Читать книгу Mistletoe and Murder - Jenna Ryan - Страница 8

Chapter Two

“Be grateful he didn’t send you a kiss,” Romana said thirty minutes later. She ran her gaze over the face of a building that was as close to a safety hazard as city bylaws permitted. Tilting her head, she read the sign. “Taft House. I hope it wasn’t named for President Taft.”

“Aaron Taft.” Jacob angled his vehicle into a No Parking zone and cut the engine. “Aaron was a rich man with a wayward son. He believed the Y chromosome was responsible for all criminal tendencies.” At Romana’s skeptical sideways look, he reached over to tug up the zipper of her white coat. “Taft was born in 1871 and maintained the unshakeable belief that women were incapable of committing crimes. This house is strictly for men. Don’t expect pretty.”

“All I want to do is get in, see Critch and get out before this minor snowfall turns into a blizzard. You should flash your police lights,” she added as he adjusted his shoulder holster. “It’s procedure.”

“What, are you afraid I’ll get a ticket if I don’t identify myself?”

“Well, yeah, or get vandalized.”

“You academic types worry too much.”

“You homicide types take too much for granted. It’s your vehicle, Knight, but I’d flash.”

On the street, snow gusted over them in wind-whipped sheets. Romana brushed her hair back and drew her hood up. The faux fur tickled her cheeks; hardening snow pellets stung them. She let Jacob propel her through the crooked front door.

There wasn’t much to greet them: bare linoleum floors, gray-green walls and the tattered remains of a rush welcome mat. Someone, probably a well-meaning social worker, had draped a stingy string of garland over the entrance to the communal living area, and an already dry Christmas tree stood, poorly decorated, in the corner.

“Home sweet home.” Romana lowered her hood and loosened her coat. “At least it’s warm.” She caught Jacob’s stare and felt a swell of impatience. “If my mascara’s smudged, Knight, tell me. I’d rather hear about it than walk around looking like a Charles Dickens ghost.”

Still watching, he moved closer. His slow advance made the skin on her neck tingle and her stomach do a slow turn. “Are your eyes really that color, or do you wear contacts?”

“Ah.” Amused at her overreaction, she allowed a smile to bloom. “They’re mine. I’m a throwback to my great-grandmother Rostov. Mahogany hair and winter-lake eyes, or so my great-grandfather described her in the poems he wrote. He was a terrible poet, but he painted a portrait that I swear could be me. It’s a bit spooky, actually.”

“Winter-lake, huh?”

“My driver’s license says blue. Is anyone here?” she called out. She waited a beat, then added, “Police.”

Returning to the threshold, Jacob glanced down the hall. “I could cite you for impersonating an officer, Romana.”

“I was hoping to attract someone’s attention. Oh…hello.” She spied a man whose whiskers reached halfway down his chest. He was huddled in a lopsided chair, studying her intently. “I’m Romana Grey. Do you live here?”

He completed his head-to-toe scrutiny. “You don’t look like police.”

“Well, I am. I was.” She pointed to the door. “He is. Is there someone in charge we can speak to?”

“Bevin.” The old man watched Jacob leave the door. “He’s doing a bed check. Gotta be in by nine. I stay down here to catch the stragglers.”

“And get a mickey of whiskey for your effort,” Jacob said in an undertone. The old man didn’t hear him. Romana did and jabbed his ribs.

“Do you know a man named Warren Critch?” she asked.

“Met him once. Don’t expect to again. This’ll be the second night his bed’s been empty.”

“Broken the terms of his parole already, huh?” Somehow, Romana wasn’t surprised.

The old man shrugged. “He spent Wednesday night here. Had to. But when I saw him leaving with his gear yesterday morning, I said to myself, this one’s gonna skip. Sure enough, he did. Bevin’s mad as a hornet.”

“Has he reported it?”

“Don’t know. It’s a blot on his record, so maybe not. You wanna talk to him, go upstairs, but that pretty face of yours’ll only make him madder.” The old man showed a set of chipped, brown teeth. “The pretty ones never paid Bevin much mind. Stuck in his craw—like losing Critch is gonna do.”

