Читать книгу Mistletoe and Murder - Jenna Ryan - Страница 8
ОглавлениеChapter One
“It’s the perfect scent for you.” The woman behind the department store perfume counter gave one of her test bottles a spritz. “Mysterious and exotic, with a hint of Eastern spice.”
Romana Grey sniffed her wrist. “It’s lovely, but I’m not shopping for me.”
A finger in her spine preceded a cheerful, “Note to self, Ro, as females, we’re always shopping for ‘me,’ even in December.” Romana’s cousin, Anna Fitzgerald, picked up another bottle and sprayed the already pungent air. “This smells expensive.”
“Ten dollars a pump,” the saleswoman confirmed, then excused herself to intercept a group of excited teenage girls.
Fitz set her forearms on the glass case. “So, who are you shopping for today? Mom, Grandma Grey or one of your six sisters-in-law?”
“Five. Noah’s divorced.” Romana gave her wrist a shake. “This really is nice.” Then she glanced at her watch. “Why are you here at three in the afternoon?”
“Some wires fried in the main lab. The forensics team’s been evacuated until morning.” Out of the corner of her eye, Romana saw Fitz finger a tiny bottle. “I was bagging a hair sample when I smelled the smoke. Well, actually, Doc Patrick smelled it. You know him—tall, sexy dude who never remembers to get a haircut and whose socks don’t match.”
Romana swatted her cousin’s wandering fingers. “Stop doing that.”
“I’m not going to steal it.”
“And I’m supposed to know that? It’s me, Fitz. I arrested you twice for shoplifting when I was a rookie.”
“Then got me into rehab and back on the straight and narrow. I’m a respectable citizen these days, thanks to you, a kindly judge and a totally cool bunch of coworkers in forensics. Which brings me back to Patrick North. Unmarried, shy, in need of a female to match up his socks.”
Romana knew where this conversation was headed. Her cousin’s mind was a one-way street. “Patrick worked with Belinda Critch, Fitz. I hate the way it all circles back to that. It feels like everyone around me knows or has a connection to somebody who was involved in her death.”
“Cops know people in forensics, Ro. It’s the nature of the biz. Belinda analyzed body fluids. She got around. You knew her, I knew her, and, trust me, so did a whole lot of men.”
“Including my ex.” Romana toyed with a fat genie bottle. Her much-anticipated shopping trip was starting to suck. “I figure Connor slept with at least two of his female coworkers. Belinda was probably one of them.”
“Connor was also taking bribes from Cincinnati drug lords.” Fitz sniffed. “Don’t sweat the loss of a creep.”
“I never sweat my losses, but marrying Connor Hanson wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”
“No, divorcing him was.”
“Good point.” Shoving her brief funk aside, Romana sprayed a cotton ball, frowned and wrinkled her nose. “This smells like jalapeño peppers.”
“It smells like Belinda Critch.”
It did, actually. Romana warded off another pang of guilt and dropped the ball into a silver waste receptacle. “Belinda’s gone, Fitz. Life goes on.”
“That’s a fact. You traded cophood for a college degree. I got my head screwed on straight and managed to work myself up the forensics ladder to a great tech job. It’s not your fault or mine that Belinda Critch is dead. Maybe it’s Jacob Knight’s fault, but no one could prove it, so one way or another, her killer’s probably still out there.”
“Not helping me here, Fitz.”
“Sorry.” A pause, then, “Do you think he did it?”
“No.”
“That’s it, just a flat no? Come on, Ro, someone put a bullet in her chest, and Jacob Knight was involved with her once.”
“If a guy I dated in high school turned up dead tomorrow, would that put me at the top of the suspect list?”
“I think you’re not sure about him, and that’s why you get twitchy when the subject comes up. You saved Knight’s life, and, bam, two days later, Belinda’s dead. Critch said Knight threatened her, so he must have believed it. Although…” She drew an air line with her finger. “Knight’s partner did stick up for him. Michael O’Keefe…” Her smile flashed quickly and dimpled. “Who am I to doubt the word of a fellow Irishman?”
