Silent Night (19 page)

WELCOME TO DAYTON

T
UCKER 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?”

Bobby 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.

T
UCKER 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.

Miranda didn’t appear the least bit fazed by his charm. “Okay. Forget the article for a minute. Nothing I can do about that, and I’m pretty sure you’d take issue with me strangling that Helen woman.”

“Yes, yes I would.”

“So, where are you at with all this?” she asked, gesturing to the files spread out around the office. “It’s Sunday. Please tell me you have something.”

“Finn and I have been bouncing ideas around and I have eyes on Anatole all day. I’m doing my job, Miranda.”

“Don’t snap at the pretty lady, Tuck. Didn’t your mama ever teach you—”

Miranda jerked her head toward Finn. “That crap really work for you?”

Finn held up his hands in mock surrender and Tucker silently gloated. “My bad.” He raised an eyebrow at Tucker.

Miranda swore. “It’s”—she checked her watch—“almost noon. We don’t have a lot of time here.”

She was damned prickly today. The article probably hadn’t helped. But Tucker didn’t mind since it seemed the prickliness was mostly aimed toward Finn.

“We’ve been discussing possible victims. Trying to narrow down who we might need to keep watch on,” he said. “We still have anointing the sick and holy orders.”

“I’m thinking we should find a list of citizens who might have terminal illnesses.” Finn leaned back in his seat, away from Miranda.

Miranda shook her head. “He wouldn’t kill someone just for being sick. He’d have to see it as a sin to cleanse. A sickness they could have controlled maybe.”

Finn plucked the cigarette he kept behind his ear. “Some people think smokers are asking for their cancers. An obese person with diabetes? A prostitute with gonorrhea? Shit like that?”

“It’s possible, but with the exception of the prostitute, none of that sounds overly sinful to me, unless he sees it as gluttony maybe,” Miranda said.

Tucker’s cell phone chirped. He gave them an apologetic smile before answering. “Ambrose.”

“Chief, it’s Sam Murray.”

Tuck held up a finger and left the office so he could listen without distraction. He’d been waiting for this call for days, but having a deputy coroner call on a Sunday usually wasn’t good news. For him, he hoped that wasn’t the case. “Hey Doc. Tell me you’re back in Christmas.”

“If you’re free in about two hours I will be.”

“My office?”

“Make it mine. I have Michael Levi’s autopsy report.”

S
AMANTHA
M
URRAY
’
S OFFICE
was warm and stuffy, which did nothing to help slow the sweat collecting under Tucker’s collar. The pictures spread out on her desk were no more horrific than any other autopsy he’d been witness to, but somehow, these were making his hands clammy. If Miranda was right, another murder just like this one could happen again in a matter of hours.

“There are half a dozen cuts across his legs and arms,” Sam said. “They’re deep, but missed the major vessels so he bled out slowly. Until he was garroted, anyway.”

Tucker popped an antacid.

“His jaw was pretty much shattered and his spine was broken in two places,” she continued. “His neck was nearly severed and clumps of hair were pulled out at the roots.” She pointed to a bald spot near Michael’s scalp above the left ear.

“Nothing under his nails? Maybe his knuckles if he put up a fight?”

“Only dirt under the nails. No evidence of anything biological left on the body belonging to your killer.” She pulled out another picture and handed it to him. This one showed a man’s bare abdomen, pre-autopsy, his ribs punctured with gouges the size of baby fists.

“Knife wounds?”

She nodded. “Could be. It’s an odd knife though. Kind of curved, you see?” She pointed to the photo at three sloppily placed, almost crescent shaped wounds between Michael’s ribs. “Doubt you’re dealing with a surgeon or anyone skilled with knives because there’s no finesse here.”

He pointed to a section of thin scratches below Michael’s navel. “What’re those?”

She passed him a magnifying glass. “See for yourself.”

He bent over the photo and held up the glass. Tiny scratches, barely an inch long, made out the numbers 196 518 across Michael’s lower belly.

