Mistletoe and Murder

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.”

“IF CRITCH’LL ATTACK AN OLD woman-an uninvolved old woman-he’ll attack anyone.” Jacob threaded his way through traffic on the busy streets of Mount Adams. “Anyone, Romana, any age.”

“Thank you, I realize that.”And it brought a chill to her skin thinking about it. “Fortunately, my niece had to pull out of the pageant. She tripped over a toy truck and sprained her ankle.” Romana stared through the window at the decorated houses they passed. “The city looks so festive right now, doesn’t it? Pretty lights, Christmas music. I swear I can even smell chestnuts roasting in the park. And yet your neighbor’s in a hospital bed, I’m glad my niece hurt her ankle, and I’m trying to think up an excuse not to go anywhere near Fitz tonight.”

Jacob located a parking spot on the edge of the makeshift lot. Directly across from them, on the far side of the pond, a high school band played “Holly Jolly Christmas.” He watched them as he spoke. “I can talk to Barret on police time if it makes you more comfortable.”

“It doesn’t.” She pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, a striking contrast to her long red coat. “I’m not going to let Critch win, I just don’t want anyone I know to get hurt. Having said that, I still think our best plan to stop him is to figure out who murdered his wife.”

“While we do or don’t search for him?”

Resolved, she slid from her seat and slammed the door. “Eggs in more than one basket, Knight. We search for both of them.”

He set his arms on the hood. “I hate to remind you, Romana, but you’re not a cop these days. You shouldn’t be searching for anyone.”

“Critch shouldn’t be taking potshots at us. What’s your point, Detective?”

“You’d be better off in Boston with your parents.”

Ah, they were back to the safety issue. She tucked her hair behind her ears, tugged on a black hat. “Only in your eyes. In mine, I’d be exposing them to danger.”

“He wants me more than he wants you.”

“Again, your opinion. I figure if I so much as try to leave the city, he’ll turn on my brothers, or worse, their kids.”

“Romana…”

“Not running, Detective. Accept it.” Her lips curved. “On a more salient note, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re standing next to a cobalt-blue Porsche. That car is the same color as James Barret’s eyes, which is undoubtedly why he bought it.”

“And you know that because…”

Her smile deepened to a tease. “I guess that means I either know him well enough to be aware of his vanity, or Fitz told me.”

At his vaguely suspicious look, she sighed out a laugh. “Fitz had a crush on him as a kid. Her father’s an upholsterer for Barret Brown Furniture. A younger James Barret used to give her candy, and bat his baby blues at her. If she says he and Belinda were involved, they probably were. One thing Fitz can do better than anyone I know is ferret out information that she feels is relevant to her life. Don’t say it.” She deflected the obvious question. “Fantasies are as relevant to a lot of people as reality is.” She should know, Romana reflected with a shiver. She was standing three feet from hers.

Beyond a faint twitch of his lips, Jacob didn’t react. He simply held out a hand for her to precede him.

She told herself to focus, not be sucked into an emotional whirlpool. It would be so easy to fall for Jacob Knight, to let herself want him in a way that, sadly, she’d never wanted her ex-husband. Big girl, big desires, she reflected with a twinge of regret. But Santa couldn’t make everyone’s Christmas wishes come true, and even if he could, Jacob was still a dark horse with the department and a largely unknown, albeit incredibly sexy, commodity to her.

“Ro!” Any hope she had of avoiding Fitz died as her cousin swooped in, out of breath and pink-cheeked. “You have to help me. James wants to talk. Don’t know why, but I can’t say no. The thing is, I managed to drag Patrick here tonight, and I don’t want him to disappear while I’m gone. So I need you to-oh.” The fingers she’d wrapped around Romana’s arm loosened, then did a speculative tap dance. “Hello, Detective Knight. I didn’t see you.” But now that she had, she took a long, assessing look. “Talk about coincidence. I ran into your old partner last night at Franconi’s. He was alone and lonely. We had beer and pasta together.”

“He’s missing his daughter.” Jacob surveyed the park scene. A crease formed between his eyes when his gaze reached the pond.

Romana followed his gaze. “What? Is it Critch?”

“No, it’s a guy from Vice dressed like a jack-in-the-box.”

“Charlie,” she corrected. At his uncomprehending look, she grinned. “He’s a Charlie-in-the-box. Island of Misfit Toys, Knight.”

“You need kids,” Fitz said, then snapped her mouth closed. “Or not. Uh, Ro, could you… She’ll be right back, Detective.” She nudged Romana toward a cluster of benches, wiggled her fingers at a man seated on the farthest one and didn’t release the breath she’d evidently been holding until Jacob moved away to set his forearms on the makeshift guardrail. “Can’t believe I said that,” she muttered. “Dumb, dumber, dumbest.”

