'Tis the Season for Murder: A Christmas Caper, 6/7
Title: 'Tis the Season for Murder: A Christmas Caper
Author: tripatch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: A mall Santa is murdered and Nick is on the case. The problem? Monroe seems to think it might be a real Santa.
Notes: Thanks to be_merry for the quick beta and my brother for indulging me when I ask about police procedure for my fics. ♥!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Author’s Notes
Teaser
“Mrs. Spicer, where were you the morning Kirk Lingers was killed?” Nick opened, staring at the woman. Her tidy, neat appearance looked rushed today, the make-up smudged around her face and chin, and her hair not as sleek pulled back into a careless bun. She was fidgeting, long fingers tapping a disjointed rhythm on the tabletop. She glanced at him, staring at the door nervously. Her face kept flickering into the same beak he had seen from last night before smoothing out into human features again.
“Mrs. Spicer?” he prompted.
“I was here,” she snapped. “You know that as well as I do, Detective Burkhardt.”
He pulled out the M.E.’s report. “Mr. Lingers was killed at 8:00 in the morning. Your husband was picked up at 5:30 and kept in custody until 11:30, when you logged into the station. Where were you then?”
She crossed her arms, shoulders hunched and too thin, her thin neck straining too prominently against her thin skin. Her eyes sharpened and narrowed. “I was waiting for my husband to come pick me up at the office before we went to visit my mother. I had to pick some files up from work and take care of some clients before we left. When he didn’t show up, I was worried. Your station called me at 9:00 or so to let me know and I spent that time trying to find a cab to come down here.”
“Is there a record of your cab trip?” Hank asked.
She shook her head. “No, I paid in cash and I didn’t keep the receipt.” She started in her chair and turned to glance at the door again before turning back to them. “How long is this going to take?”
“In a hurry to be someplace, Mrs. Spicer?” Hank asked casually. “I thought you were going to visit your mother.”
“There were some… complications,” she said hesitantly. “We weren’t expecting a police investigation to hold us up.”
Nick leaned back and surveyed her speculatively. She was angry, that much was obvious from the accusing glare she was throwing their way, but there was something else about her body language and manner, the tenseness in her shoulders and the stiffness of her posture. It was almost protective, or worried about someone or something. He watched her carefully. The constant flickering of her face was happening more rapidly now, as if the stress of whatever she was hiding was causing her control to waver. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Have you ever been to Forest Park, Mrs. Spicer?” he asked.
She tossed her head back, startled eyes catching his. He casually scratched at the bandages hidden beneath his shirt sleeve, where her talons had raked him. She stared at his hand, eyes wide in her pale face. Just as quickly, she smoothed her expression and shook her head.
“No,” she said firmly. “I haven’t the time to go hiking through miles of woods in the middle of nowhere.”
Nick knew she was lying, but something about her words niggled at him, sparking ideas setting alight something he had missed. He let Hank take over the questioning, running through the facts in his mind and feeling them lock into place. Miles of woods… He felt his body still as a jolt went through him as the last piece slid inside.
“COPD,” he murmured to himself. Hank cut whatever he was asking off short and stared at Nick.
“What?”
Nick looked at him intently. “Mr. Alcuse had COPD,” he said. “Ms. Gingrich said that he had gone out to the planned area for the reservation with volunteers, but there’s no way he could have made it through those trails with his condition. Dr. Harper said that even the slightest bit of exercise would have tired him out.”
Hank’s eyebrows jumped. “You think she was lying? But why?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” he said, jumping out of his seat. He opened the door and called Wu over, jerking a thumb toward Mrs. Spicer, who was staring at them anxiously. “Keep her here as long as you can.”
“No!” Mrs. Spicer cried out suddenly. She jumped up and rushed toward him, held back by Hank’s arm. “No, please, you can’t do this. I need to go, it’s almost--” She cut herself off abruptly, lips tight and pale.
“Almost?” Nick repeated.
“Please,” she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Please, you have to let me go. I can’t-please.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Spicer, but unless there’s something you’d like to tell me, we’re keeping you here,” Nick said.
She stared at him for a moment, wavering in indecision, before flinging herself into the chair and bowing her head over her crossed arms. The detectives stared at her as she softly began sobbing. The sound was mournful, misery crawling up Nick’s spine and settling into an uncomfortable feeling deep in his chest, like skin pulled too tight and hot over a healing wound. They shut the door quietly behind them.
“We can’t keep her for much longer,” Wu cautioned. “Not unless you guys are charging her with something.”
“Not yet,” Nick said. “Just keep her as long as you can.”
“Will do,” Wu said in acknowledgement.
“In the meantime, let’s find our elf and ask her why she’s been so naughty,” Hank quipped.
“You get on that,” Nick said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m going to go check something out.”
“Okay,” Hank said uncertainly. “Sure you don’t need any help?”
“I got this.”
Hank nodded doubtfully, walking toward the desk to make some calls. “Alright. Just be careful.”
Nick didn’t bother saying anything in reply, just waved over his shoulder as he ducked out of the station to make a phone call.
“Do you have some sort of Grimm-sense that lets you know when I’m in the middle of something, or is that just your natural charming personality?” Monroe answered crankily.
Nick ignored him, glancing around to make sure there was no one listening. Everyone seemed pre-occupied with their own phones, absorbed in tapping away text messages or chatting loudly with their friends. He lowered his voice just in case, ducking into a small alcove used by smokers on their break. “Last night, you said you smelled cinnamon, but not the cinomolgi.”
“Yeah,” Monroe said slowly.
“So they’re different smells?”
“Definitely,” Monroe said. Nick could hear the faint sounds of him opening cupboards and rummaging around his silverware drawer. “The cinomolgi smell like birds, kind of musty, with just a faint scent of cinnamon from those teas and stuff they’re always drinking. This was pure cinnamon.”
“A lot of it?”
“Is this important?”
“Very,” Nick confirmed. “Was there a lot of the cinnamon around?”
The sounds stopped, as if Monroe were paused in thought. “Probably. Definitely more than your McCormick’s jar of spices, that’s for sure. It was enough that it overpowered the scent of that one that dive-bombed us.”
“Thank you,” Nick said quickly.
“Whoa, whoa, what’s this about?”
“Think about it,” Nick said, voice taut with excitement, “What do cinomolgi build their nests out of?”
Monroe was quiet for a second, then said in a disbelieving voice, “There’s a nest? They have a nest?”
