Silent Night (9 page)

She appeared in the doorway, her hands patting at her brown, shoulder-length hair, her fleece robe closed from ankle to neck. She smiled, her gaze welcoming. “Good morning, Tucker, Father Anatole.” She swatted her husband’s shoulder. “If your meetings get any later we’ll forget how to sleep at all. Let them in, honey, it’s starting to snow again. Can I offer you gentlemen some coffee? Tea?”

The fact that, unlike her husband, the thought that he was bringing them bad news hadn’t yet struck her humbled Tucker. In her world, things like this didn’t happen. Christmas was immune, especially the town’s leaders. He loathed having to be the one to burst that bubble.

“No, ma’am,” Tucker mumbled, then asked again. “Can we . . . sit somewhere?”

“Sure.” Tilly smiled again. “I’ll just show you to the sitting room and leave you men to it.”

“Actually . . .” Now that they were both here, might as well suck it up. Tucker looked plaintively at Steven.

“I think—I think he wants to talk to both of us, Tilly.”

Tucker spent the next half hour feeling like the Grim Reaper. By the time he was finished telling the family their son was dead, he felt unclean and guilty as hell that he had no answers for them. Leaving Tilly in the arms of her watery-eyed husband, he grabbed his hat and offered his apologies one more time.

“If you need anything . . . anything at all, please call me or come by.” He glanced at Father Anatole, who sat on the other side of Tilly, silently clutching the woman’s hand as Steven rubbed her shoulders. “Let’s go, Father.”

As Tucker and Father Anatole retreated to the door, Tilly’s voice followed them. “Father? Can you stay?” Her meek voice carried the hoarseness of tears. Tucker’s heart broke a little more, knowing he’d just taken a very strong woman and turned her back into a terrified, grieving child.

“Of course.”

Feeling rightfully like a dismissed outcast, Tucker found his way out alone. He felt horrible for the Levis, but at least he hadn’t had to contend with Steven’s mother, Ethel. That, he was sure, would come all too soon. As would questioning Father Anatole. He was glad he’d brought the priest, however, even if he hadn’t figured out a way to subtly question him. If the priest offered any solace to Tilly, the trip by Anatole’s house hadn’t been wasted.

His cell chirped in his pocket and he answered it as he unlocked the cruiser. “Ambrose.”

“This is Detective Langley from Dayton PD. I have a message to call you. Sorry for the late hour but—”

“It’s fine, I appreciate the quick response.” He started the engine and the heat.

“Why exactly are you asking about the Rosary Killer?”

Tucker sat in the driveway and relayed the details of his crime scene. When he was done, the detective was silent for a long moment before releasing a heavy sigh.

“And you think it’s related to the murders here? Not a copycat?”

“I didn’t say that. But I have a lady here who does. Just hoping you could fill me in a little on her. Tell me if I should give her any credence.”

The sudden burst of laughter on the other end of the line startled him. “’Bout five-foot-two? Red hair? Big brown eyes and nice little tits?”

Tucker frowned. “Not a redhead, no.”

“Name’s Miranda Harley?”

“Yeah, Miranda—” His chest tightened and a bubble of anger exploded somewhere around his lungs. “What was that last name?”

“Harley.”

“As in—”

“Bobby Harley. The Rosary Killer. She’s his sister.”

M
IRANDA WAS THE
Rosary Killer’s sister.

As soon as Tucker hung up with Detective Langley, he hit the gas and drove, blinded by anger, to his house. He spent five minutes digging out her rental agreement, crumpled the paper in his hand, and marched to her cottage. He pounded on her door loudly enough to wake the dead, and judging by the frightened look on her face when she answered, she didn’t appreciate it one bit.

“What the hell are you do—”

Tucker thrust her rental agreement in her face. “Miranda Hartly? You lied in your agreement?”

Her face paled. “No I—”

“Yes, you did. You’re Bobby Harley’s goddamned sister. Did you not think that was important information for me to have?”

She took the paper, uncrumpled it, and read, her teeth gnawing on her bottom lip. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she threw the paper back at him. “It says Harley. I never lied about my name. And to be honest, I was surprised you didn’t put two and two together when you read about Bobby. That, however, is not my fault.”

Tucker pressed his thumbs into his eyes, trying to dig out the painful throb that had taken root there, and then read the name again.

“There’s a loop in my L. Maybe it looks like a T and my L an E but they’re not. I didn’t lie on that agreement, Tucker. I wasn’t brave enough.”

How could he be so stupid? His gut had insisted she’d been hiding something, but he’d never suspected it was something like this.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were his sister?”

But now it all made sense. Of course she wanted to pin these murders on someone else—even if it meant taking down the very priest her brother had leaned on. As long as her brother went free, to hell with everyone else.

Man, he sure knew how to pick ’em.

“Would you have listened to anything I said after that? I didn’t expect you to never figure it out. I just needed time for you to hear me out.”

It was bad enough she was wasting her own time and efforts. Now she was wasting his, too. The Dayton police, the prosecutor, and a private investigation firm hired by Miranda—not to mention her own files recounting the murders—all zeroed in on Bobby Harley as the killer.

