14

by J. T. Ellison

“Baldwin and I talked about that. She told me one helluva story. She was an asset, a trained asset. I have to assume that the shooter went in with instructions to take her back alive. We happened upon him at the exact wrong time, and we got her killed. I’m not happy about that.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. Listen, we talked to Remy’s grandparents again. They weren’t aware that she might be sneaking out, don’t know who she could have gone with. According to them, she was a sweet, obedient little girl. We’re waiting to hear back from the school about who she hung out with. The canvass of the bars is getting us nowhere. We’ve got a couple of patrols passing out the pictures of all four girls, but no one remembers seeing them. I think we’d be wise to go to the media with it.”

  “Damn. I think you’re right. Without help, it’s needle-in-a-haystack time. Thanks for handling that for me. And let me know what the school says. If they give you any guff, let me know. I’ve still got friends in the administration. They’ll talk if we need them to. What about Jane Macias? What’s happening there?”

  Lincoln reached over his shoulder and neatly snagged a laptop off his desk. “Got her computer. I haven’t found anything yet. Most of her work is password-protected, and she used rotating binary generator accounts to give random pass codes. Based on the Bernoulli equation.”

  Taylor shook her head. “Huh?”

  “Bernoulli’s principle? Increases in velocity, decreases in pressure create lift. Commonly taught as why airplanes fly, though it would have to be a perfect world for that particular equation to work. It’s just easy to explain. The binary generator uses the velocity equation from Bernoulli to—”

  Taylor started laughing. Despite the urbane exterior, Lincoln was a computer genius, a regular geek at heart. “What you’re saying is this is pretty sophisticated stuff for a reporter?”

  “For anyone, actually. There’s something in here she doesn’t want anyone to read, that’s for sure.”

  “Nothing on her family? I’m absolutely shocked we haven’t had a frantic call from someone who knows her.”

  “Not that I’ve found. Once I have the pass codes cracked, I’ll be able to get into her address book. Waiting on a call back from Google about the warrant to get the password to her e-mail.”

  “If Snow White got to her, why haven’t we found her body?” Marcus asked.

  Taylor raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Maybe he didn’t take her. Maybe she was working on something that got her into trouble. Or we just haven’t found her body. What about the boyfriend? Think he might have anything to do with it?”

  Marcus snorted. “Skip. Kid couldn’t find his ass with a lamp and a map. He’s so moonstruck by her, I ended up wishing I had her phone number. No, I’m betting he had nothing to do with this. You just can’t fake that kind of distraught.”

  “So where is she?”

  No one answered her. She straightened, redid her ponytail and gave the men a half smile. “Great. That’s just great. No signs, no paths, no clues. Clean trails, but the physical evidence should lead us somewhere. Either we’re missing something or this guy is brilliantly calculating. Though, the massage girls seem to be a step down for him. There wasn’t any of the anointing oils on these new bodies, at least none that Sam could visibly identify. Baldwin thinks he might have been interrupted. Or maybe he’s finally screwed up.”

  She stood, turned for her office. “I’m going to nail some of the shit that’s piled up today. Linc, tell me when you get into her laptop, okay?”

  Lincoln whistled Lohengrin’s “Here Comes the Bride” after her, and she shot him a bird. That broke the tension; they all started laughing.

  A loud cough jerked them from their revelries. Captain Price stood in the doorway. Lincoln’s whistle switched to a low-pitched version of the theme song to Dragnet. Price just shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His luxurious Yosemite Sam mustache moved vertically, more than making up for the lack of hair on his head.

  “Boss, you need to give these boys a raise.” Taylor tipped her head toward Lincoln and Marcus. “They’ve almost got this case cracked.”

  Price glanced at his watch. “I’ve got time now, if you want to brief me.”

  Lincoln stood. “Sure thing. Taylor, you go on, get caught up. Little man and I got this covered.”

  She flashed him a grateful smile, saluted Price and ducked into her office. She wished she felt like things were coming together. They were running out of time.