“There must be, somewhere in the forest. Mrs. Spicer wasn’t trying to kill us, she was protecting her children.” All the little pieces that hadn’t been adding up suddenly fit into place. Mrs. Spicer’s body language, which had seemed so familiar to him while he was questioning her, wasn’t one of a person suspected of murder, but of a protective mother. She was trying to hide her young, not a guilty conscience.
“Whoa, so we just-wait, but how did you find it in the first place?”
“The woman who found the first body, Lisa Gingrich, told us about the preservation. My guess is she knew that the nest was there and sent me there hoping that I would be killed.”
“Or wouldn’t be,” Monroe pointed out. “Think about it. Even if you lived, which you did, your attention would be on your mama cinomolgus and not her.”
“Either way, it means that the nest is unprotected right now, and how much you want to bet that she’s going to be going after it?”
“I’m on it,” Monroe said.
Nick hesitated. “You don’t have to…”
“Please. You know how I said cinnamon birds are almost extinct? This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me.”
“Just be careful. I don’t know what she is, but if she killed the santas, I’m betting she’s not human.”
“Neither am I,” Monroe reminded him. There was a click as he hung up, and Nick stared at the phone for a moment before pocketing it. The light was already fading fast in the west, winter’s grasp making herself known in the minutes stolen from daytime, and it would be dark sooner than he liked. He stared at the sun disappearing behind the buildings before shaking himself and jogging back up the steps to the station. He found Hank pulling on his jacket, about to leave his desk.
“Any luck?”
Hank shook his head. “Nada. Some officers went by the address she gave us and no one was there-the place doesn’t even look like it’s been lived in. I put out an APB on her and a description of her vehicle. They’ll let us know if anything comes up. Anything on your end?”
“Dead end,” Nick said. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You, too,” Hank said.
Nick waited until he was gone before grabbing his keys and driving toward Forest Park, hoping he wasn’t too late.
He found Monroe waiting for him at the park entrance, pacing nervously.
“I think I found the nest,” he greeted Nick as soon as he pulled up. “It’s in that shack we saw where the reservation is supposed to be. I think something’s about to happen-the scent of cinnamon was actually stronger this time.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“There’s a man there, a cinomolgus. I kept to the edges so he couldn’t see me.”
“Good work,” Nick complimented him, already headed into the woods. Branches slapped against his arms and legs as he pushed his way through, following the evidence of Monroe’s trail. The ground was uneven under his feet and he kept stumbling, but pushed onward as fast as he could to the clearing. It had taken him longer to get here than he had thought, the sun long since pushed under the horizon. Only the knowledge that Monroe was watching over it had comforted him.
The clearing was the same as it had been when they had seen it last, the shack still half-crumpled in the middle, looking deserted. He shot a questioning look to Monroe.
“He’s still in there,” Monroe said after a moment. “Did you find the woman?”
“No, she was-”
Nick didn’t have a chance to finish the thought as something heavy slammed against him, pushing him to the ground. He hit with his shoulder, his head ricocheting against the ground and leaving him dazed. He heard the sound of a scuffle, then a low growl, and shook off his confusion to stand. Monroe was pinned to the ground by a bloated, green body, barely keeping its spindly arms from bringing a set of wicked claws to his face.
He drew his gun and aimed, shouting, “Freeze!”
The figure looked up and Nick recognized Lisa Gingrich’s features hidden among the hideous visage, nose flattened and small, more like the snout of an animal. Her eyes were glowing yellow in the darkness, nearly overshadowed by two thick brows that flew out from her face. She snarled and jumped up, moving quicker than his eye could follow.
“What the hell was that?” Monroe said, staring at Nick.
Nick helped him up, scanning the treefront. “That was whatever’s been killing the santas. I saw it in the books, but I couldn’t make out the name.”
A sudden feint to the left had Nick twisting just in time to catch her moving along the branches. He fired off a shot that echoed into the forest.
“We’ve got more company,” Monroe informed him. “Mr. Spicer just came out to see what’s going on.”
“Dammit,” said Nick. “We can’t risk him leaving the nest undefended. Can you distract her long enough for me to make it there?”
“Think so,” Monroe said, shaking his head until it morphed into the wolfish features of his true form. “I’ll meet you there.”
Nick nodded, waiting for a count of three before running toward the shack. Mr. Spicer saw him coming and retreated. He heard the sounds of a fight behind him and sent a brief hope up that Monroe would be fine. The shack loomed closer and he pushed his legs harder, ignoring the stitch that bloomed up in his side and the burning of his lungs catching gasps of too cold air. When he was a foot away he slid, skidding to a stop inside. Mr. Spicer was staring at him, backing up until he was in the corner, where Nick could see a delicate nest made out of cinnamon bark woven together in a complicated pattern. Nestled inside rested four fragile eggs.
“Please, please don’t hurt-”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Nick cut him off, leaning out the door. He shouted, “Monroe! Clear!” as loud as he could.
There was a sudden yelp and Nick feared the worst before he saw Monroe running toward the shack. The Grinch had vanished again, but the prickling of Nick’s senses told him that it wasn’t gone completely. Monroe made it to the door of the pitiful defense, bending over and leaning his hands on his knees as he gulped in air.
“What did you say this thing was?”
“I didn’t,” Nick said. “But it hates Christmas, green, and starts with a G, so-”
Monroe managed to hold up a finger and gave him a warning look. “If you say Grinch, I swear to God, I will never let you drink another beer in my house again.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Spicer said in his high, reedy voice. “What’s going on?”
“We’re here to protect you and your young,” Nick said, not unkindly. “That thing wants to kill you and I’m pretty sure you know why.”
The sudden wash of surprise on Mr. Spicer’s face confirmed it. There was a sudden rustle of trees that carried easily over the empty meadow to their position. The Grinch was moving.
“I’ll go east,” Monroe said after he caught his breath, already headed in that direction.
Nick caught his sleeve, pulling him back without glancing at him, still searching the trees for any sign of life. “No! She’s trying to split us up and leave the nest undefended.”
“Well, what should we do?” Monroe said, sniffing the air. “I can’t catch a whiff of her, not with the cinnamon. Are we just going to wait?”
“Unless you’ve got any better ideas,” Nick said.
