Judas Kiss
Judas Kiss
J.T. Ellison
It was a murder made for TV: a trail of tiny bloody footprints.An innocent toddler playing beside her mother's bludgeoned body. Pretty young Corinne Wolff, seven months pregnant, brutally murdered in her own home. Cameras and questions don't usually faze Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson, but the media frenzy surrounding the Wolff case is particularly nasty. . . and thorough.When the seemingly model mommy is linked to an amateur porn Web site with underage actresses and unwitting players, the sharks begin to circle. The shock is magnified when an old adversary uses the sexy secret footage to implicate Taylor in a murder—an accusation that threatens her career, her reputation and her relationship.Both cases hinge on the evidence—real or manufactured—of crimes that go beyond passion, into the realm of obsessive vengeance and shocking betrayal. Just what the networks love.Praise for J.T. Ellison"A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut." - Lee Child "A taut, striking debut. Mystery fiction has a new name to watch." - John ConnollyThe Taylor Jacksons series1. All The Pretty Girls2. 143. Judas Kiss4. The Cold Room5. The Immortals6. So Close the Hand of Death7. Where All the Dead Lie
Praise for J.T. Ellison’s debut novel
ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
“A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut.”
—Author Lee Child
“Creepy thrills from start to finish.”
—Author James O. Born
“[All the Pretty Girls] has the attention to detail, unexpected twists and puzzles that are vital to topflight crime fiction.”
Nashville City Paper
“Relentlessly paced and intricately plotted—and it features a villain who will have readers looking over their shoulders, even in the daylight.”
Romantic Times BOOKreviews (four stars)
“With this debut thriller, Ellison puts her mentoring by Lee Child to good use.”
—Library Journal
“Complex and sharp-tongued, Taylor Jackson is destined to become an icon in crime fiction.”
—Author Kristy Kiernan
“The book is taut, tense and suspenseful.
The best part of All the Pretty Girls, though, is its breathless pace.”
—The Tennessean
“A turbocharged thrill ride of a debut.”
—Author Julia Spencer-Fleming
“Ellison hits the ground running with an electrifying debut.”
—Author J.A. Konrath
“Southern readers will find All the Pretty Girls a thrilling ride through a well-known locale, and the rest of the country will get a closer view—and a different perspective—of Music City.”
—BookPage
“Fast-paced and creepily believable.”
—Author M. J. Rose
“A spine-tingling thriller you will not want to miss.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Ellison’s talent is evident not only in her ability to create nail-biting suspense, but also in her vivid characters.”
—Author Tasha Alexander
“J.T. Ellison’s fast-moving debut is as smooth as fine Kentucky bourbon.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Ellison’s characters—whether major players or quiet students—will stay with you long after you close the book.”
—Author Pari Noskin Taichert
JUDAS KISS
Also by J.T. Ellison
14
ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
JUDAS KISS
J.T. ELLISON
To Del Tinsley,
without whom none of these books would see the light of day.
And for my Randy,
without whom I would be lost.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While the execution of the words belongs to the author, we can’t make the books come alive without our research, our cheering sections and our inspirations. Thanking people is truly one of the most exciting steps in writing these books. So please indulge me while I wax poetic about my team.
My incredible agent Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group, who always knows exactly what to say and when to say it, and Stephanie Sun, who makes every exchange a pleasure.
My extraordinary editor Linda McFall, the woman who makes these manuscripts into coherent books. I couldn’t do it without you. And a special thanks to assistant editor Adam Wilson, who makes the business end so much fun. Between the two of them, they turn my words into magic, for which I will be forever grateful.
The entire MIRA Books team, especially Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Michelle Renaud, Adrienne Macintosh, Megan Lorius, Marianna Ricciuto, Tracey Langmuir, Kathy Lodge, Emily Ohanjanians, Alex Osuszek, Margaret Marbury, Dianne Moggy and the brilliant artists who create these fabulous covers: Tara Kelly and Gigi Lau.
My independent publicist Tom Robinson, who is truly a master at finding just the right spot to place me. Thank you for everything!
The librarians across the country who’ve seen fit to order my books—it warms my heart every time someone says they found me in their local library!
Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department, my go-to, my first resource, my friend. He helps Taylor come to life in ways I never could.
Dr. Vince Tranchida, Manhattan Medical Examiner, who makes sure Sam does everything right.
Duane Swierczynski, for not knowing Polish.
Elizabeth Fox, who stunned me with an e-mail—“I’m Taylor!”—and has since become a cherished friend.
My amazing critique group, the Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Del Tinsley, Janet McKeown, Mary Richards, Rai Lyn Woods, Cecelia Tichi, Peggy O’Neal Peden and J.B. Thompson, who don’t ever hesitate to tell me when I’ve mucked it up, and are the first to cheer when I get it right. I love you guys!
And an especial thanks to J.B., who always helps me get these pages ready for New York’s eyes.
Laura and Linda, my goddesses at Borders—Cool Springs, who welcomed a new local author with open arms, and staff recommendations! Thanks, ladies!
First reader Joan Huston needs a special thanks this time as well, for making me worry about my opening in this book. It’s stronger because of her concerns.
My dear Tasha Alexander, the only woman who can actually keep me on the phone instead of at the keyboard, though many times we can do both at once. I love you, honey!
My esteemed fellow authors Brett Battles, Rob Gregory-Browne, Bill Cameron and Dave White, for the IMs; Toni Causey, Gregg Olsen, Kristy Kiernan for constantly cheering me on and making me laugh, and all my Killer Year mates for being such amazing influences on me.
My fellow Murderati bloggers, who inspire me daily, especially Pari Noskin Taichert, the best sounding board out there.
Lee Child and John Connolly, for making me think about every word, and John Sandford, who needs thanks for inspiring me every time.
My parents are the most enthusiastic cheerleaders for my novels, and need to be paid a commission on their book sales. Their love and support is phenomenal. My wonderful brother Jay, and Kendall, Jason and Dillon, for putting up with their wayward aunt. My other wonderful brother Jeff, who always, always makes me laugh.
And where would I be without my darling husband to keep me grounded? Thank you, baby, for not letting me float away. You make all of this worthwhile.
Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic license is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.
Contents
Prologue
Monday
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Tuesday
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Friday
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Saturday
Chapter Forty-One
Prologue
Blood.
It was everywhere. The floor, the walls, the body. All over the jeans and T-shirt too. Damn, how was that going to come out? With a grimace, the killer set down the weapon and stood over the now inert body. No more arguments. No more screaming about failure, lost promise, disappointments. The wail of a child built in the distance, drowned out by the fury humming in the killer’s ears. A smile broke.
“You horrendous bitch. This is exactly what you deserve.”
Ten hours later
“Mama?
“Mama, Mama. Hungy. Cookie, Mama. Cookie.
“Wake up, Mama, wake up.
“Went potty, Mama. Good girl.
“Mama?
“Mama owie? Owie? Boo-boo? Mama fall down?
“Bankie, Mama.
“Bankie. Teddy.
“Mama! Mamaaaaaaaaaaa.
“Night-night, Mama. Bye-bye.”
Monday
One
Michelle Harris sat at the stoplight on Old Hickory and Highway 100, grinding her teeth. She was late. Corinne hated when she was late. She wouldn’t bitch at her, wouldn’t chastise her, would just glance at the clock on the stove, the digital readout that always, always ran three minutes ahead of time so Corinne could have a cushion, and a little line would appear between her perfectly groomed eyebrows.
Their match was in an hour. They had plenty of time, but Corinne would need to drop Hayden at the nursery and have a protein smoothie before stretching in preparation for their game. Michelle and Corinne had been partners in tennis doubles for ages, and they were two matches from taking it all. Their yearly run at the Richland club championship was almost a foregone conclusion; they’d won seven years in a row.
Tapping the fingers of her right hand on the wheel, she used her left to pull her ponytail around the curve of her neck, a comfort gesture she’d adopted in childhood. Corinne hadn’t needed any comfort. She was always the strong one. Even as a young child, when Michelle pulled that ponytail around her neck, the unruly curls winding around her ear, Corinne would get that little line between her brows to show her displeasure at her elder sister’s weakness.
Remembering, Michelle flipped the hair back over her shoulder with disgust. The light turned green and she gunned it, foot hard on the pedal. She hated being late for Corinne.
Michelle took the turn off Jocelyn Hollow Road and followed the sedate, meandering asphalt into her sister’s cul-de-sac. The dogwood tree in the Wolffs’ front yard was just beginning to bud. Michelle smiled. Spring was coming. Nashville had been in the grip of a difficult winter for months, but at last the frigid clutch showed signs of breaking. New life stirred at the edges of the forests, calves were dropping in the fields. The chirping of the wrens and cardinals had taken on a higher pitch, avian mommies and daddies awaiting the arrival of their young. Corinne herself was ripe with a new life, seven months into an easy pregnancy—barely looking four months along. Her activity level kept the usual baby weight off, and she was determined to play tennis up to the birth, just like she’d done with Hayden.
Not fair. Michelle didn’t have any children, didn’t have a husband for that matter. She just hadn’t met the right guy. The consolation was Hayden. With a niece as adorable and precocious as hers, she didn’t need her own child. Not just yet.
She pulled into the Wolffs’ maple-lined driveway and cut the engine on her Volvo. Corinne’s black BMW 535i sat in front of the garage door. The wrought iron lantern lights that flanked the front doors were on. Michelle frowned. It wasn’t like Corinne to forget to turn those lights off. She remembered the argument Corinne and Todd, her husband, had gotten into about them. Todd wanted the kind that came on at dark and went off in the morning automatically. Corinne insisted they could turn the switch themselves with no problem. They’d gone back and forth, Todd arguing for the security, Corinne insisting that the look of the dusk-to-dawns were cheesy and wouldn’t fit their home. She’d won, in the end. She always did.
Corinne always turned off the lights first thing in the morning. Like clockwork.
The hair rose on the back of Michelle’s neck. This wasn’t right.
She stepped out of the Volvo, didn’t shut the door all the way behind her. The path to her sister’s front door was a brick loggia pattern, the nooks and crannies filled with sand to anchor the Chilhowies. Ridiculously expensive designer brick from a tiny centuries-old sandpit in Virginia, if Michelle remembered correctly. She followed the path and came to the front porch. The door was unlocked, but that was typical. Michelle told Corinne time and again to keep that door locked at night. But Corinne always felt safe, didn’t see the need. Michelle eased the door open.
Oh, my God.
Michelle ran back to her car and retrieved her cell phone. As she dialed 911, she rushed back to the porch and burst through the front door.
The phone was ringing in her ear now, ringing, ringing. She registered the footprints, did a quick lap around the bottom floor and seeing no one, took the steps two at a time. She was breathing hard when she hit the top, took a left and went down the hall.
A voice rang in her ear, and she tried to comprehend the simple language as she took in the scene before her.
“911, what is your emergency?”
She couldn’t answer. Oh God, Corinne. On the floor, face down. Blood, everywhere.
“911, what is your emergency?”
The tears came freely. The words left her mouth before she realized they’d been spoken aloud.
“I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”
“Can you repeat that, ma’am?”
Could she? Could she actually bring her larynx to life without throwing up on her dead sister’s body? She touched her fingers to Corinne’s neck. Remarkable how chilled the dead flesh felt. Oh, God, the poor baby. She ran out of the room, frenzied. Hayden, where was Hayden? Michelle turned in a tight circle, seeing more footprints. No sign of the little girl. She was yelling again, heard the words fly from her mouth as if they came from another’s tongue.
“There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…Hayden?” Michelle was screaming, frantic. She tore back into the bedroom. Something in her mind snapped, she couldn’t seem to get it together.
The 911 operator was yelling in her ear, but she didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?”
Where was that precious little girl? A strawberry-blond head appeared from around the edge of the king-sized sleigh bed. It took a moment to register—Hayden, with red hair? She was a towhead, so blond it was almost white, no, that wasn’t right.
“Hayden, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?” She gathered the little girl in her arms. Hayden was frozen, immobile, unable or unwilling to move for the longest moment, then she wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders with an empty embrace of inevitability. Pieces of the toddler’s hair, stiff and hard with blood, poked into her neck. Michelle felt a piece of her core shift.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?”
The operator’s voice forced her to look away from Corinne’s broken form. She raised herself, holding tight to Hayden. Get her out of here. She can’t see this anymore.
“Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…” They were on the stairs now, moving down, and Michelle could see the whispers of blood trailing up and down the carpet.
The operator was still trying to sort through the details. “Hayden is your sister?”
“Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.”
As Michelle reached the bottom of the stairs, the child shifted on her shoulder, reaching a hand behind her, looking up toward the second floor.
“Mama hurt,” she said in a voice that made her sound like a broken-down forty-year-old, not a coy, eighteen-month-old sprite. Mama hurt. She doesn’t anymore, darlin’.
They were out the front door and on the porch now, Michelle drawing in huge gulps of air, Hayden crying silently into her shoulder, a hand still pointing back toward the house.
“Who is dead, ma’am?” the operator asked, more kindly now.
“My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s…she’s cold.”
Michelle couldn’t hold it in anymore. She heard the operator say they were sending the police. She walked down those damnable bricks and set Hayden in the front seat of the Volvo.
Then she turned and lost her battle with the nausea, vomiting out her very soul at the base of the delicate budding dogwood.
Two
A morning off.
Instead of lounging in bed, luxuriating in the crisp sheets and getting irritated with the Tennessean, Metro Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson was squinting at the ceiling in her living room, a small flutter of panic moving through her chest.
“Baldwin?” she called, stepping closer to the fireplace. “Baldwin!”
“What?” A voice floated down the stairs, tinged with impatience.
“You need to see this. I think the ceiling is wet.”
The clatter of footsteps on the stairs assured Taylor that her fiancé was making the trek from their bedroom on the second floor down to her, in the room directly below, posthaste. He appeared at her side, joined her in craning his head toward the living room ceiling. A dark gray stain was moving across the joint, treading a thin line of damp. As they stared, a small drop of water beaded up from the end of the discoloration. Neither of them moved as it grew, larger and larger, then broke off and fell with a muffled plop onto Baldwin’s shoulder.
They sprang into action, no words needed. Baldwin sprinted back upstairs toward the bathroom to turn off the water. Taylor went to the kitchen and came back with a spaghetti pot. She stood under the dribble, catching droplets of water as they rushed through the surface of the drywall and fell to earth.
God, what next?
Baldwin came back to the living room with a step-ladder. “This house is built on an Indian burial ground, Taylor. I swear it. I turned the water off. We can set the pot on this. It might help keep the carpet dry.” He positioned the ladder under the leak and took the container from Taylor, setting it on the top. A happy plink rewarded his efforts.
They shared an exasperated laugh. In the month they’d been home from their pseudo-honeymoon, everything that could go wrong with their relatively new house had. A fitting metaphor for their life. No matter what they planned, how they tried, they couldn’t seem to get onto the right page and make it official. Taylor was content to remain unmarried. Baldwin was starting to come around to her way of thinking.
“Who do you want me to call? The home warranty place?” He started for the kitchen.
“Yeah. The number is in the folder in the server. They’re going to have to send out a plumber now, we can’t wait.”
He opened the drawer and pulled out an overstuffed file folder. “Okay, I’ll make the call. But I’ve got to finish packing. My flight leaves at ten-thirty.”
Taylor gave the ceiling a last hard stare, then joined Baldwin.
“Here, give me that. I’ll call. You go on and finish packing. Besides, the plane leaves when you tell it to. Director.”
He shot her a look. “I’m not the Director. I’m the Acting Director while Garrett has this stupid surgery. That just means I get to push his pencils around his desk and pretend to look important for two weeks. Seriously, I’d rather stay here, fight with the plumber.”
Garrett Woods, director of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit and Baldwin’s boss, had called the previous evening. He’d gone for his routine yearly physical and ended up hospitalized, scheduled for a triple bypass. He needed someone he trusted to hold down the fort. Baldwin was the obvious choice. Taylor hoped it wasn’t a play to get him to come back and run the BSU permanently. There’d been quite a shake-up while Taylor and Baldwin were in Italy, celebrating what should have been their honeymoon. The man who’d been leading the BSU, Stuart Evans, had been summarily fired after a personnel issue made headlines. The Bureau wasn’t a big fan of having their personal laundry aired in the media. Garrett Woods took the position again, leaving his number three in the bureau spot. He hadn’t been happy working at that level anyway, was thrilled to return to the BSU and make things right with his investigative divisions and behavioral analysis unit profilers.
“You need to go tend to Garrett’s cases. And make sure he listens to the doctors. I can’t believe he’s so sick.”
“Me neither. He seems so indestructible to me, always has. So you think you can handle this?”
She kissed him, then pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. It’s just a little leak.”
“Okay, then. I’m going to finish packing.” With a pat on her rear, he left the kitchen. She smiled after him. God, what a goof she’d become. Fools in love…
And their love nest was falling in around their ears. This would be the fourth time she’d had to call for service since they’d moved in two months ago. There had been contractors crawling all over the place for silly little issues—a broken fan blade on the heater, a squirrel who’d nested in the crawlspace and chewed through some electrical wiring, a faulty thermostat on the freezer. Now a leak in the master bath. They were making their bones with the warranty company. She got the plumber’s name and number, left them a message, then went upstairs, determined to make Acting Director Dr. John Baldwin regret that he was leaving for two weeks and prove her point. The Gulf-stream couldn’t exactly leave without him.
The phone rang as she hit the second stair. What now? She backtracked, went to the kitchen and saw the number on the caller ID.
“Hi, Fitz,” she answered.
Sergeant Peter Fitzgerald, her second in command, greeted her brusquely. “I know it’s your day off, but you need to come in. We’ve got a murder that’s going to have fleas.”
“Who?”
“Some sweet little mother out in Hillwood. I’m hearing words like Laci and Peterson.”
Taylor shuffled her fingers through a notepad that sat next to the phone, ready for an urgent message. No, thank you. I’m not in the mood for a murder. I think I’ll pass. But she couldn’t. She was the homicide lieutenant, and if her team needed her, that meant she would show.
“Fine. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be on the road.”
“The fed gone yet?”
“He’s finishing packing.”
“Well, go kiss his pretty little face goodbye and get your ass down here. We need you.”
She hung up and the phone rang again. The plumbers. They greeted her warmly. Of course they would, she’d be sending their children through college if this was more than a simple leak. They said their technician would be out in an hour. She told them where she’d hide a key, then ran up the stairs. Baldwin was zipping his suitcase.
“You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Good, come on. I’ll drop you off. I have to go in.”
“Who died?”
Ah, the bliss of living with a fellow law enforcement officer. He just got it.
“Fitz says it’s a young mother. It must be catching on fire for him to drag me in on my day off.” She pulled a black sweater over her gray T-shirt and went into the offending bathroom. She brushed out her hair and gathered it into a ponytail, frowned at the toilet, where she assumed the leak had generated, then went to her closet and grabbed a pair of boots. Hitching up the legs of her jeans, she slipped into the Tony Lamas without sitting down and jumped up once, landing softly to set her heels and drop the pant legs. Ready.
Baldwin was standing in the doorway to the master, watching with a bemused smile on his face. “Thirty seconds flat. Not bad. You look stunning.”
Taylor rolled her eyes at him. “Let’s go, lover boy. The sooner you get to Quantico, the sooner you can come home.”
Three
Taylor met Fitz in the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center. Clouds scudded across the graying sky. Despite the beauty of spring in Nashville, the weather was wholly schizophrenic. Sunny one minute, stormy the next. She took off her sunglasses and slipped one temple into her sweater collar.
“Yo,” Fitz called, pointing to a white Chevy Impala, his official department issued ride. “I gotta run back to the office for a second. Want a drink?”
Taylor nodded her head and started for the car. She took the passenger’s side, pushing the seat back to accommodate her long legs. Fitz disappeared into the bowels of the CJC and returned a few minutes later with two Diet Cokes. He slid into the driver’s seat, handed over the soda. She cracked the lid and sipped, then put the can between her thighs.
The sun popped out for a brief second, enough to blind her, so she put on her new Ray-Bans, a purchase she made in the duty-free in Milan’s Malpensa airport. They were wide and black and made her feel glamorous, a tiny homage to her new European sentiments. Traveling in a foreign country with a native speaker of the language had the tendency to make you feel more. She’d been on several trips overseas before, but had never experienced them the way she’d experienced the three weeks touring Italy with Baldwin.
She was having trouble acclimating. She missed the slow easiness of Italian life—the languid drives, the frequent stops for food and wine, the symmetrical beauty of the olive groves and vineyards and cypress-lined drives, the feeling that she was very, very young. And if she were being absolutely truthful, it had been damn nice to have three whole weeks without a single dead body.
The clouds smothered the burgeoning sunlight again, but she left the glasses on. Annoying, that’s what these transitional months were. She wanted it to be one or the other, warm or cold, sunny or cloudy.
Fitz pulled out of the parking lot.
“How ya doing?” he asked.
“I have a leak in my bathroom,” she pouted.
“I told you not to buy a new house. If you’d gotten one constructed like they should be, something solid, like those great old Victorians in East Nashville, you wouldn’t be having these problems.”
“No, Fitz, I’d just have termites and gang-bangers. No thanks. Gentrification just isn’t my thing.”
“Spoiled.”
“Not. We just wanted something…airy.”
Fitz laughed. “Airy my ass. You wanted something big enough for that damn pool table and a passel of kids.”
Taylor turned to him, suspicious. “What in the world makes you say that?”
He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. It made his face look crooked, like Popeye full of ruddy wrinkles. “You don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Want to have a pack of brats with the fed.” He said it so calmly she went on immediate alert.
“Where are you hearing this stuff? I’ve never said anything about having a baby. We can’t even manage to get married, so I’m hardly gunning for offspring. I don’t know if that’s something I ever want to do.” She looked out the window, watched the edge of downtown Nashville slip away like a veil was lifted. Brick and cement became foliage. They were on West End, heading out to Hillwood. A bucolic drive through the suburbs. Was that prompting Fitz’s question?
“Okay, girlie, I’m convinced. But I’m hearing this crime scene might be a bit off-putting. If you were fixing to get yourself knocked up, I might encourage you to skip this one, look the other way.”
“Jesus Christ, Fitz, tell me what’s at the scene.”
“Parks is there. Hey, there’s a picture in the visor. Grab that, wouldja?”
Good, Taylor thought. Bob Parks was as level-headed a patrol officer as Metro employed. If there was something wild at a crime scene, he would know how to tamp it down so the press couldn’t get too insane. She unfolded the sun visor, expecting a crime scene photo. Instead, a picture of a boat dropped into her lap. She turned it around so it faced up. It was pretty, white with tall sails, sliding through impossibly blue water.
“Yes…?”
“Parks said it was a little gruesome out there, that’s all.”
“No, I mean, what’s with the boat?”
“Thinking of buying it.”
Taylor looked at the photo again. It was…well, it was a boat. That’s as far as she went with sailing. Not her forte.
“When are you planning to drive this boat?”
“Jeez, LT. It’s called sailing. And it’s for when I retire.”
Fitz clamped his mouth shut. Taylor recognized the action—he was finished talking about it. He’d warned her about the scene and lobbed a bombshell about the future; that was as far as he was willing to go. Great.
An ambulance whipped past them, coming from the opposite direction. Going to St. Thomas, she thought. She mentally crossed herself, as she did every time she heard a siren. After thirteen years on the force, five of them in Homicide, she wasn’t so jaded that she still couldn’t have some compassion for the strangers in this world who might need a little looking over.
She toyed with her new engagement ring. The post-engagement pre-marriage ring, actually. When he’d first proposed, Baldwin had given her a stunning two-carat Tiffany sparkler, with delicate baguettes parading around the platinum band. Gorgeous, but impractical. And since the wedding hadn’t gone off—no fault of her own, she’d been unceremoniously Tasered and flown unconscious to New York with poor Baldwin standing at the church waiting for her—the new ring was a representation of a second chance.
He’d arranged to slip away for a few moments in Florence, then shown up for dinner at a little place they’d fallen in love with called Mama Gina’s, a flush around the crinkles of his intense emerald eyes. To the delight of their regular waiter, Antonio, and the rest of the restaurant patrons, he’d dropped to one knee and presented her with a new ring. One that held an even deeper promise. The five Asscher cut diamonds twinkled from their platinum channel setting. Baldwin told her each diamond represented the next five years of their lives together, and he’d buy her another in twenty-five years.
Aside from the romantic notion of it, the practicality of the ring touched her. It was flat. It didn’t catch on things like the Tiffany. And it wouldn’t get in her way if she had to fire her weapon unexpectedly. The gesture was overwhelming, and she’d almost told him to find a church that very moment. He knew what she was thinking, and that had been enough. She hadn’t decided whether she was ready to try again.
She dragged herself back to reality when Fitz harrumphed at her. He was turning onto Jocelyn Hollow Road, and Taylor could see the parade of vehicles lined up at the end of the normally quiet street.
The attendance to an unnatural death often seemed a three-ring circus to the uninitiated. The entrance into the cul-de-sac was blocked by a confluence of vehicles. There were five Metro blue-and-white patrol cars. First responders had already left the scene. Whenever 911 dispatched the police, the closest fire engines and an ambulance were actually sent before the squad cars. Standard operating procedure. The clues were apparent; there was no hurriedness, no rush. There was nothing that could be done for this particular victim, so the next steps were being taken.
The why had begun.
Fitz stopped the vehicle three houses away and they exited the car, making their way to the command station at the base of the driveway. A sign on the black mailbox had the name WOLFF in curly letters. Taylor always wondered exactly why people would want to advertise their names on their domiciles. An address she could understand, but the name…it seemed silly. And a safety issue. The last thing in the world she would ever do is publicize where she lived. Of course, she wouldn’t know what name to put on the mailbox. Jackson? Baldwin? Jackson-Baldwin? That just sounded like a funeral home.
A crowd of people had gathered directly across the street, standing in the yellowish grass, waiting. Recognizing the authority in Taylor’s stride, they started yelling when she came close. One voice rose above them all.
