by Brenda Novak
They went in and Fitz closed the door. She saw the look of concern and steeled herself.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
“Of course I am.”
“Hey, little girl, this is me you’re talking to. Marcus told me about your panic attack over at Vandy.”
She felt her chest tighten. “Great, now he’s tattling on me?”
“No, no, no, he didn’t know what happened, exactly, only said he thought you were feeling sick. Lucky for you, you do look like you’re coming down with a cold. That’s what I told him. I’m the one who put it together.”
“Why does everyone think I have a cold?” she laughed. “I feel fine.”
“You don’t look like you feel fine. You look stressed and strung out and ill. What’s up? Are you worried about the grand jury?”
“Fitz, honey, I love you to death, but I’m fine. I just got a little hot and stopped to catch my breath. Maybe I am catching something. So stop worrying about me. We’ve got two very dead girls and a city that’s going to go into panic mode when they hear the connection. More important things, you know? Sam may have gotten some herbs off Jordan Blake’s body. Tell Price and Lincoln for me, okay?”
Fitz nodded but still looked doubtful. He knew about the dreams. He knew about the panic attacks. He knew she’d been riding the edge. He had tried to talk her into taking some time off after the shooting. She’d bullied her way back and hadn’t stopped. She was finally starting to show some cracks.
“You got me worried, little girl.”
“Fitz, I’m fine, I swear. I haven’t been sleeping, that’s all. We solve this case, I get my testimony over with, and I’ll take a few days off. Promise. But right now I have to scoop up the puppy and go over to Vandy. Okay?”
He leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder. Squeezed, then got up and left without saying another word.
Taylor took a deep breath. Shit. If Marcus was noticing she wasn’t one hundred percent right, the others were too. She needed to get herself in check, and fast.
David Martin just wouldn’t let her go, the bastard.
Seventeen
Taylor and Marcus took the familiar route to Vandy’s administrative offices. Chief Graber was nowhere in sight. Taylor didn’t complain. They caught a plump, grandmotherly woman holding a clear plastic umbrella just as she was locking the doors to leave.
“Excuse me. I’m Lieutenant Jackson and this is Detective Wade—”
“Detective Wade. I remember seeing you yesterday. I’m Gladys Thorton.” She gave Marcus a sweet, inviting smile. He coughed and looked at the ground. “You were here about poor little Shelby Kincaid. I saw you talking to Chief Graber right after he came and got the Kincaid girl’s records. I heard more about it on the news. Poor little lamb.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is a shame. We need a favor, though. Would you mind letting us in and looking up another record for us? I promise it won’t take long.”
“Well, I’ve got my book club in an hour. Have you ever read Middlesex? I just couldn’t seem to get through it. I’m embarrassed really, I’m sure they’re all going to think I’m some sort of dummy, but it just didn’t capture my interest. These big books…”
Taylor smiled at Marcus and let the woman prattle, watching her unlock the doors. She led them into the office. Maybe they’d gotten lucky and she’d be too distracted to question their motive in pulling another record. News of Jordan Blake’s death wasn’t out yet; they needed to be delicate.
“Whose record did you say you wanted?”
Marcus finally spoke. “Uh, we didn’t. But we need Jordan Blake’s file.”
Gladys stopped. “Jordan Blake,” she said disapprovingly. “And you do have a court order for the records?”
Marcus waved the blue-backed paper in front of her.
“You’re supposed to go give that to the counsel’s office first, but since Chief Graber took responsibility for the last one, I’m sure he’ll do the same for this. He knows you’re here?”
Taylor shifted uncomfortably and told a tiny white lie. “Um, no, ma’am. I wasn’t able to reach him before we got here. He may have gone home for the day.”
Gladys clucked, “That poor man. His leg pains him something awful. You just leave the court order with me, and I’ll make sure it’s all taken care of. Jordan Blake. My, oh my. Did she kill the Kincaid girl?”
Taylor froze. “Why would you say that, ma’am?”
Gladys bumbled around the office like a bee in search of honey, smiling over her shoulder at Marcus all the while. “Oh, the Blake girl, she’s a bad apple, if you ask me.”
Bingo, Taylor thought. Gossip was as good as anything right now. Taylor leaned in confidentially to give the woman more comfort to spill the beans. “She is? Can you tell me why, Gladys?”
“Well.” She directed her scandal laden voice at Marcus. “Jordan’s been trouble since day one. Always getting herself in scrapes. Drunk driving, wild parties, missing classes. She’s on academic probation again this semester. If I were the Dean, I would have kicked her out long ago.”
“Why hasn’t he?”
“Why, because she’s a Blake, dear. Jordan is Gregory Blake’s daughter.”
Marcus looked blank, but Taylor suddenly understood. She mentally kicked herself for not putting it together sooner. The Blake family was one of the largest benefactors to Vanderbilt. Gregory Blake was an incredibly successful oilman from Texas who had attended Vanderbilt for undergrad and law. He’d made a lot of money and wanted to give it back. He’d done his best to get his name on Vandy’s new library, but the honor had gone to Alexander Heard and his wife, Jean. Heard was the ex-chancellor of the University and had much more clout than the oilman from Texas.
