Silent Night (18 page)

“Cause of death?”

“Technically, undetermined right now. Off the record? The garroting obviously would have done it. But autopsy will let me know whether that was done postmortem or not.” She sagged against the building next to Tucker. “That wound . . . it’s the same as Michael Levi’s, Tucker. You ready to tell me what we’re dealing with here? This a serial?”

Tucker blew on his hands then shoved them in his pockets. He took a couple of beats, then told her everything he knew. He hadn’t wanted to taint her findings with Miranda’s suspicions. But now there was a second body. A fucking kid. He couldn’t pretend they weren’t dealing with a serial killer any longer, even if the textbook three killings hadn’t yet happened. If Tucker didn’t find the son of a bitch, it would only be a matter of time.

Sam’s pale face had little to do with the cold. Like him, she had probably thought taking a position in a town like Christmas would mean she wouldn’t have to deal with shit like this. He was sorry to be the one to lay it on her.

She raked her messy blond hair and sighed. “I’m going to get him back to the morgue and do the prelim before sending him to Knoxville. I’ll let you know what I find. And without saying too much, I’ll let them know it’s even more crucial that they move us up on their priority list.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

She smiled up at him, and he saw her struggle to hold it together. “Things like this aren’t supposed to happen here.”

“No. They’re not.”

She gave his arm a light squeeze, then climbed into the coroner’s van while the assistants rolled Ricky’s bagged body into the back on a gurney. When the van disappeared from sight, Tucker made his way to Jim, who was sneaking a cigarette behind the outbuilding.

“On your way out, make sure you let Floyd know to lock up the back entrance if possible, and absolutely no one enters this area until I give the all-clear.”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

Tucker climbed into his cruiser. He’d be willing to bet this staging was meant to mimic a confirmation, the next in the order of sacraments, but if anyone could tell him for sure whether it was a crazy notion that the Rosary Killer would strike a kid, it was Miranda.

Blasting the heat, he let the engine idle while he flipped through his phone for previous calls and located her number. He waited for her to answer, wondering if she even would. When her throaty voice greeted him two rings later, he was more than a little surprised.

“Where’re you at? Do you have time to meet me?”

He could hear music in the background being turned down.

“Tucker?”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s me.”

“Everything okay? I haven’t heard from you since—”

“Yeah, sorry about that, too. I’d like to swing by your place if you have time.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Tucker lifted his free hand in front of the vents and let his fingers thaw. He’d have time to shower and get the stench of Ricky’s death off him. “Eight-thirty? I can bring food.”

She laughed, and for a moment, the sound eased the tension in his shoulders and loosened the knots in his gut. “You don’t have to feed me every time you want to see me.”

“I like feeding you.”

“And getting me drunk.”

“I’ll bring burgers. No wine.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to feed me. But hold the mayo on mine.”

She hung up.

As he stuffed the phone into the console, he found himself smiling, but quickly sobered as his gaze connected to the building where Ricky’s young body had just been bagged and tagged. An enormous burden of guilt made him sick to his stomach all over again. But he hadn’t called Miranda so she could share a meal with him. He had a very valid reason for wanting to see her. She had been living and breathing this case for months and now that he had another body on his hands, he had to seriously consider the fact that she might have insight they’d overlooked.

He definitely needed insight. And probably a fresh set of eyes. He grabbed his phone again, dialing a number he’d had memorized for years.

“What the fuck, Tuck. Been a while.” No matter how long it had been, his old partner, Finn Donovan, always greeted him the same way. “Man, I thought you were dead or something. How the hell have you been?”

Tucker adjusted the volume on the speakerphone and put the cruiser into drive. “Decent. Or at least I was. That’s why I’m calling. You got any vacation days saved up?”

“In fifteen years here, you think they’ve given me even one of my owed days willingly? Of course I have days. What’s up?”

Tucker provided a brief rundown of his two scenes and gave the detective a minute to let it all sink in.

“But you think it’s just a copycat?” Finn asked.

Tucker could picture him rubbing his jaw, sitting on the edge of the desk like he did whenever he was trying to piece facts together.

“I’m not stupid enough to call it anything yet,” Tucker admitted. “Or willing to risk lives because I left some stones unturned.”

“You got an extra bed?”

Tucker smiled. Finn didn’t do hotels. Some people couldn’t piss in public bathrooms, Finn Donovan couldn’t sleep in other people’s cum stains. His words, not Tucker’s.

“I’ll even buy new sheets to go on it.”

“I can be there in a day or two. Will let you know when the lieutenant gives me leave.”