“What happened? We have a right to know what’s going on at the Wolffs’.” Fear made the man’s voice tremble.
Taylor turned, took in the speaker. He was an older man, with black hair that looked suspiciously dyed. Unshaven, thick glasses, pajama bottoms, jean jacket over a dirty sleeveless undershirt. Her immediate thought was widower and she stopped, feeling sorry for him.
Realizing he’d caught her attention, he repeated the question. “What’s going on in there? Did something happen to Corinne or to Todd? Is Hayden okay? My God, you can’t protect us from anything, can you? You and that damn police chief, you’ve got this all locked up, don’t you?” He swiped a handkerchief across his nose.
“Sir,” Taylor began, but the rest of the crowd began in on her. The sentiments turned from fear to vitriol in a heartbeat.
“All you do is give speeding tickets!”
“The gangs are running this town!”
“We live out here in the suburbs and expect to be safe. This is a good neighborhood. I’m going to talk to Channel Five about this. Phil Williams should be checking you out!”
Taylor held up her hands for silence. “People, please. My name is Taylor Jackson, and I’m the lieutenant in charge of the homicide division. I haven’t even been briefed on this incident. Perhaps you’d like to give me some time to get acquainted with the scene and determine what’s happened before you tear me apart?”
They grumbled, but the logic shut them up.
“Thank you. Please know that we’ll be doing everything in our power to solve this case. I appreciate that you’re upset, and I can’t blame you. But let me get a sense of the scene, and I’ll come back and talk to each of you again. All right?”
She stepped away before the crowd could respond. She’d be talking to them. Interviewing them. Trying to ascertain if there was someone in that mix who’d had a hand in the murder she was about to dissect.
“Fitz, can you get their names? Just in case. I don’t want to miss anyone.”
“Sure,” he answered, pulling a notepad from his shirt pocket.
She crossed the street and met up with Bob Parks. He was twiddling his finger in the curled edge of his mustache, ruminating to a uniformed officer about the chances of the Tennessee Titans after a scandal-rocked combine.
“Hey, how’s my favorite LT? You happy to be home from your grand tour?”
“Not really, Parks, but thanks for asking. I’d hop on a plane back in a heartbeat. Don’t give up on the Titans too soon, my friend. They’ll recover. In the meantime, go root for the Predators.”
He looked shocked. “Hockey? Are you kidding, LT? I’m a pigskin man, tried and true. I’m a Volunteer. I bleed orange.” He thumped his chest with a closed fist. Fervent was an understatement when it came to fans of the University of Tennessee football team.
“Well, our Volunteers need to take the SEC Championship this year or Phil Fulmer will wake up to a moving van in his driveway. Besides, being a good Tennessee fan, you should understand the importance of us having a well-rounded professional sports system to augment the college faithful. We need to sign the UT boys when they graduate, right?”
Fitz crossed the street to their position, waving the notebook. “Got ’em.”
“God, a woman talking football is a beautiful thing, eh, Fitz?”
Fitz just shook his head. Taylor spoke again, dispensing with the chatter this time.
“What do we have here?”
The smile left Parks’s face and he became all business.
“It’s not pretty, I’ll give you that. Decedent’s name is Corinne Wolff, female Caucasian, twenty-six, married and preggers. We’ve been really careful about who’s gone in the house, there’s a lot of latent blood around. I’ve got everything ready to put in my report, if you want the particulars now?”
“Just run it down for me. Highlights.”
“Okay. I got the call around 9:40 a.m., came straight here. Met the sister, who was being attended to for shock by the EMTs. House 37 got the call, they were here first with two trucks and the ambulance at…” He looked at his sheet. “9:38 a.m. Sister’s name is Michelle Harris. She was holding the decedent’s daughter, Hayden Wolff, who was covered in blood but seemed in stable condition. She relayed that her sister was dead inside the house, facedown on the floor in her bedroom. She didn’t recall touching anything, but we printed her for exclusion. First entry was made at 9:48 a.m. by me and EMT Steven Jones. We entered the home, cleared the downstairs, noted the amount of blood, made our way upstairs to check the victim.”
Parks had gotten ashen under his normally swarthy skin tone. “It’s stinky up there. Looks like she’s been dead for at least a day. Got smacked around pretty hard. Jones touched her wrist, just to confirm, and we agreed it was too late for his assistance. We retraced our footsteps and I started the evidentiary procedures. We had three more patrols on the scene at that point, so we got started setting up command and control while we waited for you. Despite the biologicals everywhere, the scene is pretty much contained to the master bedroom. That’s where the action took place. The rest is secondary transfer.”
“Fitz said there was a little girl. Did the transfer come from her or the killer?”
Parks nodded. “Looks like the kid. You’ll see when you get in there. I talked to the sister, got her story. Apparently they had a date to play tennis and she dropped by to pick the victim up. She entered the house, saw her sister, grabbed the kid, called 911 and skedaddled. She’s been questioned already, but I knew you’d want to talk to her. I’ve got to warn you, the victim’s parents are here. The sister called her mom after she finished with 911. Everyone is pretty shaken up.”
“Where’s the husband?” Taylor asked.
“On a business trip. Convenient, huh?”
“I’ll say. Can you find out where he is for me?”
“Already done. The mom called him, he was in Georgia and is on the road now, driving back. Should be in this afternoon.”
Taylor looked at Fitz, who was writing in his notebook. “Wouldn’t you fly home if it were you?”
“Yep,” Fitz said.
Parks gave her a wry grin. “I asked the same thing. No direct flights. It was quicker for him to drive. At least, that’s what the mom said.”
Parks handed over some of the items Taylor would need to enter the house—booties, latex gloves. He offered a blue paper mask, similar to one her dental hygienist wore, but she shook her head once, declining. No sense in that. No matter the precautions, the scent of death would sneak into her sinuses, settling for hours. She slipped her sunglasses into her front pocket; she wouldn’t need them inside.
“Is Father Ross here?”
The Metro police department’s chaplain was a kind, gentle man who Taylor had relied on more times than she could remember. It was hard enough to inform a family member that a loved one was dead. Having the minister along was not only helpful, it was mandated.
“He’s here. The whole group of them, parents, two sisters and the kid are in the next door neighbor’s house, huddled up, waiting for you.”
“Anyone know when the victim was seen last?” she asked.
“We’re working on nailing that down right now. The sister talked to her Friday. One of the neighbors might’ve seen her, or something.”
“Okay. When did the ME get called?”
“Same time as you, LT. Dr. Loughley is on duty this morning, she’s—”
“Right here,” a voice called out. Taylor turned to see her best friend, Samantha Loughley, walking up the drive, her kit slung over her right shoulder. Her dark brown hair was up in a ponytail, thick bangs swept across her forehead. The bangs were a new look, and Sam had been bemoaning the haircut for a week.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said as she reached Taylor. “What’s up, Parks? Fitz, you look well.”
Fitz grinned back in acknowledgement of the compliment. He’d been working hard on his weight and now had his formerly oversized belly down to a trim and manageable thirty-eight inches. The weight loss took ten years off his fifty-five-year-old frame, and Taylor knew he’d begun dating a woman he’d met at a barbeque cooking contest. Oh. Maybe that’s what the boat was all about. She shook the thought off. They needed to focus on the murder.
“Like the new look, Owens,” Fitz needled.
Sam rolled her eyes. “Are you ever going to start using my married name, Sergeant?”
“Naw. I like Owens. Loughley’s too hard to say.” He jostled her with his hip and smiled.
Sam dropped her bag on the folding card table that had been set up for the field command station. “Fine. Call me whatever you want. Just put that degree in. I spent too much money not to use the title.”
“Anyway,” Taylor said, getting their attention back from their game. “Sam, we were about to make entry on the scene. I haven’t been inside yet. Parks says the victim is a female Caucasian, pregnant and toasting. So let’s get this over with, okay?”
Fitz looked over to the neighbor’s house. “I think I’m gonna go next door and have a chat. Y’all have fun up there.”
Taylor watched him go. Good. Two birds, one stone. “We set, Parks?”
Parks nodded. “Tim’s here too, ready to go.” Tim Davis was the lead criminalist for Metro Nashville police. He’d started in the Medical Examiner’s office as a death investigator, then moved over to Metro in anticipation of their eventual establishment of a crime lab. Taylor always enjoyed working with the young man. He was very serious about his craft.
“No time like the present.” Taylor started for the door, Sam right behind her. The videographer was on the narrow porch, camera on the boards between her feet, ready to document their walk through. Taylor didn’t recognize her. Tim Davis was waiting patiently, kit in hand.
“Hey, Tim,” Taylor said.
“Morning, LT. Dr. Loughley. Have you met Keri McGee yet? She’s going to be doing the video feed for us this morning.”
A sunny blonde stuck out a pudgy hand. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant. I just moved up here, used to be with New Orleans Metro. Really glad to be here.”
Taylor held her hand up. “It’s good to have you. I’d shake, but I’m already gloved. Welcome to Nashville. You just stick to my six and we’ll be fine. If you need to boot, try to get back outside and don’t screw up the scene, okay?”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
Taylor fought the urge to snap. Jesus, girl, don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old enough to be your mother. Instead, she smiled and stepped into the house.
Rotten chicken. That’s what the first olfactory note identified. Just as quickly, the coppery scent of blood, the stink of putrefaction and decomposing flesh, and a sweet, almost perfumelike scent. Not air freshener. Hmm. Taylor’s eyes adjusted as her subconscious mind worked its way through the instinct to flee. It wasn’t a natural smell, and her heart raced for a moment. A normal first reaction, borne of self-preservation, would be to get the hell out of there. A couple million years of evolution warned her—there’s danger here. She’d felt it before, knew it would pass in a second. She let herself adjust, breathing through her mouth. Sam was by her side, doing the same thing. They were trained to make it go away.
Taylor let her eyes wander the room in front of her. She was standing in a marble-floored foyer. There was a table against the closest wall with pictures in silver gilt frames—happy, smiling newlyweds against a summer-wooded backdrop. The stairs were directly to her right, hardwood covered in an ivory Berber runner. Just past the banister was the entrance into the dining room, loaded with heavy dark oak furniture, silver and crystal, an oversized china cabinet. To the left, a brief hallway that opened into a great room. The floors in the dining room were burnished oak, the great room was carpeted in the same light Berber wool.
Every few inches there were tiny crimson footprints. Little heels here, little toes there. They looked like mouse trails, in and out, back and forth, leading up and down the stairs, into the great room, and Taylor could see they trailed into the kitchen on the far side of the dining room. They were everywhere; some light, barely pink enough to mar the carpet, some outlines or edges. Closer to the stairs, a few were dark, almost seeming they would be wet to the touch. Sam drew in a deep, sharp breath.
Taylor forced her brain to shut off that emotional center which would allow her to acknowledge the desperation the child must have felt to be wandering around the house, her mother’s blood on her bare feet.
“This is Homicide Lieutenant Taylor Jackson,” she said aloud for the benefit of the video camera. “I am the lead investigative officer at this crime scene, 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. I’m going to do one pass through the lower part of the structure.” Nodding at Sam, she went to the right, into the dining room, avoiding the blood. Sam picked her way after Taylor. Tim and Keri followed, the group moving as one, silently assessing.
The footprints wended their way through the dining room, under the table, and back into the kitchen. There was no rhyme or reason to the pattern, just a nomadic line of passage, typical of a youngster moving aimlessly about her home. Some areas were just faint impressions, blotches, and some were well formed. That made sense to Taylor. The blood would wear off after enough steps. With a child, her uneven toddling tread would account for the inconsistencies.
The dining room had a door that separated it from the kitchen, but it was propped open with a stuffed cat doorstop. The door was white, a six-paneled French style, covered with what looked like cherry juice finger-paints. Taylor knew what they really were; the little girl had swept her bloody hand along the door as she walked from room to room.
The kitchen was baby-proofed, with locking mechanisms on all the below counter cabinets. The smell of rot was more prevalent, and Taylor spied a Wild Oats bag with a package of chicken in the deep stainless steel sink. Well, that accounted for the stink downstairs. If the victim hadn’t talked to her sister for two days, and the chicken was coming back to life, then there was a good chance she’d been dead at least a day. Taylor only put chicken in the sink if she needed to defrost it and had the time to do so. That would give a convenient timeline—a day to thaw and a day to start smelling. Though it just as easily could be the victim came home from grocery shopping and didn’t get all the packages stored before her assailant appeared. They’d need a liver temp or a potassium level from the vitreous fluid for something more accurate, but it was a start. Never assume, that was her mantra.
Fruit in a basket on the granite countertop, an empty carton of organic fat-free milk, an empty yogurt container…if Taylor was going to guess, it looked like the victim had just finished eating breakfast before she vacated the room and got herself killed.
An answering machine hung on the wall, the red light indicating new messages blinking.
“Be sure someone gets those messages,” Taylor said to Tim.
Sam made a noise in the back of her throat. “I was planning on shish kebabs for dinner. Guess I’ll make a salad instead.”
The videographer didn’t comment, and Taylor shot her a glance. Keri wasn’t fazed, was simply documenting. Excellent. Taylor caught Sam’s eye and smiled. Always the jokester.
“Let’s head up.” Taylor walked slowly from the kitchen through the great room, back to the foyer, the group in her wake. The stair had a landing halfway up and turned to the left. There was blood smudged up and down the stair runner, not the same kind of hit and miss footprints they’d been seeing. Taylor asked Sam what she thought it was from.
“Baby that small can’t get up and down with a normal stepping motion. She’d have to drag herself up step by step, on her hands and knees, slide down on her bottom. If she was covered in blood…”
“Oh.” The image was vivid in Taylor’s mind.
Placing their feet in between the splashes of color, they made their way to the second floor.
“Baby gate isn’t up,” Sam noticed. “Get a shot of that, would you, Keri?”
“That explains how she was able to wander the house.” Taylor took in the setup.
To their right were three doors, all leading to bedrooms. To the left, the hall led away from the stairs. The scene was similar to below, but more intense. Distinctive tiny red footprints, defined smears along the walls. Macabre artistic skills from a young child surely affected more by confusion than anything else.
The rooms each glowed with a different palate, and the hall bath was decorated in a nautical style, reminiscent of a beach hotel. It struck Taylor. The obvious effort that had gone into decorating was apparent. And the trimmings weren’t bought at Target or Pottery Barn. The décor was top of the line, custom designed.
A quick perusal showed a guest room, an office and a nursery. Blood smears and light footprints wound in and out. Taylor followed the path. The nursery was painted in various tones of pink and lilac, with a mural of a forest on the western wall. The furniture was bleached oak; there was a mobile hanging above the oversized crib. Sunlight poured through the windows, barely checked by a light pink sheer. There was a small half bath off the nursery. Taylor glanced into the space. The smell of feces and urine was strong—a miniature plastic toilet sat on the floor next to its life-sized companion. It was full of waste. The child was toilet-trained, but without her mother to empty the basin, the little potty was full to the brim.
Nose wrinkled, Taylor walked the length of the hallway to the master bedroom. The door to the room was open wide, wedged against the wall with a small bronze mouse. Corinne Wolff liked her doors open, no question about that. The walls were painted a creamy sage, the furniture dark rattan and rosewood. Island style, a retreat for the owners. Taylor remembered seeing an ad for the same style of room in an upscale design catalogue.
The interior of the room was awash in incongruous colors. The blood had molted into a dark brown stain, except where it cast against the walls and a white shaded lamp in a deep burgundy.
They saw the feet first. The body was half hidden by the king-sized bed. They crossed the room with care. No one wanted to be responsible for mucking up any evidence they might find. The room was at least forty feet in width, the bed in the center of the back wall. There was approximately fifteen feet of space on each side. The body was in the south quadrant of the room. Taylor heard Tim scratching notes as they moved to the far side of the bedroom.
Corinne Wolff was barefoot, her legs drawn to her chest. She was half on her side and half on her stomach, facing them. Her chocolate-colored eyes were open but unseeing, the irises like gummy coffee. Her brown hair was matted with blood from an obvious gash across her forehead. Her jaw was broken, misaligned along the lower half of her face, jutting obscenely toward the ceiling. The body was crooked too; her arms stretched out as if she tried to break a fall then changed her mind. She was dressed in panties and a sports bra, a pink cashmere blanket draped over her midsection. A thick pool of blood approximately two feet in length and a foot wide surrounded her head and her torso, and a small plush toy was tucked into the crook of her arm. Footprints led around the body, away from the body, back to the body. Along Corinne’s side, the blood had been disturbed.
Taylor and Sam stepped closer. “Oh, man,” Sam whispered. “That poor thing.”
“Corinne or Hayden?”
“Both.”
Taylor wasn’t sure what bothered her more, the teddy bear tucked into Corinne’s arms, the blanket draped across her seminakedness, or the plush, stuffed Gund My Doctor kit that sat by her head. Her daughter, unable to understand what was happening, had tried to help. She’d managed to get a large pretend Band-Aid stuck to the top of her mother’s hand. Hayden had tried to fix her. And then she’d lain down next to her mother, covering herself in blood.
They got the necessary pictures and videotape, then Sam set to work. She pulled back the blanket and saw the pregnancy.
“Oh, jeez. I hate this.” She felt the body. “She’s cold and malleable. The blood pool has soaked into the carpet and is tacky to the touch. I won’t know an exact time of death until I run the temp during autopsy, but this should give you a time frame to start looking at. Rigor is completely gone. Livor mortis is set, the discoloration consistent with a body lying in one position since death. She’s been dead at least thirty-six hours. I’d say she was killed right here, fell in this position and didn’t move. How far along is she, do you know? This looks like a four, maybe five-month bump.”
“I don’t know. Parks said she was pregnant, but he didn’t say when she was due. Thirty-six hours minimum? God, that little girl was here in this house with her dead mother all that time. Poor baby.”
Sam continued her examination. “With a mother who’d been violently bludgeoned to death. Blunt force trauma to the extremities, the head. Her jaw is certainly broken, she’s missing some teeth.” Sam was finishing her initial assessment, making notes in a small black reporter’s notebook. “This is a mess, T.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t see any weapon conveniently lying around, do you?”
“No. And this is too much damage to just have been someone’s fists. Tim, you hear that? You need to keep an eye out for a weapon.”
“Yes, Dr. Loughley.”
“Okay, folks. Let’s rock and roll.” Sam and Tim continued their duties, with Keri filming everything for posterity. Taylor went to the window. The cream-colored roman shades, covered with blood spatter, were at half-mast. She glanced out at the street below. The neighbors were still grouped on the opposite lawn, talking quietly amongst themselves. She didn’t see anything out of place, no one who stood out as having a more than neighborly fascination with the goings-on.
Sam stood, leaning over the body, then turned to Taylor. “It’s going to be a long day. I need to run out to the van for a couple things. Are you ready for some air?”
“Yeah.”
With a last glance at the victim, Taylor led the way out of the master and down the stairs.
When they got back to the front door, Taylor asked the question that had been burning in her mind from the moment she laid eyes on the body of Corinne Wolff.
“Just where is this husband?”
Four
The Harris family had taken refuge with the Wolffs’ next-door neighbor.
Fitz nodded to her as she came in. There were five people in the room, sitting, staring, crying. Father Ross, the department chaplain, was holding a woman who looked to be in her early fifties, with reddish hair. The woman was sobbing, nestled into the chaplain’s shoulder. The mother. The room was deadly quiet outside of the woman’s choked tears.
A dark-haired young woman met Taylor’s eye. A mixture of revulsion and longing crossed the woman’s face, quickly replaced by a hardness, an implacable blankness. Taylor had seen that look before. People hated to see her; she was the harbinger of death. But she held the answers, the clues, the reason. They needed her. Taylor guessed the woman was twenty-eight, maybe thirty. She could see the resemblance to the victim.
There was something else on this woman’s face, but Taylor pushed it away.
She was this woman’s polar opposite—where Taylor was tall, honey-blond, gray-eyed, full-lipped and broad-shouldered, this woman was five foot three or four, dark and quite athletic. Her body hummed with health and well-being; her face wasn’t exactly pretty, but what men who were being kind would call interesting. She gave Taylor another look, and this time the meaning was inescapable.
Taylor was unsettled. She never enjoyed being the object of another woman’s attention. This woman wasn’t exactly hitting on her, but she’d made her interest known. Lovely. What was up with that?
“I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, Metro homicide. I’m so sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
The dark-haired woman didn’t smile, but stuck out her hand.
“I’m Michelle Harris. Corinne is my sister.”
Taylor was surprised when the woman spoke; the voice was deep and husky, that sexy, cracked sound that men always flocked to. They sounded alike.
Michelle gestured to the tear-streaked woman standing with Father Ross. “This is my mother, Julianne Harris.” She went around the room in turn, naming her family.
“My father, Matthew Harris. My sister, Nicole Harris. Carla Manchini, Corinne’s neighbor. We’re waiting for my brother Derek, he’ll be here shortly. Do you know who did this to my sister?”
“Not yet, unfortunately. We’re early into this investigation, Ms. Harris.”
“It’s Miss.”
Taylor cocked her head to the side for a brief instant, then replied, “Miss Harris. Sorry. Where’s your sister’s daughter?”
The smaller of the two sisters, Nicole, spoke, her voice stronger than she looked. “She’s taking a nap in the back room. Poor thing was absolutely exhausted. Once the paramedics said she was fine, we gave her a bath, fed her and got her down. She seemed all right, physically.”
“Why, Lieutenant? Hayden didn’t have anything to do with this.” Michelle Harris was sharp-tongued, challenging. Taylor forgave her, poor girl’s sister was dead, but ignored her for a moment. She turned to the other sister.
“Nicole, right?” The girl nodded.
“You gave her clothes to the officer? We’re going to need to process them as evidence.”
She nodded. “That crime technician officer was with us when we changed her. We did everything just how he told us to.”
“That’s good. We appreciate your help. Sergeant Fitzgerald will help me gather your statements. Mrs. Manchini, I’d like to speak with you alone. Can we go into another room?”
“You don’t want to talk to me first?” Michelle asked.
Taylor met Michelle Harris’s eyes. They were as odd as Taylor’s own, a blue so clear you would almost say they were transparent. Taylor’s were gray as a cloudy sky, one slightly darker than the other.
“I want to speak with everyone who is here. I just need some information from Mrs. Manchini to start. Please, bear with me. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long day. Mrs. Manchini?”
The woman stooped when she stood, unable to straighten all the way. She gestured to the hall, and Taylor followed her out of the room. She stopped walking when she heard the deep voice of Corinne’s father speaking.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
Taylor edged back to the living room entrance, careful to stay out of sight. Eavesdropping. She could see into the room perfectly; there was a mirror on the opposite wall above a small writing desk that reflected their actions. Fitz had his back to her, was talking to Father Ross.
Michelle Harris turned and grabbed onto her father, the words pouring out of her like a spigot left on during a summer drought. “Oh, Daddy. I don’t know if I am. I don’t think I’ll ever get the image of Corinne laying there on the floor all bloody, with Hayden next to her, out of my mind.”
“I know, honey. It must have been horrible.” He pulled her in close, and Michelle melted into his arms. Taylor felt a pang of jealousy. Michelle’s father was her savior, her protector.
“Haven’t you heard from Derek yet?”
“He’s in that infernal lab class until noon. I’m going to head over to Vanderbilt now, be waiting for him when he leaves. I don’t want him to hear this from an outsider. I’ll bring him back here with me. Will you be okay for a little while?”
“I’ll be fine, Daddy. Once I talk to the detective, I’ll sit with Mom. You and Derek take your time. He’s going to be a mess.”
“Yes, he is. Thank you for understanding. You always were my good girl. I love you, Shelly. Take care of Nikki too. She’s not as strong as you and your mom.” He hugged her tight to his chest, and Taylor turned away. A grieving family. Why did that make her feel so empty?
Mrs. Manchini had led Taylor into her bedroom. Her chintz bedroom. Unlike the coolly decorated perfection of the Wolffs’ house, everything here smacked of homemade kitsch.
The master was small, about half the size of the house next door. A four-poster bed with a canopy and frilly lace pillows took up much of the space. Cliché, Taylor thought, then mentally chided herself. The Manchini house did seem a caricature of itself, the woman who owned it a shadow of a real person, insubstantial. Carla Manchini could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty-five, with outdated wire glasses, thinning blond hair in a partially grown-out perm and slightly crooked teeth. Her parents must have decided that they weren’t quite bad enough to invest the money into fixing. As a result, when she spoke, a snaggletooth incisor appeared on the right upper side, and her lips folded around it as if not sure what they were meant to do.
Taylor realized Carla had been talking and focused.
“I’m not sure what you want with me, Lieutenant. I didn’t know them next door very well, no, I didn’t. I mind my own business over here at Manchini’s casa, yes, I do. I’m not a spy, don’t go looking into my neighbors’ backyards, I truly don’t.”
Taylor looked at the woman, wondering why she was so adamant. She wouldn’t meet Taylor’s eye, just sat on her bed, her gaze flitting about as she twisted her hands together.
“Actually, ma’am, I’m just wondering if you’ve noticed anything funny over the past few days.”
The woman shook her head solemnly. “I surely didn’t.”
“Nothing?”
Mrs. Manchini paused for a moment, shut her eyes, remembering. “The lights were on. Mrs. Wolff turns them off in the mornings, but they burned all weekend.”
“And that was unusual?”
“Yes.”
Ah, another item for the timeline. Perfect.
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Wolff?”
“Oh. Well, I can’t rightly recall. Today’s Monday, and Monday is my book club, yes, it is. I don’t remember seeing Corinne today, and I usually see her in the back, watering her begonias. Such a pretty garden she has, yes, she does. Just put it in this past weekend. It’s a little too early for those flowers, but what do I know? I did see her on Friday. Friday is my garden club, yes, it is.” Twist, twist, twist.
The repetition tic was starting to bother Taylor. The woman was going to sprain a wrist if she didn’t lay off her hands. “Friday at what time, ma’am?”
