Silent Night (17 page)

She thrust her fork toward her spaghetti and splashed the white tablecloth with sauce. She definitely had an appetite.

“I’m good.”

Shrugging, she set her fork down, refilled her glass with red wine, and drank. Deeply. By the time she set about eating again, a glassy sheen had coated her eyes.

She rested her chin on her hand and twirled her noodles around her utensils. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He looked down at his meat loaf. It looked great with its chunks of carrots and egg staring up at him from the crisp white plate. Yet it was hard to muster an appetite with so much death on his mind.

“It’s hard to eat when someone’s staring at you,” she said, wiping her mouth and leaning back in her chair.

He smiled. “Just enjoying the show.” He pointed at her glass. “You might want to slow down.”

She glanced at her glass, then back at him. “I’m not drunk.”

“If you say so.”

She wrinkled her nose and pulled a noodle from the pile with her fingers. Tilting her head back, she slowly lowered it into her mouth. Tucker lost his ability to produce saliva.

She licked her lips. “You going to just drop me off at my place? Because I have to tell you, Chief, you’re looking at me like your intentions may not be motivated by good deeds.”

Focusing every last bit of his attention on his meat loaf, he dug in, an old Rod Stewart song DJing his discomfort.
If you want my body, and you think I’m sexy, come on, sugar, let me know . . .

“I can call you a cab if I’m making you feel uncomfortable.”

She grinned. If he didn’t know better, he’d say there was a bit of desire flashing in those dark eyes of hers. A little pout in those full lips. At some point he must have missed, she’d put her flirt on.

Probably just the wine in her, but that didn’t make it any less sexy.

“I don’t get you, Tucker Ambrose,” she said, lifting her wine to her mouth. “When you’re not scowling at me, you look at me like you’re trying to surmise what kind of undies I’m wearing.”

She leaned across the table and grabbed his wine, pouring the contents into her glass. He caught a whiff of her when she moved back. Soapy. “It’ll be interesting to see which side of you wins.”

It damned well would be.

“Well, in all fairness you seem to have a knack for pushing my buttons. When you’re not doing that, you’re sexy as hell. I can’t be blamed for noticing.”

Her smile lit up her eyes and she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “For the record, it’s a thong. White and cottony, but still a thong.”

He groaned and the napkin on his lap raised a fraction.

This woman had no idea what she was doing to him. She’d had a lot of wine, and it was all he could do to remind himself that he was a gentleman. He stuffed cash into the bill folder the waitress had placed on the edge of the table and inched his way out of the booth quietly commanding his southern sniper to stand down.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.” To her place, not his. Next time he was ordering a vintage bottle of sparkling cider.

She made no effort to stand. Instead, she watched him from beneath her lashes. The smoldering look she directed at him made his dick twitch. He sat back down and placed his napkin back across his lap.

“It’s nice to see you out of uniform,” she said. “Kind of miss the hat, though. I do like that part. Do you have a black one?”

He barely heard her. He was still picturing that thong she’d mentioned. “What?”

She sighed. “Black hat?”

“Oh. No.”

“A shame.” She pushed her glass away. “Maybe I
have
had too much. Either that, or you’re just very tempting.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Men like you don’t have to. Your dimples do the job for you.” She gave an unladylike snort. “Do you know, the night we met at Peggy Jo’s, I actually thought you reminded me of Superman. And come to think of it, I think you might be a rare breed of man who could pull off those tights.”

With a sigh, he tried to think of anything but Miranda’s inviting innuendos so he could walk out of the restaurant without embarrassing himself. Since she was already trying to stand, he didn’t have much time to get all the blood in his body to return to its proper places. She held the edge of the table and leaned over to get her purse, the sexy curve of her ass filling his line of sight. Tucker rushed to his feet, taking her elbow in hand, and helped her to the coat check.

As she slid on Lisa’s faux fur, she swayed against him. “The world’s spinning a little bit.” She wrapped her arm around his hips.

He somehow managed to get her into his truck without doing something he’d completely regret or that she’d resent him for in the morning.

