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Mistletoe and Murder
Jenna Ryan


Experience the thrill of life on the edge and set your adrenalin pumping! These gripping stories see heroic characters fight for survival and find love in the face of danger.’Tis the season…to die! Every Christmas the threats started again. They came delivered in red greeting cards, and this year Romana was forced to take them seriously. Even if it meant turning to Jacob Knight – the sexy detective she’d always kept at arm’s length. Jacob’s dark past endangered Romana – but only he could protect her from a convicted felon bent on exacting revenge.As Christmas came closer, and the nights got longer, their passions threatened to erupt. But could their desire leave them vulnerable to a stone-cold killer?








Jack Frost outside, Jacob Knight hot and hungry for her inside – it was everything she needed right now.

There was danger in both places, but this was the danger she chose.

Desire spiked through her, and she marvelled that her heart didn’t stop dead in her chest. But when he lifted his lips, she simply pulled him back down. “Don’t stop.”

Threads of thought were all she had left and, even with only half of her brain functioning, she managed to see his eyes go dark. And darker.

This wasn’t a new thing between them, just an old spark that never quite had a chance to ignite. Merry Christmas…




CAST OF CHARACTERS


Romana Grey – Former Cincinnati police officer marked for death by Warren Critch.

Jacob Knight – Cincinnati police detective. Red Christmas cards from Critch mark him for death, as well.

Anna Fitzgerald – Romana’s cousin. She has a police record and a nose for trouble.

Belinda Critch – Critch’s wife. She was murdered seven Christmases ago.

Warren Critch – He believes Jacob Knight killed his wife.

Dylan Hoag – Belinda Critch’s embittered brother. He and Romana attended the police academy together.

Michael “Mick” O’Keefe – Jacob’s former partner knew Belinda in the past and is in love with Romana now.

Patrick North – Friend and confidant, he worked closely with Belinda.

James Barret – A corporate executive. He’s enjoyed the company of many women, but was Belinda one of them?

Shera Barret – A jealous woman, she’ll do anything to keep her husband from cheating on her.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jenna Ryan loves creating dark-haired heroes, strong heroines and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until the day her sister Kathy suggested she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing romantic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them by instinct. Clearly it’s worked, since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing.




Mistletoe and Murder


JENNA RYAN




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Rick and Mary for making this

and other stories happen.




Prologue


Lovely Romana…

I will think of you at Christmas

Until the day I’m free.

Will you stand beneath the mistletoe

And think as well of me?

Warren Critch wanted to write more, but he knew the card would be inspected before it left the facility.

Federal prison, that’s where the judge had sent him. Twelve years inside for attempting to shoot a police officer. There’d been no mention as to why a high school chemistry teacher had been holding a gun on the officer in question and only a fleeting reference to the woman said officer had murdered.

Warren pictured his wife’s face in death. Sweet Belinda. How beautiful she’d looked, even with a bullet hole the size of a pigeon’s egg in her chest.

Oh, yes, they’d let him see her. Someone said there’d been mistletoe leaves scattered around her. The police had murmured the usual platitudes. They’d shuffled their cop feet and cleared their collective throats. But not one of them had made eye contact with him. Not in the morgue, not in his jail cell and certainly not in the courtroom.

Jacob Knight was one of their own; Warren Critch was not. As for Warren’s wife, well, just because Jacob had been involved with Belinda once, had lunch with her two days before she’d died and argued with her in public, that didn’t mean he’d killed her. Cops didn’t shoot innocent people. Warren was wrong to believe that. Someone else had put that hole in her chest.

His lips thinned. Did they take him for a complete fool? Jacob Knight had threatened Belinda twice. Then he’d done the deed.

Warren could have stopped him, would have if Officer Romana Grey hadn’t slipped into the alley and pressed her own gun to the base of his neck. She’d warned him to back off, and he had. Dammit, he had. Because of that, Belinda was dead.

Warren’s fingers shook as he shoved the festive card into a bright red envelope. Red for Christmas; red for blood—Belinda’s blood, the blood Jacob Knight had spilled one year ago this Christmas season. Knight had stolen Belinda’s life, then had his own returned to him courtesy of Romana Grey. They would go on being cops while he moldered in prison and Belinda rotted in a coffin.

No justice there, Warren reflected. But there would be, in time. He would see to that.

He would be good, so very, very good. The years would pass, and he would trade these bars for freedom. Christmas would come again and again. And at length two more people would die.

Romana Grey first, then Jacob Knight. By the time their bodies were discovered, he’d be in South America, sequestered in the Amazon jungle, where he’d spent a large portion of his youth. An eye for an eye, the missionaries on the big river would say. A fitting Christmas present, was Warren Critch’s more cynical judgment.

A grim smile flitted across his lips as he opened a second card. Time to offer Jacob the same Christmas wishes he’d bestowed upon Romana.

“Enjoy the holidays while you can,” he whispered to them from a distance. “You have only a handful left.”


Chapter One

“It’s the perfect scent for you.” The woman behind the department store perfume counter gave one of her test bottles a spritz. “Mysterious and exotic, with a hint of Eastern spice.”

Romana Grey sniffed her wrist. “It’s lovely, but I’m not shopping for me.”

A finger in her spine preceded a cheerful, “Note to self, Ro, as females, we’re always shopping for ‘me,’ even in December.” Romana’s cousin, Anna Fitzgerald, picked up another bottle and sprayed the already pungent air. “This smells expensive.”

“Ten dollars a pump,” the saleswoman confirmed, then excused herself to intercept a group of excited teenage girls.

Fitz set her forearms on the glass case. “So, who are you shopping for today? Mom, Grandma Grey or one of your six sisters-in-law?”

“Five. Noah’s divorced.” Romana gave her wrist a shake. “This really is nice.” Then she glanced at her watch. “Why are you here at three in the afternoon?”

“Some wires fried in the main lab. The forensics team’s been evacuated until morning.” Out of the corner of her eye, Romana saw Fitz finger a tiny bottle. “I was bagging a hair sample when I smelled the smoke. Well, actually, Doc Patrick smelled it. You know him—tall, sexy dude who never remembers to get a haircut and whose socks don’t match.”

Romana swatted her cousin’s wandering fingers. “Stop doing that.”

“I’m not going to steal it.”

“And I’m supposed to know that? It’s me, Fitz. I arrested you twice for shoplifting when I was a rookie.”

“Then got me into rehab and back on the straight and narrow. I’m a respectable citizen these days, thanks to you, a kindly judge and a totally cool bunch of coworkers in forensics. Which brings me back to Patrick North. Unmarried, shy, in need of a female to match up his socks.”

