Silent Night (22 page)

O
NCE
T
UCKER GOT
Miranda settled in his guest room, he padded his way back to the kitchen and found Finn sitting at the bar, coffee already in hand. He hadn’t even heard Finn come in. Now more than ever, he needed to be on guard.

“When did you get back?”

“Long enough ago to make coffee. Have a cup. Look like you could use it.”

He splashed water on his face from the kitchen sink and contemplated refusing the coffee, knowing it would prevent him from sleeping. But who was he kidding? He wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.

He took the cup. “Thanks. I pulled your sheets off the bed so you could use them on the couch. Gave her some flannel ones since she can’t stop shaking.”

He filled Finn in on the night’s events, pushing the bagged Bible toward him on the counter. “I’ll be checking that for prints first thing in the morning. I want to look it over as soon as possible.”

“She going to be all right?”

Tucker nodded.

“Think it was someone who figured out she was the nurse with Ohio plates?”

“
Someone
. Yeah. I do. I think we’re going to have to bring Anatole in. How do you think the judge will react when I ask for a warrant for a priest with no substantial proof that he’s my guy?”

Finn chuckled. “Pretty sure that one won’t see the light of day. You can at least bring him in for questioning, though. Find out where he was tonight.”

“Already had Bowen put out an APB.” He still couldn’t believe his Sergeant hadn’t had a visual on the priest since he’d returned home around ten Sunday night and hadn’t bothered to let Tucker know. Goiter had seen Anatole enter his house, seen it go dark, and assumed the man was inside sleeping. Until Tucker had sent him to check, anyway. And he still hadn’t heard a word about the priest being picked up. Maybe he was off somewhere licking his wounds. If he showed up with so much as a cut on his cheek from Miranda’s attempt to ward him off, Tucker was going after that warrant, proof or no.

Goddamned reporters. If someone was copying the Rosary Murders, or even if it really was the actual killer, placing Miranda in Dayton had just put her life in danger. He wanted to wring Helen Stillman’s neck.

“You ready to give me the whole story on her yet? What the hell is a nurse doing snooping around a murder investigation?”

Tucker scowled. “I just want you to focus on the facts. Help me figure out who’s behind all this. The Miranda details . . . will have to wait.”

“I’m starting to feel like you don’t trust me or something.”

“Not the case. I swear. Just for now, leave that bone alone, okay?”

Finn sighed and dumped the dregs of his coffee in the sink. “All right then. Think that’s my cue to turn in for the night. On the damned couch.”

Tucker smiled. “Sorry ’bout that.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t ever let it be said I’m not a gentleman.” Finn dropped over the side of the couch onto his temporary bed, disappearing from sight, and Tucker pushed to his feet. He could barely keep his eyes open. The coffee hadn’t done anything but speed up his pulse. He headed down the hall and collapsed onto his bed, shut his eyes, and tried not to think about the woman occupying the room down the hall.

He woke a few hours later with a headache the size of Wrigley Field and stumbled to the bathroom. He unbuttoned his jeans, tore off his shirt, and turned the shower on full blast.

“Morning.”

He whirled around to find Miranda in the doorway. She wore black circles beneath her eyes, highlighting the lovely bruise forming on her cheekbone, her wrinkled pajama shirt, and little else. Her hair was tousled, her bare legs shifting back and forth, leading him to guess she needed the bathroom.

“Yeah,” he said. “How’d you sleep?”

Her gaze lingered on his belly for a long, uncomfortable moment before she seemed to register what he’d asked.

“I didn’t. Not really. Thanks for letting me crash here.”

He nodded and stepped around her. “I’ll let you use the bathroom before I get in.”

She thanked him and shut the door, and by the time it opened again, the bathroom had filled with steam from his shower. “Thanks. I can make coffee while you shower. Do you—do you have a pair of sweats or something I could borrow until I get my things?”

His gaze drifted down to her long, smooth legs. A pity to cover them. “Yeah. Help yourself. There’s a pile of clean clothes I haven’t put away yet in the laundry room.”

She slid past him and disappeared, and Tucker locked himself in the sanctuary of his bathroom.