But it made sense now. Out of the country, no contact with their wild child, just throwing money at the situation rather than dealing with it. It was going to take some tightrope walking to keep this from becoming a huge mess.
Taylor grabbed Marcus’s hand to keep him from talking any further. Gladys had led them into the records room by this time and was rifling through the cabinet marked B – 2006. Graduates scheduled to receive their wings in 2006. Girls and boys ready to take on the world, unknowing and untried. Innocent. Taylor felt the old familiar worthlessness creeping up, but shut it away firmly.
Gladys was still talking. “So did that girl get into trouble again? I can see her getting involved with the wrong crowd, one that could hurt the Kincaid girl. I swear, one of these times she’s going to get herself in some real trouble. Such a shame too, because she’s a smart girl. If she just applied herself…here’s the file.” She looked at her watch. “Oh my, I really do have to lock up and get to my book club. The rain makes the traffic so awful. Why don’t you just take it with you? You can bring it back in the morning. Leave the subpoena on my desk. I’ll deal with it tomorrow, too.”
As she spoke, she ushered them out the door, locking it behind them. “See you in the morning.” She gave Marcus another smile and hurried off, humming quietly to herself.
Marcus was still speechless. Taylor started laughing, then found she couldn’t stop. The fit of hysteria was catching, and they ended up sitting on the steps of the building, trying to catch their breath. The rain had calmed to a heavy mist, and the overhang of the ornate edifice gave them enough shelter. Taking advantage of the dry spot, Taylor groped in her pocket and came up with a wrinkled pack of Camel Lights. She offered one to Marcus, who accepted sheepishly. “You’re a bad influence.”
“If the whole squad hadn’t decided to quit smoking at once, it would be a lot easier to cheat.”
They lit up, sat companionably for a few moments, smoking, not speaking, lost in their own theories about Jordan Blake. Without warning Taylor burst out laughing again. She stood and started to the car, giggling as Marcus walked slowly after her, impervious to the rain.
“All right, puppy. Let’s go talk to some of Jordan’s classmates. Let me grab my phone, I left it in the car.”
&
nbsp; Dan Franklin had left message on her cell while they were in with Gladys. The press conference was in an hour.
All the humor fled. Just what she wanted—to face the cameras again.
Eighteen
Captain Price was getting ready to walk out the door when his phone rang. He hesitated; it was late, and he was caught between the desire to just clear the hell out and the knowledge that he had to take the call. He let out a huge sigh and walked back to his desk.
“Price.”
“Hey, man. How goes it in the land of make-believe?”
“Garrett Woods. How the hell are ya? It’s been a while. You in town?”
“Don’t I wish? No, I’m sitting here underground at Quantico, as usual. I think I’m becoming a vampire. The light hurts my eyes when I get outside.”
“Sorry to hear that. You still running the BSU up there?”
“Behavioral Science, Investigative Support. They can’t decide what they want to call us. Yeah, I’m still running it. Isn’t all it’s cracked up to be these days. Too many crazies and too little time. Speaking of which, I hear you guys are having a little fun down there yourselves.”
Price caught the note in his friend’s voice. Uh-oh. He really liked the man, but he didn’t relish the thought of the FBI trailing around his cases. He’d had many good experiences with them, but he’d also found when profilers get on the case, things could go a little astray.
“Fun times, always,” he said cautiously. “It’s been a while, Garrett. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t a friend call and say hi?”
“Not when that friend is with the FBI and I’ve got a popping case.”
Garrett started to laugh. “Okay, okay. I’d like to ask a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Word on the street is you may have a serial on your hands.”
“We have two dead girls in a short time span, both of whom attended the same college, but we have nothing tying them together outside of proximity. It’s probably too early to start bantering around the boogeyman theory, you know?”
“Yeah, I do. This isn’t an entirely official inquiry. But you know the drill. If you do, I’ll have to pull a field profiler in who has too damn many things going on with his own stuff to be a huge help, yada, yada, yada. I was thinking perhaps we could approach things a little differently.”
Price sat back in his chair. This was going to be interesting. He’d known Garrett for years, and trusted him. His instincts caught a little note of desperation in his voice, which intrigued him. Garrett wasn’t a man who flustered easily.
“Go on.”
“I have an agent there in Nashville who’s not working right now. He’s been on a temporary sabbatical. I was wondering if you’d be willing to let him come in and consult, on my dime.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this?”
He heard Garrett heave a sigh. “Can’t put anything past you, huh. It is a special situation. His name is Dr. John Baldwin. He’s one of our best and brightest. He got himself in a little trouble here a few months ago, and it kinda screwed him up. He headed home to Nashville to sort out his head, so to speak.”
“What kind of trouble, Garrett?” Price’s tone was obvious.
