Mistletoe and Murder

Chapter Thirteen

It was close to 3:00 a.m. by the time Jacob remembered, barely, to check in with the desk sergeant. Tying up loose ends was what he told her. Tying himself in emotional knots would have been closer to the truth.

If he loved Romana, and he might, he wasn’t ready to admit it yet. Not to her and certainly not to himself.

“Your father loves me, honey,” his mother used to whisper. “He loves you, too, he does. He just doesn’t always show it right. He has such a difficult job…”

Did that mean all police officers hit their wives? Even as a child, Jacob had had his doubts.

He hadn’t wanted to become a cop-no way, anything but. And yet there he’d stood after two short years of college, reading the forms, filling them out, wondering what kind of perverted inner demon was driving him to do this.

Eighteen years later, he still hadn’t figured it out.

He’d survived the training, done the job, climbed the ladder. There was more waiting for him, a great deal more if he wanted it. Harris had been trying to push him to the next rung for the past two years.

To the same rank his father had achieved before he’d lost it.

The clock chimed twice in the square below. That would make it three-thirty. He should be out there now, following leads, talking to informants, picking apart airtight alibis. Instead, he was sitting in an ancient armchair with his feet propped up on a wine crate, drinking merlot, staring at the city lights and trying very hard not to think about the woman curled up in the bed behind him.

They’d had sex, they hadn’t made love. He couldn’t accept anything so vast yet. The word overwhelmed him. As for the feeling, well…

He drank more merlot, heard a whisper of sound and set his head on the back of the chair. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. Now I’m awake.”

She stayed on the bed, and it took every scrap of Jacob’s restraint not to turn around. Seeing Romana naked had fired a need inside that he hadn’t realized existed. And the firing had been nothing more than a point of commencement.

He raised the bottle. “I have wine.”

“Yes, I see that.”

She didn’t sound angry, but then she wouldn’t be. Curious maybe, a little guarded and certainly intrigued, but not upset.

Reluctant amusement tugged on his lips. “You’re going to use silence to make me talk, aren’t you?”

When the bed creaked, desire turned lethal. “Actually,” she said, “I’m hoping the wine will do that for me.” He caught the deliberate shrug in her tone. “Or we could have more sex. Your choice.” Her fingers slid through his hair. “You can talk to me or not, just feed my female vanity and make me believe you want me. Again.”

Okay, he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t drunk and he sure as hell wasn’t made of stone.

Whipping a hand around, he tumbled her into his lap.

He wore only his jeans. She wore nothing but skin, and miles of dark, silky hair.

Brushing it from her face, he let his gaze roam over her features. “I want you, you know I do. I’ve shown you twice already.”

“Guess that makes me a glutton, then.” She bit his earlobe. “Whatever it makes me, show me again.”

She might be a glutton, he reflected, capturing her mouth in a hot, wicked kiss, but only for punishment. He just prayed he wouldn’t be the one meting it out.

When he raised his head, she sighed. “You’re so sure you’re going to hurt me, aren’t you, when I’ve already gone way past believing that’s possible.”

His lashes fell to shield his eyes. “How do you know…”

She stopped him with a kiss. “Later, okay? I want you, and I think,” she wriggled against him, “you want me.” Her eyes sparkled in the soft glow from the street. “Third time’s lucky, Detective Knight.”

“O’KEEFE DIDN’T SAY A WORD.” Romana held up her right hand. “I swear. All he talked about was you and Canter as rookie officers-bet you were cute in uniform-and how much he misses his daughter.”

Jacob shook the last drops of wine into her glass. “So you’re telepathic, then?”

“I wish, but, no, not that either.” Reaching over, she tapped a finger to his mouth and stage-whispered, “You talk in your sleep.”

He stared for several incredulous seconds. “Are you serious?”

She sat back, dipped that same finger in her wine. “For once, I am. You mumbled things about-well, about your father, I guess. And your mother. I’m sure about her. You loved her.”

“I sure as hell didn’t love him.”

“Grew not to love him would be my take.”

“Same thing in the end.”

