Silent Night (15 page)

T
UCKER PEELED OUT
of the hotel parking lot and sped toward St. Catherine’s. This one lie . . . it shone a light on everything Miranda had suspected and he’d be a complete ass if he continued to brush her theories off.

He wanted answers.

He pulled the cruiser into St. Catherine’s, taking up two parking spaces, and stormed inside. The church was, as usual, virtually empty, and he headed straight for the hall of offices.

Anatole’s was locked.

“Shit,” he said, then remembered where he was and rolled his eyes at himself.

“Can I help you?”

He whirled around to find a deacon behind him, carrying a stack of books nearly taller than he was, and peering at Tucker from over the top of them.

“Where’s Father Anatole?”

“Snowball Wars at the school. I’m the only one still here. Everyone participates but someone has to hold down the fort.” He smiled. “Community support and all that. Can I leave him a message?”

Tucker didn’t answer. He left the deacon standing there with his tower of books, and headed to Levi High School.

“W
HAT
’
S YOUR FLAVOR
?” The young vendor’s smile was filled with metal, his braces glinting beneath the midday sun as he shoveled seasoned popcorn into paper bags.

Miranda couldn’t help but smile back. After finding that medallion at the grid search, and her talk with Tucker afterward, she felt that things might actually be looking up. She tried not to get her hopes up, as Tucker had instructed, but yeah, that wasn’t working. Even after reviewing the recordings of Anatole from her cameras, and not finding him doing anything worth getting excited over, she knew something would come of that medallion. It had to.

“Caramel,” she said, her gaze flitting to a set of moss-covered iron gates behind the canopied cart. “What’s going on in there?”

“Epic snowball battle at the high school.” Braces scooped kernels into a bag. “You still have ten minutes to join a team and help build the arsenal before the fight begins. There are snow forts constructed to the north, south, east, and west. You just have to see who’s short a man. Or woman, sorry.”

She considered her finally-dry Converse and wrinkled her nose. The idea of deliberately placing them in a blanket of thick snow wasn’t appealing at all.

“Or you could just watch. There are usually bleachers set up around the perimeter.”

“Maybe next time,” she said, paying the kid and turning to go. She didn’t, however, take a single step to leave. Behind the vendor, Father Anatole was ushering a group of middle-school kids through the iron gates of the school. Miranda’s stomach lurched and she scanned the street for someplace to hide.

He was going to watch a snowball fight? That image did not fit the one she knew from Dayton. Straight-faced, no-nonsense, pious. The idea of him watching a bunch of children frolic in the snow creeped her out even more.

Blessedly, he disappeared inside the gates without so much as a glance in her direction. She let herself breathe and licked sticky candy coating from her finger.

Maybe she
would
go to the snowball fight. Best to see exactly what the priest was up to. Then she could decide what her next move would be since her clumsy cameras weren’t showing her anything useful.

Maybe he was scoping out possibilities for his next victim. She almost tossed her uneaten popcorn in the trash as she made her way toward the bleachers, but reconsidered. Her funds were dwindling and throwing out perfectly good food felt utterly foolish. She was going to have to consider selling Bobby’s Range Rover if this went on much longer. At this rate, it would be only a few weeks before she was going to need a cup and a sign offering to work for food.

She hadn’t let herself worry about it much until now, when popcorn was the most filling meal she’d had in twenty-four hours. She could support herself nicely doing what she loved. But there was no time for working when Bobby’s life was on the line. Even though she was doing all this for him, she couldn’t stand the thought of reaching out to him for a handout to fund this escapade of hers.

The bleachers were set up, as promised, beneath a large awning edged with icicles and dirty run-off. She took a seat at the nearest end of the snowy football field, where she could make a quick escape and still blend in with a large group of spectators. Her gaze surfed the crowd in search of the black frock. She spotted it accompanied by a couple of deacons, limping on a cane across the center of the field between two large, icy walls, a half smile on his goateed face.

Anatole struggled to add his stockpile to those haphazardly placed along the plywood and snow forts. His cane slipped in the snow and he stumbled. Simon the groundskeeper appeared from behind the wall and steadied him. Anatole patted the man’s hand before disappearing behind the heaping piles of white fluff.

Jesus, he’s actually going to play.

What the hell was this? Where was his scowl? His upturned, I’m-too-pious-for-this-frock nose?

Knowing a murderer was in such close contact with young, impressionable people sickened her. But there was nothing she could do. Everyone wanted proof before they’d even consider that a priest was capable of murdering three men. Four, she corrected, turning away from the scene before she did something stupid and landed in jail, where she’d be no good for anyone. At least if Anatole was throwing snowballs, maybe he’d be too busy to be looking for a next victim.

