Silent Night (11 page)

T
UCKER SPENT MOST
of the afternoon at the high school and library. Even though there were a couple of weeks till winter break actually started, a lot of families had already left town, their kids armed with a month’s worth of schoolwork. While tourists came here for the holidays, many of the townies did the exact opposite and sought warmer climates, so there weren’t as many kids to talk to as Tucker would have liked.

Of the kids who’d remained in town, only a few recognized Ricky from his photo, but other than saying he was just a weird kid, they didn’t have anything to offer. His teachers weren’t any help, either. They knew Ricky. He was quiet, kept to himself, didn’t have friends. They suspected there were problems at home since Ricky missed a lot of school, but none had ever reported it. That fact made him ashamed of his small town for the first time since he’d arrived.

Every minute that passed, he was feeling sicker and sicker about how this case was going to end up. Even if the kid’s disappearance had nothing to do with Michael Levi’s, no one lost that amount of blood and just disappeared like that unless foul play was involved.

The kid had been jumped before by his classmates . . . and his father . . . but so far that had been a dead end. Bowen had called in a few minutes ago. Both Mr. and Mrs. Schneider had pretty solid alibis for the night their son disappeared. The owner of the local bar had seen to that when Bowen had called to verify that they’d been there all damned day. The blood in the alley had been too fresh that evening for them to have done anything to the kid before that.

He had nothing to bring Stan Schneider in for now.

How did a kid just disappear?

He drummed his fingers on the school’s reception desk, waiting for Principal Plough to finish with his parent conference. The receptionist offered him a flirty smile as she glanced up from her computer.

“Sure I can’t get you some coffee, Chief?”

She was a cute brunette with nice eyes, and a couple weeks ago, he might have asked her out for that coffee. Right now, all he cared about was getting some small tip that would point him toward a missing teen. Not to mention, she wasn’t Miranda.

“No, thanks.” He jutted his chin toward the closed glass door in the corner. “You sure you told him I was here?”

She nodded. “Of course. He won’t cut the meeting short, though. He’s been waiting for them to have time to come talk about their daughter for weeks. It could be a while, if you wanted to come back later.”

The school bell rang and within seconds, the corridor behind him was filled with the sounds of opening classroom doors, teen footsteps clomping to lockers, roughhousing, and laughter. Tucker thumbed through the file under his hand. He was going to wear the damned thing out.

“Do me a favor,” he said, still rummaging through the papers. He’d wanted to get Plough’s permission before calling in the kids, but the man was taking too damned long. Tucker was going to have to work around the principal. “Can you call . . . here it is . . . can you call three kids up here for me? I’d like to talk to them about something.”

“Possibly, but it will be a few minutes. I won’t be able to locate them until they’re in their next class. About five minutes.”

He pulled out the sheet of paper listing the names of the kids who’d jumped Ricky months ago and read them off for her while she scratched them down. He wouldn’t be able to officially question them without their parents present, but he might get lucky and see some flash of guilt on the brats’ faces when he mentioned Ricky. Or fear when they saw whom they’d been summoned to talk to.

Their reactions might be enough to let him know if he was on the right track.

“Thanks. Is there a quiet place I could meet them in? Library maybe?”

“Vice Principal Carthage is out for the day. You could use her office.” She pointed toward another door behind the reception area. “Right through there.”

He waved the file at her. “Thank you”—he glanced at the name plaque on the desk—“Sheila.”

“Not a problem.”

Tucker sat behind the desk and flipped open Ricky’s file. He set out the single-page data sheets he’d gathered when Ricky’s grandfather had filed the assault charges against the teens. No one, not the school, other students, or the parents he’d spoken to, had labeled the kids bullies. They claimed they were just strong-willed leaders.

He’d thought they were all full of shit.

There was a soft tap before Shelia opened the door. “Chief? Here are two of the boys you asked to see. The third, Mark Welby, has already left for Christmas break.”

