Mistletoe and Murder

Chapter Five

“He’s lying.” Romana tried to sound adamant but knew she fell short. “Even if he was having problems at home, O’Keefe wouldn’t have had sex with a married woman.” She slanted Jacob a mistrustful look. “Unless you introduced him to Belinda Critch before that New Year’s Eve party, so she wasn’t a complete stranger to him.”

“Which would make it okay for him to have had sex with her?”

“No.” She breathed out. “No, it would just make them not strangers.” Frustrated, she pressed on her temples. “I’m trying really hard to untangle this mess of knots we’ve tied, Knight.”

And coming to a lively restaurant-his idea, not hers-in even livelier Mount Adams probably wasn’t the best place to do that. The chili at Bitte might be the best in the city, and the owners, a pair of second-generation German brothers, might be famous for bursting into song, but Romana had had two bombshells dropped on her that night-one involving Jacob, the other his former partner-and neither one was sitting well.

As she struggled with her thoughts, she moved her gaze around the room.

Holiday oompah music underscored laughing patrons at more than three dozen tables. Being German, the brother/owners had Christmas trees stuffed into every nook and cranny. The one precariously angled over their booth tended to grab Romana’s hair every time she moved.

She swirled the lager she hadn’t really wanted and, beginning with the less complicated prospect, backtracked through the newest knots.

“What was the state of O’Keefe’s marriage nine years ago?”

Jacob gave a small laugh. “Come on, Romana, guys don’t talk personal on the clock.”

“In my experience, they don’t talk personal off the clock, either. But even a guy can get a sense of another guy’s life. Was he snappish, moody, tense, depressed? Or the opposite- upbeat, relaxed, eager to leave when his shift ended?”

“He was O’Keefe, steady and dependable. A solid cop. We talked baseball, football, politics and punks.” Jacob took a long drink of beer. “If you’re interested, Barret’s friend, the mayor, is a dick.”

She tugged on strands of her hair that were currently snagged in the tips of the Christmas pine. “Really? I’ll have to mention that to my colleague at the university. The mayor’s her stepfather.”

“Steps can be dicks, too.”

Although the word step triggered a third line of thought, Romana wanted to deal with O’Keefe and Belinda first. “Straight answer, Knight. Did O’Keefe know Belinda Critch before he allegedly went upstairs at Gilhoolie’s and had sex with her?”

“Alleged sex.”

“Don’t nitpick. It wasn’t an official question.”

“Then the unofficial answer is, no, I don’t think he knew her, but yes, he’d met her.”

“Through you?”

“Through the department. We deal with people in forensics every day. It’s part of our job. And Belinda was very people oriented.”

Mostly male people, as Romana recalled, but she let it go and ran a contemplative finger around the rim of her glass. “It could have been a one-time thing between them. New Year’s Eve festivities gone awry.”

“Could be. Why aren’t you looking at me?”

She’d been expecting this. Raising her head, she forced a steady stare. “Better?”

He leaned over his drink, and it took all of Romana’s willpower not to grab his T-shirt and haul him closer. Or shove him away and escape.

Jacob watched her but didn’t speak until the young restaurant owner, who’d launched into a boisterous rendition of Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus, finished to a round of applause. Jacob’s green eyes moved over her face with a slow, almost dangerous kind of seduction. Her skin warmed, and her heart made a dizzy revolution in her chest.

“Who did you run into in the park?”

She could lie and call herself a coward, or go with the truth and brace for impact.

She took a deep breath-then sighed it out. “One of Belinda’s phone conversations was overheard during that weird and eventful forty-eight-hour period prior to her death. Your name came up.”

“Not in a good way, I assume.”

“She told whoever was on the other end that you wanted her dead.”

“Did this eavesdropper happen to know who Belinda was talking to?”

“I’d guess no.” Now that it was out, Romana gave in to temptation, slid closer and ran a fingertip from his cheek to his jaw. “Deny it, Jacob. I’d rather believe you than someone who listens in on private conversations.”

His eyes fixed on hers. “Why would I want Belinda dead when I didn’t want her in the first place?”

“That’s not a denial, Detective.”

Catching her fingers, he brought them to his lips. “I didn’t want her dead, okay? I didn’t want anything from her.”

She reminded herself to breathe. “Did you argue about the restraining order she requested?”