When he got inside and reached across to buckle her in, she leaned forward and nuzzled his neck. “You smell good.”

He jerked back, his head smacking the rearview. He gritted his teeth. “Sit back so I can fasten you in.”

When he tried again, her wine-scented breath caressed his neck. He considered turning his head and kissing her, desperate to know how the Brunello would taste on her tongue. He gritted his teeth, not even bothering to attempt to hide the effect she was having on his body. When he’d returned to his seat, he was stiffer than the gearshift.

Miranda noticed, her eyes widening and her cheeks flushing as she stared, unapologetically at his crotch. She smiled and looked away, resting her forehead on the window as Tucker grumbled beneath his breath and carefully maneuvered the Raptor through the icy streets back to Christmas.

He’d never been so happy to arrive at his destination as he was when he pulled in front of her cottage. His hands ached from clamping the steering wheel in his fists, and he was pretty sure he’d chipped a tooth from clenching his jaw so tightly to keep from saying something stupid like,
Mind if I come in and use your body before I head home?
as easily as someone might ask to use a bathroom.

“We’re here.” He shifted in the seat to look at her. “Miranda?”

She didn’t respond. Each deep, breast-raising breath fogged the window slightly. She was sound asleep. Her long hair had come loose from its knot, spilling around her face and accentuating the creamy whiteness of her skin. He lowered his head against the steering wheel and cursed. He could wake her, but he was beginning to think carrying a sleeping Miranda to bed would be far safer for his good intentions than helping a stumbling, flirty Miranda make her own way.

Killing the engine, he made his way to her side and fished in her bag for her key. He lifted her in his arms and carried her up the small porch. When he reached the front door, he had to adjust her weight to work the key, tilting her toward his chest and causing her breasts to press against him.

By the time he kicked the door closed behind them, Miranda’s eyes were open. Her gaze was still cloudy, but focused intently on him. Shit.

As quickly as possible, he made his way to the back of the cottage toward her bedroom and laid her on the bed, feet dangling over the edge. He threw her bag on the floor. The sound of her steady breathing promised that she’d fallen asleep again.

After adjusting the heat to take the chill from the room, he returned to the bedroom. His gaze traveled up her legs where the skirt of the dress had wiggled up to her knees, and settled on the sweet curve of breasts nearly tumbling from the deep V of the neckline.

Starting with her feet, he quickly worked the straps of the heels, tucked them under his arm to return to Lisa, and slid the open coat from her arms. No way in hell was he touching the dress. One less thing for him to strip her of—and tempt himself with.

“Come on, let’s get you under the covers.”

As if in slow motion, she reached out and cupped his face. Her cool fingers quickly warmed against his heated flesh. She traced his lips with her thumb. Tucker held himself perfectly still, watching her.

When her hand fell limply back to her side, he held her against his chest so he could jerk back the covers. As he tried to lay her back on the bed, her arm snaked around his neck.

“Let me go, Miran—”

She pulled his head down, her lips brushing ever so slightly across his. “Mmm,” she sighed against his mouth. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first met you.”

“You’re drunk and—”

“I told you I’m not drunk.” She nipped his lip and he was a goner. He pulled her close and deepened the kiss. The taste of the wine lingering on her breath and lips went straight to his head. He wanted more. He wanted
her
.

But not like this.

When she trailed her hands over his shoulders to the buttons on his shirt, he ended the kiss. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

He placed her against the pillows and tucked the covers beneath her chin. Hopefully she wouldn’t remember this in the morning. If she did, he was pretty sure her pride was going to take a beating. He didn’t want to be the cause of that.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then did the exact opposite of what he wanted to do.

He left.

T
UCKER GLANCED AT
Lisa’s coat and shoes, still perched on the corner of his desk the next afternoon, and contemplated moving them to the reception area for her to pick up. The damned coat still smelled like Miranda, and he was having a hard enough time trying to forget about their kiss in order to focus.

He’d made the right decision in leaving her last night. But damned if it hadn’t been hard as hell. All night, he’d tossed and turned, contemplated returning to her just to check on her, and knowing he wouldn’t leave again if he did.