“An Irishman you dated once as I remember.”
“You remember very well. O’Keefe’s cute. Okay, older than me, but I like an age gap.”
“You like any gap when it comes to men.”
“Guess I have something in common with Belinda, after all. Maybe two things. Her brother Dylan’s kind of cool, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh. Tell me, Fitz, is there a man we both know that you don’t like?”
“Yeah, Jacob Knight. Except I don’t not like him, I’m just not sure of him. Critch was convinced that Knight killed his wife, so much so that he pulled a gun on him. But there you were, on the scene and duty-bound to jump in, with no idea who was wrong or right. Come on, Ro, a dilemma like that would give anyone twitches.”
Romana erased the smell of peppers from her fingers with peach hand cream. She considered changing the subject but knew Fitz would only find a way back. With a sigh, she said, “It’s guilt I’m feeling, okay? Not about helping Jacob in that alley—that’s what cops do—but because I didn’t listen to Critch when he said his wife’s life had been threatened. He had no proof, there was nothing to go on. Someone—not Jacob—” she shot her cousin a warning look “—wanted Belinda dead. I didn’t investigate the allegation after Critch was arrested, but I should have, because that’s also what cops do.”
“Well, yes…”
“Jacob said he didn’t murder her. I believe him.” Was determined to believe him. “Subject exhausted. I mean that,” she said when her friend’s mouth opened.
One long look, and it closed with a snap. “Tell you what.” Fitz’s eyes sparkled. “Why don’t we go sit on Santa’s knee? I hear he’s a hottie under the white whiskers.”
Glad for any reprieve, Romana went with the idea. She ticked off items on her fingers. “I want new ice skates, a mountain bike, scuba gear and a cool white Boxster. But I’m only telling that to the real Santa Claus.”
“Your doting dad.”
“He’s playing Father Christmas at an outdoor festival in Boston this year. Something to do with the barbershop quartet he sings with when he isn’t whizzing around the globe producing travel shows for cable TV.”
“Lucky him. My father’s still upholstering sofas and chairs at Barret Brown. I think he’s going to stuff a bright red recliner in my stocking this year.”
“I’d love a new chair from Barret Brown.”
Fitz’s cheeks went pink. “I’d rather have James Barret. Did I tell you he used to give me little boxes of chocolate tied up with red bows whenever I’d stop in and see my dad at the factory after school?”
Romana grinned. “So that’s how you developed your sticky fingers.”
“Ha-ha.” Fitz’s expression softened. “What a hunk James was—is.”
“The hunk’s married to an heiress,” Romana reminded her. “Think jailer with claws when you think of James Barret’s wife, and confine your lust to more available men.”
Fitz lapsed into silence before venturing a subdued “Warren Critch is out on parole.”
Romana examined another bottle. “I know. A friend from the station called me three weeks ago and again on Monday when his parole was granted. I’m not surprised. By all accounts, Critch was a model prisoner.”
“A lot of the people Belinda worked with in forensics are still there. Warren’s a hot topic right now. I’m sorry, but so’s Jacob Knight.”
Romana gave in and let her mind slide back six years to a Cincinnati alley where one very out-of-control chemistry teacher had been holding a gun on one remarkably controlled homicide detective.
She’d been on patrol that afternoon with her veteran partner. They’d been dispatched to a downtown alley after a witness had spotted a man with a gun. She and her partner had separated at the entranceway. She’d taken the rear approach.
To this day, Romana could still feel the adrenaline that had pumped through her system when she’d spotted Warren Critch. According to Critch, Jacob had pushed Belinda to have an affair. When she’d refused, Jacob had threatened to kill her.
Critch had been raving, oblivious to everything except the man in front of him. Anyone could have crept up from behind, it just happened to be Romana. With the barrel of her Glock pressed against his neck, Critch’s mind had begun to function. He’d backed down and finally dropped his gun.
Two days later, his wife had been murdered.
Romana sighed as the memory dissolved. “I don’t think I saved Jacob’s life, Fitz, so much as I talked Critch into seeing reason.”
