Silent Night (14 page)

Some of the anger faded from Lisa’s eyes. “Since your mind’s made up, I guess so.” She pointed her finger at him. “But no more keeping me in the dark, Tucker Ambrose. I’ve never spoken one word of anything that happens in this office to anyone outside it. I deserve more trust than you’ve shown.”

“You’re right.” He pointed at the box. “Will it make you feel better to help me go through all this?”

She clamped her mouth shut. “Think that’s going to get you out of the doghouse, Chief?”

“Hoping.” She loved a good mystery. He was counting on this one buying his way back into her good graces.

Her gaze strayed to the big, beckoning box. “I want overtime pay.”

“There’s no money in the budget for that.”

“Well . . . you’re buying my dinner, at least.”

“I’ll order takeout.”

She kept her head down but couldn’t hide the return of her excitement. Before she could pull the lid off the box, however, a commotion from the reception area stilled her hand.

“What’s that?” She craned her head to try and glimpse out of his office window.

“Oh man,” Lisa whispered. “Looks who’s finally back in the country. Lucky us.”

When Tucker joined her at the window and saw who was causing the ruckus, his shoulders filled with a new source of tension and the throbbing in his temples returned. “How can someone so old look so damned intimidating?”

Lisa didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. There was no explanation for Ethel Levi’s power over other people, and right now, that power was demanding to see Tucker. Her husband had run this town with a steel fist until he died, and now her son was running it under her thumb. A kinder, softer version of his father, but still bound to do Ethel Levi’s bidding.

Lisa chuckled.

“What?”

She shook her head. “At least you’re out of the doghouse with me,” she said, heading for the door. She glanced back at him and grinned. “Can’t be pissed at a dog whose tail’s tucked between his balls. Unclench, Tuck.”

“T
ELL THE CHIEF
I want to speak to him. Now.” Ethel Levi’s voice carried down the police department’s halls to settle right behind the migraine already gnawing at Tucker’s brain.

He dropped into his chair and massaged his temples. The old hen wouldn’t care about things like waiting for DNA tests and autopsies. She’d want answers and he had none to give her.

“Mrs. Levi, I’ll take you to see him, but you’re going to have to calm down first.”

“I. Am. Calm.” Venom punctuated Ethel’s words, and though Tucker couldn’t see her, he could imagine her face scrunched up and her eyes narrowing into their normal bow-at-my-feet slits. “Go. Get. The danged. Chief.”

Tucker sighed and stuck his head into the hall. “Send her on back, Lisa.”

He caught a glimpse of Ethel’s smirk as she jammed her clutch under her armpit and stormed in his direction. Lisa offered him a pitying glance, any lingering traces of her satisfaction over his predicament gone. “I’ll bring you some coffee, boss.”

It would probably be unprofessional to ask her to Irish it up.

Ethel’s thin, bony body slid into the chair across from his desk, her ankles politely crossed beneath her chair and her spine ramrod straight. Too vain to ever allow herself to gray, Ethel’s continually dyed her hair dark brown. The strands looked as brittle as her bones, and her pencil-drawn eyebrows rose while she waited for him to be seated.

“Since you haven’t the guts to come to me, I figured I’d come to you.” The words were clipped as though they tasted foul and she couldn’t wait to spit them out of her puckered mouth.

“I wasn’t aware you’d returned to the States, Mrs. Levi. I assure you I had every intention of talking to you. I know your family is grieving and I’m doing all that I—”

“I don’t want your pity.” Ethel lifted her chin, and Tucker thought he saw her lower lip quiver for a fraction of a second before she regained her composure. “I want to know what you’re doing to get justice for my grandson.”

He reached for a bright yellow notepad and pen on the edge of his desk just as Lisa returned with two mugs of coffee. She set one in front of him and the other in front of Ethel before quietly slipping from the room. “I’m happy to answer anything I can for you today, but since you’re here . . . I’d like to ask you a few questions as well, if you don’t mind.”

“If it will help. You should know, however, that I contacted Helen the minute Steven called me. I paid her to keep the circumstances of Michael’s death quiet. The
Chronicle
won’t be interfering until I tell them to, which I’m assuming you don’t want any more than I do. The last thing we need is to scare tourists away and bring hardship on the town unless absolutely necessary.”

“I appreciate that.”

He noticed a tissue balled tightly in her clenched, gloved fist, and a bit of his guard dropped. She might be the meanest biddy in town, but she was also a grandmother mourning her grandchild. People often considered the ones being buried as the victims, but Tucker knew better.