They heard Mr. Spicer moaning behind them, clucking softly to the eggs and letting out little caws of sadness. The woods seemed gloomier than they had the night before, a fog swirling in and dusting the evergreen branches gray with mist. Minutes crept past in a tense silence, waiting for the other’s move. Nick concentrated on breathing evenly; he could hear Monroe letting out heavy breaths beside him.
“We’ve got to do something,” Monroe hissed. “She can wait us out as long as it takes.”
He was right, Nick knew, and he cursed the fact that he couldn’t call for back-up. Her vengeance could last longer than their vigilance, and sooner or later, one of them would slip and leave an opening for her to attack. He didn’t know if he could hold her off, not while still protecting the nest and Mr. Spicer. He cursed under his breath.
“Do you think you can outrun her?” Nick asked Monroe.
“Maybe. She’s fast and I’m out of practice, but I should be able to,” Monroe replied with some consideration.
“Don’t attack, just feint toward the woods and circle around. Try to draw her out and I’ll see if I can get a shot off. Stay in the open so I can get a clear shot.”
“Got it,” Monroe said. He ducked out of the ramshackle building and sniffed the air, before sprinting toward the edge of the woods, still ghostly in the moonlit fog. There was a sudden blur of motion, then a streak of green as the Grinch rushed out from behind a thick copse of trees, headed toward him. Before Nick could squeeze the trigger, a loud screech broke through the air. He looked up, distracted by the sudden intrusion, and saw Monroe and the Grinch do the same.
A fierce bird, majestic in flight, swooped low over the Grinch, clawing at her head. The Grinch dove to the ground and rolled away, hissing and running toward the woods. Another screech like a falcon finding her prey, and the cinomolgus plunged downward again, this time scoring a hit judging by the fierce cry of pain from the Grinch. She disappeared into the woods again, holding her shoulder with one hand. The cinomolgus hovered at the edges, flapping her winged arms as she searched for a way through the dense knotting of forest. With a last bellowing call, she soared toward the shack, landing gracefully at the door front just as Monroe ran up, panting.
“Mrs. Spicer,” Nick said with some surprise.
She barely acknowledged him, rushing toward her husband and nest. “It’s time,” she said, her voice jumping like the uneven course of a bird in flight.
Before either Monroe or Nick could ask what she meant, they heard the sounds of cracking, weak at first, then gaining in strength. They watched as the eggs’ began breaking, wrinkles appearing on the outer surface, until a small, jagged piece finally hit the ground. The others followed, tiny beaks appearing and searching blindly toward the light. Mr. and Mrs. Spicer watched anxiously, their hands making nervous, butterfly motions in the air as they coaxed their young with empty gestures. Everyone held their breath until the first chick wobbled out, hitting the edges of the rough cinnamon nest and falling piteously there, cheeping in a strange tune.
They watched the hatchlings yawn and claw weakly at the air, twisting their frail, downy bodies this way and that. Mr. Spicer’s face was as proud as any new parent, that faint expression of awe in his eyes as if he just realized that the tiny new bodies of life moving was his, his to protect and keep and teach. Mrs. Spicer cooed over them, trilling short, soft songs to them and clutching them to her chest to keep warm.
Monroe leaned over and whispered in Nick’s ear, “Ugly little things, aren’t they?”
Nick nudged him hard in the ribs, fighting to keep off the grin that was threatening to erupt all over his face from breaking out completely.
Mr. Spicer broke off his reverent stare of his young and held out a hand to Nick, who took it and gave him a firm handshake.
“Congratulations,” he said.
Mr. Spicer beamed. “Thank you. We heard from some, uh, acquaintances, that you were different, but… thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” Nick assured him.
Mrs. Spicer stopped her soothing melodies and Nick pretended not to notice the tears in her eyes when she looked up at him.
“We have to go,” she said. “She’ll be looking for us again. She’s already killed Stan for granting us this gift, and Mr. Lingers for protecting them. We can’t risk it, and their grandmother deserves to see them before she dies.”
She stood gracefully, walking over and pulling Nick into a hug, then giving an embarrassed Monroe another one for good measure. She looked over with a maternal smile at her children, who were already crying for their mother again, before taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you. We won’t see you again, but thank you for everything you have done for us.”
“We understand.”
“It’s more than that,” she said, staring at Nick intently. She grabbed his hands between her own. They felt cold and clammy against his skin. “We are the last of our kind. If anyone could understand that, it’s you.”
“I’m sorry?” Nick said, gray eyes wide in his pale face. “What do you-”
“We have to go now. I’m sorry,” she was already gathering her chicks, but she paused and locked eyes with Nick again. “Be careful, Grimm. There are those who would be the one to kill the last of the Grimms.”
“Aunt Marie said,” Nick faltered. The two birds gave him a last sad look, shaking their heads as if they were bound not to say more, then disappeared into the woods. Nick started to follow, but Monroe’s hand curled around his bicep stopped him.
“They’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “Following them now would only endanger their family.”
Nick knew he was right, just as he knew it was his duty both as a cop and as a Grimm, despite what the creature world thought of them, to protect those in need. Forcing them to delay so that he could ask questions about the cryptic message Mrs. Spicer had given him would be dangerous, both for him and the new family. It didn’t make it any easier to watch them disappear, only the faint lingering presence of cinnamon left behind. “I can’t be the last Grimm,” Nick said in a hushed voice. “Aunt Marie said there were others like us, like me, out there.”
Monroe looked away, acutely uncomfortable. “There have been rumors that several have died recently. Reapers on the move. I didn’t tell you because they could have been just that-rumors. Had your aunt contacted any before she passed away?”
“No,” Nick said, a sinking feeling deep in his stomach as he recalled Aunt Marie on her deathbed, saying that there weren’t many of them left, that she didn’t talk to the ones that were still out there. She might not have even known about the others. “She said she didn’t keep in touch.”
There was a quiet stillness, the sound of the forest dim and somehow far away, as Nick’s thoughts jumped and stalled. The rest of the world faded away and he was left standing alone on frozen muddy ground, a fog curling around his ankles and obscuring the trees into a foreboding mass. Monroe let him stand there a moment, a regretful spark in his eyes. He reached out as if to touch Nick’s shoulder, then dropped his arm beside his side and let it hang there. Nick cleared his throat, and the silent moment was broken. With a nudge, Monroe nodded toward the car and together they walked toward the road, both lost in their thoughts.
