The thought of fighting the crowds didn’t appeal to her. Rippy’s was legendary, on the corner of Broadway and Fifth, a regular honky-tonk with a view of Nashville’s touristy party life and the best pulled pork in the city. It was a happy, crowded bar with live music and a devil-may-care attitude.
“No, I want something more quiet. How about Radius 10?”
“Oh, good choice. They changed the wine list last month. Let’s go see what they did with it.”
Baldwin drove, and Taylor watched life pass her by outside the window. Even at this late hour, people jammed the streets. Second Avenue was populated with gangbangers and reckless high schoolers trying to get into the bars with fake IDs. The old staples were gone from the strip now. Her favorite late-night haunt, Mere Bulles, had pulled up stakes and moved to a much more serene location in Brentwood, twenty minutes south of town. Instead, pop and techno music blared into the night; all-hours clubs had forced Metro to maintain a presence. She was sad to see it so lost, so different from what she’d grown up with.
Baldwin turned onto Broadway and they passed through Lower Broad, the country joints and honkytonks packed with strange faces striving to see one they recognized. The songwriters hung out here—people who couldn’t make their own records but wrote for the more famous musicians, the session players who did the music on spec for submissions, all crowded the bars of Lower Broad, plying their wares.
They turned at Union Station, swung by the Flying Saucer taproom, then turned left onto McGavock, stopping in front of the valet at Radius 10. Baldwin tossed him the keys and they retreated from the noise and craziness of the city into a cool, modern space with exposed beams and an L.A. aesthetic. A very nouveau-Nashville restaurant.
Nashville had gotten schizophrenic over the past decades. The reputation as Little Atlanta was well deserved—while the country music scene still ran the show, there were many more avenues for pleasure. The stunning Schermerhorn Symphony Hall and the First Art Center drew a more refined crowd downtown, and esoteric restaurants and sophisticated bars had opened to provide succor to the cultivated set. Taylor liked these places; they were a retreat, a way to get away from her sometimes mundane world.
They ate well—pan-seared grouper for Taylor, osso buco for Baldwin—and shared a bottle of Shiraz. Sated, they leaned back in the chairs and talked in low voices about the case.
“I’m worried sick for Jane Macias.” Taylor toyed with her wineglass, the ruby liquid swirling gently in the bowl as she twisted the stem between her fingers. “I hate this, Baldwin. I don’t want to find her like we did the others. Did I tell you Giselle St. Claire’s grandparents called me today? They were so…sweet. Complimented Marcus’s interview of them, how we’re working the case. Here they are, overwhelmed with grief because their granddaughter is dead, and they are calling to provide support and let us know they’re praying for us. Don’t get that too often.”
“Were you able to track Giselle’s last moves?”
“It’s turning into a nightmare. Marcus has hit a dead end. Giselle and her grandparents were skiing in Gatlinburg. They had dinner, drove back to Nashville. They’d done a full day, were tired and went to bed as soon as they got home. Last time they saw Giselle, she was in their living room, reading a book. It wasn’t until they got up the next morning and went to get her for breakfast that they realized she was gone. We found her before they knew she was missing. Pattern is just the same as with the other girls. They disappear out of completely normal settings, no one misses them until it’s too late. At least maybe with Jane we’ve got a chance. If we just knew where to look.”
“That’s always the issue, Taylor. Have you heard from Giselle’s mother yet?”
“She’s doing a movie in Poland, can’t get back until tomorrow. With the media swarm, she’s going to make our lives difficult. God forbid someone get between a camera and Remy St. Claire. But we can handle her. There’s something else that’s bugging me. This damn signet ring. Why would that piece in particular be missing from the evidence room?”
“It could just be lost. It’s been known to happen,” Baldwin said. He reached for the decanter, poured them each a splash more wine.
“I know. But something about it is itching at me. You’re gonna think I’m crazy when I tell you this.”
“Tell me what? Let me guess. Your dad had a signet ring.”
She eyed him, unnerved. “How do you do that?”
“Your dad had a signet ring? I was just guessing.”