Romana knew where this conversation was headed. Her cousin’s mind was a one-way street. “Patrick worked with Belinda Critch, Fitz. I hate the way it all circles back to that. It feels like everyone around me knows or has a connection to somebody who was involved in her death.”

“Cops know people in forensics, Ro. It’s the nature of the biz. Belinda analyzed body fluids. She got around. You knew her, I knew her, and, trust me, so did a whole lot of men.”

“Including my ex.” Romana toyed with a fat genie bottle. Her much-anticipated shopping trip was starting to suck. “I figure Connor slept with at least two of his female coworkers. Belinda was probably one of them.”

“Connor was also taking bribes from Cincinnati drug lords.” Fitz sniffed. “Don’t sweat the loss of a creep.”

“I never sweat my losses, but marrying Connor Hanson wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

“No, divorcing him was.”

“Good point.” Shoving her brief funk aside, Romana sprayed a cotton ball, frowned and wrinkled her nose. “This smells like jalapeño peppers.”

“It smells like Belinda Critch.”

It did, actually. Romana warded off another pang of guilt and dropped the ball into a silver waste receptacle. “Belinda’s gone, Fitz. Life goes on.”

“That’s a fact. You traded cophood for a college degree. I got my head screwed on straight and managed to work myself up the forensics ladder to a great tech job. It’s not your fault or mine that Belinda Critch is dead. Maybe it’s Jacob Knight’s fault, but no one could prove it, so one way or another, her killer’s probably still out there.”

“Not helping me here, Fitz.”

“Sorry.” A pause, then, “Do you think he did it?”

“No.”

“That’s it, just a flat no? Come on, Ro, someone put a bullet in her chest, and Jacob Knight was involved with her once.”

“If a guy I dated in high school turned up dead tomorrow, would that put me at the top of the suspect list?”

“I think you’re not sure about him, and that’s why you get twitchy when the subject comes up. You saved Knight’s life, and, bam, two days later, Belinda’s dead. Critch said Knight threatened her, so he must have believed it. Although…” She drew an air line with her finger. “Knight’s partner did stick up for him. Michael O’Keefe…” Her smile flashed quickly and dimpled. “Who am I to doubt the word of a fellow Irishman?”

“An Irishman you dated once as I remember.”

“You remember very well. O’Keefe’s cute. Okay, older than me, but I like an age gap.”

“You like any gap when it comes to men.”

“Guess I have something in common with Belinda, after all. Maybe two things. Her brother Dylan’s kind of cool, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh. Tell me, Fitz, is there a man we both know that you don’t like?”

“Yeah, Jacob Knight. Except I don’t not like him, I’m just not sure of him. Critch was convinced that Knight killed his wife, so much so that he pulled a gun on him. But there you were, on the scene and duty-bound to jump in, with no idea who was wrong or right. Come on, Ro, a dilemma like that would give anyone twitches.”

Romana erased the smell of peppers from her fingers with peach hand cream. She considered changing the subject but knew Fitz would only find a way back. With a sigh, she said, “It’s guilt I’m feeling, okay? Not about helping Jacob in that alley—that’s what cops do—but because I didn’t listen to Critch when he said his wife’s life had been threatened. He had no proof, there was nothing to go on. Someone—not Jacob—” she shot her cousin a warning look “—wanted Belinda dead. I didn’t investigate the allegation after Critch was arrested, but I should have, because that’s also what cops do.”

“Well, yes…”

“Jacob said he didn’t murder her. I believe him.” Was determined to believe him. “Subject exhausted. I mean that,” she said when her friend’s mouth opened.

One long look, and it closed with a snap. “Tell you what.” Fitz’s eyes sparkled. “Why don’t we go sit on Santa’s knee? I hear he’s a hottie under the white whiskers.”

Glad for any reprieve, Romana went with the idea. She ticked off items on her fingers. “I want new ice skates, a mountain bike, scuba gear and a cool white Boxster. But I’m only telling that to the real Santa Claus.”

“Your doting dad.”

“He’s playing Father Christmas at an outdoor festival in Boston this year. Something to do with the barbershop quartet he sings with when he isn’t whizzing around the globe producing travel shows for cable TV.”

“Lucky him. My father’s still upholstering sofas and chairs at Barret Brown. I think he’s going to stuff a bright red recliner in my stocking this year.”

“I’d love a new chair from Barret Brown.”

Fitz’s cheeks went pink. “I’d rather have James Barret. Did I tell you he used to give me little boxes of chocolate tied up with red bows whenever I’d stop in and see my dad at the factory after school?”

Romana grinned. “So that’s how you developed your sticky fingers.”

“Ha-ha.” Fitz’s expression softened. “What a hunk James was—is.”

“The hunk’s married to an heiress,” Romana reminded her. “Think jailer with claws when you think of James Barret’s wife, and confine your lust to more available men.”

Fitz lapsed into silence before venturing a subdued “Warren Critch is out on parole.”

Romana examined another bottle. “I know. A friend from the station called me three weeks ago and again on Monday when his parole was granted. I’m not surprised. By all accounts, Critch was a model prisoner.”

“A lot of the people Belinda worked with in forensics are still there. Warren’s a hot topic right now. I’m sorry, but so’s Jacob Knight.”

Romana gave in and let her mind slide back six years to a Cincinnati alley where one very out-of-control chemistry teacher had been holding a gun on one remarkably controlled homicide detective.

She’d been on patrol that afternoon with her veteran partner. They’d been dispatched to a downtown alley after a witness had spotted a man with a gun. She and her partner had separated at the entranceway. She’d taken the rear approach.

To this day, Romana could still feel the adrenaline that had pumped through her system when she’d spotted Warren Critch. According to Critch, Jacob had pushed Belinda to have an affair. When she’d refused, Jacob had threatened to kill her.

Critch had been raving, oblivious to everything except the man in front of him. Anyone could have crept up from behind, it just happened to be Romana. With the barrel of her Glock pressed against his neck, Critch’s mind had begun to function. He’d backed down and finally dropped his gun.

Two days later, his wife had been murdered.

Romana sighed as the memory dissolved. “I don’t think I saved Jacob’s life, Fitz, so much as I talked Critch into seeing reason.”

“The consensus in the lab is that Warren Critch would have pulled the trigger, Jacob Knight would have died, and instead of being a free man today, Critch would be facing life without parole for killing a cop. Point being, I think Knight’s dangerous, Ro. Gorgeous but dangerous.”

A feeling of inevitability crept in. “Fitz, Jacob’s…”

“Tall, dark and sexy as hell. Like a rock star. Or maybe a bad boy grown up.”

“He’s not James Dean.”

“No, he’s way better, and I’m betting a whole lot badder.”