It was the family left behind that felt the most pain. He’d been carrying his own version of that hell since he was fifteen. But Olivia’s murderer was behind bars where he belonged. Michael Levi deserved that same sort of justice.

“This can wait,” he said. “If you’d like a little more time.”

She glared again, her lipsticked mouth turning down and casting a hundred more wrinkles on her seventy-year-old face. “What I’d
like
, Chief Ambrose, is for you to stop chasing tourists’ skirts and do your job.” She leaned forward, the balled tissue rolling from her hand to sit atop her knee as she gripped the edges of the desk and stared him down. “Oh, it’s all over town, how you’re traipsing around with some hussy renter of yours instead of focusing all your energy on our Michael. Is that how they did things in Chicago? Is that why Michael was killed? Because you can’t do your job?”

Let it slide. She’s hurting and old and just downright mean. Let it go.

“How about we stick to the facts, Mrs. Levi, and stop worrying about hearsay? I know your grandson had just returned to Christmas last week, is that right?”

“That’s right. He was staying with me most nights.” She closed her eyes and he could see her struggle to keep her composure. “Other nights, he stayed elsewhere. He said he needed his own space . . . he didn’t leave town on the best of terms with any of us.”

“And why is that?”

She narrowed a glare on him. “Personal family business.”

“Ma’am, I understand some things are sensitive, but right now, every fact can help me find your son’s killer.”

“You understand, discretion for my family in all things is vital.”

“Of course.”

She studied her lap for a moment, contemplating. Finally, she said, “He left his wife and daughter nearly nine years ago. We didn’t approve. Divorce, Chief Ambrose, isn’t something our people do.”

“So he’s divorced?”

She shook her head. “Separated, though I suspect he intended to file, despite knowing it would kill us. I heard him on the phone. Talking about the possibility of having the marriage annulled.”

“And his wife? Does she live around here?”

The look she gave him suggested she thought he might be the biggest moron ever created. “If she did, don’t you think you would have already known she existed?”

He ignored the barb. “Where can I find her?”

“Bethany lives outside Nashville. I haven’t seen her in years, but she allows us to fly Charlotte in twice a year.”

“Charlotte?”

“Their daughter.” Ethel unclasped her clutch and pulled out a wallet-sized photo of a smiling blond girl. “Michael’s been fighting for joint custody recently, but he stayed away for so long . . . he decided disrupting her life wasn’t the kindest thing to do.”

Tucker wrote down the names and chewed on the information. A scorned wife?

It wasn’t impossible. Jim and Darren would be making a trip to Nashville tomorrow.

As he scribbled on his legal pad, Ethel cleared her throat. “You should know, he has a harlot.”

“Excuse me?”

This time, when Tucker looked at the old woman, she refused to look him in the eye as she spoke. “A tramp. A hussy. He tried to keep her a secret, didn’t know I knew . . . but the people in this town . . . they’re loyal to me. Has her holed up in that presidential suite at the Marriott. That’s why he wouldn’t stay with me every night. I’m certain of it. You should talk to her.”

“I will. That’s good information, Mrs. Levi. You’ve been a great help.”

Whatever softness Ethel might have been close to revealing was sucked back into her frigid shell. “My grandson wasn’t perfect, but he was a Levi and we love . . . loved him. I won’t have his reputation dirtied. I want him buried with his dignity intact.”

“I understand.” Tucker remained silent for several seconds then asked, “Why did Michael choose now to come back?”

“Why does any grown person return to the nest? A chance to start over. I think he really wanted to convince the family to agree to his divorcing Bethany. No doubt to marry that floozy. Why else would he have brought her here?” Ethel worried her gloves in her hands. When she studied Tucker again, the fragility of her actions was gone.

“I’m going to find who did this to your grandson, Mrs. Levi.”

“You’d better. And I want his body back as soon as possible so we can give him the proper burial he deserves.”

Tucker sighed and made a mental note to call Doc Sam later today. Burying her grandson might make Ethel a tad more patient.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He stood and escorted her to the exit, and as she walked away, he saw her as a heartbroken grandmother. Slumped shoulders, brittle bones, shaky legs. With more determination than ever to make sure he missed no detail, he closed the door and picked up his phone. He started to dial and changed his mind, shoving his phone in his pocket. The Marriott wouldn’t give him any of the details he needed unless he showed them a badge.

Which he fully intended to do.

“H
EY
, T
UCKER
. W
HAT
brings you by?”

Tucker removed his hat and greeted the Christmas Marriott Hotel’s manager, Daniel Benson. “I have a couple questions about one of your guests that I’m hoping you can help me with.”

