CHRISTMAS COPS ANTHOLOGY  

EXCERPT

MERRY'S CHRISTMAS

by

Mallory Kane

PROLOGUE

 Merry Ducharmes Randolph stood in the cramped viewing room behind a darkened one-way mirror, and clutched her brother-in-law Lawrence's hand. The smell of stale cigarettes and sweat turned her mild morning sickness into full-blown nausea.
     Two police detectives and an assistant District Attorney all towered over her, and the Randolph's family lawyer stood on Lawrence's other side.
     She was the only woman in the room, a realization that clogged her throat with unreasoning fear.
     Unreasoning, because as they'd been reminding her all morning, she shouldn't be afraid. She was surrounded by good guys.
     "I think I'm going to be sick," she whispered to her deceased husband's brother, cradling her pregnant belly with her free hand.
     Lawrence squeezed her fingers comfortingly and whispered in her ear. "Hang on just a few more minutes, Merry."
     "Here we go," a male voice said.
     Before Merry could identify who'd spoken, the dark wall in front of her turned bright. She gasped, startled, even though she'd been carefully instructed about how the one-way mirror worked. 
     Six men, each holding a cardboard square with a number on it, stared straight at her through the grimy, streaked barrier that looked like a mirror to them.
     She shrank back, tightening her grip on Lawrence's clammy hand. Rationally, she knew they couldn't see her, but her response wasn't rational, it was visceral. Her pulse reverberated like a jackhammer through her, disturbing the tiny life inside her.
     She was facing the Widow-Maker. As his only surviving victim, she had the responsibility of identifying him.
     Her gaze went straight to him. As long as she lived, she would never forget his long face with its prominent chin, the neatly trimmed hair, the small, squinty eyes. And his hands. She shuddered. Those bony, knuckly hands had been on her throat. Now they clasped a card with the Number Two on it.
     For an instant she was thrown back in time, his heavy body pressed against hers, his voice in her ears, the cold barrel of his gun against her temple.
     Lawrence's fingers tensed around hers, the gesture causing her eyes to sting with gratitude.  He'd been so sweet to her since Zach's accident, and even more so since the attack. She choked back a sob.
     "Take your time," the lawyer said.
     "I don't need any time," she said, exerting a huge effort to sound calm and strong.
     Lawrence stiffened beside her. "Don't rush. I know you're scared."
     "It's Number Two."  Merry heard the detectives' coats rustle as they shifted. Were they relaxing in relief, or stirring in concern?
     It didn't matter. She was right. "Number Two," she said firmly.
     ADA Waverly reached for the door behind them. "Thank you, Mrs. Randolph. I'm sorry you had to be subjected to this."
     As the men parted to let her exit the room first, Lawrence paused in front of Waverly.
     "Will Merry's ID convict this monster of murder?" he asked.
     Waverly shook his head. "We still have no concrete proof that he had a gun, and we can't connect him to the other three victims."
     "So he's going to walk?" Lawrence's voice rose.
     "We'll get him for attempted robbery and assault."
     "I'm sure they did all they could, Lawrence," Merry said, breathing in cool, conditioned air. It helped her queasy stomach to be out of that room, and away from him.
     "Thank you Mr. Waverly." Hanging on to Lawrence's hand, she forced herself to smile at the ADA before turning to her ex-brother-in-law.
     Lawrence's eyes were puffy, and his fake tan didn't hide his double chin, but his resemblance to her husband still sent a tiny pang of sadness through her, even six months after Zach's helicopter had crashed.  Lawrence was the black sheep of the Randolph family, but he'd always been nice to her.
     "Lawrence, I can't thank you enough--" she started, but he froze, his eyes focused beyond her, his expressive face draining of color.
     "What's the matter?" Her heart fluttered, and the precious life inside her kicked restlessly.
     He snaked his arm around her. "Let's get out of here," he snapped, pulling her toward the exit doors.
     Merry resisted, her eyes following his alarmed gaze.
     "Oh, God," she croaked. Terror sucked the breath from her lungs. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't move.
     Walking toward her, handcuffed and led by two detectives, was the man who had attacked her--the Widow-Maker, Harry Bonner.
     "They promised--" she whispered through numb lips. "They promised he wouldn't come near me."
     As if he'd heard her, Bonner looked toward them and smiled, an ugly grimace that engulfed her in terror.
     The taller detective cursed and jerked Bonner around, leading him back the way they'd come.
     Lawrence pulled her close, his body trembling in reaction. "Come on, Merry."
     She felt light-headed. Fear bubbled up into her chest, threatening to erupt in a panicked scream. She clamped her jaw. She was safe, she reminded herself. She was with Lawrence, and Bonner was in custody. 
     She let Lawrence lead her out to his car. She'd much rather have had Zach's strong arms around her, or her twin sister's comforting embrace. But her husband was dead, and her sister was spending the last week of September in Banff.
     Thank goodness she could count on Lawrence.