But she couldn’t stomach the thought of watching him any longer. Her popcorn was shriveling back into tiny kernel-sized pebbles in her stomach. She slung her purse over her shoulder and stood, only to find her path blocked by a big, solid body that smelled wonderfully familiar.

“Going somewhere?”

She dropped back to the cold bleacher. “Tucker. Hi.”

He sat beside her, blocking her escape, and sighed. “Been one hell of a long day and it’s not even half over.”

He shifted in order to see around the pompom cap of the spectator in front of them, his leg pressed against hers. She suddenly felt overheated, but she managed to keep from fanning her face.

“Why are you here, anyway?” he asked. “Taking a break from your snooping?”

“Just watching the snowball fight like everyone else in town.”

His eyebrows rose in question. “You expect me to believe that you came here to watch a snowball fight? One that Father Anatole just happens to be participating in?”

Instead of answering, she fired off her own question. “If your day’s been so long, why are you here instead of out trying to make it shorter?”

He watched her so intently that she was certain he was looking into her head and finding the answers to his questions for himself. “It’s my job,” he finally answered, turning back to the battlefield.

Something was bothering him. He was tense and stony, though she didn’t feel it directed at her this time. That was a nice change. What had happened to sour his disposition so much? Did it have to do with why he was here, watching Anatole, rather than working his investigation?
Was
he working the investigation right now?

She felt him pull away from her side and decided to keep her questions to herself. If Tucker was finally getting over some of his anger toward her, she didn’t want to rekindle it.

“Should we make things interesting?” he asked. The playful change in his tone took her by surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“Pick a team. If it wins, dinner’s on me. If mine wins—”

“I can’t afford to buy you dinner.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Not sure I’m up for losing a bet when I don’t know the stakes.”

“Fine. If I win, I’ll still take you to dinner, but you have to answer my questions.” He leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. “I want to talk to you about Anatole.”

She swallowed. Something
had
happened.

“You don’t have to buy me dinner to get me to talk about him.”

“Yeah, well. Small town. I’d rather do it in private.”

“You can come by and—”

“Will it really kill you to let me take you out? I’m not asking you to marry me.”

“Don’t snap at me.” She sighed. “You said it has been a long day. I’m just trying to make things easi—”

“I could use a break, all right? I have something to do after this fight is over, and then I’m picking you up for dinner. Got it?”

Well, not exactly the nicest way to be asked out. But he wanted to talk about Anatole and she wasn’t about to turn that down.

“All right. But what if I win?”

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, his face still turned toward the field. “You get to go through the Rosary Killer’s files with me.”

A tingle zinged through her veins. He wasn’t dismissing her anymore. Something had happened to make him think she was right about Anatole and he wanted her help, her opinion. This was no kindly offer to appease her. He needed her.

“You’re on,” she said, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

He grunted, his gaze so focused on Anatole now, she felt a kinship with him. Finally, someone who looked at the priest the way she did. She dug back into her popcorn, her appetite returning as she settled in to watch the fight.

She scanned the crowd of participants, spotting a group of older kids standing around a structure built like Fort Knox. Large snowballs were perfectly stacked in preparation for war. These kids had done this before and certainly looked like winners to her.

Miranda turned back to Tucker. “I want them.” She pointed out the kids standing closest to their side of the bleachers.

“Fine. But that gives you the advantage. If I take the younger group, you have to wear something other than jeans if I win.”

“Like pajamas? Sweats? Oh, I know, how about a khaki uniform like yours? Do you even
own
other clothes?”

She’d rarely seen him in anything else.

He poked her parka. “Do
you
?”

“Touché.”

“I was thinking of something sexier. Maybe show a little leg. Some cleav—”

“Seriously? It’s like ten degrees out. Besides, I don’t exactly have anything like that packed. Sorry.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight. Now shush. Game’s starting.”

Shush? People all around them were cheering and laughing and he wanted her to shush?

How pathetic was she that she was looking forward to a semi-date with Tucker when she was staring straight at a murderer? Very, very pathetic. But she couldn’t help it. She wanted to go. And not just for the free meal this time.

T
UCKER WAITED UNTIL
Miranda had left and the football field cleared before pulling out his cell phone. Lisa answered with a huff.

“Bad day?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She sighed. “Ex stuff. He wants the kids again this weekend but he just took them last. Not your problem. Sorry. What’s up?”

“I need you to pull the phone we found in Michael Levi’s car from the evidence locker and print out the recent in and outbound call logs for me.”

“I’ll leave them on your desk for you.” He could hear her moving around and knew she was on her way to do as he’d requested. “Anything else?”

