Mistletoe and Murder

Chapter Seventeen

If there was a blood trail, Jacob couldn’t find it in the snow and the dark, but he heard the occasional bang as Patrick clambered over a fence or careened into an unlit Christmas display.

North knew the area. Jacob had to rely on instinct.

He heard the ambulance a short distance away, police cruisers perhaps a mile behind. Their wails rose and fell at the whim of a frigid northerly wind.

He suspected North was circling. Where to? Back to his car? To Romana?

Using the boulevard trees as cover, Jacob squinted through the snow. His hands were numb from the cold, but otherwise he was dressed for this. North wasn’t. Combine that with blood loss, and he should be tripping over the guy’s frozen body any time now.

He picked up movement ahead and worked himself around the trunk of the tree. No doubt about it, they’d wound a path back to ground zero.

Another movement caught his eye. Checking left and right, he ran for the next tree. And the next.

An outline took shape. Something thudded at the rear of North’s garage, but Jacob remained focused on his quarry.

The outline darted sideways at the noise. Jacob followed. When the man slipped, he had him. He brought his gun down and shouted. “Toss the gun, North. Hands in my sight.”

The hands went up as ordered. Slowly, the outline turned.

Jacob’s arms dropped and, with a curse, he closed the gap. “Well, goddammit, O’Keefe. Where did you come from?” O’Keefe lowered his arms. “Man, I thought you were going to shoot. I was right behind the paramedics.” Jacob scoped the area. “Where’s Romana?” “I didn’t see her. I heard someone breathing hard before I went inside, so I followed the sound. Lost it after a few minutes. Have you been tailing me?” “Did you flatten a wooden Frosty six or seven houses ago?” “I flattened something fat and hard.” “Then I’ve been tailing you.” “Any idea where he went?” Jacob started across the street. “Not to his car. It’s boxed in by yours.” “Score one for me.” O’Keefe blew into his free hand. “If North’s out in this, he’ll be a Popsicle in ten minutes.” “He’s probably holed up in a neighbor’s garage.” Or his own, Jacob reflected. However, a quick inspection of the structure revealed no sign of Patrick and no place he could conceal himself inside.

O’Keefe returned to his car to contact the captain. Jacob set his sights on the house. His biggest priority at the moment was to find Romana.

Wind buffeted him as he jogged toward the front porch. When he reached it, he saw a stout, wooly bear gesturing at a taller, calmer silhouette who was endeavoring to quiet it.

Sentence fragments reached him. Jacob took the stairs two at a time.

“I know what I heard,” the female bear insisted. “And where the shots came from. I called the police straight away.”

Shoving his gun into the top of his jeans, Jacob opened his jacket and showed her the badge clipped to his belt loop.

The relief on Romana’s face was a palpable thing, but whether it was the result of seeing him safe or at being interrupted, he wasn’t sure.

Go with the heart, he decided.

“Are you a neighbor?” he asked the woman.

A round, lined face peered up at him. She pointed with a mittened hand. “I live over there. Heard gunshots, thought Patrick might have been hurt by a burglar. Unless he’s working, he’s not usually out and about at night.”

“Keeps to himself, does he?” Jacob asked while Romana leaned on the railing and took what was probably a well-deserved rest.

“I’ve tried to be neighborly.” The woman sniffed. “Offered to bring him a homemade fruitcake. He said he’d take it. No ‘thank you,’ just a flat, he’d take it. I told my husband I thought he was a strange one. Spends half the nights he’s home up on the third floor doing heaven knows what. Attic light shines right in our bedroom window. We had to buy blackout blinds so we could sleep. My husband figures Patrick being a doctor and all, he might be going over patient files. I have to remind him that the man’s a doctor for dead people, and you can’t bring that kind of work home with you. Not unless you’re a ghoul.”

Romana arched meaningful eyebrows at Jacob and glanced upward. He nodded, took the woman by her wooly upper arms and shuffled her gently toward the stairs.

“Do me a favor, Mrs…”

“Brenner. Kate Brenner. My husband’s Peter Brenner, of Brenner’s Plumbing and Electric.”