“We might have. I know she wanted me to obtain it no questions asked.”

“Surely she knew that was impossible…” A cloud of doubt scudded in. “What do you mean, you might have? Don’t you know why you argued?”

Turning her hand over, he ran his thumb lightly across her palm. The shiver that skated along her spine had as much to do with apprehension as desire. “What aren’t you telling me, Jacob?”

He held her gaze, but his lashes fell to shield his expression. “I remember meeting her for lunch, and I know we talked about a restraining order. It’s leaving the restaurant when things start to get…blurry.”

Romana’s latent cop sense kicked in. She curled her fingers around his. “Define blurry.”

He stroked the skin on the back of her hand. “Hazy, as in unclear, like a slow spin through a black hole.”

Concern had her capturing his chin. “You have blackouts?”

“Had them six years ago, for a three- maybe four-week period.”

“Did you tell Stubbs or Canter?”

“Canter and I have several post-Academy issues, and the code book is Stubbs’s bible.”

“Doesn’t mean he’d have crucified you. Why a month’s worth of blackouts?”

The lines around his mouth deepened. “Long story short, six years ago, O’Keefe and I pursued three homicide suspects on foot to the waterfront. It was early December and icy. O’Keefe went down. I kept going. I lost sight of one suspect, but the other two were visible and, by the time I reached them, penned in by a high warehouse fence. The one closest dropped his weapon when I approached. The other didn’t. I heard O’Keefe shout, but didn’t turn fast enough. The third guy blindsided me. When I regained consciousness, two of the suspects were gone and the one I’d managed to graze was on the ground, howling that he was bleeding to death.”

“Let me guess. When the paramedics arrived on scene, you sent the runner to the hospital but never considered going there yourself.”

“Something like that.”

She shook her head. “Men.” Then on a note of exasperated amusement. “Cops.” The humor faded. “Untreated concussions have been known to cause blackouts, Jacob. You must have realized you needed attention after your first one. Or was the restaurant the first time?”

“Fifth.” A crease formed between his eyes. “I think.”

Okay, this wasn’t good. But it didn’t necessarily damn him, either. It was simply another knot.

A limb caught her hair, causing several decorations to jingle. The approaching server apologized and helped her untangle. Transitioning smoothly, he recommended the house chili with wild rice and a bean and herb salad.

By the time he left with two full orders on his pad, Romana had her hair smoothed and her doubts firmly locked away.

“You should have said something-” she stabbed Jacob’s chest to emphasize her point “-long before you reached number five. Did O’Keefe notice anything?”

“Yeah, he told me I looked like crap and suggested I get a vitamin shot.” He nudged aside his empty glass. “O’Keefe was going through a messy divorce, Romana. He’d lost the custody battle. His father had been killed in a motorcycle accident a few months earlier.”

“His father was a biker?” she interrupted. “I mean…” She frowned. “I thought when O’Keefe said his dad rode bikes he meant ten speed or mountain. Hell.” She visualized O’Keefe’s face on the dark wood tabletop. “I’m not much of a friend, am I?”

Jacob almost hid his smile. “You said yourself, you don’t pry. O’Keefe doesn’t really talk about his private life. He’s even less forthcoming about his father’s death.”

Which wasn’t quite the point. Any way Romana looked at it, she should have known.

She took an absent swipe at the air-and realized her thumb was covered with tree sap.

“Having a bad karma day.” She rubbed at the sap with her napkin. “I need soap and water.” As she slid from the booth, she patted his cheek. “Think explanation for five unreported blackouts, Knight, and I’ll be right back.”

There were only two people in the women’s washroom, a mother and daughter who appeared to be having a Freaky Friday episode.

Romana tuned them out and set her mind on Jacob. He didn’t remember leaving a restaurant with a woman who’d wound up dead two days later. He thought he remembered why they’d argued but wasn’t sure.

Like the conversation Patrick had overheard, those facts couldn’t have come out at the hearing. There’d have been headlines if they had. So did that make Jacob a liar, or did it mean that the overall picture was intact and only the details were fuzzy?

Her head buzzed with possibilities, far too many to sort through in a washroom where a teenage girl’s voice was growing louder by the second.

“Let it go, Lacy,” her crimson-faced mother finally ordered. “You’re embarrassing both of us.”