Romana turned to Jacob. “I’m okay with avoiding him. How about you? You and O’Keefe can get us the answers we need.”

“Horse’s mouth is faster.” Jacob gave the door frame a contemplative tap. “Five minutes upstairs, and we’re out of here.”

Romana debated but let him go without an argument. “Blue Christmas” drifted into the room. She perched on the arm of a second chair and removed her gloves finger by finger. “Who’s the Elvis fan?”

A smile split the old man’s whiskered face. “Pretty lady who’s not a cop, have I got a story for you.”

“ONE ELVIS IMPERSONATOR KNIFED another Elvis impersonator over a woman they were both dating. Didn’t mean to kill him, but he was a little drunk, and he had a temper. Evidently, this stabbing took place outside the restaurant where both men worked as singing waiters.” Romana had forgotten how weird the world could be from a street cop’s perspective. “It happened right here in Cincinnati, Jacob. How could I have missed it?”

“The Doran case,” was all he said.

She didn’t have to think about that name. “The guy who went postal six years ago, shot five of his coworkers in the office lunchroom, then went upstairs and killed his boss.”

“Before finally offing himself.”

“His coworkers earned more money than he did. Boss was responsible. Bang, bang, everyone’s dead, and we’re back to an even beginning.”

“Or ending.”

She ran chilled fingers through her snow-dampened hair. “You have an awfully gloomy perspective, Jacob. Still, any way you look at it, media-wise, Doran’s crime would take precedence over the death of a drunk Elvis impersonator.”

In retrospect, she supposed it might also have taken precedence over the investigation into Belinda Critch’s death, which had occurred a mere two weeks later.

Opinion within the department had been divided on the Critch case. Some people believed that Warren Critch had murdered Belinda, others thought one of her lovers had done it. And, of course, an ungracious few had pointed the finger of guilt at Jacob.

Unfortunately, the forensic evidence had been negligible, and the crime scene investigators hadn’t done much better.

Throughout the holiday season that year, seven major homicides had been committed. Doran’s rampage had been the biggest bloodbath. Media attention had remained focused on him even in the wake of Belinda Critch’s death. Naturally, the department had downplayed any suggestion of internal impropriety and, by Valentine’s Day, interest in her case had dropped to zero.

Romana looked over, but Jacob kept his eyes on the increasingly slick street. He drove one-handed, and with his elbow resting on the door frame, ran the fingers of the other under his lower lip.

Silence stretched out between them. She raised a speculative eyebrow. “Are you awake, Detective Knight?”

He glanced at her. “Sorry. I’m used to riding alone.”

She couldn’t resist. “Why no partner?”

“I’m better alone.”

It was an answer of sorts, though not an encouraging one. When he reached out to turn up the heater, Romana welcomed the warmth on her face and hands. “I’m not sitting here comparing you to Doran, you know.”

“Because you’re absolutely certain I didn’t murder Belinda Critch.”

“You said you didn’t, and I believe you.”

Now he smiled. “Bull.”

Her temper stirred. “If I thought you were guilty, Knight, I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

“Where would you be?”

“I might be grading papers.” But probably not because the first term was over and the second didn’t start until January. “I might also be having dinner with Sean—or Brendan, or Anthony. With one of my brothers, anyway.”

A crease formed between Jacob’s eyes. “How many brothers do you have?”

“Six, all older than me. They’ve given me eleven nephews and one niece named Teresa. My oldest brother’s an engineer. He and his wife lived in Chile for a while. When they came back, they brought two-year-old Teresa with them. She was an orphan, very sweet, and, because females are rare in our family, completely spoiled.”

“Are you spoiled, too, Romana?”

“By my parents and my mother’s very Irish parents, yes. By my father’s mother, no. I’m Grandma Grey’s namesake, and she’s one tough cookie. She raises thoroughbreds in Kentucky. She’s putting one in the Derby next year. I have a great deal to live up to, in her eyes.”

