrow?” Andrew offered, adding, “Maybe when you’re more human and a lot more receptive?”
    But Shamus surprised him by not letting him hang up so quickly. “You might as well tell me what’s got you so excited you can’t see straight. Seeing as how you got me up and all.”
    Andrew could almost see his father dragging his hand through his shaggy white mane, leaving it going every which way, like a man who had battled the wind and lost.
    “What’s so all-fired important that it couldn’t wait until morning?” Shamus asked.
    “You remember you asked me to look into seeing if I could track down your younger brother for you?”
    “Murdoch,” Shamus supplied the name, but kept a tight rein on his emotions, afraid of getting his hopes up and getting too caught up in what was going on this evening.
    “That’s the one,” Andrew acknowledged.
    “Hell yes, I remember. I’m not senile, boy. I remember. What about it?” he asked.
    Andrew felt justifiably proud of himself. It meant, among other things, that he had a career back if he wanted it. He was still a pretty decent detective. “Well, I did it.”
    “You did what?” Shamus asked, confused. “Tried to track him down?”
    “No, I tracked him down,” Andrew corrected. When there was no reaction, he worded his accomplishment a different way. “I found him, Dad. Or at least I found his family,” he amended, knowing that this was a bittersweet call with bad news laced through the good, because while he had managed to locate his uncle Murdoch’s last known place of residence, that place turned out to be a cemetery. “Dad? You there?”
    “Where else would I be?” the hoarse voice asked. “He’s dead, isn’t he? Murdoch’s dead.” The last part wasn’t a question but rather a statement of fact Shamus knew he was going to have to accept.
    “I’m afraid so,” Andrew told him, but he quickly followed up with the good news.