Romana could have told her that very little embarrassed a police officer, past or present, but she stopped herself and used the air machine to dry her hands. She was re-shouldering her purse when the door shot open and a man in full Santa costume rushed in.

He didn’t hesitate, merely flicked a glance at the women in the corner then lunged at Romana, his nearest target. He had her arm wrenched painfully behind her back before she could dip a hand into her bag.

“Mom?” The girl sidled behind her mother.

“It’s okay,” Romana gasped as her arm was yanked higher. “He wants me, not you.”

“Smart lady,” the fake Santa growled in her ear. “Pretty, too. Bad-luck, good-luck scenario for me. You!” He jerked his whiskered chin at the frightened pair. “Lock yourselves in a stall, and stay there. You-” he returned his mouth to Romana’s ear “-come with me.”

She was trained, Romana reminded herself. One unguarded moment, and she could take him down.

“Where are we going?” she asked and was rewarded with a crack in the region of her elbow. But he had hold of her other arm as well, she realized through the pain, so if he was carrying a weapon, he wouldn’t be able to access it easily.

“Rear entrance,” he snarled, then more softly, “Quiet, now, gorgeous. We’re gonna leave here like mice, you and me. Open the door and take a peek outside.”

Adrenaline pulsed through her. She reined it in and exhaled. “I need my hand.”

He squeezed her hard. “Screw with me,” he warned, “and I’ll snap your elbow like a twig.”

Then he shifted his grip.

The instant her wrist was free, Romana used her boot on his instep, spun out of the arm lock, brought her knee up between his legs and mashed his nose with the heel of her hand.

Blood spurted. Santa howled and stumbled headfirst into the door. When it crashed open, the impact sent him staggering backward into the sink.

“Let it bleed,” Jacob advised from behind the barrel of his police special. He held out a hand in her direction. “Romana?”

“Sore arm.” She gave it an experimental shake, then curious, bent to inspect the seething Santa. “Critch?”

When he didn’t respond, Jacob lowered his gun to a point below the man’s Santa buckle. “Lose the whiskers, pal, unless you’d rather lose a vital body part.”

Bloody fingers gave the beard a yank.

Not Critch, Romana realized. Close-he had the rangy build and rugged features-but this man was younger, and not as tough as he’d wanted her to believe.

She tried a question while he gulped air through his mouth. “Do you know Warren Critch?”

He started to swear, but swallowed the worst of it when he saw Jacob’s face. “No.”

One-handed, Jacob hefted the man to his feet. “Romana?”

“Dialing.” She used her cell phone and at the same time knocked on the closed stall door. “It’s okay.You can come out.”

The daughter was slumped like a rag doll against the metal wall. Only her mother emerged.

She touched Romana’s arm. “Why did you think he was after you?”

“Very long story,” Romana replied. “But take my advice. If your daughter ever decides to become a cop, tell her to make sure it’s what she wants.” She regarded the bleeding Santa, let her mind rewind to the telephone threat she’d received only yesterday and her eyes stray to Jacob. “Because no matter how hard you try, if you decide to leave the force, the break will never be totally clean.”

WELL, WELL, NOW WASN’T THIS AN intriguing twist? Someone else, someone completely unrelated to his purpose, had done the terrorizing tonight. He hadn’t needed to lift a finger. True, the guy hadn’t rattled them too deeply; but there must have been a moment when they’d been unsure, when Romana in particular had feared for her life.

He warmed to the idea. Prolonged fear. They should never be sure where Warren Critch might pop up or what he’d do when he did. Yes, he liked that scenario very much.

He’d use uncertainty to his advantage, throw them off-balance then swoop in for the kill.

He smiled the smile of a smug, nasty Grinch. Who said revenge had to be dull?

“ANSWER’SNO, FITZ. I’m not going. End of conversation.” “Come on, Ro, I need you there for support. Anyway, functions like this are fun. When you were on the force, you told me police parties had the potential to get wild.”

In the kitchen of her Clifton apartment, Romana removed a final tray of Christmas gingerbread from the oven and glanced at Fitz’s half-empty glass of eggnog.