“Oh, well, I couldn’t be exact. Something around three-twenty in the afternoon, if I had to push myself to remember, but I wouldn’t want to be misleading by not being one hundred percent right, no, I wouldn’t.”
“You’re doing just fine.”
The woman bobbed her head, a shy smile crossing her face at the compliment. Taylor got the feeling the woman didn’t get many and softened her tone.
“What was Corinne doing at three-twenty, Mrs. Manchini?”
“Playing with little Hayden. Such a beautiful child, yes, she is.”
“Backyard, front yard?”
“Oh, yes, of course. They were in the side yard, actually. I believe Mrs. Wolff was putting down some wildflower mix, trying to pretty up the area where their trash cans go, yes, she was.”
Didn’t keep an eye on her neighbors. Yeah, right. “Did you see anyone with her?”
“Other than Hayden? No, I didn’t.”
“What about Mr. Wolff?”
This earned Taylor a direct, but fleeting, glance. She was rubbing her hands together now. The conversation was making her nervous. Nervous was always interesting.
“Oh, I don’t know him very well. A handsome man, yes, he is, but not very open with the likes of me, no, he isn’t.”
“Did they have any problems that you were aware of?”
“Why, no. No. None at all. They seemed to be very happy. Very content, yes, they were.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else near the house. What about Saturday?”
“No, I didn’t see anyone there Saturday, no, I didn’t. I’d like to get back to my guests now, if I could?”
“Just a few more questions, Mrs. Manchini. Are you here in the house during the day?”
“Yes, yes, I am. I retired from the post office a ways back, yes, I did. I keep pretty much to myself nowadays, yes, I do. I read, and watch television, and go to my book club and do some gardening. I have lots of friends, yes, I do.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Manchini. Do the Wolffs entertain often?”
“Well, of course. They’re young and popular, they are indeed. But no more so than anyone else on this street. I’ve lived here for forty years, yes, I have, and I’ve seen neighbors come and go. Everyone seems very happy here, yes, they do.” She stopped wringing her hands, set them in her lap. The knuckles were red and gnarled. Combined with the wistful statement, her true age showed through. A lonely old woman, Mrs. Manchini.
“Okay, ma’am, let’s get you back with the others. You’re very kind to allow your house to be overrun like this. I’m sure the Harrises appreciate your help. I may want to talk to you again. Would that be okay?”
The woman lifted herself slowly off the bed, making the springs squeak in protest.
“Certainly, of course. Any time you need me, I’ll be right here, yes, I will.”
Taylor followed the mousy Mrs. Manchini back to the great room. The scene hadn’t changed much, except Michelle Harris now sat in a flowered chintz-covered armchair, holding a blond cherub in her arms. The little girl had china-blue eyes, a soft rosebud mouth, ivory skin with red apple cheeks. This must be Hayden. The child caught her eye, an unfathomable darkness shifting behind the cornflower depths. She spied Taylor’s gun, fixated on it for a moment, then started to cry, burying her face in her aunt’s shoulder.
Taylor and Michelle Harris sat at the kitchen table in Mrs. Manchini’s house, afternoon sunlight streaming hard through the southerly facing windows. Michelle was handling herself as well as could be expected, considering Taylor was pumping her again about her traumatic morning.
The father of the victim had returned with the younger brother, who wasn’t taking the news of his sister’s murder well. Fitz had Derek Harris out on the back deck, talking with an avuncular tilt to his head. Taylor could see the two men over the top of Michelle Harris’s shoulder, out the bay windows that were framed with a short, fringed chintz curtain. Taylor couldn’t imagine looking at all the busy mishmashed floral patterns and colors day in and day out.
At least she’d identified the unknown scent in the Wolffs’ house. It was the perfume Corinne’s sister wore, a heady scent overlaid with iris and jasmine. Cloyingly sweet, and too heavily applied, as if Michelle had used soap, lotion and perfume all from the same line.
Nose twitching, she continued the interview. “Okay. Run me through it again. Start with the last time you talked to your sister.”
Michelle was pale, looking drained and torn. She kept glancing over her shoulder at her little brother, obviously wanting to comfort him.
“Michelle?” Taylor asked.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. You know how it is with siblings. Sometimes you want to protect them from hurting.”
“No, actually, I’m an only child. I wouldn’t know. So please, run through it again. You and Corinne had a tennis date?” She sat back in the wooden chair, crossed her arms across her chest and waited patiently.
Michelle toyed with her ponytail, wrapping it around her neck in what Taylor thought was a compulsive gesture. “That’s right. We play at Richland. We’ve been making a run at the championship flight for the past few weeks. We’re doubles partners, have been for years. I thought about playing singles once, but Corinne wouldn’t hear of it. We are, were, such a great team. Something happens to us on the court, we can just sense each other’s movements, I guess.”
“And your sister played even though she was pregnant?”
“That’s right. She played up until the week before Hayden was born, only stopped when Todd begged her. This time, she’s had such an easy pregnancy that she swore she would go from a match straight to the delivery room. She would have, too, I bet. Corinne could always make her body work to her specifications. Give her a sprain, she’d manage to mend in time for the next event and never lose a step. She’s a wonder woman.”
“When was the baby due?”
Michelle’s voice grew thick. “Eight weeks.”
“Wow. She wasn’t very big for someone seven months along.”
“She didn’t get big with Hayden either. Only gained eight pounds, and Hayden was seven pounds, six ounces. Her body snapped right back. She was on that road this time, too. The poor baby. What will they do with him?”
Tears sprang to Michelle’s eyes. Taylor looked away while Michelle recovered her composure. She didn’t especially want to think about fetal death certificates right now.
“Let’s talk about that in a bit. Stay with me, okay? So you were coming to pick her up—”
“Actually, I noticed that she hadn’t turned off the outside lights. That was unusual. Corinne was very…specific about certain things. She always turned those lights off as soon as she got up, which was usually 5:30 a.m. sharp. It was almost to spite Todd, really. They’d had an argument about the style of lights. That’s not important, sorry. She gets up, turns off the lights, starts the coffeepot, does half an hour on her elliptical, then gets Todd up. On the days he’s home.”
“When does she turn the lights on for the evening?”
“What?” Michelle asked.
“The outside lights. When does Corinne usually put them on?”
“Oh.” Michelle pursed her lips and thought. “You know, I’m not sure. I’d guess at dark.”
“Okay, so the lights were on when you pulled up. What else caught your attention?”
“I got out of the car and started toward the house. The door was unlocked, but that’s nothing new. No one around here locks their doors. It’s stupid, but they all feel so safe. I bet they’ll start locking them now.” Michelle got a dreamy, detached expression, began reciting in an absent tone. “I went in the house, saw the blood, ran up the stairs, saw Corinne, saw Hayden, freaked, grabbed Hayden, and ran.”
“You called 911.”
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m just still so shaken up. Just seeing all that blood, seeing Hayden….” Her voice trailed off and her eyes clouded with tears. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to erase that moment from my memory. Do you ever have that? I imagine with all the bodies you’ve seen, that you can just shut it off and not think about it. Me, I’m going to remember that bedroom for a very long time.”
“You’re doing great, Michelle. Just a few more questions, okay? Tell me about Todd.”
“What’s there to say? Todd is—”
“What’s there to say?” Matthew Harris stormed into the kitchen. “I’ll tell you what there is to say. Todd isn’t here, and my Corinne is dead. He might as well have beaten her to death himself. Him and all this travel, this desperate need to get his name out there. If he’d been home, protecting Corinne like he should have been, this wouldn’t have happened. My daughter and my grandson wouldn’t be dead.”
Five
Matthew Harris stepped toward Taylor, pointing his forefinger at her chest, making jabbing motions in the air. “I don’t want to hear anything from you, Lieutenant, except ‘I’m going to nail this bastard to the wall for what he’s done.’ That’s all I need to hear.”
Taylor stood, stretching to her nearly six-foot height, only an inch shorter than Corinne’s father. He took another step toward her and she put up her hand.
“Mr. Harris. I suggest you take a step back.”
“Daddy!” Michelle was on his arm, yanking at him, pulling him toward a chair. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, this isn’t like him. Daddy, what is wrong with you?”
Taylor had a brief, flickering image of her own father’s incredulous face, staring at her through the thick Plexiglas of a patrol car, but shook her head to disrupt the thought.
Matthew Harris sat heavily at the kitchen table, lowered his head onto his folded arms, and began to cry.
Taylor caught Fitz’s eye and he came in from the deck, the younger Harris boy following on his heels.
“Dad, are you okay?” The boy sat down, his hand on his father’s heaving back.
Taylor jerked her head to the right, signaling to Fitz to follow her. They left the grieving Harrises at the kitchen table and stepped outside, closing the French doors behind them. Taylor pulled her sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on.
Fitz had a furrow between his eyebrows. “Anything new?”
“No. Michelle Harris told me the same story twice, with nearly identical details each time. From what I’m hearing, nothing is rehearsed. We have a timeline at least—the lights were on all weekend, and the neighbor saw Corinne on Friday. Michelle Harris said Corinne turns the house lights on at dark, so we can start with the assumption that the murder happened sometime after sunset Friday. The sisters are upset, the father is cracking under the pressure.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Of course it is. The mother refused to be sedated. I’d like to take a shot at her before she changes her mind. I’m anxious to meet the husband.”
“The brother pointed me in the husband’s direction.”
“Really? That sounds promising. I’d like to hear what he has to say. The father just intimated that he felt Wolff was responsible, too. He’s pretty upset, I didn’t get the feeling he thought Wolff committed the murder. Just that he wasn’t around to protect his wife.”
“Well, the kid seems to think that Wolff is entirely capable of doing the deed. Says they fought all the time, that Corinne was talking about leaving him.”
Taylor looked over the hedge into the Wolffs’ backyard. Nice, open view for Mrs. Manchini. “Funny, the sister didn’t mention it. Let’s go talk to the mom, if she’s ready, then we can talk to the kid.”
“Mrs. Harris, could you tell me a bit about your daughter?”
Taylor was back at the table in the chintz kitchen, a fragrant cup of tea steaming at her elbow. Corinne Wolff’s mother was doing better than before. Father Ross sat next to her, holding her hand. Her husband was in the other room. Taylor didn’t feel like having a confrontation with him. Besides, girls talked to their mothers.
She sniffled into a tissue. “What do you want to know?”
“Did she have any enemies? Was she fighting with her husband? What was she like? I need to get to know Corinne so I can start looking for her killer.”
“She was a wonderful child. Gifted.”
“Gifted how?”
“She was an athlete. Tennis. She was ranked in the top ten in her age group for most of her career. She wanted to go to the Olympics. But that all changed when she got into high school.”
“What changed for her?”
Julianne Harris stifled a smile. “My Corinne discovered boys. And suddenly, tennis was something she could play with them. She stopped training, decided she wanted to be normal. It was a huge waste of talent, she was qualified to go out on the circuit. She made the finals at Wimbledon, in the juniors, against the number one seed. A girl from Russia. Nearly took the match. The loss was…difficult for her.”
The tone of her voice made Taylor think the loss might have been hard for Mrs. Harris, too.
“So where did Corinne go from there, Mrs. Harris?”
“She got tremendous grades, went on to Vanderbilt. She continued to play, just without the same fervor that she had as a girl. She met Todd, they graduated, and she worked for a time before she got pregnant with Hayden. They were so happy, oh, you should have seen the look on her face when she told me. It was a very easy pregnancy for her. This one wasn’t as simple, but she was doing so well.”
“How would you characterize her relationship with Todd?”
Mrs. Harris fiddled with her stringy tissue. That was interesting. Taylor could tell the woman was trying to think carefully about what to say. Protecting the husband? Or protecting her daughter? The Harrises weren’t unbiased in all of this. They had a granddaughter to think of as well.
Mrs. Harris sighed deeply. “Oh, Lieutenant, what can I say? They were just like any other new family. They had their issues, but they seemed to be superficial. Todd would do something to upset Corinne, she would call and complain about it. I’d tell her how much I understood and she’d attack me, accuse me of hating Todd. It was a very typical mother-daughter-husband situation. As far as I know, Todd didn’t do anything exceptional. He is a solid man, a good provider. He works too much, but he’s the sole breadwinner. Corinne didn’t want to have children only to let a day care raise them. She was adamant that she stay home with Hayden. And Dalton…Did anyone tell you that they’d named the baby Dalton? In my day, it was always bad luck to talk about your unborn child, but nowadays they don’t think that way.” The tears started again, and Taylor decided she’d had enough for the moment.
“It’s a nice name, Mrs. Harris. I’m so sorry for your loss. Thank you for your candor. I appreciate it. I’ll let you get back to your family now.”
Taylor left Father Ross to it. He was going to be much more of a comfort now than she ever could.
Taylor took Derek Harris outside to chat. They got seated in the chairs on the deck, Fitz and Taylor facing Derek. He was happy to talk badly about his brother-in-law.
“They’d been having problems for a while. Corinne swore me to secrecy. She knew she could trust me not to tell Michelle. Michelle’s a little intense. If she’d known they weren’t getting along, she’d be badgering Corinne to move out or something.”
“Tell us what happened.”
“Corinne didn’t say what they fought about, only that they had a huge, terrible fight. I remember she came over to Mom and Dad’s that night, she looked like she’d been crying. Anyway, we were talking after dinner. She told me he’d gotten furious with her and stormed off. She hadn’t seen him for about five days, didn’t know where he was.
“But he came home the next day. I went over there after class to check on her, and he was sitting in the living room, drinking a beer. She had this chirpy look on her face, seemed happy that he was home. Do you think he killed her?”
Taylor dodged the question. “What’s Todd do, Derek?”
“He’s a contractor. Builds housing developments. The Trace, Harpeth on the Walk, those really upscale communities. He has some out-of-state projects too, that’s why he travels so much. He’s usually gone on the weekends to his off-site developments.”
“Wolff Construction? That’s him?” Fitz asked.
“Yeah. You know it?”
“I looked at one of the show homes in Harpeth on the Walk. It was very nice.”
“Todd’s great at what he does. He’s driven, always looking for a new deal. He’s a decent enough guy. Until Corinne told me about the fight, I didn’t know they had problems. I guess everyone does, but all I’ve ever seen is my parents, and they’re stupid in love with each other. Fighting wasn’t something we had a lot of growing up.”
Must be nice. Of course, Taylor’s family didn’t fight, they were just icily polite to one another. Lacking passion, one could say.
“Would you say that your brother-in-law was capable of hurting your sister?”
Derek’s eyes were huge. He was young, but not young enough to miss the inference. “Jeez, I just can’t imagine him killing her. I guess anything’s possible, though.”
That’s what she needed to hear. “Derek, thank you. If you remember anything else, please let me know.” She gave him a card. He took it and went back inside.
She and Fitz had just started to compare notes when Taylor’s cell phone rang. She took it off her hip and looked at the number. Tim Davis.
She answered the phone. “What’s up?”
Tim sounded as excited as she’d ever heard him. “You need to get back over here. I think I found the murder weapon.”
Six
Taylor was in Corinne Wolff’s lovely walk-in closet, listening to Tim Davis. The scent of cedar was tickling her nose.
“So I was just doing a cursory look-through, and saw a little bit of blood on the corner of the drawer. When I opened it, there it was, lying in the clothes. It was covered up, but you could see the outline plain as day. Blood soaked into the scarf covering it. Guess whoever stashed it didn’t expect us to look there.”
Tim recreated his actions, pulling open a drawer labeled SCARVES. Nestled into the multicolored silk was a tennis racquet. It was bent and dented, and had visible blood and matter coated along the edges.
Taylor thought about the wounds on Corinne’s body. Sam would have to confirm it at autopsy, but she thought that a tennis racquet could do the damage she’d seen. Wielded with enough force, anything could be a weapon. She asked anyway. Tim had seen it all.
“Think this could do that much damage?”
“Sure. It’s nice and strong. Head’s just like a ripe melon. You hit it hard enough, it’ll split open. And you know how head wounds bleed. She had a ton of gashes, that’s where all the blood came from. Enough that the poor little girl was able to cover herself in it and track it around. Someone was pretty hacked off at this woman.”
“No kidding.” Taylor looked back into the room, at the stain where Corinne Wolff had lain on her carpet, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Not the way she’d like to go. She turned back to Tim.
“Great job, man. This is going to help tremendously. Get it photographed and see if there’s any prints. Wouldn’t that be nice—we’d be able to wrap this thing up today.”
“I’ll give it a good going over, Lieutenant. I love it when the criminal’s dumb enough to leave the evidence behind.”
“No kidding. This seems to be a weapon of convenience. Her gym bag was on the bed, the racquet must have been right there. I’m wondering if he got interrupted, stashed the tennis racquet in a hurry to get out of here.”
“Could be. Or he didn’t think we’d look in here. You know how people are. They don’t realize we actually have brains.”
“Truer words were never spoken, my friend. Let me know if you find anything else.”
Taylor was happy to have so many pieces falling into place. Half her job was done—they had a victim, a weapon, and eyewitness testimony that dissent had crept into the Wolff household.
Now they just needed the husband.
A dark SUV pulled into the street on Jocelyn Hollow Court and stopped just short of the crime scene tape strung across the Wolffs’ driveway. Taylor heard the neighbors buzzing as she walked out of the house, heard the snap, snap of cameras taking pictures. The media had arrived earlier and were reporting from a safe distance. But their long lenses could see quite a bit. And this was grade A, prime time footage. The husband had arrived.
Taylor watched Todd Wolff get out of the Lincoln Navigator, his body quivering with trepidation. He left the door open, the key in the ignition, the V-8 engine rumbling like a purring lion as it idled. He walked around to the passenger side, his steps heavy. His shoulders were bent, his nose red and swollen from crying. He stared at his house as if he’d never seen the place before. It had been six hours since he’d been told his wife and unborn son were dead.
Fitz sidled up beside her. “Wolff must have driven like a bat out of hell to get here so soon. I didn’t think he’d be in before six at the earliest.”
He handed Taylor a bottle of water, which she accepted gratefully. She twisted the top and drank deep, washing the taste of murder out of her mouth. She put the cap back on and spoke under her breath.
“He certainly looks distraught.”
“That’s an understatement. Dude looks like shit.”
Wolff was still staring at his house, and now took a few faltering steps toward the front porch. Taylor went to him quickly, getting a hand on the man’s forearm. He stopped and turned, looking at her with wide, blank eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked in a monotone.
“I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, homicide. This is Sergeant Pete Fitzgerald. Why don’t we chat for a minute, Mr. Wolff.”
She steered him back toward his truck. He strained against her, pulling away.
“No, I want to go in. I want to see Corinne. I want to see Hayden.”
“Mr. Wolff, your wife isn’t here. She’s been transported to the medical examiner’s office. Why don’t you come here and sit down for a second.”
Taylor looked up and saw that several of the neighbors had come back to attention, grouping across the street, and the newsies had their cameras trained on the grieving husband. Damn.
She looked around for a moment. They needed privacy, and she didn’t want to parade him into his house until the crime scene people were through.
“Actually, let’s go next door and talk, okay?”
“To Mrs. Manchini’s? She doesn’t like me.” But he tucked his head and changed direction, heading straight to his neighbor’s house without additional complaint. Taylor followed after a quick glance over her shoulder at Fitz, who was standing next to Wolff’s truck, casually looking through the open driver’s side door at the interior. He shook his head and Taylor continued toward the Manchini house. He hadn’t seen anything out of place. Yet.
The Harris family had been excused from the scene at three-thirty. They had left directions to the Harrises’ house in Sylvan Park, phone numbers and cell numbers where they could be reached. They’d taken Hayden Wolff with them. Taylor saw no reason to make a fuss over that, it wasn’t as if they were going to steal the child, after all.
Wolff stopped short at the edge of his lawn, head swiveling, breath suddenly coming in little pants. “Where’s Hayden? Where’s my daughter?” He started back toward his house. Taylor grabbed his arm again.
“Whoa there, Mr. Wolff. Your daughter is still with your in-laws. Her grandparents. She’s just fine, was a little tired and hungry, but she’s safe. You don’t need to worry about her.”
“I want to see her. I want to see her right now. I want to see my daughter!” His voice rose in pitch until the last word came out in a wail. Taylor heard shutters clicking as Wolff dropped to his knees in the grass between the two houses, sobbing. The video cameras rolled, gathering the scene. It was heartbreaking, and would make for a very exciting five o’clock news hour.
Taylor stepped to his side, squatting down to get face-to-face with him. Damn it, she didn’t want to be on the news doing this.
“Mr. Wolff,” she said as kindly as she could muster. “You need to get up and come with me now, sir. Let me get you situated next door and we can chat. The sooner we can do that, the sooner I can get you reunited with Hayden.”
“My son,” the man screamed. “My son is dead and you’re holding my daughter. This isn’t right. This isn’t fair!”
Fitz appeared at her side. She caught his eye, gestured with her head. Histronics weren’t going to help. They both took hold of an arm and raised Wolff to his feet. He was crying hard, tears and snot mingling into channels running down his chin, but he stopped yelling. A step in the right direction. Without further incident, they were able to get him all the way to the Manchini front door and slip him inside.
Taylor’s phone rang, and she pulled away, letting Fitz guide the distraught man to the now familiar chintz couch. Carla Manchini stood in the middle of the great room, watery eyes shining behind her glasses. This was more excitement than the woman had seen in years.
Seeing an unfamiliar number, Taylor decided to let it go to voice mail and joined Fitz, Mrs. Manchini and Todd Wolff in the great room. Probably a reporter anyway.
“Mrs. Manchini, do you think it would be possible if we could have the room to ourselves for a few minutes so we could speak to Todd alone?”
Disappointment clouded the older woman’s eyes, but she nodded like a little bird. “It’s nearly time for me to leave for my book club, it’s going to take me at least thirty minutes to get to Davis Kidd. There’s a fresh pot of tea in the kitchen. Can I trust you to lock up for me, Lieutenant? Normally I don’t worry about it, but now…”
“Of course, ma’am. We truly appreciate all your help today. You’ve been a huge asset.”
Tickled, the woman gathered her purse, a well-thumbed copy of Tasha Alexander’s A Fatal Waltz and left. Her book group would be hearing some exciting tales this evening.
Todd Wolff was collapsed on the sofa. He’d stopped actively crying but was sniveling, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist.
Taylor took a seat in the chintz armchair next to him. She waited for him to gather himself, handed him a tissue from the crochet-covered box sitting on the end table next to her. He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Wolff, can I ask where you’ve been?”
When he didn’t answer immediately, Taylor sized him up. He was a handsome, well-made man, with a thick shock of black hair, flashing black eyes, and deep stubble along his cleft chin. Looking at him, Taylor thought about the fair Hayden and wondered, just for a minute. Two dark-haired, dark-eyed parents, and their offspring a blonde with clear blue eyes. Interesting, genetics.
With a huge sniff, Wolff finally began to speak. “I have a property getting ready to open in Savannah, Georgia. I was down there overseeing the last bits and pieces. There’s a million things to be done, and I’m the one who has to get the checks written.”
“You build houses? Wolff Construction?”
“Yes.”
“When did you leave for Georgia?”
“Friday, around noon. I’ve been going every two weeks now that we’re getting close to wrapping the project.”
“You normally drive?”
“Yeah. I’m a successful developer, but I’m not made of money. It’s cheaper that way.”
“Seems like a long trip,” Fitz observed.
“I like the drive. It clears my head.”
“Did you usually spend the weekend when you made the drive?” Taylor asked.
“Yes. I come back on Monday afternoon.”
“When’s the last time you spoke to your wife?”
Wolff was quiet for a moment. “Saturday morning.”
“That was the last time?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try to call her again after you spoke on Saturday?”
“Yes. I wanted to read Hayden a story Saturday night. It was our tradition.”
“She didn’t answer?”
“No.” Wolff’s voice wavered, but fresh tears stayed in check.
“Weren’t you concerned that you couldn’t reach Corinne?”
Todd flinched at the mention of his wife’s name. “I wasn’t really paying attention, God help me. I was so caught up in the problems we were having on-site that when I didn’t reach her, I just left a message. I figured she was out with her sisters anyway. When I went out of town, she usually did a girls’ night with friends, or hung out with Michelle and Nicole and watched movies. She’d get a babysitter for Hayden sometimes, take advantage of some private time. I tried to call her again at around ten, but when the answering machine kicked on, I hung up. Tried her cell once, then went to bed myself. She didn’t like me checking up on her.”
“And you tried on Sunday?”
“I called Sunday around noon, and she didn’t pick up. But again, it didn’t worry me. She’s very independent, doesn’t need me around to keep her entertained. Since I have to go out of town so often, she’s used to it. How did she, how was she…”
He started crying again. “Who did this, Lieutenant? I love my wife. We got along, had a beautiful little girl, a son on the way. We were happy. This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to happy people.”
Oh, if it were only that easy, Taylor thought. The good and happy people get to lead normal lives, bad things only happen to bad people. Yeah, right. “Unfortunately, I can’t answer that for you right now, Mr. Wolff. Let’s talk some more about your interests in Savannah. Where do you stay when you go down there?”
“There’s a Hampton Inn down the street from the property. My secretary can give you all the particulars.”
“That’s where you stay every time?”
“Yes. It’s convenient, and clean. And not too expensive. I have to watch the bottom line, you know?”
“Your company has made quite a name for itself. How’d you get into construction?”
“The honest way. I worked summers for my dad, he operated a heavy crane for a guy over in Ashland City. I had a chance to do little bit of everything. I love carpentry, love to see homes rise out of nothing. I’ve got a decent head for figures. It was a natural extension of my upbringing. Why does that matter?”
Taylor crossed her legs. “We’re just talking here, Mr. Wolff. Is the business doing well?”
“Better than I deserve.”
“No money issues? You guys were doing okay financially?”
“Lieutenant, I hardly think—” He stopped, the implication of Taylor’s question hitting him. “You think I did this.”
