Mistletoe and Murder

Chapter Sixteen

Romana swore time stopped while they worked their way across the river, but in reality, it probably took less than fifteen minutes to reach their destination.

Jacob’s radio call from the station had carried the same message. An injured woman matching Fitz’s description had been discovered in the back of a bakery truck on the edge of Hyde Park.

Romana spied the truck’s outline through the snow. It was a large cube van with a happy-faced loaf of bread wearing a seasonal Santa hat painted on the side. She bolted from her seat almost before Jacob stopped.

“Let her go,” he called to the patrol officers.

“Fitz?” Romana hoisted herself into the back, knelt beside the rookie in attendance. “How bad?”

“I think she has a concussion. Her shoulder’s been cut, and she’s suffering from exposure. She lost a fair amount of blood, which is probably why she’s so pale. Her pulse is thready, but regular. Sorry, that’s the best I can do. Paramedics should be here soon. Traffic’s a bitch with all this snow.”

Romana touched Fitz’s cheek. It felt dangerously cold.

The van’s springs gave slightly as Jacob and a second officer climbed in. Jacob crouched beside her. “How is she?”

“Unconscious, but alive.”

“She was carrying a knife, sir,” the rookie said.

“Boning knife,” the older one elaborated. “Blood all over it, and her. The driver’s having kittens. Swears he didn’t know she was here until he started to unload the flat to our left. My guess is, she was running, saw the truck, hopped in and hid. Must’ve passed out afterward. I’ve got the route, but the guy’s made about thirty stops since this morning, so there’s no telling how long she’s been here. He covered her up and called it in as soon as he found her. I recognized her from the picture you and O’Keefe circulated.”

Blood had seeped through the gray wool blanket, but Romana thought it might be coming from Fitz’s clothes as she and they warmed up.

The older man gave the blanket a tug. “You can look if you like. She’s already been moved. The driver couldn’t get to her where she was holed up.”

Jacob glanced at the flats. “Where was that?”

“Show you.”

Jacob set a hand on Romana’s nape and his mouth next to her ear. “She’s strong, Romana. She’ll make it.”

“I know.” As carefully as she could, Romana drew the blanket back.

“She’s not wearing much,” the rookie noted. “But at least the sweatshirt’s big. Comes down way over her hips and hands.”

“Yes it does.” Fingering the fabric, Romana reached under Fitz’s good shoulder and eased the blanket completely free.

The rookie officer shifted his weight. “Shouldn’t you leave her covered?”

But Romana was diverted by the printing on the front of the sweatshirt. “University…” Careful not to disturb Fitz, she worked the blanket back a bit farther until the final word was exposed. “Oh, damn. Jacob?”

“What is it?” He appeared behind her.

“This isn’t Fitz’s sweatshirt. It’s huge, plus she hates college logos. She thinks they’re snotty.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. She didn’t go to college, and if she had, she wouldn’t have gone to one in Houston.” Romana’s eyes sparked with the memory of a recent conversation. “But I might know a man who did.”

JACOB MADE NO ATTEMPT TO STOP her from coming with him. He knew he should have, but truthfully, he wanted her where he could see her. Plus she’d had excellent aim with groin kicks. More than one Academy instructor who’d cockily told her to go for it had wound up writhing on the gym floor.

He cast her a sideways look as he maneuvered his SUV through the icy streets of Eden Park toward Patrick North’s home. “He might not have gone to college in Texas, Romana.”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, pulled on her hat. “He told me about his family in Houston when I talked to him in the park. Is O’Keefe meeting us there?”

“If he can. The snow’s causing accidents all over the city.”

“Don’t you just love December?” She rapped her fists on her knees. “Patrick loved Belinda, he told me that. Love spawns jealousy, which can spawn hatred and rage.” Her brow knit. “He never struck me as a rager. Can you hide a thing like that?”

“Some people can. Left or right?”

She double-checked the address. “Turn toward the river.”

And lose the siren, he decided, switching it off. “Ten minutes,” he promised and linked his fingers with hers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him.”

“One way or another,” she agreed. Then her eyes went wide and she sucked in a sharp breath.

He glimpsed it in his peripheral vision, a blue minivan sliding through the intersection at a forty-five-degree angle, out of control on the ice and heading directly for Romana’s side of the vehicle.

THE DOORBELL RANG. AND RANG. And rang. Patrick would have shot the thing, but he didn’t want to alert his neighbors to anything suspicious.

He tossed clothes in a suitcase. He’d lost too much time after Fitz had blindsided him. He thought he might have stabbed her. There’d been blood on the kitchen floor when he’d woken up, but was it hers or his? God knew, she’d succeeded in sticking him more than once.

Nothing life threatening, though. He’d deal with his wounds and worry about recovering once he was out of the city.

If only the damn doorbell would shut up.

He peeked through the upstairs window. There were no cars at the curb, no police lights flashing. Maybe it was the busybody woman next door, bringing him the fruitcake she’d insisted on delivering.

Okay, she could be trouble. Her brother was a retired State Trooper. Not good, and not worth the risk of ignoring. He dragged on a bathrobe, checked for blood in the mirror and went downstairs.

To his annoyance, the peephole showed a man. He started to turn away, but stopped, spun and shoved his eye back up to the hole.

Sweat coated his palms. No way. Not him, too. First Fitz had shown up-although she hadn’t actually figured out the truth so much as blundered in and caught him off guard-and now a second person.

This man had figured it out, though. Look at his face. Features set, mouth grim. He knew. He knew, and he wasn’t about to go away. Not with Patrick’s car sitting in the driveway and half the house lights burning.

Be calm, he ordered himself, then panicked and ran for his gun. Magazine snapped in place, hands steady, robe belted tight, he inhaled, turned the knob and opened the door.

The visitor kept his right hand in his coat pocket. Patrick kept his in his robe. Who’d be the faster draw, he wondered?

The man startled him by shouldering roughly past. “I need to talk to you, North. About Belinda.”

He withdrew his empty right hand. Patrick’s lashes fell slightly, but he kept his finger on the hidden trigger.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, actually.”

“This won’t take long.”

Bullets never did. But they made noise, and the busybody’s grandson was outside shoveling her driveway.

Patrick nodded forward. “Kitchen’s at the back of the house.”

His visitor grunted. “I’m starting to think maybe Jacob Knight didn’t murder Belinda, after all.”

“Really.” Patrick motioned again. “Kitchen, straight ahead. I’m right behind you.”

“We don’t need to sit for this.”

Muscles taut as piano wire, Patrick pulled his gun. “I think we do, Warren. Turn, walk and don’t try to be