Silent Night (27 page)

A
FTER CLEARING
S
T
. Catherine’s of the few people inside, Tucker and Finn ushered the deacons outside to wait on the sidewalk until their search was complete. They didn’t look at all pleased, and had wasted a good ten minutes of Tucker’s time reading the search warrant word for word, protesting when they found out Tucker intended to search Anatole’s office when the man wasn’t around to give permission. Nor were they pleased when Tucker reminded them that the warrant was all the permission he needed.

By the time they finished with Anatole’s office, it was completely ransacked. Sergeant Goiter and Sergeant Franks were sitting on the floor in the corner, combing through every Bible and notebook for any references made to the Catholic rites or the Scriptures found on the victims, and Tucker, Finn, and Andy made good use of a box of trash bags, loading them up with Anatole’s work computer and files to comb through later.

There was nothing worth claiming as evidence in the chapel or confessionals. Still, he wanted the luminal team here. He couldn’t imagine Anatole killing anyone in the church where he worked, but if Anatole wasn’t their killer . . . if Simon had anything to do with this, there was no telling what they might find.

As for dusting, what was the point? Of course Anatole’s prints would be here. Simon’s as well.

Along with a million others.

His cell rang. It was Lisa.

“Tell me you have something or I’m going to make them pull those damned employee records up right now anyway,” he said in greeting.

“No need. I think you guys showing up scared them into complying. I called them back when I didn’t hear from them, told them you were on your way, and voilà, I have answers.” She paused, and for a moment, he was afraid he’d lost the connection. “He was from Dayton, Tuck. I think you found the owner of that medallion.”

Motherfucker. “When was he hired?”

“About three weeks ago . . . November twenty-sixth, according to his file.”

Tucker did the math. Bobby Harley had been convicted on August twenty-seventh. A little
more
than three months ago. If Simon had waited until Bobby had been found guilty, moved here before beginning again, that would have put Ricky’s murder at just the right time . . .

“He been brought in yet?”

“Can’t find him. The deacon I talked to said someone from our office had already been by looking for Simon, but they haven’t seen him since last night.”

Tucker’s headache turned into a full-blown migraine. “Put out an APB on him, too. Then call the judge. I’m going to need another warrant.”

“I’ll let you know when it’s approved.”

“Thanks, Lisa.”

Grumbling, he hung up and walked back outside with Finn and Andy, eager to get a look at Simon’s home base, the gardening shed. As they walked, he filled both men in on what Lisa had told him.

“So we really have been looking for the wrong guy this whole time,” Finn said.

“It’s a possibility.”

“Fucker was right under our noses,” Andy grumbled, stopping short once they reached the front steps. “Freaking great.”

Tucker followed his gaze to find half the town standing across the street, watching them.

They’d suddenly become the town’s festivities for the day. He spotted Helen Stillman snapping pictures from the iron gates and stomped over to her. “Goddamn it, Helen—”

“Free country, Chief. How ’bout you tell me what’s going on so I don’t have to create something to go with my photos here?”

Anger knotted Tucker’s guts. “How ’bout
you
go to—”

“Hey Tuck? You might want to see this!”

Tucker glanced over his shoulder to see Finn waving at him from the toolshed. He looked back at Helen and said through gritted teeth, “Take one step on this property while we’re doing our job, and I’ll toss your ass in jail. Got it?”

She grinned like the bitch she was. “’Course, Chief.”

Still cursing under his breath, Tucker made his way toward Finn. “What is it?”

Finn led him behind the garden shed. A pair of hedge clippers lay in the snow. Next to a cane. He knew that cane. It was Father Anatole’s.

He stepped closer and saw that what he’d thought was rust on the blades was actually dried blood. Finn swung his arm toward the exterior wall of the shed, leading Tucker’s gaze to a distorted red handprint splattered down two panels of weathered wood.

Trying not to damage any evidence the snow hadn’t already destroyed, he carefully picked up the clippers, intent on having them dusted and tested at the lab.

“Wait.” Finn knelt across from him, snapping a couple of photos. “What do we have here?”

He slipped his fingers beneath the blade, showing Tucker a large, ragged strip of black fabric stuck to the blood, and quickly snapped a picture.