Romana didn’t correct her. Tonight wasn’t about fixing misconceptions, it was about exposing a murderer-and keeping Warren Critch away from the people she loved.

“Talk to James,” she told her cousin. “I’ll distract Patrick.”

Fitz started off, but backpedaled to drill a warning finger into Romana’s arm. “Only distract, okay? No making him think things he shouldn’t.” She fluffed her curls. “You could talk me up a bit, though, if the opportunity arises. I mean, honest to God, Ro, if the guy was a horse, I’d figure he was gelded.”

“Nice image,” Romana murmured. “Thanks, Fitz.”

As she picked her way through the snow, Romana noticed that Jacob was already surrounded by a flock of girls. All wore bright-green jackets, which would make them members of the performing high school band.

“What is it about cops and hormonal teenagers?” Patrick wondered aloud when she came within earshot. He lounged on the bench with his head resting on the back and a cup of something hot in his hand. “It’s like they have radar. Cop in the vicinity. Line forms to the left, girlfriends.”

“Cynic.” Romana dusted snow off the seat beside him. “They probably think he’s a hot guitar player.”

“I spotted the badge on his belt loop from here, Romana. He’s the big D to them. Dangerous, and older to boot.”

The night air had a bite, like Patrick’s tone. Romana turned up the collar of her coat and wished she’d worn heavier clothes.

With a crooked smile, Patrick produced a thermos from the snow beside him. “A red-headed elf told me to come prepared. Hot chocolate?”

She blew on her gloved hands. “Smart elf. I’d love some.”

“Myself, I’m a warm-weather man.”

“How warm?”

“I was born in Houston. This white stuff’s acceptable on Christmas Day, but otherwise I’d pass.”

“Not into winter sports, huh?”

“I’m not into any sports, unless you include channel and web surfing.”

He sounded completely bored. Romana’s female pride would have been stung if she hadn’t known he used the same dull tone with everyone. It might not be kind, but she had to wonder what Fitz saw in him.

Oh, he was handsome enough in a scruffy, mismatched sort of way. He also had height, a good inch over six feet, which was about the same as Jacob, actually. His features were strong and his eyes dark brown, a match for the perpetual tangle of his hair. Romana suspected the stubble he wore was intended to be sexy, but all she wanted to do was find him a razor.

Funny she never felt that way about Jacob…

“Houston Control to Professor Grey.” Patrick waved a steaming cup under her nose. He lowered his hand in disgust. “Oh, God, you’re staring at the cop, aren’t you?”

“Well, I did come with him.”

“You need to watch your step,” he said. “Knight’s not what he appears to be.”

Romana took a cautious sip of her drink. As she’d anticipated, it was heavily laced with rum. “Neither’s your hot cocoa, Patrick. Why the red flag?”

“It’s the same flag Belinda held up a couple of days before she died.” At her questioning glance, he shrugged. “We worked together. We talked.”

“Only talked?”

Patrick’s laugh had an edge. “Okay, right, here we go. I knew when Critch was released the whole question-and-answer thing would erupt again. We were friends, coworkers. She was married. I respected that. She respected my respect… And you can eighty-six the look, Romana. Don’t you have any male friends? By that, I mean the kind of friends whose sole purpose in life isn’t to jump your bones?”

“We were talking about Belinda’s bones, Patrick, not mine.”

“We were talking about Jacob Knight initially. The guy’s trouble in caps. You want it straight, that’s exactly what Belinda said.”

Romana blew on her cocoa, squashed the uneasy prickles in her stomach. “It sounds like you and Belinda had some pretty involved conversations.”

“You do that when the alternative is to let it sink in that you’re slicing up dead organs while extracting bodily fluids.”

“You didn’t have to choose forensic pathology, Patrick.”

“My father was a mortician. My mother was a morgue attendant. What else was I going to do? I’m John Patrick North, only son of Mr. and Mrs. Coffin and Slab.” He laughed without humor, raised his cup in her direction and drained the contents. Sadness replaced the laughter. “We were friends, Belinda and me, and whether you want to hear it or not, I believe Knight killed her.”

Summoning an easy smile, Romana passed him her drink. “Spoken with great conviction. But you haven’t specified why you’re so sure Jacob did it.”

“He argued with Belinda in a restaurant before she died.”

“That’s a matter of record. Did he threaten her?”

“She didn’t say exactly, but I could see by her body language that she was upset. And afraid.”

“Of Jacob?”

“No, of Santa Claus.” He polished off her cocoa, hesitated, then moved a reluctant shoulder. “But come to think of it, Dylan’s name came up a few times.”

“She was frightened of her brother?”