He was feeling every moment of his restless night now.

Grumbling, he quickly finished his lunch and made one last call to the ME’s office in Knoxville, his third in an hour, to make sure they’d call him whenever they finished with Michael Levi’s autopsy, no matter the time of day. He’d also asked, albeit fruitlessly, for a rush so the family could hold a funeral.

He’d been laughed at for that one. All they’d been able to tell him for sure was that the blood on the rocks Bowen had bagged was a match to the victim. No hope of finding the killer’s DNA on them anymore.

Trying to remain focused, he picked up the report Lisa had left on his desk and scanned Michael’s phone records. The incoming calls matched his family’s numbers, as did some of the outbound calls. He’d called one number over two dozen times. He checked the report Goiter and Franks had submitted concerning their visit with Levi’s estranged wife, Bethany Levi. It was a match.

Setting aside the phone records, he read the interview notes with Bethany. She’d stated that Michael had wanted joint custody, but she had refused. Two weeks ago, she’d received a letter from his lawyer stating the petition had been dropped, but Michael was still requesting monthly visitation at his family estate with his daughter.

He’d called repeatedly, but since she hadn’t decided yet if she was going to grant his latest request, and didn’t want to be pressured into a decision, she hadn’t taken any of his calls. She’d claimed she hadn’t seen Michael since his return to Christmas, and her alibi confirmed her whereabouts for the night of his murder.

Another dead end.

Lisa finally came in for her shift around twelve-thirty and settled down in his office for an afternoon of reading through the Dayton files. She took the jacket and shoes from his desk and stuffed them in her bag. He was able to breathe a bit easier after that. He checked his watch. Would Miranda even remember last night’s conversation when he’d told her to come by to talk about letting her help go through the files?

Did he want her to remember? Having her here would probably be too much of a distraction. Hell, the stupid coat she’d worn had been. The woman in the flesh would be a doorstop to any progress he hoped to make today.

As Lisa began pulling files from the large box, his phone rang. “If that’s your new girlfriend,” Lisa said, “tell her she scuffed up my heels.”

“Ambrose.”

It was his sergeant, Jim Franks.

“Hey, Chief. Um . . . You might be wantin’ to come on down to the mill.”

He sighed. He hadn’t had a chance to go through those files yet, and he was itching to do so. “I’m in the middle of something, Sergeant. Try Lieutenant Bowen—”

“Well, sir . . . I, um . . .”

The man sounded ill and tired but Tucker was in no mood to baby anyone today. “Spit it out, Franks.”

“There’s another body, sir.” The faint sound of heaving followed those words on the other end of the line, and Tucker felt his own stomach churn.

He grabbed his hat off the door hook, his feet like lead as Franks filled him in. “Looks like the other one. Think I saw a Bible but it’s pretty dark in there and I didn’t want to linger . . . you know, contaminate anything?”

The churning was becoming a typhoon. Tucker left Lisa alone with the files and stormed out of the station. “You did good, Jim. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Go ’head and start roping off the area. I’ll get the details when I get there.”

“All right, boss, but you should know . . . I don’t think this is a fresh one. It smells something fierce in there. And . . . looks like a kid. Might be the one you’ve been searching for.”

“Jesus.” Tucker hung up and froze in the middle of the parking lot.
Ricky
.

Already, he was picturing Ricky Schneider dressed like Michael Levi and ripped to shreds by a sadistic madman. He’d moved here so he wouldn’t be faced with homicides as often as he was in Chicago, and yet in less than a week, he was about to deal with his second body.

Please, God, don’t let it be Ricky.

But would it really be any better if it was some nameless stranger?

No. But he couldn’t stomach the thought of it being the kid. Such a shitty life shouldn’t end in such a shitty death.

The cruiser had a layer of snow covering the roof and hood, but someone had dug the tires out since he’d parked it there that morning. He tossed his hat on the passenger seat and took a deep breath before heading toward the old mill and granary Jim had called from, forgoing the lights and sirens in hopes of keeping the town in the dark just a little bit longer. The Christmas Grain and Grist Mill was still functional and a tourist haven. Not exactly a secluded place to put a body.