The blood. The cane that Anatole was never without. The black cloth—a piece of Anatole’s frock? They might have just found their next victim . . . and it looked from all sides like it might have been Anatole.

He really had been chasing the wrong fucking dragon.

Finn slipped the clippers into an evidence bag, signing and sealing it.

Tucker knelt in the thin layer of snow. “That’s Anatole’s cane. I’ll know as soon as we can get this blood tested whether it’s his or someone else’s, and I’m fairly certain I can get those details quickly. The church ran a blood drive in late November, and as far as I know, they all participated. Even Anatole, I hope.”

And Simon. He had to find out more about that man.

“So this Simon guy came here and took Anatole as your final victim?” Finn thought about that for a moment.

Tucker pressed his palms into his eyes, praying the pain in his head would go the hell away. “Holy orders. Makes sense to off a priest. If Anatole is Simon’s dad, and he knows it . . .

“Then he’s made an ass out of you for chasing Anatole these last couple weeks.”

“Long as I catch the right guy in the end, I can live with that.”

Finn raised a brow. “It’s only Tuesday. Why take the victim so early? It’s a long time till Sunday.”

Tucker took samples from the wall and ordered a bigger bag to be brought over to secure Anatole’s cane. Who the hell knew why the last victim would be taken off schedule? Maybe Simon wanted to stick it to his old pop and just couldn’t wait anymore.

Finn touched a gloved finger tentatively to the sticky blood while Tucker signed his name across the red seals on the evidence bags and passed them to Andy to do the same.

“Get these over to the doc,” he instructed Andy. “I want to know whose blood this is, and she needs to move this up to priority one.”

Finn stepped away from the scene and lit a cigarette. He kicked the large green Dumpster that sat about two feet behind the shed. “Why isn’t anyone searching back here?”

Goiter quickly answered Finn’s summons and climbed into the Dumpster. Trusting Finn to keep a handle on the situation, Tucker pulled out his phone, punching in Miranda’s number. He needed to let her know what he’d uncovered. When she found out she’d been blaming an innocent man . . .

“Uh, Chief?” He spun, the faint sound of a phone ringing pulling his attention to the trash. Goiter was standing with his head poked out of the Dumpster. “The trash can is ringing.”

Tucker hung up, stalked toward the large green bins, and dialed again. The trash rang again, the faint, muffled melody of “I Shot the Sheriff” singing out from below a black plastic bag.

What the hell? He glanced at his phone’s display, double-checking that he hadn’t dialed the wrong number. He hadn’t. Shit, he’d forgotten Miranda’s phone had been stolen.

“Look who’s here,” Finn said, jutting his chin toward the fence.

As though summoned by his confusion, Miranda ducked between the deacons and jogged toward him, ignoring the invisible line the rest of the crowd—even Helen Stillman—had the decency not to cross. As he watched her run, he dialed her number again. The ringing once again came from the Dumpster.

Shit.
“Find the source of that song!”

“Tucker, I have to show you some—”

He held up a finger, silencing her. “Recognize anything?”

He hit redial again, saw her face crumple as she recognized the ring tone.

“Got it!” Goiter yelled, leaping out of the bin and thrusting a dirty white iPhone at Tucker.

Tucker carefully took it with his thumb and forefinger and dangled it in front of Miranda. “Yours?”

She reached for it but he pulled it back. Her face paled. “Yeah. Mine.”

“‘I Shot the Sherriff,’ huh?” he asked, trying to clamp down on the overwhelming anger, frustration, and fear that was making his body hum.

She shrugged, her wide eyes still focused on the phone hanging from his fingers. “It fit.”

“Get in my cruiser and wait for me. I don’t want you alone again until I say. Understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts!”

“Tucker, shut up and listen to me. I have to show you something. I think I saw what happened to Anatole. You won’t believe this, but I don’t think he’s our killer. I’ve been wrong—”

“It’s Simon,” he muttered.

“Yes and . . . you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Show me what you have.”

She stood where she was, staring at him as though trying to figure him out, then opened the laptop she’d had tucked under her arm and punched a few keys until camera images flickered onto the monitor.

