Mistletoe And Murder

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Standing, he slipped on his jacket, picked up his paper cup and walked a couple of feet over to the nearby trash receptacle to toss it in.

When he turned toward the door, Mallory was in front of him with her waves cascading over the fur collar on her jacket, making him want to reach out and touch the beckoning softness. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to get involved with her that way. She might make him forget that happiness never stuck around for too long.

“I had one more comment,” she said softly, her green eyes begging him to hear her out. He couldn’t move. “I need to tell you some things about Tripp’s background so you can get proactive about finding him.”

He glanced around them—no one seemed to be paying attention. He’d give her one more minute of conversation. “Who said I’m going after anyone?”

“You’re not?”

“At this point, I’m letting the police do their own work.” That was true. He’d lost his heart for detective work over the agonizing months he’d spent searching for Ruth’s murderer and making sure he went to prison. He’d been forced to keep away from his brothers, their families and his mother, partly to make the killer think he didn’t care about them so he would leave them alone, and partly because Shamus didn’t want his own anger to touch his family. The same hour the man who’d murdered his wife had been sentenced, he’d quit the force and become numb. He wouldn’t go after anyone else unless he absolutely had to.

Mallory stared up at him. “You have to search for the bomber. You can’t let him just try over and over again to hurt you.”

“Excuse me,” a patron said, wanting to throw away her trash. Shamus took Mallory’s elbow and moved her back to their table, which still held her coffee and paper bag.

“Remember how you said you owed me for saving your life? I have a couple of ways you can pay me back.”

She gave him a short, expectant nod, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Leave all the investigating to the police. Do not get involved in any part of it and make yourself a target. And that includes speculating on Tripp with other people. And don’t invite me to join the other probation officers at lunches and after work anymore. I don’t want any friends, Mallory.”

Her dejected look made him feel as though he’d crushed a rose under his heel. His heart thumped painfully. He had to be this way. He had to. Trying to be friends with him would only darken the light Mallory had in her eyes every day. He couldn’t take that. He couldn’t allow her to become him.

He could hardly stand what he had just done.

“You are such a hard man to like,” Mallory told him. “But I’m not giving up on you. You saved my life.”

His cell phone played a familiar tune, but Mallory was still standing there, keeping his attention. How could she be so warm and sweet and caring, and still be the most obstinate woman he’d ever run across?

The tune kept playing. He had to answer it. “Excuse me a second,” he said, whipping it out and pressing On.

“Hi, Mom. How are you?”

As Mallory watched, the tension drained from Shamus’s shoulders and face, and he looked like he used to when he and his wife and she had all sung in the annual Christmas cantata at the homes for the elderly. Relaxed. Happy.

Her mouth dropped open. What Shamus wanted her to do to repay him—stay out of his life—wasn’t really going to help him. But she’d just gotten an idea of what might.

She just wasn’t certain it would work.

Shamus started scowling as he continued to listen to his mother, and Mallory stayed put, eavesdropping unashamedly.

“No, Mom, don’t open the door to him. No one is supposed to be doing an article on me. I’ll be right there. What does he look like?”

He muttered “Uh-huh” a couple of times, and then his eyes, filled with alarm, shot up and locked on her. He moved the phone backward and mouthed, “Tripp.”

Tripp was at Mrs. Burke’s house? Why?

Bringing the phone back to his ear, Shamus gestured for Mallory to follow him. Leaving her coffee behind, she did, darting around a small group of people chatting in the aisle and listening to what he was telling his mother. It was easy enough with his commanding voice.

“Does he have a knapsack or any kind of parcel in his hands? No? Okay. Put as many walls between you and the front door as possible. Do not go outside. I’m only a few blocks away.”

On the sidewalk, Shamus broke into a run toward his nondescript sedan. Mallory followed just as quickly and slid into the passenger seat, her heart pounding. Why, oh why, would Tripp bother Shamus’s mother? Surely not to hurt her. Not another bomb. Shamus had lost his wife—he couldn’t lose another family member.

She didn’t think he could take it.

FOUR

Mallory spent the next few minutes getting Shamus’s handcuffs out of his glove compartment, calling 911 and remembering to brace herself whenever Shamus rounded corners, tires squealing. His eyes were set on deadly to mess with, and she wouldn’t want to be in Tripp’s position right now for anything in the world.

“If this is Tripp, he’s violating his probation for not reporting in after being involved in a major crime. I should call the boss.”

“No time. We’re here.”

