The Stroke of Midnight Page 8

  “I do. We—Rudy and I—are going to go over the files of the women who were killed by the Christmas Murderer. The first thing we have to do is establish whether the person who sent you that pendant is a copycat or not.”

  “And poring over old records will determine that?”

  “Possibly.” Against his better judgment, Jacob cupped her cheek in his palm. “Details, Devon. Copycats invariably overlook one or two.”

  “Like covering their hair.”

  He blew out a resigned breath. “Are you always this stubborn?”

  Her chin came up. “I prefer to call it logical.”

  “Call it what you want.” He trapped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Just leave the investigating to me, okay?”

  She swatted him away, not bothering to leash her temper. “You’re an arrogant bastard, Riker. My life’s being threatened, and you want me to sit idly by while you and Rudy try to catch the lunatic who sent me a pendant warning of imminent death.”

  He strove for patience. “You’re the victim here, Devon.”

  “No.” She stopped him cold, her palm pressed iron-flat to his chest. “The last thing I am, or ever will be is a victim. I won’t do nothing.” Her eyes shimmered with anger. “I won’t die, Riker.”

  No, she wouldn’t, he vowed. Not if he could stop the monster pursuing her. But could he, Jacob wondered grimly? His gaze circled the crowded room. Did he really have the power to stop any part of this nightmare?

  Chapter Six

  “Nothing,” Devon muttered three hours later. She’d danced, eaten, socialized, emceed and danced some more. She’d discreetly fingered more lengths and styles of men’s hair than most females would in a lifetime. And she knew as little now as she had before she’d started. Three-quarters of the men here had wonderful hair. It could have been any of them who’d attacked her. Any or none.

  She sighed. “I should have taken Riker’s advice. Let him handle things. Wherever the hell he is.”

  “Wherever who is?” Roscoe enquired cheerfully. He intercepted her en route to the dance floor with Hannah. “If you mean your absent cop, he’s been dogging the boss for the past half hour.” He snatched a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray. “Here, have a drink and lighten up. That thundercloud expression of yours is starting to frighten the guests.”

  Hannah wrapped an arm around her sister’s waist. “Are you all right?” She searched Devon’s face for signs of strain. “You’ve been through a lot the past few days. We can leave any time you want to.”

  Devon saw the look of—was it dismay?—that darted across Roscoe’s face, before his handsome features settled into passivity.

  “I’m fine, Hannah. A little over-partied. When’s Santa due to arrive?”

  “Twenty minutes ago.” Roscoe squinted across the tables at Alma. “I’d better check on him, make sure Warren hasn’t led the old fellow astray.”

  “I’ll see that Alma doesn’t notice the time.” Hannah tipped her head. “Why don’t you sit down for a minute, Devon? You’ve been going gangbusters since dawn.”

  “Maybe I will.” Devon agreed simply because it was easier than arguing. “Have either of you seen Jimmy since dinner?”

  “Not me.” Roscoe scouted the room. “I wonder, Dev, does our Santa carry a cell phone...?”

  Alone, so to speak, moments later, Devon considered her options. Mingle or escape the smoky room for five minutes and possibly bump into Riker in the process. Warren liked to tip his flask in the men’s room. It was a good bet he’d be there now, avoiding Alma, and possibly Riker as well, given his history.

  “Ms. Tremayne?” One of the waiters beckoned to her. “Detective Riker would like to speak with you.”

  Oh, really? “Where is he?”

  “In the utility corridor, between the service entrance and the kitchen. You go through those white doors over there, past the phone bank and straight ahead.”

  It took Devon several minutes to work her way through the crowd. “It’s like a sea of hungry pigeons out there,” she commented to Teddi, who’d just returned to the dining room through the white doors. “Are the washrooms here?”

  “Turn left,” Teddi told her.

  “Did you see Riker?”

  “No, but his pal Rudy was tap-dancing outside the men’s room. If you bump into Santa, tell him to get the lead out, will you? I turn into a Christmas pumpkin at midnight.” With a wave, Teddi vanished into the smoke.