“I’m just trying to get a feeling for your life, Mr. Wolff. I’m not implying anything. Tell me about your finances. You mentioned that you drive instead of fly because it was cheaper. Is your business having problems?”
He became very still. “Lieutenant, what happened here? What happened to my wife? No one will tell me.”
The raw emotion tugged at Taylor’s center. She caught Fitz’s eye. Either this guy was one hell of an actor, or he genuinely didn’t know the manner in which his wife had died.
“Mr. Wolff,” Taylor tried again. “Do you and your wife fight?”
He met her eyes, his gaze direct and unflinching, deep pools of pain. “Of course we fight. We’re not perfect. We have tiffs, like every other married couple in the world. If you’re asking if I killed my wife, the answer is no.”
Taylor assessed him for a moment longer. Well, it was always worth judging the reaction to reality. She decided to take a chance. Something about Wolff’s demeanor made her believe him. A quick glance at Fitz confirmed her decision was sound.
“We don’t have a lot to go on right now, Mr. Wolff. Evidence is being collected, the investigation is underway. What I can tell you is your sister-in-law came to pick Corinne up for tennis this morning. Your wife was found in your bedroom, severely beaten. Your daughter seems unharmed.”
“And the baby?”
His voice cracked and tears spilled down his cheeks, silent silver tracks. The voice of a man condemned, a man who knew the answer to his question but forced himself to ask it anyway.
“Your son didn’t survive the assault, Mr. Wolff. Your wife had been deceased for some time when she was discovered. I’m very sorry.”
Wolff hiccupped, then stood and bolted. Taylor heard him vomiting in the guest bath, then water running to cover the noises.
Fitz had sat silent throughout the exchange. “You think we need to bring him downtown?” he asked quietly.
The water was still running in the bathroom. Taylor shook her head, but answered him under her breath. “I think he’s got enough on his plate right now. That was an awfully visceral reaction for someone who knew what was coming. He may be pulling one over on us, but I’m inclined to think he may be telling the truth. Either he’s quite the criminal mastermind—arranging to be out of town, hiring someone to kill his wife—or he doesn’t know what happened. Let’s give him the night with his daughter, and question him again in the morning. We’ve got a lot of background to go through, need to see what their finances are like, sift through all the evidence Tim collected. I say we write things up and call it a night.”
“I agree. I’ll get him over to the Harrises’ so he can see his daughter.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to go into the office, make up the murder book, check in with the captain. I’ll see you there.”
The toilet flushed and the water stopped running. Wolff came back into the room, his eyes bloodshot, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry for losing control like that.”
“It’s okay. We understand. I think it’s time to wrap things up for today. Your wife’s body will be autopsied in the morning, and we’d like to talk to you some more. But for now, we’re going to get you with Hayden and your family.”
As they left, Taylor couldn’t help but look back at the Wolffs’ house. What had happened? Was this a home invasion gone bad? It didn’t look like anything had been tampered with or stolen. No, this felt personal, and Todd was the obvious choice.
There was something about him. So far he’d shown nothing but the appropriate responses. But Taylor couldn’t help but think about Corinne’s family, and her father, insistent that Todd was somehow culpable for the murder.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been lied to.
Seven
Taylor took her time driving downtown, thinking about the afternoon. The murder weapon stashed in the closet, Todd Wolff’s seemingly genuine hysteria. It was much too early to dismiss him as a suspect. Violence on this level, in the victim’s home, so often was a result of a domestic squabble gone wrong. And there had been plenty of husbands who had duped even the best investigators. Mark Hacking came to mind. He’d gone on television, cried and begged, pleading for justice for his pregnant wife, when in actuality, he’d shot her, dumped her body in a Dumpster, replaced their mattress and nearly got away with the whole crime. Scott Peterson was another classic example. It was a sad statistic—the number one cause of death for pregnant mothers was domestic homicide.
But if he’d done it, he was a cold-blooded bastard. Murder your wife, your unborn child, and leave your daughter trailing around the house alone for days? Jesus. That took some balls. Or desperation.
It was ten after six and Taylor was topping Nine Mile Hill. She’d made the short trip into Bellevue and gone through the McDonald’s drive-through before heading back downtown. The whole day had been lost at the Wolff crime scene and she hadn’t stopped to have anything to eat. She munched a chicken sandwich as she drove, feeling virtuous for skipping the fries.
Nine Mile Hill, so creatively named because it was exactly nine miles from the heart of downtown Nashville, the Cumberland River, afforded Taylor a lovely panoramic view of the city. The sun was setting behind her, catching the reflection off the Lifeway warehouse. The skyscrapers and the Capitol building that made up Nashville’s skyline were bathed in a rosy copper reflective glow, shimmering like an urban mirage. Taylor had lived in Nashville her entire life, but had never seen this vision. It was gorgeous and filled her, making her feel whole and drowsy. She was tempted to pull over and watch until it disappeared, but the sun did the trick for her, shifting slightly in its evening zenith. The mirage faded, and the downtown Taylor knew reappeared.
The little things were becoming so important. She’d always had a knack for finding beauty in the most unlikely places. When it came to her unbidden, it felt like a blessing.
As she drove through Belle Meade, she thought about Corinne Wolff. This murder was going to seize the attention of Nashville. Always fascinated by suburban crime, the city would rally around a dead mother-to-be. She made a mental note to talk to Dan Franklin, the department’s spokesman, to work on some language that would be appropriately somber. If she didn’t get a viable suspect right away, a story like this could breed controversy. She didn’t need the national news outlets breathing down her neck. She’d had enough of that on her last big case.
Gossip, rumor, innuendo. A homicide detective’s best friend was the undercurrent, the shifting of allegiances, the aspersions cast. It took a rare talent to sift through the lies, arrive at the truth. Taylor had always had a sense for accuracy. But when the media got involved, the deceptions became driven by ratings. A brave new world.
She’d only had serious media trouble twice in the past, once several years earlier, the second only a month prior. The Snow White Killer, long dormant in Nashville, had risen like a phoenix and started killing again. She was still uncomfortable with the nature of the media’s interest in the case, how easily they dragged her and the department through the mud. There was constant second-guessing and now, with the benefit of hindsight, Monday morning quarterbacking galore. Two months later, Taylor lay in bed at night, watching replay after replay of the case on cable news, wondering if the interest would ever truly end. The national news outlets had camped along the streets of downtown Nashville like hippie jam bands, partying over the leftovers of each family’s grief. The slightest whiff of resolution and they’d be back at it.
The earlier trouble, well, she didn’t like to think about that.
The thoughts came quickly, whipping through her mind like a breeze. Snow White. His apprentice, the self-proclaimed Pretender, a man with no name and no compunction when it came to killing. Still out there, lurking in the deepest recesses. Which brought her to Baldwin.
Baldwin would have firsthand access to anything new on the still very open case. He’d promised to look into the Bureau’s files while he was in Quantico.
If she were being honest with herself, she hoped he would find something fresh, something concrete. Something more than the ephemeral, hair bristling on the back of the neck feelings Taylor had. Feelings were all well and good. She trusted herself, trusted her instincts. Every once in a while, her skin tingled and she felt eyes on her back. She assumed the Pretender was keeping tabs on their investigation into his whereabouts, and sometimes followed her. She could almost sense him when he was near. He set her radar off, though she’d never gotten a real look at him.
They needed concrete evidence. Needed to know the name of the murderer who masqueraded in other killers’ emotional garments. They had nothing.
Headlights flashed and she came back, surprised to see she was already at the Criminal Justice Center. Car coma, that’s what Baldwin called it. It happened too often; she’d be lost in thought and realize she’d driven to her destination without seeing the path. Too distracted. She needed to be more on her game. The time off had only intensified the need for her to get her head back to Nashville, and on keeping herself safe.
She parked and crossed the lot, taking the back stairs two at a time. She swiped her key card along the access box at the back entrance to the building. The door dumped her into the hallway just outside the Homicide offices. The second shift had already arrived; a noisy buzz emanated from the homicide office.
The hall was blocked by a young patrol officer from the first shift who was bent in half, butt sticking up in the air, her flashlight swinging precariously close to her head as she dug green-colored photocopied paper out of a box. She straightened, shuffled the pages of announcements, meeting schedules, calendars—the normal office detritus. It only took her a few moments to rearrange the corkboard, posting new job listings and notices. When she was satisfied, she stood back and looked to make sure everything was set to rights, then slid the Plexiglas closed and locked it with a miniature key. She noticed Taylor, mumbled “Sorry,” and shoved the box out of the way. As Taylor passed her, she went on to the next glass slot, the one with the latest WANTED posters. She unlocked the casing, reached in her little box and pulled out several posters, arranging them in order of priority. The highest priority was an infamous cold case that appeared to have gotten a lead.
The Cold Case team. Taylor didn’t envy their jobs a bit. She couldn’t imagine working full-time with the lost, spending all her time living other people’s pain and agony. Taylor was convinced that in order to heal, a victim’s family just needed to know what actually happened. For those who were missing, who were dead with no killer captured, no answers, the waiting was unbearable. Nashville had plenty of cases that fit this précis, and six or seven that were actively being worked.
With a brief wave at two of the B shift detectives, she went into her office and shut the door behind her.
Absolutely astounding. Looking at the top of the wooden desk, Taylor couldn’t help but think of a tornado’s aftermath. When she’d left the night before, everything was in its place, the in-box and out-box were empty, and the desktop was completely clear. Now, it was overflowing. She spied at least four incident reports from the Wolff crime scene, a couple of red actionable items from upstairs, an empty threeing binder some kind soul had thought to provide, knowing she’d be collecting all the information for its innards, creating a new murder book labeled Wolff. Several multicolored sticky notes, a full call sheet, a brief scattering of pens and pencils. A shaft of moonlight peeked through the open blinds, illuminating a white sheet of basketball brackets with a hot pink postie reminding her to make her picks before Thursday at noon or else she wouldn’t be able to participate in the yearly NCAA pool. Away for a day and the desk bloomed like forsythia, one moment barren and empty, the next full of unruly flowers. With a sigh, she slipped around to her seat and started organizing. She couldn’t work in chaos, never had been able to tolerate a mess in her proximity.
Her voice-mail light was blinking. She played the messages. The only one of interest was from Lincoln Ross. Oh, thank goodness. It was good to hear his voice.
She never realized how much she missed being around her team until they weren’t there. She’d missed them all while she and Baldwin were away, and returned to the news that Lincoln Ross had been tapped for an assignment. A “Special Assignment.” That’s all she’d been told. She could guess what cases might be important enough to put a homicide detective on a full-time assignment, had made a few attempts to get information from her captain, Mitchell Price. He’d only smiled and nodded with each guess, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing which supposition was correct.
Setting a sheaf of paper aside, she flipped open her cell phone and dialed the number. Lincoln answered on the first ring, his deep, honeyed voice tinged with irony.
“Thank God it’s you, LT. I have a problem,” Lincoln said.
“Talk to me. I miss you, by the way. Are you ever coming off this project?”
“I hope so. I think things are about to break. This stupid confidential informant got me in a world of hurt, and I had to push back. That’s part of the problem.”
“What happened?”
She heard the deep, readying breath. “I had to partake.” He spat the words out as if saying them would ease a bad taste in his mouth.
“Oh, Lincoln. You know that’s not—”
The despair in his voice broke her heart. “Shit, LT, I know. Trust me, it was drilled into me a thousand times before I got involved in this case. I didn’t have a choice. This is getting dicey. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What was it?”
“What else. Crack. Messed me up good, too, even though I barely had a hit. God, LT. It was terrible. You don’t think they’ll fire me?”
Taylor laughed. “No, I don’t. My God, Linc, you’re one of the finest officers we employ. If you said there was no other choice, I believe you, and so will Price. He’ll go to the mat for you. How’d you get yourself stuck?”
“The CI has been meeting me at a skeevy hotel, bringing me the information. Some of his cronies followed him to the meet. There was nothing we could do without blowing the whole thing. Thank God they didn’t recognize me, that would have ended it all right there, with me on the floor in a puddle of blood. No, they were all fucked-up and wanted to party some more. I’ve been feeding the CI drugs to sell to them. They insisted on trying the merchandise. I said no, the head dog said yes. Stuck a revolver in my face. I didn’t think I had much of a choice after that. I faked it best I could, but I still had to blow something out, you know?”
It was the bane of undercover work, especially when the target of the investigation was into the drug scene. Balancing being a cop and not blowing your cover was difficult at best. Lincoln wasn’t undercover though, and she didn’t want to upset him further by telling him that it was likely disciplinary action would be taken against him. A suspension without pay, probably. That could wait until he was back with her.
“You need to be careful, my friend. Write the whole thing up and we’ll handle it together. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks. I gotta go. We’ve got a meet in twenty minutes. See ya.”
That just sucked. She hated that Lincoln had been forced into harm’s way by someone else’s stupidity.
There was another message, this one from Baldwin. Just checking in, he said. He sounded stressed. Well, she could identify with that. She called him back, but he didn’t answer. She put her phone away and got to work. She had a suspect to catch.
The sun was setting on Quantico, Virginia.
Dr. John Baldwin stood. He’d been sitting in a chair that was too low to the ground for his long legs, and it screeched with the sudden movement.
“Damn it, I don’t like lying to her.”
“I know that, Baldwin. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, you know that.” Garrett Woods tried for affable, but Baldwin wasn’t fooled. He’d known the man too long to trust such a conciliatory tone.
“You know karma is going to bite you in the ass for faking heart problems.”
Garrett smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. “I could have gone into a diabetic coma instead. Would that have been more realistic? I am diabetic, after all.”
“You should take better care of yourself regardless. But be warned, if we find out he’s heading anywhere near Nashville, I am out of here. How in the world did you let him slip the net?”
“We’re still figuring that out. And don’t worry about your princess. She can take care of herself. Don’t delude yourself there, my boy. She’s managed quite well without you all this time. She’s not some weak-kneed little kitten that needs your protection. You’ll be back there soon enough. There’s work to be done here first.”
Baldwin took a lap around the small room, stopping at the window that overlooked the parade grounds in front of the gate into the complex. Garrett had asked to meet him in an outbuilding, outside the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime offices, which housed both the Behavioral Science Unit and the Behavioral Analysis Units. It was a smart thing to do; that building was filled with perceptive people. This conversation didn’t need an audience.
After spending the past year in Nashville, he’d found himself dreading the thought of the BSU walls closing in around him. He’d always hated being stuck inside, much preferred working in the field. He loved the work, just didn’t like having to share his workspace with forty other people.
Garrett’s reach had been dragging him back to Quantico more and more often. After hearing this news, he was going to have to stick around for a while. Quantico was the last place he wanted to be right now.
“I could give her a generic warning. Anything funny happens, let me know. Something so she wouldn’t be blindsided.”
Garrett shook his head, a fine sheen of sweat shimmering along his closely clipped hairline. “No. Not yet. Let’s get some confirmation first. This may not happen. We don’t need to blow your cover over a maybe. Langley would not like that at all.”
Eight
When Taylor was deep in a case, every workday lasted just a bit longer than the last.
She left the office a little after eleven o’clock, planning to forage in her kitchen for wine and cheese, maybe a hunk of bread. It was too late for a real dinner, and after five months living with Baldwin, she’d come to realize she didn’t like to eat alone anymore. She dragged into the house at eleven-thirty, yawned and decided to hell with it. She’d just head upstairs and have a decent breakfast instead.
Baldwin had called, leaving a message on the machine for her, one designed to incite a lustful longing for his warmth. She’d smiled at the attempt to solicit dirty thoughts, but was too tired to think of much except getting into the bed and sleeping forever.
There was a bill on the counter from the plumber. God, she’d forgotten all about the leak. It seemed impossible that she’d started her day with such a banal issue. It felt like a week had passed.
Just a cracked cock and ball assembly, allowing the water to the toilet to steadily overflow. He’d replaced it, and the charge was $150 for parts and labor, but with their new home warranty, their cost was only $42.50. That was a relief. She checked the ceiling in the living room, it had already dried without leaving a stain. Good. Replacing a ceiling wasn’t high on her list of things she wanted to deal with. Though they’d had a million little issues with the house, so far they were just that, little. She rapped her knuckles on the cabinet—knock wood they’d stay annoyances rather than something major.
She called Baldwin back and they chatted for a few minutes. She told him about her day and he assured her that Garrett was just fine. After her fourth jaw-cracking yawn, Baldwin suggested she get some sleep. They hung up with promises to talk in the morning.
A dog barked once, sharp and deep, then howled. The sound gave her a chill, and she set the alarm before moving upstairs.
She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and was climbing in the bed when she heard the tape for the first time. Channel Five kindly replayed their ten o’clock newscast at midnight on their sister cable station. The anchor was intoning with horror, preparing the viewers with a warning that was sure to keep them riveted to their seats and the channel tuned in.
“We’re going to play the 911 tapes from the Corinne Wolff murder scene. We must warn you, the tape is disturbing, and not appropriate for young viewers.”
The screen went blank, then a blue background with a graphic of a white rotary telephone popped up, the headline reading 911 Call. The tape started rolling, static whispering at first, then clearer. The station provided a written transcript on the screen to accompany Michelle Harris’s words.
“911 Operator: Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?
Michelle Harris: I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God. [crying]
911 Operator: Can you repeat that, ma’am?
Michelle Harris: There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…HAYDEN?
911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?
Michelle Harris: HAYDEN, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?
911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?
Michelle Harris: Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…
911 Operator: Hayden is your sister?
Michelle Harris: Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.
Background noise: Mama hurt
911 Operator: Who is dead, ma’am?
Michelle Harris: My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s, she’s cold. [crying, indistinguishable noise]
911 Operator: We’re sending the police, ma’am.”
Taylor turned off the television. That pretty much guaranteed she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while. She got out of the bed and went to the bonus room, knowing that a few games of eight ball would help settle her mind.
She snapped on the lamp, took the cover off the table and retrieved a Miller Lite from the small dorm refrigerator that stood unobtrusively in the alcove. She twisted off the top, sent the metal cap arcing toward the trashcan with a nice overhead, then cursed. She’d forgotten to bring home the brackets for the basketball pool. Oh well, she could manage that tomorrow.
She racked up the balls and started shooting, the rhythm of her game helping a quiet calm steal into her limbs. Bend, sight, the clicking smack of the cue hitting the ball, drop. Over and over again, until the table was clear. She racked the balls back up, did it again. The beer was empty now, so she got another, pausing to sip at intervals, focused on the task at hand. Trying to empty her mind.
Taylor got tired of being a stranger to deep, uninterrupted sleep, but at least it helped hone her skills on the felt. She could probably make some cash as a pool shark if she ever needed a career change.
Three-thirty now, and she finally started to feel the slight tug at her eyelids that presaged some REM time. She covered up the table, tossed the beer bottles in the trash, shut off the light and went back to her bedroom.
The sense that something wasn’t right struck her, and she went to the windows, lifted the edge of the blind and looked out onto the darkened street. The home-owners association had bylaws forbidding street lamps, which was one of the dumbest things Taylor had ever heard of. As a consequence, some of the homes on the street burned the front lights all night, the yellow pools of safety a warning to any who thought to enter, knowing that light was their best deterrent to crime. Not all the home owners felt the same.
With only three houses’ porch lights on tonight, and those farther up the street, the darkness was deep and penetrating. Taylor took in the shadowy brick structures, the trees waving long-boned fingers in the air. In a day or two, they’d be in full bud. Spring generally appeared overnight in Nashville. Taylor wondered if she stood and watched, would she see the coming of the equinox? Instead, there was nothing to observe, no one on the street lurking, staring up at the windows.
“Silly goose,” she said, her voice’s typical no nonsense tone a comfort.
She got into the bed and stared at the grotesque shadows cast about the room by the night-light’s reflection on the ceiling fan. Thought about Corinne Wolff, beaten, alone, unable to fend off her attacker. Rolling onto her side, she caressed the pillow facing her, where Baldwin’s chiseled features usually gave her a respite. The emptiness was palpable. Stretching her right arm out, she slid it under the pillow. Her fingers closed around the grip of her Glock. A shiver went through her, and she was finally dragged under.
The lights were doused at last. He wondered how she slept. On her side, or her back? On her stomach, vulnerable and unable to defend herself if surprised? Oh, if that were only the case. But no. He’d watched her walk, the long stride never hesitating, never compromising, and knew she slept on her side, a leg thrown over the man next to her. Confidence. She had that in spades. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to teach her humility. Bliss.
A nosy dog scented him and began baying. He moved deeper into the woods, away from the house, away from civilization. The time would come. He must simply be patient.
Tuesday
Nine
Despite the alarm going off in her ear for a full twenty minutes, Taylor couldn’t rouse herself. She finally reached a hand over and stifled the music, glancing with one eye at the clock face. Nearly seven-thirty. Damn it. She needed to be at Forensic Medical by eight to witness Corinne Wolff’s autopsy.
She threw back the tangle of covers and went into the bath, started the shower running and brushed her teeth. Fifteen minutes later she rolled out of the garage barefoot, Diet Coke clutched in her lap, jeans and T-shirt on, wet hair smoothed into a coiled bun. She had an awkward crick in her neck from sleeping at an odd angle that the shower hadn’t relieved. She could put her boots on when she got to Gass Street, slip into a sweater, too. It was chilly as hell this morning.
She’d made this trek too many times to count in her years as a detective. She felt a strange kind of kinship with her victims—the need to see what was inside, what made them tick. And Corinne Wolff was no exception. Taylor was interested to see the particulars of how she’d died, at the very least.
Interstate 40 was packed with early morning commuters, and an accident at the Charlotte Pike exit meant they were crawling slower than normal. The west side of town was blessed with less congestion, less traffic, and an easier commute than those people driving into Nashville from the east, south and north of town. But an accident could derail that immediately, bringing all the cars to a snail’s pace. Taylor sipped her Diet Coke, trying for patience. It didn’t look like traffic was going to get moving anytime soon, and she wasn’t in the mood to sit. Damn it, she was going to be late. Another ten minutes passed before the cars inched forward enough for her to hop off at Charlotte westbound. Feeling free, she made an illegal U-turn in front of the Cracker Barrel, sailed up to White Bridge and got on Briley Parkway.
The new section of road quickly gave way to the old four-lane highway, and she started making up time as she cruised past the defunct Tennessee State Prison, the site of Robert Redford’s film The Last Castle and an architectural dead ringer for Johnny Cash’s infamous Folsom State Prison. It had fallen into disrepair and was abandoned, left to the ghosts and rats. She tried not to think of her father, once a brief inmate of those twenty-foot-high, three-foot-thick crenellated walls.
Now the prisoners were housed at Riverbend, a maximum-security prison equipped to end the lives of those fated to die at the hands of the state. She’d been inside Riverbend’s death row cells, with their blue doors and creamy concrete walls. She never wanted to return. The overwhelming sense of malevolence coupled with dread was too much to take. She’d sent more than one of the men housed in that unit to death row and hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep over them, but she didn’t want to experience their last moments firsthand.
Her dad, well, his prison environs were a damn sight cushier than a state penitentiary. The feds were kind to their white-collar criminals.
The Interstate 24 split came, and she passed the exit, driving a few more miles to the Dickerson Road access ramp. Off the highway now, into the run-down streets. This was a sad part of town. A crack whore strolled by, arms swinging wildly as she walked, a timid black man in his forties following some fifty feet behind. Had they made the deal already? They must have, the hooker had the bright, insistent glow in her eyes of a junkie who knows she’s about to get a fix.
Taylor shook her head. There seemed to be no legal measures that could stop the pervasive sex trades on the back streets of Nashville. For the pros, a night in jail meant either safety or withdrawal, neither an inducement to break free from the life. For the johns, it was just an embarrassment.
She turned on Gass and passed the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations offices on the right. The TBI task force would be furious if they knew Lincoln had broken the rules. Even though he had done something that was life-preserving, they would still punish him. He’d be kicked off the task force at the very least. She wondered if she could keep the situation quiet, then forced the thought from her mind. She was a master at keeping each aspect separate, tackling one thorny issue at a time. It was the only way she could get through the day.
Forensic Medical appeared on her left, shiny as a new penny in the morning sun. Taylor parked in a visitor slot. She jammed her feet into her boots, tucked her sunglasses into their hard leather case, grabbed the sweater and stepped into the bracing morning air. Dogwood winter, that’s what her mother had called these chilly spring days. As soon as the trees began to bud, Nashville was nearly guaranteed a late frost, shriveling up the fresh, tender blossoms. Only the most hale of trees and shrubs would stand it; the rest would be shocked back into dormancy for at least another few weeks.
The front of Forensic Medical was lined in clusters of forsythia bushes intertwined with azaleas. The forsythia didn’t seem to mind the snap, were rioting in their fervor to spread their rich yellow blooms toward the cool sunlight. The sight made her smile. The mutinous nature of the bushes always lightened her heart. She hated when people trimmed them into balls or squares, felt it killed their wild personality. It was a shame they’d be gone so soon, too. She wished they’d bloom all summer.
Taylor swiped her card and entered the cool offices of Forensic Medical. Someone, probably Kris, the receptionist, was burning a lavender scented candle. Slightly less oppressive than the patchouli incense that sometimes smoked up the foyer, but lavender always made Taylor sneeze. The cacophony of scents that made up Forensic Medical wreaked havoc with her sinuses anyway. Beneath the thick flowering smell was an antiseptic undernote, profumo della morte. The scent of death was pervasive and ugly, no matter what Renaissance language she translated it into.