He hadn’t seen a damned thing yet, and he was already willing to bet the body had been placed there as recently as today. Relocated from wherever he’d been stashed this whole time. Likely, the killer wasn’t pleased that this one hadn’t been found yet and had moved to remedy that. There was no way a tourist wouldn’t have stumbled upon it at the granary by now, otherwise.

He pulled off the road and followed the curved, paved drive to the front of the granary, where Jim’s partner, Darren, was waiting. Tucker rolled down his window.

Before he could say anything, Darren said, “Franks’s around back. Mr. Mackey found the body in one of the roped-off outbuildings.”

Tucker nodded. “Call Doc and make sure she finds her way back.” He started to pull away and stopped. “And if anyone asks, we’re checking up on a break-in.”

When Darren nodded, Tucker followed the narrow road, pulling up beside the other squad car. Jim leaned against the trunk while the owner, Floyd Mackey, paced. They both greeted him with looks of relief.

Floyd rushed to his side. “Chief, thank God you’re here. I don’t know how that kid got here, but I want him gone before my wife or sisters come out here to find out what’s taking me so long to get back to the shop.”

Tucker pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. “Just a couple questions and you can head on back before they get suspicious. Might want to take them into town so they don’t see the coroner arrive.”

“I’ll give her directions to the rear entrance,” Jim said, joining them. “Probably better that no one sees the meat wagon pulling through the front and asks questions.”

“All right,” Tucker said. “Fill me in.”

“I have his statement, Chief,” Jim said, pulling out his notebook.

Floyd nodded. “Told Jim everything.”

Preferring to hear it firsthand, Tucker motioned Floyd to continue.

“My wife sent me to get the decorations stored in there.” He pointed to the building behind him. “This is just for storage now since it’s so far from the main buildings and getting tourists out here was a pain. Anyhoo, the minute I walked in I knew something was wrong. The smell, ya know? Figured it was just a dead animal but when I went behind the old wheel . . . well, that’s when I saw him.”

“Did you recognize him?”

Floyd paled and swallowed loudly. “I didn’t get that close. Knew there wasn’t much I could do for him so I came back out here and called Jim.”

“Why didn’t you call the station?”

Floyd shrugged. “He always makes his rounds about this time of day. Knew he’d be close by.”

“Do you keep the building locked?”

“There’s an old padlock on it, but we never bother locking it. Haven’t even been in here in weeks.”

Tucker headed to the trunk of his cruiser. “You head on back to your family. We’ll get this taken care of and get out of here as quickly as we can.”

Floyd nodded and shot off on a mud-encrusted four-wheeler.

Tucker waited until he disappeared, then grabbed his duffel from the trunk, took out his camera, and tossed the bag over his shoulder, motioning for Jim to follow.

Inside the little building, cracks in the ceiling and walls let in muted light. Tucker walked the perimeter. He was procrastinating. He couldn’t help it. No part of him whatsoever wanted to lay eyes on the body and confirm that it was Ricky.

Two sets of muddy, almost imperceptible footprints came in and retreated practically on top of one another. Another set started through the middle of the room before they disappeared. Those probably belonged to Floyd. They were too messy to belong to anyone calculating.

He placed markers and a measuring ruler by each of the impressions and snapped a photo before moving on. The old granary was one room, with the remains of a grinding wheel in the center. Boxes and crates were neatly stacked on the shelves lining the walls. Nothing looked disturbed or out of place. In fact, if it wasn’t for the smell of decomp, Tucker wouldn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary.

Behind him, Jim ducked inside, notebook in hand. “I took notes, sir. Of what we found when we got here.”

“Go ahead.”

The sergeant cleared his throat. “At exactly four-fifty-three, Sergeant Goiter and I entered the building. Upon seeing the body, we immediately exited and I secured the scene and called you.” Jim stopped reading long enough to point to the corner behind the wheel. “He’s over there.”

