Silent Night (26 page)

M
IRANDA CAME AWAKE
slowly and stretched. Her muscles pulled with the sweet ache of a long night spent in Tucker’s arms. She’d lost track of the number of times he’d filled her so completely that she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. Hiding the smile spreading across her face would be impossible. Instead of trying, she rolled over and reached for him.

She touched nothing but a cold pillow.

Opening her eyes, she scanned the small bedroom. The only thing keeping her company were a few dust mites floating in the little beam of sunlight filtering in through the gap in the curtains. She rolled over onto her belly and hugged his pillow. When she’d stepped out of the bathroom this morning and found him standing in the hallway, any words she might have found would have been pointless and foolish. He’d kissed her, and their fight about her cameras had dissolved into the most passionate night of her life.

And she’d thanked him.

A bubble of laughter worked up her throat. She might be embarrassed about that if he hadn’t thanked her in return. They’d needed each other. Tucker hadn’t said as much, but the way he’d pulled her against his chest and held her until she’d fallen asleep had been proof enough.

Hadn’t it?

She didn’t know where they were going from here, but they certainly couldn’t go back.

Climbing out of bed, she grabbed a shirt from his closet and a pair of pajama pants from her suitcase on the floor. Running a brush through her hair, she detoured by the bathroom to brush her teeth before venturing toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, thanks. I’d appreciate that list as soon as possible . . . yes, that’s the fax number for my office. Someone should be there all day to receive it . . .”

Miranda stopped in the large archway. Her skin warmed just watching him pace the small kitchen as he talked on his cell phone. As if sensing her, he stopped pacing and slowly turned. Their gazes locked briefly. The stress lines had returned around his eyes but his gaze trailed over her and a smile graced his lips before he returned his attention to the call.

Miranda cast a glance at Finn, who was scarfing down a plate of eggs. Every ounce of stress her night with Tucker had washed away returned. Tripled. She sighed and joined Finn at the table, nursing a steaming cup of coffee as she tried not to stare at the crime scene photos spread out in front of him.

Instead, she chose to pin Finn with a glare. He was the easiest target for all her frustration, and he’d earned it. He’d crossed the line last night. What pissed her off the most was that he’d been right. She
hadn’t
given much thought to what Tuck might be facing by helping her. That he was going out on a limb for her, possibly putting his career on the line, hadn’t occurred to her. But Finn didn’t have to be an ass when he pointed it out to her.

Finn stabbed his egg with his fork. “You have to sanitize the bathroom. I can’t brush my teeth or even shower knowing what you two did in there.”

Miranda blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s none of your business!”

Finn grinned. “If you don’t want it to be my business, maybe lower the decibels of your moans next time you two go at it.”

Heat steamed her cheeks. “You really are an ass, aren’t you? I’m beginning to see why you’re not married.”

He wiggled his bare ring finger. “Thank you, Jesus.”

Tucker joined them at the table, slid his hand onto Miranda’s thigh. “That was St. Jerome’s. They’re going to send a list of kids in their care around the time Anatole might have given his son up. Hopefully, we’ll find some records that point to Anatole and we can use that medallion as proof to put him behind bars.”

Finn cleared his throat. “Maybe you want to go shower or something, Miranda.”

Confused by the odd change of subject, Miranda broke her gaze from Tucker’s. “What?”

“Tuck and I need to talk work, and we agreed, remember? You’re not going to compromise this case anymore.”

When Tucker made no move to disagree, she sighed and strode from the room. It was more important to catch Anatole than to keep her in the loop. And Finn was right. She didn’t want to cause Tucker any more problems.

But once she’d grabbed her clothes and returned to the hall to head to the shower, she stopped and listened. She couldn’t help it. This case was in her blood, and if they didn’t know she was listening, they couldn’t get in trouble for it.

“The call before that? The doc?” Finn was saying. “She give you anything useful?”

“Same as before. She hasn’t had time to do more than a prelim, so all she could tell me was that he was dressed in clothes that didn’t fit properly, and a chemical of some kind caused the burns we saw on his face. The man’s nasal cavity and esophagus are completely eaten away. Her guess is acid, but I can’t quote her on that until the lab results come back with the autopsy.”

Miranda covered her mouth. That poor man . . .

“She did an X-ray and saw trauma to his heart but she’s not able to determine the extent of the damage or what exactly caused it until she gets the body to the coroner in Knoxville. Same song as last time—she’s going with the body and will let me know when the autopsy report comes in.”