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J.T. Ellison
It was a murder made for TV: a trail of tiny bloody footprints.An innocent toddler playing beside her mother's bludgeoned body. Pretty young Corinne Wolff, seven months pregnant, brutally murdered in her own home. Cameras and questions don't usually faze Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson, but the media frenzy surrounding the Wolff case is particularly nasty. . . and thorough.When the seemingly model mommy is linked to an amateur porn Web site with underage actresses and unwitting players, the sharks begin to circle. The shock is magnified when an old adversary uses the sexy secret footage to implicate Taylor in a murder—an accusation that threatens her career, her reputation and her relationship.Both cases hinge on the evidence—real or manufactured—of crimes that go beyond passion, into the realm of obsessive vengeance and shocking betrayal. Just what the networks love.Praise for J.T. Ellison"A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut." - Lee Child "A taut, striking debut. Mystery fiction has a new name to watch." - John ConnollyThe Taylor Jacksons series1. All The Pretty Girls2. 143. Judas Kiss4. The Cold Room5. The Immortals6. So Close the Hand of Death7. Where All the Dead Lie
Praise for J.T. Ellison’s debut novel
ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
“A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut.”
—Author Lee Child
“Creepy thrills from start to finish.”
—Author James O. Born
“[All the Pretty Girls] has the attention to detail, unexpected twists and puzzles that are vital to topflight crime fiction.”
Nashville City Paper
“Relentlessly paced and intricately plotted—and it features a villain who will have readers looking over their shoulders, even in the daylight.”
Romantic Times BOOKreviews (four stars)
“With this debut thriller, Ellison puts her mentoring by Lee Child to good use.”
—Library Journal
“Complex and sharp-tongued, Taylor Jackson is destined to become an icon in crime fiction.”
—Author Kristy Kiernan
“The book is taut, tense and suspenseful.
The best part of All the Pretty Girls, though, is its breathless pace.”
—The Tennessean
“A turbocharged thrill ride of a debut.”
—Author Julia Spencer-Fleming
“Ellison hits the ground running with an electrifying debut.”
—Author J.A. Konrath
“Southern readers will find All the Pretty Girls a thrilling ride through a well-known locale, and the rest of the country will get a closer view—and a different perspective—of Music City.”
—BookPage
“Fast-paced and creepily believable.”
—Author M. J. Rose
“A spine-tingling thriller you will not want to miss.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Ellison’s talent is evident not only in her ability to create nail-biting suspense, but also in her vivid characters.”
—Author Tasha Alexander
“J.T. Ellison’s fast-moving debut is as smooth as fine Kentucky bourbon.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Ellison’s characters—whether major players or quiet students—will stay with you long after you close the book.”
—Author Pari Noskin Taichert
JUDAS KISS
Also by J.T. Ellison
14
ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
JUDAS KISS
J.T. ELLISON
To Del Tinsley,
without whom none of these books would see the light of day.
And for my Randy,
without whom I would be lost.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While the execution of the words belongs to the author, we can’t make the books come alive without our research, our cheering sections and our inspirations. Thanking people is truly one of the most exciting steps in writing these books. So please indulge me while I wax poetic about my team.
My incredible agent Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group, who always knows exactly what to say and when to say it, and Stephanie Sun, who makes every exchange a pleasure.
My extraordinary editor Linda McFall, the woman who makes these manuscripts into coherent books. I couldn’t do it without you. And a special thanks to assistant editor Adam Wilson, who makes the business end so much fun. Between the two of them, they turn my words into magic, for which I will be forever grateful.
The entire MIRA Books team, especially Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Michelle Renaud, Adrienne Macintosh, Megan Lorius, Marianna Ricciuto, Tracey Langmuir, Kathy Lodge, Emily Ohanjanians, Alex Osuszek, Margaret Marbury, Dianne Moggy and the brilliant artists who create these fabulous covers: Tara Kelly and Gigi Lau.
My independent publicist Tom Robinson, who is truly a master at finding just the right spot to place me. Thank you for everything!
The librarians across the country who’ve seen fit to order my books—it warms my heart every time someone says they found me in their local library!
Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department, my go-to, my first resource, my friend. He helps Taylor come to life in ways I never could.
Dr. Vince Tranchida, Manhattan Medical Examiner, who makes sure Sam does everything right.
Duane Swierczynski, for not knowing Polish.
Elizabeth Fox, who stunned me with an e-mail—“I’m Taylor!”—and has since become a cherished friend.
My amazing critique group, the Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Del Tinsley, Janet McKeown, Mary Richards, Rai Lyn Woods, Cecelia Tichi, Peggy O’Neal Peden and J.B. Thompson, who don’t ever hesitate to tell me when I’ve mucked it up, and are the first to cheer when I get it right. I love you guys!
And an especial thanks to J.B., who always helps me get these pages ready for New York’s eyes.
Laura and Linda, my goddesses at Borders—Cool Springs, who welcomed a new local author with open arms, and staff recommendations! Thanks, ladies!
First reader Joan Huston needs a special thanks this time as well, for making me worry about my opening in this book. It’s stronger because of her concerns.
My dear Tasha Alexander, the only woman who can actually keep me on the phone instead of at the keyboard, though many times we can do both at once. I love you, honey!
My esteemed fellow authors Brett Battles, Rob Gregory-Browne, Bill Cameron and Dave White, for the IMs; Toni Causey, Gregg Olsen, Kristy Kiernan for constantly cheering me on and making me laugh, and all my Killer Year mates for being such amazing influences on me.
My fellow Murderati bloggers, who inspire me daily, especially Pari Noskin Taichert, the best sounding board out there.
Lee Child and John Connolly, for making me think about every word, and John Sandford, who needs thanks for inspiring me every time.
My parents are the most enthusiastic cheerleaders for my novels, and need to be paid a commission on their book sales. Their love and support is phenomenal. My wonderful brother Jay, and Kendall, Jason and Dillon, for putting up with their wayward aunt. My other wonderful brother Jeff, who always, always makes me laugh.
And where would I be without my darling husband to keep me grounded? Thank you, baby, for not letting me float away. You make all of this worthwhile.
Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic license is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.
Contents
Prologue
Monday
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Tuesday
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Friday
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Saturday
Chapter Forty-One
Prologue
Blood.
It was everywhere. The floor, the walls, the body. All over the jeans and T-shirt too. Damn, how was that going to come out? With a grimace, the killer set down the weapon and stood over the now inert body. No more arguments. No more screaming about failure, lost promise, disappointments. The wail of a child built in the distance, drowned out by the fury humming in the killer’s ears. A smile broke.
“You horrendous bitch. This is exactly what you deserve.”
Ten hours later
“Mama?
“Mama, Mama. Hungy. Cookie, Mama. Cookie.
“Wake up, Mama, wake up.
“Went potty, Mama. Good girl.
“Mama?
“Mama owie? Owie? Boo-boo? Mama fall down?
“Bankie, Mama.
“Bankie. Teddy.
“Mama! Mamaaaaaaaaaaa.
“Night-night, Mama. Bye-bye.”
Monday
One
Michelle Harris sat at the stoplight on Old Hickory and Highway 100, grinding her teeth. She was late. Corinne hated when she was late. She wouldn’t bitch at her, wouldn’t chastise her, would just glance at the clock on the stove, the digital readout that always, always ran three minutes ahead of time so Corinne could have a cushion, and a little line would appear between her perfectly groomed eyebrows.
Their match was in an hour. They had plenty of time, but Corinne would need to drop Hayden at the nursery and have a protein smoothie before stretching in preparation for their game. Michelle and Corinne had been partners in tennis doubles for ages, and they were two matches from taking it all. Their yearly run at the Richland club championship was almost a foregone conclusion; they’d won seven years in a row.
Tapping the fingers of her right hand on the wheel, she used her left to pull her ponytail around the curve of her neck, a comfort gesture she’d adopted in childhood. Corinne hadn’t needed any comfort. She was always the strong one. Even as a young child, when Michelle pulled that ponytail around her neck, the unruly curls winding around her ear, Corinne would get that little line between her brows to show her displeasure at her elder sister’s weakness.
Remembering, Michelle flipped the hair back over her shoulder with disgust. The light turned green and she gunned it, foot hard on the pedal. She hated being late for Corinne.
Michelle took the turn off Jocelyn Hollow Road and followed the sedate, meandering asphalt into her sister’s cul-de-sac. The dogwood tree in the Wolffs’ front yard was just beginning to bud. Michelle smiled. Spring was coming. Nashville had been in the grip of a difficult winter for months, but at last the frigid clutch showed signs of breaking. New life stirred at the edges of the forests, calves were dropping in the fields. The chirping of the wrens and cardinals had taken on a higher pitch, avian mommies and daddies awaiting the arrival of their young. Corinne herself was ripe with a new life, seven months into an easy pregnancy—barely looking four months along. Her activity level kept the usual baby weight off, and she was determined to play tennis up to the birth, just like she’d done with Hayden.
Not fair. Michelle didn’t have any children, didn’t have a husband for that matter. She just hadn’t met the right guy. The consolation was Hayden. With a niece as adorable and precocious as hers, she didn’t need her own child. Not just yet.
She pulled into the Wolffs’ maple-lined driveway and cut the engine on her Volvo. Corinne’s black BMW 535i sat in front of the garage door. The wrought iron lantern lights that flanked the front doors were on. Michelle frowned. It wasn’t like Corinne to forget to turn those lights off. She remembered the argument Corinne and Todd, her husband, had gotten into about them. Todd wanted the kind that came on at dark and went off in the morning automatically. Corinne insisted they could turn the switch themselves with no problem. They’d gone back and forth, Todd arguing for the security, Corinne insisting that the look of the dusk-to-dawns were cheesy and wouldn’t fit their home. She’d won, in the end. She always did.
Corinne always turned off the lights first thing in the morning. Like clockwork.
The hair rose on the back of Michelle’s neck. This wasn’t right.
She stepped out of the Volvo, didn’t shut the door all the way behind her. The path to her sister’s front door was a brick loggia pattern, the nooks and crannies filled with sand to anchor the Chilhowies. Ridiculously expensive designer brick from a tiny centuries-old sandpit in Virginia, if Michelle remembered correctly. She followed the path and came to the front porch. The door was unlocked, but that was typical. Michelle told Corinne time and again to keep that door locked at night. But Corinne always felt safe, didn’t see the need. Michelle eased the door open.
Oh, my God.
Michelle ran back to her car and retrieved her cell phone. As she dialed 911, she rushed back to the porch and burst through the front door.
The phone was ringing in her ear now, ringing, ringing. She registered the footprints, did a quick lap around the bottom floor and seeing no one, took the steps two at a time. She was breathing hard when she hit the top, took a left and went down the hall.
A voice rang in her ear, and she tried to comprehend the simple language as she took in the scene before her.
“911, what is your emergency?”
She couldn’t answer. Oh God, Corinne. On the floor, face down. Blood, everywhere.
“911, what is your emergency?”
The tears came freely. The words left her mouth before she realized they’d been spoken aloud.
“I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”
“Can you repeat that, ma’am?”
Could she? Could she actually bring her larynx to life without throwing up on her dead sister’s body? She touched her fingers to Corinne’s neck. Remarkable how chilled the dead flesh felt. Oh, God, the poor baby. She ran out of the room, frenzied. Hayden, where was Hayden? Michelle turned in a tight circle, seeing more footprints. No sign of the little girl. She was yelling again, heard the words fly from her mouth as if they came from another’s tongue.
“There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…Hayden?” Michelle was screaming, frantic. She tore back into the bedroom. Something in her mind snapped, she couldn’t seem to get it together.
The 911 operator was yelling in her ear, but she didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?”
Where was that precious little girl? A strawberry-blond head appeared from around the edge of the king-sized sleigh bed. It took a moment to register—Hayden, with red hair? She was a towhead, so blond it was almost white, no, that wasn’t right.
“Hayden, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?” She gathered the little girl in her arms. Hayden was frozen, immobile, unable or unwilling to move for the longest moment, then she wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders with an empty embrace of inevitability. Pieces of the toddler’s hair, stiff and hard with blood, poked into her neck. Michelle felt a piece of her core shift.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?”
The operator’s voice forced her to look away from Corinne’s broken form. She raised herself, holding tight to Hayden. Get her out of here. She can’t see this anymore.
“Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…” They were on the stairs now, moving down, and Michelle could see the whispers of blood trailing up and down the carpet.
The operator was still trying to sort through the details. “Hayden is your sister?”
“Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.”
As Michelle reached the bottom of the stairs, the child shifted on her shoulder, reaching a hand behind her, looking up toward the second floor.
“Mama hurt,” she said in a voice that made her sound like a broken-down forty-year-old, not a coy, eighteen-month-old sprite. Mama hurt. She doesn’t anymore, darlin’.
They were out the front door and on the porch now, Michelle drawing in huge gulps of air, Hayden crying silently into her shoulder, a hand still pointing back toward the house.
“Who is dead, ma’am?” the operator asked, more kindly now.
“My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s…she’s cold.”
Michelle couldn’t hold it in anymore. She heard the operator say they were sending the police. She walked down those damnable bricks and set Hayden in the front seat of the Volvo.
Then she turned and lost her battle with the nausea, vomiting out her very soul at the base of the delicate budding dogwood.
Two
A morning off.
Instead of lounging in bed, luxuriating in the crisp sheets and getting irritated with the Tennessean, Metro Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson was squinting at the ceiling in her living room, a small flutter of panic moving through her chest.
“Baldwin?” she called, stepping closer to the fireplace. “Baldwin!”
“What?” A voice floated down the stairs, tinged with impatience.
“You need to see this. I think the ceiling is wet.”
The clatter of footsteps on the stairs assured Taylor that her fiancé was making the trek from their bedroom on the second floor down to her, in the room directly below, posthaste. He appeared at her side, joined her in craning his head toward the living room ceiling. A dark gray stain was moving across the joint, treading a thin line of damp. As they stared, a small drop of water beaded up from the end of the discoloration. Neither of them moved as it grew, larger and larger, then broke off and fell with a muffled plop onto Baldwin’s shoulder.
They sprang into action, no words needed. Baldwin sprinted back upstairs toward the bathroom to turn off the water. Taylor went to the kitchen and came back with a spaghetti pot. She stood under the dribble, catching droplets of water as they rushed through the surface of the drywall and fell to earth.
God, what next?
Baldwin came back to the living room with a step-ladder. “This house is built on an Indian burial ground, Taylor. I swear it. I turned the water off. We can set the pot on this. It might help keep the carpet dry.” He positioned the ladder under the leak and took the container from Taylor, setting it on the top. A happy plink rewarded his efforts.
They shared an exasperated laugh. In the month they’d been home from their pseudo-honeymoon, everything that could go wrong with their relatively new house had. A fitting metaphor for their life. No matter what they planned, how they tried, they couldn’t seem to get onto the right page and make it official. Taylor was content to remain unmarried. Baldwin was starting to come around to her way of thinking.
“Who do you want me to call? The home warranty place?” He started for the kitchen.
“Yeah. The number is in the folder in the server. They’re going to have to send out a plumber now, we can’t wait.”
He opened the drawer and pulled out an overstuffed file folder. “Okay, I’ll make the call. But I’ve got to finish packing. My flight leaves at ten-thirty.”
Taylor gave the ceiling a last hard stare, then joined Baldwin.
“Here, give me that. I’ll call. You go on and finish packing. Besides, the plane leaves when you tell it to. Director.”
He shot her a look. “I’m not the Director. I’m the Acting Director while Garrett has this stupid surgery. That just means I get to push his pencils around his desk and pretend to look important for two weeks. Seriously, I’d rather stay here, fight with the plumber.”
Garrett Woods, director of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit and Baldwin’s boss, had called the previous evening. He’d gone for his routine yearly physical and ended up hospitalized, scheduled for a triple bypass. He needed someone he trusted to hold down the fort. Baldwin was the obvious choice. Taylor hoped it wasn’t a play to get him to come back and run the BSU permanently. There’d been quite a shake-up while Taylor and Baldwin were in Italy, celebrating what should have been their honeymoon. The man who’d been leading the BSU, Stuart Evans, had been summarily fired after a personnel issue made headlines. The Bureau wasn’t a big fan of having their personal laundry aired in the media. Garrett Woods took the position again, leaving his number three in the bureau spot. He hadn’t been happy working at that level anyway, was thrilled to return to the BSU and make things right with his investigative divisions and behavioral analysis unit profilers.
“You need to go tend to Garrett’s cases. And make sure he listens to the doctors. I can’t believe he’s so sick.”
“Me neither. He seems so indestructible to me, always has. So you think you can handle this?”
She kissed him, then pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. It’s just a little leak.”
“Okay, then. I’m going to finish packing.” With a pat on her rear, he left the kitchen. She smiled after him. God, what a goof she’d become. Fools in love…
And their love nest was falling in around their ears. This would be the fourth time she’d had to call for service since they’d moved in two months ago. There had been contractors crawling all over the place for silly little issues—a broken fan blade on the heater, a squirrel who’d nested in the crawlspace and chewed through some electrical wiring, a faulty thermostat on the freezer. Now a leak in the master bath. They were making their bones with the warranty company. She got the plumber’s name and number, left them a message, then went upstairs, determined to make Acting Director Dr. John Baldwin regret that he was leaving for two weeks and prove her point. The Gulf-stream couldn’t exactly leave without him.
The phone rang as she hit the second stair. What now? She backtracked, went to the kitchen and saw the number on the caller ID.
“Hi, Fitz,” she answered.
Sergeant Peter Fitzgerald, her second in command, greeted her brusquely. “I know it’s your day off, but you need to come in. We’ve got a murder that’s going to have fleas.”
“Who?”
“Some sweet little mother out in Hillwood. I’m hearing words like Laci and Peterson.”
Taylor shuffled her fingers through a notepad that sat next to the phone, ready for an urgent message. No, thank you. I’m not in the mood for a murder. I think I’ll pass. But she couldn’t. She was the homicide lieutenant, and if her team needed her, that meant she would show.
“Fine. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be on the road.”
“The fed gone yet?”
“He’s finishing packing.”
“Well, go kiss his pretty little face goodbye and get your ass down here. We need you.”
She hung up and the phone rang again. The plumbers. They greeted her warmly. Of course they would, she’d be sending their children through college if this was more than a simple leak. They said their technician would be out in an hour. She told them where she’d hide a key, then ran up the stairs. Baldwin was zipping his suitcase.
“You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Good, come on. I’ll drop you off. I have to go in.”
“Who died?”
Ah, the bliss of living with a fellow law enforcement officer. He just got it.
“Fitz says it’s a young mother. It must be catching on fire for him to drag me in on my day off.” She pulled a black sweater over her gray T-shirt and went into the offending bathroom. She brushed out her hair and gathered it into a ponytail, frowned at the toilet, where she assumed the leak had generated, then went to her closet and grabbed a pair of boots. Hitching up the legs of her jeans, she slipped into the Tony Lamas without sitting down and jumped up once, landing softly to set her heels and drop the pant legs. Ready.
Baldwin was standing in the doorway to the master, watching with a bemused smile on his face. “Thirty seconds flat. Not bad. You look stunning.”
Taylor rolled her eyes at him. “Let’s go, lover boy. The sooner you get to Quantico, the sooner you can come home.”
Three
Taylor met Fitz in the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center. Clouds scudded across the graying sky. Despite the beauty of spring in Nashville, the weather was wholly schizophrenic. Sunny one minute, stormy the next. She took off her sunglasses and slipped one temple into her sweater collar.
“Yo,” Fitz called, pointing to a white Chevy Impala, his official department issued ride. “I gotta run back to the office for a second. Want a drink?”
Taylor nodded her head and started for the car. She took the passenger’s side, pushing the seat back to accommodate her long legs. Fitz disappeared into the bowels of the CJC and returned a few minutes later with two Diet Cokes. He slid into the driver’s seat, handed over the soda. She cracked the lid and sipped, then put the can between her thighs.
The sun popped out for a brief second, enough to blind her, so she put on her new Ray-Bans, a purchase she made in the duty-free in Milan’s Malpensa airport. They were wide and black and made her feel glamorous, a tiny homage to her new European sentiments. Traveling in a foreign country with a native speaker of the language had the tendency to make you feel more. She’d been on several trips overseas before, but had never experienced them the way she’d experienced the three weeks touring Italy with Baldwin.
She was having trouble acclimating. She missed the slow easiness of Italian life—the languid drives, the frequent stops for food and wine, the symmetrical beauty of the olive groves and vineyards and cypress-lined drives, the feeling that she was very, very young. And if she were being absolutely truthful, it had been damn nice to have three whole weeks without a single dead body.
The clouds smothered the burgeoning sunlight again, but she left the glasses on. Annoying, that’s what these transitional months were. She wanted it to be one or the other, warm or cold, sunny or cloudy.
Fitz pulled out of the parking lot.
“How ya doing?” he asked.
“I have a leak in my bathroom,” she pouted.
“I told you not to buy a new house. If you’d gotten one constructed like they should be, something solid, like those great old Victorians in East Nashville, you wouldn’t be having these problems.”
“No, Fitz, I’d just have termites and gang-bangers. No thanks. Gentrification just isn’t my thing.”
“Spoiled.”
“Not. We just wanted something…airy.”
Fitz laughed. “Airy my ass. You wanted something big enough for that damn pool table and a passel of kids.”
Taylor turned to him, suspicious. “What in the world makes you say that?”
He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. It made his face look crooked, like Popeye full of ruddy wrinkles. “You don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Want to have a pack of brats with the fed.” He said it so calmly she went on immediate alert.
“Where are you hearing this stuff? I’ve never said anything about having a baby. We can’t even manage to get married, so I’m hardly gunning for offspring. I don’t know if that’s something I ever want to do.” She looked out the window, watched the edge of downtown Nashville slip away like a veil was lifted. Brick and cement became foliage. They were on West End, heading out to Hillwood. A bucolic drive through the suburbs. Was that prompting Fitz’s question?
“Okay, girlie, I’m convinced. But I’m hearing this crime scene might be a bit off-putting. If you were fixing to get yourself knocked up, I might encourage you to skip this one, look the other way.”
“Jesus Christ, Fitz, tell me what’s at the scene.”
“Parks is there. Hey, there’s a picture in the visor. Grab that, wouldja?”
Good, Taylor thought. Bob Parks was as level-headed a patrol officer as Metro employed. If there was something wild at a crime scene, he would know how to tamp it down so the press couldn’t get too insane. She unfolded the sun visor, expecting a crime scene photo. Instead, a picture of a boat dropped into her lap. She turned it around so it faced up. It was pretty, white with tall sails, sliding through impossibly blue water.
“Yes…?”
“Parks said it was a little gruesome out there, that’s all.”
“No, I mean, what’s with the boat?”
“Thinking of buying it.”
Taylor looked at the photo again. It was…well, it was a boat. That’s as far as she went with sailing. Not her forte.
“When are you planning to drive this boat?”
“Jeez, LT. It’s called sailing. And it’s for when I retire.”
Fitz clamped his mouth shut. Taylor recognized the action—he was finished talking about it. He’d warned her about the scene and lobbed a bombshell about the future; that was as far as he was willing to go. Great.
An ambulance whipped past them, coming from the opposite direction. Going to St. Thomas, she thought. She mentally crossed herself, as she did every time she heard a siren. After thirteen years on the force, five of them in Homicide, she wasn’t so jaded that she still couldn’t have some compassion for the strangers in this world who might need a little looking over.
She toyed with her new engagement ring. The post-engagement pre-marriage ring, actually. When he’d first proposed, Baldwin had given her a stunning two-carat Tiffany sparkler, with delicate baguettes parading around the platinum band. Gorgeous, but impractical. And since the wedding hadn’t gone off—no fault of her own, she’d been unceremoniously Tasered and flown unconscious to New York with poor Baldwin standing at the church waiting for her—the new ring was a representation of a second chance.
He’d arranged to slip away for a few moments in Florence, then shown up for dinner at a little place they’d fallen in love with called Mama Gina’s, a flush around the crinkles of his intense emerald eyes. To the delight of their regular waiter, Antonio, and the rest of the restaurant patrons, he’d dropped to one knee and presented her with a new ring. One that held an even deeper promise. The five Asscher cut diamonds twinkled from their platinum channel setting. Baldwin told her each diamond represented the next five years of their lives together, and he’d buy her another in twenty-five years.
Aside from the romantic notion of it, the practicality of the ring touched her. It was flat. It didn’t catch on things like the Tiffany. And it wouldn’t get in her way if she had to fire her weapon unexpectedly. The gesture was overwhelming, and she’d almost told him to find a church that very moment. He knew what she was thinking, and that had been enough. She hadn’t decided whether she was ready to try again.
She dragged herself back to reality when Fitz harrumphed at her. He was turning onto Jocelyn Hollow Road, and Taylor could see the parade of vehicles lined up at the end of the normally quiet street.
The attendance to an unnatural death often seemed a three-ring circus to the uninitiated. The entrance into the cul-de-sac was blocked by a confluence of vehicles. There were five Metro blue-and-white patrol cars. First responders had already left the scene. Whenever 911 dispatched the police, the closest fire engines and an ambulance were actually sent before the squad cars. Standard operating procedure. The clues were apparent; there was no hurriedness, no rush. There was nothing that could be done for this particular victim, so the next steps were being taken.
The why had begun.
Fitz stopped the vehicle three houses away and they exited the car, making their way to the command station at the base of the driveway. A sign on the black mailbox had the name WOLFF in curly letters. Taylor always wondered exactly why people would want to advertise their names on their domiciles. An address she could understand, but the name…it seemed silly. And a safety issue. The last thing in the world she would ever do is publicize where she lived. Of course, she wouldn’t know what name to put on the mailbox. Jackson? Baldwin? Jackson-Baldwin? That just sounded like a funeral home.
A crowd of people had gathered directly across the street, standing in the yellowish grass, waiting. Recognizing the authority in Taylor’s stride, they started yelling when she came close. One voice rose above them all.
“What happened? We have a right to know what’s going on at the Wolffs’.” Fear made the man’s voice tremble.
Taylor turned, took in the speaker. He was an older man, with black hair that looked suspiciously dyed. Unshaven, thick glasses, pajama bottoms, jean jacket over a dirty sleeveless undershirt. Her immediate thought was widower and she stopped, feeling sorry for him.
Realizing he’d caught her attention, he repeated the question. “What’s going on in there? Did something happen to Corinne or to Todd? Is Hayden okay? My God, you can’t protect us from anything, can you? You and that damn police chief, you’ve got this all locked up, don’t you?” He swiped a handkerchief across his nose.