The inside of the Volkswagen felt cramped, all the thoughts and words neither of them were saying filling up the air between them. Nick shifted in his seat, resting his chin in his hand and one elbow leaning against the open window. Monroe had both hands clutched on the steering wheel and kept shooting worried looks his way before focusing on the road again. He briefly thought about telling him that he was fine before dismissing it and concentrating on the rush of deep green frondescence and swirls of gray as they drove past.
He had never given thought to contacting any of the Grimms, but it had been in the back of his mind at all times, that there were others out there like him, others like his Aunt Marie, who could guide him or help if he called. It was like the knowledge that back-up was a radio signal away. He rarely called for it on his job, but it was always there, a safety net in case things went wrong. Though Monroe was always willing to accompany him on his forays into the creature world, as a guide or sidekick, there were questions he couldn’t answer. Were Grimms even human? He could see things other, normal people couldn’t and he somehow doubted that was just a side effect of a finely tuned profiler’s mind. Why did some creatures recognize him immediately, while others didn’t seem to notice at all?
His reverie was broken by Monroe suddenly rumbling something lowly and the car sputtering to an abrupt stop. Nick caught himself on the dashboard and shot a questioning look at Monroe, who was sniffing out the window curiously.
“Timmy fall down the well again?” Nick guessed.
Monroe wrinkled his nose, but otherwise ignored the weak joke. “No, I smell something,” he sniffed again and jerked back. “Something foul.”
“There’s a sewer plant ten miles east,” Nick supplied.
“I know what sewage smells like, and this isn’t it. This is almost,” he hesitated, trying to place the scent, “sweet.”
“Sweet and foul?”
“Like peppermint and rotted fish.”
Nick winced just thinking about it. Sometimes he was glad he didn’t have Monroe’s finely tuned senses. “Do you recognize it?”
“I’ve smelled it before, if that’s what you mean,” said Monroe, his face lost in concentration. “I just can’t place it. It was fainter before, like it was covered up by something stronger.”
Nick looked at him, eyes wide. “Like cinnamon?”
Monroe stared at him.
“The Grinch,” they said in tandem. Monroe jerked the car back into gear as Nick pulled his seatbelt tight across his chest.
“Can you follow it?”
Monroe didn’t grace him with an answer, just leaned his head out the window as far as he could and steered the car one-handed, turning right or left onto backroads and forgotten streets, until they turned into the entrance of a small suburb. The sign at the front was once a neat brick with gold lettering that proclaimed, “Crumpit Hills”. The “u” had fallen off, and the rest had turned brassy with age. The bricks were covered with vines creeping up the edges, doing their best to crumble the mortar. They followed the deserted streets until Monroe stopped the car, turned it around, and parked in front of a run-down house with a neglected lawn and weeds growing thick along the crooked mailbox.
“This is it,” Monroe said, with one last whiff. “This is where the scent ends.”
Nick glanced at the address. “910 Euchariah Lane,” he read. He unbuckled his seat belt and glanced at Monroe. “Wait outside in case she tries to make a break for it.”
Monroe gave an affirmative nod as Nick got out of the car, looking over the house as he approached. The house looked abandoned from the street. The lights were all turned off and it was eerily quiet alongside the street, too far to even hear the sound of passing cars from the main road. Nick crept up to the door, gun held at the ready to his side. He tried the doorknob and the door swung open, creaking lightly. The inside was dark and he watched for signs of movement in the gloom. The house felt uncommonly cold, like a wet chill settling over him. He shivered and pushed the feeling aside. Going into a house by himself wasn’t ideal, but if Lisa Gingrich was here, she was gathering her things to flee. This would be his last chance.
He moved to the opposite of the doorway, swinging his gun in a wide arc as he scanned the room. The room was dark, oddly sparse of furniture, but piled high with boxes of wrapped gifts. They rose in haphazard towers around him. He heard a rustling from one of the backrooms and spun to face it. His elbow caught the edge of one of the pillars and sent the boxes cascading to the floor.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of motion and suddenly the transformed face of Lisa Gingrich was in front of him, tackling him to the ground. His gun went spinning across the floor as he wrestled her back. Her yellow teeth looked sharp and set in uneven rows like a shark’s mouth. Her hair was wild, tangled into a mat around her head, and her entire body was covered in a thick coarse green hair. She raised one hand, covered in scythe-like claws turned black with fungus. He pushed one hand against her shoulder and threw her off. Scrambling backward, he reached for his gun and was knocked off-balance again by a blow to his back. He rolled out of the way just before she scored the wood floor with her claws, leaving three ragged scratches behind.
“You’ve ruined it,” she hissed. “You’ve ruined everything!”
Nick adopted a fighting stance, feet apart, and arms held in front of him ready to dodge. His gaze darted toward the gun, lying unnoticed underneath a cheerful package tied with a red bow. He focused back on the Grinch.
“What did I ruin, Lisa?” he asked.
“It’s going to happen again. And again. Every year, the same old horrible thing! People being cheerful,” she spat out the last word, “and singing. All that noise, nothing but noise all the time!”
Nick circled warily, keeping her in his line of sight as she advanced with threatening steps. His back was nearly to the wall.
“Can’t stand a little music?” he taunted. He began humming under his breath, growing in strength until he was loudly belting out the lyrics of one of the few songs he remembered his mother singing to him on their last Christmas together. “Fahoo fores, dahoo dores, welcome Christmas, Christmas day!”
“Shut up!” Lisa screamed, her eyes glowing yellow with rage. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
She lunged at him. He ducked out of the way, hearing her hit the wall. She whirled on him just as he bent to pick up his gun, aiming it at her from a mid-crouch.
“There’s nowhere to go, Lisa,” he said evenly. “Just give yourself up and come quietly.”
With an incoherent snarl, she leapt toward the fireplace, crouching inside and hauling herself up the chimney using her claws as anchors. Nick jumped after her, ducking his head in and looking up into the narrow flue covered in black soot. The only sign of her was a few ashes that floated to the hearth and left faint smudges on the grey stone.
He ran outside, coming to a halt when he saw Monroe standing with the Grinch in a firm hold, keeping her claws well away from where they could do any danger. He stared.
“Lose something?” Monroe asked with a sardonic twist of his mouth. Lisa gave a little defeated wail, straining at Monroe's hold, and Monroe snarled a warning at her, shaking her for emphasis. Nick grinned at him and holstered his gun, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
“Lisa Gingrich, you are under arrest for the murders of Mr. Stan Alcuse and Kirk Lingers. You have the right to remain silent…”
Author: tripatch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Summary: A mall Santa is murdered and Nick is on the case. The problem? Monroe seems to think it might be a real Santa.