Tucker thanked him and hung up feeling immensely better. He’d worked enough murders with Finn to know his chances of finding his killer had just improved tenfold. Finn and Tucker had held the record for most cases closed successfully in their run as partners in the Chicago PD.

Things were starting to look up.

T
UCKER JUGGLED THE
bag of burgers and fries in one hand and hip bumped the car door closed. The tray of sodas slipped from his arm, and he barely caught the drinks before they smashed on the gravel path.

He knocked on Miranda’s door and could hear the television playing. Lamplight peeked from between the drapes, then she opened the door and beckoned him inside. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

She tightened the belt on her robe and padded in a pair of socks to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

He held up the tray. “I brought drinks. Maybe after?”

She diverted from the path to the coffeepot and took a seat at the table. “Okay, then. Let’s eat while you tell me why you wanted to see me.”

If he told her now, she’d probably lose her appetite. “Eat first.”

He opened the bags and passed her a burger. They ate in silence, an awkward tension hanging between them. He swallowed, looking for the right thing to say to ease the obvious embarrassment she was feeling about last night.

“Miran—”

“Tuck—” She laughed. “You first.”

He smiled around the straw of his soda. “It’s been a long day, but I should have made sure you were okay about—”

“It was just a kiss. Not a big deal. Let’s drop it, okay? I want to work with you on this and I don’t want things to get awkward between us.”

Just a kiss. Right.

He nodded and returned his attention to his fries. Not awkward, his ass.

“So? What happened today?”

She’d pretty much finished her food. No more reason to delay. “You said confirmation was one of the sacraments.”

“That’s right. It’s usually high-school-age kids. I think it depends on the parish, but typically eighth graders.”

“What would he be dressed in? Anything special?”

“Did something else happen, Tucker?”

“Yeah. I . . . we found that kid we were looking for. I’m pretty sure he was the first victim here in Christmas.”

She sat in silence for a moment, and he thought she might cry. Instead, she surprised him by squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath. “And you think it was confirmation.”

“Possibly.”

“It would make sense. They’re usually around fourteen, fifteen years old when they’re confirmed.”

Which explained why the killer had strayed from his MO with a teen rather than an adult this time. He must like the power that came from killing a grown man, because any of his victims could have been younger, easier prey. And while he could have chosen an adult to use in his confirmation scene, a young boy would make a much louder, sadder statement.

“And you have no idea why the Dayton PD thought these were re-creations of sacraments in the first place? I still don’t see anything that leads me to believe it’s anything more than a religious-set murder.”

She shook her head. “You haven’t found anything in the files, yet?”

“I’ve barely had time to open them. Lisa has been combing through them, but she hasn’t said anything.”

Miranda placed a hand on her belly and sighed. “I’m telling you, it’s the Rosary Killer. It’s confirmation. He’d choose someone he could cleanse, force him into a confirmation of his own making.”

“I didn’t find a rosary, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. It was partially hidden on the other victim.” He scrubbed his eyes. “This is not how I wanted to find Ricky Schneider.”

“I’m so sorry. I just wish . . . Maybe if I hadn’t waited . . . Excuse me.” She clamped her hand over her mouth and ran from the room.

He wanted to go after her, make sure she was all right, but was certain his witnessing her weakness would be worse than any comfort he could offer. Moving to the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee and returned to the table to clean up the remnants of dinner. When the coffee finished brewing and Miranda still hadn’t returned, he ventured down the hall and called out for her. He found her sitting on the bathroom floor, her head cradled against her raised knees. She didn’t even look at him when he knelt beside her.

“It’s so wrong. That boy never should have died. If I could’ve made the Dayton police listen to me—”

He dropped to the floor beside her and pulled her against his chest. “You can’t think like that. There was no way for you to know what he was going to do. You’re not a cop, Miranda. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

He held her, rocking her softly until her tears stopped and her breath normalized. Pushing himself up the wall, he carried her into the bedroom, jerked the covers back, and settled her in the middle of the bed. This was the second night in a row he found himself tucking her in.

“Tucker . . .”

There was no way he was leaving her. Not like this. It was his fault for telling her about Ricky’s murder. He didn’t know if his being here would keep the nightmares at bay. If not, at least she wouldn’t have to wake up and deal with them alone.

“Go to sleep.” He clicked the lamp off, then collapsed in the chair in the corner. He could sense her desperation to protest as she realized his intention to hunker down and babysit her. She tried to muffle her sobs against the pillow but they echoed through the room, murdering his conscience.