“The consensus in the lab is that Warren Critch would have pulled the trigger, Jacob Knight would have died, and instead of being a free man today, Critch would be facing life without parole for killing a cop. Point being, I think Knight’s dangerous, Ro. Gorgeous but dangerous.”
A feeling of inevitability crept in. “Fitz, Jacob’s…”
“Tall, dark and sexy as hell. Like a rock star. Or maybe a bad boy grown up.”
“He’s not James Dean.”
“No, he’s way better, and I’m betting a whole lot badder.”
A picture flitted through Romana’s head of an enigmatic face, slightly haunted, slightly hunted, narrow-featured and, yes, gorgeous. The collar of his leather jacket was turned up in her vision so his dark hair fell over it and skimmed his shoulders. Steely eyes stared at her, and his mouth—well, she didn’t want to linger too long on that feature.
She felt Fitz tap her arm, noted her cousin’s contrite expression and struggled with a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re sorry. Again.”
“Let’s rewind to sitting on Santa’s knee, and top it off with a trip upstairs for coffee and a Danish pastry. The Garden Room’s been transformed into a Russian ice palace for the rest of December, and I gotta tell you, Ro, if ever anyone looked like a Russian ice princess, it’d be you.”
“I’ll try and take that as a compliment.” Romana separated two bottles from the montage in front of her. “Tatiana perfume for my mother, the newly promoted radio station manager, and Opium for me.”
“Former ice princess cop—really did mean it as a compliment—and current avant garde professor of criminology at the University of Cincinnati.”
With a determined shove, the black cloud that had been hovering on the edge of Romana’s mind dispersed.
Warren Critch was out of prison, that was a fact. The parole board felt he’d served sufficient time for his crime. True, he’d sent her a Christmas card every year of his incarceration, but the messages inside hadn’t actually amounted to threats. She’d gone over them several times. So had a number of her police friends.
Critch was bitter—perfectly understandable. Didn’t mean he’d jeopardize his newfound freedom by seeking revenge. He’d been blowing off steam in his prison cell. Romana taught the subject; she knew how the criminal mind worked. Or should.
“Wow.” Fitz winced as the saleswoman held out a pretty blue bag and a short bill. “That’s some hefty total. Guess coffee’s on me.”
Romana reached into her purse, felt the envelope that hadn’t been there an hour ago and, without looking, let her head fall back.
“Then again,” she said to the reindeer suspended from the store’s ceiling, “maybe no one really knows how the criminal mind works.”
“Money, Ro.” Fitz elbowed her. “Unless you’re thinking of developing sticky fingers yourself.”
Romana ignored the telltale red envelope as she hunted for her credit card. “Order me a cinnamon Danish, and a double-double coffee, okay? I need five minutes alone with my cell phone to call an old…friend.”
“Is he as hunky as Patrick?”
A chill, possibly borne of fear, or more likely of some weird anticipation, feathered along Romana’s spine. “Oh, he’s hunky enough.” She fingered the flap of the red envelope. “I’m just not sure how happy he’ll be to hear from me.”
DECEMBER DARKNESS FELL EARLY over Cincinnati. Snowflakes from an approaching weather system fluttered and danced and added to the already festive feeling in the air. Jacob Knight sat in his converted loft with his feet propped on the radiator and watched as pockets of red, gold and green lights winked to life around him.
He could see some portion of Fountain Square and the silver-blue glow that surrounded it. Thanksgiving had come and gone; it was all about Christmas now. About family and friends for most, more about bad memories for him.
When the phone rang, he debated briefly, then picked up.
“Knight.”
“Well, what d’you know, he exists. I’ve talked to your voice mail so many times I was beginning to think you’d skipped the country without telling anyone.”
Jacob swallowed a mouthful of coffee, kept his eyes on the expanding Christmas glow. “I’m still waking up, O’Keefe. Keep it short and simple.”
His former partner released a breath. “Critch made parole two days ago.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“He came across sweet as pie for the review board.”
“I guess he figured surly wouldn’t cut it.”