“Sir,” Taylor began, but the rest of the crowd began in on her. The sentiments turned from fear to vitriol in a heartbeat.
“All you do is give speeding tickets!”
“The gangs are running this town!”
“We live out here in the suburbs and expect to be safe. This is a good neighborhood. I’m going to talk to Channel Five about this. Phil Williams should be checking you out!”
Taylor held up her hands for silence. “People, please. My name is Taylor Jackson, and I’m the lieutenant in charge of the homicide division. I haven’t even been briefed on this incident. Perhaps you’d like to give me some time to get acquainted with the scene and determine what’s happened before you tear me apart?”
They grumbled, but the logic shut them up.
“Thank you. Please know that we’ll be doing everything in our power to solve this case. I appreciate that you’re upset, and I can’t blame you. But let me get a sense of the scene, and I’ll come back and talk to each of you again. All right?”
She stepped away before the crowd could respond. She’d be talking to them. Interviewing them. Trying to ascertain if there was someone in that mix who’d had a hand in the murder she was about to dissect.
“Fitz, can you get their names? Just in case. I don’t want to miss anyone.”
“Sure,” he answered, pulling a notepad from his shirt pocket.
She crossed the street and met up with Bob Parks. He was twiddling his finger in the curled edge of his mustache, ruminating to a uniformed officer about the chances of the Tennessee Titans after a scandal-rocked combine.
“Hey, how’s my favorite LT? You happy to be home from your grand tour?”
“Not really, Parks, but thanks for asking. I’d hop on a plane back in a heartbeat. Don’t give up on the Titans too soon, my friend. They’ll recover. In the meantime, go root for the Predators.”
He looked shocked. “Hockey? Are you kidding, LT? I’m a pigskin man, tried and true. I’m a Volunteer. I bleed orange.” He thumped his chest with a closed fist. Fervent was an understatement when it came to fans of the University of Tennessee football team.
“Well, our Volunteers need to take the SEC Championship this year or Phil Fulmer will wake up to a moving van in his driveway. Besides, being a good Tennessee fan, you should understand the importance of us having a well-rounded professional sports system to augment the college faithful. We need to sign the UT boys when they graduate, right?”
Fitz crossed the street to their position, waving the notebook. “Got ’em.”
“God, a woman talking football is a beautiful thing, eh, Fitz?”
Fitz just shook his head. Taylor spoke again, dispensing with the chatter this time.
“What do we have here?”
The smile left Parks’s face and he became all business.
“It’s not pretty, I’ll give you that. Decedent’s name is Corinne Wolff, female Caucasian, twenty-six, married and preggers. We’ve been really careful about who’s gone in the house, there’s a lot of latent blood around. I’ve got everything ready to put in my report, if you want the particulars now?”
“Just run it down for me. Highlights.”
“Okay. I got the call around 9:40 a.m., came straight here. Met the sister, who was being attended to for shock by the EMTs. House 37 got the call, they were here first with two trucks and the ambulance at…” He looked at his sheet. “9:38 a.m. Sister’s name is Michelle Harris. She was holding the decedent’s daughter, Hayden Wolff, who was covered in blood but seemed in stable condition. She relayed that her sister was dead inside the house, facedown on the floor in her bedroom. She didn’t recall touching anything, but we printed her for exclusion. First entry was made at 9:48 a.m. by me and EMT Steven Jones. We entered the home, cleared the downstairs, noted the amount of blood, made our way upstairs to check the victim.”
Parks had gotten ashen under his normally swarthy skin tone. “It’s stinky up there. Looks like she’s been dead for at least a day. Got smacked around pretty hard. Jones touched her wrist, just to confirm, and we agreed it was too late for his assistance. We retraced our footsteps and I started the evidentiary procedures. We had three more patrols on the scene at that point, so we got started setting up command and control while we waited for you. Despite the biologicals everywhere, the scene is pretty much contained to the master bedroom. That’s where the action took place. The rest is secondary transfer.”
“Fitz said there was a little girl. Did the transfer come from her or the killer?”
Parks nodded. “Looks like the kid. You’ll see when you get in there. I talked to the sister, got her story. Apparently they had a date to play tennis and she dropped by to pick the victim up. She entered the house, saw her sister, grabbed the kid, called 911 and skedaddled. She’s been questioned already, but I knew you’d want to talk to her. I’ve got to warn you, the victim’s parents are here. The sister called her mom after she finished with 911. Everyone is pretty shaken up.”
“Where’s the husband?” Taylor asked.
“On a business trip. Convenient, huh?”
“I’ll say. Can you find out where he is for me?”
“Already done. The mom called him, he was in Georgia and is on the road now, driving back. Should be in this afternoon.”
Taylor looked at Fitz, who was writing in his notebook. “Wouldn’t you fly home if it were you?”
“Yep,” Fitz said.
Parks gave her a wry grin. “I asked the same thing. No direct flights. It was quicker for him to drive. At least, that’s what the mom said.”
Parks handed over some of the items Taylor would need to enter the house—booties, latex gloves. He offered a blue paper mask, similar to one her dental hygienist wore, but she shook her head once, declining. No sense in that. No matter the precautions, the scent of death would sneak into her sinuses, settling for hours. She slipped her sunglasses into her front pocket; she wouldn’t need them inside.
“Is Father Ross here?”
The Metro police department’s chaplain was a kind, gentle man who Taylor had relied on more times than she could remember. It was hard enough to inform a family member that a loved one was dead. Having the minister along was not only helpful, it was mandated.
“He’s here. The whole group of them, parents, two sisters and the kid are in the next door neighbor’s house, huddled up, waiting for you.”
“Anyone know when the victim was seen last?” she asked.
“We’re working on nailing that down right now. The sister talked to her Friday. One of the neighbors might’ve seen her, or something.”
“Okay. When did the ME get called?”
“Same time as you, LT. Dr. Loughley is on duty this morning, she’s—”
“Right here,” a voice called out. Taylor turned to see her best friend, Samantha Loughley, walking up the drive, her kit slung over her right shoulder. Her dark brown hair was up in a ponytail, thick bangs swept across her forehead. The bangs were a new look, and Sam had been bemoaning the haircut for a week.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said as she reached Taylor. “What’s up, Parks? Fitz, you look well.”
Fitz grinned back in acknowledgement of the compliment. He’d been working hard on his weight and now had his formerly oversized belly down to a trim and manageable thirty-eight inches. The weight loss took ten years off his fifty-five-year-old frame, and Taylor knew he’d begun dating a woman he’d met at a barbeque cooking contest. Oh. Maybe that’s what the boat was all about. She shook the thought off. They needed to focus on the murder.
“Like the new look, Owens,” Fitz needled.
Sam rolled her eyes. “Are you ever going to start using my married name, Sergeant?”
“Naw. I like Owens. Loughley’s too hard to say.” He jostled her with his hip and smiled.
Sam dropped her bag on the folding card table that had been set up for the field command station. “Fine. Call me whatever you want. Just put that degree in. I spent too much money not to use the title.”
“Anyway,” Taylor said, getting their attention back from their game. “Sam, we were about to make entry on the scene. I haven’t been inside yet. Parks says the victim is a female Caucasian, pregnant and toasting. So let’s get this over with, okay?”
Fitz looked over to the neighbor’s house. “I think I’m gonna go next door and have a chat. Y’all have fun up there.”
Taylor watched him go. Good. Two birds, one stone. “We set, Parks?”
Parks nodded. “Tim’s here too, ready to go.” Tim Davis was the lead criminalist for Metro Nashville police. He’d started in the Medical Examiner’s office as a death investigator, then moved over to Metro in anticipation of their eventual establishment of a crime lab. Taylor always enjoyed working with the young man. He was very serious about his craft.
“No time like the present.” Taylor started for the door, Sam right behind her. The videographer was on the narrow porch, camera on the boards between her feet, ready to document their walk through. Taylor didn’t recognize her. Tim Davis was waiting patiently, kit in hand.
“Hey, Tim,” Taylor said.
“Morning, LT. Dr. Loughley. Have you met Keri McGee yet? She’s going to be doing the video feed for us this morning.”
A sunny blonde stuck out a pudgy hand. “Good to meet you, Lieutenant. I just moved up here, used to be with New Orleans Metro. Really glad to be here.”
Taylor held her hand up. “It’s good to have you. I’d shake, but I’m already gloved. Welcome to Nashville. You just stick to my six and we’ll be fine. If you need to boot, try to get back outside and don’t screw up the scene, okay?”
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
Taylor fought the urge to snap. Jesus, girl, don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old enough to be your mother. Instead, she smiled and stepped into the house.
Rotten chicken. That’s what the first olfactory note identified. Just as quickly, the coppery scent of blood, the stink of putrefaction and decomposing flesh, and a sweet, almost perfumelike scent. Not air freshener. Hmm. Taylor’s eyes adjusted as her subconscious mind worked its way through the instinct to flee. It wasn’t a natural smell, and her heart raced for a moment. A normal first reaction, borne of self-preservation, would be to get the hell out of there. A couple million years of evolution warned her—there’s danger here. She’d felt it before, knew it would pass in a second. She let herself adjust, breathing through her mouth. Sam was by her side, doing the same thing. They were trained to make it go away.
Taylor let her eyes wander the room in front of her. She was standing in a marble-floored foyer. There was a table against the closest wall with pictures in silver gilt frames—happy, smiling newlyweds against a summer-wooded backdrop. The stairs were directly to her right, hardwood covered in an ivory Berber runner. Just past the banister was the entrance into the dining room, loaded with heavy dark oak furniture, silver and crystal, an oversized china cabinet. To the left, a brief hallway that opened into a great room. The floors in the dining room were burnished oak, the great room was carpeted in the same light Berber wool.
Every few inches there were tiny crimson footprints. Little heels here, little toes there. They looked like mouse trails, in and out, back and forth, leading up and down the stairs, into the great room, and Taylor could see they trailed into the kitchen on the far side of the dining room. They were everywhere; some light, barely pink enough to mar the carpet, some outlines or edges. Closer to the stairs, a few were dark, almost seeming they would be wet to the touch. Sam drew in a deep, sharp breath.
Taylor forced her brain to shut off that emotional center which would allow her to acknowledge the desperation the child must have felt to be wandering around the house, her mother’s blood on her bare feet.
“This is Homicide Lieutenant Taylor Jackson,” she said aloud for the benefit of the video camera. “I am the lead investigative officer at this crime scene, 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. I’m going to do one pass through the lower part of the structure.” Nodding at Sam, she went to the right, into the dining room, avoiding the blood. Sam picked her way after Taylor. Tim and Keri followed, the group moving as one, silently assessing.
The footprints wended their way through the dining room, under the table, and back into the kitchen. There was no rhyme or reason to the pattern, just a nomadic line of passage, typical of a youngster moving aimlessly about her home. Some areas were just faint impressions, blotches, and some were well formed. That made sense to Taylor. The blood would wear off after enough steps. With a child, her uneven toddling tread would account for the inconsistencies.
The dining room had a door that separated it from the kitchen, but it was propped open with a stuffed cat doorstop. The door was white, a six-paneled French style, covered with what looked like cherry juice finger-paints. Taylor knew what they really were; the little girl had swept her bloody hand along the door as she walked from room to room.
The kitchen was baby-proofed, with locking mechanisms on all the below counter cabinets. The smell of rot was more prevalent, and Taylor spied a Wild Oats bag with a package of chicken in the deep stainless steel sink. Well, that accounted for the stink downstairs. If the victim hadn’t talked to her sister for two days, and the chicken was coming back to life, then there was a good chance she’d been dead at least a day. Taylor only put chicken in the sink if she needed to defrost it and had the time to do so. That would give a convenient timeline—a day to thaw and a day to start smelling. Though it just as easily could be the victim came home from grocery shopping and didn’t get all the packages stored before her assailant appeared. They’d need a liver temp or a potassium level from the vitreous fluid for something more accurate, but it was a start. Never assume, that was her mantra.
Fruit in a basket on the granite countertop, an empty carton of organic fat-free milk, an empty yogurt container…if Taylor was going to guess, it looked like the victim had just finished eating breakfast before she vacated the room and got herself killed.
An answering machine hung on the wall, the red light indicating new messages blinking.
“Be sure someone gets those messages,” Taylor said to Tim.
Sam made a noise in the back of her throat. “I was planning on shish kebabs for dinner. Guess I’ll make a salad instead.”
The videographer didn’t comment, and Taylor shot her a glance. Keri wasn’t fazed, was simply documenting. Excellent. Taylor caught Sam’s eye and smiled. Always the jokester.
“Let’s head up.” Taylor walked slowly from the kitchen through the great room, back to the foyer, the group in her wake. The stair had a landing halfway up and turned to the left. There was blood smudged up and down the stair runner, not the same kind of hit and miss footprints they’d been seeing. Taylor asked Sam what she thought it was from.
“Baby that small can’t get up and down with a normal stepping motion. She’d have to drag herself up step by step, on her hands and knees, slide down on her bottom. If she was covered in blood…”
“Oh.” The image was vivid in Taylor’s mind.
Placing their feet in between the splashes of color, they made their way to the second floor.
“Baby gate isn’t up,” Sam noticed. “Get a shot of that, would you, Keri?”
“That explains how she was able to wander the house.” Taylor took in the setup.
To their right were three doors, all leading to bedrooms. To the left, the hall led away from the stairs. The scene was similar to below, but more intense. Distinctive tiny red footprints, defined smears along the walls. Macabre artistic skills from a young child surely affected more by confusion than anything else.
The rooms each glowed with a different palate, and the hall bath was decorated in a nautical style, reminiscent of a beach hotel. It struck Taylor. The obvious effort that had gone into decorating was apparent. And the trimmings weren’t bought at Target or Pottery Barn. The décor was top of the line, custom designed.
A quick perusal showed a guest room, an office and a nursery. Blood smears and light footprints wound in and out. Taylor followed the path. The nursery was painted in various tones of pink and lilac, with a mural of a forest on the western wall. The furniture was bleached oak; there was a mobile hanging above the oversized crib. Sunlight poured through the windows, barely checked by a light pink sheer. There was a small half bath off the nursery. Taylor glanced into the space. The smell of feces and urine was strong—a miniature plastic toilet sat on the floor next to its life-sized companion. It was full of waste. The child was toilet-trained, but without her mother to empty the basin, the little potty was full to the brim.
Nose wrinkled, Taylor walked the length of the hallway to the master bedroom. The door to the room was open wide, wedged against the wall with a small bronze mouse. Corinne Wolff liked her doors open, no question about that. The walls were painted a creamy sage, the furniture dark rattan and rosewood. Island style, a retreat for the owners. Taylor remembered seeing an ad for the same style of room in an upscale design catalogue.
The interior of the room was awash in incongruous colors. The blood had molted into a dark brown stain, except where it cast against the walls and a white shaded lamp in a deep burgundy.
They saw the feet first. The body was half hidden by the king-sized bed. They crossed the room with care. No one wanted to be responsible for mucking up any evidence they might find. The room was at least forty feet in width, the bed in the center of the back wall. There was approximately fifteen feet of space on each side. The body was in the south quadrant of the room. Taylor heard Tim scratching notes as they moved to the far side of the bedroom.
Corinne Wolff was barefoot, her legs drawn to her chest. She was half on her side and half on her stomach, facing them. Her chocolate-colored eyes were open but unseeing, the irises like gummy coffee. Her brown hair was matted with blood from an obvious gash across her forehead. Her jaw was broken, misaligned along the lower half of her face, jutting obscenely toward the ceiling. The body was crooked too; her arms stretched out as if she tried to break a fall then changed her mind. She was dressed in panties and a sports bra, a pink cashmere blanket draped over her midsection. A thick pool of blood approximately two feet in length and a foot wide surrounded her head and her torso, and a small plush toy was tucked into the crook of her arm. Footprints led around the body, away from the body, back to the body. Along Corinne’s side, the blood had been disturbed.
Taylor and Sam stepped closer. “Oh, man,” Sam whispered. “That poor thing.”
“Corinne or Hayden?”
“Both.”
Taylor wasn’t sure what bothered her more, the teddy bear tucked into Corinne’s arms, the blanket draped across her seminakedness, or the plush, stuffed Gund My Doctor kit that sat by her head. Her daughter, unable to understand what was happening, had tried to help. She’d managed to get a large pretend Band-Aid stuck to the top of her mother’s hand. Hayden had tried to fix her. And then she’d lain down next to her mother, covering herself in blood.
They got the necessary pictures and videotape, then Sam set to work. She pulled back the blanket and saw the pregnancy.
“Oh, jeez. I hate this.” She felt the body. “She’s cold and malleable. The blood pool has soaked into the carpet and is tacky to the touch. I won’t know an exact time of death until I run the temp during autopsy, but this should give you a time frame to start looking at. Rigor is completely gone. Livor mortis is set, the discoloration consistent with a body lying in one position since death. She’s been dead at least thirty-six hours. I’d say she was killed right here, fell in this position and didn’t move. How far along is she, do you know? This looks like a four, maybe five-month bump.”
“I don’t know. Parks said she was pregnant, but he didn’t say when she was due. Thirty-six hours minimum? God, that little girl was here in this house with her dead mother all that time. Poor baby.”
Sam continued her examination. “With a mother who’d been violently bludgeoned to death. Blunt force trauma to the extremities, the head. Her jaw is certainly broken, she’s missing some teeth.” Sam was finishing her initial assessment, making notes in a small black reporter’s notebook. “This is a mess, T.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t see any weapon conveniently lying around, do you?”
“No. And this is too much damage to just have been someone’s fists. Tim, you hear that? You need to keep an eye out for a weapon.”
“Yes, Dr. Loughley.”
“Okay, folks. Let’s rock and roll.” Sam and Tim continued their duties, with Keri filming everything for posterity. Taylor went to the window. The cream-colored roman shades, covered with blood spatter, were at half-mast. She glanced out at the street below. The neighbors were still grouped on the opposite lawn, talking quietly amongst themselves. She didn’t see anything out of place, no one who stood out as having a more than neighborly fascination with the goings-on.
Sam stood, leaning over the body, then turned to Taylor. “It’s going to be a long day. I need to run out to the van for a couple things. Are you ready for some air?”
“Yeah.”
With a last glance at the victim, Taylor led the way out of the master and down the stairs.
When they got back to the front door, Taylor asked the question that had been burning in her mind from the moment she laid eyes on the body of Corinne Wolff.
“Just where is this husband?”
Four
The Harris family had taken refuge with the Wolffs’ next-door neighbor.
Fitz nodded to her as she came in. There were five people in the room, sitting, staring, crying. Father Ross, the department chaplain, was holding a woman who looked to be in her early fifties, with reddish hair. The woman was sobbing, nestled into the chaplain’s shoulder. The mother. The room was deadly quiet outside of the woman’s choked tears.
A dark-haired young woman met Taylor’s eye. A mixture of revulsion and longing crossed the woman’s face, quickly replaced by a hardness, an implacable blankness. Taylor had seen that look before. People hated to see her; she was the harbinger of death. But she held the answers, the clues, the reason. They needed her. Taylor guessed the woman was twenty-eight, maybe thirty. She could see the resemblance to the victim.
There was something else on this woman’s face, but Taylor pushed it away.
She was this woman’s polar opposite—where Taylor was tall, honey-blond, gray-eyed, full-lipped and broad-shouldered, this woman was five foot three or four, dark and quite athletic. Her body hummed with health and well-being; her face wasn’t exactly pretty, but what men who were being kind would call interesting. She gave Taylor another look, and this time the meaning was inescapable.
Taylor was unsettled. She never enjoyed being the object of another woman’s attention. This woman wasn’t exactly hitting on her, but she’d made her interest known. Lovely. What was up with that?
“I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, Metro homicide. I’m so sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
The dark-haired woman didn’t smile, but stuck out her hand.
“I’m Michelle Harris. Corinne is my sister.”
Taylor was surprised when the woman spoke; the voice was deep and husky, that sexy, cracked sound that men always flocked to. They sounded alike.
Michelle gestured to the tear-streaked woman standing with Father Ross. “This is my mother, Julianne Harris.” She went around the room in turn, naming her family.
“My father, Matthew Harris. My sister, Nicole Harris. Carla Manchini, Corinne’s neighbor. We’re waiting for my brother Derek, he’ll be here shortly. Do you know who did this to my sister?”
“Not yet, unfortunately. We’re early into this investigation, Ms. Harris.”
“It’s Miss.”
Taylor cocked her head to the side for a brief instant, then replied, “Miss Harris. Sorry. Where’s your sister’s daughter?”
The smaller of the two sisters, Nicole, spoke, her voice stronger than she looked. “She’s taking a nap in the back room. Poor thing was absolutely exhausted. Once the paramedics said she was fine, we gave her a bath, fed her and got her down. She seemed all right, physically.”
“Why, Lieutenant? Hayden didn’t have anything to do with this.” Michelle Harris was sharp-tongued, challenging. Taylor forgave her, poor girl’s sister was dead, but ignored her for a moment. She turned to the other sister.
“Nicole, right?” The girl nodded.
“You gave her clothes to the officer? We’re going to need to process them as evidence.”
She nodded. “That crime technician officer was with us when we changed her. We did everything just how he told us to.”
“That’s good. We appreciate your help. Sergeant Fitzgerald will help me gather your statements. Mrs. Manchini, I’d like to speak with you alone. Can we go into another room?”
“You don’t want to talk to me first?” Michelle asked.
Taylor met Michelle Harris’s eyes. They were as odd as Taylor’s own, a blue so clear you would almost say they were transparent. Taylor’s were gray as a cloudy sky, one slightly darker than the other.
“I want to speak with everyone who is here. I just need some information from Mrs. Manchini to start. Please, bear with me. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long day. Mrs. Manchini?”
The woman stooped when she stood, unable to straighten all the way. She gestured to the hall, and Taylor followed her out of the room. She stopped walking when she heard the deep voice of Corinne’s father speaking.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
Taylor edged back to the living room entrance, careful to stay out of sight. Eavesdropping. She could see into the room perfectly; there was a mirror on the opposite wall above a small writing desk that reflected their actions. Fitz had his back to her, was talking to Father Ross.
Michelle Harris turned and grabbed onto her father, the words pouring out of her like a spigot left on during a summer drought. “Oh, Daddy. I don’t know if I am. I don’t think I’ll ever get the image of Corinne laying there on the floor all bloody, with Hayden next to her, out of my mind.”
“I know, honey. It must have been horrible.” He pulled her in close, and Michelle melted into his arms. Taylor felt a pang of jealousy. Michelle’s father was her savior, her protector.
“Haven’t you heard from Derek yet?”
“He’s in that infernal lab class until noon. I’m going to head over to Vanderbilt now, be waiting for him when he leaves. I don’t want him to hear this from an outsider. I’ll bring him back here with me. Will you be okay for a little while?”
“I’ll be fine, Daddy. Once I talk to the detective, I’ll sit with Mom. You and Derek take your time. He’s going to be a mess.”
“Yes, he is. Thank you for understanding. You always were my good girl. I love you, Shelly. Take care of Nikki too. She’s not as strong as you and your mom.” He hugged her tight to his chest, and Taylor turned away. A grieving family. Why did that make her feel so empty?
Mrs. Manchini had led Taylor into her bedroom. Her chintz bedroom. Unlike the coolly decorated perfection of the Wolffs’ house, everything here smacked of homemade kitsch.
The master was small, about half the size of the house next door. A four-poster bed with a canopy and frilly lace pillows took up much of the space. Cliché, Taylor thought, then mentally chided herself. The Manchini house did seem a caricature of itself, the woman who owned it a shadow of a real person, insubstantial. Carla Manchini could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty-five, with outdated wire glasses, thinning blond hair in a partially grown-out perm and slightly crooked teeth. Her parents must have decided that they weren’t quite bad enough to invest the money into fixing. As a result, when she spoke, a snaggletooth incisor appeared on the right upper side, and her lips folded around it as if not sure what they were meant to do.
Taylor realized Carla had been talking and focused.
“I’m not sure what you want with me, Lieutenant. I didn’t know them next door very well, no, I didn’t. I mind my own business over here at Manchini’s casa, yes, I do. I’m not a spy, don’t go looking into my neighbors’ backyards, I truly don’t.”
Taylor looked at the woman, wondering why she was so adamant. She wouldn’t meet Taylor’s eye, just sat on her bed, her gaze flitting about as she twisted her hands together.
“Actually, ma’am, I’m just wondering if you’ve noticed anything funny over the past few days.”
The woman shook her head solemnly. “I surely didn’t.”
“Nothing?”
Mrs. Manchini paused for a moment, shut her eyes, remembering. “The lights were on. Mrs. Wolff turns them off in the mornings, but they burned all weekend.”
“And that was unusual?”
“Yes.”
Ah, another item for the timeline. Perfect.
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Wolff?”
“Oh. Well, I can’t rightly recall. Today’s Monday, and Monday is my book club, yes, it is. I don’t remember seeing Corinne today, and I usually see her in the back, watering her begonias. Such a pretty garden she has, yes, she does. Just put it in this past weekend. It’s a little too early for those flowers, but what do I know? I did see her on Friday. Friday is my garden club, yes, it is.” Twist, twist, twist.
The repetition tic was starting to bother Taylor. The woman was going to sprain a wrist if she didn’t lay off her hands. “Friday at what time, ma’am?”
“Oh, well, I couldn’t be exact. Something around three-twenty in the afternoon, if I had to push myself to remember, but I wouldn’t want to be misleading by not being one hundred percent right, no, I wouldn’t.”
“You’re doing just fine.”
The woman bobbed her head, a shy smile crossing her face at the compliment. Taylor got the feeling the woman didn’t get many and softened her tone.
“What was Corinne doing at three-twenty, Mrs. Manchini?”
“Playing with little Hayden. Such a beautiful child, yes, she is.”
“Backyard, front yard?”