  Twenty

  Baldwin watched Charlotte Douglas pace as she talked on her cell phone. She was wearing a slim, cream-colored sheath of some silky material that swished every time she took a step. He glanced at his watch—nearly 8:00 p.m. It was time to get out of this hotel room, get on with his life. Taylor and the rest of the crew would be at VIBE, waiting for him. He needed to get this done and get out of Dodge.

  She’d called him here, to her suite, refusing to meet him at the field office. He knew exactly what she was about, wasn’t going to fall for it. He wanted her gone, the sooner the better. He had his whole life in front of him, and Charlotte damn Douglas wasn’t a part of any scenario he could imagine.

  Charlotte was stalking in front of the plate-glass window, obviously upset. “You really need to work with me here. There’s nothing else I can do at the moment. That’s right. Yes, sir. Yes. I’ll be back this evening. Good. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Charlotte hung up the cell phone and stopped dead in the middle of the room. She looked at Baldwin and smiled, cocking a hip forward, her legs tensed so the calf muscles stood out and her arms folded behind her back. He knew this pose. She’d used it too many times in the past for him to fall for it. It made her look like a predator, not a sex kitten.

  “Baldwin,” she began, her voice husky. He knew that trick, too.

  He held up a hand. “Charlotte, why are you still here? You’ve delivered your presentation. There’s nothing we have at the field office that you don’t have back in Quantico. I don’t see you putting forth any resolutions to this case.” He nodded at the cell phone, still clutched in her hand. “Obviously Quantico is calling you home. Why aren’t you gone already?”

  She glanced at the phone, then smiled. “That wasn’t who you think, and I’ll get on a plane when I’m good and ready, Baldwin. I have some business to conclude here with the field office, if you don’t mind.”

  “Who do you need to conclude your business with, Charlotte? The field office or me?”

  “Ooh, Dr. Baldwin. Always the insightful man. Conceited, too. What in the world makes you think any of this has to do with you?”

  “It’s your MO, Charlotte. I’ve been there with you, remember? I know what you’re up to, and it won’t work. You need to leave, now. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you.”

  She turned and looked out the window, the lights flickering across her face. “There was a time, John Baldwin, you wanted everything to do with me. Have you told your darling bride that?”

  “Do not call me that. And yes, Charlotte, Taylor is fully aware that we’ve been intimate. And she couldn’t care less. You don’t threaten her, not in the least.”

  “I don’t?” She turned slowly, edging her way toward Baldwin. He stood in the middle of the room, shaking his head as he watched her approach. An overgrown feral cat caught in a housecat’s body, that was Charlotte on the prowl. She’d just as soon tear out your throat as curl up in your lap.

  “Leave it alone. You mean nothing to me. Now, tell me what I can do to get you out of my hair? Permanently, preferably.”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, you are the poor, put-upon man, aren’t you? Can’t take a little bit of teasing. I thought you’d at least be civil, for old times’ sake.”

  She was within two feet now, stalking him with her eyes, her arms loose at her side. He stood his ground, damned if he was going to back down from her.

  “Listen, I need to go. What is it you so desperately
needed to see me about?”

  The faint scent of gardenias wheeled into his senses, and he cursed his body as it responded, albeit briefly, to the aroma. There was a time when things were good between them, and those were the moments the flowery scent reminded him of. She was there, against him now, her hips brushing his gently, her face tipped up, those lips full and inviting. He leaned in for half a second, then stepped back.

  “No. Stop right now. I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to happen.”

  “Ah, shucks, Mr. Profiler. You’re just so big and hard.” She started to reach for his crotch, but he caught her hand, twisted her arm hard so she was forced to turn away from him to keep it in the socket. He shoved once, and she sprawled away, stumbling into the chair.

  “Bastard,” she hissed.

  There, that was more like it. Seductress though she may be, the operative word with Charlotte was always evil.

  “You ever come near me or Taylor again, you will regret it, Charlotte. Mark my words.” The tone of his voice surprised even him, and Charlotte flinched back as if she’d been hit when he spoke.