“Actually, yeah.” He gave her the details as he made his way down the bleachers. “Can you do that for me?”

“I should tell you this isn’t in my job description, but I won’t.”

He spied Anatole heading for the gates. “Thanks, Lis, gotta run.” He disconnected and stuffed the phone back in his pocket as he sped up to catch him on the sidewalk.

“Mind if I walk with you, Father?”

Anatole looked at him, still smiling over his team’s victory, which, in turn, had been Tucker’s in his bet with Miranda. “Of course. Did you watch today?”

“I did. Congratulations.” The last thing he felt like doing was partaking in small talk, but he certainly didn’t want to have this conversation in the middle of the road. “I was hoping for a moment of your time.”

“I was heading to my office. I’m a bit famished after all of that and my leg”—he tapped his cane on his boot—“is growing a bit stiff.”

Tucker wasn’t about to be dismissed. “We can talk there.”

Anatole scowled. “Very well then.”

They strode side by side into the church and down the hall, their footsteps holding a conversation of their own as they echoed down the corridor. Tucker worked to tamp down his anger. The last thing he wanted to do was blow up and lose the chance to catch Anatole off guard with his questions, but he was damned close to doing so.

His time with Miranda had calmed him for a bit, as had the promise of seeing her tonight. But now that he was with the priest, venom over being lied to was once again seeping through his blood.

As soon as Anatole sat behind his desk and opened a brown bag which he’d pulled from a drawer, Tucker started in.

“I was hoping you could answer a question for me, Father Anatole.”

The priest unwrapped a sandwich, held out half to Tucker. Tucker shook his head, and Anatole took an indelicate bite. Once he swallowed, he returned his attention to Tucker. “Let’s hope I can answer it for you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were counseling Michael Levi in the matter of his annulment and new engagement?”

Father Anatole’s hand froze midway to his mouth. Tucker inwardly grinned. He’d definitely caught the bastard off guard. Anatole took a sip from a water bottle, taking an excruciatingly long time to swallow.

He’s thinking. Trying to cover his damned ass. He knows I’ve just caught him in a lie.

“No offense,” Anatole said finally. “But the priest-penitent privilege prevents me from disclosing anything discussed in confession or because of that confession. It is utterly private and sacred.”

Tucker smiled. “But I never asked what you talked about. I never asked anything at all. Yet when I informed you that he’d died, you led me to believe you didn’t know him. Certainly claiming to know someone wouldn’t break a trust.”

He watched as Anatole’s Adam’s apple bobbed slowly up, then down. Anatole steepled his fingers and studied Tucker for a long moment.

“You caught me unaware that day. I’ll admit. You were taking me to see his grieving family, and they didn’t know I was seeing their son for these matters. It just felt safer to claim ignorance to avoid their demands to know things that were too private to share. My loyalty, Tucker, isn’t to the grieving, though I feel for them greatly. It is to the people who come to me, directly, for help.”

It had been years since Tucker had had to properly interrogate someone for a crime like this. He was rusty, but right now, he wanted to take Anatole into the station, shine the light on him, and make him tell the damned truth. And it hadn’t been so long that Tucker didn’t know a liar when he saw one.

He was definitely looking at one now.

M
IRANDA STUMBLED OUT
of her second shower of the day, and as she dried off, she checked the time on her phone. She and Tucker had parted ways two hours ago, and he was due to pick her up in forty-five minutes. She dug through her suitcase, frustrated that all she could find were jeans and sweaters, all of which could use a trip to the Laundromat.

So much for a sexy date.

A knock on her door caused her to drop her towel. He was early. Frantically, she gathered the material around her body and padded to the door, cracked it open, and found a young girl smiling on the other side.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Harley?”

“Yes.”

The girl held out a box. “Delivery.”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“A gift. I’ll just set it here.”

The girl backed away, obviously aware of Miranda’s wariness. When she disappeared, Miranda snatched the box and flung it on the kitchen counter, her heart racing. She took a few deep breaths, chastising herself for the mental images consuming her. What? Did she expect to find body parts in there? A bomb?

Anatole didn’t know who she was, or where she was staying. It couldn’t be from him.

With trepidation, she plucked the little ivory card attached to the ribbon sealing the box closed.

A bubble of excitement made her fingers tingle. She carefully pulled the item from the box. An ankle-length black dress with a thigh-high slit, long sleeves, and a plunging neckline. Beneath it lay another card.

She checked the label. She was a size four. The dress was a size two. At least he’d guessed in the more flattering direction.

Collapsing onto the bed, she took a moment to breathe. He’d bought her a dress. This had suddenly become a real date. What the hell had she gotten herself into?