“In what way?”

“Top of the list, I’m obliged to bear another namesake. My brother, Brendan, hoping to ease the pressure on me, named his first son Roman, but it didn’t work. Grandma Grey wants a girl. She came from a completely male-dominated world, and she’s hell-bent on flipping the status quo.”

“Huh. How did Grandma Grey feel about you becoming a cop?”

“Oh, she was fine with that. Didn’t agree with my college-age marriage, but she helped me get through the divorce and the repercussions of Connor’s unlawful activities relatively unscathed.”

“How did your ex come out of it?”

“The way a Hanson always does, with only a few surface scratches, and a huge family debt, which he’ll pay for the rest of his life.”

“You don’t sound very sympathetic.”

“I don’t, do I? But I’m not as resentful as you might think.” She played with the fingers of her white gloves. “It seemed like everything came to a head six years ago. Belinda Critch died and her husband tried to kill you. Connor’s crimes were discovered, the hospital and the police department were simultaneously roasted in the press, I started to realize that being a cop wasn’t what I wanted, and on and on and on. Before Critch even went to prison, I realized I couldn’t shut off my emotions, and I couldn’t push them down far enough on a daily basis to be a really effective officer. So I sat down and thought.”

“About your marriage or your career?”

“Both. I shouldn’t have married Connor, I knew that almost before the ceremony ended. But I was eighteen, and he was twenty-seven, and our mothers were college roommates, so I’ve known him for pretty much my whole life.”

“And he was charming and handsome, and he swept you off your feet.”

“This is my fairy tale, Knight. I’ll draw the characters.”

“But he was charming.”

“To an eighteen-year-old, yes. He was also handsome and insecure and a lot angrier than I realized.”

“Angry at his family?”

“Cigar’s yours, Detective. Getting back on track, I thought about the decisions I’d made, both marital and career. I even made a pro/con list. Topping the pro list was the fact that I’d graduated from high school at sixteen, so I already had three years of college under my belt when I entered the Academy. Long story short, after a visit to Grandma Grey’s Kentucky ranch and a couple of really gruesome CSIs, I decided to go back to school. Now I teach kids rather than arrest them. So you see, it all turned out well in the end.”

“You like teaching, huh?”

“Love it.” She cocked her head, sent him a grin. “As it happens, I’m also good at it. When my parents moved to Boston two years ago, my father wanted me to come with them and work there. But I grew up in Cincinnati, five of my brothers are here, and I just plain enjoy the city. End of the Romana Grey story.” She let a teasing light enter her eyes. “That was a lot to say, Knight, even for me. Now I know you’re not a talker, but play fair, and tell me one small thing about your life. Anything will do, even your favorite color.”

When he braked for a red light, Jacob regarded a twinkling Christmas logo on the delivery truck ahead. “Belinda and I were involved for three months twelve years ago. It ended before she married Critch. The goodbyes were mutual.”

Surprised he’d taken that direction, Romana offered a casual, “Obviously you stayed friends.”

“We were never friends.”

“Then why did…?” She waved a glove. “Sorry, not my business.”

“And that’s going to stop you from asking?”

“I don’t pry. Well, not much.”

“Prying’s what we do.”

“Not on a personal level. I’ve always been fastidious about separating my career from my private life.” She summoned a sweet smile. “What did Critch’s parole officer have to say?”

His stare seemed to reach right into her head. When amusement tickled her throat, Romana went with it and gave her drying hair a final fluff.

“Weapons down, Knight. We’re not fighting a duel. This is a third-party threat, directed at both of us. My guess is Critch plans to pull the trigger on the twenty-first.”

“Don’t count on that.”

“Why not? It’s logical. That’s when his wife was killed.”

“And what he’ll expect us to think.” Jacob glanced in the rearview mirror. “Snow’s getting heavier. To answer your question, Critch’s parole officer is pissed off as hell that he’s lost one of his charges. He said he was going to report Critch in the morning. He did it tonight instead.”