“Of course. If I can. Come on back.” He led Tucker down the hall toward his office and shut the door. “Have a seat and fill me in.”

Tucker sat and placed his hat on his knee. “I’m hoping you can tell me for certain whether Michael Levi is . . . or was . . . one of your guests.”

Benson’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, and some of the color drained from his face. Apparently, this was one of the loyal residents Ethel had mentioned. “It’s fine. I’ve already talked to Mrs. Levi. I just need to know exactly when Michael checked in.”

“You’ll understand that I’ll need to verify that with her?”

“Of course.”

Benson stood and headed for the door. “Excuse me for just a moment, please.”

He disappeared and Tucker sighed. He couldn’t blame the man for wanting to protect his job.

When he returned, the color had returned to his face. “My apologies,” he said. “Mrs. Levi said I’m to help you however you need as long as we’re discreet.”

“Absolutely.” Tucker pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket. “Could you tell me when Michael checked in?”

He sat again and his fingers moved over the keys. “Mr. Levi checked in last Wednesday. He secured the suite through the first of the year.”

“Did he check in alone?” Tucker asked, even though he knew the answer. He hoped the manager would provide a name.

Benson turned back to his computer and worked in silence for a few moments before turning the monitor toward Tucker. He turned the monitor so Tucker could see it. “A Jennifer MacNeil checked in with Mr. Levi.”

Tucker made note of her name. “Has anyone been hanging around or asking questions about him?”

“No, sir. I assure you, had someone been harassing one of our guests, we would have contacted you immediately.”

“What about the last couple of days? Has Ms. MacNeil received any guests?”

“We don’t keep track of that.” His returned the monitor to its original position, and his fingers moved over the keys again. “But I can tell you that the only calls made from the room have been requests for room service or housekeeping. Hmm, since Monday, there have been only two calls for room service—soup on Monday night and tea and toast this morning. There have been no incoming calls at all. Cell phones . . . people don’t need our phones much at all anymore, do they?”

“I suppose not.” Tucker went over the crime scene in his head, searching for any missing details this man might be able to help fill in. “Did Mr. Levi valet a car?”

“According to the valet records he had the car brought to him Sunday evening about six. There’s no indication of when he returned. I will check on that for you.”

“No need,” Tucker said, knowing it wasn’t a mistake in recordkeeping.

The manager folded his hands on the pristine desktop. “May I ask what this is about?”

Ignoring the question, Tucker stood and put his Stetson back on. “What’s the room number?”

“Presidential suite. Top floor.” He opened the drawer and slid an embossed keycard across the desk. “Here’s the key for the elevator. Just return it to the registration desk when you’re done.”

“Thanks.”

The elevator took him nonstop to the fifth floor and opened to a gold-plaqued door.

He knocked.

“Michael?” a voice called from inside. The door was jerked open. “Oh, thank God you’re—” Blue eyes ringed in red splotches blinked up at him. “Can I help you?”

“Ma’am, I’m Chief Ambrose with the Christmas Police Department.” He showed her his badge, let her take it and study it for a moment before fastening it back onto his belt.

With trembling hands, she gripped the door, her knuckles turning white. “Is this about Michael? Is he all right?”

“May I come in?”

She stepped back, allowing Tucker to enter before closing the door. The suite was enormous. Hardwood floors glistened in the firelight. To his right was a dining area big enough for eight, and to his left, an office area, and he assumed the master suite stood behind the closed door. Tucker followed her into a large living room lined with a wall of shuttered windows.

Jennifer muted the widescreen television mounted over the mantel. “Please just tell me. Is this about Michael?”

“I’m afraid it is.” He gestured for her to sit, afraid her legs would give out if she didn’t. She stood still, rubbing her arms, the oversized shirt she wore barely hiding her shaky legs.

“He . . . he’s okay, isn’t he?”

Whatever happened to Michael, Tucker’s gut told him this woman had nothing to do with it. However, she was one of the last people to see him alive. She might be able to give him details Ethel Levi hadn’t been privy to.

“Ms. MacNeil, we found Michael. I’m sorry but—”

“No,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare say it.”

She already knew. There was no need to say the words. He braced himself for an outburst. Instead, she simply hugged a pillow to her chest, closed her eyes, and rocked softly for several minutes. When she opened her eyes again, he could see her struggle to hold back her tears. “I knew it. I felt it . . . What—what happened?”

“Ma’am, is there someone I can call for you? Someone who can stay with you for a while?”

“I don’t know anyone here.” She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her cheek on the pillow. “What happened?” she asked again.

“We’re not sure yet, ma’am.”

