stop in and see my dad at the factory after school?”
Romana grinned. “So that’s how you developed your sticky fingers.”
“Ha-ha.” Fitz’s expression softened. “What a hunk James was—is.”
“The hunk’s married to an heiress,” Romana reminded her. “Think jailer with claws when you think of James Barret’s wife, and confine your lust to more available men.”
Fitz lapsed into silence before venturing a subdued “Warren Critch is out on parole.”
Romana examined another bottle. “I know. A friend from the station called me three weeks ago and again on Monday when his parole was granted. I’m not surprised. By all accounts, Critch was a model prisoner.”
“A lot of the people Belinda worked with in forensics are still there. Warren’s a hot topic right now. I’m sorry, but so’s Jacob Knight.”
Romana gave in and let her mind slide back six years to a Cincinnati alley where one very out-of-control chemistry teacher had been holding a gun on one remarkably controlled homicide detective.
She’d been on patrol that afternoon with her veteran partner. They’d been dispatched to a downtown alley after a witness had spotted a man with a gun. She and her partner had separated at the entranceway. She’d taken the rear approach.
To this day, Romana could still feel the adrenaline that had pumped through her system when she’d spotted Warren Critch. According to Critch, Jacob had pushed Belinda to have an affair. When she’d refused, Jacob had threatened to kill her.
Critch had been raving, oblivious to everything except the man in front of him. Anyone could have crept up from behind, it just happened to be Romana. With the barrel of her Glock pressed against his neck, Critch’s mind had begun to function. He’d backed down and finally dropped his gun.
Two days later, his wife had been murdered.
Romana sighed as the memory dissolved. “I don’t think I saved Jacob’s life, Fitz, so much as I talked Critch into seeing reason.”
“The consensus in the lab is that Warren Critch would have pulled the trigger, Jacob Knight would have died, and instead of being a free man today, Critch would be facing life without parole for killing a cop. Point being, I think Knight’s dangerous, Ro. Gorgeous but dangerous.”
A feeling of inevitability crept in. “Fitz, Jacob’s…”
“Tall, dark and sexy as hell. Like a rock star. Or maybe a bad boy grown up.”
“He’s not James Dean.”
“No, he’s way better, and I’m betting a whole lot badder.”
A picture flitted through Romana’s head of an enigmatic face, slightly haunted, slightly hunted, narrow-featured and, yes, gorgeous. The collar of his leather jacket was turned up in her vision so his dark hair fell over it and skimmed his shoulders. Steely eyes stared at her, and his mouth—well, she didn’t want to linger too long on that feature.
She felt Fitz tap her arm, noted her cousin’s contrite expression and struggled with a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re sorry. Again.”
“Let’s rewind to sitting on Santa’s knee, and top it off with a trip upstairs for coffee and a Danish pastry. The Garden Room’s been transformed into a Russian ice palace for the rest of December, and I gotta tell you, Ro, if ever anyone looked like a Russian ice princess, it’d be you.”
“I’ll try and take that as a compliment.” Romana separated two bottles from the montage in front of her. “Tatiana perfume for my mother, the newly promoted radio station manager, and Opium for me.”
“Former ice princess cop—really did mean it as a compliment—and current avant garde professor of criminology at the University of Cincinnati.”
With a determined shove, the black cloud that had been hovering on the edge of Romana’s mind dispersed.
Warren Critch was out of prison, that was a fact. The parole board felt he’d served sufficient time for his crime. True, he’d sent her a Christmas card every year of his incarceration, but the messages inside hadn’t actually amounted to threats. She’d gone over them several times. So had a number of her police friends.
Critch was bitter—perfectly understandable. Didn’t mean he’d jeopardize his newfound freedom by seeking revenge. He’d been blowing off steam in his prison cell. Romana taught the subject; she knew how the criminal mind worked. Or should.
“Wow.” Fitz winced as the saleswoman held out a pretty blue bag and a short bill. “That’s some hefty total. Guess coffee’s on me.”
Romana reached into her purse, felt the envelope that hadn’t been there an hour ago and, without looking, let her head fall back.
“Then again,” she said to the reindeer suspended from the store’s ceiling, “maybe no one really knows how the criminal mind works.”
“Money, Ro.” Fitz elbowed her. “Unless you’re thinking of developing sticky fingers yourself.”
Romana ignored the telltale red envelope as she hunted for her credit card. “Order me a cinnamon Danish, and a double-double coffee, okay? I need five minutes alone with my cell phone to call an old…friend.”
“Is he as hunky as Patrick?”
A chill, possibly borne of fear, or more likely of some weird anticipation, feathered along Romana’s spine. “Oh, he’s hunky enough.” She fingered the flap of the red envelope. “I’m just not sure how happy he’ll be to hear from me.”
DECEMBER DARKNESS FELL EARLY over Cincinnati. Snowflakes from an approaching weather system fluttered and danced and added to the already festive feeling in the air. Jacob Knight sat in his converted loft with his feet propped on the radiator and watched as pockets of red, gold and green lights winked to life around him.
He could see some portion of Fountain Square and the silver-blue glow that surrounded it. Thanksgiving had come and gone; it was all about Christmas now. About family and friends for most, more about bad memories for him.
When the phone rang, he debated briefly, then picked up.
“Knight.”
“Well, what d’you know, he exists. I’ve talked to your voice mail so many times I was beginning to think you’d skipped the country without telling anyone.”
Jacob swallowed a mouthful of coffee, kept his eyes on the expanding Christmas glow. “I’m still waking up, O’Keefe. Keep it short and simple.”
His former partner released a breath. “Critch made parole two days ago.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
“He came across sweet as pie for the review board.”
“I guess he figured surly wouldn’t cut it.”
O’Keefe grunted. “I’m worried about you, pal. Critch will want answers. If he decides to look for them, you know where that’ll lead him.”