He braced his hands on the porch railing and glared at her. He’d been drawn to her pretty face and big brown, sad eyes, and she’d played him like a fool.

He was too tired for this shit.

“Good night, Miranda,” he said, pulling his keys from his pocket. He headed back to his place, felt her watching him as he strode away. But he didn’t look back. He was afraid if he did, his professional walls might be weakened by the pleading look in those damned eyes.

“Women,” he muttered, throwing open his door. Despite his better judgment, he cast one glance through his window toward her cottage before pulling a beer from the fridge and downing it. “Nothing but trouble.”

M
IRANDA WOKE WITH
a scream stuck in her throat and her eyes on fire. She broke free of the blankets snaked around her body and leaned against the headboard, hugging her knees to her chest. Last night’s drama weighed down her eyelids, and she squeezed them shut against the horrific image of the body in the woods. Except in photos, she’d never actually seen any of them before, and she prayed she’d never see another one.

She fumbled for the bedside clock and blinked at the neon digits. Seven in the morning. She’d barely slept five hours. She rubbed her cheekbones with the sides of her thumbs. They were achy. As was her jaw. She felt like she’d been in a knock-down, drag-out fight, but it was just her painful habit of clenching her jaw in her sleep that caused the uncomfortable stiffness. With a groan, she climbed out of bed and stumbled to the coffeemaker.

As it percolated, she booted up her laptop and waited for the screen to flicker to life. She had to go over every second of Anatole footage from last night—from the house and the church. Maybe she’d find something on that recording that pointed a finger at him, some evidence that he was responsible for what had happened to that man in the woods.

Maybe then, Tucker would finally believe her.

She poured a cup of brew and sat in front of the computer, allowing the rich, aromatic steam to drift up her nose and finish waking her. She clicked a few buttons and while she waited for the recordings to load on her screen, her thoughts turned to Tucker’s late night visit.

He’d been so angry, and rightfully so, but she hadn’t lied to him. She should have told him who she was, but dealing with Detective Langley had quickly taught her to be careful whom she trusted with all of her truths. Just because she was Bobby’s sister, and desperate to free him, didn’t mean she’d accuse an innocent man. She wanted the real killer behind bars. And yes, she’d do whatever it took to see that happen.

Would Tucker do any less if it were his brother sitting in prison?

But it wasn’t his brother, it was hers, and all he saw was her deceptions. She hated herself for the distrust and fury she’d seen in his eyes. She liked him and had thought of him as a potential friend. But she’d blown any chances of that happening now. She half expected him to show back up on her porch steps, demanding that she leave town before sunset. In his shoes, she would probably feel the same way.

Now he was more likely to think she was a complete liar, even though she’d told him upfront that she was a nurse. It wasn’t her fault if he’d thought she’d lied about
that
.

All she had to hold on to now was Bobby’s word and an unwavering belief in his innocence. Even if the anger burning in her belly made her want to smack the hell out of him. How could he be so gullible?

Bobby had found the first body while out for his morning run two Decembers ago. It had been too late to help the victim, and all he’d managed to do was get blood on his clothes. Then, the second and third bodies were found in places Bobby had been only hours before. When the police had returned to talk to him after each murder, Bobby had thought they were simply doing their jobs. He’d never suspected that they were slowly building a case against him. Miranda didn’t understand how the police could have been watching her brother so closely but never catch him in the act of anything untoward.

On top of that, the killings had stopped once Bobby had become the sole suspect and it looked certain he would be arrested. That fact only made it easier to assume they’d had the right man.

Someone had set him up—found him an easy target after his arrival at that first, fateful scene. Most likely, a criminal he’d helped put away. At least, that was Bobby’s explanation.

And Miranda believed him. When their parents had died, she’d just turned nineteen and Bobby seventeen. She’d raised him through his final years of high school, had worked three jobs to get him through law school while she took out loans upon loans to get herself through nursing school. Three Christmases ago, he’d turned twenty-eight and had given her a check wrapped in a box the size of a television, filled out for enough money to pay back every single dime of those loans with a letter thanking her for all she’d sacrificed for him. He’d been fast-tracked through his law firm, winning cases that had moved him up the ladder quickly and had the potential to become the youngest partner in the firm’s history. At age twenty-nine, that’s exactly what he’d become.

She’d been proud. Satisfied that she’d had a part in that.

That
Bobby wasn’t a killer. She knew him better than anyone in the world, and there was nothing anyone could say to make her believe that the sweet, loving kid had somehow become a murdering psychopath in the five years she’d been working out of the country.

Whoever was responsible for setting Bobby up had been close enough to have known where he had been just hours before each killing. And they had to have known when he would and would not be able to provide a witness for his alibis.

But all that considered, Miranda believed setting Bobby up had been more about having a scapegoat than any sort of revenge. The murders had been far too personal. Too gory. Too . . . religious. They hadn’t been about framing Bobby. They had been about the victims and their killer.

Just like the one she’d glimpsed last night.