“Step.”

It took Romana a moment to understand. “Step-” she stared in amazement “-brother?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Why would I know?”

“You were a cop. I thought you people knew everything.”

“It wasn’t my case to investigate.”

He eyeballed a glittering pine tree across from them. “No, Stubbs and Canter got that gig. Short, fat guy with salt and pepper hair and no chin-that was Stubbs. Canter was a foot taller, with arms like Popeye and a butt to match.”

“Odd detail to notice,” Romana commented.

“I’m a details kind of guy.”

If his lopsided grin was intended to charm, the attempt fell flat, as he likely would when he tried to stand. Romana didn’t envy Fitz the remainder of her date.

Abandoning pretense, Patrick ditched his cup and drank from the thermos.

Romana waited until he lowered it to remark, “You wanted her to come on to you, didn’t you?”

Patrick stared at the pond where two dozen kids ranging from five to fifteen years of age struggled to glide, twirl and hop in full costume. “What I wanted wasn’t something I shared with Belinda. I told myself I’d wait. I never believed she’d last with Critch. He was possessive and gruff and, from what I’d seen, potentially violent. He had a tendency to freak whenever he caught her talking to another man. I figured when the marriage ended, she’d need a friend, and there I’d be.”

“A friend who’d segue into a lover.”

“We all have our pipe dreams, Romana. Mine died with Belinda six Christmases ago. If Knight didn’t kill her, maybe Warren did. But like I said, I lean toward Knight.”

“Because they argued.”

He hitched an irritable shoulder. “Well, it’s really more because of what she said afterward.”

A light shiver chased itself across Romana’s skin. “Which was…”

He swung the now-empty thermos by its silver neck. “This wasn’t part of our personal conversation. I heard her on the phone in the staff lounge. She sounded halfway to hysterical. She said she’d just had lunch with Jacob Knight.”

“That’s not news, Patrick. Jacob admitted in court…”

He halted her with a raised finger. “Not done yet, former Officer Grey. Belinda stated very clearly that she was frightened for her life. She said she wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Jacob Knight really did want her dead.”

“YOU PRETEND TO RIDE THE ostrich, Broderick, you don’t drag it around like a bag of trash. Play the game, young man, or there’ll be no trip to Disney World this spring.”

While Jacob observed the exchange from the guardrail, James Barret straightened from his crouch, snicked his elegant coat cuffs back in place and gave the back of an eight-year-old boy’s head a light tap.

“Go. Cooperate. Act like a godson I can be proud of.” When the boy slumped off, he gave his head a rueful shake. “That one has delinquent written all over him.” Without turning, he raised his voice. “What do you think, Detective Knight? Will you be arresting him in ten years’ time?”

Interesting that Barret would recognize him. Unfazed, Jacob went with the question. “I doubt it.”

“You can’t deny he has an attitude.”

“But no venom. He’s dragging his feet, not using them to kick anyone.”

Barret flashed neon-white teeth and twitched his cuffs again. “I’ll have to trust you there. He’s the son of my wife’s best friend. My wife wanted to be a godparent, and what Shera wants, Shera usually manages to get.”

Had Shera wanted Belinda Critch dead? Jacob set the question aside as Barret extended a well-manicured hand.

“You were questioned during the investigation into Belinda Critch’s death,” he noted. “How did you know her?”

Fitz appeared at Barret’s side and slid her arm through his. “James makes a point of knowing everyone and everything that matters. I thought you two might need an introduction, so I came back. Guess I needn’t have bothered.”

“You needn’t have,” Barret agreed, “but I’m glad you did. Fitz can liven up even the most awkward conversation, Detective.”

Jacob regarded him without emotion. “Are we having an awkward conversation?”

“If you came here tonight to ask me about Belinda Critch, then, yes, we are.”

“You knew her personally?”

“I did.”

Fitz glanced from one to the other. “Uh, listen, guys, this probably isn’t the best place to…”

“How well?”

“That’s a very broad question, Detective.”

Barret’s practiced smile had a snap far more vicious than the wind that slapped at their cheeks. Because he relished a challenge, Jacob let his anticipation rise and his own eyes gleam.

“I’ll rephrase. Did you have an affair with her?”

“Whoa-hi-now that’s a loaded question, Jacob.” He felt his own arm being snagged and squeezed as Romana added through her teeth, “Mayor’s a good friend of his, Knight.” She offered a smile that would have bewitched a corpse. “Hello, Mr. Barret. I’m Fitz’s cousin, Romana Grey. We met a few years ago at a university alumni dinner.”

“Met and danced. I remember the event very well.” He took her free hand, didn’t raise it to his lips as Jacob had expected, but held on and transferred his full attention to her. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”

Fitz craned her neck to peer across the pond. “Where’s Patrick, Ro? You promised to, uh-keep him company for a while.”