They’d been baking the parts for a gingerbread house all afternoon. Romana was comfortably barefoot in her favorite black sweats, a stretchy white tank and three pairs of jingling Christmas earrings. It might have been thirty degrees outside, but a gas fire burned warm and inviting in her living room, the air smelled of ginger and other spices, and Loreena McKennitt sang haunting Christmas melodies on her MP3 player.

She listened to her cousin’s dramatic pleas and told herself not to laugh. No matter what her initial mood, Fitz always had the ability to amuse her. But go to a police/forensics party after she’d left the force? Not in this lifetime, not even for Anna Fitzgerald’s sake.

“You’re slurring your words, Fitz.” She rearranged the trays in an attempt to figure out which pieces went where. “No more brandy until I can understand at least half of what you’re saying.” Still arranging, she shoved at her cousin’s hand. “And don’t eat the walls until they’re up.”

“Say no all you like, you’re coming to the party.” Despite her thick tongue, Fitz’s expression grew sly. “Bet Jacob Knight’ll be there.”

Romana slid Fitz’s glass out of reach. “Jacob does parties like I do boring faculty dinners-which is to say, he only goes when threatened by a higher power. Don’t eat the roof, either.”

“I’ll cut you a deal, Ro. I’ll stop nibbling if you’ll tell me about the mean Santa who nabbed you in the bathroom. You rushed through it too fast the first time.”

Although she didn’t want to repeat the story again, the alternative-to be badgered for the next hour by her tipsy cousin-was even less palatable.

“The guy was a thief, Fitz. He dressed up as Santa Claus, marched into a liquor store, waited for a lull, broke a bottle and used it on the cashier. Manager was in the back. He found a knife and charged. Santa took off. He didn’t have time to lose the costume, so he left it on and ran into Bitte, where Jacob and I were having dinner. The women’s washroom door was right there. He saw it as a refuge and ducked in.”

“Where was Jacob?”

“Heading for the men’s room. The liquor store manager spotted his badge and told him he’d followed a would-be thief into the restaurant. Jacob reasoned it out. Result? Mean Santa’s going to be spending Christmas in jail with a few badly bruised body parts and a broken nose.”

Fitz fingered her own nose. “Remind me never to sneak up on you from behind. So time passes, and you and Jacob have been doing what?”

With the gingerbread set out in semiformation, Romana began capping the spices. “We’ve been questioning people who knew Belinda Critch, and a few who knew her husband. One of Warren’s amateur theater cronies manages a toy store. We’re seeing him tonight.”

“Yeah? Downtown store or shopping mall?”

“Mall.”

Fitz made a face. “I like street shops better. Crowded malls suck.”

Romana grinned. “Too many security guards lurking in the shop shadows, huh?”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Her cousin’s elbows hit the granite counter with a thud. “Man, you swipe a few small things…”

“Like a Rolex and a handheld PC, two pairs of Jimmy Choo shoes…”

“I get it, Ro. Sticky fingers-bad. Straight and narrow- good. Don’t forget I have serious childhood issues. My father’s an alcoholic.” Fitz’s elbows slid away and her forehead landed on the counter. “James says he’s on the bottle again.”

Romana swung around. “Oh, Fitz, I’m sorry.” She leaned over the island. “Is he sure?”

“Ninety percent. He told me about it in the park. I kind of passed it by Dad, but you know how he is. Deny to the death, or the unemployment line if he isn’t careful.” She eased her head up to peek out from under her bangs. “I don’t suppose you could, you know…”

“Talk to him?”

“He likes you.”

“Doesn’t mean he’ll listen.” But at Fitz’s stricken expression, Romana relented. “Yes, all right, I’ll talk. Tell him I’ll drop by for tea on Saturday.”

“Sunday. Saturday’s the police party, and setting aside the fact that I want you there, you should want you there. Think about it, Ro. A lot of cops worked on Belinda Critch’s case. You can talk to them. Or Jacob can. And don’t tell me he won’t show, because you can con anyone into anything when you put your mind to it.” A lopsided smile appeared. Using her fingernails, she inched her eggnog forward. “So, does the cutie pie detective have as great a body as I think he does under those jeans and that super cool leather jacket?”

Amusement tickled Romana’s throat. “No idea, Fitz.” Which was a lie since she had plenty of ideas, not to mention last night’s deliciously graphic dream still shooting around in her head. To tell Fitz anything, however, was to risk announcing it to the world. “We kissed, okay? Nothing more erotic than that.”

