Silent Night

by C. J. Kyle

  “Because. Today’s Saturday. That means there’s only one day left before Anatole will strike again. We have to work faster, Tucker.”

  FINN DONOVAN ROLLED into Christmas, Tennessee, via airport shuttle bus, wearing jeans, a thick wool coat, and a scowl the size of Texas. Tucker greeted him with a handshake and helped him get his duffel bag out of the van while Finn stepped back, lit a cigarette, and glowered at the half dozen other passengers he’d obviously hated spending the hour ride with.

  “That one smelled like Ben-Gay and her husband nearly killed us all with his farts,” he said, thrusting his cigarette toward an older couple making their way inside the hotel. Since the Marriott was close to the department, it had been easier to have Finn meet him here at the shuttle drop-off than at the airport. Tucker hadn’t been able to sacrifice the hour drive.

  After Miranda had left his office that morning, Andy had called in with a positive ID from Stan and Tanya Schneider, and Tucker had spent the next few hours trying to make them understand that going to the press right now would be bad for the town, and more important, could hinder his efforts to find their son’s killer.

  “Hasn’t been so long that I’ve forgotten you know how to let one go with the best of them, man,” Tucker muttered.

  “Least I’m nice enough not to do it in close quarters with no open windows. Smell my coat! Smells like fucking sulfur and old people.” He shuddered. “Next time, pick me up at the airport or work your damned case without me.”

  “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t miss working with me, so quit bitching.” Tucker slung the duffel over his shoulder and waited for Finn to finish his smoke and toss the butt in the nearby ashtray before leading the way inside the police station.

  As they strode into the heated reception area, Lisa glanced up, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. “Yes, ma’am, I understand it’s an emergency that your cat can’t get out of the tree, but you still need to call the fire department.” She covered the phone with her hand and smiled. “You must be Finn. It’s really nice to meet you.”

  Finn winked. “We haven’t officially met yet. Maybe you’ll let me buy you a drink later and we can correct that?”

  “Sure, and she can bring her two kids along so you can get to know them, too.” Tucker walked back to his office, trusting Finn to follow. The man had one hell of a reputation when it came to police work and an even bigger one with the ladies. The last thing he needed was for Lisa to get hurt by yet another emotionally unavailable cop. Andy Bowen had done enough damage in that department as it was.

  The office door closed with a firm thud. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes there.” Finn perched on the edge of the desk. “Got a thing for her?”

  “No.” Tucker flicked the lid off the Rosary Killer box and pulled out the folder with his notes. “She’s got a lot on her plate and doesn’t need a side of Donovan heartbreak to fill it even more.”

  “You wound me.” Finn grinned and took the file. He sat and scanned the pages, flipping through them much too fast to be reading more than the highlights. That was how Finn worked. Catch the gist of the situation, hear the details and questions that came with it, then go back and read everything word for word to make up his own mind as objectively as he could. It was one of the things Tucker liked best about him—that he had no agenda other than putting bad guys behind the bars and pretty girls between the sheets.

  Finn tossed the folder on the desk. “I take it you called to make sure this Bobby Harley guy is still where he’s supposed to be?”

  “Yeah, he’s present and accounted for. No visitors and only one letter received once a week. No outgoing mail at all.”

  “Did you talk to that detective in Dayton? Find out if anyone might have been overly interested in the case?”

  Just Miranda, but he wasn’t offering up that information yet. He shook his head. “Let’s suppose we’re not dealing with a copycat here. What if an innocent man is sitting in prison and the real killer is picking up where he left off, here in my town?”

  “That’s a big jump. You have anything to back it up?”

  “Just my gut.”

  And Finn knew as well as Tucker that a cop’s gut was the most valuable weapon he possessed.

  Tucker ran through Miranda’s version of the Dayton killings, making certain to leave her name out of it. He wanted Finn’s infamous objectivity, and the minute he learned that Miranda was Bobby’s sister, that objectivity was going to be sorely tested.