  He left the room, left her behind, her eyes round with disbelief. The threat was real, and they both knew it. He didn’t care.

  The door slammed and Charlotte took a moment to recover. A shadow came from the bathroom.

  “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll murder him for the way he just treated you. Though I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed. I would have enjoyed watching you fuck him. He’s quite a…large man. He’d be hard to take down without a fight.” He flexed his hands, opening the palms wide, then curling his fingers in slowly, one by one.

  “Shut the fuck up.” She whirled away, went to the window again and stared into the night.

  Twenty-One

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Thursday, December 18

  9:30 p.m.

  Taylor finished up her paperwork, showered and changed at the station. Knowing she could put it off no more, she took the 4Runner up Church Street, ignoring a call on the scanner about a drug shooting down in the Lischey Avenue projects. Not her problem, not tonight. B-shift homicide could grab that one. But she pulled into the parking lot of VIBE with murder on her mind.

  Lots and lots of murder, coupled with a few she’d like to commit herself. She watched an upscale pro dip around the corner of the building with a john on her heels. Ten bucks he didn’t know he would be rolled by the girl’s pimp for a couple hundred once they’d done the deed. She debated going after them, then decided to skip it. For tonight, she wouldn’t be a cop. She’d just be a girl who was about to get married, out on the town for a fun night with her friends.

  How in the world had she been talked into this?

  The music spilled from the doors. She recognized one of her favorite bands, Garbage. Shirley Manson wanted to know “Why do you love me?” and Taylor laughed to herself. How apropos for a bachelor/bachelorette party.

  She crossed the parking lot and ducked inside the club, the music pounding and thumping, the lights flashing. A scent tickled her nose, sweet, with an overlay of patchouli, like a sex-drenched head shop. Girls dressed in see-through negligees with paste-on nipples and G-strings wandered past her, looking her up and down appreciatively. The black-floored stage was covered with a trio of girls, a threesome act—one blonde, one brunette, one redhead. They writhed and twisted around each other, and Taylor couldn’t help but stop and watch for a moment. The obvious choreography that had gone into the dance was impressive. Not being entranced like the men sitting in a semicircle in front of the stage, Taylor was able to see past the nudity, see the work the girls put into their performance. They were all young, probably thought that this road was temporary.

  Taylor had seen it too many times before—the girls who worked the clubs were favorites among the rank and file at Metro. They were safe, protected to an extent, until they crossed swords with the wrong guy. Then they’d end up like those Spanish girls from the massage parlor this afternoon, or like Saraya Gonzalez, murdered in cold blood.

  Taylor didn’t see Sam, so she took a table in the back. She reveled in the few minutes of alone time, the first she’d had all day. She ordered a beer from the scantily clad waitress, demurred the invitation to be escorted to a private room in the back for a special lap dance and sat back, tuning out, not really seeing anything happening in front of her.

  Nagging at the back of her mind was the story of sexual slavery the Spanish girl had told her. Saraya Gonzalez. The name was pretty, but that face, while delicate and attractive, had been so vacant. Taylor mentally plugged into that conversation, determined to figure out the link between the girl shot at the hospital and the obvious Snow White victims this afternoon. She had one thin, tenuous thread to go by. The massage parlors. Saraya Gonzalez had been trapped in a life of servitude at a massage parlor. The girls killed this afternoon worked in a massage parlor. Taylor had a hunch that if she could tie the two together, she might get a solution. Though the chasm was deep between the two cases, Taylor had been a cop long enough to know you never dismiss a coincidence.

  “What is his name?” Taylor had asked Saraya.

  “Oh, no. I no tell. I no want to get dead.” Poor girl’s eyes were dead already, it wouldn’t take much to finish her off. The bullets at the hospital had been overkill.

  “Taylor!”

  She jumped, looked up to see Sam and her husband, Simon, standing over her.

  “You were so far gone, girl, where were you?”

  “Sorry, Sam. Hey, Simon. How’s it going?” Taylor scooted her chair around to make room.