“Was it great?”

Eyes sparkling, Romana drew the eggnog back out of range. “Get invited to the police officer’s New Year’s Eve party, and you might find out.”

“Yeah, right, like Knight’s going to do New Year’s Eve.”

Sliding her gaze to the wide condo window, Romana watched tiny snowflakes drift down from a dove-gray sky. “Trust me, Fitz, if Jacob and I make it through Christmas to New Year’s Eve alive, we’ll be in the mood to celebrate.” She jingled the bell on one of her earrings. “At least his neighbor’s better. Sort of. She’s awake and aware.”

“That sounds good. Why don’t you sound happy?”

“Oh, I’m happy, just-I don’t know-puzzled, maybe. She says Critch was wearing a ski mask when he grabbed her.”

Fitz searched for the point. “And that puzzles you because…?”

“Why would he bother?”

“Uh, so she couldn’t identify him?”

“Yes, but we know it was him, so I repeat, why bother?”

“Maybe he’s shy.”

“Mmm.” Romana considered it from Critch’s point of view. “I suppose he could have been thinking that as long as he was disguised, even if we believed he was Critch, there’d be no actual proof.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“I mean if Denny had died, Jacob could have said he thought it was Critch who hit her, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain. And any potential witnesses, say another neighbor, wouldn’t have been able to provide a description, either. Becomes conjecture in the eyes of the court-ergo, no murder charge.”

“Until he gets around to you and Jacob.”

“That’s different, or it will be in Critch’s eyes. He’ll have an escape plan in place, an immediate one. In Denny’s case, he knew he’d have to hang around, and he couldn’t risk an increased police presence.”

Fitz propped her chin in one hand. “Being a cop sounds complicated, Ro. So many procedures and loopholes and bad dudes flipping them the bird, then walking. No wonder some go bad.” Her finger crept across the counter. “Are you sticking to your belief that Jacob didn’t kill Belinda?”

The doubts that rose up scuttled into the corners when Romana pictured Jacob holding his gun on the Santa who’d grabbed her at Bitte. “There’s no reason not to stick.”

“So if you’re right, that means someone else, probably someone who knew Belinda in the back bedroom kind of way, did the killing.”

Romana slanted her a mildly suspicious look. “Why the tone, cousin?”

Eyes rolling, Fitz hopped from the barstool. “You’re a cop to the bone, Ro. No tone, no problem. Come on. Let’s haul out the big stepladder and hang twinkling lights around your gi-normous city-view window.”

Romana bit her lip, glanced at the phone. She should call Jacob. Or-well, maybe not. No, she really should.

Frustration escaped on a sigh. Yes, no, maybe-what she really wanted to do was scream. Then call him.

Her fingers tapped the countertop. Of course, he could have called her. How did he know she knew about his neighbor? She also had no idea when he wanted to leave for the mall. Or why her blatantly sexual dreams about him were beginning to disrupt her thought processes.

Actually, that was one question she probably could answer, if she allowed her thoughts to veer in that direction. The problem was, she wasn’t sure she’d like the answer, or the other, more disturbing questions that would accompany it.

“Damn you, Knight. What secrets are you hiding in that gorgeous head of yours?”

While Fitz hunted noisily for the ladder, Romana set her elbows on the counter, plunked her chin in her hands and debated. She was glaring at the handset when her cousin gasped.

“What?” Reacting automatically, she grabbed a spatula and darted into the living room.

She’d been expecting a spider since Fitz was terrified of anything with more than four legs. Instead, she found her cousin staring at the computer screen.

“You had an envelope. I opened it.”

Romana stared with her-and felt an icy finger of fear glide along her backbone.

A color image glowed on the monitor. The subject of the picture was positioned exactly as Belinda Critch had been in death. Unlike Belinda, however, she was lying naked in the alley where Critch had tried to shoot Jacob. Mistletoe leaves were scattered around her. Some of them floated in the blood that had seeped from the wound in her chest. Half-lidded gray-blue eyes stared at them, cloudy and dull, like the eyes of a very old doll.

Her eyes, Romana realized through a layer of shock. Winter-lake blue, and just as dead as Belinda’s had been.

Directly beneath the photo, a single word wafted across the screen.

Soon…