  Devon pushed through the door and into the softly lit corridor. Muted strains of “Jingle Bell Rock” followed her, fading as she passed the empty phone bank.

  The air was fresher here. Cooler, too, she noticed as a shiver feathered across her skin. Someone must have left the service door open.

  She paused at the junction. “Riker?”

  Nothing but darkness to her left and only the kitchen wall and three empty trolleys to her right.

  “Great.” She blew at her bangs. “Riker?”

  “Here,” said a raspy voice.

  Riker’s? It didn’t sound like him. She turned at the whisper of movement behind. “What are...?”

  She got no farther than that, didn’t even get properly turned around. Black-mittened hands appeared like talons. They circled her throat before she could react. White whiskers covered her face, tickling her skin while the hands gave her a violent shake.

  Her entire body felt the pain that started with a whip-sharp crack of her head as it snapped backward.

  Santa Claus, her foggy brain discerned. Squinty-eyed and intent, grunting, his facial muscles contorted beneath the white cloud of his beard.

  Devon’s knees turned to jelly. Shadows blurred in her head. Her mind funneled toward a black hole that had to be unconsciousness.

  She kicked in the direction of the man’s groin. She knew she’d hit the mark when he yelped and tossed her like a rag doll against the wall.

  Her head slammed into the plaster, bringing the dizzying sound of bells to her ears and the sting of star clusters to her eyes.

  “Bitch!” Santa cursed. His mittened hands came at her again.

  Devon’s knees gave out. Fortunate, she thought as she slithered down the wall. She doubted she could have avoided him any other way.

  His momentum carried him into the misty blue plaster and afforded her the precious seconds she needed to scuttle sideways.

  Sheer force of will gave her the strength to scramble to her feet. She headed for the cold air, partly because it felt close, but mostly because it just happened to be the direction her aching body toppled.

  Her fingers caught an empty trolley and yanked it sideways. A mighty heave sent it rolling into the false Santa’s stomach.

  Breathing heavily, she concentrated on the door and freedom. Escape. There must be people outside. Barring that, she would run to the front entrance. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, dare follow her there.

  Snow whipped up into her face, blinding her on the threshold. She stumbled forward.

  But she hadn’t counted on the agility of her attacker, or the depth of the obsession that fueled him. He caught her jacket by the hem, jerking backward so hard that her feet almost shot out from under her.

  To her shock, a sob rattled from his throat as his arm wrapped around her neck. “It should have ended last year.” The muscles across her windpipe tensed. His tone toughened. “This time you will stop haunting me. This time—” his hot, anguished breath howled into her ear “—it will end!”

  POTENT FURY. It boiled up in his head, a miasma of noxious memories and emotions. Remember the darkness, the smell of damp wool and pine and nutmeg. The smokey scent of her perfume.

  The lump of rage threatened to choke him even as he increased the pressure on Devon’s throat. It would end with her death. One more task—poetic justice—and after that the Christmas Murders would be a mere ghost of seasons past.

  She fought like a wildcat, kicked and clawed and squirmed so that several times he almost lost his grip. She screamed, and the s
ound of it caused him to flinch. That voice again. Would she never leave him alone?

  A moment of wishful thinking. He must have loosened his grip. She worked her body around and planted a fist in his belly. The suit had only a modicum of built-in padding, and she packed an unexpected wallop. His body caved inward around the blow. His breath whooshed out, his eyes burned with rage and the salty bite of tears.

  “Riker!” She screamed his name as she plunged into the snowy darkness. It rang in his head, a hideous, grotesque echo with a center of molten pain.

  Breathing hard, he charged, caught a glimpse of her silk jacket and let out a roar. No one to hear, he assured himself. He would catch her and kill her once and for all.

  The setup though, the perfect frame—he hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t put it in place.

  No time. Kill the pretender, then construct the frame.

  The old song, ever-present, swelled to a scratchy crescendo in his head. Faces popped in and out. Dead female faces, the other pretenders. One more familiar face, the first. His Christmas angel, the angel of the morning. Then, behind that, a sullen male face, wary but needful, a rat with no tail....

  Had his feet slowed on the slippery ground? Devon had vanished!