She braced, and Shamus made a turn onto a driveway that led up a hill to a lovely, three-story home. An older, foreign-model car that obviously didn’t belong with the house was parked to one side at the bottom of the drive, and Mallory scanned the yard for Tripp.

“He’s in the bushes by the front door,” she said. As soon as Shamus screeched to a stop near the right side of the house, Mallory swung out of the passenger seat onto her feet.

“Mr. Tripp!” she called over the top of the car to her probationer. “Don’t move!”

Rounding the car and heading toward him, she noted that Tripp wore the same thin, close-fitting jacket he’d had on the last time they’d seen him, with no backpack, and no other obvious signs of a bomb.

Thank you for that, Lord.

Tripp bolted down the snow-covered lawn toward his car. She ran after him. Shamus easily passed her to tackle the other man. Snow packed beneath their body weight as the two of them rolled, but Shamus’s size and strength stopped Tripp from putting up a fight. Good thing, too, judging from the fury on Shamus’s face.

Shamus maneuvered himself upward, leaving one knee in Tripp’s back, and yanked on Tripp’s shoulders. “Did you plant a bomb here? Did you?”

Worried, Mallory’s gaze flew to the front of the house, checking every foot, then back to Tripp.

“You’d better tell him,” she warned. “If a bomb goes off, I can’t be responsible for what he does to you.”

Tripp shook his head furiously, fear pulsating from him. “I swear I didn’t plant a bomb,” he said, looking more miserable than he had the day of the bombing, if that were possible. “I wouldn’t have hidden in the bushes if I had. I have to stay alive to get my daughter back.”

Mallory believed him. She also understood the desperation he felt. She would have done anything to rescue her sister, if she’d just had the chance. But that didn’t mean she was going to put up with him ignoring the conditions of his probation.

Watching Shamus let Tripp fall back into the snow as he cuffed him, she moved around to kneel in front of them.

“Congratulations, Mr. Tripp. It takes a lot to irritate me, but you’ve officially done it.”

“I’m impressed,” Shamus told him. “I’ve been trying to irritate her for almost a month, and it still hasn’t worked.”

“You’re losing focus,” Mallory said, lifting her head to look up at him.

He winked, just to keep her off balance, and then patted their captive down for weapons. Nothing. Shamus gave their surroundings another glance. No backpacks that he could see. He jerked Tripp up by the back of his collar. “So why are you here?”

“I was ordered to come! My daughter’s kidnapper—he told me to pretend I was a reporter, to try to get information about you. That was all I was supposed to do.”

“How do you get in contact with him?” Shamus asked.

“I can’t tell you. He says he’ll kill me if I talk to anyone.”

Mallory pursed her lips. Tripp had just admitted he was holding back information about who was using him to threaten Shamus. She needed to get it out of him.

“What about your daughter, Mr. Tripp?” she asked. “Don’t you want to tell us what you know so we can save her?”

“I came here and did what the man said. He’s going to let her go. He promised.”

“You’re either incredibly naive or unfortunately stupid,” Shamus told him, rising and hauling Tripp to his feet.

As much as Tripp was irritating her, Mallory thought as she also got to her feet, she understood him. Tripp was merely hoping for the best. She understood hope, even if Shamus didn’t. For two days, she had hoped Kelly was merely lost somewhere and would come back home. There was hope—but there was also reality. Some people didn’t come back home, and right now, Tripp didn’t have the luxury of remaining silent, not when a life was at stake.

“You can’t count on the word of a kidnapper, Mr. Tripp,” she said, keeping her tone firm.

Her probationer’s face melted like a chocolate Santa held too long in a child’s hand. “I talked to Tara before I came here. She even said he promised to let her go if I just did what he asked.”

Mallory’s irritation grew. She wasn’t getting through to him. She had to. “Stop living in your fantasy world and tell me who has her, now,” she said, her voice intentionally sharp. She tried to rein in her anger, but couldn’t. “If you don’t do something, the kidnapper could kill her. You’re a father. Act like one.”

She caught sight of Shamus’s eyebrows rising in surprise, but she ignored him, focusing her gaze on Tripp.

Tripp shook his head miserably. “If I do and he finds out, he will kill her. And then he’ll kill me.”

“Fine.” She was done babying Tripp. “This other guy you’re so frightened of can kill you, but I can revoke your probation and spread the word in jail you didn’t give a hoot about your daughter’s life. Take your chances. Who are you more afraid of?”