“Oh, yes, of course. They were in the side yard, actually. I believe Mrs. Wolff was putting down some wildflower mix, trying to pretty up the area where their trash cans go, yes, she was.”
Didn’t keep an eye on her neighbors. Yeah, right. “Did you see anyone with her?”
“Other than Hayden? No, I didn’t.”
“What about Mr. Wolff?”
This earned Taylor a direct, but fleeting, glance. She was rubbing her hands together now. The conversation was making her nervous. Nervous was always interesting.
“Oh, I don’t know him very well. A handsome man, yes, he is, but not very open with the likes of me, no, he isn’t.”
“Did they have any problems that you were aware of?”
“Why, no. No. None at all. They seemed to be very happy. Very content, yes, they were.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else near the house. What about Saturday?”
“No, I didn’t see anyone there Saturday, no, I didn’t. I’d like to get back to my guests now, if I could?”
“Just a few more questions, Mrs. Manchini. Are you here in the house during the day?”
“Yes, yes, I am. I retired from the post office a ways back, yes, I did. I keep pretty much to myself nowadays, yes, I do. I read, and watch television, and go to my book club and do some gardening. I have lots of friends, yes, I do.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Manchini. Do the Wolffs entertain often?”
“Well, of course. They’re young and popular, they are indeed. But no more so than anyone else on this street. I’ve lived here for forty years, yes, I have, and I’ve seen neighbors come and go. Everyone seems very happy here, yes, they do.” She stopped wringing her hands, set them in her lap. The knuckles were red and gnarled. Combined with the wistful statement, her true age showed through. A lonely old woman, Mrs. Manchini.
“Okay, ma’am, let’s get you back with the others. You’re very kind to allow your house to be overrun like this. I’m sure the Harrises appreciate your help. I may want to talk to you again. Would that be okay?”
The woman lifted herself slowly off the bed, making the springs squeak in protest.
“Certainly, of course. Any time you need me, I’ll be right here, yes, I will.”
Taylor followed the mousy Mrs. Manchini back to the great room. The scene hadn’t changed much, except Michelle Harris now sat in a flowered chintz-covered armchair, holding a blond cherub in her arms. The little girl had china-blue eyes, a soft rosebud mouth, ivory skin with red apple cheeks. This must be Hayden. The child caught her eye, an unfathomable darkness shifting behind the cornflower depths. She spied Taylor’s gun, fixated on it for a moment, then started to cry, burying her face in her aunt’s shoulder.
Taylor and Michelle Harris sat at the kitchen table in Mrs. Manchini’s house, afternoon sunlight streaming hard through the southerly facing windows. Michelle was handling herself as well as could be expected, considering Taylor was pumping her again about her traumatic morning.
The father of the victim had returned with the younger brother, who wasn’t taking the news of his sister’s murder well. Fitz had Derek Harris out on the back deck, talking with an avuncular tilt to his head. Taylor could see the two men over the top of Michelle Harris’s shoulder, out the bay windows that were framed with a short, fringed chintz curtain. Taylor couldn’t imagine looking at all the busy mishmashed floral patterns and colors day in and day out.
At least she’d identified the unknown scent in the Wolffs’ house. It was the perfume Corinne’s sister wore, a heady scent overlaid with iris and jasmine. Cloyingly sweet, and too heavily applied, as if Michelle had used soap, lotion and perfume all from the same line.
Nose twitching, she continued the interview. “Okay. Run me through it again. Start with the last time you talked to your sister.”
Michelle was pale, looking drained and torn. She kept glancing over her shoulder at her little brother, obviously wanting to comfort him.
“Michelle?” Taylor asked.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. You know how it is with siblings. Sometimes you want to protect them from hurting.”
“No, actually, I’m an only child. I wouldn’t know. So please, run through it again. You and Corinne had a tennis date?” She sat back in the wooden chair, crossed her arms across her chest and waited patiently.
Michelle toyed with her ponytail, wrapping it around her neck in what Taylor thought was a compulsive gesture. “That’s right. We play at Richland. We’ve been making a run at the championship flight for the past few weeks. We’re doubles partners, have been for years. I thought about playing singles once, but Corinne wouldn’t hear of it. We are, were, such a great team. Something happens to us on the court, we can just sense each other’s movements, I guess.”
“And your sister played even though she was pregnant?”
“That’s right. She played up until the week before Hayden was born, only stopped when Todd begged her. This time, she’s had such an easy pregnancy that she swore she would go from a match straight to the delivery room. She would have, too, I bet. Corinne could always make her body work to her specifications. Give her a sprain, she’d manage to mend in time for the next event and never lose a step. She’s a wonder woman.”
“When was the baby due?”
Michelle’s voice grew thick. “Eight weeks.”
“Wow. She wasn’t very big for someone seven months along.”
“She didn’t get big with Hayden either. Only gained eight pounds, and Hayden was seven pounds, six ounces. Her body snapped right back. She was on that road this time, too. The poor baby. What will they do with him?”
Tears sprang to Michelle’s eyes. Taylor looked away while Michelle recovered her composure. She didn’t especially want to think about fetal death certificates right now.
“Let’s talk about that in a bit. Stay with me, okay? So you were coming to pick her up—”
“Actually, I noticed that she hadn’t turned off the outside lights. That was unusual. Corinne was very…specific about certain things. She always turned those lights off as soon as she got up, which was usually 5:30 a.m. sharp. It was almost to spite Todd, really. They’d had an argument about the style of lights. That’s not important, sorry. She gets up, turns off the lights, starts the coffeepot, does half an hour on her elliptical, then gets Todd up. On the days he’s home.”
“When does she turn the lights on for the evening?”
“What?” Michelle asked.
“The outside lights. When does Corinne usually put them on?”
“Oh.” Michelle pursed her lips and thought. “You know, I’m not sure. I’d guess at dark.”
“Okay, so the lights were on when you pulled up. What else caught your attention?”
“I got out of the car and started toward the house. The door was unlocked, but that’s nothing new. No one around here locks their doors. It’s stupid, but they all feel so safe. I bet they’ll start locking them now.” Michelle got a dreamy, detached expression, began reciting in an absent tone. “I went in the house, saw the blood, ran up the stairs, saw Corinne, saw Hayden, freaked, grabbed Hayden, and ran.”
“You called 911.”
“Yes, I did. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m just still so shaken up. Just seeing all that blood, seeing Hayden….” Her voice trailed off and her eyes clouded with tears. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to erase that moment from my memory. Do you ever have that? I imagine with all the bodies you’ve seen, that you can just shut it off and not think about it. Me, I’m going to remember that bedroom for a very long time.”
“You’re doing great, Michelle. Just a few more questions, okay? Tell me about Todd.”
“What’s there to say? Todd is—”
“What’s there to say?” Matthew Harris stormed into the kitchen. “I’ll tell you what there is to say. Todd isn’t here, and my Corinne is dead. He might as well have beaten her to death himself. Him and all this travel, this desperate need to get his name out there. If he’d been home, protecting Corinne like he should have been, this wouldn’t have happened. My daughter and my grandson wouldn’t be dead.”
Five
Matthew Harris stepped toward Taylor, pointing his forefinger at her chest, making jabbing motions in the air. “I don’t want to hear anything from you, Lieutenant, except ‘I’m going to nail this bastard to the wall for what he’s done.’ That’s all I need to hear.”
Taylor stood, stretching to her nearly six-foot height, only an inch shorter than Corinne’s father. He took another step toward her and she put up her hand.
“Mr. Harris. I suggest you take a step back.”
“Daddy!” Michelle was on his arm, yanking at him, pulling him toward a chair. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, this isn’t like him. Daddy, what is wrong with you?”
Taylor had a brief, flickering image of her own father’s incredulous face, staring at her through the thick Plexiglas of a patrol car, but shook her head to disrupt the thought.
Matthew Harris sat heavily at the kitchen table, lowered his head onto his folded arms, and began to cry.
Taylor caught Fitz’s eye and he came in from the deck, the younger Harris boy following on his heels.
“Dad, are you okay?” The boy sat down, his hand on his father’s heaving back.
Taylor jerked her head to the right, signaling to Fitz to follow her. They left the grieving Harrises at the kitchen table and stepped outside, closing the French doors behind them. Taylor pulled her sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on.
Fitz had a furrow between his eyebrows. “Anything new?”
“No. Michelle Harris told me the same story twice, with nearly identical details each time. From what I’m hearing, nothing is rehearsed. We have a timeline at least—the lights were on all weekend, and the neighbor saw Corinne on Friday. Michelle Harris said Corinne turns the house lights on at dark, so we can start with the assumption that the murder happened sometime after sunset Friday. The sisters are upset, the father is cracking under the pressure.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Of course it is. The mother refused to be sedated. I’d like to take a shot at her before she changes her mind. I’m anxious to meet the husband.”
“The brother pointed me in the husband’s direction.”
“Really? That sounds promising. I’d like to hear what he has to say. The father just intimated that he felt Wolff was responsible, too. He’s pretty upset, I didn’t get the feeling he thought Wolff committed the murder. Just that he wasn’t around to protect his wife.”
“Well, the kid seems to think that Wolff is entirely capable of doing the deed. Says they fought all the time, that Corinne was talking about leaving him.”
Taylor looked over the hedge into the Wolffs’ backyard. Nice, open view for Mrs. Manchini. “Funny, the sister didn’t mention it. Let’s go talk to the mom, if she’s ready, then we can talk to the kid.”
“Mrs. Harris, could you tell me a bit about your daughter?”
Taylor was back at the table in the chintz kitchen, a fragrant cup of tea steaming at her elbow. Corinne Wolff’s mother was doing better than before. Father Ross sat next to her, holding her hand. Her husband was in the other room. Taylor didn’t feel like having a confrontation with him. Besides, girls talked to their mothers.
She sniffled into a tissue. “What do you want to know?”
“Did she have any enemies? Was she fighting with her husband? What was she like? I need to get to know Corinne so I can start looking for her killer.”
“She was a wonderful child. Gifted.”
“Gifted how?”
“She was an athlete. Tennis. She was ranked in the top ten in her age group for most of her career. She wanted to go to the Olympics. But that all changed when she got into high school.”
“What changed for her?”
Julianne Harris stifled a smile. “My Corinne discovered boys. And suddenly, tennis was something she could play with them. She stopped training, decided she wanted to be normal. It was a huge waste of talent, she was qualified to go out on the circuit. She made the finals at Wimbledon, in the juniors, against the number one seed. A girl from Russia. Nearly took the match. The loss was…difficult for her.”
The tone of her voice made Taylor think the loss might have been hard for Mrs. Harris, too.
“So where did Corinne go from there, Mrs. Harris?”
“She got tremendous grades, went on to Vanderbilt. She continued to play, just without the same fervor that she had as a girl. She met Todd, they graduated, and she worked for a time before she got pregnant with Hayden. They were so happy, oh, you should have seen the look on her face when she told me. It was a very easy pregnancy for her. This one wasn’t as simple, but she was doing so well.”
“How would you characterize her relationship with Todd?”
Mrs. Harris fiddled with her stringy tissue. That was interesting. Taylor could tell the woman was trying to think carefully about what to say. Protecting the husband? Or protecting her daughter? The Harrises weren’t unbiased in all of this. They had a granddaughter to think of as well.
Mrs. Harris sighed deeply. “Oh, Lieutenant, what can I say? They were just like any other new family. They had their issues, but they seemed to be superficial. Todd would do something to upset Corinne, she would call and complain about it. I’d tell her how much I understood and she’d attack me, accuse me of hating Todd. It was a very typical mother-daughter-husband situation. As far as I know, Todd didn’t do anything exceptional. He is a solid man, a good provider. He works too much, but he’s the sole breadwinner. Corinne didn’t want to have children only to let a day care raise them. She was adamant that she stay home with Hayden. And Dalton…Did anyone tell you that they’d named the baby Dalton? In my day, it was always bad luck to talk about your unborn child, but nowadays they don’t think that way.” The tears started again, and Taylor decided she’d had enough for the moment.
“It’s a nice name, Mrs. Harris. I’m so sorry for your loss. Thank you for your candor. I appreciate it. I’ll let you get back to your family now.”
Taylor left Father Ross to it. He was going to be much more of a comfort now than she ever could.
Taylor took Derek Harris outside to chat. They got seated in the chairs on the deck, Fitz and Taylor facing Derek. He was happy to talk badly about his brother-in-law.
“They’d been having problems for a while. Corinne swore me to secrecy. She knew she could trust me not to tell Michelle. Michelle’s a little intense. If she’d known they weren’t getting along, she’d be badgering Corinne to move out or something.”
“Tell us what happened.”
“Corinne didn’t say what they fought about, only that they had a huge, terrible fight. I remember she came over to Mom and Dad’s that night, she looked like she’d been crying. Anyway, we were talking after dinner. She told me he’d gotten furious with her and stormed off. She hadn’t seen him for about five days, didn’t know where he was.
“But he came home the next day. I went over there after class to check on her, and he was sitting in the living room, drinking a beer. She had this chirpy look on her face, seemed happy that he was home. Do you think he killed her?”
Taylor dodged the question. “What’s Todd do, Derek?”
“He’s a contractor. Builds housing developments. The Trace, Harpeth on the Walk, those really upscale communities. He has some out-of-state projects too, that’s why he travels so much. He’s usually gone on the weekends to his off-site developments.”
“Wolff Construction? That’s him?” Fitz asked.
“Yeah. You know it?”
“I looked at one of the show homes in Harpeth on the Walk. It was very nice.”
“Todd’s great at what he does. He’s driven, always looking for a new deal. He’s a decent enough guy. Until Corinne told me about the fight, I didn’t know they had problems. I guess everyone does, but all I’ve ever seen is my parents, and they’re stupid in love with each other. Fighting wasn’t something we had a lot of growing up.”
Must be nice. Of course, Taylor’s family didn’t fight, they were just icily polite to one another. Lacking passion, one could say.
“Would you say that your brother-in-law was capable of hurting your sister?”
Derek’s eyes were huge. He was young, but not young enough to miss the inference. “Jeez, I just can’t imagine him killing her. I guess anything’s possible, though.”
That’s what she needed to hear. “Derek, thank you. If you remember anything else, please let me know.” She gave him a card. He took it and went back inside.
She and Fitz had just started to compare notes when Taylor’s cell phone rang. She took it off her hip and looked at the number. Tim Davis.
She answered the phone. “What’s up?”
Tim sounded as excited as she’d ever heard him. “You need to get back over here. I think I found the murder weapon.”
Six
Taylor was in Corinne Wolff’s lovely walk-in closet, listening to Tim Davis. The scent of cedar was tickling her nose.
“So I was just doing a cursory look-through, and saw a little bit of blood on the corner of the drawer. When I opened it, there it was, lying in the clothes. It was covered up, but you could see the outline plain as day. Blood soaked into the scarf covering it. Guess whoever stashed it didn’t expect us to look there.”
Tim recreated his actions, pulling open a drawer labeled SCARVES. Nestled into the multicolored silk was a tennis racquet. It was bent and dented, and had visible blood and matter coated along the edges.
Taylor thought about the wounds on Corinne’s body. Sam would have to confirm it at autopsy, but she thought that a tennis racquet could do the damage she’d seen. Wielded with enough force, anything could be a weapon. She asked anyway. Tim had seen it all.
“Think this could do that much damage?”
“Sure. It’s nice and strong. Head’s just like a ripe melon. You hit it hard enough, it’ll split open. And you know how head wounds bleed. She had a ton of gashes, that’s where all the blood came from. Enough that the poor little girl was able to cover herself in it and track it around. Someone was pretty hacked off at this woman.”
“No kidding.” Taylor looked back into the room, at the stain where Corinne Wolff had lain on her carpet, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Not the way she’d like to go. She turned back to Tim.
“Great job, man. This is going to help tremendously. Get it photographed and see if there’s any prints. Wouldn’t that be nice—we’d be able to wrap this thing up today.”
“I’ll give it a good going over, Lieutenant. I love it when the criminal’s dumb enough to leave the evidence behind.”
“No kidding. This seems to be a weapon of convenience. Her gym bag was on the bed, the racquet must have been right there. I’m wondering if he got interrupted, stashed the tennis racquet in a hurry to get out of here.”
“Could be. Or he didn’t think we’d look in here. You know how people are. They don’t realize we actually have brains.”
“Truer words were never spoken, my friend. Let me know if you find anything else.”
Taylor was happy to have so many pieces falling into place. Half her job was done—they had a victim, a weapon, and eyewitness testimony that dissent had crept into the Wolff household.
Now they just needed the husband.
A dark SUV pulled into the street on Jocelyn Hollow Court and stopped just short of the crime scene tape strung across the Wolffs’ driveway. Taylor heard the neighbors buzzing as she walked out of the house, heard the snap, snap of cameras taking pictures. The media had arrived earlier and were reporting from a safe distance. But their long lenses could see quite a bit. And this was grade A, prime time footage. The husband had arrived.
Taylor watched Todd Wolff get out of the Lincoln Navigator, his body quivering with trepidation. He left the door open, the key in the ignition, the V-8 engine rumbling like a purring lion as it idled. He walked around to the passenger side, his steps heavy. His shoulders were bent, his nose red and swollen from crying. He stared at his house as if he’d never seen the place before. It had been six hours since he’d been told his wife and unborn son were dead.
Fitz sidled up beside her. “Wolff must have driven like a bat out of hell to get here so soon. I didn’t think he’d be in before six at the earliest.”
He handed Taylor a bottle of water, which she accepted gratefully. She twisted the top and drank deep, washing the taste of murder out of her mouth. She put the cap back on and spoke under her breath.
“He certainly looks distraught.”
“That’s an understatement. Dude looks like shit.”
Wolff was still staring at his house, and now took a few faltering steps toward the front porch. Taylor went to him quickly, getting a hand on the man’s forearm. He stopped and turned, looking at her with wide, blank eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked in a monotone.
“I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, homicide. This is Sergeant Pete Fitzgerald. Why don’t we chat for a minute, Mr. Wolff.”
She steered him back toward his truck. He strained against her, pulling away.
“No, I want to go in. I want to see Corinne. I want to see Hayden.”
“Mr. Wolff, your wife isn’t here. She’s been transported to the medical examiner’s office. Why don’t you come here and sit down for a second.”
Taylor looked up and saw that several of the neighbors had come back to attention, grouping across the street, and the newsies had their cameras trained on the grieving husband. Damn.
She looked around for a moment. They needed privacy, and she didn’t want to parade him into his house until the crime scene people were through.
“Actually, let’s go next door and talk, okay?”
“To Mrs. Manchini’s? She doesn’t like me.” But he tucked his head and changed direction, heading straight to his neighbor’s house without additional complaint. Taylor followed after a quick glance over her shoulder at Fitz, who was standing next to Wolff’s truck, casually looking through the open driver’s side door at the interior. He shook his head and Taylor continued toward the Manchini house. He hadn’t seen anything out of place. Yet.
The Harris family had been excused from the scene at three-thirty. They had left directions to the Harrises’ house in Sylvan Park, phone numbers and cell numbers where they could be reached. They’d taken Hayden Wolff with them. Taylor saw no reason to make a fuss over that, it wasn’t as if they were going to steal the child, after all.
Wolff stopped short at the edge of his lawn, head swiveling, breath suddenly coming in little pants. “Where’s Hayden? Where’s my daughter?” He started back toward his house. Taylor grabbed his arm again.
“Whoa there, Mr. Wolff. Your daughter is still with your in-laws. Her grandparents. She’s just fine, was a little tired and hungry, but she’s safe. You don’t need to worry about her.”
“I want to see her. I want to see her right now. I want to see my daughter!” His voice rose in pitch until the last word came out in a wail. Taylor heard shutters clicking as Wolff dropped to his knees in the grass between the two houses, sobbing. The video cameras rolled, gathering the scene. It was heartbreaking, and would make for a very exciting five o’clock news hour.
Taylor stepped to his side, squatting down to get face-to-face with him. Damn it, she didn’t want to be on the news doing this.
“Mr. Wolff,” she said as kindly as she could muster. “You need to get up and come with me now, sir. Let me get you situated next door and we can chat. The sooner we can do that, the sooner I can get you reunited with Hayden.”
“My son,” the man screamed. “My son is dead and you’re holding my daughter. This isn’t right. This isn’t fair!”
Fitz appeared at her side. She caught his eye, gestured with her head. Histronics weren’t going to help. They both took hold of an arm and raised Wolff to his feet. He was crying hard, tears and snot mingling into channels running down his chin, but he stopped yelling. A step in the right direction. Without further incident, they were able to get him all the way to the Manchini front door and slip him inside.
Taylor’s phone rang, and she pulled away, letting Fitz guide the distraught man to the now familiar chintz couch. Carla Manchini stood in the middle of the great room, watery eyes shining behind her glasses. This was more excitement than the woman had seen in years.
Seeing an unfamiliar number, Taylor decided to let it go to voice mail and joined Fitz, Mrs. Manchini and Todd Wolff in the great room. Probably a reporter anyway.
“Mrs. Manchini, do you think it would be possible if we could have the room to ourselves for a few minutes so we could speak to Todd alone?”
Disappointment clouded the older woman’s eyes, but she nodded like a little bird. “It’s nearly time for me to leave for my book club, it’s going to take me at least thirty minutes to get to Davis Kidd. There’s a fresh pot of tea in the kitchen. Can I trust you to lock up for me, Lieutenant? Normally I don’t worry about it, but now…”
“Of course, ma’am. We truly appreciate all your help today. You’ve been a huge asset.”
Tickled, the woman gathered her purse, a well-thumbed copy of Tasha Alexander’s A Fatal Waltz and left. Her book group would be hearing some exciting tales this evening.
Todd Wolff was collapsed on the sofa. He’d stopped actively crying but was sniveling, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist.
Taylor took a seat in the chintz armchair next to him. She waited for him to gather himself, handed him a tissue from the crochet-covered box sitting on the end table next to her. He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Wolff, can I ask where you’ve been?”
When he didn’t answer immediately, Taylor sized him up. He was a handsome, well-made man, with a thick shock of black hair, flashing black eyes, and deep stubble along his cleft chin. Looking at him, Taylor thought about the fair Hayden and wondered, just for a minute. Two dark-haired, dark-eyed parents, and their offspring a blonde with clear blue eyes. Interesting, genetics.
With a huge sniff, Wolff finally began to speak. “I have a property getting ready to open in Savannah, Georgia. I was down there overseeing the last bits and pieces. There’s a million things to be done, and I’m the one who has to get the checks written.”
“You build houses? Wolff Construction?”
“Yes.”
“When did you leave for Georgia?”
“Friday, around noon. I’ve been going every two weeks now that we’re getting close to wrapping the project.”
“You normally drive?”
“Yeah. I’m a successful developer, but I’m not made of money. It’s cheaper that way.”
“Seems like a long trip,” Fitz observed.
“I like the drive. It clears my head.”
“Did you usually spend the weekend when you made the drive?” Taylor asked.
“Yes. I come back on Monday afternoon.”
“When’s the last time you spoke to your wife?”
Wolff was quiet for a moment. “Saturday morning.”
“That was the last time?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try to call her again after you spoke on Saturday?”
“Yes. I wanted to read Hayden a story Saturday night. It was our tradition.”
“She didn’t answer?”
“No.” Wolff’s voice wavered, but fresh tears stayed in check.
“Weren’t you concerned that you couldn’t reach Corinne?”
Todd flinched at the mention of his wife’s name. “I wasn’t really paying attention, God help me. I was so caught up in the problems we were having on-site that when I didn’t reach her, I just left a message. I figured she was out with her sisters anyway. When I went out of town, she usually did a girls’ night with friends, or hung out with Michelle and Nicole and watched movies. She’d get a babysitter for Hayden sometimes, take advantage of some private time. I tried to call her again at around ten, but when the answering machine kicked on, I hung up. Tried her cell once, then went to bed myself. She didn’t like me checking up on her.”
“And you tried on Sunday?”
“I called Sunday around noon, and she didn’t pick up. But again, it didn’t worry me. She’s very independent, doesn’t need me around to keep her entertained. Since I have to go out of town so often, she’s used to it. How did she, how was she…”
He started crying again. “Who did this, Lieutenant? I love my wife. We got along, had a beautiful little girl, a son on the way. We were happy. This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to happy people.”
Oh, if it were only that easy, Taylor thought. The good and happy people get to lead normal lives, bad things only happen to bad people. Yeah, right. “Unfortunately, I can’t answer that for you right now, Mr. Wolff. Let’s talk some more about your interests in Savannah. Where do you stay when you go down there?”
“There’s a Hampton Inn down the street from the property. My secretary can give you all the particulars.”
“That’s where you stay every time?”
“Yes. It’s convenient, and clean. And not too expensive. I have to watch the bottom line, you know?”
“Your company has made quite a name for itself. How’d you get into construction?”
“The honest way. I worked summers for my dad, he operated a heavy crane for a guy over in Ashland City. I had a chance to do little bit of everything. I love carpentry, love to see homes rise out of nothing. I’ve got a decent head for figures. It was a natural extension of my upbringing. Why does that matter?”
Taylor crossed her legs. “We’re just talking here, Mr. Wolff. Is the business doing well?”
“Better than I deserve.”
“No money issues? You guys were doing okay financially?”
“Lieutenant, I hardly think—” He stopped, the implication of Taylor’s question hitting him. “You think I did this.”
“I’m just trying to get a feeling for your life, Mr. Wolff. I’m not implying anything. Tell me about your finances. You mentioned that you drive instead of fly because it was cheaper. Is your business having problems?”
He became very still. “Lieutenant, what happened here? What happened to my wife? No one will tell me.”
The raw emotion tugged at Taylor’s center. She caught Fitz’s eye. Either this guy was one hell of an actor, or he genuinely didn’t know the manner in which his wife had died.
“Mr. Wolff,” Taylor tried again. “Do you and your wife fight?”
