Mistletoe and Murder

Chapter Sixteen

Romana swore time stopped while they worked their way across the river, but in reality, it probably took less than fifteen minutes to reach their destination.

Jacob’s radio call from the station had carried the same message. An injured woman matching Fitz’s description had been discovered in the back of a bakery truck on the edge of Hyde Park.

Romana spied the truck’s outline through the snow. It was a large cube van with a happy-faced loaf of bread wearing a seasonal Santa hat painted on the side. She bolted from her seat almost before Jacob stopped.

“Let her go,” he called to the patrol officers.

“Fitz?” Romana hoisted herself into the back, knelt beside the rookie in attendance. “How bad?”

“I think she has a concussion. Her shoulder’s been cut, and she’s suffering from exposure. She lost a fair amount of blood, which is probably why she’s so pale. Her pulse is thready, but regular. Sorry, that’s the best I can do. Paramedics should be here soon. Traffic’s a bitch with all this snow.”

Romana touched Fitz’s cheek. It felt dangerously cold.

The van’s springs gave slightly as Jacob and a second officer climbed in. Jacob crouched beside her. “How is she?”

“Unconscious, but alive.”

“She was carrying a knife, sir,” the rookie said.

“Boning knife,” the older one elaborated. “Blood all over it, and her. The driver’s having kittens. Swears he didn’t know she was here until he started to unload the flat to our left. My guess is, she was running, saw the truck, hopped in and hid. Must’ve passed out afterward. I’ve got the route, but the guy’s made about thirty stops since this morning, so there’s no telling how long she’s been here. He covered her up and called it in as soon as he found her. I recognized her from the picture you and O’Keefe circulated.”

Blood had seeped through the gray wool blanket, but Romana thought it might be coming from Fitz’s clothes as she and they warmed up.

The older man gave the blanket a tug. “You can look if you like. She’s already been moved. The driver couldn’t get to her where she was holed up.”

Jacob glanced at the flats. “Where was that?”

“Show you.”

Jacob set a hand on Romana’s nape and his mouth next to her ear. “She’s strong, Romana. She’ll make it.”

“I know.” As carefully as she could, Romana drew the blanket back.

“She’s not wearing much,” the rookie noted. “But at least the sweatshirt’s big. Comes down way over her hips and hands.”

“Yes it does.” Fingering the fabric, Romana reached under Fitz’s good shoulder and eased the blanket completely free.

The rookie officer shifted his weight. “Shouldn’t you leave her covered?”

But Romana was diverted by the printing on the front of the sweatshirt. “University…” Careful not to disturb Fitz, she worked the blanket back a bit farther until the final word was exposed. “Oh, damn. Jacob?”

“What is it?” He appeared behind her.

“This isn’t Fitz’s sweatshirt. It’s huge, plus she hates college logos. She thinks they’re snotty.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. She didn’t go to college, and if she had, she wouldn’t have gone to one in Houston.” Romana’s eyes sparked with the memory of a recent conversation. “But I might know a man who did.”

JACOB MADE NO ATTEMPT TO STOP her from coming with him. He knew he should have, but truthfully, he wanted her where he could see her. Plus she’d had excellent aim with groin kicks. More than one Academy instructor who’d cockily told her to go for it had wound up writhing on the gym floor.

He cast her a sideways look as he maneuvered his SUV through the icy streets of Eden Park toward Patrick North’s home. “He might not have gone to college in Texas, Romana.”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, pulled on her hat. “He told me about his family in Houston when I talked to him in the park. Is O’Keefe meeting us there?”

“If he can. The snow’s causing accidents all over the city.”

“Don’t you just love December?” She rapped her fists on her knees. “Patrick loved Belinda, he told me that. Love spawns jealousy, which can spawn hatred and rage.” Her brow knit. “He never struck me as a rager. Can you hide a thing like that?”

“Some people can. Left or right?”

She double-checked the address. “Turn toward the river.”

And lose the siren, he decided, switching it off. “Ten minutes,” he promised and linked his fingers with hers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him.”

“One way or another,” she agreed. Then her eyes went wide and she sucked in a sharp breath.

He glimpsed it in his peripheral vision, a blue minivan sliding through the intersection at a forty-five-degree angle, out of control on the ice and heading directly for Romana’s side of the vehicle.

THE DOORBELL RANG. AND RANG. And rang. Patrick would have shot the thing, but he didn’t want to alert his neighbors to anything suspicious.

He tossed clothes in a suitcase. He’d lost too much time after Fitz had blindsided him. He thought he might have stabbed her. There’d been blood on the kitchen floor when he’d woken up, but was it hers or his? God knew, she’d succeeded in sticking him more than once.

Nothing life threatening, though. He’d deal with his wounds and worry about recovering once he was out of the city.

If only the damn doorbell would shut up.