He didn’t fall asleep until the soft sounds of Miranda’s snoring became his lullaby. When the sun was safely up again, he made sure she was still tucked in, and headed home for a shower.

M
IRANDA WOKE SLOWLY
to find Tucker’s chair empty. She lay in bed, wondering what time he’d left. How long had she cried before finally falling asleep?

That poor kid. Was there anything she could have done differently to prevent his death?

Nauseous, she stumbled to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, the long shower had refreshed her, but by no means had it erased the guilt from her heart or the queasiness of her stomach.

Chucking her soiled clothes into a plastic laundry bag, she pulled on fresh jeans and a turtleneck, then grabbed her dirty parka and purse. She had to talk to Tucker, make sure he knew she was strong enough to help. If he considered last night’s reaction a testament to her grit, he might not tell her anything else.

She crammed her wallet and a pair of spare gloves back into her purse, then tossed her car keys and phone inside, too, and seeing the cruiser gone, headed off Tucker’s property toward town. It took two trips around the Town Square to find the little bakery tucked along a side street, where she purchased two coffees and cheese Danishes before continuing on to the police station.

Lisa greeted her from the front desk.

“Is Tucker around?”

“He’s on a call. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Miranda set the Danishes and coffees on the counter. “I have food . . . if you’re hungry?”

Lisa helped herself to a Danish. “I know who you are, you know. I should be mad as hell at you. I don’t like being made a fool of.”

Miranda frowned. “It was never my intention—”

“Whatever. What’s done is done. Just know that secrets don’t make you look so good, all right?”

Miranda opened her mouth to respond, but the bell over the door chimed, silencing her attempt at an explanation. A woman with pale yellow hair and a scowl marched to the counter.

“Helen,” Lisa said, folding her arms over her breasts.

“Where’s the chief?”

“Busy. Want me to tell him you stopped by?”

“I heard there’s a second body. I can’t keep holding on to this information. It’s jeopardizing my ethics as a reporter.”

“Ethics? Since when do you have those?” Lisa shuffled some papers and leaned back in her chair. “I’ll let Chief Ambrose know you want a statement as soon as he’s ready to release the news. Not before then. We know you’ve been paid to keep your mouth shut, and judging by that handbag you’re carrying, I doubt you have any of that money left to pay back, so keep your pen still, got it?”

“The people of Christmas deserve to know—”

“The people of Christmas deserve a holiday that’s not filled with panic that’s going to drive out the tourists. When we know something for sure, trust me, you’ll be free to write about it.”

“Are tourists more important than people’s safety? Breaking the story could save lives.”

“More like give you more bylines when you freelance it out to the surrounding counties.” Lisa crossed her arms, her glare not wavering under the other woman’s intense anger. “When we feel that keeping quiet is jeopardizing our citizens, you’ll get the green light. Not before.”

“Just because Ethel Levi has the power to keep her son’s death quiet doesn’t mean this other family would. It was a
kid
, for God’s sake, Lisa. You think you’re going to keep those parents as quiet as our mayor has been? Whether it comes from me or not, news is going to leak. You’d better start preparing this office for a panic because that’s what you’re about to get.”

“Go home, Helen.” Tucker’s voice was audible before he appeared from the hallway. He cast Miranda an acknowledging glance, then returned his stare to the woman. “Nothing goes in the
Chronicle
yet. I need a few more facts and then I’ll give you a release. That
kid’s
parents haven’t even been notified yet, so zip it. Got it? We get a legit ID on him before anything’s released.”

He motioned Miranda back. She gathered her belongings and followed him into his office.

“Didn’t think I’d see you this early,” he said, shutting the door. “How’re you feeling?”

“Peachy.” She handed him his cup of coffee but kept the remaining Danish for herself. She popped the top off her cup, happy to see it had retained a bit of its warmth.

She clenched her fist in her lap.

“I’m sorry I upset you last night,” he said.

“I’m a big girl, Tuck.” She glanced at the box in the corner. “How long till you’re done going through the Dayton files?”

“I haven’t even had a chance to really start yet. I have a friend coming in this afternoon to help. Things will speed up with us both looking things over. Don’t worry. I still plan on letting you help.”

She frowned. “That’s not what I was concerned about.”

“What then?”

“Because. Today’s Saturday. That means there’s only one day left before Anatole will strike again. We have to work faster, Tucker.”