“Thanks again, Shelia.” He stared at the kids until the receptionist closed the door softly behind her. Wanting to keep them on edge, he didn’t offer them a seat. Instead, he leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared.

When they were both squirming and looking at each other, the stockier of the two held out his hands and, with nothing but attitude, demanded, “What?”

Tucker narrowed his eyes. He glanced down at the forms, looking at the names printed beneath the photos. “Why don’t you tell me, Caiden?”

“How are we supposed to know why you hauled our asses in here, man?” the one named Derek asked.

“Tell me about your attack on Ricky Schneider.”

“Are you for real? You already got us forty hours of community service for that. You can’t send us before the judge again for the same thing.”

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t aware they taught pre-law in high school.”

“It’s called television, man,” Derek snapped. “Also know you can’t question us without our parents.”

“Not questioning.” Tucker motioned to the chairs before the desk. “Just wondering when the last time you saw Ricky was.”

“That kid’s a freak. Whatever he told you, it’s bullshit. We haven’t seen him in weeks. Don’t talk to him unless someone makes us.”

Derek was trying to act like a badass, but Tucker could see the confusion in his eyes. He kept looking at Caiden, wondering what they should say or do next. Without their little ringleader, they were no better than all the other Ricky Schneiders in the halls.

“Honest, Chief Tucker, the last time we saw him was in English two, maybe three weeks ago. He tried to pick a fight, but we didn’t say or do anything. You can ask Mr. Davies. He was there the entire time.”

“What did he want to fight over?”

“History,” Derek said. “Can we go now or do we need to call my dad?”

Derek’s dad was a lawyer and Tucker almost told him to make the call. He could haul them and their parents to the station again. But these two buffoons didn’t have the initiative to do anything without Welby egging them on. “You can go.”

Tucker made a few notes on the boys’ files, then headed out behind them. Another dead end.

He strode outside and tossed the files on the passenger seat.

Then he headed straight for St. Catherine’s.

Everything in the Schneider house had depicted a Baptist background, not Catholic, and given what he’d found in the boy’s room, he was pretty sure Ricky hadn’t considered himself either. This should have made Tucker feel better about the implausibility of Ricky falling victim to their killer. Less contact with priests and pastors and whatnot.

But one sacrament wouldn’t stop screaming in his head.
Confirmation.

Outside the church, the groundskeeper was shoveling his usual quota of snow. “Father Anatole in, Simon?”

“Yessir. They all are. Preparing for a meeting of some kind. Want me to let him know you’re here?”

“That’s all right. I’ll find him.” Tucker fished the photo from his breast pocket. “You haven’t seen this kid around here, have you? His family doesn’t attend St. Catherine’s, but he’s missing and I’m leaving no stone unturned.”

Simon squinted down at the photo, his reaction the same as everyone else’s he’d showed it to. They’d all already seen the photo plastered all over town, and now barely gave the photo he held out a second look. “I’ve only been in town a few weeks, but I’ve run into him a few times at the library. Sorry to hear he’s missing.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

Scratching his head, Simon looked heavenward. “Couple weeks maybe? He was reading when I went in to make copies of the Sunday programs.”

“Thanks again.” Disappointed, Tucker headed up the steps, stomping his boots as he went to shake off the snow. He headed down the corridor of offices and didn’t have to knock on Anatole’s door. It was open.

The priest sat behind his desk, looking over a stack of papers, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He looked up at Tucker and plucked them off his face.

“Chief, how can I help you?”

Tucker tossed the photo on the desk. “Seen that kid?”

Anatole put his glasses back on and picked up the photo. “In every store window in town. Why? Is he part of my congregation?”

“No. Just covering all my bases.” Tucker helped himself to a chair and rubbed the brim of his hat. Times like this made him wish someone else was in charge. “I know this is coming out of left field, but would you mind telling me where you were last night?”

Anatole leaned back, and Tucker knew he was walking a fine line between doing his job and fucking up royally.