“Mrs. Brenner,” Jacob interrupted before she could rev up. “I need you to go back to your house and watch for anyone or anything suspicious. If you see Patrick North, call my cell phone.” He dug a card from his back pocket.

“Where’ll you be?” she demanded.

“Locking up Mr. North’s place.”

“So that wasn’t him went out of here on a stretcher?”

Jacob looked at Romana.

She smiled and shrugged. “Hey, I’m just an unpaid bystander with no information to impart. Except that the guy on the stretcher was alive when he left here.”

“Go home, Mrs. Brenner,” Jacob repeated. “This is a police matter. We’ll deal with it.”

She wanted to object but the expression on his face stopped her. With his card crumpled in her fist, she toddled down the stairs, across the snowy yard and out of sight.

“Thanks for the help, Professor.” Jacob started toward her, his eyes dark and focused. “What cat stole your tongue all of a sudden?”

The last word pretty much died when, with a lightning-quick move, she reached out, snatched up the sides of his jacket and yanked his mouth onto hers.

THE KISS WAS GREAT, exactly what Romana needed to blow the negative energy out of her system. Jacob was safe. Finally, she could function without the oppressive weight of fear crushing her thoughts.

It hardly surprised her that Patrick had escaped-if you could call being on the run wearing nothing but a bathrobe, T-shirt and jeans an escape. The temperature had to be below twenty degrees by now, so unless he knew of a refuge nearby, he wouldn’t be running for long.

With O’Keefe still making calls in his car, she and Jacob mounted the stairs to the attic.

Romana didn’t know what she expected to find there, but it wasn’t the sight that greeted her when they opened the door.

“Oh…wow!” She held the snow-dampened hair from her eyes, pivoted slowly in the center of Patrick’s attic. “This is-well, sick.”

He’d pinned photographs of Belinda, scores of them, to the walls. Many were life sized. All of them were lewd.

Looking up, Romana spied a larger-than-life shot of an impossibly contorted Belinda Critch peering down at her from the ceiling. “My God, how did she get into that position?”

“She was double-jointed.”

With her gaze fastened to the ceiling, she traced the serpentine coil of Belinda’s body with a curious finger. “That’s more than double-jointed, Jacob, that’s a woman with no bones.” She continued to stare, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. “Did you know she could do that?”

A smile that looked suspiciously like a tease appeared as Jacob sifted through snapshots on a rickety table. “I knew she was flexible…”

“Okay, people.” O’Keefe pushed through the door. “I just got off the phone with Harris and… Holy-whoa. What’s all this?” His jaw dropped. “Man, oh, man, this guy is one sick puppy.”

“Tell us about it,” Romana murmured.

His phone rang, and still shaking his head, he stepped onto the landing to answer it.

Romana studied a montage of nude body parts. “Handcuffs with spikes,” she noted, and ran her finger over the shiny chain. Her stomach pitched. “You don’t think he-no, he wouldn’t. Would he?”

“Hurt Fitz?” Jacob came up behind her, rubbed her arms through her coat and kissed her hair. “I doubt it. He was obsessed with Belinda. They’re together in at least half of these shots, so obviously they had an affair.”

“Unless he’s a computer whiz, and he created the photos. His own virtual reality.”

“Always a possibility.”

She pressed herself into him, absorbed his warmth and strength. “I knew he loved her, knew it but didn’t take it any further than that. So was it Patrick who frightened Belinda to the point that she wanted a restraining order?”

“Answer’s probably yes.” O’Keefe came back through the door, pocketing his phone. He shook his head one last time at the photographic wallpaper. “Man, oh man, what some minds can do. That was Harris. Patrick North’s been picked up. He hailed a taxi three blocks from here.”

“The driver let him get in?” Romana was incredulous. “I’d have gunned it in the opposite direction.”

“The guy’s been driving for thirty years, probably seen it all. He got a message through to headquarters. Two patrols intercepted his car. North’s being transported to a well-guarded hospital room. Apparently, he’s decided that everyone in the world knows he murdered Belinda. First Fitz showed up on his doorstep, then after she got away, Critch appeared. Finally, you two descended on him.”

“Critch said he had no idea Patrick and Belinda were involved,” Romana recalled. “He came to find out if Belinda had mentioned being afraid of or worried about someone other than Jacob. He said that lately he’d been starting to wonder if he might not be wrong about who killed her.”