She walked away, prepared to go immediately to her boss and put everything in motion to put Tripp back in jail. Taking deep breaths, she tried to calm down, but her heart squeezed in fear for Tara. Children should be protected, whether six or sixteen. Tripp needed to be scared. She’d done the right thing.

She hated this job right now.

“Wait!” Tripp called from behind her. She returned to where the two men stood, her back stiffened.

The words poured out of Tripp. “Friday, the kidnapper called me at my new job using my daughter’s cell phone. Didn’t give a name. He had Tara, and if I wanted her back, all I had to do was get the knapsack, gun and hat he left on my back porch, and pretend I was going to bomb the probation department building. I was to leave the knapsack, which was full of papers. I checked. I was supposed to just scare Mr. Burke. If I did that, he would let Tara go.”

Tripp shifted his gaze back and forth over the snow. “But he lied. He must have left another knapsack somewhere in the building and set it off.”

Mallory turned to Shamus. His black eyes communicated he wasn’t buying one word of it. Her? She wasn’t sure what to think.

They could hear sirens in the distance, and Tripp’s eyes widened as he looked at Mallory. “Are you going to revoke my probation? Who will take care of my daughter?”

“I’m not certain about the revocation yet.” She was inclined to believe Tripp, but she’d have to see what happened with the police first. “The detectives and the FBI will need to question you, so you’ll have to go downtown.”

Tripp’s lips tightened together and his eyes squinted. “My cell phone is in my car on the seat,” he said suddenly. “Please get it, Ms. Larsen. I don’t know if the kidnapper will let Tara go for sure, but if she gets free, she’ll try to call me, not the police. If I’m in jail I can’t help her, but you can.”

“Why wouldn’t she call the police?” Shamus asked.

“She just won’t,” Tripp said. “I know her.”

“I’ll help her. I promised.” Mallory turned and headed to Tripp’s car, purposely not looking at Shamus because he’d say the phone was evidence. Do not touch. But it was also the only number Tara Tripp knew to call, her lifeline to her father, and she needed it more than the police.

She found the phone and stashed it in her deep jacket pocket. Seconds later she headed back toward the two men and was about five feet away, when she heard a loud noise crack through the air.

She whipped around, saw nothing. Wondered if it was a car backfiring. Turned back, saw Tripp folded over in the snow, blood soaking through his jacket in the back.

Her mouth opened, and she breathed shallow, short breaths, unable to move. She didn’t understand why. She was in danger of being shot next. Tripp was in danger of being shot again. She should help him get to safety.

But the kidnapper was here….

Shamus grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward his vehicle.

“We’ve got to help Tripp,” she breathed out.

“Do you want to get shot, too?” he growled, pulling hard on her arm. “C’mon!”

Still Mallory hesitated, trying to get to Tripp. Then another shot split the air, so close she could feel it. Gathering her wits, she ran with Shamus for cover. Snow crunched under their feet, and she almost slipped, but Shamus’s strong arm went around her waist and caught her. They ducked in front of his sedan just as the police siren got louder. They’d warn the gunman off. No, wait—she’d heard the sirens before he’d shot Tripp.

The bomber wasn’t afraid of being caught.

As Shamus pulled his Glock and his cell phone out, she sucked in the cold air right down to the bottom of her lungs, praying for God to stop her fear. In four days, she could have died twice. The first time by being in denial that something terrible like a bombing could happen in the peaceful world she’d created for herself, and the second time by letting fear overcome her. She had to get a grip.

The trouble was, she didn’t want to have to. She wanted her serene life back.

She could hear Shamus talking to someone, reporting the shot fired and asking for an ambulance, and then he was off his cell phone and picking up his gun from the ground right by them.

“The police should be here any second. You watch behind us. I’ll watch in front.” He waited until she had changed position and added, “Are you all right?”

She glanced at him. “Of course I’m all right,” she said softly. “There were only two shots fired, and we know where they went. What makes you think I’m not all right?”

“You stopped talking. I figured you must be near death.”

She blinked. He wasn’t grinning, and no twinkle lit his eyes. “You made a joke.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. It must be the shock from the explosion finally setting in.”

“Couldn’t be. I’m too busy saving your life to go into shock.”

“You did,” she said, finding it once again hard to breathe, staring into his eyes. She’d just stood there watching Tripp bleed, and Shamus had pulled her to safety. If he hadn’t, she could have been the next victim. “You saved my life again. Now I really owe you.”