A picture flitted through Romana’s head of an enigmatic face, slightly haunted, slightly hunted, narrow-featured and, yes, gorgeous. The collar of his leather jacket was turned up in her vision so his dark hair fell over it and skimmed his shoulders. Steely eyes stared at her, and his mouth—well, she didn’t want to linger too long on that feature.

She felt Fitz tap her arm, noted her cousin’s contrite expression and struggled with a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re sorry. Again.”

“Let’s rewind to sitting on Santa’s knee, and top it off with a trip upstairs for coffee and a Danish pastry. The Garden Room’s been transformed into a Russian ice palace for the rest of December, and I gotta tell you, Ro, if ever anyone looked like a Russian ice princess, it’d be you.”

“I’ll try and take that as a compliment.” Romana separated two bottles from the montage in front of her. “Tatiana perfume for my mother, the newly promoted radio station manager, and Opium for me.”

“Former ice princess cop—really did mean it as a compliment—and current avant garde professor of criminology at the University of Cincinnati.”

With a determined shove, the black cloud that had been hovering on the edge of Romana’s mind dispersed.

Warren Critch was out of prison, that was a fact. The parole board felt he’d served sufficient time for his crime. True, he’d sent her a Christmas card every year of his incarceration, but the messages inside hadn’t actually amounted to threats. She’d gone over them several times. So had a number of her police friends.

Critch was bitter—perfectly understandable. Didn’t mean he’d jeopardize his newfound freedom by seeking revenge. He’d been blowing off steam in his prison cell. Romana taught the subject; she knew how the criminal mind worked. Or should.

“Wow.” Fitz winced as the saleswoman held out a pretty blue bag and a short bill. “That’s some hefty total. Guess coffee’s on me.”

Romana reached into her purse, felt the envelope that hadn’t been there an hour ago and, without looking, let her head fall back.

“Then again,” she said to the reindeer suspended from the store’s ceiling, “maybe no one really knows how the criminal mind works.”

“Money, Ro.” Fitz elbowed her. “Unless you’re thinking of developing sticky fingers yourself.”

Romana ignored the telltale red envelope as she hunted for her credit card. “Order me a cinnamon Danish, and a double-double coffee, okay? I need five minutes alone with my cell phone to call an old…friend.”

“Is he as hunky as Patrick?”

A chill, possibly borne of fear, or more likely of some weird anticipation, feathered along Romana’s spine. “Oh, he’s hunky enough.” She fingered the flap of the red envelope. “I’m just not sure how happy he’ll be to hear from me.”

DECEMBER DARKNESS FELL EARLY over Cincinnati. Snowflakes from an approaching weather system fluttered and danced and added to the already festive feeling in the air. Jacob Knight sat in his converted loft with his feet propped on the radiator and watched as pockets of red, gold and green lights winked to life around him.

He could see some portion of Fountain Square and the silver-blue glow that surrounded it. Thanksgiving had come and gone; it was all about Christmas now. About family and friends for most, more about bad memories for him.

When the phone rang, he debated briefly, then picked up.

“Knight.”

“Well, what d’you know, he exists. I’ve talked to your voice mail so many times I was beginning to think you’d skipped the country without telling anyone.”

Jacob swallowed a mouthful of coffee, kept his eyes on the expanding Christmas glow. “I’m still waking up, O’Keefe. Keep it short and simple.”

His former partner released a breath. “Critch made parole two days ago.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“He came across sweet as pie for the review board.”

“I guess he figured surly wouldn’t cut it.”

O’Keefe grunted. “I’m worried about you, pal. Critch will want answers. If he decides to look for them, you know where that’ll lead him.”

Jacob finished his coffee, dropped his feet to the floor and pushed out of the chair. “Critch wrote his own answers six years ago when he found Belinda dead in their home. If he comes after me, I’ll deal with him.”

“Oh, he’ll come,” his former partner assured. “The question is how, when and where? Will he do it from the front where you can see him, or will he blindside you? I’m betting on a blindside.”

“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 twitched 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-grandmother 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?”

A smile split the old man’s whiskered face. “Pretty lady who’s not a cop, have I got a story for you.”

“ONE ELVIS IMPERSONATOR KNIFED another Elvis impersonator over a woman they were both dating. Didn’t mean to kill him, but he was a little drunk, and he had a temper. Evidently, this stabbing took place outside the restaurant where both men worked as singing waiters.” Romana had forgotten how weird the world could be from a street cop’s perspective. “It happened right here in Cincinnati, Jacob. How could I have missed it?”

“The Doran case,” was all he said.

She didn’t have to think about that name. “The guy who went postal six years ago, shot five of his coworkers in the office lunchroom, then went upstairs and killed his boss.”

“Before finally offing himself.”

“His coworkers earned more money than he did. Boss was responsible. Bang, bang, everyone’s dead, and we’re back to an even beginning.”

“Or ending.”

She ran chilled fingers through her snow-dampened hair. “You have an awfully gloomy perspective, Jacob. Still, any way you look at it, media-wise, Doran’s crime would take precedence over the death of a drunk Elvis impersonator.”

In retrospect, she supposed it might also have taken precedence over the investigation into Belinda Critch’s death, which had occurred a mere two weeks later.

Opinion within the department had been divided on the Critch case. Some people believed that Warren Critch had murdered Belinda, others thought one of her lovers had done it. And, of course, an ungracious few had pointed the finger of guilt at Jacob.

Unfortunately, the forensic evidence had been negligible, and the crime scene investigators hadn’t done much better.

Throughout the holiday season that year, seven major homicides had been committed. Doran’s rampage had been the biggest bloodbath. Media attention had remained focused on him even in the wake of Belinda Critch’s death. Naturally, the department had downplayed any suggestion of internal impropriety and, by Valentine’s Day, interest in her case had dropped to zero.

Romana looked over, but Jacob kept his eyes on the increasingly slick street. He drove one-handed, and with his elbow resting on the door frame, ran the fingers of the other under his lower lip.

Silence stretched out between them. She raised a speculative eyebrow. “Are you awake, Detective Knight?”

He glanced at her. “Sorry. I’m used to riding alone.”

She couldn’t resist. “Why no partner?”

“I’m better alone.”

It was an answer of sorts, though not an encouraging one. When he reached out to turn up the heater, Romana welcomed the warmth on her face and hands. “I’m not sitting here comparing you to Doran, you know.”

“Because you’re absolutely certain I didn’t murder Belinda Critch.”

“You said you didn’t, and I believe you.”

Now he smiled. “Bull.”

Her temper stirred. “If I thought you were guilty, Knight, I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

“Where would you be?”

“I might be grading papers.” But probably not because the first term was over and the second didn’t start until January. “I might also be having dinner with Sean—or Brendan, or Anthony. With one of my brothers, anyway.”