CHAPTER ONE

Police Detective Trevor Adkins jabbed at another button on the radio, muttering curses under his breath.  It was Christmas Eve. Even the rock station was playing Christmas music.  He switched it off. He was nearly there anyhow.
     He exited the interstate two hours north of Atlanta, onto a two lane road, headed toward the Twenty-third precinct's safe house. His eyes skimmed over a couple of houses sporting Christmas door decorations and lights, trying to ignore the rising rhythm of his pulse, and the worm of sadness that gnawed at his heart.
     Damn, he hated Christmas.
     Ten minutes later, as he turned onto the street where the safe house was located, a Ducharmes delivery truck passed him going the opposite direction. He eyed it in his rearview mirror. That could hardly be a coincidence. His witness's family owned Ducharmes Boutiques.
     He reached for his cell phone and pressed his boss's speed-dial code.
     "Captain, what's up? A Ducharmes delivery truck just passed me, coming from the safe house."
     The captain sighed. "The perils of babysitting the rich and famous. Apparently Mrs. Randolph needed a few things. Don't worry, Trevor. Sims rode shotgun. The delivery was legit."
     "Yeah, but it was also very visible."
     "The mayor's office called me. Think I had any choice?"
     Trevor pocketed his phone and arched his neck to ease the tension. The holidays always boosted his stress level.
     He'd been glad to do a favor for fellow detective Roger Stokes by switching duty schedules with him. Stokes had a family. Christmas was important to him.
     Guarding witnesses scheduled to testify was a boring task.  The witnesses were usually consumed with worry about their testimony, and the most exciting event was likely to be a good ball game on TV. Guarding a spoiled heiress would up the annoyance factor slightly, but not beyond what Trevor could handle.
     His charge, Merry Ducharmes Randolph, was the only surviving victim of the Widow Maker, an inaccurate but dramatic name given by the press to the elusive killer who had stalked and killed three widows within the past eight months.
     But they'd only been able to charge Harry Bonner, Merry's attacker, with attempted robbery and assault. As badly as the Atlanta PD wanted to solve the Widow Maker murders, they'd been unable to positively link Bonner to the other three women. He had no priors, and turned up no hits on either the Combined DNA Index System (CODIS) or the FBI's Automated Fingerprint Identification System (AFIS).
     Trevor parked the cover vehicle, a white pickup sporting a fake plumber's logo, in the driveway of the nondescript house next to Detective Amanda Moss's van.
     Turning up the collar of his jacket against the rapidly falling temperature, he started up the walk.
     Detective Moss opened the front door and hurried out. "Hi Trevor, nice to have you on the case. I've got to run if I'm going to get the kids to school on time. I'll see you tonight."
     Trevor waved as he stepped up to the front door and knocked briskly.
     The door opened a crack. "Yes?"
     He scowled at the narrow strip of face he could see. "Detective J. T. Adkins. I'll be your new day shift detective," he said dryly. "Replacing Roger Stokes."
     "Could you show me your badge, please?"
     Trevor sighed. He couldn't fault the woman for being careful. He jerked his badge out of his pocket and held it up.
     After a few seconds, then the door closed and the chain rattled.
     Trevor glanced around as he waited. This was certainly an isolated neighborhood, perfect for a safe house. It looked like the developer had gone bankrupt in the middle of the project. There were only a couple of other houses completed, and those appeared to be deserted.
     When the door finally opened, Trevor turned and ran slap into a pair of wide green eyes under a red Santa hat. Black hair framed a heart-shaped face, and a lovely, sensual mouth showed a hint of white teeth above a determined chin.
     The Santa hat was a shock. His usual aversion to anything connected with Christmas warred with an unwelcome stirring of lust as he took in the faint pink glow of the woman's cheeks and her hesitant smile.