“I know you said no more video, but look . . . I saved the file. Just let me . . . there. Watch!”

Tucker tilted the screen, trying to clear up the image. He watched the recording, shaking his head. “Play it again.”

Miranda clicked the buttons, restarting the grainy video. Finn joined him. Together, they hunched over the computer. As he watched, the garden shed door slowly opened and Simon stumbled out. He nearly toppled over and fell against the side of the wooden building. The long, bloody garden shears dangled loosely from his grasp before falling to the snow where Finn had found them.

As Tucker was about to look away, another man stumbled from the shed. His hand gripped his side. What looked like blood seeped from between his fingers. He gripped the door, sliding along until he stood just outside the shed’s entrance.

“Turn it up,” Finn said, leaning closer to the screen.

“There’s no sound.”

“Damn it,” Tucker mumbled, his gaze riveted to the images. “I really would like to know what he’s saying.”

Simon lunged at the priest. They struggled and the cane fell from the priest’s grasp.

Then . . . both men disappeared from the screen.

E
VERYTHING THEY
’
D COLLECTED
from Anatole’s home and St. Catherine’s had been brought to the evidence room. Andy stood by the tech guy going over the computer, locating files, as they had been since noon. No one had expected finding connections to their case would be easy, but hell, someone had been going through this information, nonstop since it had been collected. So far, they hadn’t found a single piece of evidence associated with any of the murdered men.

On top of that, when patrol had arrived at Simon’s house, they’d found it up in flames. It had taken the rest of last night for the fire department to finish putting it out. There’d been no sign of anyone inside, but Tucker wasn’t surprised by that. What better way to hide evidence than to burn it to the ground?

Tucker grabbed his hat and coat and darted out the door. Maybe Finn was having better luck getting answers from the doc. Instead of calling, he made the short trip over to the coroner’s office.

“Tell me you were able to prove paternity from that blood,” he said by way of greeting as he entered the lab.

Sam stepped away from the microscope—and from Finn—her cheeks flushed and her lips swollen. “I was going to check for results one more time before closing up shop, sorry. I got . . . distracted.” She smiled shyly at Finn. Tucker had never seen the woman have a shy moment in all the time he’d known her. He didn’t much care for it.

So much for her being able to handle herself with Finn.

“I’ll bet,” he grumbled.

“I can do it now.” Obviously flustered, she hustled to the other side of the lab.

Tucker raised an eyebrow when she was out of earshot. “Is this really the time for you to be chasing your next conquest?”

“You got time for
your
girl?”

“
My
girl isn’t getting distracted from getting my test results back because you’re stuck to her face.”

“Touché.” Finn grinned, sat on the swivel stool beside the microscope, and spun it like a six-year-old child. “Gotta get my kicks somewhere though, and Doc . . . tastes like honeysuckle.”

Tucker groaned and left Finn to join Sam at the computer. She looked up at him from over her glasses, her cheeks still pink. “Both donors are in the system from the blood drive we held in November.”

“Yeah?”

“So I compared their blood to see if they shared any markers.”

Adrenaline sent a little vibration through his veins. “And?”

“Um . . .” Sam typed quietly, her face scrunched in concentration. “Sec.”

Tucker checked his watch. He was starving, and he wanted to check on Miranda since he hadn’t talked to her since breakfast. He’d picked up a temporary, disposable phone for her to use until her iPhone could come out of evidence, and he’d left her in Lisa’s care. None of that stopped him from worrying.

“Oh, come on,” Sam groaned, cursing her slow connection. She shook the mouse to make sure it hadn’t locked up, then hit the side of the machine. “Finally.” She paused and looked up at Tucker. “Peter Anatole shares markers with Simon.”

“So the priest is Simon’s father?”

“All this test tells me is that they’re definitely related. Father, uncle, or brother.”

“You can’t narrow it down any more than that?”

“I’m running DNA from the priest’s house. If there’s anything left of Simon’s, bring it to me and I’ll compare the sample, but that takes longer. Right now, this is all you have. Take it or wait
weeks
for more results.”

“We’ll take it.” Finn kissed her cheek and took the printout of her findings. “And I’ll let you know if I need a rain check on dinner.”