“Jesus.” He thought of Anatole and his stomach clenched. A priest washing away a victim’s final sins? Casting judgment before God could? “What the hell do those mean?”

“No idea. But, Tucker?”

“Yeah?”

“The other body you had me pick up—the teen—I don’t have his reports yet, but I can tell you, he has the same thing scratched on his stomach. Different numbers, but same placement.” She flipped through a notebook she’d pulled out of her purse. “816 135.”

Silence hung between them for a long moment. “Nothing?” she asked.

“No.”

He had no clue what those numbers meant. He needed to see if the Dayton victims had anything similar on their bodies. Maybe there was something in those files that explained it. If not, maybe Miranda knew.

He grabbed his hat. “Get me something soon.”

It wasn’t a request.

T
UCKER SPED FROM
Doc’s office on the opposite side of town back to the station. How was it he had more questions than answers again?

He turned onto Main Street and pulled over in a pharmacy lot. His whole body was cold, and it had nothing to do with the weather. One of the reasons he’d left Chicago was that it had become more and more difficult to separate his own memories from the cases he’d faced. Now, he found his brain continually returning to his youth and the smiling face that would never smile at him again.

Ricky’s face in that granary was haunting him, and now that he’d seen Levi’s autopsy photos, he was imagining Ricky on that same cold slab, waiting to be sliced open yet again. The brutality in that kid’s life was never-ending.

Olivia. Ricky. Something in him ached, and before he could put thought to his actions, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

“Hello?” His sister’s voice was painfully familiar, and yet completely foreign on the other end of the line.

“Gloria? It’s Tuck.”

There was a long silence. Some breathing. Then . . . “Tucker? Is that really you? Turn down the television! I’m on the phone!”

He smiled, picturing her folding laundry while his niece and nephew watched Nickelodeon. Did the twins even remember him? He hadn’t seen them since they were in diapers. They had to be at least six now. Maybe seven.

“Yeah, it’s me. How is everyone?”

“All right. Tommy, no. Not now. I’ll get you some milk in a minute. How are you?”

He was having trouble figuring out when she was talking to him and when she wasn’t, and it took a second to realize the question had been directed at him. “I’m . . . good. Homesick maybe. How’re the twins?”

“Up to no good. Listen, no one’s been able to reach you. Is this your new number?”

He sighed. “Yeah. Keep it.”

“So are you done staying away? Are you coming up for the gala?”

The gala. Christ. Was that why he’d had the itch to call? He’d forgotten all about the annual fund-raiser. “I can’t. There’s this case—”

“There’s always a case,” Gloria grumbled. “She was your sister, too, Tuck. This charity keeps her alive.”

Every memory kept her alive. He didn’t need to put on a tux and pass around a plate for victims’ advocacy to make it any more so. It had been a mistake to call.

“Do me a favor, tell Mom and Dad I said hi, but don’t give them this number, all right? I’ll . . . try to visit when all this is settled, but for now—”

“Same old Tuck. Living your life without any remorse over leaving the rest of us behind. You should be an uncle. A brother. Hell, a son . . . whether they deserve one or not. They’re not perfect, Tucker. But neither are we.”

No, they weren’t. His parents had tried to be the best parents they could be, but for their family, that had meant passing the kids off to nannies and speaking to their children only when they wanted it to be known they were disappointments. Which was always.

“Soon, Glor. Not yet.”

Another silence deadened the line, and just when he thought she’d hung up, she said, “Dad’s sick, you know.”

Tucker clutched the phone tighter. “What do you mean?”

“Heart issues. He might have to have surgery. Come home, Tucker. Please. I can’t do all this alone.”

Guilt sickened him. He’d been able to escape the life he hadn’t wanted, but he’d left his baby sister behind to hold down the fort, alone.

“I really do have a case here. But give me a few weeks, a month . . .”

“Right. Good-bye, Tuck.”

This time, the silence was deafening.