Wrapping his forearm lightly around her neck, Jacob leaned over to ask, “Did he define lately? This is Sunday night, Romana. Twenty-four hours ago, he showed up disguised as a caterer at a Christmas party and left two pipe bombs behind when he took off.”

“Hey, we didn’t get into time frames, and I have to tell you, he threw me totally when he admitted that maybe he’d been wrong about you. Of all the things I expected him to say, that was pretty much at the bottom of the list. Except…” Another memory slipped in and brought her eyebrows together. “He mentioned the Christmas cards. Not once but a couple times.”

Making a final sweep of the walls, Jacob motioned to O’Keefe and ushered Romana from the room. “Don’t tell me he apologized for sending them.”

A knot of dread unfurled in Romana’s stomach. “No, he didn’t do that.” She brought her head around to meet Jacob’s eyes. “But before he passed out, he told me he sent only four of the six we received.”

“HE WAS JERKING YOUR CHAIN,” O’Keefe maintained while they sealed the doors and windows of Patrick’s house. “You’re believing him too easily, Romana. The guy’s barely clinging to life. He was probably hallucinating, floating somewhere between fantasy and reality.”

He hadn’t been floating when he’d grabbed her wrist, of that Romana was certain. But had he been telling the truth?

That was the question that haunted her-at least it did until they reached the hospital.

Jacob waited in the corridor while she visited her cousin. When she emerged, he pushed off from the wall. “Give me some good news.”

“Okay. Her dad’s with her now. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but her pulse rate and blood count are both up.”

“How’s her shoulder?”

“The stab wound’s deep, but so far it doesn’t appear any nerves were severed.” Because he looked as exhausted as she felt, Romana hooked her arms around his neck and gave him a nice long kiss. “It’s all good, Detective. Fitz is going to be fine, and the clouds that were hanging over that gorgeous head of yours are gone. Soon everyone will know what I’ve known all along. You didn’t kill Belinda Critch.”

“You knew that all along, huh?”

“Yup.” She kissed him again. “And deep in your heart, so did you. Okay, you might wonder why you woke up in your car near O’Keefe’s place, but that’s no different than a drunk waking up in a jail cell the morning after.”

His lips quirked against hers. “Somehow, the comparison doesn’t fill me with positive thoughts.”

“Give me twenty-four hours of sex, sleep and food, and I’ll do better. Getting back to the up side of this story, Patrick’s in custody and Critch is-well, hanging on at this point, but he’s strong and judging from his past performance, cantankerous enough that he’ll want to pull through so he can make sure Patrick pays for killing Belinda. Like I said, all good- with that one small niggle about the cards.”

“Romana?”

The voice that hailed her had Romana dropping her forehead onto Jacob’s shoulder. “Doesn’t anyone stay home anymore?” She raised her head, but didn’t turn. “Hello, James.”

“How’s Fitz?”

“Improving. Her father’s with her now.”

“You see, darling, I told you we didn’t have to rush over here.” A bleary-eyed Shera Barret twirled a strand of Ro-mana’s hair around her index finger and smiled just a little too widely. “I knew teacher would have it all under control.”

Her husband ignored her and spoke to Jacob. “Is it true what I was told about North? He murdered Belinda?”

“Apparently. His statement’s being taken now.”

“All tied up in a pretty red bow,” Shera mocked. Romana caught the strong smell of gin on her breath. “Isn’t it wonderful how things work out? Now the handsome detective can get on with his life while the rest of us eat worms, or whatever that stupid expression is.”

She probably meant that Patrick’s arrest would open a whole new can of worms. Part of that being, Romana assumed, the bribe she’d offered to Gary Canter.

Poor Shera, she loved her husband and wanted him to love her back. But she had absolutely no idea if he did or not.

“Critch is the one I feel sorry for,” Shera slurred while James made a futile attempt to shuttle her away. “Married to someone who treated him like that. One affair after another. But as we know,” she tapped the side of her nose, “that’s how it goes sometimes, right? You love someone enough, you’d do anything to protect him-her-that person.”

James forced a smile, gave his wife a firm shove. “We’ll offer Fitz’s father our best wishes, then be off.”