M
IRANDA TIED THE
drawstring on the black sweatpants as tightly as she could. Luckily, Tucker was slim, and the elastic wasn’t
too
baggy, but he was taller than she by a good foot or more, and every step she took got caught up in the extra fabric dragging beneath her feet.

She rolled them up, but they wouldn’t stay, so she slipped her way back to the kitchen to begin her hunt for coffee. Being as quiet as possible to keep from waking Finn on the couch, she found the bag of grounds, played with the coffeepot until she was pretty sure she’d figured it out, grateful that the residual fear she’d woken to was mostly gone.

The muffled sounds of the shower shut off and she poured two cups before taking a seat at the small round breakfast table. She inhaled the rich aroma and let her mind wander. It didn’t take a second before her thoughts turned to Tucker.

It had disturbed her to find him half dressed this morning. Mostly, she was disturbed because she’d noticed. He had a swimmer’s body. Strong, broad shoulders. Well-sculpted abs that V’d nicely between his hips to disappear beneath denim.

She sighed. In the light of morning, recalling the terror that had paralyzed her wasn’t as easy. It was almost as though it had all been nothing more than a nightmare.

But it hadn’t been. It had been very real. Her back, ribs, and face were a testament to that.

She shuddered.

Tucker strolled through the kitchen and smiled a greeting at her. The jeans and bare chest had been replaced with his uniform—a far safer choice for her sanity.

Not that he didn’t look great in the khakis, too. Miranda sipped her coffee, studying him as he placed strips of bacon on a skillet. He was one of those rare men who looked good no matter what he wore. He was comfortable in his skin, not caring what people thought because he wasn’t out to impress them. Another rarity in her book.

She sat in silence while he worked, watching the fluid movements of his body as he cracked eggs into a skillet and flipped the bacon. A few minutes later, he set a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of her.

“I found something at your place,” he said, sitting beside her. “Something he might have dropped.”

Her sore muscles forgotten, she leaned toward him. “What?”

He pulled a plastic bag from beneath the table and set it in front of her. “Don’t touch it. I want it dusted for prints first. But thought you should know.”

She gently pried the tied ends of the bag apart and peered inside. It was a small, leather-bound Bible. The spark of hope engulfing her nearly made her want to cry. Finally, something tangible.

“There are passages circled inside. I want to go over them to see if any pertain to our murders.”

“You’ll let me help?”

He studied her, then took the bag, retied it, and placed it back at his feet. “We’ll see. First, tell me everything that happened last night, okay?”

“I already told you everything.”

He placed butter and jam between their plates before taking the chair across from her. “Start from the beginning. Everything you can remember. Now that you’ve had time to think, you might remember something useful.”

Miranda nibbled a piece of bacon and filled him in on everything she’d done from the minute she’d returned to her cottage. “. . . and no, I never got a look at him. It was too dark.”

“Where did you come back from so late? Could you have been followed?”

She swallowed. Time to come clean. “Maybe. I was trying to keep an eye on Anatole.”

Before he could interrupt with a burst of angry chastising, she held up her hand to silence him. “I wasn’t stupid about it. Until he disappeared in Town Square, I just sat in my car and—”

“The one with the Ohio plates? Perfect.”

She frowned, wishing that didn’t make her feel like an idiot. Maybe she
had
been followed. How else would Anatole know where she was staying? She’d been so careful about concealing her plates, and last night, she’d just been plain stupid.

“I wasn’t trying to break your rules, Tucker. But I had to know where he was.”

“But you lost him”

“I waited till Mass ended. He went home after that, then back to town. No idea where he went from there.” She wasn’t quite ready to confess about her spy cameras. They hadn’t been useful anyway.

“What time was that?”

“About eight-thirty.”

“I told you I had men watching him.”

She nibbled on her toast. “Yeah, then where did they say he went?”

Tucker frowned. “No one’s seen him since Mass. No one knows where he was.”

So she wasn’t the only inept surveillance member. “I do,” she whispered. “He was killing someone, and then he was in my cottage.”

He slathered his toast in grape jelly and took a huge bite, brushing crumbs off his chest. “I put out an APB on Anatole after the break-in last night. We’ll find him.”