She gripped her shirt closed at her throat, her gaze focused somewhere over his shoulder, then she dropped her face into the pillow and released body-racking, heartbreaking sobs.

Tucker gave her a moment to pull herself together, and when she finally lifted her head to look at him again, her entire face had broken out with the same red splotches he’d noticed around her eyes.

“I know this is difficult, Ms. MacNeil, and if I had the time to do so, I’d tell you this could wait. But I’m afraid it can’t. Do you think you can answer some questions now?”

She gave a slight nod, and he could see her throat working to swallow. He made his way into the small kitchen, found a glass, and filled it with water from the refrigerator. He gave it to her, and she swallowed half the glass, splashing the liquid onto her white shirt as she gulped. The minute he left, she’d probably reach for something stronger. But for now, he needed her brain to work properly, so water would have to do.

“Could you tell me when you last saw Michael?”

She set the empty glass on the coffee table and wrapped herself back up in the blanket. “Sunday. He stayed here Saturday night, but h-he was supposed to spend Sunday and Monday at his grandmother’s before she left for Italy. It’s not been easy for him, trying to balance time with me and with them. There are a lot of personal matters weighing on him.”

“The annulment, you mean?”

Her eyes widened in shock that he knew but she quickly regained her composure. “Yes. He was getting counseling at the church for it.”

Tucker’s ears pricked. “What church?”

“St. Catherine’s. He used to go there with his family. He was disappointed that his old priest wasn’t there anymore, but the new one was working out all right.”

“Father Anatole?”

She nodded.

Miranda’s accusations were getting a little harder to ignore with each passing day. Anatole advising the victim had to mean
something.

“You said he was supposed to return to you after Monday night. And you didn’t report him missing when he didn’t show up?”

She shook her head. “When he didn’t call . . . I wanted to do something. But he hasn’t told them about me and I was terrified if I called attention to myself and he was fine, he’d be furious with me.”

Tucker sighed. Secrets. Never good. “Has anyone been by to see Michael? Called him?”

“Not that I’m aware of. You’d have to check his cell phone. He has—had it with him.” She blew her nose and he could see she was getting ready to cry again. She reached for her glass, saw it was empty, and set it back down. Tucker refilled it for her.

He hated pushing her when it was apparent that she was barely holding it together, but if someone was threatening Michael, or following him, then she would most likely know. “Do you remember anyone he might have met with?”

She stared at the closed drapes, lost in thought for several minutes. With a sigh, she looked back at him. “Other than his family, no. He had an appointment with the priest on Sunday after Mass, and then he came back here . . . to me. Other than that, he didn’t mention anyone.”

“You didn’t go with him? To see his parents?”

She rubbed her eyes. “Michael’s family is very traditional. He wanted to wait until the annulment was in process before taking me to meet them.”

“Has he met with or spoken to his wife?”

She shook her head. “I know he’s tried, but as of Sunday she hadn’t accepted or returned his calls.”

Sensing she really had nothing else to offer, he stood and placed his card on the coffee table. Maybe the ex-wife would have more to say when Jim and Darren visited her in Nashville tomorrow. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

She started to close the door, but Tucker thrust his hand out, stopping her. Something she’d said was now simmering in his brain and it didn’t make any sense.

“Sorry, Ms. MacNeil, but . . . are you sure he said Father
Anatole
was the priest he’d been talking to? Are you positive it couldn’t have been one of his deacons?”

She shook her head. “I’m positive. He would never take something so delicate to a deacon.”

“Did you ever meet the father?”

“Yes. He insisted on sitting down with both of us before going any further.”

The simmer in his brain was beginning to boil. He didn’t have a picture of Anatole, but he pulled out his phone and did a Web search. As he typed, he asked, “Could you describe him for me, please?”

The sigh she gave sounded perturbed, but he kept his gaze on the spinning icon on the phone, waiting for the page to load.

“About six foot? Dark hair with some silver. A beard. Not a full one, but a chin beard I guess you’d call it? He—”

“This him?” Blessedly the page loaded and St. Catherine’s Web site came into view, Anatole and his deacons posing on the “Staff” page.

“Yes. In the middle. That’s the man I met.”

It was definitely Anatole.

“Thank you. Sorry for the bother. You’ve been a great help, ma’am.”

He let her shut the door and stood alone in the hall for a long moment.

“Lying son of a bitch,” he whispered.

If Michael Levi had been talking to Father Anatole about his annulment or divorce or whatever . . . why, then, had Anatole pretended not to even know Michael existed when Tucker had taken him to notify the Levis of Michael’s death?