O’Keefe grunted. “I’m worried about you, pal. Critch will want answers. If he decides to look for them, you know where that’ll lead him.”
Jacob finished his coffee, dropped his feet to the floor and pushed out of the chair. “Critch wrote his own answers six years ago when he found Belinda dead in their home. If he comes after me, I’ll deal with him.”
“Oh, he’ll come,” his former partner assured. “The question is how, when and where? Will he do it from the front where you can see him, or will he blindside you? I’m betting on a blindside.”
“It’s a good thing I’m trained then, huh?” Jacob glanced at his voice mail. Eleven messages, but the majority of them were probably from O’Keefe.
“You need a watchdog, my friend, or a mother. Better still, a wife. You also need to have some fun. Do you realize it’s been two years since we’ve gone to a Reds game? Hell, it’s been half as long since we even had a beer together.”
“You’re day shift, I’m night. The city’s jumping, and the department’s short-staffed.”
“Yadda, yadda. Those are excuses. But pleasure aside, the fact remains, Critch is loose, and I don’t think any shrink ever really got inside his head during those prison years.”
“I’m a good cop, O’Keefe.”
“I’m worried about Romana, too, okay? Lie and tell me you’ve forgotten that incredible face.”
Jacob slid his gaze to the window. “No, I haven’t forgotten her face.” Or anything else about her. “He won’t go after Romana, okay? I’ll make sure of it.”
“Ah, finally, we arrive at the crux of it. You’ll make sure he doesn’t go for Romana by getting him to come after you.”
With his eyes still on the windows and his lips curved in a smile, Jacob asked, “Shouldn’t you be heading home to your kid about now?”
“Nah, she’s with her mom in Los Angeles. Indefinitely. It’s one way to get custody, I suppose. Move to a place with sunshine, beaches and an excess of skater boys.”
Jacob hunted for and located his keys and badge. “We’ll have that beer before Christmas, Mick. And thanks for the heads-up on Critch.”
“I’ll keep an eye on Romana.”
Jacob ignored the tightening in his belly as he shouldered his holster. “I’m late. Tell Captain Harris I’ll be working on the Parker case tonight.”
“Watch your back, Jacob.”
His back, right. Except it hadn’t been his back Warren Critch had been aiming at in that alley six years ago. And Jacob knew he hadn’t done a damned thing to prevent the confrontation from taking place.
Shrugging into his lined leather jacket, he noted that the snow was falling more heavily now. He clipped his badge to the waistband of his jeans and headed for the stairs.
He didn’t believe in signs or portents, but human tendencies and inherited traits were different matters. And while he might wish he could dismiss them, in six long years he’d never quite been able to get past what might actually be.
What he might have done.
He raised his eyes skyward, realized where he was looking and let wry amusement rise. His father was dead, but there was no chance he’d gone upward in the afterlife. If hell existed, his old man would burn there forever. Who knew, one day his only son might be joining him.
Because he didn’t want to think about the night ahead—or anything or anyone else right then—Jacob concentrated on his neighbor’s music as he started down the stairs.
Seventy-eight-year-old Denny Leech had been blasting Rat Pack Christmas songs on her ancient stereo for the past two days. She claimed Frank, Dean and Sammy ignited her creative fire. Painters needed inspiration. The problem was, Denny was painting her entire lower loft with one very small roller and a brush she’d found in the trash. In her case, creativity could take until Easter to play out.
She waved to him through her open door. “I’m doing a northern lights ceiling mural, Jacob. My granddaughter’s coming over Sunday to see it. You remember Penelope, don’t you?”
“Yeah, she’s very pretty.”
“You’d make a lovely couple. She’s growing her hair. She’s a blonde now…”
Humor kindled as he pushed on the rear door. Denny’s voice followed him out. She’d talk for five more minutes before she realized he was gone.
He’d parked his black SUV in the alley early this morning. Had he alarmed it? A movement near the snow-covered hood suggested he’d forgotten.
“Punctual as always, Detective Knight. I love that quality in a man.”
