Mistletoe and Murder Read online

  “It’s a good thing I’m trained then, huh?” Jacob glanced at his voice mail. Eleven messages, but the majority of them were probably from O’Keefe.

  “You need a watchdog, my friend, or a mother. Better still, a wife. You also need to have some fun. Do you realize it’s been two years since we’ve gone to a Reds game? Hell, it’s been half as long since we even had a beer together.”

  “You’re day shift, I’m night. The city’s jumping, and the department’s short-staffed.”

  “Yadda, yadda. Those are excuses. But pleasure aside, the fact remains, Critch is loose, and I don’t think any shrink ever really got inside his head during those prison years.”

  “I’m a good cop, O’Keefe.”

  “I’m worried about Romana, too, okay? Lie and tell me you’ve forgotten that incredible face.”

  Jacob slid his gaze to the window. “No, I haven’t forgotten her face.” Or anything else about her. “He won’t go after Romana, okay? I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Ah, finally, we arrive at the crux of it. You’ll make sure he doesn’t go for Romana by getting him to come after you.”

  With his eyes still on the windows and his lips curved in a smile, Jacob asked, “Shouldn’t you be heading home to your kid about now?”

  “Nah, she’s with her mom in Los Angeles. Indefinitely. It’s one way to get custody, I suppose. Move to a place with sunshine, beaches and an excess of skater boys.”

  Jacob hunted for and located his keys and badge. “We’ll have that beer before Christmas, Mick. And thanks for the heads-up on Critch.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on Romana.”

  Jacob ignored the tightening in his belly as he shouldered his holster. “I’m late. Tell Captain Harris I’ll be working on the Parker case tonight.”

  “Watch your back, Jacob.”

  His back, right. Except it hadn’t been his back Warren Critch had been aiming at in that alley six years ago. And Jacob knew he hadn’t done a damned thing to prevent the confrontation from taking place.

  Shrugging into his lined leather jacket, he noted that the snow was falling more heavily now. He clipped his badge to the waistband of his jeans and headed for the stairs.

  He didn’t believe in signs or portents, but human tendencies and inherited traits were different matters. And while he might wish he could dismiss them, in six long years he’d never quite been able to get past what might actually be.

  What he might have done.

  He raised his eyes skyward, realized where he was looking and let wry amusement rise. His father was dead, but there was no chance he’d gone upward in the afterlife. If hell existed, his old man would burn there forever. Who knew, one day his only son might be joining him.

  Because he didn’t want to think about the night ahead- or anything or anyone else right then-Jacob concentrated on his neighbor’s music as he started down the stairs.

  Seventy-eight-year-old Denny Leech had been blasting Rat Pack Christmas songs on her ancient stereo for the past two days. She claimed Frank, Dean and Sammy ignited her creative fire. Painters needed inspiration. The problem was, Denny was painting her entire lower loft with one very small roller and a brush she’d found in the trash. In her case, creativity could take until Easter to play out.

  She waved to him through her open door. “I’m doing a northern lights ceiling mural, Jacob. My granddaughter’s coming over Sunday to see it. You remember Penelope, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, she’s very pretty.”

  “You’d make a lovely couple. She’s growing her hair. She’s a blonde now…”

  Humor kindled as he pushed on the rear door. Denny’s voice followed him out. She’d talk for five more minutes before she realized he was gone.

  He’d parked his black SUV in the alley early this morning. Had he alarmed it? A movement near the snow-covered hood suggested he’d forgotten.

  “Punctual as always, Detective Knight. I love that quality in a man.”

  Romana Grey. He’d recognize that seductive purr anywhere. He also recognized the act she put on as she strolled around the fender.

  She did it well, better than most people, but she had to be as uncertain of him now as she had been after Belinda Critch was found dead on her living room floor.

  Jacob ran his gaze over her long white coat and black boots, then back up until he encountered her striking gray-blue eyes. “You love too easily, Romana. Why are you here?”