“Did anyone touch him?”

“No, sir.” Jim tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “If it’s all the same to you, Chief, I’d rather wait over here. I’ve never seen anything like that before and really don’t want to see it again.”

Images of Michael Levi’s body flashed through Tucker’s mind. He couldn’t say he blamed Jim at all. “You did good. Why don’t you wait outside for Doc while I photograph the victim?”

He snapped photos, his flash lighting up the granary as Jim all but ran from the building. The guy wouldn’t be sleeping through the night for weeks. Sadly, Tucker had become all too used to such things long ago.

Satisfied that he’d documented the entrance, he moved behind the stone wheel. Stretched out on the cold ground, dressed in a dark suit, no shoes, belt, or tie, lay Ricky Schneider.

A Bible and large crucifix rested on his stomach, his hands folded over them. A burn, much like the one on Michael Levi’s forehead, was visible despite the condition of the body. There was no blood pool beneath him or blood spatter on the old wheel or shelves behind him.

As Tucker had guessed, the body had been staged here. The blood they’d found behind the library was Ricky’s, and there was no more denying that he’d likely died there. So close to where Tucker had been patrolling. So where had his body been all this time?

The click of a camera from the entrance pulled Tucker’s attention away from the body. Doc stood in the entryway recording the scene as she did her walkthrough. She made her way through the building to stop beside him, documenting her path. “You’re keeping me busy these days, Tuck.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Tell me about it.”

Kneeling beside the body, she scribbled on her clipboard before taking more photographs. Seemingly satisfied that she’d detailed all her findings, she lifted her recorder to her lips. “The deep discoloration of the body indicates he’s been dead for some time.”

Tucker knew she wasn’t talking to him and remained silent. Carefully, she eased the blood-encrusted collar of the white shirt away from his neck. “Garroted. Like Levi. Almost decapitated. There’s no tearing or sawing. The ligature marks near the neck were made prior to the cut at the throat. Could be a sign of hesitation.” She looked at Tucker. “Grab the items on his lap for me, please. You can bag them now.”

Tucker quickly grabbed the Bible and crucifix and placed the items into large evidence bags, then labeled and signed each. She rolled the body toward her, checking the pockets for a wallet or any other personal items. The skin at his wrist made a sucking sound as it slipped toward his elbow.

“The condition of the body makes it hard to identify defensive wounds or other traumas, but autopsy should help with that. Hmm.”

“What?” Tucker asked, not caring if he’d interrupted her recording.

“There’s almost no evidence of insect activity. Even with the cold temperatures I would expect to see more bugs or signs of scavengers. There are too many cracks in these walls for this place to be that secure from nature.”

“Even bugs?”

“If the body was covered in snow before it was placed here and kept off the ground, insects wouldn’t necessarily be an issue.” She shut off the recorder and motioned over the two assistants who’d entered with a gurney.

Tucker walked outside, contemplating Sam’s deduction. There had been heavy snowfall over the last few weeks. If Ricky’s body had originally been staged someplace else, staged to be found as Levi and the Dayton victims had, the snow might have screwed up their killer’s plans, forcing him to dig Ricky out of the snow and put him here, instead. There was every chance that whoever did this didn’t know the shed wasn’t in constant use. The rest of the granary was constantly trafficked.

He leaned against the wall and waved Jim over. “You do a walk of the grounds?”

“Yes, sir.” Jim wiped his hands on his pants. “I didn’t notice any footprints or tire tracks or anything else, for that matter.”

“Not surprising with all the snow we had last night.” At least this time they had footprints in the building. “The back way in, the way you brought in the doc, is that common knowledge?”

Jim nodded. “That’s where delivery trucks come and go. The main gate’s too small for them to pass through. I asked Floyd. Last delivery was two days ago, though.”

Sam stepped out of the building and made her way to Tucker. “Hi, Jim. Can you give us a minute?” When Goiter stepped off to talk to the attendants, she said, “As I’m sure you’ve already guessed, I’d say that’s your missing teen.”