“That’s one sadistic fuck. And a smart one at that. Usually at this point they’ve accelerated and started making mistakes. This guy’s freaky calm. Leaves no trace of himself at the scene. Doesn’t rush his schedule.”

“Makes me wonder if we’ll catch him before he moves on again.”

“Still nothing on the APB?”

“No. He might have already gone . . .”

She couldn’t listen anymore. She ducked into the bathroom and quietly closed the door, leaning against it. There had to be a way to stop Anatole before he concluded the rites. He had to have made mistakes. No one was that good. Were they?

And she had to admit, she was more than a little freaked out that they couldn’t find him. Was he going to finish the rites somewhere else? Now that he knew who she was, she didn’t like not knowing where he was. He was like the bogeyman, and at any moment, he could pop out of anywhere and . . .

She didn’t want to finish that thought.

After taking a quick shower, Miranda dried off, wishing she could wash away the anxiety that had settled in every pore covering her body. She stepped out of the bathroom to find Tucker standing there. Memories of last night heated her blood. Tucker took her hand.

“I have to head to the office. Can we talk for a minute?”

She followed him, and when the bedroom door closed behind them, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard. “I’ve wanted to do that since you walked into the kitchen.”

Cradling his face, she kissed him tenderly. “And I’ve wanted to do that since I woke up, but you were gone.”

“Phone started ringing early this morning. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Miranda watched him change into his uniform. When he sat on the bed to pull on his boots, she sat next to him. “Any word on who the victim is?” She grimaced at her inability to keep out of it, but before she could take back the question, he answered.

“No missing person reported yet. I’ve got Lisa calling the surrounding areas to see if anyone matches our guy.”

The ease in which he talked about the case made her stomach cramp. Before last night, he’d been very careful with the details about the case he’d shared with her or in front of her. He was getting more comfortable with her, and she didn’t want that to be a reason he lost his job.

“Okay, out with it.”

She frowned at him. “With what?”

“Whatever is going on in that head of yours.”

Hoping to avoid answering, Miranda rose onto her knees. She brushed her lips over his jaw, loving the prickle of his stubble inside the sensitive inner pad of her lip. “Don’t worry about me. Really.”

He scowled. “Don’t change the subject.”

“It’s nothing, Tuck.” She ran her finger over his brow. “You have enough to worry about without adding me to the list.”

He kissed her one last time before climbing off the bed. “I’m only letting you off the hook because I have to get to work. I’ll call you if I have anything I can share, and tonight we’ll talk. Okay?”

Miranda nodded and watched him leave, hating that she missed him already.

I
T WAS JUST
past two in the afternoon and the fates had been kind enough to provide an ID for their latest victim. At noon, a woman by the name of Sara Longwood had called in, worried that her husband, Josh, hadn’t yet come home. Even though it wasn’t unusual for him to disappear at times, she had “this feeling,” and had called.

An hour later, a man by the name of David Barnes had come into the department when he’d received a call that his name had been found on the title of a car that had been towed from a local pharmacy. A car he’d bought for his lover, one Mr. Josh Longwood. One look at the photo David Barnes had provided was all it had taken for Tucker to recognize their latest victim. A quick look at the pictures he took of the victim’s abdomen provided him with the numbers to search for in the Bible.

If a man has sexual intercourse with a man as he would with a woman, the two of them have done something detestable. They must be executed; their blood is on their own heads.
Anointing the sick. The man had been killed because he was gay. Anatole had seen that as a sickness to be cleansed?

Disgusting.

The most pressing matter on Tucker’s agenda was finding Anatole. Since no one in the department had had any luck with that so far, Tucker was pulling out the big guns. Thirty minutes ago, he’d hung up with the town judge with the promise of a warrant to search both Anatole’s home and St. Catherine’s, on the pretense of making sure the priest was all right.

That would save him from making an accusation for at least one more day, and would give Tucker the opportunity to search every inch of both places for the evidence that would finally lock the bastard up.

The fax machine whirred to life behind him and he jumped. In his excitement over getting his warrant approved, he’d forgotten about St. Jerome’s. He checked his watch. It would be at least another half hour before the warrant was ready. He sat down to read the blurry list of names and called Lisa in to help.

Handing her half the stack of paper, he said, “Any Peters or Anatoles in the parent list, highlight.”

She scowled, flipping through the pages before settling in to read. “Tucker, hate to tell you this but the parental side is blank.”

He swore. Of course they were. A lot of these kids were dropped off anonymously. He didn’t exactly see Anatole signing his name on the dotted line, especially if he’d already had seminary in his sights.

All the excitement he’d had over nailing Anatole to the medallion washed away.

Was he ever going to catch a break? “Damn it.”