Sam glared but her grin ruined the effect she was going for. “Call me.”

“You’re going to call her, right?” Tucker asked as they left the building.

“If she’s off-limits, too, your warning’s come a bit late. Who knows, you might get lucky and I’ll take this one with me.”

That made Tucker laugh. Never-Play-It-Again Finn wasn’t about to settle down with a one-night stand. Or a steady, for that matter. It wasn’t his style.

Hell, it wasn’t exactly Tucker’s, either. At least it hadn’t been. But the thought of Miranda leaving when this case was over was eating a hole in his stomach.

T
UCKER ARRIVED HOME
with Finn to find a note on the counter from Miranda. She was at Lisa’s having dinner, and he should either pick her up or call when it was safe to return to his place so he could take over his shift of babysitting.

He could hear the sarcasm in the ink-stained Post-it memo.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching Finn pull scattered file papers from the table, stacking them.

“Putting this shit away. I’m sick of looking at it.”

“Leave it. I want to go over it ag—”

“We have our guy, Tuck. Now we just have to find him. Nothing here is going to make that happen.”

“What else am I going to do? I have an hour before I’m back on the streets searching. I have three counties looking for these guys and no one’s coming up with anything. There has to be something in these damned files that will tell me where they are.”

Finn stopped shuffling and sat down. “You’re assuming Anatole is even still alive. He could have been killed this morning and Simon is probably already long gone. New look maybe, new name. Who the hell knows? If the job is finished, why stick around? He already burned down his own fucking house. Pretty sure that tells us he’s done here.”

That thought soured Tucker’s stomach. “Just leave the papers alone.”

He called Miranda, made sure she and Lisa were all right. He hated her being out there when they had no idea where Simon was. There was a good chance he’d want to make sure she was silenced before he left town. After all, Simon couldn’t know he’d just been discovered as a murderer by anyone else.

Hearing her voice on the other end of the line made him feel a little better, however. Knowing Finn was sticking close to home tonight helped, too. He promised to pick her up soon and hung up. “I’m going to take a shower, then go pick up Miranda. Help yourself to whatever’s not green in the fridge.”

As he walked from the room, he could feel Finn’s middle finger aiming at his back.

L
ISA
’
S EX HAD
her kids for the night, so instead of coffee, she poured two glasses of wine and slid one across the Formica countertop to Miranda. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to change.” She maneuvered her small body around the counter and headed down the narrow hall off the living room, calling back over her shoulder, “Pick a movie to keep us entertained while we wait for Tuck to get here.”

Miranda knelt before the small entertainment stand and scanned the DVDs lined up on the shelf. She bypassed the horror, suspense, and murder mysteries, which left very little to choose from, but she wasn’t exactly in what’s-around-the-corner type of mood. “How ’bout
The Proposal
?”

Lisa didn’t answer. Miranda ventured back to the kitchen. She’d seen a bag of popcorn by the coffeemaker. Movie, popcorn, and wine. Not the best of combinations, but at least it would give her something to do while she waited for Lisa to return from the bedroom.

She tossed the bag in the microwave and hit the button, watching the bag swell as the kernels popped. As she grabbed a bowl from a dish drainer, a faint thump stopped Miranda cold.

“Lisa?” Going down the little hallway, she called out again. “Lisa, are you okay?”

A shuffling noise came from inside the bedroom. Miranda froze, her skin turning clammy. She reached for the knob. The door swung in. Lisa lay crumpled on the floor. Her blond hair tinted red with blood.

She sprinted across the room, falling to her knees. “Lisa?” She brushed the hair from the woman’s face, thankful to see the slight rise and fall of her chest.

She pressed her fingers to Lisa’s pulse, glancing over her shoulder, her heart racing. She couldn’t see anyone. The room was fully lit but—

The door swung closed and a figure stepped from behind it, snatching Miranda by the hair before she could make it to her feet. A rag, covered in a potent, vile stench, covered her mouth. Breath warmed her ear as the figure leaned even closer, yanking her body into his chest.

“You should have minded your own business and kept your nose out of mine.”

Then, the room went black and Miranda’s body fell limp.