  He skidded to a halt far to the right of the main entrance. Snow dusted the shrubbery one way; Santa’s sleigh, outlined with clear lights, marked the other. She couldn’t have made the door. Shrubbery? Sleigh? Which hiding place had she chosen?

  Wind tore the words from his mouth. “Come out, come out wherever you are, pretty Devon. Come and get your pretty present.” He crunched toward the sleigh as he spoke. “You don’t want to hide. The lies are over, don’t you see? All is solemn and still. No morning angel sings.” He pulled a thin red silk scarf from inside his Santa suit. “Come to Santa Nicholas, Devon, and receive the gift you most deserve for Christmas.”

  DEVON’S HEART thundered in her chest, so loud and hard it was a miracle he didn’t hear it.

  Teeth chattering, she eased around Prancer toward Rudolph’s brightly lit nose. Ninety feet, maybe a hundred to the front entrance. She could make that.

  Few cars passed on the street at 11:30 p.m. on a snowy night. There’d be Friday office parties, it was cold and blustery, too late for a Christmas light drive-by.

  Chilled and numb, she tried not to listen as he crooned to her. First in a tune she recognized and now about cats with nine lives. Did she know the voice? Maybe. She couldn’t tell through the obvious disguise.

  She scrubbed at her frozen cheeks. He’d tiptoed closer, a parody of a killer in his Santa suit, his mittened hands snapping and unsnapping the silky murder weapon.

  Riker’s solemn face flashed in her mind. But her predicament wasn’t his fault. Was it? No, of course it wasn’t. She should have known better than to fall for such an old trick. She’d been invited into the spider’s parlor, and she’d gone, willingly. It was up to her to find a way out of his icy web.

  “Come to me, Devon,” the phony Santa cajoled. He’d moved toward the sleigh. She’d never get a better chance.

  Slipping on the snow, she used the lead reindeer’s neck to propel herself up and away. He spotted her at once. There was no mistaking his gutteral howl of displeasure.

  “Riker!” She screamed his name this time. Tiny ice pellets stung her already raw cheeks. She abandoned her high heels on a cleared patch of the parking lot and streaked for the entrance.

  He followed, panting loudly, gaining with each stride. Panic bubbled up. How could a restaurant overflowing inside be so deserted out here?

  Her breath rushed in and out. Blood pounded like war drums in her ears. Minus her shoes, she slipped on a patch of ice, swore and just managed to catch her balance.

  He was right behind her. She could feel his fingers clutching at her.

  With her hair and the blowing ice particles obscuring her vision, Devon missed seeing the hands that reached out from the side to nab her. When they held, she bared her teeth, banging her fists on the two sets of knuckles around her waist.

  “Back off, lady,” a deep voice objected. “You’ve had too much to drink if you’re running around out here without your shoes.”

  She stopped struggling and shoved the tangled hair from her eyes. It was a stranger, huge, burly, wearing a hooded parka. No beard and only astonishment registered on his reddened face. One of the valet parking attendants?

  She stole a terrified glance over her shoulder. “Is he...?”

  There was no one, nothing behind them except a snowdrift and the odd flickering headlight.

  “He’s gone.” Her head fell back in relief, then surged up again as she grasped the man’s arm. “Did you see him?”

  “Lady, I was lucky to see you, you were moving so fast.” He peered at her pale features. “You don’t sound drunk. What’re you doing out here with bare feet and no coat?”

  Exhausted now that the adrenaline pump had stopped, Devon considered her answer. He wouldn’t believe the truth, “It doesn’t matter,” she said tonelessly. “Just let me go back in.” Her green eyes glimmered as a small portion of her temper resurfaced. “”I want to catch Santa before he flies back to the North Pole.”

  “I HAVE NO IDEA what hit me,” the studio-hired Santa Claus confessed. “Look, I got stuck in my driveway, okay? But my son dug me out quick enough that I didn’t bother to call in. When I got here, I saw the open service entrance and decided to use it. It was dark and I was hefting two bags of presents, so I guess I wasn’t listening for strange noises. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the utility closet, trussed up like my wife’s Christmas turkey. My suit, whiskers and boots were all gone.” He gave his ample belly a weak pat. “Don’t need a lot of padding, as you can see. I shouted, but no one came. If Detective Riker here hadn’t heard me thumping my feet against the wall, who knows how long I would’ve been in there?”