Lisa jumped at his outburst, and he apologized, gathering the papers back from her. As he prepared to toss them into his files, a name on one of the lists caught his eye. He checked the date at the top: 1974. It fit.

“Fuck me,” he said, dropping back into his chair.

“What?” Lisa stood and peered over his shoulder. He pointed to the name listed under abandoned children from that year.

Simon Capistrano.

What was the possibility that Anatole had dropped off a son in the same orphanage, around the same year that Simon had been sent there, and now they were both in his town? And that same damned orphanage held the emblem they’d found at the crime scene?

“Oh my God,” Lisa said. “Do you think—”

“I don’t know but I’m going to find out. Where did Simon move here from?”

“I can call the church. Ask them to pull up their employee records and find a previous address.”

Tucker stood, his body on fire. “Do that. That name isn’t so common that I can believe this is a coincidence. I’m going to get my warrant. If Simon is Anatole’s son . . . I might be asking for a second one.”

Lisa’s eyes widened. “You think he’s a suspect?”

Tucker didn’t answer. Too many thoughts were rolling around his head. The child was far more likely to carry the medallion of the home he’d grown up in than the parent. Their killer was cleansing people of sins. If Simon blamed his parents for giving him up, and possibly knew the very man who’d given him up was a priest . . . yeah, Tucker could see that fucking with his head. Maybe he was trying to be like his ol’ dad. Cleansing the world of sin.

Jesus.

O
N HIS WAY
out of the station, Tucker told Lisa, “Let me know immediately if anyone calls in about Anatole. I don’t care if they claim they saw him in Timbuktu, I want to know. And have Simon picked up. I want him brought in for questioning before I get back.”

“You got it.” Lisa stood and surprised him by throwing her arms around his neck.

“What’s that for?”

“Just be careful. And watch Andy’s back, too. If you do run into Anatole, and he is the one doing this . . . I’ve seen some of those photos, Tuck. He’s dangerous.”

“Yeah?” Tucker smiled, appreciating her affections. “Well so am I, darlin’. I’ll check in when we’re done at the house and moving on to the church.”

“I’ll be here.”

By the time he walked to City Hall, the warrant for the search on Anatole’s work and home was ready. He called Andy, instructed him to pull in as many officers as they could spare and meet him at Anatole’s house within the half hour, then called Finn and told him to head that way.

Twenty minutes later, warrant in hand, he found Finn leaning against the hood of the squad car. “You got it?”

Tucker waved the document. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Then why are you dragging your ass? Let’s go.”

“That medallion has me thinking. Anatole wouldn’t have something like that. The kid who was raised there would.”

Finn rubbed his chin. “Last night you had a hard-on to arrest this guy. Now you think he’s being framed, too?”

“I don’t know what I think anymore.”

“Well, we have the warrant, we might as well serve it.” Finn opened the squad car door. “If we don’t find anything, then you get to tell the judge you made a little mistake in judgment and get another one.”

Tucker climbed behind the wheel. Oh yeah, that advice made him feel a lot better.

They hightailed it to Anatole’s secluded house. Three squad cars were already parked in the drive. Tucker pulled to the side of the road, got out, and checked the mailbox. The stack was thick. More than a couple days’ worth—among which was a catalogue of religious trinkets. Tucker thumbed through that as he walked up the drive to join his men. Nothing in the catalogue resembled the rosaries found on the victims, but the Bibles did. Of course, they also looked like Bibles found at any bookstore, too. Just in case, he’d hold on to it, have Anatole’s prior purchases from the company looked up.

As Tucker approached, Andy gathered the other three men around the front stoop and waited for instructions.

“I want everyone wearing gloves at all times. I want photos of everything and a thorough search of every square inch of this place.” Tucker pointed at one of the officers who’d just joined the force this past summer. “Franks, I want you and Braydon to search the woods on the property. We only have a warrant for this place, so make sure you stay on property lines—about ten feet into the trees in all directions. Andy, take Sergeant Goiter with you around the perimeter of the house, check the carport out back, trash cans and the like. Smith, you can join me and Finn inside. I want you to bag any computers, phones, and electronics. Let’s get them into tech for a search back at the department. We do this quick. St. Catherine’s is going to take a while and I want to hit it before it gets dark.”

The men scattered to do as they were told, and together, Tucker and Smith headed up the porch, while Finn headed around to the back door. Tucker knocked. Called out a warning that he was coming in, even though he knew he’d get no response. He twisted the knob, and finding it locked, nodded to Smith, who broke open the front door, and they entered.