She should have known it wasn’t over.

She looked down at her full cup of coffee and frowned. It had grown cold, not one sip applied to the cause of fully waking her. She reached for her purse on the chair beside her and pulled out a new pack of antacids. She popped a chalky disk into her mouth and chewed, tasting nothing as she tried to focus on breathing deeply. She had to get a grip on the nonstop anger eating a hole in her stomach or she was going to end up lying uselessly in a hospital bed.

And even if it didn’t cost her a visit to the local health clinic, allowing her emotions to get the best of her was what had gotten her busted trying to sneak into the church last night.

With a sigh, she settled in to watch last night’s footage of Anatole.

T
HREE HOURS LATER
, Miranda closed the lid of her laptop and stifled a yawn. Of all the footage she’d seen, the only interesting tidbit she’d witnessed was watching Tucker knock on Anatole’s door around midnight last night. She’d watched him walk through Anatole’s kitchen, leave with the priest, and the priest return home alone again around sunrise.

Where had they gone together? Tucker hadn’t mentioned seeing the priest last night. Not that she could judge him for keeping secrets when she’d kept a fair share of her own. Still, it bugged her. Not to mention terrified her. If Tucker confronted or spooked the priest, who was to say that something horrible wouldn’t happen to Tucker? Or that Anatole wouldn’t disappear to complete his killings someplace where she couldn’t find him?

The thought of something happening to Tucker made her ill. She barely knew him, but she knew enough to know she liked him. He was a good man. He’d proven that on several occasions with her already.

Feeling sluggish, she showered and dressed, hoping a hot lunch might make her feel more alive and get her out of her own head for a bit. Glancing at her still damp canvas sneakers, she grabbed an extra pair of socks before stuffing her feet into her shoes. She grimaced, making a mental note to buy thicker socks. Her dwindling funds concerned her, but if her work in third world countries had taught her nothing else, it had taught her to survive on very little.

She double-checked that her phone was charged before shoving it in her purse and grabbing her jacket. As she made sure her door was locked up tight behind her, she saw the Range Rover one of Tucker’s officers had parked on the snowy gravel drive. Tucker’s cruiser was nowhere to be seen.

She moved the truck back to the parking garage, making sure it was completely covered beneath the tarp before heading to Town Square on foot, trying to decide where she could get the most substantial meal for the least amount of money.

The weathered but well-kept storefronts displayed their goods in large windows framed in ice crystals and holiday decorations. All painted either pristine white or robin’s-egg blue, the houses just visible down connecting streets fit with the town’s quaintness, with their wide front porches and festively decorated swings.

Despite the cold wind blowing the snowy powder in every direction, people were shoveling their walks and visiting with their neighbors, trying to be heard over the salt truck humming down the main street. Even though they didn’t know her, everyone she passed offered a wave and a “good day” before returning to their tasks. Obviously, news about the murder hadn’t yet gotten out. Hopefully, it would stay that way, at least for a little while.

It was sickening to think they were all so unaware. That any of them could be found at any time, their bodies butchered and their families bereft.

The cold bit into her nose and cheeks, and she pulled her hood tighter around her face, her gaze steady on the police department sign just a block away. She wasn’t ready to face Tucker again but she had to know what he was going to do with the information she’d given him. Wanted to know where he’d gone with Anatole last night. Maybe after she’d filled her stomach. She was going to have to find a grocery store soon and stock her little kitchen. She couldn’t afford to keep eating out.

She didn’t see the puddle forming outside the florist’s door as she stalked past. The cold water soaked through her Converse and the stinging bite to her toes sped her feet as visions of them turning black with frostbite made her wince.

“Just the person I wanted to see.”

At the sound of the familiar baritone, she spun around to find Tucker looming behind her. She had to tilt her neck back to look him in the eye. She stared at his mouth, a little too wide for his face and thin. But the bottom lip . . . She shook herself.

She cleared her throat, uncomfortable that she saw him as anything more than just a badge. “I have to eat. I’ll come by when I’m done.”

“We have donuts in my office. Let’s go.”

Her stomach churned with dread. He already knew all her secrets, but somehow she didn’t think he was satisfied with that. But at least donuts were free.

“I’ve already told you everything I know,” she muttered, following him toward the police department.

“The hell you have. It’s time for details, darling. I have the mayor’s dead kid in the morgue and you’re going to tell me everything and anything that might help me understand who’s doing this.”

“I already told you who’s doing this—”

He took her elbow and none too gently guided her around another puddle before opening the door and waiting for her to pass. Once they were inside, he waved at the receptionist dispatcher. “Morning, Lisa.”

“Morning. You’re late.”

“Wanted to check on the Levis.”

The dispatcher’s face softened. “How they holding up?”

He shrugged and ushered Miranda around the desk toward the hall before turning back to Lisa again. “I trust nothing about last night has leaked?” he asked. “There’s no crowd outside demanding a lynching yet.”

“Not a peep. Not sure how long you’re gonna be able to keep the
Chronicle
off the scent though. Helen’s already been in to see if there’s anything she can write about.”