“No, it wasn’t him. I think he wore some sort of ring when I was little, but it was a class ring. He lost it, I remember that. He was furious. No, let me explain. Bear with me, okay?”
“Okay.” Baldwin sat back in his chair.
“I keep having this…vision, I guess you could call it. From when I was really little. We’d just moved into the big house—”
“Taylor, that wasn’t a big house. That was a fucking palace.”
“Oh, don’t exaggerate.”
“Honey, you had a staff that lived in the house.”
“They weren’t my staff.”
“And I suppose you did a lot of your own chores, did your own laundry, washed dishes, that kind of stuff?”
“You’re hardly being fair. It wasn’t like I asked for my parents’ lifestyle. You know that.”
“I know, sweetie. I just like to tease. Face it, you were a regular princess.”
“Yeah, the princess and the pea. Only the pea was Daddy, getting thrown in jail for bribing a judge or forgetting my birthday because he and Mom were off in Europe.”
“At least you had parents.” Baldwin looked into his wineglass, and Taylor reached over and touched his hand.
“I know. You’re right. Though sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to have been loved, then lose them, than be ignored.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, Taylor. When I lost my folks, well, it’s not something I would want to go through again. It’s impossible to understand when you’re young and you don’t have that structure anymore. One minute they’re there, the next they’re gone, and you’ll never see them again. It was rough.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Anyway, we were talking about Versailles.”
“Oh, shut up. It was a big house, okay? Happy now?”
“Yes, dear. Tell me your vision.”
She shut her eyes and tried to conjure up the scene. “It’s not really a vision as much as a memory. Every year my parents had a huge party for New Year’s. Themed, catered, the whole works. The year we moved into the house it was a costume ball. Kitty dressed as Marie Antoinette, I remember that perfectly, down to the wide-hipped dress and the towering crown of hair. It took four people to get her into the clothes. Just crazy. So anyway, I was spying on them from the top of the stairs. There was this little space that I could fit into, and I’d sit up there sometimes and watch the parties.”
“Sound of Music.” Baldwin laughed.
“What?” She opened her eyes; he was practically fizzing with mirth.
“You know, the movie? Sound of Music? The von Trapp children were presented, did their little song…‘So long, farewell—’”
“Auf wiedersehen, good night. Yeah, I get it. Considering I was an only child, not so much.” She shook her head at his antics. “If you keep interrupting me, we’ll never get to it.” Her eyes fluttered closed, the memory taking her again.
“I’d watch from the balcony. That night, I remember seeing my parents in the foyer with a group of people. The men were giving my father a hard time about the new place, and there’s something about one of them. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but every time I think about that signet ring, I see this image, the men talking and laughing, one of them coughing and putting up his hand, but that’s it. I can’t remember anything else.”
“You think one of the men was wearing a signet ring?”
She opened her eyes. “Well, maybe. That combined with what Martin Kimball said, that he always thought the killer wa
s a client of Burt Mars’s because the note came off of Mars’s printer. Mars was my dad’s accountant.”
“Was he crooked?”
“Ouch.” What a legacy to have, a father who every time his name was mentioned, or a name was associated with his, the first thought was corruption.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Taylor let it slide. “I don’t know if he was crooked or not. But if he did work with my father, and the killer knew Mars well enough to get on his computer and write a note to the police, I can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a connection.”
“Let me get this straight. You think your father might have known Snow White while he was active?” Baldwin had leaned forward, wine and joking forgotten.
“See, I told you it was crazy. My dad was a lot of things, but I can’t imagine he’d stand by and let something like that happen. No, if he knew him, it was tangentially, not someone he was friends with on a daily basis.”
“You sure of that?”
“I’m not sure of anything in this case. I’d really like to find out what happened to that signet ring, though. It might answer a few questions. Whether or not it will help solve the case, I don’t know.”
“Too bad your dad’s not around to ask.”
Yes, too bad. Taylor gave Baldwin a weak grin and finished off her wine.
“Excuse me.”
It was the valet, with her keys. He handed them to Baldwin. “I’m leaving for the night. I pulled the car up—it’s right outside the door.”
