Mission: Cavanaugh Baby by Marie Ferrarella

Aurora. The seven hundred and fifty homes within the development were built up around an initial cluster of two-story family homes.
    Even so, although the homes were all verging on being approximately forty years old, he saw none that even remotely appeared to be in disrepair. There were a number, though, that looked as if they could stand to have a little remodeling done or, at the very least, refreshed just a bit.
    He even saw several houses that still had the old-style shake roofs on them rather than the far safer clay tiles that most homeowners had gravitated toward in the past twenty or so years.
    Currently there was a “Take pride in your classic home” movement going on in Aurora. And that was only to the good, he imagined.
    The house she pulled up in front of looked as if it was in need of a fresh coat of paint, but the roof was new and there was a flower garden out front that appeared to have recently been the recipient of a good deal of loving care.
    “Nice house,” he said after he parked his car beside hers in the driveway and got out.
    “Thanks. It was all I could afford,” she said offhandedly.
    The house had been sold as a fixer-upper, and any spare time she’d had in the past two years had gone into working on it. Though it might not look it, the house had come a long way. When she’d bought it, the walls had been removed. The former owner had died here, and no one had missed the old man until three weeks later. By then, the smell had gotten into the very walls as well as the rugs. Removal was the only way to get rid of it.
    “I’m working on it bit by bit,” she told him.
    “This isn’t your parents’ home?” He’d just assumed, given the home’s age, as well as its size, that she’d inherited it from her parents, one or both of whom he assumed might still be living on the premises.
    Ashley wasn’t about to tell him how the house represented a lot of scrimping and saving on her part—she’d even held down two jobs at one point. Every penny had gone into its down payment. As a child, she’d always dreamed of having a house to come home to for something longer than just three or four months at a stretch.
    And now she did.
    “Why would you assume that?” she challenged, wanting to know.
    Had he said something wrong? A lot of people inherited their parents’ home. Nonetheless, given her tone, he decided to tread lightly here.
    “I just thought that, given the age of the development, you got this from your parents.”
    “I bought this house,” she proclaimed tersely. “Put every dime I had at the time into it. Nobody gave me anything. Ever.” Then, adopting a slightly milder tone, she changed the subject. “Are they assigning anyone else to this case?”
    “Why?” he asked warily.
    She answered him honestly. He might be a detective, but she had a gut feeling he wasn’t that kind of a detective. “Because so far, you don’t exactly strike me as a hot-shot detective, Cavanaugh. I’m thinking maybe Homicide isn’t your thing.”
    His eyes narrowed. “I’m working on it,” he told her evenly.
    She took a breath, telling herself that to insult this man wasn’t going to be productive. He was, after all, a Cavanaugh.
    Ashley willed herself to calm down. “Sorry, I guess that came off a little combative. I didn’t mean to sound as if I was spoiling for a fight. Certain things just set me off,” she admitted.
    “I take it you’re not on good terms with your parents,” he concluded.
    He himself couldn’t really imagine what that was like. But then, his parents had been unbelievably understanding, even during those couple of years when he’d thought he’d known everything and they’d known absolutely nothing. They’d waited him out until he’d realized that he was the reigning authority on very little.
    “Not particularly,” she answered, hoping that would shut him down. Taking out her house key, she inserted it into the lock.
    “Sorry to hear that.”
    He sounded as if