Jenna Ryan - Mistletoe and Murder

Although weekends tended to be quiet on the lower levels, Romana knew Fitz was here somewhere. The trick would be to locate her cousin before she bumped into someone who remembered her as Connor Hanson’s wife.

“Romana?”

Too late. The man’s voice came from her right. Steeling herself, Romana turned-and exhaled with relief when she saw who it was.

“Dylan, hi.” She rubbed her left temple where a headache had been brewing since lunchtime. “What brings you to Death Central?”

Belinda Critch’s brother, Dylan Hoag, closed the electrical box he’d been examining. “I’m checking out the security system. They had a wiring problem down here yesterday.”

“Heard about it. Fitz,” she explained at his elevated eyebrow. “Have you seen her?”

“We had a chat, but Patrick whisked her away, said he needed help. Must be hard to trim a corpse’s fingernails all by your lonesome.”

Romana strolled closer, ran a teasing finger over his shoulder. “I sense a chip here, Mr. Hoag. Toward Patrick, I wonder, or the forensics team in general?”

“The team could be better. Standards have slipped since Doctor Gorman retired.”

Now she patted his shoulder. “Hate to tell you this, Dylan, but they were slipping while Gorman was here. He was well past his prime when the hospital board decided to force the retirement issue.”

“Then there were Connor’s indiscretions.” Dylan’s tone soured. “And Belinda’s death.”

A tick in his jaw accompanied the bitter statement. Romana wanted to respond, but couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. She settled for another pat and left him to finish his inspection of the breaker box.

Dylan hadn’t changed much in the eight-plus years she’d known him. His hair was light brown, short and spiky. He kept his tall frame trim and his somewhat angular features a deliberate blank. It was his idea of a cop look. Sadly, although they’d entered the Academy at the same time, Dylan had washed out halfway through the program.

Romana didn’t know why the memory should strike her right then, but she recalled Dylan’s reaction quite clearly as he’d been given the news. Resentment had flared for about five seconds before he’d doused it. He’d aimed a long, steely glare at the sergeant, then turned on his heel and stalked away.

Six months later, he’d formed his own company-with a handful of employees and the endorsement of one extremely influential businessman.

James Barret…Romana rolled the name over, caught Dylan staring and set it aside.

“You look frazzled,” he noted in his more usual low-key fashion.

She regarded the ends of her hair and tried not to picture what his idea of frazzled entailed. When his gaze slid to her face, she caught just enough of his expression for comprehension to click in. “You thought it was because of Warren Critch, didn’t you?”

He jiggled a wire. “He’s never been happy about what you did in that alley.”

“I don’t believe this.” With a fatalistic laugh, Romana circled away, then returned. “I’m surrounded by enigmatic men. Give me something, Dylan. You hate me, you don’t. You want Critch to hurt Jacob and me, you want him to fail. You’ve seen him, you haven’t-what is it? Talk to me. React. Emote.”

He straightened, and his eyes-not as penetrating as Jacob’s-captured hers. “Warren and I talked on the phone the day he was released. One conversation, two minutes long. I thought he wanted money. He said he didn’t. He just wanted me to know he still thinks about Belinda every day, and he lives in that downtown alley every night.”

Romana’s hackles rose. “Jacob didn’t kill her, Dylan.”

“Someone did.”

“Yes.” Her mind slipped sideways. “Someone did.” Then with conviction, “But it wasn’t Jacob.”

Dylan’s chuckle had a raw edge. “You know, I can almost believe you. You sound so sure of yourself.” He stepped closer. “But I don’t think you’re as certain as you pretend to be.”

No way would she be intimidated by him. Romana held her ground and her nerve. She lifted a finger to his chin and tapped it in a manner intended to provoke. “You know, Dylan, it seems to me that someone must have redirected all those cards Critch wrote to Jacob and me while he was in prison. The postmarks said they were mailed from northern Kentucky. And you are, or were, his brother-in-law.”

Dylan’s eyebrows came together. “Warren wrote to you?”

“Subtly threatened is the way I see it now. He made sure that Jacob and I received Christmas cards every year, to let us know, I imagine, that he wasn’t going to forget about us, or the part he felt we played in Belinda’s death.”

Wilted organ music hovered in the air between them. Dylan’s features remained cold. “If Warren’s been threatening you, then he must still believe Knight murdered Belinda. I sorted through her stuff after she died, Romana. There was nothing that incriminated anyone else.”

“Anyone else?” Romana challenged softly. “Or anyone at all?”

If human features could take on the characteristics of a granite carving, Dylan’s did at that moment. She could almost hear the war that raged inside his head. He so wanted Jacob to be guilty. He needed to hate a specific person, not a faceless, nameless entity.

Before he could respond, they heard a rustle of fabric in the hallway. Romana didn’t have to look to know who was there.

Jacob’s hands were jammed in the pockets of his leather jacket. His expression was far less promising than Dylan’s. “You want to take a swing at someone, pal, take it at me.” He started toward them, slowly, deliberately. “Romana did her job in that alley. I’m the one who saw Belinda before she died.”

Dylan’s gaze flicked from Jacob to Romana and back again. When he finally spoke, it was in a controlled undertone. “Belinda said that Warren used to go down to the basement and brood when he got angry. Sometimes, he’d stay down there for hours, once for a whole day. Eventually, he’d come up, and when he did, he’d always find a way to get back at the person who’d angered him. Warren’s had six long years to brood about you two. Now that he’s out, my guess is he’ll let his vindictive side take over-until the source or sources of that feeling are eliminated.”

“I AM SO, SO TIRED OF BEING threatened.” Romana stalked back and forth in the hospital parking lot. Her white coat flapped open around her ankles, and a playful wind blew her long hair around her face. “Critch is convinced that you murdered his wife. Dylan’s ninety percent sure of it. Even Fitz, my own cousin, thinks you’re dangerous. Me, I still choose to believe you didn’t do it, because I think you’re a good person, and I know you’re a good cop. No, better than good, you’re an excellent cop.” She paused, slanted him a contemplative look. “The kind of cop female rookies fresh out of the Academy probably still fantasize about.”

Jacob had been leaning against the front fender of his SUV while she vented her frustration. Now his green eyes shifted from the distant line of freeway traffic to her face.

“Did you have fantasies about me, Romana?”

She resumed her pacing, but at a slower tempo. “I might have.” Amusement kindled at his expression. “Come on, Jacob, I was young, not happily married and not liking that fact one bit. You were an unattainable male. You didn’t notice me.” Amusement blossomed into a laugh. “Don’t be polite and pretend you did. Rookies are a pain, necessary to the force, but a pain just the same. I remember one time…” A sudden thought struck. “Oh, no!” She started to look at her watch, remembered she’d loaned it to her sister-in-law and grabbed Jacob’s arm. “What time is it?” A frustrated sound escaped. “It can’t be seven o’clock? I’m supposed to be in the park, watching Teresa figure-skate.”