He met her eyes, his gaze direct and unflinching, deep pools of pain. “Of course we fight. We’re not perfect. We have tiffs, like every other married couple in the world. If you’re asking if I killed my wife, the answer is no.”
Taylor assessed him for a moment longer. Well, it was always worth judging the reaction to reality. She decided to take a chance. Something about Wolff’s demeanor made her believe him. A quick glance at Fitz confirmed her decision was sound.
“We don’t have a lot to go on right now, Mr. Wolff. Evidence is being collected, the investigation is underway. What I can tell you is your sister-in-law came to pick Corinne up for tennis this morning. Your wife was found in your bedroom, severely beaten. Your daughter seems unharmed.”
“And the baby?”
His voice cracked and tears spilled down his cheeks, silent silver tracks. The voice of a man condemned, a man who knew the answer to his question but forced himself to ask it anyway.
“Your son didn’t survive the assault, Mr. Wolff. Your wife had been deceased for some time when she was discovered. I’m very sorry.”
Wolff hiccupped, then stood and bolted. Taylor heard him vomiting in the guest bath, then water running to cover the noises.
Fitz had sat silent throughout the exchange. “You think we need to bring him downtown?” he asked quietly.
The water was still running in the bathroom. Taylor shook her head, but answered him under her breath. “I think he’s got enough on his plate right now. That was an awfully visceral reaction for someone who knew what was coming. He may be pulling one over on us, but I’m inclined to think he may be telling the truth. Either he’s quite the criminal mastermind—arranging to be out of town, hiring someone to kill his wife—or he doesn’t know what happened. Let’s give him the night with his daughter, and question him again in the morning. We’ve got a lot of background to go through, need to see what their finances are like, sift through all the evidence Tim collected. I say we write things up and call it a night.”
“I agree. I’ll get him over to the Harrises’ so he can see his daughter.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to go into the office, make up the murder book, check in with the captain. I’ll see you there.”
The toilet flushed and the water stopped running. Wolff came back into the room, his eyes bloodshot, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry for losing control like that.”
“It’s okay. We understand. I think it’s time to wrap things up for today. Your wife’s body will be autopsied in the morning, and we’d like to talk to you some more. But for now, we’re going to get you with Hayden and your family.”
As they left, Taylor couldn’t help but look back at the Wolffs’ house. What had happened? Was this a home invasion gone bad? It didn’t look like anything had been tampered with or stolen. No, this felt personal, and Todd was the obvious choice.
There was something about him. So far he’d shown nothing but the appropriate responses. But Taylor couldn’t help but think about Corinne’s family, and her father, insistent that Todd was somehow culpable for the murder.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been lied to.
Seven
Taylor took her time driving downtown, thinking about the afternoon. The murder weapon stashed in the closet, Todd Wolff’s seemingly genuine hysteria. It was much too early to dismiss him as a suspect. Violence on this level, in the victim’s home, so often was a result of a domestic squabble gone wrong. And there had been plenty of husbands who had duped even the best investigators. Mark Hacking came to mind. He’d gone on television, cried and begged, pleading for justice for his pregnant wife, when in actuality, he’d shot her, dumped her body in a Dumpster, replaced their mattress and nearly got away with the whole crime. Scott Peterson was another classic example. It was a sad statistic—the number one cause of death for pregnant mothers was domestic homicide.
But if he’d done it, he was a cold-blooded bastard. Murder your wife, your unborn child, and leave your daughter trailing around the house alone for days? Jesus. That took some balls. Or desperation.
It was ten after six and Taylor was topping Nine Mile Hill. She’d made the short trip into Bellevue and gone through the McDonald’s drive-through before heading back downtown. The whole day had been lost at the Wolff crime scene and she hadn’t stopped to have anything to eat. She munched a chicken sandwich as she drove, feeling virtuous for skipping the fries.
Nine Mile Hill, so creatively named because it was exactly nine miles from the heart of downtown Nashville, the Cumberland River, afforded Taylor a lovely panoramic view of the city. The sun was setting behind her, catching the reflection off the Lifeway warehouse. The skyscrapers and the Capitol building that made up Nashville’s skyline were bathed in a rosy copper reflective glow, shimmering like an urban mirage. Taylor had lived in Nashville her entire life, but had never seen this vision. It was gorgeous and filled her, making her feel whole and drowsy. She was tempted to pull over and watch until it disappeared, but the sun did the trick for her, shifting slightly in its evening zenith. The mirage faded, and the downtown Taylor knew reappeared.
The little things were becoming so important. She’d always had a knack for finding beauty in the most unlikely places. When it came to her unbidden, it felt like a blessing.
As she drove through Belle Meade, she thought about Corinne Wolff. This murder was going to seize the attention of Nashville. Always fascinated by suburban crime, the city would rally around a dead mother-to-be. She made a mental note to talk to Dan Franklin, the department’s spokesman, to work on some language that would be appropriately somber. If she didn’t get a viable suspect right away, a story like this could breed controversy. She didn’t need the national news outlets breathing down her neck. She’d had enough of that on her last big case.
Gossip, rumor, innuendo. A homicide detective’s best friend was the undercurrent, the shifting of allegiances, the aspersions cast. It took a rare talent to sift through the lies, arrive at the truth. Taylor had always had a sense for accuracy. But when the media got involved, the deceptions became driven by ratings. A brave new world.
She’d only had serious media trouble twice in the past, once several years earlier, the second only a month prior. The Snow White Killer, long dormant in Nashville, had risen like a phoenix and started killing again. She was still uncomfortable with the nature of the media’s interest in the case, how easily they dragged her and the department through the mud. There was constant second-guessing and now, with the benefit of hindsight, Monday morning quarterbacking galore. Two months later, Taylor lay in bed at night, watching replay after replay of the case on cable news, wondering if the interest would ever truly end. The national news outlets had camped along the streets of downtown Nashville like hippie jam bands, partying over the leftovers of each family’s grief. The slightest whiff of resolution and they’d be back at it.
The earlier trouble, well, she didn’t like to think about that.
The thoughts came quickly, whipping through her mind like a breeze. Snow White. His apprentice, the self-proclaimed Pretender, a man with no name and no compunction when it came to killing. Still out there, lurking in the deepest recesses. Which brought her to Baldwin.
Baldwin would have firsthand access to anything new on the still very open case. He’d promised to look into the Bureau’s files while he was in Quantico.
If she were being honest with herself, she hoped he would find something fresh, something concrete. Something more than the ephemeral, hair bristling on the back of the neck feelings Taylor had. Feelings were all well and good. She trusted herself, trusted her instincts. Every once in a while, her skin tingled and she felt eyes on her back. She assumed the Pretender was keeping tabs on their investigation into his whereabouts, and sometimes followed her. She could almost sense him when he was near. He set her radar off, though she’d never gotten a real look at him.
They needed concrete evidence. Needed to know the name of the murderer who masqueraded in other killers’ emotional garments. They had nothing.
Headlights flashed and she came back, surprised to see she was already at the Criminal Justice Center. Car coma, that’s what Baldwin called it. It happened too often; she’d be lost in thought and realize she’d driven to her destination without seeing the path. Too distracted. She needed to be more on her game. The time off had only intensified the need for her to get her head back to Nashville, and on keeping herself safe.
She parked and crossed the lot, taking the back stairs two at a time. She swiped her key card along the access box at the back entrance to the building. The door dumped her into the hallway just outside the Homicide offices. The second shift had already arrived; a noisy buzz emanated from the homicide office.
The hall was blocked by a young patrol officer from the first shift who was bent in half, butt sticking up in the air, her flashlight swinging precariously close to her head as she dug green-colored photocopied paper out of a box. She straightened, shuffled the pages of announcements, meeting schedules, calendars—the normal office detritus. It only took her a few moments to rearrange the corkboard, posting new job listings and notices. When she was satisfied, she stood back and looked to make sure everything was set to rights, then slid the Plexiglas closed and locked it with a miniature key. She noticed Taylor, mumbled “Sorry,” and shoved the box out of the way. As Taylor passed her, she went on to the next glass slot, the one with the latest WANTED posters. She unlocked the casing, reached in her little box and pulled out several posters, arranging them in order of priority. The highest priority was an infamous cold case that appeared to have gotten a lead.
The Cold Case team. Taylor didn’t envy their jobs a bit. She couldn’t imagine working full-time with the lost, spending all her time living other people’s pain and agony. Taylor was convinced that in order to heal, a victim’s family just needed to know what actually happened. For those who were missing, who were dead with no killer captured, no answers, the waiting was unbearable. Nashville had plenty of cases that fit this précis, and six or seven that were actively being worked.
With a brief wave at two of the B shift detectives, she went into her office and shut the door behind her.
Absolutely astounding. Looking at the top of the wooden desk, Taylor couldn’t help but think of a tornado’s aftermath. When she’d left the night before, everything was in its place, the in-box and out-box were empty, and the desktop was completely clear. Now, it was overflowing. She spied at least four incident reports from the Wolff crime scene, a couple of red actionable items from upstairs, an empty threeing binder some kind soul had thought to provide, knowing she’d be collecting all the information for its innards, creating a new murder book labeled Wolff. Several multicolored sticky notes, a full call sheet, a brief scattering of pens and pencils. A shaft of moonlight peeked through the open blinds, illuminating a white sheet of basketball brackets with a hot pink postie reminding her to make her picks before Thursday at noon or else she wouldn’t be able to participate in the yearly NCAA pool. Away for a day and the desk bloomed like forsythia, one moment barren and empty, the next full of unruly flowers. With a sigh, she slipped around to her seat and started organizing. She couldn’t work in chaos, never had been able to tolerate a mess in her proximity.
Her voice-mail light was blinking. She played the messages. The only one of interest was from Lincoln Ross. Oh, thank goodness. It was good to hear his voice.
She never realized how much she missed being around her team until they weren’t there. She’d missed them all while she and Baldwin were away, and returned to the news that Lincoln Ross had been tapped for an assignment. A “Special Assignment.” That’s all she’d been told. She could guess what cases might be important enough to put a homicide detective on a full-time assignment, had made a few attempts to get information from her captain, Mitchell Price. He’d only smiled and nodded with each guess, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing which supposition was correct.
Setting a sheaf of paper aside, she flipped open her cell phone and dialed the number. Lincoln answered on the first ring, his deep, honeyed voice tinged with irony.
“Thank God it’s you, LT. I have a problem,” Lincoln said.
“Talk to me. I miss you, by the way. Are you ever coming off this project?”
“I hope so. I think things are about to break. This stupid confidential informant got me in a world of hurt, and I had to push back. That’s part of the problem.”
“What happened?”
She heard the deep, readying breath. “I had to partake.” He spat the words out as if saying them would ease a bad taste in his mouth.
“Oh, Lincoln. You know that’s not—”
The despair in his voice broke her heart. “Shit, LT, I know. Trust me, it was drilled into me a thousand times before I got involved in this case. I didn’t have a choice. This is getting dicey. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What was it?”
“What else. Crack. Messed me up good, too, even though I barely had a hit. God, LT. It was terrible. You don’t think they’ll fire me?”
Taylor laughed. “No, I don’t. My God, Linc, you’re one of the finest officers we employ. If you said there was no other choice, I believe you, and so will Price. He’ll go to the mat for you. How’d you get yourself stuck?”
“The CI has been meeting me at a skeevy hotel, bringing me the information. Some of his cronies followed him to the meet. There was nothing we could do without blowing the whole thing. Thank God they didn’t recognize me, that would have ended it all right there, with me on the floor in a puddle of blood. No, they were all fucked-up and wanted to party some more. I’ve been feeding the CI drugs to sell to them. They insisted on trying the merchandise. I said no, the head dog said yes. Stuck a revolver in my face. I didn’t think I had much of a choice after that. I faked it best I could, but I still had to blow something out, you know?”
It was the bane of undercover work, especially when the target of the investigation was into the drug scene. Balancing being a cop and not blowing your cover was difficult at best. Lincoln wasn’t undercover though, and she didn’t want to upset him further by telling him that it was likely disciplinary action would be taken against him. A suspension without pay, probably. That could wait until he was back with her.
“You need to be careful, my friend. Write the whole thing up and we’ll handle it together. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks. I gotta go. We’ve got a meet in twenty minutes. See ya.”
That just sucked. She hated that Lincoln had been forced into harm’s way by someone else’s stupidity.
There was another message, this one from Baldwin. Just checking in, he said. He sounded stressed. Well, she could identify with that. She called him back, but he didn’t answer. She put her phone away and got to work. She had a suspect to catch.
The sun was setting on Quantico, Virginia.
Dr. John Baldwin stood. He’d been sitting in a chair that was too low to the ground for his long legs, and it screeched with the sudden movement.
“Damn it, I don’t like lying to her.”
“I know that, Baldwin. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, you know that.” Garrett Woods tried for affable, but Baldwin wasn’t fooled. He’d known the man too long to trust such a conciliatory tone.
“You know karma is going to bite you in the ass for faking heart problems.”
Garrett smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. “I could have gone into a diabetic coma instead. Would that have been more realistic? I am diabetic, after all.”
“You should take better care of yourself regardless. But be warned, if we find out he’s heading anywhere near Nashville, I am out of here. How in the world did you let him slip the net?”
“We’re still figuring that out. And don’t worry about your princess. She can take care of herself. Don’t delude yourself there, my boy. She’s managed quite well without you all this time. She’s not some weak-kneed little kitten that needs your protection. You’ll be back there soon enough. There’s work to be done here first.”
Baldwin took a lap around the small room, stopping at the window that overlooked the parade grounds in front of the gate into the complex. Garrett had asked to meet him in an outbuilding, outside the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime offices, which housed both the Behavioral Science Unit and the Behavioral Analysis Units. It was a smart thing to do; that building was filled with perceptive people. This conversation didn’t need an audience.
After spending the past year in Nashville, he’d found himself dreading the thought of the BSU walls closing in around him. He’d always hated being stuck inside, much preferred working in the field. He loved the work, just didn’t like having to share his workspace with forty other people.
Garrett’s reach had been dragging him back to Quantico more and more often. After hearing this news, he was going to have to stick around for a while. Quantico was the last place he wanted to be right now.
“I could give her a generic warning. Anything funny happens, let me know. Something so she wouldn’t be blindsided.”
Garrett shook his head, a fine sheen of sweat shimmering along his closely clipped hairline. “No. Not yet. Let’s get some confirmation first. This may not happen. We don’t need to blow your cover over a maybe. Langley would not like that at all.”
Eight
When Taylor was deep in a case, every workday lasted just a bit longer than the last.
She left the office a little after eleven o’clock, planning to forage in her kitchen for wine and cheese, maybe a hunk of bread. It was too late for a real dinner, and after five months living with Baldwin, she’d come to realize she didn’t like to eat alone anymore. She dragged into the house at eleven-thirty, yawned and decided to hell with it. She’d just head upstairs and have a decent breakfast instead.
Baldwin had called, leaving a message on the machine for her, one designed to incite a lustful longing for his warmth. She’d smiled at the attempt to solicit dirty thoughts, but was too tired to think of much except getting into the bed and sleeping forever.
There was a bill on the counter from the plumber. God, she’d forgotten all about the leak. It seemed impossible that she’d started her day with such a banal issue. It felt like a week had passed.
Just a cracked cock and ball assembly, allowing the water to the toilet to steadily overflow. He’d replaced it, and the charge was $150 for parts and labor, but with their new home warranty, their cost was only $42.50. That was a relief. She checked the ceiling in the living room, it had already dried without leaving a stain. Good. Replacing a ceiling wasn’t high on her list of things she wanted to deal with. Though they’d had a million little issues with the house, so far they were just that, little. She rapped her knuckles on the cabinet—knock wood they’d stay annoyances rather than something major.
She called Baldwin back and they chatted for a few minutes. She told him about her day and he assured her that Garrett was just fine. After her fourth jaw-cracking yawn, Baldwin suggested she get some sleep. They hung up with promises to talk in the morning.
A dog barked once, sharp and deep, then howled. The sound gave her a chill, and she set the alarm before moving upstairs.
She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and was climbing in the bed when she heard the tape for the first time. Channel Five kindly replayed their ten o’clock newscast at midnight on their sister cable station. The anchor was intoning with horror, preparing the viewers with a warning that was sure to keep them riveted to their seats and the channel tuned in.
“We’re going to play the 911 tapes from the Corinne Wolff murder scene. We must warn you, the tape is disturbing, and not appropriate for young viewers.”
The screen went blank, then a blue background with a graphic of a white rotary telephone popped up, the headline reading 911 Call. The tape started rolling, static whispering at first, then clearer. The station provided a written transcript on the screen to accompany Michelle Harris’s words.
“911 Operator: Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?
Michelle Harris: I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God. [crying]
911 Operator: Can you repeat that, ma’am?
Michelle Harris: There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…HAYDEN?
911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?
Michelle Harris: HAYDEN, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?
911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?
Michelle Harris: Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…
911 Operator: Hayden is your sister?
Michelle Harris: Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.
Background noise: Mama hurt
911 Operator: Who is dead, ma’am?
Michelle Harris: My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s, she’s cold. [crying, indistinguishable noise]
911 Operator: We’re sending the police, ma’am.”
Taylor turned off the television. That pretty much guaranteed she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while. She got out of the bed and went to the bonus room, knowing that a few games of eight ball would help settle her mind.
She snapped on the lamp, took the cover off the table and retrieved a Miller Lite from the small dorm refrigerator that stood unobtrusively in the alcove. She twisted off the top, sent the metal cap arcing toward the trashcan with a nice overhead, then cursed. She’d forgotten to bring home the brackets for the basketball pool. Oh well, she could manage that tomorrow.
She racked up the balls and started shooting, the rhythm of her game helping a quiet calm steal into her limbs. Bend, sight, the clicking smack of the cue hitting the ball, drop. Over and over again, until the table was clear. She racked the balls back up, did it again. The beer was empty now, so she got another, pausing to sip at intervals, focused on the task at hand. Trying to empty her mind.
Taylor got tired of being a stranger to deep, uninterrupted sleep, but at least it helped hone her skills on the felt. She could probably make some cash as a pool shark if she ever needed a career change.
Three-thirty now, and she finally started to feel the slight tug at her eyelids that presaged some REM time. She covered up the table, tossed the beer bottles in the trash, shut off the light and went back to her bedroom.
The sense that something wasn’t right struck her, and she went to the windows, lifted the edge of the blind and looked out onto the darkened street. The home-owners association had bylaws forbidding street lamps, which was one of the dumbest things Taylor had ever heard of. As a consequence, some of the homes on the street burned the front lights all night, the yellow pools of safety a warning to any who thought to enter, knowing that light was their best deterrent to crime. Not all the home owners felt the same.
With only three houses’ porch lights on tonight, and those farther up the street, the darkness was deep and penetrating. Taylor took in the shadowy brick structures, the trees waving long-boned fingers in the air. In a day or two, they’d be in full bud. Spring generally appeared overnight in Nashville. Taylor wondered if she stood and watched, would she see the coming of the equinox? Instead, there was nothing to observe, no one on the street lurking, staring up at the windows.
“Silly goose,” she said, her voice’s typical no nonsense tone a comfort.
She got into the bed and stared at the grotesque shadows cast about the room by the night-light’s reflection on the ceiling fan. Thought about Corinne Wolff, beaten, alone, unable to fend off her attacker. Rolling onto her side, she caressed the pillow facing her, where Baldwin’s chiseled features usually gave her a respite. The emptiness was palpable. Stretching her right arm out, she slid it under the pillow. Her fingers closed around the grip of her Glock. A shiver went through her, and she was finally dragged under.
The lights were doused at last. He wondered how she slept. On her side, or her back? On her stomach, vulnerable and unable to defend herself if surprised? Oh, if that were only the case. But no. He’d watched her walk, the long stride never hesitating, never compromising, and knew she slept on her side, a leg thrown over the man next to her. Confidence. She had that in spades. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to teach her humility. Bliss.
A nosy dog scented him and began baying. He moved deeper into the woods, away from the house, away from civilization. The time would come. He must simply be patient.
Tuesday
Nine
Despite the alarm going off in her ear for a full twenty minutes, Taylor couldn’t rouse herself. She finally reached a hand over and stifled the music, glancing with one eye at the clock face. Nearly seven-thirty. Damn it. She needed to be at Forensic Medical by eight to witness Corinne Wolff’s autopsy.
She threw back the tangle of covers and went into the bath, started the shower running and brushed her teeth. Fifteen minutes later she rolled out of the garage barefoot, Diet Coke clutched in her lap, jeans and T-shirt on, wet hair smoothed into a coiled bun. She had an awkward crick in her neck from sleeping at an odd angle that the shower hadn’t relieved. She could put her boots on when she got to Gass Street, slip into a sweater, too. It was chilly as hell this morning.
She’d made this trek too many times to count in her years as a detective. She felt a strange kind of kinship with her victims—the need to see what was inside, what made them tick. And Corinne Wolff was no exception. Taylor was interested to see the particulars of how she’d died, at the very least.
Interstate 40 was packed with early morning commuters, and an accident at the Charlotte Pike exit meant they were crawling slower than normal. The west side of town was blessed with less congestion, less traffic, and an easier commute than those people driving into Nashville from the east, south and north of town. But an accident could derail that immediately, bringing all the cars to a snail’s pace. Taylor sipped her Diet Coke, trying for patience. It didn’t look like traffic was going to get moving anytime soon, and she wasn’t in the mood to sit. Damn it, she was going to be late. Another ten minutes passed before the cars inched forward enough for her to hop off at Charlotte westbound. Feeling free, she made an illegal U-turn in front of the Cracker Barrel, sailed up to White Bridge and got on Briley Parkway.
The new section of road quickly gave way to the old four-lane highway, and she started making up time as she cruised past the defunct Tennessee State Prison, the site of Robert Redford’s film The Last Castle and an architectural dead ringer for Johnny Cash’s infamous Folsom State Prison. It had fallen into disrepair and was abandoned, left to the ghosts and rats. She tried not to think of her father, once a brief inmate of those twenty-foot-high, three-foot-thick crenellated walls.
Now the prisoners were housed at Riverbend, a maximum-security prison equipped to end the lives of those fated to die at the hands of the state. She’d been inside Riverbend’s death row cells, with their blue doors and creamy concrete walls. She never wanted to return. The overwhelming sense of malevolence coupled with dread was too much to take. She’d sent more than one of the men housed in that unit to death row and hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep over them, but she didn’t want to experience their last moments firsthand.
Her dad, well, his prison environs were a damn sight cushier than a state penitentiary. The feds were kind to their white-collar criminals.
The Interstate 24 split came, and she passed the exit, driving a few more miles to the Dickerson Road access ramp. Off the highway now, into the run-down streets. This was a sad part of town. A crack whore strolled by, arms swinging wildly as she walked, a timid black man in his forties following some fifty feet behind. Had they made the deal already? They must have, the hooker had the bright, insistent glow in her eyes of a junkie who knows she’s about to get a fix.
Taylor shook her head. There seemed to be no legal measures that could stop the pervasive sex trades on the back streets of Nashville. For the pros, a night in jail meant either safety or withdrawal, neither an inducement to break free from the life. For the johns, it was just an embarrassment.
She turned on Gass and passed the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations offices on the right. The TBI task force would be furious if they knew Lincoln had broken the rules. Even though he had done something that was life-preserving, they would still punish him. He’d be kicked off the task force at the very least. She wondered if she could keep the situation quiet, then forced the thought from her mind. She was a master at keeping each aspect separate, tackling one thorny issue at a time. It was the only way she could get through the day.
Forensic Medical appeared on her left, shiny as a new penny in the morning sun. Taylor parked in a visitor slot. She jammed her feet into her boots, tucked her sunglasses into their hard leather case, grabbed the sweater and stepped into the bracing morning air. Dogwood winter, that’s what her mother had called these chilly spring days. As soon as the trees began to bud, Nashville was nearly guaranteed a late frost, shriveling up the fresh, tender blossoms. Only the most hale of trees and shrubs would stand it; the rest would be shocked back into dormancy for at least another few weeks.
The front of Forensic Medical was lined in clusters of forsythia bushes intertwined with azaleas. The forsythia didn’t seem to mind the snap, were rioting in their fervor to spread their rich yellow blooms toward the cool sunlight. The sight made her smile. The mutinous nature of the bushes always lightened her heart. She hated when people trimmed them into balls or squares, felt it killed their wild personality. It was a shame they’d be gone so soon, too. She wished they’d bloom all summer.
Taylor swiped her card and entered the cool offices of Forensic Medical. Someone, probably Kris, the receptionist, was burning a lavender scented candle. Slightly less oppressive than the patchouli incense that sometimes smoked up the foyer, but lavender always made Taylor sneeze. The cacophony of scents that made up Forensic Medical wreaked havoc with her sinuses anyway. Beneath the thick flowering smell was an antiseptic undernote, profumo della morte. The scent of death was pervasive and ugly, no matter what Renaissance language she translated it into.
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J.T. Ellison
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Триллеры
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: It was a murder made for TV: a trail of tiny bloody footprints.An innocent toddler playing beside her mother′s bludgeoned body. Pretty young Corinne Wolff, seven months pregnant, brutally murdered in her own home. Cameras and questions don′t usually faze Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson, but the media frenzy surrounding the Wolff case is particularly nasty. . . and thorough.When the seemingly model mommy is linked to an amateur porn Web site with underage actresses and unwitting players, the sharks begin to circle. The shock is magnified when an old adversary uses the sexy secret footage to implicate Taylor in a murder—an accusation that threatens her career, her reputation and her relationship.Both cases hinge on the evidence—real or manufactured—of crimes that go beyond passion, into the realm of obsessive vengeance and shocking betrayal. Just what the networks love.Praise for J.T. Ellison"A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut." – Lee Child «A taut, striking debut. Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.» – John ConnollyThe Taylor Jacksons series1. All The Pretty Girls2. 143. Judas Kiss4. The Cold Room5. The Immortals6. So Close the Hand of Death7. Where All the Dead Lie