  “And you think it’s a priest? That’s a mighty big accusation to cast without proof. The church has been under a lot of fire lately, and something like this . . . you just better make damned sure you’re right before you tell anyone else this theory.”

  “I know. And I’m still not sure I believe it. It’s just . . . a theory.”

  Miranda’s theory. One he was believing more every day.

  “The Rosary Killer struck every Sunday for three weeks in Dayton,” Finn said. “If you’re right, he’s done two more here, and you have two more coming.” Finn sat up straight and hooked the box with his foot, dragging it to his side. “In the meantime, we go through every piece of this and find a connection between your two dead guys, your priest, and anyone else we can tie together.”

  “Go for it. I’ll get Lisa to help you. I have something I need to do first.”

  Finn raised a dark brow. “You call me down here for help, then leave me to do it alone? What the hell could be more important than getting the facts in this box?”

  Tucker opened the door. “Getting the facts from the source. I’m going to see Bobby Harley.”

  Chapter 28

  WELCOME TO DAYTON

  TUCKER EYED THE city sign, his back aching from sitting for so long. He should have come here days ago, but hadn’t. Why? Maybe because he hadn’t known exactly what questions to ask until now. Shit, that was a lie. He still didn’t know everything he wanted to say or ask.

  Guess he’d figure it out when he got there.

  He turned onto Germantown Street and into the Dayton Correctional Institution. He used his badge to get past the twenty-four-hour reservation rule, thanked security, handed over his weapon, then waited in the small meeting room where he’d be allowed to speak to Bobby Harley face-to-face.

  When Bobby was escorted in, the guards placed him on the opposite side of the table, cuffed him there, and left to stand guard outside the door.

  “Didn’t know what you preferred but help yourself,” Tucker said, pushing the can of Coke he’d stopped for on his way in across the table.

  Bobby popped the top and took a sip. “Should I know what this is about?”

  Tucker studied him for a moment, noted the similarities and differences between Miranda and her brother. His hair was blond, and Tucker knew from Lisa’s snooping that Miranda was a redhead under all that black dye. But their eyes were the same. As was their demeanor, the same posture and fidgeting habits like drumming their fingers on the table and the inability to sit still.

  As Bobby shifted, then shifted again, Tucker smiled. Definitely Miranda’s brother. “My name is Tucker Ambrose. I’m Chief of Police in a town called Christmas, Tennessee. Ever hear of it?”

  The look that flashed in Bobby’s eyes was one of suspicion. So distrust for the law was another shared trait.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Your sister—”

  “Miranda?” His dark eyes widened, the suspicion disappearing beneath a new sheen of worry. “She okay?”

  “She’s fine. She came to me . . . she’s working her ass off to get you out of here. Do you realize that, Bobby?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, the worry not leaving his face. He couldn’t be much younger than Miranda, but his clean-shaven face looked barely out of college. “I told her to leave it the hell alone. What is she doing?”

  “Tell you what. If you answer a few questions for me, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about your sister. Deal?”

  B
obby didn’t answer for a long moment. He took another deep sip of his Coke, rubbed his wrists beneath the cuffs, and finally nodded. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about Peter Anatole.”

  Bobby cussed. “I told her . . . damn it. I told her to leave that trail alone.”

  Intrigued, Tucker leaned in. “You don’t agree with her suspicions about Anatole?”

  “I agree that I was set up. I know that I’m innocent. I also know that she needs to keep her nose out of it. If anything happened to her . . .”

  “Why would you think something would happen to her unless you suspect him, too?”

  Bobby leaned forward, his gaze unflinchingly holding Tucker’s. “Listen. I don’t want to believe her theories. A man doesn’t offer a hand to lift you out of hell only to ensure you spend the rest of your life there, does he?”

  Unless Father Anatole had extended that hand to pull Bobby in close enough to make him a prime suspect for crimes he knew were about to be committed.

  “He was my friend,” Bobby continued. “But if she is right . . . then she’s risking her life by poking a hornet’s nest. It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it.”