A crease formed between Jacob’s eyes. “How many brothers do you have?”

“Six, all older than me. They’ve given me eleven nephews and one niece named Teresa. My oldest brother’s an engineer. He and his wife lived in Chile for a while. When they came back, they brought two-year-old Teresa with them. She was an orphan, very sweet, and, because females are rare in our family, completely spoiled.”

“Are you spoiled, too, Romana?”

“By my parents and my mother’s very Irish parents, yes. By my father’s mother, no. I’m Grandma Grey’s namesake, and she’s one tough cookie. She raises thoroughbreds in Kentucky. She’s putting one in the Derby next year. I have a great deal to live up to, in her eyes.”

“In what way?”

“Top of the list, I’m obliged to bear another namesake. My brother, Brendan, hoping to ease the pressure on me, named his first son Roman, but it didn’t work. Grandma Grey wants a girl. She came from a completely male-dominated world, and she’s hell-bent on flipping the status quo.”

“Huh. How did Grandma Grey feel about you becoming a cop?”

“Oh, she was fine with that. Didn’t agree with my college-age marriage, but she helped me get through the divorce and the repercussions of Connor’s unlawful activities relatively unscathed.”

“How did your ex come out of it?”

“The way a Hanson always does, with only a few surface scratches, and a huge family debt, which he’ll pay for the rest of his life.”

“You don’t sound very sympathetic.”

“I don’t, do I? But I’m not as resentful as you might think.” She played with the fingers of her white gloves. “It seemed like everything came to a head six years ago. Belinda Critch died and her husband tried to kill you. Connor’s crimes were discovered, the hospital and the police department were simultaneously roasted in the press, I started to realize that being a cop wasn’t what I wanted, and on and on and on. Before Critch even went to prison, I realized I couldn’t shut off my emotions, and I couldn’t push them down far enough on a daily basis to be a really effective officer. So I sat down and thought.”

“About your marriage or your career?”

“Both. I shouldn’t have married Connor, I knew that almost before the ceremony ended. But I was eighteen, and he was twenty-seven, and our mothers were college roommates, so I’ve known him for pretty much my whole life.”

“And he was charming and handsome, and he swept you off your feet.”

“This is my fairy tale, Knight. I’ll draw the characters.”

“But he was charming.”

“To an eighteen-year-old, yes. He was also handsome and insecure and a lot angrier than I realized.”

“Angry at his family?”

“Cigar’s yours, Detective. Getting back on track, I thought about the decisions I’d made, both marital and career. I even made a pro/con list. Topping the pro list was the fact that I’d graduated from high school at sixteen, so I already had three years of college under my belt when I entered the Academy. Long story short, after a visit to Grandma Grey’s Kentucky ranch and a couple of really gruesome CSIs, I decided to go back to school. Now I teach kids rather than arrest them. So you see, it all turned out well in the end.”

“You like teaching, huh?”

“Love it.” She cocked her head, sent him a grin. “As it happens, I’m also good at it. When my parents moved to Boston two years ago, my father wanted me to come with them and work there. But I grew up in Cincinnati, five of my brothers are here, and I just plain enjoy the city. End of the Romana Grey story.” She let a teasing light enter her eyes. “That was a lot to say, Knight, even for me. Now I know you’re not a talker, but play fair, and tell me one small thing about your life. Anything will do, even your favorite color.”

When he braked for a red light, Jacob regarded a twinkling Christmas logo on the delivery truck ahead. “Belinda and I were involved for three months twelve years ago. It ended before she married Critch. The goodbyes were mutual.”

Surprised he’d taken that direction, Romana offered a casual, “Obviously you stayed friends.”

“We were never friends.”

“Then why did…?” She waved a glove. “Sorry, not my business.”

“And that’s going to stop you from asking?”

“I don’t pry. Well, not much.”

“Prying’s what we do.”

“Not on a personal level. I’ve always been fastidious about separating my career from my private life.” She summoned a sweet smile. “What did Critch’s parole officer have to say?”

His stare seemed to reach right into her head. When amusement tickled her throat, Romana went with it and gave her drying hair a final fluff.

“Weapons down, Knight. We’re not fighting a duel. This is a third-party threat, directed at both of us. My guess is Critch plans to pull the trigger on the twenty-first.”

“Don’t count on that.”

“Why not? It’s logical. That’s when his wife was killed.”

“And what he’ll expect us to think.” Jacob glanced in the rearview mirror. “Snow’s getting heavier. To answer your question, Critch’s parole officer is pissed off as hell that he’s lost one of his charges. He said he was going to report Critch in the morning. He did it tonight instead.”

Romana laughed. “You have such a persuasive way about you, Detective. Does he have any idea where Critch might be?”

“None that I could persuade him to share.”

“So we’re down to Critch’s family, his friends, maybe his teaching cronies.”

“And his theater buddies.”

“Critch was an actor?” She tried to form the image, but no matter how she sketched it, she couldn’t picture the lanky chemistry teacher with his sandy-blond hair and semirugged features on a stage. “I thought he was into nature and weird experiments. I read that he had an extensive lab in his basement.”

“Science lab in the basement, costume storage in the garage.”

“Huh. What kind of theater?”

“Local amateur stuff. I imagine Belinda got him into it. She belonged to a community arts club.”

“Really. That sounds so Rob and Laura Petrie, so suburban and, I don’t know, happy, I suppose.”

“Maybe they were happy.”

“Then why did she…?” The question that had almost slipped out earlier came close to slipping out again. With a sigh for the quirk of his lips, she finished it. “Okay, I’ll pry. Why did Belinda want to meet with you two days before she died? You weren’t friends, she might have been happy with her husband. What did she want from you?”

Jacob checked the mirror again. “She said she was being stalked.”

“I take it she didn’t know by whom.”

“She said she didn’t. That could have been the truth. Belinda flirted with men.” At her silent look, he added, “All men, Romana, not just your ex.”

“Go in another direction, okay? Belinda was being stalked. Could it have been by her husband?”

“It could have been by any number of people, with names known only to Belinda. She wouldn’t give me anything specific. She simply wanted to know how to obtain a restraining order.”

“And after you told her, she… What is it, Jacob?” Romana demanded when his eyes strayed to the mirror for a third time. “Is someone tailing us?”

“For the past two miles.”

“And you’re only telling me about it now?” She zeroed in on the headlights behind them. “So that’s why we’re zigzagging all over the city core.” She tried to gauge the distance, but it was difficult with the heavy snowfall. “I think he’s closing in.”

Jacob turned left, away from the busy downtown streets, toward Riverview Park. The vehicle behind them made the same turn.

They wove a path into an older part of the city. Tall, thin houses seemed to sprout straight out of the white-coated ground. Many of the windows were dark, a few were boarded up. Romana counted five Christmas trees in total, plus a trio of inflatable snowmen rocking in the wind.