F
INN
D
ONOVAN ROLLED
into Christmas, Tennessee, via airport shuttle bus, wearing jeans, a thick wool coat, and a scowl the size of Texas. Tucker greeted him with a handshake and helped him get his duffel bag out of the van while Finn stepped back, lit a cigarette, and glowered at the half dozen other passengers he’d obviously hated spending the hour ride with.

“That one smelled like Ben-Gay and her husband nearly killed us all with his farts,” he said, thrusting his cigarette toward an older couple making their way inside the hotel. Since the Marriott was close to the department, it had been easier to have Finn meet him here at the shuttle drop-off than at the airport. Tucker hadn’t been able to sacrifice the hour drive.

After Miranda had left his office that morning, Andy had called in with a positive ID from Stan and Tanya Schneider, and Tucker had spent the next few hours trying to make them understand that going to the press right now would be bad for the town, and more important, could hinder his efforts to find their son’s killer.

“Hasn’t been so long that I’ve forgotten you know how to let one go with the best of them, man,” Tucker muttered.

“Least I’m nice enough not to do it in close quarters with no open windows. Smell my coat! Smells like fucking sulfur and old people.” He shuddered. “Next time, pick me up at the airport or work your damned case without me.”

“You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t miss working with me, so quit bitching.” Tucker slung the duffel over his shoulder and waited for Finn to finish his smoke and toss the butt in the nearby ashtray before leading the way inside the police station.

As they strode into the heated reception area, Lisa glanced up, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. “Yes, ma’am, I understand it’s an emergency that your cat can’t get out of the tree, but you still need to call the fire department.” She covered the phone with her hand and smiled. “You must be Finn. It’s really nice to meet you.”

Finn winked. “We haven’t officially met yet. Maybe you’ll let me buy you a drink later and we can correct that?”

“Sure, and she can bring her two kids along so you can get to know them, too.” Tucker walked back to his office, trusting Finn to follow. The man had one hell of a reputation when it came to police work and an even bigger one with the ladies. The last thing he needed was for Lisa to get hurt by yet another emotionally unavailable cop. Andy Bowen had done enough damage in that department as it was.

The office door closed with a firm thud. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes there.” Finn perched on the edge of the desk. “Got a thing for her?”

“No.” Tucker flicked the lid off the Rosary Killer box and pulled out the folder with his notes. “She’s got a lot on her plate and doesn’t need a side of Donovan heartbreak to fill it even more.”

“You wound me.” Finn grinned and took the file. He sat and scanned the pages, flipping through them much too fast to be reading more than the highlights. That was how Finn worked. Catch the gist of the situation, hear the details and questions that came with it, then go back and read everything word for word to make up his own mind as objectively as he could. It was one of the things Tucker liked best about him—that he had no agenda other than putting bad guys behind the bars and pretty girls between the sheets.

Finn tossed the folder on the desk. “I take it you called to make sure this Bobby Harley guy is still where he’s supposed to be?”

“Yeah, he’s present and accounted for. No visitors and only one letter received once a week. No outgoing mail at all.”

“Did you talk to that detective in Dayton? Find out if anyone might have been overly interested in the case?”

Just Miranda, but he wasn’t offering up that information yet. He shook his head. “Let’s suppose we’re
not
dealing with a copycat here. What if an innocent man is sitting in prison and the real killer is picking up where he left off, here in my town?”

“That’s a big jump. You have anything to back it up?”

“Just my gut.”

And Finn knew as well as Tucker that a cop’s gut was the most valuable weapon he possessed.

Tucker ran through Miranda’s version of the Dayton killings, making certain to leave her name out of it. He wanted Finn’s infamous objectivity, and the minute he learned that Miranda was Bobby’s sister, that objectivity was going to be sorely tested.

“And you think it’s a priest? That’s a mighty big accusation to cast without proof. The church has been under a lot of fire lately, and something like this . . . you just better make damned sure you’re right before you tell anyone else this theory.”

“I know. And I’m still not sure I believe it. It’s just . . . a theory.”

Miranda’s theory. One he was believing more every day.

“The Rosary Killer struck every Sunday for three weeks in Dayton,” Finn said. “If you’re right, he’s done two more here, and you have two more coming.” Finn sat up straight and hooked the box with his foot, dragging it to his side. “In the meantime, we go through every piece of this and find a connection between your two dead guys, your priest, and anyone else we can tie together.”

“Go for it. I’ll get Lisa to help you. I have something I need to do first.”

Finn raised a dark brow. “You call me down here for help, then leave me to do it alone? What the hell could be more important than getting the facts in this box?”

Tucker opened the door. “Getting the facts from the source. I’m going to see Bobby Harley.”