Taylor looked at her watch. It was nearly 2:00 a.m.
“Oh, I am so sorry. We didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”
Baldwin pulled out his wallet and handed the young man a ten. He nodded his thanks and took off toward the kitchen, probably to snag some leftovers as additional payment for the evening.
“We should go.” Baldwin stood and stretched.
“Yeah. Let’s see if we can get some sleep, start fresh in the morning.”
They bundled up, got in the truck and headed out of downtown, both lost in their thoughts.
Fifteen
The lights were driving her mad. After a productive evening in the bar, and a not-so-productive tryst back in a stranger’s hotel room, Charlotte had retired to her suite. Men. She was always amazed at their selfishness. How hard was it to make a woman come, for God’s sake? She’d picked poorly tonight; the fool was too drunk to care about getting her off. He’d passed out after his own release, and she’d stolen from the room like some kind of whore. If he’d left money on the dresser, it might have been a more redeemable situation.
After treating herself to a moment in a warm tub, she crawled between the stiffly starched sheets and tried to get some rest. But the lights from downtown Nashville spilled in through the too-sheer curtains, keeping her awake.
She got up and raided the minibar, sloshing some Scotch on the floor as she dumped three airplanesize bottles of Johnny Walker Red into a cut-crystal glass. Sipping the whiskey, she settled in the chair by the window. Might as well watch the world if she couldn’t sleep.
Amazing, at two in the morning there was still life on the streets. The Nashville she remembered from her youth was a quiet, somnolent place after dark. At least in the areas she’d been allowed to traverse. Church, maybe a restaurant or two. In her Peter Pan collar and pressed skirt, Mary Janes and velvet headbands, always on the arm of the latest in a series of nannies, she didn’t get a good sense of the town on those few weekends. Granted, she’d been sent away when she was still quite young.
It wasn’t until she was older, had gotten junked out of boarding school and was back home on the prowl that she found the raucous city life, the after-hours clubs, the raves, the ecstasy-driven techno punk music throbbing through her veins. Hmm. A hit of X wasn’t such a bad idea. She got up and rummaged through her bag until she found a prescription bottle with Klonopin on the label. The little pills of X fit so well with the legal medication—same color and shape. Someone without a practiced eye would have to look closely to see the difference. She shook out a tab and swallowed it with the whiskey, enjoying the burn and near-immediate effects of the combination. That was better.
The joys of traveling in a private jet meant she could bring her pharmaceutical stash with her and not worry about security. It was always such a pain to travel commercial; she had to be much more discreet than hiding a few pills in with her medication.
She lay back on the bed, thinking about Baldwin. And that bitch, Taylor Jackson. How that country frump had captured the eye of a man like John Baldwin was beyond her. Baldwin’s strong arms, the thick, unruly black hair, those green eyes… Charlotte started regretting the hit of X. She should have known better; it always made her horny as hell.
Well, tomorrow was another day. She finished the whiskey and lay down on her right side, facing away from the windows. Just as she began to drift off, her cell phone blared to life.
She reached across to the night table and picked up the phone.
A gruff voice greeted her. “Hi.”
“How’s the old man?” she asked.
“Just that. Old. Bent and crabby and missing his former glory. Just like you said.”
“I wouldn’t steer you wrong. I told you to trust me. Aren’t you glad I did? You’ve been having some fun, haven’t you?”
“Mmm,” he said. “I miss you.”
Charlotte rolled onto her back and slipped her free hand into her panties. “How much?”
“You can’t even imagine.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it, baby. Tell me all about it.”
Sixteen
Nashville, Tennessee
Thursday, December 18
9:00 a.m.
“I gotta make.” The little boy was muttering, plucking at the front of his ski pants. “Mama, I gotta make.”
“Jeffie, where in the world did you hear that phrase?” Tami Gaylord looked in amusement at her three-year-old son. He was at that stage, picking up every word that floated past his tender ears.
“Don no. Gotta go, Mama, gotta make.”