In the middle of the street, a woman pulling a toboggan piled high with bags walked against the wind. Jacob swerved to avoid both her and a parked car. At the last minute, so did the vehicle behind them.

“I’m not sure playing cat and mouse is the best idea here, Knight.” Romana scanned the dash. “What’s your dispatch number?”

“Ninety-one-Vector.”

She would have called it in if he hadn’t reached over and removed the radio from her hand. “No backup, okay? Let’s keep this unofficial.” When she started to argue, he added an even, “Like you are.”

She blinked, drew her hand back. For a single, unguarded moment, she’d slapped on her old hat, the one she’d packed away after a few short years on the force, a painful personal evaluation and a brief struggle with guilt.

Still amazed by the easy switch, she refocused on their pursuer. “He’s pulled to within thirty feet.”

“He’s also using his high beams.” Jacob squinted into the mirror. “Can you make out the vehicle type?”

“I think it’s a GM off-road. Dark color. No front plates. And either he’s speeding up or you’re slowing down, because he’s ten feet off your back bumper.”

As she spoke, the truck’s engine revved. The vehicle leaped forward, rammed into Jacob’s SUV, backed off and prepared to charge again.

“This is ridiculously predictable.” Romana fought a ripple of fear with irritation.

After another solid hit, Jacob unsnapped his holster. “Can you shoot out a front tire?”

“Yes, but that’ll make things pretty official.”

He handed her his gun. “Just don’t kill him.”

Lowering the window, she braced her left knee on the seat and waited for the truck to close again. “You’d think a guy who’d spent most of his youth in the Amazon jungle would be a bit more inventive, wouldn’t you?”

Jacob checked the side mirrors. “Whatever works, Romana.”

She started to lean out but was suddenly jerked sideways as Jacob swerved yet again. Unanchored, she toppled into his arm, and almost into his lap.

“Jacob, what are you…”

“Civilians.”

She pulled herself upright. Shoving the hair from her eyes, she peered through the snow until she spotted a pair of men in baggy parkas. They were carrying lunch boxes and holding their hoods up with their free hands.

Behind her, the truck’s engine roared again. Snow spat out from under all four tires.

With her rib cage pressed to the door, Romana stuck her head and hands through the window, took aim and fired.

The truck immediately skidded sideways, struck a mailbox and spun in a wild half circle.

The engine subsided for a moment, then gave a growl like an enraged bull. More streams of snow shot upward. The back end of the truck fishtailed before gaining traction. With the front bumper now pointed toward the city, it bounced across a corner lot and vanished into the darkness.

Jacob reversed.

“Wait.” Romana caught his arm. “Critch knocked the mailbox onto one of those men.”

Clearly frustrated, he watched the taillights fade.

She hopped out and ran to the sidewalk where the second man kneeled next to his friend. “Are you hurt?”

“Foot’s caught.” The pinned man’s breath whooshed out. “Was that guy playing chicken with you?”

“In a way.” Going to her knees, Romana examined his trapped foot. “There’s a cushion of snow under your ankle. It might have prevented a break.”

“We should call the police.” The man’s friend fumbled for his cell phone. “That guy was a nutcase.”

“It’s covered.” Jacob revealed the badge on his waistband. Crouching, he snagged the top corner of the box. “On three,” he said to Romana.

Within seconds, the trapped man was free. He flexed his foot. “Feels okay,” he said in relief. He frowned at Jacob. “Don’t chases involving the police usually work the other way round? You go after him?”

“Guy’s a nutcase,” his friend repeated. “He started shouting when his tire blew. I didn’t catch all of it, but I heard the last part clear enough.”

She didn’t want to know, Romana told herself. Really didn’t want to know. “Can you tell us what he said?” she asked.

“Yeah, he said this was the first threat. How many more you get depends on how he feels. But the real thing’s coming, and when it does, it’s gonna make you real dead. Then he spun his tires and yelled, ‘Merry Christmas, murderers.’”

IT WAS DONE, ANOTHER THREAT had been delivered. Damn, but he felt good.

He knew when he wanted to do it; the gray area remained the manner of their execution.

He’d been working on his plan of revenge for years, since before those prison doors had clanged shut. He’d created and re-created Christmas cards for both of them, constructed and deconstructed a thousand bloody scenarios. He’d visualized them in death. He’d pictured himself placing mistletoe on their graves.

Whatever else he did, however it went down, mistletoe would be included in the killings, because mistletoe leaves had been scattered around Belinda’s cold body.

Could you strangle a person with it? He didn’t think so. Stab a rough sprig through a frantically beating heart? Probably not.

He pictured Romana Grey. She had a dazzling face, and, he suspected, an equally amazing body. Another time and place…

No, he wouldn’t think like that. Couldn’t. He was going to kill her. Knight would watch, then he would die. Revenge complete, all wrapped up like the perfect Christmas present.

It would be perfect, too, because no matter how long and hard the authorities searched afterward, they wouldn’t find their man. Warren Critch knew the Amazon basin as well as anyone alive. He wasn’t about to be captured.

A dark Christmas song dribbled out of the radio. Sadly, he couldn’t run Romana and Jacob over with a reindeer—he’d have enjoyed that—but he could shoot them. And with something other than bullets.

Ah, yes, now there was a tantalizing prospect. He wouldn’t implement it too soon, of course. They needed to suffer first as Belinda had, but in time, in time…

Smiling, he picked up a handful of darts and began launching them at the wall. The first one struck Jacob Knight in the throat, the second got Romana Grey below her lovely left breast.

His smile widened. Killing them was going to be worth the six-year wait.


Chapter Three

With the exception of several colorful additions during the holiday season, nothing ever really changed at the station house. Reports were typed in cubbies by officers who’d rather be anywhere than behind a computer. Suspects, cuffed and uncuffed, shuffled in and out, phones rang, conversations ebbed and flowed. Once in a while, an overstressed lieutenant barked out an order.

By early December, tinsel had been stapled around desk fronts, and most of the tall plants were draped with twinkling lights. An animated Santa ho-ho-hoed boisterously in the corner. Menorahs stood next to fiber-optic pine trees, snowflakes hung from the ceiling, and there were snowmen and penguins plastered to every glass partition. As a rule, no less than three platters of cakes and cookies sat on the front desk, the largest being in full view of the captain’s office.

Jacob entered through the alleyway door. He snagged a raisin square, made a detour to Records, then headed upstairs to the homicide division. Night would give way to day in less than an hour, but O’Keefe, being an early riser, invariably arrived long before his shift began.

“Morning, Detective Knight.” A pretty female dispatcher offered the cheerful greeting. “Captain Harris wants to see you.”