Notes: Thanks to be_merry for the quick beta and my brother for indulging me when I ask about police procedure for my fics. ♥!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Author’s Notes
Teaser
“Mrs. Spicer, where were you the morning Kirk Lingers was killed?” Nick opened, staring at the woman. Her tidy, neat appearance looked rushed today, the make-up smudged around her face and chin, and her hair not as sleek pulled back into a careless bun. She was fidgeting, long fingers tapping a disjointed rhythm on the tabletop. She glanced at him, staring at the door nervously. Her face kept flickering into the same beak he had seen from last night before smoothing out into human features again.
“Mrs. Spicer?” he prompted.
“I was here,” she snapped. “You know that as well as I do, Detective Burkhardt.”
He pulled out the M.E.’s report. “Mr. Lingers was killed at 8:00 in the morning. Your husband was picked up at 5:30 and kept in custody until 11:30, when you logged into the station. Where were you then?”
She crossed her arms, shoulders hunched and too thin, her thin neck straining too prominently against her thin skin. Her eyes sharpened and narrowed. “I was waiting for my husband to come pick me up at the office before we went to visit my mother. I had to pick some files up from work and take care of some clients before we left. When he didn’t show up, I was worried. Your station called me at 9:00 or so to let me know and I spent that time trying to find a cab to come down here.”
“Is there a record of your cab trip?” Hank asked.
She shook her head. “No, I paid in cash and I didn’t keep the receipt.” She started in her chair and turned to glance at the door again before turning back to them. “How long is this going to take?”
“In a hurry to be someplace, Mrs. Spicer?” Hank asked casually. “I thought you were going to visit your mother.”
“There were some… complications,” she said hesitantly. “We weren’t expecting a police investigation to hold us up.”
Nick leaned back and surveyed her speculatively. She was angry, that much was obvious from the accusing glare she was throwing their way, but there was something else about her body language and manner, the tenseness in her shoulders and the stiffness of her posture. It was almost protective, or worried about someone or something. He watched her carefully. The constant flickering of her face was happening more rapidly now, as if the stress of whatever she was hiding was causing her control to waver. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“Have you ever been to Forest Park, Mrs. Spicer?” he asked.
She tossed her head back, startled eyes catching his. He casually scratched at the bandages hidden beneath his shirt sleeve, where her talons had raked him. She stared at his hand, eyes wide in her pale face. Just as quickly, she smoothed her expression and shook her head.
“No,” she said firmly. “I haven’t the time to go hiking through miles of woods in the middle of nowhere.”
Nick knew she was lying, but something about her words niggled at him, sparking ideas setting alight something he had missed. He let Hank take over the questioning, running through the facts in his mind and feeling them lock into place. Miles of woods… He felt his body still as a jolt went through him as the last piece slid inside.
“COPD,” he murmured to himself. Hank cut whatever he was asking off short and stared at Nick.
“What?”
Nick looked at him intently. “Mr. Alcuse had COPD,” he said. “Ms. Gingrich said that he had gone out to the planned area for the reservation with volunteers, but there’s no way he could have made it through those trails with his condition. Dr. Harper said that even the slightest bit of exercise would have tired him out.”
Hank’s eyebrows jumped. “You think she was lying? But why?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” he said, jumping out of his seat. He opened the door and called Wu over, jerking a thumb toward Mrs. Spicer, who was staring at them anxiously. “Keep her here as long as you can.”
“No!” Mrs. Spicer cried out suddenly. She jumped up and rushed toward him, held back by Hank’s arm. “No, please, you can’t do this. I need to go, it’s almost--” She cut herself off abruptly, lips tight and pale.
“Almost?” Nick repeated.
“Please,” she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Please, you have to let me go. I can’t-please.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Spicer, but unless there’s something you’d like to tell me, we’re keeping you here,” Nick said.
She stared at him for a moment, wavering in indecision, before flinging herself into the chair and bowing her head over her crossed arms. The detectives stared at her as she softly began sobbing. The sound was mournful, misery crawling up Nick’s spine and settling into an uncomfortable feeling deep in his chest, like skin pulled too tight and hot over a healing wound. They shut the door quietly behind them.
“We can’t keep her for much longer,” Wu cautioned. “Not unless you guys are charging her with something.”
“Not yet,” Nick said. “Just keep her as long as you can.”
“Will do,” Wu said in acknowledgement.
“In the meantime, let’s find our elf and ask her why she’s been so naughty,” Hank quipped.
“You get on that,” Nick said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m going to go check something out.”
“Okay,” Hank said uncertainly. “Sure you don’t need any help?”
“I got this.”
Hank nodded doubtfully, walking toward the desk to make some calls. “Alright. Just be careful.”
Nick didn’t bother saying anything in reply, just waved over his shoulder as he ducked out of the station to make a phone call.
“Do you have some sort of Grimm-sense that lets you know when I’m in the middle of something, or is that just your natural charming personality?” Monroe answered crankily.
Nick ignored him, glancing around to make sure there was no one listening. Everyone seemed pre-occupied with their own phones, absorbed in tapping away text messages or chatting loudly with their friends. He lowered his voice just in case, ducking into a small alcove used by smokers on their break. “Last night, you said you smelled cinnamon, but not the cinomolgi.”
“Yeah,” Monroe said slowly.
“So they’re different smells?”
“Definitely,” Monroe said. Nick could hear the faint sounds of him opening cupboards and rummaging around his silverware drawer. “The cinomolgi smell like birds, kind of musty, with just a faint scent of cinnamon from those teas and stuff they’re always drinking. This was pure cinnamon.”
“A lot of it?”
“Is this important?”
“Very,” Nick confirmed. “Was there a lot of the cinnamon around?”
The sounds stopped, as if Monroe were paused in thought. “Probably. Definitely more than your McCormick’s jar of spices, that’s for sure. It was enough that it overpowered the scent of that one that dive-bombed us.”
“Thank you,” Nick said quickly.
“Whoa, whoa, what’s this about?”
“Think about it,” Nick said, voice taut with excitement, “What do cinomolgi build their nests out of?”
Monroe was quiet for a second, then said in a disbelieving voice, “There’s a nest? They have a nest?”
