Mistletoe and Murder. Jenna RyanЧитать онлайн книгу.
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