“Yes, ma’am.”
“Could I offer you a Christmas drink?”
“Oh, no, thank you, ma’am. Can’t drink on duty.”
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“No. At first I thought it was one of the nurses, but I’ve seen the nurses. I think not,” she said in a clipped tone. “But when doctors stray, they usually do so in the confines of the hospital. It’s a closed world, a hothouse.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood. “I’ll be on the lookout for a navy- blue Tahoe.”
“The one thing that keeps me from picking up a shotgun and going after him myself is that it’s Christmas Eve—well, Christmas. I simply can’t believe he’d pull a stunt like this on Christmas.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Officer Doak politely took his leave.
He had two and a half hours remaining. He’d planned to go back to headquarters. With the exception of the one drunk on I-64, there wasn’t any traffic. Usually the state police handled I-64, and they had arrived a half hour after Doak. He was close by, so he hadn’t minded heading to the Deedses’ house when he heard the call. For one thing, it staved off boredom and loneliness.
Being unmarried and still under thirty, Officer Doak tried to imagine what he’d do if he were having an affair. If the woman was unmarried herself, he could go to her house, but most people would be with their families. Many people from other places would have been taken in by locals. No one should be alone on Christmas Eve and Christmas.
If it was a quick rendezvous, he supposed they could park under the football or soccer stadium, in a parking lot that was hidden. He slowly circled the university holdings on the west side of business Route 29. Didn’t see a thing except snow.
He rounded by the law school, part of a series of buildings erected from the ’70s onward and sadly out of character with the core of the University of Virginia. Not that they were butt ugly. The shape and proportion of the Darden School and the law school might have even been welcome in many a Midwestern university, but not here, where things should have been built in Mr. Jefferson’s style. Jefferson, could he have seen the new additions, would have suffered cardiac arrest.
Officer Doak’s heart ticked fine, but he possessed enough aesthetic sense to recognize a mistake—a quite expensive one, too—when he saw it.
Driving out of the university, he came up behind Barracks Road Shopping Center, which was still central to economic life in Charlottesville. The windshield wipers clicked as he turned into the center. One lone snow- covered car reposed in the parking lot in front of Barnes Noble, which was a real gathering spot during business hours.
He drove up, got out, wiped off the license plates to be sure. It was Dr. Bryson Deeds’s Tahoe, all right. He wiped off a window. No one was inside.
Snow fell on his nose. He pulled his cap down tighter around his head, but it offered little by way of warmth. He climbed back into the squad car, his feet already cold. He drove along the main row of buildings. Even with the overhang, the winds swept snow inward. He passed the small fountain areas and noticed a lone figure wearing a Santa Claus hat sitting on a bench. He kept the motor running, got out, and identified Bryson, throat cleanly sliced.
Doak immediately called Rick.
The minute the sheriff heard Doak’s voice, he was wide awake. “What?”
“Dr. Bryson Deeds is dead. M.O. like the monks.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Rick arrived in fifteen minutes. He lived up the hill behind Barracks Road but drove cautiously. “Thank God no one’s around.”
“Right,” Doak replied.
Rick wished he’d put on more layers. “Until the coroner examines the corpse, we can’t assume it’s the same killer.”
“Copycat?”
“Possible. The variation in this murder is that Bryson is not a monk.”
Officer Doak informed him of Racquel’s call and his visit to the house.
Rick had called the ambulance squad and managed to rouse one person from the forensics team, since the rest were out of town. He checked his watch.
“Should I go back to his wife?”
“Not yet. You’re off duty in an hour. I’ll do it.”
The young man blew air from his cheeks. “Thanks, Chief. I hate that.”
“I do, too, but sometimes you can pick up useful information.”
Officer Doak looked at Bryson’s corpse and said, “Arrogant bastard.”
“Could be, but he was also one of the best cardiologists on the Atlantic seaboard. I expect his fan club consisted of those he’d saved and few others. Is the Tahoe unlocked?”
“Didn’t check.”
Rick pushed his coat sleeve back to check the time again. “The coroner will have to take a crowbar to pry him off the bench.”
Neither of them could help it—they laughed a little.
“Want me to go through the Tahoe?”
“In a minute.”
The young man folded his arms across his chest, stamped his feet a little. “Coop and I were talking about the murders. The killer believes he’s unassailable, which could be dangerous.”
Rick nodded. “Anyone that arrogant, if pinned down, will try to kill again.”
“Or hire an expensive lawyer.”
“Maybe,” Rick said, then continued, “but I’ve been a cop long enough to know that whoever is doing this has a gargantuan ego. The offense to that ego of being outsmarted by a ‘dumb cop’ like me or you or Coop, I’m telling you, is going to make the son of a bitch snap.”
26
It was a long night on top of Afton Mountain. After the simple Christmas Eve service infused with Gregorian chants, the brothers wished one another the compliments of the season and most retired to their cells. A few intended to enter into the spirit of the holiday. Bottles were liberated from safe places, with toasts quietly lifted to the order, to increased happiness, and, of course, to the departed.
Brother Morris asked Brother George to share a libation with him. The two men sat on a comfortable sofa. Brother Morris could take only so much denial of creature comforts. Given his girth, a supportive place to park was more than understandable, as was the heating pad on which he placed his aching feet. With the bulk they supported, it was a wonder he wasn’t crippled.
“Merry Christmas, George.” He lifted his glass.
George lifted his glass of excellent scotch. “The same to you, Brother.”
“Can this place be any more beautiful than it has been these last two days with the snow falling? The red cardinal sat on the outstretched hand of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother. A slash of color against pristine white.” Brother Morris savored the Johnnie Walker Blue Label. “Somehow it is easier to go without the enticements of modern life when one is surrounded by such beauty.”
“Yes, it is. Can’t help it, though, my mind goes back to my childhood Christmases. Usually snowed in Maine. We had a lot of fun.”
“Your sisters will carry on the tradition.”
“All except for getting dead drunk.” Brother George laughed.
“I’m glad we have this quiet time together. I went over the books last night.”
Brother George snorted. “Brother Luther will take offense. He balances those books to the penny.”
“No, not those books. Our books.”
“Oh.” Brother George’s sharp features changed, a feral alertness crept into his face.
“We’re missing ten thousand dollars. What happened?”
Uncharacteristically, Brother George gulped his entire drink, then poured another, knowing full well that a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue skated close to two hundred dollars a pop. “Yes, well, I was going to tell you about that after Christmas. No point in ruining a holiday.”
“Tell me now.” Brother Morris oozed warmth and understanding.