     So this was the widow.  She was familiar, and not just from TV news spots. He'd noticed those lovely emerald-green eyes before.
     He scowled and concentrated on his assignment. "You got word that I'm taking Detective Stokes' place over Christmas?"
     "Yes." She took a step backward, still hanging onto the door. "But Amanda will be back tonight, right?" The quaver in her voice matched the wariness in her eyes.
     "That's right."
     A flicker of relief passed across her face. He frowned down at her, confused for an instant, before it dawned on him.
     She was afraid of him. Of course. He'd seen that look before, usually in rape victims. A fearful mistrust of men that for some victims, never went away.
     He quelled an odd urge to apologize to her for invading her privacy. Then he nearly laughed at himself for even considering it. She was under his protection, and he would never violate her trust. She'd figure that out soon enough, then she'd relax.
     He stepped past her into the modest living room. The sight that greeted him almost knocked him to his knees.
     Every square inch of floor space was covered with Christmas. A sea of gold Ducharmes Christmas bags overflowing with ornaments, flowed into dozens of red and pink poinsettias in brightly wrapped pots. To his left, dwarfing the heavily draped picture window, stood a monstrous Christmas tree, aglow with white twinkling lights.
     "What the--" The damn woman must have cleaned out her store's Christmas department.
     A staggering horror built inside him and streaked like electricity out to his fingers and toes.  He felt the blood drain from his face.  The smell of mulberry and cedar turned his stomach. 
     Images he'd banished to the dark side of his heart swirled around him--long bright corridors, sympathetic faces, the low soft lights of the hospital's chapel.
     Trevor squeezed his eyes shut.  He'd never passed out in his life, but there was always a first time.  Grabbing the back of the couch, he sucked in a deep breath as he struggled to ground himself in the present.
     "What the hell is all this?" he growled when he could finally speak.
     "I--I asked the store to send over some Christmas decorations. No one had decorated the house." Her voice went from shaky to defiant in the space of those few words.
     "This is not a store window. It's a safe house," he said harshly.
     He heard her take an impatient breath. "It's Christmas Eve."
     "So that's what the damn truck was delivering." The captain was a coward. He knew Trevor's history. He could have warned him.
     Well, the stuff would just have to go back. He would not be subjected to Christmas. He'd taken this job to avoid the damn holiday and the tragic memories attached to it.
     He turned, prepared to take the heat for ruining her little Christmas decorating party.
     "Oh, God--" His chest tightened and his head spun as he took his first good look at the young, glowing woman before him. He gripped the back of the couch more tightly and fought the surge of dizziness and gut-wrenching nausea that broad-sided him.
     "You're pregnant!"
     Confused, Merry Randolph stared at the detective's chiseled features. His mouth was compressed so tightly the corners of his lips were white.
     "Well, of course I'm pregnant. How could you possibly not know?"  Her every move had been chronicled by the media for the past nine months. "My husband's helicopter accident, then the attack, have made me the favorite local news filler for the entire Atlanta area these past months." She tasted the bitterness that colored her voice.
     Trevor Adkins didn't move a muscle.  He just stood there, his face drained of color, his eyes squeezed shut.
     "Detective, are you all right?  You look like you've seen a ghost."
     He wiped a hand over his face and shot her a hard glance, then turned away and shrugged out of his black leather jacket.
     With his back to her, he didn't seem quite so intimidating. She'd felt comfortable with Detective Stokes, a big bear of a man whose size hid a sweet, fatherly disposition.
     Detective Adkins had been here less than five minutes, and already her emotions were in turmoil.