“This about the kid? I already told you I don’t know him—”

“No, no. We have a situation—sensitive in nature—and I’m just trying to place everyone so I can move forward.”

Father Anatole didn’t look like he was buying what Tucker was selling and he watched Tucker with dark, narrowed eyes. “I was pulling a young girl from my office window, which you well know.”

Tucker nodded. “And before that?”

“Watching the fireworks with my deacons.” He leaned forward. “Should I be concerned that you’re asking me all of this, Chief?”

“Not at all. Once your deacons confirm you were with them, everything will be fine.”

He stood, feeling knee-deep in shit of his own making, and hurried from the office before he gave in to the temptation to ask him about things he wasn’t yet ready to ask. All of Miranda’s accusations about Anatole were clouding his judgment, and he had a hard time looking at the priest without suspicion.

And maybe that was a good thing. A copycat was still a high possibility, but that didn’t mean he could ignore everything she’d told him. It was, perhaps, pride, more than facts, that kept him from believing her outright. He knew that. Too many coincidences between her story and the facts.

But there was no way in hell he was going to accuse a priest outright of murder without substantial proof.

He checked with the deacons, who confirmed that they were, indeed, with Anatole before finding Miranda climbing through the office window. However, when he’d asked if they’d been separated from Anatole at any point during that time, they couldn’t quite remember.

Were they trying to protect their beloved priest?

M
IRANDA HAD SPENT
most of the day in her cottage, mindlessly flipping channels on the television, her computer nestled in her lap as images of Anatole’s empty home were displayed on little grainy squares in front of her. The right side of her screen, where footage from Anatole’s church office was broadcasting, had been a little more lively, but other than a brief moment of intrigue when Tucker had appeared, nothing exciting had happened there, either.

He hadn’t stayed in Anatole’s office long, but in those few minutes, she’d wished more than anything that her cameras had supported audio. What were they talking about? Had Tucker broached the topic of the Rosary Murders? Had Tucker at least asked him about the murder here in Christmas?

It was driving her nuts that she hadn’t been able to hear, and the images had been too small and distorted for her to read lips.

There weren’t enough
I Love Lucy
reruns to distract her from those questions. She’d reached for her phone at least a dozen times, but never allowed herself to call the station.

Around seven that evening, gravel crunched beneath tires outside her window. Every time another cottage renter had come home today, she’d rushed to look, just as she was doing now, her nose pressed to the window like a puppy’s. This time, it was Tucker. And as he climbed out of his cruiser and slumped against it, he looked so tired, she had a wash of pity for him.

He glanced in the direction of her cottage, and as her hope that he’d come talk to her began to bubble, it burst just as quickly when he headed to his own door instead.

Her wave of pity for him washed away and she grabbed her parka, closed the door behind her, and bounded across the lot to his house, decked out in her most worn flannel pajamas. He might be tired, but she wouldn’t sleep at all if she didn’t speak with him.

He opened the door before she could knock. “Go home, Miranda. I’m not in the mood—”

“Five minutes. Please?”

The way he looked at her now was so different than the way he’d looked at her when they’d first met. The warmth in his eyes had shifted to coldness, and she knew he held her partly responsible for bringing these tragedies to his town. With time, he’d realize none of this was her fault, that Anatole would have struck again whether she was here or not. But for now, she could deal with his stoniness if she had to. After all, she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with her reasons for being in his town, who she was, or much of anything for that matter.

“Tucker,” she said. “I’m freezing. Please? One cup of coffee and I’ll go.”

She certainly wasn’t above begging. The wind was biting through her red and black pajama pants, and her fingers were stiff from the cold. She blew on them, waiting, her breath exhaling in a puffy white cloud.

He sighed and swung the door open. “Coffeepot’s in the kitchen. I have to shower. Then . . . five minutes. That’s all I’ve got in me.”