“There must be, somewhere in the forest. Mrs. Spicer wasn’t trying to kill us, she was protecting her children.” All the little pieces that hadn’t been adding up suddenly fit into place. Mrs. Spicer’s body language, which had seemed so familiar to him while he was questioning her, wasn’t one of a person suspected of murder, but of a protective mother. She was trying to hide her young, not a guilty conscience.
“Whoa, so we just-wait, but how did you find it in the first place?”
“The woman who found the first body, Lisa Gingrich, told us about the preservation. My guess is she knew that the nest was there and sent me there hoping that I would be killed.”
“Or wouldn’t be,” Monroe pointed out. “Think about it. Even if you lived, which you did, your attention would be on your mama cinomolgus and not her.”
“Either way, it means that the nest is unprotected right now, and how much you want to bet that she’s going to be going after it?”
“I’m on it,” Monroe said.
Nick hesitated. “You don’t have to…”
“Please. You know how I said cinnamon birds are almost extinct? This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me.”
“Just be careful. I don’t know what she is, but if she killed the santas, I’m betting she’s not human.”
“Neither am I,” Monroe reminded him. There was a click as he hung up, and Nick stared at the phone for a moment before pocketing it. The light was already fading fast in the west, winter’s grasp making herself known in the minutes stolen from daytime, and it would be dark sooner than he liked. He stared at the sun disappearing behind the buildings before shaking himself and jogging back up the steps to the station. He found Hank pulling on his jacket, about to leave his desk.
“Any luck?”
Hank shook his head. “Nada. Some officers went by the address she gave us and no one was there-the place doesn’t even look like it’s been lived in. I put out an APB on her and a description of her vehicle. They’ll let us know if anything comes up. Anything on your end?”
“Dead end,” Nick said. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You, too,” Hank said.
Nick waited until he was gone before grabbing his keys and driving toward Forest Park, hoping he wasn’t too late.
He found Monroe waiting for him at the park entrance, pacing nervously.
“I think I found the nest,” he greeted Nick as soon as he pulled up. “It’s in that shack we saw where the reservation is supposed to be. I think something’s about to happen-the scent of cinnamon was actually stronger this time.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“There’s a man there, a cinomolgus. I kept to the edges so he couldn’t see me.”
“Good work,” Nick complimented him, already headed into the woods. Branches slapped against his arms and legs as he pushed his way through, following the evidence of Monroe’s trail. The ground was uneven under his feet and he kept stumbling, but pushed onward as fast as he could to the clearing. It had taken him longer to get here than he had thought, the sun long since pushed under the horizon. Only the knowledge that Monroe was watching over it had comforted him.
The clearing was the same as it had been when they had seen it last, the shack still half-crumpled in the middle, looking deserted. He shot a questioning look to Monroe.
“He’s still in there,” Monroe said after a moment. “Did you find the woman?”
“No, she was-”
Nick didn’t have a chance to finish the thought as something heavy slammed against him, pushing him to the ground. He hit with his shoulder, his head ricocheting against the ground and leaving him dazed. He heard the sound of a scuffle, then a low growl, and shook off his confusion to stand. Monroe was pinned to the ground by a bloated, green body, barely keeping its spindly arms from bringing a set of wicked claws to his face.
He drew his gun and aimed, shouting, “Freeze!”
The figure looked up and Nick recognized Lisa Gingrich’s features hidden among the hideous visage, nose flattened and small, more like the snout of an animal. Her eyes were glowing yellow in the darkness, nearly overshadowed by two thick brows that flew out from her face. She snarled and jumped up, moving quicker than his eye could follow.
“What the hell was that?” Monroe said, staring at Nick.
Nick helped him up, scanning the treefront. “That was whatever’s been killing the santas. I saw it in the books, but I couldn’t make out the name.”
A sudden feint to the left had Nick twisting just in time to catch her moving along the branches. He fired off a shot that echoed into the forest.
“We’ve got more company,” Monroe informed him. “Mr. Spicer just came out to see what’s going on.”
“Dammit,” said Nick. “We can’t risk him leaving the nest undefended. Can you distract her long enough for me to make it there?”
“Think so,” Monroe said, shaking his head until it morphed into the wolfish features of his true form. “I’ll meet you there.”
Nick nodded, waiting for a count of three before running toward the shack. Mr. Spicer saw him coming and retreated. He heard the sounds of a fight behind him and sent a brief hope up that Monroe would be fine. The shack loomed closer and he pushed his legs harder, ignoring the stitch that bloomed up in his side and the burning of his lungs catching gasps of too cold air. When he was a foot away he slid, skidding to a stop inside. Mr. Spicer was staring at him, backing up until he was in the corner, where Nick could see a delicate nest made out of cinnamon bark woven together in a complicated pattern. Nestled inside rested four fragile eggs.
“Please, please don’t hurt-”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Nick cut him off, leaning out the door. He shouted, “Monroe! Clear!” as loud as he could.
There was a sudden yelp and Nick feared the worst before he saw Monroe running toward the shack. The Grinch had vanished again, but the prickling of Nick’s senses told him that it wasn’t gone completely. Monroe made it to the door of the pitiful defense, bending over and leaning his hands on his knees as he gulped in air.
“What did you say this thing was?”
“I didn’t,” Nick said. “But it hates Christmas, green, and starts with a G, so-”
Monroe managed to hold up a finger and gave him a warning look. “If you say Grinch, I swear to God, I will never let you drink another beer in my house again.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Spicer said in his high, reedy voice. “What’s going on?”
“We’re here to protect you and your young,” Nick said, not unkindly. “That thing wants to kill you and I’m pretty sure you know why.”
The sudden wash of surprise on Mr. Spicer’s face confirmed it. There was a sudden rustle of trees that carried easily over the empty meadow to their position. The Grinch was moving.
“I’ll go east,” Monroe said after he caught his breath, already headed in that direction.
Nick caught his sleeve, pulling him back without glancing at him, still searching the trees for any sign of life. “No! She’s trying to split us up and leave the nest undefended.”
“Well, what should we do?” Monroe said, sniffing the air. “I can’t catch a whiff of her, not with the cinnamon. Are we just going to wait?”
“Unless you’ve got any better ideas,” Nick said.
They heard Mr. Spicer moaning behind them, clucking softly to the eggs and letting out little caws of sadness. The woods seemed gloomier than they had the night before, a fog swirling in and dusting the evergreen branches gray with mist. Minutes crept past in a tense silence, waiting for the other’s move. Nick concentrated on breathing evenly; he could hear Monroe letting out heavy breaths beside him.
