Mistletoe and Murder. Jenna Ryan
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