He looked out the window. Broody, unapproachable- maybe it was time she said something, pried just a little.

Wearing only his T-shirt, she curled her legs on the rug in front of him and set an arm on the wine crate. “You look out, Jacob, at other people and their lives. But how often do you look in? You’re not your father. You’re not your mother or your grandparents or some barbaric ancestor. You’re you. You’re what you’ve made of yourself. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in my family, including Grandma Grey, swears I’m the reincarnation of her mother.”

“The one with the winter-lake eyes?”

“That’s her. But you know what? I’m not her, and no one’s going to convince me I am.”

“You don’t believe in reincarnation?”

“I’m open to the possibility. But in the case of my great-grandmother Rostov, she was alive when I was born. So it wouldn’t be reincarnation so much as spiritual possession, and, whether by a good spirit or an evil one, I absolutely will not buy into that. I am who I am, you are who you are, and I’m really, truly sorry for what you must have gone through as a child.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He glanced into his wineglass, then back up at her. “I could have killed her. It’s possible.”

He wasn’t talking about his mother. Romana’s heart gave a tiny stutter that settled the second she felt it. “You can’t account for your whereabouts at the time of Belinda Critch’s death, is that right?”

“I was on duty. It was one of my first night shifts.”

“What part of the night don’t you remember?”

“About half of it. O’Keefe and I were partners back then, but as you know, partners don’t spend every minute of their shift together.” “You separated.” She rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers and thumb. “When? What time?”

“Close to midnight. O’Keefe had personal business to take care of. Problems with his wife. He went home. I went looking for Durphey-an informant.”

“I’ve heard the name. Did you find him?” “Yeah, I found him, around 1:00 a.m.” “The medical examiner pinpointed Belinda’s death between

1:00 and 4:00 a.m. How long were you with Durphey?” “Ninety minutes.” Amusement sparked. “That long? With someone who smells like a sewer and drools when he speaks?” “The drooling’s an act. Keeps people at arm’s length.” “The sewer smell would do that no problem. He must have had some valuable information to impart.” “He did. We spent most of those ninety minutes in a dockside warehouse, searching for an outgoing shipment.” “Of drugs?” “Homicide division,” he reminded her. “You were searching for a corpse?” “Two. Drug related. They weren’t there.” “So you split at the warehouse?” “He left, I stayed, searched a bit longer. I remember lighting a cigarette, looking at the moon, then-nothing.”

“Well, okay, hmm. So from, say, 2:30 to 4:00 a.m. you don’t know where you were or what you did. When did you-” she rocked her hand back and forth “-wake up, so to speak?”

“Dawn.” His features darkened as his mind traveled back. “It was starting to snow. I woke up in my car-literally woke up, so I must have been asleep.”

“Where were you?” When he didn’t answer, Romana tapped his leg. “Where, Jacob?”

“Three houses away from O’Keefe’s place, parked by the curb.”

“Did you go inside?”

“I used my cell to call first. There was no answer, so I went to McDonald’s and had breakfast. I heard about Belinda after I checked in with Harris. O’Keefe was in the captain’s office when I got to the station. They said Critch was freaking in his holding cell, accusing me of killing his wife. He kept screaming that I’d done it and they should have let him shoot me when he had the chance.”

“They meaning me.”

“And so began the Christmas card parade.”

Romana’s brow knit. “That’s right, the cards. I’d almost forgotten about those. Carefully worded portents of doom. Until the last one. Well-or actually no, the one before it was quite vicious as well.”

The ghost of a smile appeared. “Prison guards get complacent after a while. Critch was a model prisoner. They’d have stopped checking his outgoing mail after the first few years. He’d have known that and reacted accordingly.”

With an elbow propped on the wine crate, Romana slid her fingers through her hair. “So, going back to the morning after, no one could vouch for you except an informant whose testimony wouldn’t have been worth anything anyway. You didn’t see O’Keefe after the two of you separated, or you wouldn’t have woken up in your car. Critch was behind bars at the time, so he didn’t kill her. Where was Barret?”

“At home, asleep, he said.”

“And Shera?”