Miranda grabbed a triangle of toast, trying to figure out how to ask him the question burning her brain. “Was there . . . last night . . . anyone missing? Found?”

“No news. I’ve had patrols running all night with orders to report anything suspicious.” He refilled their cups.

Her breakfast soured in her stomach. She’d have given anything for her roll of antacids. She rubbed her belly. “He kills every Sunday. A few extra patrols aren’t going to make him change his ways. It took you over a week to find Ricky—”

“I’m doing all I can, Miranda.”

Miranda studied her coffee to keep from looking at him. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe he was doing everything within his power. It was just that she was beginning to think his power wasn’t all that powerful.

“I need to tell you something else, Miranda. You’re not going to like it, but keep in mind, I’m doing my job here. Which is what you want, right?”

She nodded, a sense of foreboding churning the acid in her belly. “Okay.”

“I went to see Bobby Saturday.”

She dropped her bacon. “What?”

He lowered his voice and peered over her shoulder at the couch. “Finn still doesn’t know you’re his sister so keep it down. I need him to remain objective.”

“What could talking to Bobby possibly accomplish?” She wasn’t sure she was mad as much as she was upset that he’d seen her brother and she hadn’t. She wanted to ask how he looked, how he seemed. Was he all right? Did he look healthy?

“Maybe something important,” Tucker said. “Did you know Anatole gave a kid up for adoption before he became a priest?”

She felt her jaw drop. “What? No! Bobby told you that?”

“Yeah. That medallion you found . . . we’re trying to see where it came from. If it came from the same place Anatole left his son, we might have something.”

Her brain boggled. Anatole had a son. Holy shit. More fucked-up DNA out there to screw with the world.

Finn began to stir from the couch and Tucker gave her a silencing look that declared the conversation was over. She was sure Finn probably already knew about the visit, but agreed that it was probably best that he not find out she was Bobby’s sister.

Lowering her voice, she asked, “Did he say anything about me? Ask about me? Anything?”

Still whispering, Tucker smiled. “He wants you to stop risking your neck for him. He’s worried about you.”

For some reason, that made her feel better. Not that Bobby was worrying . . . but that he did still care about her.

“Feel up to getting your things?”

She nodded, grateful for the opportunity to get her own clothes. A bra, her antacids. No phone though. God, the bastard had her phone. She considered calling to cancel her service, but it wouldn’t do any good. He’d still be able to access her information. She’d never gotten around to setting up a pass code for it.

“You don’t mind me staying again?”

She knew it was silly to want to stay another night at Tucker’s. Her cottage was so close, he could be there in seconds if she needed him. But he hadn’t been home last night. He had a job to do and she couldn’t have him babysitting her. At least here, she’d feel safer when she was alone.

“Not at all. Been a while since I had so many people here. It’s kind of nice.” He offered her a heavy wool coat and she slid it on, smiling at him.

“I’m sure you’re rarely lonely, Chief Ambrose. I’m willing to bet women are more than willing to keep you warm at night.”

He chuckled. “You’re the first woman I’ve had here in months.”

She found that hard to believe. She wiggled her bare feet in his direction. “Shoes?”

He grabbed a pair of rain boots sitting by the door and helped her put them on. When he stood again, he was so close she could smell the coffee on his breath. Her cheeks flushed.

“Thank you.”

He nodded. “Anything else?”

“Think I’m good.” Other than her nightshirt, she was fully wrapped in eau de Ambrose. Totally department-store worthy. She sighed. The bottle would probably be khaki.

“I have a lot to do today,” he said, opening the door and waiting for her to pass through. “I’ll make sure you have a key, but I probably won’t be home till seven or eight. Will you be all right alone?”

“Yeah. I’ll manage.” She hated feeling like a charity case. She was going to have to think of some way to repay him.

He led her back to her place and made her wait while he opened the door and took a look around. When he returned, he ushered her inside, helped her fill a bag with some personal items, then took her back to his house. In his doorway, he stopped her from going inside by taking her by the elbow and making her face him.

His dark eyes simmered with something she could feel between her thighs as his gaze bored into her face.