Читать книгу Mistletoe and Murder - Jenna Ryan - Страница 10

Chapter Four

Jacob woke with a hiss and an image in his head that had him reaching for his gun before his eyes were fully open.

It was the same dream, always the same—his father shouting, his mother closing doors to keep the worst of it in.

Monsters under the bed had nothing on Jacob’s father in a rage. As a boy, he’d been willing to join the hidden demons so he wouldn’t have to hear what he knew would come next.

He remembered the way his heart had thudded. That helped block the sound. Beside him, Kermit sang in his silly frog voice. He thought it was good to be green. Jacob thought it was better to pretend.

The dream rolled forward. Morning came. Everything seemed fine, back to normal—except his mother wore a long-sleeved, high-necked shirt in mid-July, his father snarled into his coffee cup, and no one spoke, not even Jacob’s chatty Muppet frog.

Then the scene shifted. Cold crept in. Snow blanketed the ground. Jacob’s father dragged a Christmas tree inside through the garage. His mother watered it. She laughed because she had pine needles stuck in her hair when she emerged from under the low branches.

Jacob remembered her laugh most of all. It echoed in his head even as the atmosphere altered and his father entered the house.

He’d had a bad day, they saw it in his face. A police officer had died. The shooter had escaped. His father’s fists were clenched. So was his jaw.

Everything had turned red after that. Red smears on his mother’s face, long red streaks on his father’s hands, drops of red clinging to a Christmas candle beside the freshly watered tree.

It was the same red they’d found on Belinda’s body….

Swearing, Jacob fell back on the mattress and stared at the shadowy ceiling.

New shapes formed in the corners, indistinct people shuffling around in unknown places. Jacob felt his heart slamming, both then and now. Too late, he spied the silhouette behind him. He felt a slash of pain in his skull, remembered O’Keefe yelling, then—nothing.

Still staring upward, he worked the tense muscles in his jaw. He pictured Belinda Critch, a tall rangy blonde, not delicate in feature or demeanor, yet sensual in a way that drew men toward her and drove women away. No matter how he tried, though, Jacob couldn’t hold the shot. His mind kept changing it, refining the features, darkening the hair, softening the expression—and ultimately turning up the sex appeal by a good eighty-five percent.

Frustrated by his thoughts, he rolled from the bed. It was after 5:00 p.m., snowy, cold and, unfortunately, Sunday. He had no official work to do tonight, but he did have a file on his kitchen counter, copies of three recently delivered Christmas cards stuck to his fridge and a memory in his head from yesterday that had started with a kiss and ended with an aborted pageant rehearsal in the park.

The power had failed at the outdoor pond that served as a rink, so Romana hadn’t been able to watch her niece skate, although how a child of seven could be expected to do anything on ice when she was dressed up like a pink-and-white spotted elephant was beyond Jacob. He’d barely been able to stand on skates and hold a hockey stick at that age.

They’d try again tomorrow night, the deputy mayor’s wife had promised a small crowd of onlookers.

While coffee brewed and the radiator made ominous clunking sounds, Jacob paged through Belinda’s file. But, like his mental picture of her, the reports blurred; names and faces ran together. Romana’s winter-lake eyes stared up at him. Her mouth tempted him to taste. The scent of her hair and skin shot straight to his groin.

Losing it, he reflected and seesawed his head to loosen the muscles in his neck.

Someone had murdered Belinda. Did he want to find out who’d done it, or slap the file closed, take O’Keefe’s advice and head out to the airport?

A knock on his door prevented an answer, but if he was honest, he’d admit that New Zealand paled next to the prospect of spending time with Romana Grey. So really, he should be thinking airline ticket all the way, and leave O’Keefe to do what he could surely do better than his former partner to keep Romana safe.

Another knock. “Jacob?” Denny Leech’s raspy voice reached him. “You up yet?”

Jacob let his head drop back. She’d have her granddaughter in tow, he just knew it.

“Yeah, I’m up.”

He used the peephole out of habit, glimpsed a pink ball cap and a movement beside it. This should be uncomfortable.

It was the prolonged squelch of rubber on tile that alerted him. It sounded wrong. The thud that followed it was even more out of place.

The skin on Jacob’s neck prickled. “Denny?”

When she didn’t respond, he reached for his gun in its holster by the jamb. Twisting the latch, he sidestepped. With the barrel pointed upward, he kicked the door open—and stumbled as he swung onto the threshold.

A door clanged shut below. Jacob looked down, cursed, jammed his gun into the back of his waistband.

The leg that blocked his path belonged to his neighbor. His neighbor who was lying face up in a seeping pool of blood.

NINETY MINUTES LATER, ROMANA rushed into the crowded emergency room. She spotted Jacob through a sea of bodies and made her way over.

“How’s Denny?” she asked. From his expression, she suspected not good.

He stared past her at the treatment room. “Possible skull fracture and a concussion.” His expression was calm, but that was practiced, like his tone when he added, “Critch clubbed her from behind with a broken brick.”

Romana’s stomach pitched. Apparently prison hadn’t mellowed the man one bit. “How old is she?”

“Almost eighty.”

“Does she have a strong constitution?”

“I’d say so.”

A man in a wrist cast jostled Romana’s arm. With a sideways glance, she drew Jacob toward the water fountain. She wanted to remind him that this wasn’t his fault, but any solace she offered would go unheard. He’d blame himself for what had happened because he hadn’t gotten to Critch first.

“I assume the brick Critch used has been found.”

“In the alley, next to my front bumper.”

“Fingerprints would be nice,” she mused. “Or a strand of hair. But if it’s like the cards he sent, there won’t be anything to connect him to the crime. I don’t suppose you saw him.”

“No, only Denny.”

Romana wanted to touch his cheek, but Jacob simply didn’t invite that kind of contact. She settled for brushing the hair from his forehead. “You know, my grandmother’s in her late seventies, and she handled a concussion last year as if it were a scraped knee. She was up and riding her horses within a week. Totally against her doctor’s orders, but she insisted she knew her body’s limits better than a man she sees only once a year. Where’s Denny now?”

“They’re taking her upstairs.” He slid his gaze from the treatment room to her face. “You weren’t supposed to come here, Romana. I called so you’d make sure your door was bolted and alarmed, not go flying out into the night and possibly into Critch’s waiting hands.”

Romana studied his face. The strain of the past few hours showed most clearly in his eyes, but there was subtle evidence of it around his mouth and in the side of his jaw, where she saw a muscle tick.

Because she needed what he appeared not to, Romana flattened her palms on his chest. “You’ve done all you can here. Someone can call you if there’s any change in Denny’s condition.” She curled her fingers around his T-shirt and pulled. “Right now, you need to come to the park with me.”

He gave a disbelieving laugh, scanned the bustling corridor. “Are you on some kind of street drug, Romana?”

“No, I’m on some kind of mission to locate and capture Critch before he hurts another innocent bystander. Or better still—” tightening her grip, she forced him to look back at her “—to locate and apprehend the person who murdered his wife.”

“And you think we’re going to do one or both of those things in a public park?”

“No idea, Knight.” She stepped closer, partly to distract him and partly because a woman in a wheelchair was rolling past. “What I do know is that Belinda Critch was—I’ll be polite and say acquainted—with one James Barret. And my well-informed cousin Fitz told me this afternoon that, since his godchildren are part of it, Mr. Barret will likely be attending tonight’s pageant rehearsal.”