“On my way.”

As he passed, she picked up a shortbread cookie and let it dangle from her fingertips. “Are you coming to the Christmas party?”

Jacob couldn’t remember her name. Her badge said Officer Dyson. “I’m not big on Christmas.”

“It’s Clare,” she stage-whispered across the desk. “And you don’t have to celebrate Christmas. Use it as an excuse to eat, drink and be merry.”

He glanced at the captain’s office. “I’ll think about it,” he said, and moved on before she could push for more.

“You’re such a social animal, Knight.” O’Keefe gave him a hearty slap between the shoulder blades. “Did you even notice that she was coming on to you?”

“I noticed.” But he was absorbed again in the report he’d copped downstairs and by one name in particular. “Do you know James Barret?”

“I swear you’d be better off dead.” O’Keefe gave his head a sorrowful shake. “Yes, I know him. You’ve heard of the Barret Brown Furniture Concept, right? Well, J.B. is half of that rapidly expanding business.”

“It says here that his partner, Ben Brown, died under questionable circumstances six years ago.”

“Really?” O’Keefe peered over his shoulder. “What file are you—ah, I should have known. Belinda Critch. They weren’t my cases, Knight, and they sure as hell weren’t yours.” He caught the back of Jacob’s jacket. “Hold on. I need caffeine, and the coffee inside’s complete crap.”

Jacob skimmed the file. His instinct told him it should be fatter. “Dylan Hoag,” he read while his ex-partner dropped quarters into a vending machine.

“Belinda Critch’s brother.” O’Keefe fished in his pockets. He deposited quarters until a cup plopped down. “I think he works for a security company. Maybe he owns it. You still take yours black?”

“Yeah.” A steaming cup appeared in Jacob’s hand. “Patrick North’s name is here. I don’t know much about him.”

“Doctor Death.” O’Keefe set a palm over the printout. “Why are you doing this?”

Jacob raised his head, absorbed the thrust of his expartner’s stare. “Because Critch is after us.”

“Damn, I knew it. What happened?”

“He missed his bed check twice. Romana and I went to the transition house last night. When we left, Critch followed us in a truck. No visible license plates. He knocked a mailbox onto a civilian, apparently yelled a threat out the window and took off.”

“Well, hell.” O’Keefe ran a hand through his unruly brown curls. “That’s not good.”

“According to the witness who heard what Romana and I didn’t, Critch plans to string us along with threats before he kills us.”

“Where’s Romana now?”

“I dropped her off at her place around midnight. The building’s secure,” he added before O’Keefe could object. “I checked it out myself. Even if Critch could get past the front entrance, he’d need a code to access her floor, and her door’s state-of-the-art. Her father made sure of it.”

“Be glad he did.”

He was, but the mild derision couldn’t be helped. Or if it could, he wasn’t interested in making the effort. For a moment, he saw his own father’s face, twisted into an unrecognizable mask. Blocking the image, Jacob drank his coffee. “Why does the captain want me?”

“Probably to tell you Critch has disappeared.” Another round of quarters clinked into the machine. “You gonna fill him in on the details of your shift?”

“Only as far as the Parker case is concerned.”

“Figured as much. Jacob.” O’Keefe stopped him when he would have walked away. “Do us all a favor, and let someone else handle this.”

Jacob smiled past his shoulder. “While I do what?”

“Take a well-deserved vacation. Go to Tahiti, or Fiji or Hawaii. Swim. Drink. Get laid. Hell, connect with your mother’s family.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll rehash my mother’s life in New Zealand and follow it up with her death here in Cincinnati. Thanks, but I’d rather stay and do battle with Critch.”

“He’s obsessed, Jacob.”

“I’m not a rookie, Mick.” He countered O’Keefe’s frustrated stare with a steady one of his own. “I won’t let him hurt her.”

“Or you.”

A faint smile crept in. “Or me.”

O’Keefe rumpled his hair again. He reminded most people of a tall, well-built teddy bear, with his perpetually kind face, his soulful eyes and a mop of brown curls that were only now, in his mid-forties, beginning to creep back from his forehead. But Jacob knew the man behind the facade. He’d worked with him for eight years—and had seen firsthand just how deceptive teddy bears could be.

The eyes before him grew troubled. “You know she’s not your type, don’t you?”

He’d been waiting for this, Jacob reflected, and made himself look away. “I never thought she was.”

“But you’re interested.”

“No.” Jacob met his eyes. “I’m not.”

“Hmm, you lie so well, I can’t tell the difference anymore. You don’t want her, she doesn’t want you—or probably me, either, for that matter, but I’m a hopeful schmuck who needs to be rebuffed to his face before he’ll give up. My kid likes her.”

Jacob glanced down at the file. “Why don’t you send Romana to Hawaii for the holidays?”

O’Keefe opened his mouth, but it was a more velvety voice that replied, “Won’t work, Knight. Romana’s not a run-and-hide kind of person.”

She strode up to them from the side, smiled at O’Keefe, then went toe-to-toe with Jacob. If she’d been a hothead like Mick’s ex-wife, she’d probably have punched him. Come to think of it, that might not be a bad idea. If nothing else, a punch would ease the gridlock of tension and mounting desire in his stomach.

“What are you doing here, Romana?” Jacob kept his tone calm and his expression neutral.

A sideways glance drew O’Keefe into her answer. “I got a phone call forty minutes ago. The guy claimed to be an elf, said he wanted to go over my Christmas wish list with me. Since I’d just stepped out of the shower, I told him my only wish was for him to hang up. To which he replied, ‘Wrong answer, cop saver. What you should wish is to be a cat. But even nine lives won’t help you now. Santa Critch is going to hunt you down and poison your holidays. Sad to say, Romana Grey. You’ve seen your last merry Christmas Day.’”

SOMETIMES, ROMANA REFLECTED with a shudder, a photographic memory was just plain creepy. The verse at the end of Critch’s early morning phone call sang in her head all day. In the same elfin voice he’d used—which only made the effect that much freakier.

Naturally, the call was untraceable. Critch had stolen a cell phone from a Cincinnati resident who’d been standing, half-asleep, at a bus stop. He’d used the device for his own purposes, then ditched the phone. Mission accomplished, from his perspective.

From Romana’s, life carried on. She wasn’t prepared to let Critch affect it, even on the smallest level.

After leaving the police station, she spent Saturday morning and most of the afternoon Christmas shopping with two of her sisters-in-law and six nephews under the age of five. As a rule, she enjoyed taking them to toy stores, loved watching them bounce on Santa’s knee; however, by five o’clock, even her abundant energy was sapped. In fact, she was so wiped out that the path lab at the hospital was starting to look good.