He peeked through the upstairs window. There were no cars at the curb, no police lights flashing. Maybe it was the busybody woman next door, bringing him the fruitcake she’d insisted on delivering.

Okay, she could be trouble. Her brother was a retired State Trooper. Not good, and not worth the risk of ignoring. He dragged on a bathrobe, checked for blood in the mirror and went downstairs.

To his annoyance, the peephole showed a man. He started to turn away, but stopped, spun and shoved his eye back up to the hole.

Sweat coated his palms. No way. Not him, too. First Fitz had shown up-although she hadn’t actually figured out the truth so much as blundered in and caught him off guard-and now a second person.

This man had figured it out, though. Look at his face. Features set, mouth grim. He knew. He knew, and he wasn’t about to go away. Not with Patrick’s car sitting in the driveway and half the house lights burning.

Be calm, he ordered himself, then panicked and ran for his gun. Magazine snapped in place, hands steady, robe belted tight, he inhaled, turned the knob and opened the door.

The visitor kept his right hand in his coat pocket. Patrick kept his in his robe. Who’d be the faster draw, he wondered?

The man startled him by shouldering roughly past. “I need to talk to you, North. About Belinda.”

He withdrew his empty right hand. Patrick’s lashes fell slightly, but he kept his finger on the hidden trigger.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually.”

“This won’t take long.”

Bullets never did. But they made noise, and the busybody’s grandson was outside shoveling her driveway.

Patrick nodded forward. “Kitchen’s at the back of the house.”

His visitor grunted. “I’m starting to think maybe Jacob Knight didn’t murder Belinda, after all.”

“Really.” Patrick motioned again. “Kitchen, straight ahead. I’m right behind you.”

“We don’t need to sit for this.”

Muscles taut as piano wire, Patrick pulled his gun. “I think we do, Warren. Turn, walk and don’t try to be clever.” He twitched his injured left arm, pictured Fitz’s face as she’d launched herself at him. His lips thinned. “Just trust me when I tell you I’m in one hell of a crappy mood right now.”

“WE’RE ONLY GUESSING, ROMANA. Maybe North’s guilty, maybe he isn’t.” Catching her chin, Jacob gave her a hard kiss. “Stay behind me, and don’t offer him a target.”

Romana’s knees were still wobbly from the near miss at the intersection. Even twenty minutes later and recreating the incident in her head, she didn’t know how Jacob had avoided a collision with the minivan, because all the driver had done was cover his face and plow his foot down hard on the brakes.

Looking up and around, Jacob murmured, “I don’t see any lights. He could be gone.”

Romana pictured Fitz’s blood on the too-large college sweatshirt she’d been wearing. University of Houston. Patrick had been born in Houston. He’d admitted to being in love with Belinda. He’d also said she hadn’t loved him back.

The door swung inward when Jacob tried the knob. “On three,” he told her.

Romana angled her gun skyward and waited through the count.

No sound came from inside, only the sickly creak of hinges as the door rocked in the gusting wind.

Jacob swung into the foyer, made a half circle with his gun. Still nothing moved, and no sound emerged.

Was it a trap? Romana wished for light, but knew it was better this way. While darkness might hide Patrick, it also concealed their presence.

The college logo flashed like a neon sign in her head. Her conversation in the park echoed and overlapped. A sensation akin to hysteria tickled her chest. She could deal with that, but with the memory of Fitz, bloody and pale as death, not so much.

Five feet into the foyer, Romana detected a soft scrape. When she tapped Jacob’s arm, he nodded.

“Back there.”

She made out a doorway, black and imposing, twenty feet ahead, possibly a portal to death. But only if Patrick was lying in wait. On the other hand, if the knife Fitz had been clutching had hit its mark, the portal might simply lead them to a corpse.

“I smell food,” she whispered. “Old grease, chili spices, green peppers.”

“Blood,” Jacob added.

“I was trying not to notice that.”

“I know. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She double-handed her gun. When he kicked the door and hit the switch, she mirrored his swing across the threshold-and felt her stomach roll. “God, I hope some of this is chili sauce.”

Jacob straightened. “Probably most of it is.” He held out a hand to hold her back. “Cover me, okay? I want to see what’s behind the table.”

She took note of a long chain with a pair of handcuffs fastened to the end. The cuffs, a sleek, glossy black, were covered with spikes and looked totally kinky.

When Jacob swore, she forgot the cuffs and snapped her gun down. “Something?”

“It’s Critch.”

Shock led the emotional parade, with disbelief close on its heels. “Critch? Here? In Patrick’s house? Why?” Then she shook herself and skirted the table leg. “Is he alive?”

“Barely.”

Jacob shoved his gun into his waistband. Romana kept hers out as she reached into her pocket for her cell phone.

“Ambulance is coming,” she said, a minute later. “Was he shot or stabbed?”

“Shot in the stomach.”