She hurried to the small kitchen and heard a door close down the hall. As she waited for the water to percolate, she took in her surroundings. Two bedrooms, one bath as far as she could tell. The kitchen, living room, and dining area were all together in one large cube. Everything was either brown, black, or white. Comfortable and humble. Just like their owner.

There were a few pictures spaced on the mantel. They were of him and a couple of girls who shared a family resemblance. Sisters maybe. A few more of him on vacations—fishing, skiing, hiking up a mountain. Happy and smiling.

It took a few minutes for her to warm enough to remove her parka, but eventually she was able to peel it off and lay it on the table. How was she going to ask him what he and Anatole had discussed today without letting him know she’d been watching?

God, if he found out she had cameras on Anatole . . .

What? There’d be no relationship? Was that her worry? Like there was a chance for one now? Whatever had sparked between them when she’d arrived, she’d already destroyed. And it wasn’t like she was here for a dating game. If finding the truth meant losing Tucker’s friendship . . . so be it.

That thought made her incredibly sad.

She sat beside her parka, her gaze flickering to a manila corner poking out from the hood of her coat. She fingered it, gently sliding it out from beneath, glanced down the hall to make certain Tucker wouldn’t stumble out and catch her. She could hear the water turn on. Heard the swoosh of a curtain closing.

She opened the file.

She’d half expected the missing teen’s face to look back at her, but instead, it was a man she didn’t recognize. She checked the label on the folder. Michael Levi. Another picture, she knew instantly. It was the man in the woods. She’d never seen his face. Her fingers shook as she lifted the crime scene photos and looked them over.

Everything about them resembled the murders from Dayton.

Anatole, you son of a bitch.

A piece of paper flittered to the floor. She retrieved it, her gaze swinging from reading to the closed bathroom door, her heart pounding and her fingers trembling.

Peter Anatole. At the time of murder, spectator of the fireworks display at Town Square. Verified by deacons. Still no exact time of death to know for certain.

It wasn’t an official statement. More like a personal reminder of something to add to the file. But at least she knew now that he
had
asked Anatole where’d he’d been the night the man in the woods had died. That meant he hadn’t dismissed her accusations completely.

That was something.

The water cut off. She quickly replaced everything inside the file, slipped it back beneath her coat, and hurriedly searched for cups.

When she turned back to the table, Tucker stood in the doorway dressed in black pajama pants. She couldn’t help but stare at his bare chest, knew she was gawking and forced herself to turn away while he tugged a thermal shirt over his head.

She sat down, waiting for him to join her. He didn’t. “Why are you here, Miranda?”

Now that she’d already found the answer to her question she didn’t know what to say. Why hadn’t she just left? Because then he’d see the file and know she’d looked at it. He’d probably come to that conclusion anyway. The steely glare he held on her wasn’t one of trust or friendship.

Not anymore.

She blew across her cup and took a tentative sip. “I know you’re upset with me, and I really am sorry I didn’t tell you who I was when I realized you were the local law enforcement, but you have to look at this from my perspective.”

“Really?” He pushed off the wall, finally joining her at the table. “And what might that be?”

She hated that bite of anger in his voice. “What would you do if it were your brother? If he was in jail for a crime you knew in your soul he didn’t commit? Ask yourself, if you weren’t a cop, what would you do, Tuck, to find what you needed to free him?”

He sipped his coffee and remained silent, but some of the anger disappeared from his eyes. “The thing that bothers me the most is you’re not asking how I’d go about catching the killer. Your concern is for your brother. No one else.”

“It all goes hand in hand. Find the evidence, catch the real killer. Yes, my main concern is Bobby, but I want to help stop this. I don’t want anyone else to die.”

His posture relaxed slightly. “You’re going about it all wrong.”

“How should I go about it then?”

“Legally. By the book. You can’t go off half-cocked accusing people and trying to break into their place of business.”

Or his home, she added silently, thinking about the cameras recording every movement Anatole might make. “I went to the police. They were no help.”