  Simon mumbled a reply. A good Catholic boy, he was desperately uncomfortable to be in the strip club with Sam. He’d settle down once she left, Taylor was sure of that. They’d gone to high school and college together; Taylor knew his reticence was simply respect for his wife.

  Sam took a seat, ordered two more beers, glanced appreciatively around at the nakedness, the girls writhing on the stage pole and nodded. “Yep, this should do the trick. Get the man so fired up I’ll be getting lucky all night.”

  Simon went a deep burgundy. “God, Sam, could you just leave now?”

  Sam nuzzled up to Simon and chucked him under the chin. “Just you wait, sexy man. You’ll get rewarded, trust me.” She kissed him; he turned a deeper shade of beet-red. Sam turned back to Taylor with a grin a mile wide.

  “Jesus, Sam. You’re a sick puppy, you know that?”

  “Speaking of puppies…”

  She pointed at the door, where Marcus, Fitz and Lincoln were standing. It seemed the basic premise of the club. A person came through the door, stood, took it all in, then decided what they wanted—a seat up close, a drink at the bar, a lap dance or a private room. The three men were swarmed in an instant. Captain Price followed them through the door a moment later. Extricating themselves, they spotted Taylor and Sam and wound their way to the table, pulling up chairs and getting settled.

  “LT, where’s Baldwin?” Fitz asked, leaning in close so he could be heard—the music had bumped up a notch. The bar was filling, the evening getting into full swing.

  Taylor looked at the door, and Baldwin walked through it. Her heart filled at the sight of him, at the way he found her eyes, didn’t look at the other women, just made his way across the room to her, planted a kiss on her lips, then took the proffered chair next to her.

  “Long night?” she asked. Her look asked something entirely different—did you get rid of her?

  “You could say that.” He squeezed her hand, an unmistakable I hope so.

  She gave him a smile, then stood. “Sam, let’s leave these boys alone so they can misbehave.” She dropped forty dollars in Baldwin’s lap. “Have a lap dance on me, sugar.” She blew him a kiss to the hoots and hollers from her coworkers, then walked to the door with her back ramrod straight.

  “That’s some woman you’ve got there, Baldwin. Don’t fuck it up.” Sam gave Simon a quick peck on the forehead, then left them
, as well.

  Fitz stood, signaling to a group of women in various states of dishabille nearby. “Okay, Mr. FBI man. It’s time for you to experience a last night of bachelorhood, Nashville-style.”

  Taylor was already stomping her feet from the cold when Sam joined her in the street in front of the club.

  “About damn time,” she grumbled, blowing warm air into her cupped hands. “What were you doing, giving him the lap dance?”

  “More like some motherly advice. Got waylaid at the door by some chick. C’mon, let’s go in here, it’ll be warmer. And quieter. Am I getting old, or was it loud in there?”

  “It’s loud. They design them to be so loud and flashy your conscience turns off—sensory overload. Makes men do things they normally wouldn’t.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Taylor glanced at her sharply but followed her into the small bar next door. Control was nearly empty, the music muted, the lights dim. Taylor felt her shoulders relax.

  They ordered beers and took a table in the corner. Taylor took off her jacket, realized she’d forgotten to remove her weapon and holster. Her Glock was still tucked snugly against her right hip.

  It wasn’t unheard of. She was much more comfortable with the weapon than without, though she usually went with a small revolver in an ankle holster when she was off duty and out on the town.

  She saw the bartender making a beeline toward her, his face contorted in anger. He pulled up short when he saw her shield.

  “Sorry, Officer.” He held up both hands, as if she were trying to rob him on the street and had yelled “Put ’em up!”

  “Lieutenant. That’s okay. And put your hands down. I’m not arresting you.” She shrugged back into the jacket. No sense advertising.

  “Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. How about the next round on me?”

  “No problem….” She left it open, and the man supplied his name.

  “Jerry. I’m the bartender here.”

  “I caught that. Thanks for understanding, Jerry. No need to buy a round.”