  “Your sister doesn’t agree with that sentiment. She’s a pain in my ass, but she’s fighting for you.”

  Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. “Tell her to stop. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  Yeah. If Tucker had learned anything about Miranda, it was that she didn’t like the word no. He was pretty sure she’d feel the same way about the word stop.

  “If there’s a chance he’s guilty, that he set you up . . . wouldn’t you want her to bring that to light?”

  “Not if it puts her at risk. I owe everything I have . . . had . . . to her. I won’t let her get hurt for me. I know her. If she finds out Anatole is innocent, she’ll keep poking until she finds out who the real Rosary Killer is and she’ll get herself killed. I can handle spending the rest of my life in here. But only because I know she’s safe out there.”

  Bobby rubbed his wrist again where the cuff attached him to the table. “Not to mention she’ll be destroying another life if she’s wrong. I don’t want Anatole to go through the hell I’m going through if he doesn’t deserve it. He’s had a hard enough life as it is.”

  Tucker’s ears pricked with curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  Quicker than Tucker could blink, the wall around Bobby Harley erected again. He sat rigid, watching, tapping his fingers on the table. “He didn’t join the seminary because he wanted to. His father made him. And when he got a girl pregnant, he was almost unable to—”

  “Pregnant?”

  Bobby nodded. “It’s not my business, or yours. But yeah, Anatole had a kid in high school. They gave him up for adoption and Anatole’s been guilt-ridden by that his whole life.”

  He thought of the medallion Miranda had found at Walt’s. It still hadn’t come back from forensics in Knoxville, but the word orphanage had been unmistakable. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

  “Do you know what orphanage he sent the kid to?”

  Bobby shook his head. “Somewhere here in Dayton is all I know. He used to volunteer there a lot, just so he could see the kid. Don’t think he ever stopped making sure his son was taken care of. I’m surprised he moved, to be honest. I didn’t think he’d ever move that far away from his kid, even though the kid has to be what, thirty-five? Forty now?”

  Tucker stood and thanked Bobby, his brain reeling. If what Bobby said was true, why had Anatole moved so far away? Maybe he’d intended to move back to Dayton once he’d completed his rituals?

  “Is there anything you want me to tell Miranda?” He remembered Miranda telling him that Bobby wouldn’t see her and hadn’t written.

  “Just . . . I love her, but I don’t want her coming here. Don’t want her seeing me like this, you know?”

  Bobby was trying to preserve whatever positive image Miranda still held of him. “Yeah, I get it. Anything else?”

  “I don’t have much left, but if you can tell me where to find her, I can have my attorney wire her some funds.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “You know she quit her job when I was sentenced? Stupid. I couldn’t talk her out of it. She’s living off her savings now, so yet again, she’s giving everything she has to me.”

  “She wouldn’t be doing it if she didn’t think you were worth it. Don’t prove her wrong. If you think of anything that will help her finish this faster, tell her.”

  “That’s all I have.” He looked genuinely sad about that, and Tucker believed him.

  The whole way home, Tucker couldn’t shake Bobby’s words.

  He’s had a hard enough life as it is.

  He’d already run a background check on Anatole, but it was time for Tucker to dig a little deeper.

  Chapter 29

  Sunday

  TUCKER HUNG UP his phone and stared at the spot on his desk where it lay.

  “I take it by your face that wasn’t good news.” Finn looked up from the Dayton box and reached for his cup of coffee.

  “Nothing I thought would pan out anyway. Bowen hasn’t been able to locate a single teen who’ll admit to being at the make-out point at Walt’s the night Levi was killed.” Tucker ran his hands through his hair and gave a light tug at the roots.

  “So no witnesses.”

  “Nope.” Just like every other door he’d turned to in this case, it was getting shut in his face.

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and hear news about that medallion today, then. Something’s gotta turn up. I have to admit, it’s a bit suspicious that Anatole gave a kid up for adoption and an orphanage medallion was found at one of your scenes.”