  She leaned on the hood with her customary teasing grace. “You didn’t answer your phone this afternoon, Detective.”

  He felt the tightening in his groin and shifted position. “I work the night shift. I sleep in the afternoon.”

  “And let me guess. You don’t listen to your messages or check your mailbox when you wake up.” She produced a red envelope from her pocket, held it between two gloved fingers. “Wanna guess who sent this?”

  Something black and oily slid through his veins. He paused before reaching out. “Is it the same as the others?”

  “Not quite.” At last the nerves jittered through. “This one’s darker, more malevolent.”

  The light in the alley was bad. Jacob squinted at the red-lettered message inside. “Looks like he wrote it with his left hand.”

  “It looks like he wrote it with his left foot, but the print’s consistent with the other cards. I’ll have that verified tomorrow,” she promised at his quick glance. “I still have friends in the crime lab.”

  “I thought the crime lab was your ex’s territory.” Jacob jockeyed for a clearer view of the words. “How’s Connor doing these days? Living fat on the Hanson family money?”

  “I’m not going there with you.” Romana let her hood fall back, slid her gaze down the alley and breathed out. Her expression softened as her mental focus shifted. “I believed him when he said he could make his own way in life without his family. I know he believed it.”

  “Instead, he took bribes, cut deals and lied to you.”

  Her smile was fast and false. “Thanks for the emotional lift, Knight. I needed it after that card.” She watched him for a moment, before arching a shrewd eyebrow. “Do you want me to tell you what it says?”

  “If you can, you’ve got Superman’s vision.”

  “What I have is an excellent memory. ‘I send you a Christmas greeting, Romana Grey,’” she quoted. “‘A kiss for you, for the murderer you saved. It is the Kiss of Death.’ Nice, huh?” She bumped his tire with the heel of her boot. “There’s a sprig of mistletoe on the front. Can’t imagine what he came up with for you. It’s a mass-marketed card. I checked it out first thing. They’re sold all over the country, same as the other five he sent, except this time I have a creepy feeling Critch delivered it himself.”

  “Delivered it where?”

  “Into my purse. Don’t say it,” she warned at his sharp look. “You shop in crowded stores, you get jostled. You open your purse for credit cards, parking money, donation drums.”

  “Hands slip inside, remove wallets.”

  “We’re talking about something that was added not subtracted.”

  “You were a cop, Romana.”

  “And now I teach criminology. Fine, I should have noticed, but, ah, well, I didn’t. I’m human, Jacob. Move forward.”

  Not the faintest flicker of annoyance marred her pleasant expression, and her tone was equally unruffled.

  She could act, all right. She was also stubborn. And bold as hell.

  “I’ll check my mailbox.” He handed the card back. “Obviously you know Critch has been out on parole for the past two days.”

  “Mmm. Lovely thought, isn’t it? Although I’ve also been told he mellowed substantially after the first few years inside, so much so that he wrote a novelette about his childhood in South America. His daddy mapped waterways along the Amazon. My guess is he did a lot more than that, but then I’m jaded from my brief stint on the force.” She nodded forward. “Your mailbox is at the front door, right?”

  His lips t
witched into a smile. “Are you curious to see if my threat’s nastier than yours?”

  “Not especially. I’m thinking your lobby has to be warmer than this alley. Plus I love old theaters.” She scanned the worn brick facade, relaxed a little more. “My father’s a huge fan of 1920s architecture. He knows the woman who owns this place. Her husband made her promise not to sell the building or allow it to be demolished after he died. I think he planned to haunt it-don’t know if that worked out for him or not- but she kept her word, which is why you and three other people get to live here. She left the stage, audience area and lobby intact and still found a way to make the place pay its own taxes. End of local history lesson.” She moved past him to the rear door. “Why are you staring at me, Jacob? Teachers lecture out of habit. I could tell you all sorts of things about the house my parents bought in Boston.”