Or not, she amended as she pushed through the side door and began her solitary descent.

Organ music wafted out of invisible speakers. Critch’s rhyming threat jangled in her brain. “Sad to say, Romana Grey, you’ve seen your last merry Christmas Day.”

“Jerk,” she muttered, and, twitching a shoulder, pushed through another door.

An attendant she didn’t recognize passed her in the antiseptic green corridor. The woman wore headphones and a blank expression as she hummed along to a hip-hop song. But even her off-key humming was better than the churchlike version of “Sleigh Ride” currently playing on the path lab’s sound system.

Although weekends tended to be quiet on the lower levels, Romana knew Fitz was here somewhere. The trick would be to locate her cousin before she bumped into someone who re membered her as Connor Hanson’s wife.

“Romana?”

Too late. The man’s voice came from her right. Steeling herself, Romana turned—and exhaled with relief when she saw who it was.

“Dylan, hi.” She rubbed her left temple where a headache had been brewing since lunchtime. “What brings you to Death Central?”

Belinda Critch’s brother, Dylan Hoag, closed the electrical box he’d been examining. “I’m checking out the security system. They had a wiring problem down here yesterday.”

“Heard about it. Fitz,” she explained at his elevated eyebrow. “Have you seen her?”

“We had a chat, but Patrick whisked her away, said he needed help. Must be hard to trim a corpse’s fingernails all by your lonesome.”

Romana strolled closer, ran a teasing finger over his shoulder. “I sense a chip here, Mr. Hoag. Toward Patrick, I wonder, or the forensics team in general?”

“The team could be better. Standards have slipped since Doctor Gorman retired.”

Now she patted his shoulder. “Hate to tell you this, Dylan, but they were slipping while Gorman was here. He was well past his prime when the hospital board decided to force the retirement issue.”

“Then there were Connor’s indiscretions.” Dylan’s tone soured. “And Belinda’s death.”

A tick in his jaw accompanied the bitter statement. Romana wanted to respond, but couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. She settled for another pat and left him to finish his inspection of the breaker box.

Dylan hadn’t changed much in the eight-plus years she’d known him. His hair was light brown, short and spiky. He kept his tall frame trim and his somewhat angular features a deliberate blank. It was his idea of a cop look. Sadly, although they’d entered the Academy at the same time, Dylan had washed out halfway through the program.

Romana didn’t know why the memory should strike her right then, but she recalled Dylan’s reaction quite clearly as he’d been given the news. Resentment had flared for about five seconds before he’d doused it. He’d aimed a long, steely glare at the sergeant, then turned on his heel and stalked away.

Six months later, he’d formed his own company—with a handful of employees and the endorsement of one extremely influential businessman.

James Barret…Romana rolled the name over, caught Dylan staring and set it aside.

“You look frazzled,” he noted in his more usual low-key fashion.

She regarded the ends of her hair and tried not to picture what his idea of frazzled entailed. When his gaze slid to her face, she caught just enough of his expression for comprehension to click in. “You thought it was because of Warren Critch, didn’t you?”

He jiggled a wire. “He’s never been happy about what you did in that alley.”

“I don’t believe this.” With a fatalistic laugh, Romana circled away, then returned. “I’m surrounded by enigmatic men. Give me something, Dylan. You hate me, you don’t. You want Critch to hurt Jacob and me, you want him to fail. You’ve seen him, you haven’t—what is it? Talk to me. React. Emote.”

He straightened, and his eyes—not as penetrating as Jacob’s—captured hers. “Warren and I talked on the phone the day he was released. One conversation, two minutes long. I thought he wanted money. He said he didn’t. He just wanted me to know he still thinks about Belinda every day, and he lives in that downtown alley every night.”

Romana’s hackles rose. “Jacob didn’t kill her, Dylan.”

“Someone did.”

“Yes.” Her mind slipped sideways. “Someone did.” Then with conviction, “But it wasn’t Jacob.”

Dylan’s chuckle had a raw edge. “You know, I can almost believe you. You sound so sure of yourself.” He stepped closer. “But I don’t think you’re as certain as you pretend to be.”

No way would she be intimidated by him. Romana held her ground and her nerve. She lifted a finger to his chin and tapped it in a manner intended to provoke. “You know, Dylan, it seems to me that someone must have redirected all those cards Critch wrote to Jacob and me while he was in prison. The postmarks said they were mailed from northern Kentucky. And you are, or were, his brother-in-law.”

Dylan’s eyebrows came together. “Warren wrote to you?”

“Subtly threatened is the way I see it now. He made sure that Jacob and I received Christmas cards every year, to let us know, I imagine, that he wasn’t going to forget about us, or the part he felt we played in Belinda’s death.”

Wilted organ music hovered in the air between them. Dylan’s features remained cold. “If Warren’s been threatening you, then he must still believe Knight murdered Belinda. I sorted through her stuff after she died, Romana. There was nothing that incriminated anyone else.”

“Anyone else?” Romana challenged softly. “Or anyone at all?”

If human features could take on the characteristics of a granite carving, Dylan’s did at that moment. She could almost hear the war that raged inside his head. He so wanted Jacob to be guilty. He needed to hate a specific person, not a faceless, nameless entity.

Before he could respond, they heard a rustle of fabric in the hallway. Romana didn’t have to look to know who was there.

Jacob’s hands were jammed in the pockets of his leather jacket. His expression was far less promising than Dylan’s. “You want to take a swing at someone, pal, take it at me.” He started toward them, slowly, deliberately. “Romana did her job in that alley. I’m the one who saw Belinda before she died.”

Dylan’s gaze flicked from Jacob to Romana and back again. When he finally spoke, it was in a controlled undertone. “Belinda said that Warren used to go down to the basement and brood when he got angry. Sometimes, he’d stay down there for hours, once for a whole day. Eventually, he’d come up, and when he did, he’d always find a way to get back at the person who’d angered him. Warren’s had six long years to brood about you two. Now that he’s out, my guess is he’ll let his vindictive side take over—until the source or sources of that feeling are eliminated.”

“I AM SO, SO TIRED OF BEING threatened.” Romana stalked back and forth in the hospital parking lot. Her white coat flapped open around her ankles, and a playful wind blew her long hair around her face. “Critch is convinced that you murdered his wife. Dylan’s ninety percent sure of it. Even Fitz, my own cousin, thinks you’re dangerous. Me, I still choose to believe you didn’t do it, because I think you’re a good person, and I know you’re a good cop. No, better than good, you’re an excellent cop.” She paused, slanted him a contemplative look. “The kind of cop female rookies fresh out of the Academy probably still fantasize about.”

Jacob had been leaning against the front fender of his SUV while she vented her frustration. Now his green eyes shifted from the distant line of freeway traffic to her face.

