He answered with a yawning, “I was asleep, Romana. I hope this is important.”
Call display still threw her sometimes. Romana pushed the hair from her cheek, held it back. “Patrick, I can’t find Fitz. Did you see her at all today?”
“What? Uh-no, I didn’t. I worked the graveyard shift last night. Left at six this morning. Went Christmas shopping.”
Romana would have smiled at his gloomy tone if her thoughts hadn’t been bouncing around like a pinball. “Her supervisor said she didn’t clock in.”
“Well, he’d know.” The gloominess gave way to guarded concern. “Can’t the police put out an APB on her?”
Romana circled the small room. “Fitz is a grown woman, Patrick. No matter what I think or feel, it’s too early for APBs.”
“Everything by the book, huh?”
She slid her gaze to Jacob. “Most things, anyway.” She stopped pacing when he tipped up the lid of the box. “Gotta go, Patrick. Let me know if you hear from her.” She hung up. “What is it?” she demanded when Jacob didn’t speak. “Don’t give me that inscrutable look, Knight, just show me what’s… Oh… Damn.” Even in dim light, the contents of the box winked and glittered and told her far more than she wanted to know. “Wonderful.” She dropped to her knees. “I should have guessed.”
Jacob maintained his easy crouch. “Lucky for Fitz I’m in Homicide.”
“Luckier still that she’s not here so I can kick her butt.” Romana dipped a hand inside, let cuff links, rings and pendants slide through her fingers. “I really have to stop believing in fairy-tale endings.” Nudging aside a cameo, she picked up a silver watch. “This is interesting. No sign of tarnish.”
Jacob took it from her, flipped the band over. “It’s engraved.”
Instantly protective, Romana took it back. “It could have been a gift.”
“Uh-huh, just not to Fitz.”
“Maybe she bought it at a garage sale.”
“And maybe I’m Father Christmas in disguise, but it’s not a good bet.”
“You’re being a cop, Jacob.”
“You’re happily-ever-aftering again. Is there a name?”
There was something. Romana switched on a table lamp. Purple light spilled onto the watchband and the ornate script lettering that covered it.
“Still not psychic, Romana,” Jacob prompted gently. “You’ll have to read it out loud.”
She really didn’t want to, but the words had already scored themselves into her memory.
She breathed out the worst of her fear and read,
Belinda.
May our secrets live on. Forever.
Love, James.
IT MEANT NOTHING,ROMANA told herself. So James Barret had given Belinda a watch. So Fitz had cleaned it up and locked it in a box. And yes, both Fitz and James were unaccounted for. That didn’t mean James Barret had taken her. Critch was still the most viable suspect-in everyone’s opinion except hers.
“I’m staying with Critch on this one,” O’Keefe said when Jacob updated him by phone. “Think about it. How would Belinda’s murderer even know Fitz had the watch?”
It was a valid question, Romana admitted. And still the pesky little whispers continued.
At Jacob’s suggestion, they drove to the police station- via James Barret’s riverfront warehouse. The streets were slick, the Christmas music on Jacob’s radio Kentucky bluegrass. Not a far stretch in Romana’s mind from Irish folk. Which sent the whispers into overdrive.
“You want to tell me what’s wrong?” Jacob sent her a glance. “Or am I supposed to guess all the way to headquarters?”
Because it was foolish to live in denial, Romana relented. “It’s part of an old Irish verse.”
“What is?”
“The inscription on the watch.” She played with the hem of her long coat. “‘Though life cannot be so, and our bones do turn to dust, may our secrets live on. Forever.’ Fitz is Irish. She knows the verse. Barret’s also Irish. And Belinda’s dead. Okay, maybe Barret murdered Belinda-no idea what their secret might have been, though logic says affair. Or maybe he paid her to doctor his partner’s autopsy report. Very big secret there. Worth killing for? Possibly. But how could he have known that Fitz had Belinda’s watch?” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I want to go with O’Keefe and believe Critch has her. So why can’t I?”
With a glance in the side mirror, Jacob geared down. “Believe it’s Critch, Romana. And put your seat belt on.”
She lifted her head. “Are we being followed again?”
“Seat belt,” he said and reached a hand toward it.
As she buckled up, Romana finally noticed what she’d missed during her emotional outburst. No matter how often Jacob used the brake pedal, nothing happened. He was relying on his vehicle’s gears to slow them down.
Her training kicked in, and she braced her hands on the seat. “Where does this street end?” She regarded the ice slick in front of them. “Please say before the river.”
“Yeah, it ends before the river.” The transmission screamed as he rammed the gearshift down another notch. “It dead-ends at Gloster Road, at the old brick building that used to be the Merriman Meat Factory.”
She saw the building then, in silhouette, an immovable mountain of wood and concrete set behind an even more imposing wall of bricks.
“Oh, hell,” she managed to whisper.
The tires slipped. The SUV spun. And all Romana could do was stare in horror as the wall grew closer and closer.
Chapter Ten
Jacob disliked hospitals at the best of times and even more so when he was being threatened with admission. The E.R. doctor wanted to observe him for at least twenty-four hours. Jacob just wanted to get the hell out of there. When the doctor left, he picked up his jacket, reclipped his badge and went in search of Romana.
A man dressed as Frosty the Snowman slumped past with his costume head tucked under one arm and a bandage over his right eye. “Who gives exploding peanut jars as Secret Santa gifts?”
Someone with a grudge or a sick sense of humor, Jacob supposed. But better exploding peanuts than a Chevy Blazer with a slashed brake line.
“I don’t have whiplash, Dr. McGee, and you’re holding up three fingers.” He heard Romana’s patient voice inside one of the treatment rooms. “I’m not phobic, I don’t feel dizzy, and you’re still holding up three fingers.”
A smile tugged at Jacob’s lips. Apparently, neither of them intended to spend the night here.
“Jacob, are you…” O’Keefe rushed toward him in a baggy coat, a striped pajama top and jeans. He grabbed his former partner’s arms and inspected him from head to toe. “All in one piece.” Relief spread across his face. Then fled. “Where’s Romana?”
Jacob nodded at the treatment room. “Giving McGee a hard time. She’s fine. He’ll badger her for another forty minutes, but she’ll convince him.”
“Give me the rundown.”
“Someone-Critch-cut my brake line, probably while we were at Fitz’s place. We were heading along March toward the river. I wanted to check out Barret’s furniture warehouse before checking in at the station. Brakes failed.”
O’Keefe shook his head. “I think you’re wrong about Barret. If anyone has Fitz, it’s Critch.” He tucked the pajama top into his jeans, squinted past Jacob’s shoulder. “Is there any coffee?”
Jacob motioned to his left. “Critch might have her, Mick, but the watch says something, and I want to know what it is.”
O’Keefe waved his badge at a harried-looking nurse and stuck his head around the corner. “Smells like coffee