  Did Miranda know that Anatole had given a son away?

  No, she couldn’t have. It was a major flaw in Anatole’s past. Something to make him far less pious. If she knew, she would have told him just to make him see Anatole as a man with a past just like everyone else.

  Tucker had gotten back into town too late last night to stop by Miranda’s and tell her about his visit with her brother, but he’d spent the morning filling Finn in on his conversation with Bobby, and it seemed, finally, that Finn was beginning to see past the copycat theory long enough to look harder at Anatole, too. His objectivity was back. That was one good thing in Tucker’s favor at least. Shit and objectivity were going to hit the fan when Finn found out Miranda was Bobby’s sister, however. Nothing Tucker could do about that right now.

  Lisa stuck her head in the door. “Got a minute?”

  He beckoned her inside. She pulled a rolled-up newspaper from behind her back and handed it to him. “Thought you might want to see this. Think it’s the reason our phones have been ringing off the hook all morning. I had to call Shannon in to help man them.”

  She handed him the Chronicle, gave him a minute to scan before she started talking again. “How pissed is she going to be?”

  Don’t shoot the messenger.

  “Pissed,” he grumbled. “Thanks, Lisa. I’ll take care of it.”

  “What is it?” Finn scooted his chair closer to Tucker’s desk so he could read. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

  Before Tucker could answer, the door opened again and Miranda strode inside. He dropped the paper they’d been reading and tried to kick it under his desk without her seeing.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling. “Lisa said I could come on back. Hope that’s okay.”

  Finn twisted in his chair to greet her and his smile faltered. “Jesus. It’s like Sandra Bullock and that chick from Lost had a hot-ass lesbian fling, defied biology, and somehow created you.” Finn looked at Tucker. “I call dibs.”

  Tucker sighed. “Finn, meet Miranda. Miranda, this is my old partner from Chicago, Detective Finn Donovan.”

  Tucker moved a chair closer to his side of the desk and motioned for her to sit. Before Finn could retrieve the half-hidden newspaper, she grabbed it.

  “Some reason you don
’t want me to see this?”

  Tucker reached for the paper but she stepped out of reach and opened it before he could snatch it away. There, on the front page, was Tucker’s missing teen.

  Ricky Schneider. The latest victim of the Rosary Killer. Of course, it didn’t say that. It merely said the boy had been found dead at Christmas Grain and Grist Mill. There was no mention of Michael Levi, no mention of a serial killer. But near the end of the article were the printed words he hadn’t wanted her to see.

  He waited for her to finish the article, the front office phones ringing off the hook in the background. Now he knew why. The town wanted assurance that they were doing all they could to find Ricky’s killer, that their own children were still safe in Christmas.

  Miranda’s hands shook slightly, and he knew she’d reached the end. She began reading out loud, “‘Sources confirm that a nurse with Ohio plates is assisting on the case, though the reasons for this are unclear. Is it a statement on the fate of our town that we’re now relying on medical professionals to solve Christmas’s crimes? Perhaps it’s time to start rethinking our staffing choices. What do you think, Christmas? Please send all editorial letters to Helen Stillman.”

  She tossed the paper on the edge of the desk and glared at him. “Did you tell her that?”

  Tucker took the Chronicle and threw it in the trash can. “Of course I didn’t. That’s just how Helen works. She’s not happy unless she’s stirring up trouble.”

  “Trouble? She mentioned me and Ohio in the same sentence, Tucker. That’s more than trouble for me. If he reads this . . .”

  “I’m assuming you mean Father Anatole?” Finn asked. “Someone fill me in here. What’s the big deal?”

  Tucker scowled. “I’ll explain later.”

  He was going to be doing a lot of explaining later. Somehow, he still had to figure out how to tell Miranda he’d visited Bobby yesterday.

  He caught Miranda staring at him. “What?”

  “He’s here to help?”

  “In any way you might need me, ma’am,” Finn said, grinning like an ass again.