“We’ve got to do something,” Monroe hissed. “She can wait us out as long as it takes.”
He was right, Nick knew, and he cursed the fact that he couldn’t call for back-up. Her vengeance could last longer than their vigilance, and sooner or later, one of them would slip and leave an opening for her to attack. He didn’t know if he could hold her off, not while still protecting the nest and Mr. Spicer. He cursed under his breath.
“Do you think you can outrun her?” Nick asked Monroe.
“Maybe. She’s fast and I’m out of practice, but I should be able to,” Monroe replied with some consideration.
“Don’t attack, just feint toward the woods and circle around. Try to draw her out and I’ll see if I can get a shot off. Stay in the open so I can get a clear shot.”
“Got it,” Monroe said. He ducked out of the ramshackle building and sniffed the air, before sprinting toward the edge of the woods, still ghostly in the moonlit fog. There was a sudden blur of motion, then a streak of green as the Grinch rushed out from behind a thick copse of trees, headed toward him. Before Nick could squeeze the trigger, a loud screech broke through the air. He looked up, distracted by the sudden intrusion, and saw Monroe and the Grinch do the same.
A fierce bird, majestic in flight, swooped low over the Grinch, clawing at her head. The Grinch dove to the ground and rolled away, hissing and running toward the woods. Another screech like a falcon finding her prey, and the cinomolgus plunged downward again, this time scoring a hit judging by the fierce cry of pain from the Grinch. She disappeared into the woods again, holding her shoulder with one hand. The cinomolgus hovered at the edges, flapping her winged arms as she searched for a way through the dense knotting of forest. With a last bellowing call, she soared toward the shack, landing gracefully at the door front just as Monroe ran up, panting.
“Mrs. Spicer,” Nick said with some surprise.
She barely acknowledged him, rushing toward her husband and nest. “It’s time,” she said, her voice jumping like the uneven course of a bird in flight.
Before either Monroe or Nick could ask what she meant, they heard the sounds of cracking, weak at first, then gaining in strength. They watched as the eggs’ began breaking, wrinkles appearing on the outer surface, until a small, jagged piece finally hit the ground. The others followed, tiny beaks appearing and searching blindly toward the light. Mr. and Mrs. Spicer watched anxiously, their hands making nervous, butterfly motions in the air as they coaxed their young with empty gestures. Everyone held their breath until the first chick wobbled out, hitting the edges of the rough cinnamon nest and falling piteously there, cheeping in a strange tune.
They watched the hatchlings yawn and claw weakly at the air, twisting their frail, downy bodies this way and that. Mr. Spicer’s face was as proud as any new parent, that faint expression of awe in his eyes as if he just realized that the tiny new bodies of life moving was his, his to protect and keep and teach. Mrs. Spicer cooed over them, trilling short, soft songs to them and clutching them to her chest to keep warm.
Monroe leaned over and whispered in Nick’s ear, “Ugly little things, aren’t they?”
Nick nudged him hard in the ribs, fighting to keep off the grin that was threatening to erupt all over his face from breaking out completely.
Mr. Spicer broke off his reverent stare of his young and held out a hand to Nick, who took it and gave him a firm handshake.
“Congratulations,” he said.
Mr. Spicer beamed. “Thank you. We heard from some, uh, acquaintances, that you were different, but… thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” Nick assured him.
Mrs. Spicer stopped her soothing melodies and Nick pretended not to notice the tears in her eyes when she looked up at him.
“We have to go,” she said. “She’ll be looking for us again. She’s already killed Stan for granting us this gift, and Mr. Lingers for protecting them. We can’t risk it, and their grandmother deserves to see them before she dies.”
She stood gracefully, walking over and pulling Nick into a hug, then giving an embarrassed Monroe another one for good measure. She looked over with a maternal smile at her children, who were already crying for their mother again, before taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you. We won’t see you again, but thank you for everything you have done for us.”
“We understand.”
“It’s more than that,” she said, staring at Nick intently. She grabbed his hands between her own. They felt cold and clammy against his skin. “We are the last of our kind. If anyone could understand that, it’s you.”
“I’m sorry?” Nick said, gray eyes wide in his pale face. “What do you-”
“We have to go now. I’m sorry,” she was already gathering her chicks, but she paused and locked eyes with Nick again. “Be careful, Grimm. There are those who would be the one to kill the last of the Grimms.”
“Aunt Marie said,” Nick faltered. The two birds gave him a last sad look, shaking their heads as if they were bound not to say more, then disappeared into the woods. Nick started to follow, but Monroe’s hand curled around his bicep stopped him.
“They’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “Following them now would only endanger their family.”
Nick knew he was right, just as he knew it was his duty both as a cop and as a Grimm, despite what the creature world thought of them, to protect those in need. Forcing them to delay so that he could ask questions about the cryptic message Mrs. Spicer had given him would be dangerous, both for him and the new family. It didn’t make it any easier to watch them disappear, only the faint lingering presence of cinnamon left behind. “I can’t be the last Grimm,” Nick said in a hushed voice. “Aunt Marie said there were others like us, like me, out there.”
Monroe looked away, acutely uncomfortable. “There have been rumors that several have died recently. Reapers on the move. I didn’t tell you because they could have been just that-rumors. Had your aunt contacted any before she passed away?”
“No,” Nick said, a sinking feeling deep in his stomach as he recalled Aunt Marie on her deathbed, saying that there weren’t many of them left, that she didn’t talk to the ones that were still out there. She might not have even known about the others. “She said she didn’t keep in touch.”
There was a quiet stillness, the sound of the forest dim and somehow far away, as Nick’s thoughts jumped and stalled. The rest of the world faded away and he was left standing alone on frozen muddy ground, a fog curling around his ankles and obscuring the trees into a foreboding mass. Monroe let him stand there a moment, a regretful spark in his eyes. He reached out as if to touch Nick’s shoulder, then dropped his arm beside his side and let it hang there. Nick cleared his throat, and the silent moment was broken. With a nudge, Monroe nodded toward the car and together they walked toward the road, both lost in their thoughts.