“Did you have fantasies about me, Romana?”

She resumed her pacing, but at a slower tempo. “I might have.” Amusement kindled at his expression. “Come on, Jacob, I was young, not happily married and not liking that fact one bit. You were an unattainable male. You didn’t notice me.” Amusement blossomed into a laugh. “Don’t be polite and pretend you did. Rookies are a pain, necessary to the force, but a pain just the same. I remember one time…” A sudden thought struck. “Oh, no!” She started to look at her watch, remembered she’d loaned it to her sister-in-law and grabbed Jacob’s arm. “What time is it?” A frustrated sound escaped. “It can’t be seven o’clock? I’m supposed to be in the park, watching Teresa figure-skate.”

“Are you serious?” He trapped her wrist before she could search for her keys.

“It’s for a Christmas play, Jacob. Pageant in the Park. The deputy mayor’s wife put it together. Tonight’s only a dress rehearsal, but I promised I’d be there, and I never break a promise, especially not to a seven-year-old child.”

He held fast even when she gave her wrist a tug. Romana knew she could have made a more determined effort to release herself, but her skin felt oddly warm under his fingers, and there were fiery little arrows currently racing up her arm to her throat.

“Huh.” She paused for a moment to marvel. “Didn’t expect that.”

Jacob’s expression altered slowly, went from exasperated to intrigued. He loosened his grip, but didn’t release her. Instead, he drew her closer and looked down into her eyes.

The pulse at the base of her throat beat like an erratic drum. Logically speaking, she should feel uneasy about this. After all, wanting to believe wasn’t the same thing as actually believing. Jacob had no alibi for the night Belinda Critch had died. But he did have the most riveting features, especially his eyes, sea-green with the barest hint of gray. And then there was his mouth…

“I’m…uh…hmm—lost the thought.” And possibly her mind with it. But right then she didn’t care. She was too busy wanting to pull that incredibly sexy mouth of his down and kiss him until she couldn’t think about anything else.

She’d wanted to kiss him almost from the first time she’d met him. Being married, she’d felt guilty about that, so she’d made a point of not looking any more than necessary—until Connor had cheated on her.

“Probably a good thing,” she murmured.

Jacob’s eyes fixed on hers. “Good things have the potential to turn bad, Romana. His lips twisted slightly. “Voice of experience.”

She tipped her head to regard him. Surely one kiss couldn’t hurt. She was no longer married—thank God and Grandma Grey—and dress rehearsals, even when run by political figures, seldom came off on schedule.

As was her habit, Romana deferred to her feelings, or in Jacob’s case, her hunger. Maybe it hadn’t been appropriate at the time, but she couldn’t deny that she’d fantasized about the gorgeous, dark-haired cop who’d made detective even before she’d entered the Academy. She’d glimpsed him from time to time at the station, had actually worked with him once on a murder investigation. But she’d been young back then, painfully inexperienced and probably fortunate that her male partner had watched over her like a scowling papa bear.

Romana eased forward, smiling as his eyes heated up. Danger spiked through anticipation. Her skin was already hot, and he’d barely touched her yet.

She rolled her hips, just a bit. “Are you going to let me seduce you, Detective?”

His eyes strayed to her mouth. “Thinking about it.”

Large flakes of snow drifted from a starless sky. The traffic noise became a distant buzz in her ears. As she raised her head, he ran his thumb and fingers upward along the curve of her throat until they formed a V beneath her chin.

Excitement glimmered. The desire she felt for Jacob had been in hibernation for a long time, and it wasn’t taking much to wake it up. This probably wasn’t a good idea, or a smart one. But it was just forbidden enough to be irresistible.

A blanket of snow covered the ground. The city glowed silver and gold. The night air had a bite, but it was nothing compared to the jolt that ricocheted through Romana’s system when Jacob took that last step and lowered his mouth to hers.

Her head spun in delicious circles. He tasted like sex and cool water, a tantalizing contrast. His tongue made a thorough exploration of her mouth, and she felt a sigh rise up in her throat.

Now this, she thought hazily, this was a kiss. A wicked, soul-stirring, heart-hammering kiss. And it was exactly what she’d wanted, what she’d needed from him tonight.

But even off balance, there were limits. Giving his lower lip a nip, she pulled away. It was either that or move the whole thing into his SUV.

“Guess I still have a few lingering fantasies.” She disentangled her hair from his hand. “You’re a great kisser, Detective Knight—for a man who prefers his own company.”

He ran a thumb over her jaw. “Are you trying to get a rise out of me, Romana?”

She shimmied her hips against his. “I don’t need to try. I already have.” She gave him another quick nip.

His eyes tempted her to do it all again—until she spied the gleam deep inside them.

She took a wise step back. “I need air, Jacob. You’re making me dizzy.”

“Sounds promising.”

In spite of herself, Romana couldn’t resist hooking two fingers in the top of his waistband. Smart was one thing, but there was no need to end the moment in a blind rush.

“You’re such a conundrum,” she murmured as he ran his hands up and down her arms. “I have a feeling I’m going to…” The thought died when she spotted the object several feet in front of her. Rectangular shape, bloodred color and all too familiar to her these days. “Oh, damn,” she breathed.

“What?” Jacob swung his head, followed her gaze to the windshield of his SUV.

“That’s one of Critch’s envelopes.” She made a quick sweep of the lot. “And I swear it wasn’t here a moment ago.”

Jacob yanked it free and handed it to her even as he stuffed his gun into the top of his jeans. His eyes never stopped moving.

Romana regarded the flap, visualized briefly, then opened it. Her hands wanted to tremble, but she sucked it up and steadied her nerves. This was a scare tactic, an effective one, but she’d be damned if she’d play Critch’s game, no matter how rattled she felt.

Still scanning, Jacob drew her into the shelter of his large vehicle. He gave her a few seconds to read the message before he murmured, “Out loud, Romana.”

She frowned at the poorly printed words. “‘If you’re keeping score,’” she read, “‘this is your second threat.’” She turned the paper over, searched for more. “What threat?”

As if cued, a pair of projectiles whizzed past her ear. She heard two soft thwacks, then found herself on her knees in the snow. Jacob held her firmly in place while he combed the shadowy fir trees on the perimeter of the lot.

“Why did I ask?” She pushed at his hands. “I’m not going to jump up, Jacob. Do you see him?”

“No.”

Crawling forward, Romana stole a look around the bumper. “There aren’t any vehicles over here,” she said. Then she raised her sights, and her heart gave a single, hard beat. “Ah—well.”

“What?”

“I found our second threat.”

Still on her knees, she indicated Jacob’s windshield—and the pair of neat, round bullet holes Critch had fired through it.


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.”




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