Romana laughed. “You have such a persuasive way about you, Detective. Does he have any idea where Critch might be?”

“None that I could persuade him to share.”

“So we’re down to Critch’s family, his friends, maybe his teaching cronies.”

“And his theater buddies.”

“Critch was an actor?” She tried to form the image, but no matter how she sketched it, she couldn’t picture the lanky chemistry teacher with his sandy-blond hair and semirugged features on a stage. “I thought he was into nature and weird experiments. I read that he had an extensive lab in his basement.”

“Science lab in the basement, costume storage in the garage.”

“Huh. What kind of theater?”

“Local amateur stuff. I imagine Belinda got him into it. She belonged to a community arts club.”

“Really. That sounds so Rob and Laura Petrie, so suburban and, I don’t know, happy, I suppose.”

“Maybe they were happy.”

“Then why did she…?” The question that had almost slipped out earlier came close to slipping out again. With a sigh for the quirk of his lips, she finished it. “Okay, I’ll pry. Why did Belinda want to meet with you two days before she died? You weren’t friends, she might have been happy with her husband. What did she want from you?”

Jacob checked the mirror again. “She said she was being stalked.”

“I take it she didn’t know by whom.”

“She said she didn’t. That could have been the truth. Belinda flirted with men.” At her silent look, he added, “All men, Romana, not just your ex.”

“Go in another direction, okay? Belinda was being stalked. Could it have been by her husband?”

“It could have been by any number of people, with names known only to Belinda. She wouldn’t give me anything specific. She simply wanted to know how to obtain a restraining order.”

“And after you told her, she… What is it, Jacob?” Romana demanded when his eyes strayed to the mirror for a third time. “Is someone tailing us?”

“For the past two miles.”

“And you’re only telling me about it now?” She zeroed in on the headlights behind them. “So that’s why we’re zigzagging all over the city core.” She tried to gauge the distance, but it was difficult with the heavy snowfall. “I think he’s closing in.”

Jacob turned left, away from the busy downtown streets, toward Riverview Park. The vehicle behind them made the same turn.

They wove a path into an older part of the city. Tall, thin houses seemed to sprout straight out of the white-coated ground. Many of the windows were dark, a few were boarded up. Romana counted five Christmas trees in total, plus a trio of inflatable snowmen rocking in the wind.

In the middle of the street, a woman pulling a toboggan piled high with bags walked against the wind. Jacob swerved to avoid both her and a parked car. At the last minute, so did the vehicle behind them.

“I’m not sure playing cat and mouse is the best idea here, Knight.” Romana scanned the dash. “What’s your dispatch number?”

“Ninety-one-Vector.”

She would have called it in if he hadn’t reached over and removed the radio from her hand. “No backup, okay? Let’s keep this unofficial.” When she started to argue, he added an even, “Like you are.”

She blinked, drew her hand back. For a single, unguarded moment, she’d slapped on her old hat, the one she’d packed away after a few short years on the force, a painful personal evaluation and a brief struggle with guilt.

Still amazed by the easy switch, she refocused on their pursuer. “He’s pulled to within thirty feet.”

“He’s also using his high beams.” Jacob squinted into the mirror. “Can you make out the vehicle type?”

“I think it’s a GM off-road. Dark color. No front plates. And either he’s speeding up or you’re slowing down, because he’s ten feet off your back bumper.”

As she spoke, the truck’s engine revved. The vehicle leaped forward, rammed into Jacob’s SUV, backed off and prepared to charge again.

“This is ridiculously predictable.” Romana fought a ripple of fear with irritation.

After another solid hit, Jacob unsnapped his holster. “Can you shoot out a front tire?”

“Yes, but that’ll make things pretty official.”

He handed her his gun. “Just don’t kill him.”

Lowering the window, she braced her left knee on the seat and waited for the truck to close again. “You’d think a guy who’d spent most of his youth in the Amazon jungle would be a bit more inventive, wouldn’t you?”