Romana Grey. He’d recognize that seductive purr anywhere. He also recognized the act she put on as she strolled around the fender.
She did it well, better than most people, but she had to be as uncertain of him now as she had been after Belinda Critch was found dead on her living room floor.
Jacob ran his gaze over her long white coat and black boots, then back up until he encountered her striking gray-blue eyes. “You love too easily, Romana. Why are you here?”
She leaned on the hood with her customary teasing grace. “You didn’t answer your phone this afternoon, Detective.”
He felt the tightening in his groin and shifted position. “I work the night shift. I sleep in the afternoon.”
“And let me guess. You don’t listen to your messages or check your mailbox when you wake up.” She produced a red envelope from her pocket, held it between two gloved fingers. “Wanna guess who sent this?”
Something black and oily slid through his veins. He paused before reaching out. “Is it the same as the others?”
“Not quite.” At last the nerves jittered through. “This one’s darker, more malevolent.”
The light in the alley was bad. Jacob squinted at the red-lettered message inside. “Looks like he wrote it with his left hand.”
“It looks like he wrote it with his left foot, but the print’s consistent with the other cards. I’ll have that verified tomorrow,” she promised at his quick glance. “I still have friends in the crime lab.”
“I thought the crime lab was your ex’s territory.” Jacob jockeyed for a clearer view of the words. “How’s Connor doing these days? Living fat on the Hanson family money?”
“I’m not going there with you.” Romana let her hood fall back, slid her gaze down the alley and breathed out. Her expression softened as her mental focus shifted. “I believed him when he said he could make his own way in life without his family. I know he believed it.”
“Instead, he took bribes, cut deals and lied to you.”
Her smile was fast and false. “Thanks for the emotional lift, Knight. I needed it after that card.” She watched him for a moment, before arching a shrewd eyebrow. “Do you want me to tell you what it says?”
“If you can, you’ve got Superman’s vision.”
“What I have is an excellent memory. ‘I send you a Christmas greeting, Romana Grey,’” she quoted. “‘A kiss for you, for the murderer you saved. It is the Kiss of Death.’ Nice, huh?” She bumped his tire with the heel of her boot. “There’s a sprig of mistletoe on the front. Can’t imagine what he came up with for you. It’s a mass-marketed card. I checked it out first thing. They’re sold all over the country, same as the other five he sent, except this time I have a creepy feeling Critch delivered it himself.”
“Delivered it where?”
“Into my purse. Don’t say it,” she warned at his sharp look. “You shop in crowded stores, you get jostled. You open your purse for credit cards, parking money, donation drums.”
“Hands slip inside, remove wallets.”
“We’re talking about something that was added not subtracted.”
“You were a cop, Romana.”
“And now I teach criminology. Fine, I should have noticed, but, ah, well, I didn’t. I’m human, Jacob. Move forward.”
Not the faintest flicker of annoyance marred her pleasant expression, and her tone was equally unruffled.
She could act, all right. She was also stubborn. And bold as hell.
“I’ll check my mailbox.” He handed the card back. “Obviously you know Critch has been out on parole for the past two days.”
“Mmm. Lovely thought, isn’t it? Although I’ve also been told he mellowed substantially after the first few years inside, so much so that he wrote a novelette about his childhood in South America. His daddy mapped waterways along the Amazon. My guess is he did a lot more than that, but then I’m jaded from my brief stint on the force.” She nodded forward. “Your mailbox is at the front door, right?”
His lips twitched into a smile. “Are you curious to see if my threat’s nastier than yours?”
“Not especially. I’m thinking your lobby has to be warmer than this alley. Plus I love old theaters.” She scanned the worn brick facade, relaxed a little more. “My father’s a huge fan of 1920s architecture. He knows the woman who owns this place. Her husband made her promise not to sell the building or allow it to be demolished after he died. I think he planned to haunt it—don’t know if that worked out for him or not—but she kept her word, which is why you and three other people get to live here. She left the stage, audience area and lobby intact and still found a way to make the place pay its own taxes. End of local history lesson.” She moved past him to the rear door. “Why are you staring at me, Jacob? Teachers lecture out of habit. I could tell you all sorts of things about the house my parents bought in Boston.”