A sledding outing had been the perfect respite for Jeffie’s boundless energies. But the reality of nature would strike at the most inopportune moments. The young mother looked around the park. They were on the opposite end from the bathrooms, and a three-year-old with a full bladder wasn’t going to survive a five-hundred-yard walk in the snow back to the restrooms. She looked around—no one was close. He was a boy, after all. They could step into the short brush, strip off his snowsuit, point and shoot. She knew his father had been teaching him to write his name in the snow the other night. She’d caught them at it, on the far side of the garage, and scolded while she laughed. Men. She was blessed.
“Come here, sweetie. We’ll go right here behind these bushes. Remember what Daddy taught you the other night?”
“I write my name?” Jeffie started stripping out of the snowsuit, and Tami laughed, reaching over to help her precocious son. When he was unbundled, they stepped into the screen of bushes, shielded from the rest of the park. Tami played with the branch of a pine tree while Jeffie started peeing, singing a happy, tuneless song, spelling his name in the snow just like his daddy taught him.
“Big J. Little E. Little F—Aaaah! Mooommmyyy!”
Startled by her son’s scream, Tami flew to his side. “What, baby, what’s wrong?” Jesus, did he get bitten? Was there an animal lurking in these woods?
Jeffie was pointing, a look of horror contorting his rounded features. Tami followed the boy’s finger, straining to see into the gap where her son was pointing and shouting.
“What the hell?” There was a lump in the bushes. It twitched and moved, and both Tami and Jeffie jumped and screamed.
A tired voice rose from the snow-covered surface. “Por favor. Please. Help. Me.”
The ambulance lights made kaleidoscopes on the crystalline snow blanketing Edwin Warner Park. The icy surface refracted t
he spinning light, blinding Taylor every third second. She watched the flash spill over the back of the ambulance, watched the dark-haired girl wince every time the light struck her eyes.
She approached the EMS team, who were hovering over the girl. She knew one of the men, a strawberry-blonde named Mike Bunch. He was bandaging the girl’s scraped knee tenderly.
She tapped him on the shoulder. “Mike.”
He jumped, then smiled at her. “LT,” he said. “What can I do you for?”
“Mind if I turn off your rack? They’re bugging me.”
“Girl, you can do anything you want to my rack.” Bunch’s mustache twitched. She rolled her eyes at him, went to the driver’s side and cut the switch.
She came back to the open ambulance doors, heard a whispered, “Gracias.”
“De nada,” Taylor said. Bunch looked at her in surprise; she just shrugged and looked away.
Twenty minutes ago, Taylor thought she had another victim of the Snow White Killer. The call was nonspecific, a young woman with black hair had been found in the park. She’d rushed to Edwin Warner, lights and sirens blaring, electric nerves tingling in her spine. She just knew they’d found Jane Macias. All things being equal, it was a logical assumption. No one had bothered to inform her that this body was talking. With a Spanish accent.
Taylor stood with her arms crossed, waiting for Bunch to clear out. He aimed a few more questions at the girl in piss-poor Spanish—“Are you hurt anywhere else? Can I bring you some water?”—then he shoved off the ground with a nod at Taylor, his blue eyes clouded with concern for his patient. The girl was all hers, for the time being. Taylor held up a hand—give me five minutes—and he walked away to join a group of officers smoking cigarettes. The odor was especially pungent against the cool air; Taylor didn’t know if the smell made her crave a smoke or feel nauseous.
She turned to her victim. Victim of what, she didn’t know. The girl’s raven hair was dirty, her ribs poked through the skin like a malnourished greyhound’s. Her black eyes were clouded, dirty with pain, sorrow and knowledge. She jumped at every sound—the ice creaking against the tree branches, the chattering of a squirrel, the low rumble of men’s voices in the background, cars passing slowly on the street forty yards away, their drivers desperate for a chance sighting to explain the commotion. Taylor approached her as she’d done when she was a child and her parents had bought her a skittish colt, hand out in supplication. The girl finally looked up and met Taylor’s eyes for the briefest moment, then looked away as if she’d been struck. Damaged, this one. Deeply.
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