Jacob checked the side mirrors. “Whatever works, Romana.”

She started to lean out but was suddenly jerked sideways as Jacob swerved yet again. Unanchored, she toppled into his arm, and almost into his lap.

“Jacob, what are you…”

“Civilians.”

She pulled herself upright. Shoving the hair from her eyes, she peered through the snow until she spotted a pair of men in baggy parkas. They were carrying lunch boxes and holding their hoods up with their free hands.

Behind her, the truck’s engine roared again. Snow spat out from under all four tires.

With her rib cage pressed to the door, Romana stuck her head and hands through the window, took aim and fired.

The truck immediately skidded sideways, struck a mailbox and spun in a wild half circle.

The engine subsided for a moment, then gave a growl like an enraged bull. More streams of snow shot upward. The back end of the truck fishtailed before gaining traction. With the front bumper now pointed toward the city, it bounced across a corner lot and vanished into the darkness.

Jacob reversed.

“Wait.” Romana caught his arm. “Critch knocked the mailbox onto one of those men.”

Clearly frustrated, he watched the taillights fade.

She hopped out and ran to the sidewalk where the second man kneeled next to his friend. “Are you hurt?”

“Foot’s caught.” The pinned man’s breath whooshed out. “Was that guy playing chicken with you?”

“In a way.” Going to her knees, Romana examined his trapped foot. “There’s a cushion of snow under your ankle. It might have prevented a break.”

“We should call the police.” The man’s friend fumbled for his cell phone. “That guy was a nutcase.”

“It’s covered.” Jacob revealed the badge on his waistband. Crouching, he snagged the top corner of the box. “On three,” he said to Romana.

Within seconds, the trapped man was free. He flexed his foot. “Feels okay,” he said in relief. He frowned at Jacob. “Don’t chases involving the police usually work the other way round? You go after him?”

“Guy’s a nutcase,” his friend repeated. “He started shouting when his tire blew. I didn’t catch all of it, but I heard the last part clear enough.”

She didn’t want to know, Romana told herself. Really didn’t want to know. “Can you tell us what he said?” she asked.

“Yeah, he said this was the first threat. How many more you get depends on how he feels. But the real thing’s coming, and when it does, it’s gonna make you real dead. Then he spun his tires and yelled, ‘Merry Christmas, murderers.’”

IT WAS DONE, ANOTHER THREAT had been delivered. Damn, but he felt good.

He knew when he wanted to do it; the gray area remained the manner of their execution.

He’d been working on his plan of revenge for years, since before those prison doors had clanged shut. He’d created and re-created Christmas cards for both of them, constructed and deconstructed a thousand bloody scenarios. He’d visualized them in death. He’d pictured himself placing mistletoe on their graves.

Whatever else he did, however it went down, mistletoe would be included in the killings, because mistletoe leaves had been scattered around Belinda’s cold body.

Could you strangle a person with it? He didn’t think so. Stab a rough sprig through a frantically beating heart? Probably not.

He pictured Romana Grey. She had a dazzling face, and, he suspected, an equally amazing body. Another time and place…

No, he wouldn’t think like that. Couldn’t. He was going to kill her. Knight would watch, then he would die. Revenge complete, all wrapped up like the perfect Christmas present.

It would be perfect, too, because no matter how long and hard the authorities searched afterward, they wouldn’t find their man. Warren Critch knew the Amazon basin as well as anyone alive. He wasn’t about to be captured.

A dark Christmas song dribbled out of the radio. Sadly, he couldn’t run Romana and Jacob over with a reindeer—he’d have enjoyed that—but he could shoot them. And with something other than bullets.

Ah, yes, now there was a tantalizing prospect. He wouldn’t implement it too soon, of course. They needed to suffer first as Belinda had, but in time, in time…

Smiling, he picked up a handful of darts and began launching them at the wall. The first one struck Jacob Knight in the throat, the second got Romana Grey below her lovely left breast.

His smile widened. Killing them was going to be worth the six-year wait.