It didn’t surprise Romana that Shera fought him. But the crack of her palm across his cheek made everyone blink.

“Stop pulling me along, James. I’m not one of your empty-headed playmates.” She jerked free. Tears of frustration and anger welled up. “I love you, you jackass, have since before we got married. But did you ever take the time to notice? Oh.” She set a woozy hand on her mouth, drew back and seemed to lose her focus. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Romana located a distant washroom sign and sighed. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Thank you,” James answered for her.

“I’ll get some coffee,” Jacob offered.

Romana sent him a dry look as Shera stumbled against her arm. “You’re a big help, Detective.”

“Coffee’s to keep us awake, Romana.” He brought her fingers to his lips. “Dinner’s on me.” His eyes caught and held hers. “So’s dessert.”

Okay, well now she wanted to hurry Shera up.

Nudging the door open, she pointed her toward an empty stall. But Shera, being Shera, balked at the prospect of throwing up in a public restroom.

“It’s gross in here.” The hand she’d pressed to her mouth fell to her throat in disgust. “The floor’s wet. I can’t go in there.”

“You’re a very picky drunk, Shera.”

“Not picky.” Her eyes filled again. “Don’t want to be here. Wouldn’t be if we hadn’t been having cocktails with James’s friend the mayor. It’s very hush-hush, you know-Critch being shot, Patrick North being captured. Gotta keep it under wraps until all the wrinkles are ironed out. Make sure the city house is in order, then make the grand announcement. It’s all about politics, flash and glitter. Gonna clear a cop’s name-goody for the police department. Not bad for the mayor’s office, either. But it has to be done so the credit for both clearing and capture translates to votes. I repeat, hush-hush. No one here in the hospital but us mice. No Warren Critch, no killer, no comment.”

Romana waited her out, drummed her fingers on the sink. “So are you going to throw up or not? Because I have better things to do, Shera, than stand here and listen to you babble about political secrets, ploys and tactics.”

“He’s coming for Christmas dinner.” Shera stuck out her tongue. “James insisted. We sent the invitations last week, got a flood of cards back saying yes. Mostly from men with ornamental wives.”

Cards…

Word triggered question and sent Romana’s mind spiraling back to Critch’s final declaration.

“Four cards,” she echoed, and felt a chill crawl down her spine.

Overhead, the lights flickered. Shera clutched Romana’s arm. “What was that?”

“A stutter. Don’t worry, the hospital has backup generators.”

“Do you think James is seeing someone in Cleveland?”

“You need to ask him that question, not me.”

“Did you ask your ex-husband? Is that why he’s your ex?”

“We had other problems, Shera. Every marriage is different.”

“Like Belinda Critch’s marriage?” Shera swayed, gripped the sink. “Why would she want Patrick?”

“I’m not sure she did in the end.” Romana indicated the door. “Can we leave now?”

Shera considered the possibility. “Maybe. Not sure yet. I’ve had four gin fizzes on an empty stomach.”

“That’s more gross than the wet floor.”

The lights flickered again and made Shera groan. “Don’t do this. I hate blackouts. Oh…” She teetered sideways, pressed a hand to her stomach. “Maybe I should check out that other stall before we wind up in the dark.”

Lovely, Romana thought. She had the prospect of hot sex waiting for her right outside the door, plenty to celebrate- minus one disquieting question-and here she was in a hospital washroom with a woman whose stomach was taking exception to an overdose of gin fizzes.

Sometimes a situation just plain sucked.

THE LIGHTS DIMMED TWICE, but stayed on. Sensing that Shera would prolong the drama as long as possible, Jacob drained his coffee and backhanded Barret’s shoulder.

“When Romana comes out, tell her I’m having a chat with Patrick North.”

“If she comes out.” Barret plucked a thread from his coat. “Shera can be difficult.”

“Romana handles difficult better than anyone I know. Give them five minutes.”

Which didn’t give him a lot of time to talk to Patrick, because the moment Romana reappeared he wanted to get the hell out of here. Maybe they’d have dinner in a restaurant, or maybe they’d order in-after he made love to her about five times.

“Evening, Detective Knight.” The guard on Patrick’s door took a huge bite from his take-out burger.