“Couldn’t alibi him because she was in Columbus at her sister’s place, working out the details for an upcoming family reunion. Allegedly.”

Romana opened her mouth, but at his last word, closed it again. “What do you mean? Was Shera in Columbus or not?”

“Her sister says she was.”

Romana tipped her head for a better view of his shadowed face. “And you think what? That her sister’s covering for her?”

“It’s possible.”

“Most things are, but why this particular thing? Come on, what do you know that you’re not sharing?”

“A tip I got tonight.”

“From Canter?”

Again that ghost of a smile. “Source isn’t important. I talked to Shera Barret’s sister earlier tonight. She lives in Cincinnati now. She admitted that Shera went to bed with a migraine at 6:00 p.m. the night before Belinda Critch died. She didn’t come out of her bedroom the next morning, and her sister, knowing what migraines are like, didn’t disturb her. She went to work as usual and came home to a note Shera had left on the nightstand. It said she had to go back to Cincinnati, and she’d call soon.”

“Did she call?”

“The sister doesn’t know. She left on a buying trip to Mexico that evening. When she got back after Christmas, she was in the middle of a business war and never thought to ask Shera for an explanation.”

“Well, that’s convenient. Doesn’t mean Shera had anything to do with Belinda’s death, but it sounds like the opportunity was there.” A shrewd eyebrow went up. “Was it? Did your tipster say?”

“Yeah, he said.” Jacob’s gaze slid to the window. “Five days after Christmas, the investigating officer received a phone call and the offer of a substantial amount of money if he’d be willing to make the case go away. Whether the call was intended to protect her husband or the caller herself, he didn’t know. But it was made by Shera Barret.”

ROMANA KNEW THERE WAS MORE to the Gary Canter story than Jacob was telling, but since it didn’t appear to relate to the Belinda Critch investigation, she didn’t press for details. He’d tell her what he wanted to when he wanted to. It was Jacob’s custom to hold back and hers not to push. Which might, she reflected, be the reason she hadn’t been the most effective officer on the Cincinnati force.

In any case, the night had been incredible. So had the sex. Better than incredible-it had overwhelmed and, if she was honest, been more of a revelation than she was prepared to handle right now.

Her marriage had left holes in her self-esteem, had burst bubbles of hope and allowed doubt to creep in and take root. Even Grandma Grey’s unwavering support hadn’t managed to offset all the damage. And reflecting on cause and effect hadn’t been high on Romana’s to-do list. Until now.

“Really missing you, Fitz,” she said to the ceiling of her condo. “Please be safe. Please, let me find a way to find you.”

She wished she could go out and search tonight, but it was almost eight o’clock and the police/forensics party would be getting underway in a few minutes. Rushton Hall had been rented and seasonally decked out. It wasn’t a black tie affair, but that wouldn’t stop the partygoers from dressing up in their holiday finest, especially the females, who tended to wear uniforms or lab coats on a daily basis.

The intercom buzzed at 8:02. Not bad, Knight, she thought, and added an extra dab of perfume to her wrist.

The phone rang before she reached the security monitor. She picked up en route.

“It’s me.” Jacob’s voice reached her over a static-filled line. “I’m stuck in traffic.”

“And here I was complimenting you on your prompt arrival.” She switched on the security monitor. “How long?”

“Twenty minutes. We’ll be fashionably late.”

“It never hurts to be-” Romana stared at the image on screen “-late.” Icy fingers of dread skated down her spine. “Damn.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Well, something, but you don’t need to use your siren. Someone buzzed me just as you phoned.”

“And?”

“There’s no one in the lobby. All I see is an envelope taped to the wall. It might have my name on it.” She finished the sentence with a sigh. “You’re using the siren, aren’t you?”

“Five minutes,” he told her. “Don’t leave your apartment.”

SHE HELD OUT FOR THREE of those minutes, but when she heard old Mr. Hastings across the hall preparing to leave for his Saturday night poker game, she rushed out to intercept him.