It took less than thirty minutes to clear the living room and kitchen. Both rooms were so sparse, there hadn’t been much to look through. He’d lifted the sofa cushions, checked under and behind all the furniture while Finn took pictures and walked the kitchen. The refrigerator contained only sandwich meat and condiments—the oven, microwave, and cabinets all bare. Not even a box of crackers or a can of coffee.

Tucker made his way down the hall, poking his head in the home office where Smith was unplugging a desktop, and left him to it. He’d give it a once-over when the kid was done. He gave the tidy room a quick glance. Should he even be here at all? His gut was telling him that he’d gotten the warrant for the wrong house. Everything about this screamed at him that they were searching for the wrong man.

He’d face that possibility once he finished serving this warrant. As he walked into the bathroom, he pulled out his cell and called Lisa.

“Any word from the employment records?”

“Not yet. But they promised to call back within the hour.”

“Good. In the meantime, get someone from the nearest crime scene unit you can find down here. Doc doesn’t have everything we need, so it’s going to be an out-of-town favor. I want a luminal check and a professional dusting, just in case. This place is way too clean.”

“It will take a while for anyone to get there,” Lisa said, the sound of her clicking keyboard in the background.

“I don’t care. I’ll keep one of my men here until they’re done. I want them at the church, too. This has to be done right.”

He hung up and stared at the empty bathroom sink. If blood had been washed down the drain or the tub, they’d find it when the scene team got here.

The sink cabinet contained a few rolls of toilet paper and a small stack of hand towels. On the counter, there was a toothbrush, a razor, and a can of shaving cream.

He checked the medicine cabinet. Deodorant.

No weapons, no little dots of red anywhere. Not that he’d expected to find any, really. The notion that Anatole would kill in his own home was far-fetched. But there was always the chance he’d cleaned up here.
If
he was their murderer.

The sparsely decorated bedroom held very little of interest, either. The nightstand held only a Bible and a notebook of future sermons and Scriptures—none of which had anything to do with the numbers found on his victims. Finn joined him, and as Tucker checked the closet, Finn used his flashlight to search under the bed. Tucker took the camera from him and snapped photos from every possible angle before returning to the small office. The desk, now bare of its computer, gave no clues to Anatole’s whereabouts or pointed to any victims.

“I got nothing,” Finn said, passing the evidence bags to Smith. “We’ll have better luck at St. Catherine’s.”

“We’d better.”

When they exited the house, his officers had finished their assignments and were waiting for further instructions.

“Smith, you’re going to stay here. I have a crime scene pro coming in. Make sure you document anything they find. Andy, make sure all the evidence collected is tagged correctly and locked in your trunk. I don’t want a broken chain of evidence to bite us on the ass.”

“Already taken care of.”

“Then let’s get to the church.”

He waited for them to clear out, headed to the points Miranda had told him about and removed her cameras, slipping them into his pocket before anyone could notice.

M
IRANDA ROLLED THE
kinks out of her neck and opened her laptop screen again for the third time that morning. She knew Tucker was supposed to search Anatole’s house this morning, and had to see what was going on. She hated that she was being excluded again, but understood the reasons. That didn’t mean she couldn’t watch from afar.

Or maybe not. She smacked the back of the computer but the staticky image remained. Nothing. She hit the button that showed the church. Still working. Tucker must have already taken down her cameras at Anatole’s house.

Damn it.

The church office was empty, just as it had been the last few days. The wonky camera view showed just the slightest edge of Anatole’s chair, and the window.

Nothing new.

She rewound the recording to when she’d last viewed the church the previous night. She didn’t know why she even bothered. She hadn’t seen a single person enter Anatole’s office in days.

But, as was her habit, she settled against the pillows and started the recording. She watched the room slowly lighten as the sun began to rise. Saw the priest’s desk and chair come into view. Mostly, all the camera captured was the gently falling snow outside the window. She fast-forwarded a little, then jumped when something moved past the office window. She hit rewind. Watched in slow motion.

Leaning closer to the screen, she squinted, trying to decipher the grainy image.

It took rewinding three more times before she could piece together what she was seeing.

Every cell in Miranda’s body began to tingle. How could she have been so wrong? Anatole was innocent? And . . . She swore.

Holy orders. The last sacrament. Of course it would be a priest chosen as the final victim. Who else would fill that requirement?

She reached for her phone to call Tucker, forgetting it had been stolen. Cursing, she shoved her feet into her shoes, grabbed her parka, and flew out of Tucker’s house, laptop tucked securely under her arm.

Simon. The groundskeeper.

All this time, she’d been so very wrong.