Jacob scanned the corridor as the lights dimmed again. “Where do you put it all, Jefferson?”

“Call me Hollow Man.” He cocked a thumb. “North’s awake and pissed off. If you’re searching for some inventive new ways to swear, he’s your man.”

“Should be interesting.”

Patrick glared when Jacob entered. He wore sterile blue, and his arm was taped to his chest in an immobile sling.

“You know where you can go, Knight.”

“Been there and back.” He halted at the foot of the bed, left his hands in his jacket pockets. “Why did you kill her?”

Patrick’s lip curled. “What, no good cop, bad cop routine?”

Jacob kept his eyes steady on the other man’s face. “Captain says you made a full confession. Anything you tell me won’t make much difference.”

Patrick picked at his bandages. “The cops’ll go through my house, won’t they?”

“From cellar to attic. They’ll talk to your neighbors, too.” He added the soft sting. “And Fitz.”

A disgusted sound emerged. “You knew her. You went out with her.”

“Before she married Critch, yeah.”

“She was a siren.”

Not from Jacob’s perspective, but people saw things differently. “Did you have an affair?”

Patrick launched a visual spear. “Of course we did, for five months. I loved her, and we were hot, like fire. She was going to leave Warren.”

“Did she say that?”

“No, but I can read between the lines.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t do it. For whatever reason, she came in to work one day and said it was over. We were done. I think he threatened her.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“Well, hardly,” Patrick scoffed. “She claimed she loved him, said she was tired of proving herself to herself. Warren loved her, she loved him, and we were done.”

“So you killed her?”

Disdain twisted his mouth. “Not then, no. I told you, I loved her. I gave her space, let her think. I figured he must have brainwashed her. I thought if I didn’t see her, she’d start to miss me. When she didn’t, I got a little-well, steamed. I confronted her.” The fingers of his good hand curled around his gown. “She laughed at me.” He glowered at the bedsheets. “I don’t like it when people do that. Mortician’s son, mother who works in the morgue-kids figured maybe my name was really Igor.”

“We were talking about you and Belinda, Patrick.”

“It’s my dime, Knight. I’ll say what I want to.”

The room lights went out completely, then snapped back on.

Patrick’s eyes heated up. “Brainwashed or not, she laughed at me. Then she told me to leave.” He smiled. “So I did.”

“Just like that?”

“Exactly like that. I gave her another chance, of course, and another. But she kept saying she loved him. She wouldn’t listen to reason, and it made me mad, so I threatened her.”

“Did you have any idea that she was pregnant?”

“I-no, at least not until I did the autopsy.”

“Which Gorman signed as his own work.”

“He’d sign pretty much anything I gave him at that point. I didn’t forge his signature like Hanson did, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Patrick’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t expect her to be pregnant.”

“Was it your child?”

“No idea. Maybe. She never said and she couldn’t have told her husband because he never mentioned it…” Lost in thought, he scratched his fingernails over the bandages in the region of his heart. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, but she said she had no feelings left for me, not even friendly ones.” Red blotches stained his cheeks. “I knew she was lying, but I couldn’t help myself. I used her own gun on her. It wasn’t registered. She’d gotten it for protection when Warren wasn’t home. One shot, and it was done.

“I thought I’d fall apart. I mean, I started to, but then I didn’t. I put everything right. I do autopsies. I knew what had to be done. I cleaned the place, and I left. I thought maybe I’d screwed up somewhere. I kept waiting for the cops to come and arrest me. But they never did. And Stubbs and Canter only went through the motions.”

“So where does Fitz come into this?”

Patrick made a dismissive motion. “I thought she knew the truth, thought she’d figured it out, when all she really wanted was to ask me some dumb question about James Barret and a watch. It sounded like she knew something, just like it did when Critch showed up tonight. But I’m told I was wrong about him, too.”

He fell back against the pillow, stared blankly at the ceiling. “They called me Igor. Can you believe that?”

When he began to hum a Christmas song, Jacob decided it was time to leave. At the door, however, he turned his head and offered a quiet, “Why the mistletoe leaves?”

Patrick’s lips moved, but he merely continued to sing.

That’s when the lights went out.