His stare became a headshake. “Do you ever run down?”
“Depends on the company. My cousin Fitz says I don’t talk enough.”
“Would that be Irish-born Anna Fitzgerald with the curly red hair, who insists that unpaid-for shop items simply follow her home?”
Romana grinned. “Followed. Past tense, Detective. She’s my second cousin on my mother’s side, I’ve known her forever and, all bias aside, I think she’s one of the brightest forensic techs in the city. The hospital board was right to give her another chance.”
“You must have talked long and hard to that board, Romana. Second chances are hard to come by in that arena.”
She waited while he opened the rear door, then, with a glance at his profile, preceded him inside. “It’s going to start again, you know.”
“I know.”
“All the gossip and the rumors, the speculation, the accusations.”
“I’ve been through it before, Romana. I know how it’ll be.”
“Unless Critch is grandstanding, which is possible given his psychiatric evaluation before the trial. He’s a brooder, but he tends to back down in the face of fear.”
“Which makes his latest Christmas message to you, what? A slap intended to unnerve? He’s sent you six cards, one for each of the six years he spent in prison. And this last one was delivered less than forty-eight hours after his release.”
“You’re determined to be pessimistic, aren’t you? Why don’t you… Oh, my God, is that fresco original?” Captivated by the dark heavenly forces clashing overhead, she swung on her heel. Then she frowned, paused and sniffed. “Who’s using alkyd paint?”
“Keep moving,” he suggested. “Why don’t I what?”
“Hmm? Oh, try and keep a positive thought.” Still absorbed, she executed another admiring circle. “Words aren’t weapons in this case, and I find it hard to believe that Critch will want to spend the rest of his life behind bars for killing us. It won’t bring his wife back, and if he’s smart, which I think he is, he’ll have realized by now that our lives—and yours in particular—haven’t been fairy-tale perfect since she died.”
Jacob studied her through narrowed eyes. With her guard down and enchanted by her surroundings, he could visualize her quite easily in a storybook setting. Somewhere snowy and nostalgic. Not a princess in a tower—she was too savvy for that role—but in one of those places he’d dreamed of as a kid, before reality had stumbled in and revealed the harsh realities of life.
Speaking of which… “How do you know what my life’s like? You left the force years ago.”
She wrested her gaze from the ornate overhead carvings and directed it at him. “I know you switched to the night shift after Critch’s trial. You prefer to work alone. Your record’s outstanding, but you don’t interact with your fellow officers any more than necessary. You keep to yourself on and off the clock, which includes hardly even talking to your best friend, O’Keefe. And word has it you’re the only male cop in the city who hasn’t flirted with the pretty new dispatcher.”
“I talked to O’Keefe twenty minutes ago. I’d say he’s still in major lust with you.”
She shrugged, unperturbed. “Mick O’Keefe is a nice guy who happens to be divorced. He likes European cooking—my great grandmother’s from Moscow—film noire and helping out with minor home renos for people who would otherwise be in over their heads. There’s no lust involved, and even if there was—” she gave his chest a poke “—it wouldn’t be any of your business. FYI, Knight, there’s a woman wearing a pink ball cap and holding a paintbrush waving at you.”
“Later, Denny.” He reached past Romana to open the front door. “After you, Professor.”
“Don’t be snotty.” But she went first and peered through the metal slats of the box. “I see something red in there. Want me to pull it out?”
He handed her the key.
A moment later, she was turning the red envelope, a twin to the one she’d received, over in her hands. “No stamp,” she remarked. “Probably water-sealed like the others, so I imagine DNA’s out. Barely legible scrawl on the back, same mistletoe on the front and—oh, well, but a much more succinct message than mine inside.”
Holding the Christmas card open with her gloved fingertips, she turned it so he could read the five words printed there in bold, bleeding red.
YOU DIE NEXT, JACOB KNIGHT!