  His stare became a headshake. “Do you ever run down?”

  “Depends on the company. My cousin Fitz says I don’t talk enough.”

  “Would that be Irish-born Anna Fitzgerald with the curly red hair, who insists that unpaid-for shop items simply follow her home?”

  Romana grinned. “Followed. Past tense, Detective. She’s my second cousin on my mother’s side, I’ve known her forever and, all bias aside, I think she’s one of the brightest forensic techs in the city. The hospital board was right to give her another chance.”

  “You must have talked long and hard to that board, Romana. Second chances are hard to come by in that arena.”

  She waited while he opened the rear door, then, with a glance at his profile, preceded him inside. “It’s going to start again, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “All the gossip and the rumors, the speculation, the accusations.”

  “I’ve been through it before, Romana. I know how it’ll be.”

  “Unless Critch is grandstanding, which is possible given his psychiatric evaluation before the trial. He’s a brooder, but he tends to back down in the face of fear.”

  “Which makes his latest Christmas message to you, what? A slap intended to unnerve? He’s sent you six cards, one for each of the six years he spent in prison. And this last one was delivered less than forty-eight hours after his release.”

  “You’re determined to be pessimistic, aren’t you? Why don’t you… Oh, my God, is that fresco original?” Captivated by the dark heavenly forces clashing overhead, she swung on her heel. Then she frowned, paused and sniffed. “Who’s using alkyd paint?”

  “Keep moving,” he suggested. “Why don’t I what?”

  “Hmm? Oh, try and keep a positive thought.” Still absorbed, she executed another admiring circle. “Words aren’t weapons in this case, and I find it hard to believe that Critch will want to spend the rest of his life behind bars for killing us. It won’t bring his wife back, and if he’s smart, which I think he is, he’ll have realized by now that our lives-and yours in particular-haven’t been fairy-tale perfect since she died.”

  Jacob studied her through narrowed eyes. With her guard down and enchanted by her surroundings, he could visualize her quite easily in a storybook setting. Somewhere snowy and nostalgic. Not a princess in a tower-she was too savvy for that role-but in one of those places he’d dreamed of as a kid, before reality had stumbled in and revealed the harsh realities of life.

  Speaking of which… “How do you know what my life’s like? You left the force years ago.”

  She wrested her gaze from the ornate overhead carvings and directed it at him. “I know you switched to the night shift after Critch’s trial. You prefer to work alone. Your record’s outstanding, but you don’t interact with your fellow officers any more than necessary. You keep to yourself on and off the clock, which includes hardly even talking to your best friend, O’Keefe. And word has it you’re the only male cop in the city who hasn’t flirted with the pretty new dispatcher.”

  “I talked to O’Keefe twenty minutes ago. I’d say he’s still in major lust with you.”

  She shrugged, unperturbed. “Mick O’Keefe is a nice guy who happens to be divorced. He likes European cooking-my great grandmother’s from Moscow-film noire and helping out with minor home renos for people who would otherwise be in over their heads. There’s no lust involved, and even if there was-” she gave his chest a poke “-it wouldn’t be any of your business. FYI, Knight, there’s a woman wearing a pink ball cap and holding a paintbrush waving at you.”

  “Later, Denny.” He reached past Romana to open the front door. “After you, Professor.”

  “Don’t be snotty.” But she went first and peered through the metal slats of the box. “I see something red in there. Want me to pull it out?”

  He handed her the key.

  A moment later, she was turning the red envelope, a twin to the one she’d received, over in her hands. “No stamp,” she remarked. “Probably water-sealed like the others, so I imagine DNA’s out. Barely legible scrawl on the back, same mistletoe on the front and-oh, well, but a much more succinct message than mine inside.”

  Holding the Christmas card open with her gloved fingertips, she turned it so he could read the five words printed there in bold, bleeding red.

  YOU DIE NEXT, JACOB KNIGHT!

  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-grand-mother 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?”