Mistletoe and Murder. Jenna RyanЧитать онлайн книгу.
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