      Despite her unease around men since her attack, she couldn't ignore her new bodyguard's body.  She'd thought his jacket had shoulder pads. It didn't. Those shoulders were all his.
     Faded jeans hugged his long, sturdy legs so perfectly that a few designers she knew would be green with envy. A shoulder holster cris-crossed his black T-shirt, emphasizing the ripples of muscles in his back and arms.  His movements were smooth, with no wasted effort, as he checked his weapon. 
     He should have been a model.
     No.  Merry corrected herself.  This man was too predatory, too tense to be comfortable on a runway.  He'd probably break the photographer's camera after one minute of orders to turn and gyrate and pose.  She almost smiled. Touching her mouth, she tried to remember the last time she'd felt like smiling.
     He angled his head, as if he'd sensed her scrutiny, then rounded on her. "Do you realize you placed yourself in jeopardy by having all this delivered?"
     She recoiled at the fury in his voice.
     "That Ducharmes truck might as well have sported a banner. This Way to the Witness." He shook his head, his voice as cold as the wind outside.
     Merry's heart pounded and she bit her lip. She should have thought of that. But in her defense, this was Ducharmes busiest time of year. "Ducharmes has trucks making deliveries all over the city."
     The detective shot her a disgusted look. "Not in abandoned neighborhoods."
     She had no response for that.
     "I'm here to protect you from a suspected killer, not deal with a house full of Christmas crap. This is serious business."
     Frustration burned in Merry's stomach, then morphed into determination. She'd never had a real, homey Christmas. Not once. But this year, the worst year of her life, she would, for her baby's sake. She was certain her little guy would be born this week, and no matter what happened, he would find Christmas waiting for him.
     "Detective, I'm aware of how serious my situation is. A man who may be a serial killer is out on bail, and he knows I can identify him." She lifted her chin. "I can only imagine what you think of me. But if I stay in this house, it will be decorated for my baby's first Christmas." To her utter dismay, she felt a tear spill over and drip down her cheek. 
     Stop playing havoc with my hormones, little guy!
     She flicked the tear away. She would not cry in front of Scrooge McCop. She turned her back and picked up a crystal ornament from one of the Ducharmes bags. "I apologize if guarding me is keeping you from Christmas with your wife and children," she said as she stretched to hang the ornament.
     He sucked in a long breath. Her shoulders tensed.
     "You're not keeping me from anything. I'm divorced. I don't have chil--"
     He practically choked on the word children.  She turned and caught a haunting sadness clouding his eyes.
     His sadness pierced her heart like an arrow. She'd unwittingly tapped into a private place inside him, a place she was sure no one ever saw. With a flash of insight, she realized that Detective Adkins wasn't just a Scrooge who hated the holidays. His gruff manner hid a tragedy--a tragedy that centered around Christmas and children. His children?
     Trevor couldn't look at Merry. The single tear glistening on her cheek had seeped past his defenses.
     How had he forgotten she was pregnant?
     He remembered now where he'd seen her before. She'd been in the precinct to ID Bonner a few months ago. She'd been accompanied by a medium-height man who looked like an alcoholic and who was very attentive to her. She was memorable for two reasons. Her sparkling, emerald green eyes, and her reaction when the detectives had accidentally led Bonner out into the room right in front of her.
     How had he noticed her eyes and not her pregnancy? He knew how, of course. He'd pushed that observation into the dark place where he hid all the things that hurt.
     He brushed a hand across his eyes. The decorations, the Christmas lights, her radiant face, made them burn.
     He fought to regain control. Forcing his unruly emotions back where they belonged, he flopped casually down onto the couch and leaned back.
     "So Merry Randolph, take me through the night of your attack."