“Oh, my, don’t you look lovely, young Romanov.” His blue eyes twinkled, and he tapped a gnarled finger to his cheek. “Give us a peck for luck. I’ve got sixteen grand and seven great-grandchildren to buy for this year.”

“I’ll do better than that.” She gave him two quick kisses, hooked her arm through his. “I’ll walk you down.”

“Appreciate it. Cane gets tangled in my feet. Where are you off to tonight? Wedding?”

An eyebrow winged up. “In a black spaghetti-strap dress?”

“My great-granddaughter wears black everywhere she goes. Says it’s the in thing. I say she looks like Morticia.”

“Goth,” Romana said and hoped the elevator would take its time arriving. “How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

“It’s probably a look more than a mindset at that age.” The door swished open, and with a subtle shift, she positioned herself in front of him.

Nothing and no one leaped out.

“So far, so good.”

“Beg pardon?”

She smiled, loaded him in and managed to hit all the floor buttons while he steadied himself. “Your Tennessee roots are showing, Mr. Hastings. Cincinnatians say, ‘Please.’”

“I say that when I ask someone to pass the salt.” He swiveled his head back and forth as the door opened on the floor below. “Huh. Don’t see anyone.”

Romana glanced at the lighted panel. Would Critch be waiting in the lobby or, having delivered his message, would he have vanished into the darkness?

“You sure do look pretty tonight. You know, you should be married with children and far too busy to be helping an eighty-nine-year-old man to the curb.”

He was ninety-seven by the lowest building estimate, and if Critch tried to hurt him, he wouldn’t be walking upright for a very long time.

Three more floors, three more open doors, no more passengers.

“Must be a malfunction in the panel,” Mr. Hastings decided. “I’ll have a chat with the electrician.”

Beside him, Romana watched the numbers. When the doors opened to an empty lobby, she breathed out and helped the old man over the ledge. Even so, he stumbled slightly. His cane whacked the wall, and fell to the floor with a clatter.

Which was probably why she missed the footsteps.

But she spied the shadow in her peripheral vision.

Tightening her grip on Mr. Hastings’s arm, she whipped the gun she’d had hidden behind her back up and out to the side.

“One more step, Critch,” she warned softly, “and you’re a dead man.”

JACOB BELIEVED HER. TOTALLY. He might have been able to disarm her since she was propping up an ancient man in a plaid overcoat, but he didn’t want to test her.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. The moment she realized her mistake, she lowered the gun.

“You owe me five years, Knight.”

He held his hands out to the sides, palms up. “I just came around the corner. You’re the one with the gun.”

She turned a dazzling smile on the old man. “Is your ride here, Mr. Hastings?”

He flapped a hand at the curb, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. “I never knew you were armed, young Romanov, and I was a corpsman in World War Two. Could’ve used you back then for sure.You didn’t even look at him, yet you pointed that gun of yours right between his eyes. Didn’t she, young man?”

“Right between,” Jacob agreed. He noticed the envelope taped to the wall across from the security monitor. There was no doorman in evidence tonight, so either the entrance lock had failed or someone had let Critch into the building.

Romana propelled the old man forward by his elbows. “Your taxi’s waiting, Mr. Hastings. Win lots of gift money.”

She waited until the taxi door slammed before whirling to confront Jacob.

“You scared the hell out of me. How did you get in?”

“A woman with a dachshund let me in. I was checking out the utility room when the elevator door opened.” He closed the gap between them, his eyes steady on hers. “You look gorgeous tonight, Professor Grey.”

Her lashes veiled her eyes as she cocked her head. “Back at ’cha, Detective Knight.” A tiny tapping sound behind her brought a sigh. “Envelope came unstuck, didn’t it?”

Catching her chin, Jacob gave her a quick kiss. “Gun,” he said and, drawing his own, went to retrieve the fallen message.

“The envelope’s white instead of red this time,” Romana noted. “And the printing’s different. It’s-neater.”

Jacob lifted the flap, removed the plain white card inside. Tilting it down with her gun barrel, Romana read,

I give you this gift, Romana Grey:

Warren Critch is not your only foe.

Fear more the person who did the deed.

Fear more still the madness in control…