The inside of the Volkswagen felt cramped, all the thoughts and words neither of them were saying filling up the air between them. Nick shifted in his seat, resting his chin in his hand and one elbow leaning against the open window. Monroe had both hands clutched on the steering wheel and kept shooting worried looks his way before focusing on the road again. He briefly thought about telling him that he was fine before dismissing it and concentrating on the rush of deep green frondescence and swirls of gray as they drove past.
He had never given thought to contacting any of the Grimms, but it had been in the back of his mind at all times, that there were others out there like him, others like his Aunt Marie, who could guide him or help if he called. It was like the knowledge that back-up was a radio signal away. He rarely called for it on his job, but it was always there, a safety net in case things went wrong. Though Monroe was always willing to accompany him on his forays into the creature world, as a guide or sidekick, there were questions he couldn’t answer. Were Grimms even human? He could see things other, normal people couldn’t and he somehow doubted that was just a side effect of a finely tuned profiler’s mind. Why did some creatures recognize him immediately, while others didn’t seem to notice at all?
His reverie was broken by Monroe suddenly rumbling something lowly and the car sputtering to an abrupt stop. Nick caught himself on the dashboard and shot a questioning look at Monroe, who was sniffing out the window curiously.
“Timmy fall down the well again?” Nick guessed.
Monroe wrinkled his nose, but otherwise ignored the weak joke. “No, I smell something,” he sniffed again and jerked back. “Something foul.”
“There’s a sewer plant ten miles east,” Nick supplied.
“I know what sewage smells like, and this isn’t it. This is almost,” he hesitated, trying to place the scent, “sweet.”
“Sweet and foul?”
“Like peppermint and rotted fish.”
Nick winced just thinking about it. Sometimes he was glad he didn’t have Monroe’s finely tuned senses. “Do you recognize it?”
“I’ve smelled it before, if that’s what you mean,” said Monroe, his face lost in concentration. “I just can’t place it. It was fainter before, like it was covered up by something stronger.”
Nick looked at him, eyes wide. “Like cinnamon?”
Monroe stared at him.
“The Grinch,” they said in tandem. Monroe jerked the car back into gear as Nick pulled his seatbelt tight across his chest.
“Can you follow it?”
Monroe didn’t grace him with an answer, just leaned his head out the window as far as he could and steered the car one-handed, turning right or left onto backroads and forgotten streets, until they turned into the entrance of a small suburb. The sign at the front was once a neat brick with gold lettering that proclaimed, “Crumpit Hills”. The “u” had fallen off, and the rest had turned brassy with age. The bricks were covered with vines creeping up the edges, doing their best to crumble the mortar. They followed the deserted streets until Monroe stopped the car, turned it around, and parked in front of a run-down house with a neglected lawn and weeds growing thick along the crooked mailbox.
“This is it,” Monroe said, with one last whiff. “This is where the scent ends.”
Nick glanced at the address. “910 Euchariah Lane,” he read. He unbuckled his seat belt and glanced at Monroe. “Wait outside in case she tries to make a break for it.”
Monroe gave an affirmative nod as Nick got out of the car, looking over the house as he approached. The house looked abandoned from the street. The lights were all turned off and it was eerily quiet alongside the street, too far to even hear the sound of passing cars from the main road. Nick crept up to the door, gun held at the ready to his side. He tried the doorknob and the door swung open, creaking lightly. The inside was dark and he watched for signs of movement in the gloom. The house felt uncommonly cold, like a wet chill settling over him. He shivered and pushed the feeling aside. Going into a house by himself wasn’t ideal, but if Lisa Gingrich was here, she was gathering her things to flee. This would be his last chance.
He moved to the opposite of the doorway, swinging his gun in a wide arc as he scanned the room. The room was dark, oddly sparse of furniture, but piled high with boxes of wrapped gifts. They rose in haphazard towers around him. He heard a rustling from one of the backrooms and spun to face it. His elbow caught the edge of one of the pillars and sent the boxes cascading to the floor.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of motion and suddenly the transformed face of Lisa Gingrich was in front of him, tackling him to the ground. His gun went spinning across the floor as he wrestled her back. Her yellow teeth looked sharp and set in uneven rows like a shark’s mouth. Her hair was wild, tangled into a mat around her head, and her entire body was covered in a thick coarse green hair. She raised one hand, covered in scythe-like claws turned black with fungus. He pushed one hand against her shoulder and threw her off. Scrambling backward, he reached for his gun and was knocked off-balance again by a blow to his back. He rolled out of the way just before she scored the wood floor with her claws, leaving three ragged scratches behind.
“You’ve ruined it,” she hissed. “You’ve ruined everything!”
Nick adopted a fighting stance, feet apart, and arms held in front of him ready to dodge. His gaze darted toward the gun, lying unnoticed underneath a cheerful package tied with a red bow. He focused back on the Grinch.
“What did I ruin, Lisa?” he asked.
“It’s going to happen again. And again. Every year, the same old horrible thing! People being cheerful,” she spat out the last word, “and singing. All that noise, nothing but noise all the time!”
Nick circled warily, keeping her in his line of sight as she advanced with threatening steps. His back was nearly to the wall.
“Can’t stand a little music?” he taunted. He began humming under his breath, growing in strength until he was loudly belting out the lyrics of one of the few songs he remembered his mother singing to him on their last Christmas together. “Fahoo fores, dahoo dores, welcome Christmas, Christmas day!”
“Shut up!” Lisa screamed, her eyes glowing yellow with rage. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
She lunged at him. He ducked out of the way, hearing her hit the wall. She whirled on him just as he bent to pick up his gun, aiming it at her from a mid-crouch.
“There’s nowhere to go, Lisa,” he said evenly. “Just give yourself up and come quietly.”
With an incoherent snarl, she leapt toward the fireplace, crouching inside and hauling herself up the chimney using her claws as anchors. Nick jumped after her, ducking his head in and looking up into the narrow flue covered in black soot. The only sign of her was a few ashes that floated to the hearth and left faint smudges on the grey stone.
He ran outside, coming to a halt when he saw Monroe standing with the Grinch in a firm hold, keeping her claws well away from where they could do any danger. He stared.
“Lose something?” Monroe asked with a sardonic twist of his mouth. Lisa gave a little defeated wail, straining at Monroe's hold, and Monroe snarled a warning at her, shaking her for emphasis. Nick grinned at him and holstered his gun, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
“Lisa Gingrich, you are under arrest for the murders of Mr. Stan Alcuse and Kirk Lingers. You have the right to remain silent…”