  Jacob shoved the bulk of his guilty feelings aside and, leaving the man to Rudy, crouched down in front of Devon. “You’re pale,” he noted, taking her cold hand in his. “You need to go home.”

  Both Devon and the untied Santa were huddled in blankets inside the manager’s lavish upstairs office. The remnants of the party continued below. Although Jacob had scoured the grounds, he’d found no sign of the phony Santa. Only a red silk scarf similar to the one used on her at the radio station and a piece of white fluff from the stolen costume.

  “I’m calling Dugan,” Rudy muttered, hunching his shoulders. “This situation requires—” he glanced at Devon “—his particular expertise.”

  That being, a trained cop doing an unofficial favor. Jacob didn’t need to see Devon’s unnatural pallor again or Hannah’s desperate expression as she knelt beside her sister. “Do it,” he said. “I’ll drive Devon and Hannah home.”

  Which would not please Roscoe Beale one bit, but right then Jacob didn’t give a damn about anybody except Devon—and catching the bastard who’d tried for the second time in a week to throttle the life out of her.

  “I think you should bring in a psychiatrist,” Hannah said softly to Jacob. “This person, whoever he is, is crazy.”

  “Smart, too,” Devon added. Unable to keep her agitation at bay, she stood, wobbly-legged, and paced the lovely Aubusson carpet. She ticked off items on her fingers. “He rambled about cats and nine lives, compared me to that. He also talked about the lies being over. He was sort of singing. He used words that didn’t fit the song “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear”. He said that this time, I would stop haunting him. It must be that I—that the women he’s killed—remind him of someone, maybe of the first woman who died. What was her name?”

  “Laura West,” Jacob replied with absolutely no inflection. “I don’t think so, Devon. Every man in Laura’s life was grilled and regrilled. There was no indication that any of her male acquaintances could have been the killer.”

  “Are you saying that this guy’s obsessing over a woman who’s still alive?”

  “It’s one possibility.”
>
  “Could another be a fatal attraction?” Hannah wondered. Renewed fear clouded her brown eyes. “I’ve heard people can get very violent in those cases.”

  “Many situations become violent,” Alma put in, her tone as uncompromising as the line of her mouth. “But jumping to unsubstantiated conclusions is a waste of time and energy, Hannah. Devon was attacked right under our noses, to say nothing of our sixty-five-year-old Santa Claus. Something must be done to insure that this incident and the one in Devon’s office are not repeated.”

  Hannah’s eyebrows speared upward. “There was an incident in Devon’s office?”

  “A minor one,” Devon said. She shot Alma a warning glare and turned back to Jacob.

  Restless fingers combed through the damp, tousled layers of her hair. Jacob caught a hint of peach blossom blending with her woodsy scent, and consciously resisted the impulse to haul her into his arms. A wiser man would turn tail and run back to the healthy niche he’d carved for himself here in Philadelphia, to that neat, career-driven, emotionally unencumbered lifestyle which, although solitary at times, had suited his needs equably enough in the past. The past before the Christmas Murders, that is.

  The past before Devon.

  He knew she was studying the play of expressions on his face. “What are you thinking, Riker?” she asked when he closed them down.

  Unable to resist, Jacob slid his fingers through her hair capturing her warm nape. “It’s my fault, Devon. I should have expected something like this to happen. I should have been prepared for it.” Pointless recriminations, but he felt better getting them out, better still fixing the blame where it deserved to be fixed. “Did he say anything else?”

  His heightened senses picked up on the tremor she struggled to conceal. “Not that I can remember. I saw his eyes, but he was squinting. They looked dark.”

  “Brown?”

  “Or black. Maybe dark blue. The Santa beard was too big for him. It covered most of the rest of his face. And I only got a quick glimpse while he was—well, let’s just say, I didn’t have time to form a clear picture in my mind.”