Jenna Ryan - Mistletoe and Murder

“An Irishman you dated once as I remember.”

“You remember very well. O’Keefe’s cute. Okay, older than me, but I like an age gap.”

“You like any gap when it comes to men.”

“Guess I have something in common with Belinda, after all. Maybe two things. Her brother Dylan’s kind of cool, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh. Tell me, Fitz, is there a man we both know that you don’t like?”

“Yeah, Jacob Knight. Except I don’t not like him, I’m just not sure of him. Critch was convinced that Knight killed his wife, so much so that he pulled a gun on him. But there you were, on the scene and duty-bound to jump in, with no idea who was wrong or right. Come on, Ro, a dilemma like that would give anyone twitches.”

Romana erased the smell of peppers from her fingers with peach hand cream. She considered changing the subject but knew Fitz would only find a way back. With a sigh, she said, “It’s guilt I’m feeling, okay? Not about helping Jacob in that alley-that’s what cops do-but because I didn’t listen to Critch when he said his wife’s life had been threatened. He had no proof, there was nothing to go on. Someone-not Jacob-” she shot her cousin a warning look “-wanted Belinda dead. I didn’t investigate the allegation after Critch was arrested, but I should have, because that’s also what cops do.”

“Well, yes…”

“Jacob said he didn’t murder her. I believe him.” Was determined to believe him. “Subject exhausted. I mean that,” she said when her friend’s mouth opened.

One long look, and it closed with a snap. “Tell you what.” Fitz’s eyes sparkled. “Why don’t we go sit on Santa’s knee? I hear he’s a hottie under the white whiskers.”

Glad for any reprieve, Romana went with the idea. She ticked off items on her fingers. “I want new ice skates, a mountain bike, scuba gear and a cool white Boxster. But I’m only telling that to the real Santa Claus.”

“Your doting dad.”

“He’s playing Father Christmas at an outdoor festival in Boston this year. Something to do with the barbershop quartet he sings with when he isn’t whizzing around the globe producing travel shows for cable TV.”

“Lucky him. My father’s still upholstering sofas and chairs at Barret Brown. I think he’s going to stuff a bright red recliner in my stocking this year.”

“I’d love a new chair from Barret Brown.”

Fitz’s cheeks went pink. “I’d rather have James Barret. Did I tell you he used to give me little boxes of chocolate tied up with red bows whenever I’d stop in and see my dad at the factory after school?”

Romana grinned. “So that’s how you developed your sticky fingers.”

“Ha-ha.” Fitz’s expression softened. “What a hunk James was-is.”

“The hunk’s married to an heiress,” Romana reminded her. “Think jailer with claws when you think of James Barret’s wife, and confine your lust to more available men.”

Fitz lapsed into silence before venturing a subdued “Warren Critch is out on parole.”

Romana examined another bottle. “I know. A friend from the station called me three weeks ago and again on Monday when his parole was granted. I’m not surprised. By all accounts, Critch was a model prisoner.”

“A lot of the people Belinda worked with in forensics are still there. Warren’s a hot topic right now. I’m sorry, but so’s Jacob Knight.”

Romana gave in and let her mind slide back six years to a Cincinnati alley where one very out-of-control chemistry teacher had been holding a gun on one remarkably controlled homicide detective.

She’d been on patrol that afternoon with her veteran partner. They’d been dispatched to a downtown alley after a witness had spotted a man with a gun. She and her partner had separated at the entranceway. She’d taken the rear approach.

To this day, Romana could still feel the adrenaline that had pumped through her system when she’d spotted Warren Critch. According to Critch, Jacob had pushed Belinda to have an affair. When she’d refused, Jacob had threatened to kill her.

Critch had been raving, oblivious to everything except the man in front of him. Anyone could have crept up from behind, it just happened to be Romana. With the barrel of her Glock pressed against his neck, Critch’s mind had begun to function. He’d backed down and finally dropped his gun.

Two days later, his wife had been murdered.

Romana sighed as the memory dissolved. “I don’t think I saved Jacob’s life, Fitz, so much as I talked Critch into seeing reason.”

“The consensus in the lab is that Warren Critch would have pulled the trigger, Jacob Knight would have died, and instead of being a free man today, Critch would be facing life without parole for killing a cop. Point being, I think Knight’s dangerous, Ro. Gorgeous but dangerous.”

A feeling of inevitability crept in. “Fitz, Jacob’s…”

“Tall, dark and sexy as hell. Like a rock star. Or maybe a bad boy grown up.”

“He’s not James Dean.”

“No, he’s way better, and I’m betting a whole lot badder.”

A picture flitted through Romana’s head of an enigmatic face, slightly haunted, slightly hunted, narrow-featured and, yes, gorgeous. The collar of his leather jacket was turned up in her vision so his dark hair fell over it and skimmed his shoulders. Steely eyes stared at her, and his mouth-well, she didn’t want to linger too long on that feature.

She felt Fitz tap her arm, noted her cousin’s contrite expression and struggled with a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re sorry. Again.”

“Let’s rewind to sitting on Santa’s knee, and top it off with a trip upstairs for coffee and a Danish pastry. The Garden Room’s been transformed into a Russian ice palace for the rest of December, and I gotta tell you, Ro, if ever anyone looked like a Russian ice princess, it’d be you.”

“I’ll try and take that as a compliment.” Romana separated two bottles from the montage in front of her. “Tatiana perfume for my mother, the newly promoted radio station manager, and Opium for me.”

“Former ice princess cop-really did mean it as a compli-ment-and current avant garde professor of criminology at the University of Cincinnati.”

With a determined shove, the black cloud that had been hovering on the edge of Romana’s mind dispersed.

Warren Critch was out of prison, that was a fact. The parole board felt he’d served sufficient time for his crime. True, he’d sent her a Christmas card every year of his incarceration, but the messages inside hadn’t actually amounted to threats. She’d gone over them several times. So had a number of her police friends.

Critch was bitter-perfectly understandable. Didn’t mean he’d jeopardize his newfound freedom by seeking revenge. He’d been blowing off steam in his prison cell. Romana taught the subject; she knew how the criminal mind worked. Or should.

“Wow.” Fitz winced as the saleswoman held out a pretty blue bag and a short bill. “That’s some hefty total. Guess coffee’s on me.”

Romana reached into her purse, felt the envelope that hadn’t been there an hour ago and, without looking, let her head fall back.

“Then again,” she said to the reindeer suspended from the store’s ceiling, “maybe no one really knows how the criminal mind works.”

“Money, Ro.” Fitz elbowed her. “Unless you’re thinking of developing sticky fingers yourself.”

Romana ignored the telltale red envelope as she hunted for her credit card. “Order me a cinnamon Danish, and a double-double coffee, okay? I need five minutes alone with my cell phone to call an old…friend.”

“Is he as hunky as Patrick?”

A chill, possibly borne of fear, or more likely of some weird anticipation, feathered along Romana’s spine. “Oh, he’s hunky enough.” She fingered the flap of the red envelope. “I’m just not sure how happy he’ll be to hear from me.”