Within the shadows to their left, a sudden flurry of footsteps erupted. A split second later, a round of bullets discharged. Before Jacob shoved her head down, Romana spied Patrick’s bone-white face framed by a door in the corner.

It had to be the basement door. She smelled the mold and mildew of a damp cellar. He must have run down there when they’d come in.

He stumbled toward the front of the house, firing blindly. His teeth were bared in a grimace, and the ratty bathrobe he wore had come untied. The belt dragged along behind him. Twin smears of blood stained his T-shirt with other, smaller spatters circling them.

“Stay with Critch,” Jacob told her.

“Jacob, I’m not going to sit and-” but he was gone before she finished “-do nothing,” she said to the air in his wake.

She started to stand and would have gone after him if Critch’s fingers hadn’t clamped like steel talons around her wrist. She let out a quick hiss of surprise before he yanked her back down-with far more strength than she would have anticipated.

“It was North,” he managed to whisper. “North killed her.”

“Yes, I know.” Romana pried ineffectively on his fingers. “Critch, you’re not helping here. Jacob’s gone after Patrick alone. If anything happens…” She set her teeth, rephrased. “He needs backup.”

The faintest of smiles played on Critch’s lips. “Not Knight. Damn good cop alone. He let me catch him-in the alley- just stood there and let me point my gun at him. Didn’t fight back, only spoke a few words. That had to mean I was right, didn’t it?”

Romana considered striking his hand with the butt end of her gun, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “Let go.” Even using her fingernails, she couldn’t pry her wrist free. “I don’t care how good a cop Jacob is, Patrick’s unstable, and that makes him doubly dangerous.”

“Tell me about it.” A wet laugh gurgled up. She glanced at the door, then back down at his sweat-pearled face. “Damn you.” Snatching a wad of paper napkins from the table, she pressed them to his stomach. “Why are you here?”

“Came to talk. North worked with Belinda. Thought he might know something.”

“About what?”

“I was so sure.” Critch’s eyelids fluttered. “So damn sure Knight did it. Had to be him. Had to be…”

She kept a firm pressure on his stomach. “Didn’t you ever think it might be someone else?”

He stared up at the ceiling now instead of at her. “Not at first. But after a while, it didn’t seem so cut-and-dried anymore. You spend time alone. You want it one way, but you start to doubt. Seeds blow around, get into your head. Mine were slow to take root, but time passed and…” He faded out.

“Critch!” Romana used a seat cushion to elevate his head. “Stay with me here. Did you have any idea what you were walking into tonight?”

He gave another burbling laugh. “Hell, no. Thought he might know something is all. People talk to coworkers. Pulled a gun before I even asked the question. No need for talk after that.”

“Did he tell you he murdered her?”

“Think so. Doesn’t matter. Truth’s out now.”

“It would have been nice if you’d gone looking for it a bit sooner.” She slapped his cheeks lightly to keep him conscious. “Come on, Critch. You’re tougher than a little bullet.”

But his eyes rolled back in his head, and his jaw went lax.

Outside, sirens wailed, both police and ambulance. Blood saturated the napkins and Critch’s breathing grew shallow.

Romana bent closer. “Critch, can you hear me?”

“Really cold,” he rasped.

“The paramedics are almost here. Just hang on, okay? Two more minutes.”

“You should want me dead.”

Did she? In spite of everything, Romana couldn’t wish for that. “You loved Belinda,” she said. “Love isn’t always logical. Mostly isn’t logical,” she amended and battled a shudder when she envisioned Jacob chasing down an injured killer. “Maybe a lot of us would snap under similar circumstances.”

Boots and wheels clattered into the foyer. “Back here,” she called to the rescue team. “Straight ahead, in the kitchen.”

Removing the sodden wad of napkins from Critch’s stomach, she pushed upright and reached for her gun. “You’ll be fine, Warren. Just keep breathing.”

The paramedics rolled a stretcher through the door. Romana backed up to make room. But Critch’s body gave a violent jerk, and once again, he snared her wrist.

“Critch, I have to move.”

“You don’t know,” he whispered. “The cards. I wasn’t sure at first, but every year, cards, threats.”

“Yes, I know. We got the Christmas cards, all six of them.”

“I didn’t want to see, or care. Really didn’t.”

“You need to give us space,” the paramedic growled. He looked big, mean and menacing.

“Trying to.” She twisted on her wrist. “It’s like he’s got hooks on his fingers.”

Mean and Menacing offered an unexpected grin as he hunkered down beside her. “They get strong sometimes when they think they might be heading for the tunnel. Maybe they figure holding on to someone will keep them from being sucked in.”

“Either that or they want company on the journey. Critch.” She tugged harder. “Critch, these people can’t help you unless I’m out of the way.”

The eyes that rolled back in his skull popped open to stare into hers. His breath rattled out. With his other hand, he made a grab for her coat. “Listen to me, Romana. The cards… I only sent four.”