He sighed, stretching out his legs, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was no lingering anger, just sheer exhaustion. “You can’t put the faults of others on everyone you meet. You should have been honest. When you hide behind half truths, people aren’t inclined to help you, even if they wanted to.”

She swallowed, put her cup down, and stood. “I’m being honest now. Can’t that be good enough?”

He didn’t reply. Taking that as a hint to leave him alone, she slipped on her parka, searching for something to make things right between them. She had nothing.

“All right then. Good night, Tucker.”

She was halfway down the porch stairs when he said, “I’m going to give this case every bit of the attention it deserves and find the killer. But I’m not going to let your theories cloud my judgment.”

Miranda returned to her cottage feeling defeated. She’d spent the last year neck-deep in assholes, and had forgotten what a genuinely good guy was like. Now that she’d met one, she’d screwed things up royally.

Her chest hurt. Maybe she was having a panic attack. Maybe she was grieving the loss of a potential friendship. Either way, as she locked the door behind her and rekindled the fire in the hearth, she felt horrible.

She glanced at her laptop, still sitting where she’d left it on the sofa, but didn’t have the heart to reach for it. She was sick and tired of obsessing over Anatole.

But people were dying again . . . and Bobby was still in jail.

Before Anatole had left Dayton, she’d documented every move he’d made, but she’d never had to look over her shoulder while she’d done it. But since he’d caught her trying to break in to his office . . . anonymity was no longer a luxury she possessed.

Her life had become
his
life, and it was making her crazy.

That thought soured her stomach. She’d give anything to have Bobby here with her. He’d always been better at sneaking undetected into their parents’ room in search of Christmas or birthday gifts. Of course, if he was here with her, she wouldn’t have a reason to be here at all.

She had to get out of here. Had to get away from the damned computer. Hell, she had to eat. She hadn’t had more than a sandwich all day. Her stomach growled and she checked her watch. It was only eight-thirty. The town vendors would still be out. She could at least afford a snack.

She pulled herself to her feet and padded to her bedroom, dressing quickly in jeans, a sweater, and her brittle Converse. Within fifteen minutes she was crossing the street toward Town Square. She passed St. Catherine’s and forced herself to give it no more than a cursory glance. As Simon emerged from his shed to chase off a couple of skateboarding boys who’d turned the stair rails into their own amusement park, she made her way to a cart selling roasted chestnuts. She followed the invisible cinnamon nutty cloud to the man dressed in green and red elf garb who was scooping nuts into paper cones.

She was about to step into line when she felt a hand on her shoulder and nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around and found herself face-to-face with Tucker’s dispatcher. Lora? Linda?

“Eddie is sweet as pie, but he’s a chronic nose picker,” she said, nodding in the direction of the vendor. “Trust me, you don’t want his nuts.”

Miranda grimaced. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Miranda, isn’t it?”

When Miranda nodded, the petite blonde introduced herself as Lisa and smiled.

“If you’re hungry,” Lisa said, “I’m heading to Peggy Jo’s for some meat loaf. My ex has the kids tonight and there’s no way I’m doing the domestic thing for one.”

“I was just going to grab something qui—”

“C’mon. My treat.”

Miranda took a step back. “You take every tourist to dinner?”

“Just you.” Lisa’s blue eyes twinkled and she beamed another blindingly chipper smile in Miranda’s direction. “I’m nosy, and you have Tuck’s panties in a bunch, so you got me a bit curious.”

“I really don’t think—”

Miranda’s argument was cut off when the woman slipped an arm through hers and began pulling her around a trio of teens trying to cross the street. For such a small woman, Lisa the dispatcher possessed the power of a mule.

In order to stop herself from being dragged, Miranda stumbled to keep up. From her peripheral, she caught sight of Eddie with a finger jammed up his nose and decided a hot meal on someone else’s dime didn’t sound too bad.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” She yanked her arm free, not sure if she was annoyed or amused by the situation.