“He drank too much hot cocoa and fell asleep. I buttoned his coat and stuck a pair of earmuffs on his head. But you should probably check on him. The wind’s a bit nasty tonight.”

Among other things, Jacob reflected.

Fitz fluttered at Barret. “Guess I’ll go, then.” She gave Romana’s hip a swat in passing. “Call me,” she said in an undertone.

“If I survive.” Romana squared up, refocused. “You know, you two, this really isn’t the place…”

But Barret brushed aside her objection. “It’s as good a place as any. I have no idea why my godson’s riding a wooden ostrich in this pageant and no particular desire to watch him do it.”

She sighed. “Doesn’t anyone but me know about the Island of Misfit Toys?”

Because Barret still hadn’t answered his question and likely wouldn’t head-on, Jacob opted for a roundabout approach. “How did you meet Belinda?”

Barret’s eyes, already cool, iced over. “I could tell you it’s none of your business. Unfortunately, in my experience that response seldom works with the police. It’s a matter of record that we met at a New Year’s Eve party nine years ago.”

Before Jacob could counter, Romana reaffixed her dazzling smile. “I love New Year’s Eve. It’s such an uninhibited night. Was Belinda’s husband at the party?”

Surprisingly, some of the ice in Barret’s eyes melted. “No, he wasn’t. I can’t tell you why. What I can say is that she never mentioned a husband while she was coming on to me. Sorry to sound crass, but that’s what she did for the first part of the night.”

“Where was the party?” Jacob asked.

“Also a matter of record, Detective Knight. It unfolded at Gilhoolie’s Pub, and before you make a snide remark about the earthy nature of the venue, I’ll remind you that I’m a self-made man whose father traveled from Galway to America at the age of fifteen and worked in a Portland, Maine, fish processing plant for much of his life. As a teenager, I worked hard alongside him.”

Romana gave Jacob’s ankle a kick before venturing a pleasant, “How on earth did you go from processing fish in Maine to making furniture in Ohio?”

Barret’s eyes glinted. “My father, bless his whiskey-soaked soul, met a man very similar to him in a bar. His name was Ben Brown. Ben had an idea, and my dad had every dollar he’d saved since arriving on these shores. I was nineteen at the time and more than ready to leave the smell of fish behind. We formed a three-way partnership. My father passed on three years into the deal, leaving Ben and me to build on the framework of our infant business venture. We built well. Our partnership held fast until Ben died six years ago.”

“The same year Belinda Critch died. And under somewhat questionable circumstances.” Jacob’s prod was deliberate. It earned him another kick from Romana and a cool arch of Barret’s left eyebrow.

“Did I mention, Detective, that I wasn’t the only man Belinda came on to that cold New Year’s Eve?”

“You haven’t mentioned much at all-about that night or any other.” Jacob ignored Romana’s hissed, “Mayor’s your boss, Knight,” and countered Barret’s visual dagger with a level one of his own. “I’ve read the police report on Belinda’s death. Details are sketchy in several areas. Yours is one of them.”

“Possibly because I was never a viable suspect. I cooperated with your department in as much as I was required to. However-” Barret revved up the false smile again and gave his right cuff another vicious snick “-if it’s details you want, I can give you one I neglected to pass on to any of the officers I encountered.”

“Not going to be good,” Romana predicted from Jacob’s side.

“Is this detail connected to Belinda’s death?”

“Your call, Knight. I’m sure you know that off-duty police officers frequently stop by Gilhoolie’s for an after-shift drink. The pub’s divided into two sections-public front, private back. On that particular New Year’s Eve, about seventy of us were partying it up in a back room that was as tight for space as the sardine cans my father and I used to stuff. It was approaching midnight, and I needed air to counteract Gilhoolie’s special blend of whiskey. I stepped into the front of the pub and immediately spotted a group of off-duty officers. I also spotted Belinda. She was wrapped around a guy with curly brown hair who had cop written all over him. Now the guy might have been wearing a wedding ring, but I’ll tell you this for nothing. From my vantage point, he wasn’t using it to fend her off.”

Although Jacob maintained his neutral expression, he sensed where this was heading. Still, he shrugged. “Spit it out, Barret. I don’t shock as easily as you might think.”

“Cop’s name was Michael O’Keefe,” Barret obliged. “Married for ten years, I discovered later. One kid. Impeccable record on the force. Apparently, not quite so impeccable on his own time.” His eyes glittered, steely-blue. “I saw your partner slip the publican a C-note, Knight, then watched him fumble his way toward the upstairs rooms in the company of one very drunk, very married Belinda Critch.”