“Nothing illegal or improper. He was involved in a shooting. Three of his teammates were shot and killed, and he’s been putting the blame on himself. Big time. I’m not sure I’ll even get him to come back to the FBI. But I want him back, Price. He’s a damn good cop. One of the freakiest profilers I’ve ever had. He’s got this sixth sense that’s busted open a ton of cases when no one else had a clue. Really intuitive, on the ball…”
“So why’s he so torn up? He knows the risks.”
“It’s a long story, but not a new one. He feels he got them killed. One was a junior agent on his first case. He hasn’t been unable to shake it the guilt. I’m hoping a taste of the real world will bring him back to life, so to speak.”
“Why don’t you just pull him back in on one of your cases?”
“Because he refuses to leave Nashville. He claims he’s planning to quit the FBI for good. He may refuse to talk with you, I don’t know. But I need to try, Mitch. I don’t want to lose him, in any sense of the word.”
“Do you really think he’s going to be any good for us if he’s not any good for you?”
“Point taken. I think if he feels useful but isn’t in charge, it may shake something loose. Maybe we can even convince him it’s his civic duty to help out in his hometown. I’d consider this a personal favor, man. Nobody up here knows I’m doing this, so I may get my own ass in a sling.”
“I suppose you already know about my LT and her shooting?”
Garrett chuckled. “Jackson? Yeah, I heard about it. Sounds like she got jammed up good. I did hear she was back on the job. She doing okay?”
“Far as I can tell. Shrinks cleared her, department cleared her, and she’s back and rolling. She’s a damn good cop, too. I’d hate to lose her, either.”
Garrett was quiet while Price thought it over.
“You think Baldwin will do it?”
“I haven’t talked to him about it. I wanted to clear it with you first. If you give the word, I’ll call him right now and run it by him. He may tell me to go to hell. He’s already done that a few times. But I have some new information pertaining to his case. It might help pull him back in.”
“Loose cannons aren’t always the best people to have around a delicate situation, Garrett. I’d need your personal assurance that you’ll keep up with him, make sure he’s not going yahoo on me.”
“You have my word. I wouldn’t even think about asking for this if I thought it would backfire. He’ll either say yes or no. If he says no, well…”
“All right, man, if he’ll talk to me, I’ll talk to him. Though if I get any indications he’s not working out, I’ll be the first to cut the strings.”
Woods heaved out a sighed of relief. “I owe you big time. I’ll have him call you tonight to set it up. Just a consulting role. If there’s a problem, you let me know.”
“Will do, Garrett. You owe me more than a beer this time.”
After a few pleasantries and promises to keep in close touch, Price hung up the phone. He didn’t want to mention the call to Taylor just yet. He thought he’d see if the man got in touch first, then deal with the fallout. He shut off his office light and went home.
Nineteen
Dr. John Baldwin sat on the easy chair in his living room. The room was devoid of light except the flickering of the television, tuned to the local CBS affiliate, but muted. On the table next to the chair was a half empty pint glass of Guinness and a Smith and Wesson .38 Special snub nose revolver.
Baldwin stared at the television, eyes unfocused. He was very drunk. Drunk enough to play the game. He was ready. With any luck, he’d have a little accident and there would be no more guilt.
Baldwin had been a handsome man once. He stood 6’4”, had jet-black hair graying slightly at the temples, lively green eyes that could look into the very soul. But now he looked ten years older than his thirty-seven years. He had a week-old beard shot through with dense silver the color of moonlight that barely filled in the gaunt lines of his face. His eyes were shrouded with guilt.
He had been forced out of his job at the FBI six months earlier. Not by his bosses. By his own conscience. Six months to relive the shame, the embarrassment, the knowledge that he had caused three deaths. Six months of replaying the case. Reliving his actions. He had been the head of the Investigative Support Unit, thriving in the shadowy world of psychological profiling. Was the darling of the BSU. He had the book smarts, of course: PhDs and a law degree, and the years of field experience. He was a good cop. Used to be a good cop.
Then Arlen had rocked his world.
Harold Arlen, an inconspicuous mechanic in Great Falls, Virginia, had killed his career and his soul. Baldwin had seen so much, but Arlen went to new heights of hideousn
ess. Once a week for six weeks, like clockwork, a young girl had been found in the woods near Great Falls, Virginia.
Every law enforcement officer, every neighbor, every member of the media, everyone thought Arlen was responsible. But they had no proof. Not a single hair, a minuscule fiber, a shred of mitochondria. Nothing.
Baldwin knew in his soul that Arlen was guilty. It was the way he acted in his interviews, playing, laughing. How he only truly came alive when they showed him the crime scene photos. It was all there. But there was no evidence.
Their last-ditch attempt to pin the murders on Arlen proved fatal. The evidence they’d been searching for finally appeared, stuffed into the back of an underwear drawer. Arlen had come home and found them rooting through his house, and had gone wild, whipped out a gun and started shooting. All the agents were caught by surprise. Baldwin’s bullets were the only ones that found their mark. He’d killed Arlen, but Arlen had gotten enough shots off before he was hit to kill the other three agents.
The guilt Baldwin felt was overwhelming. He’d lost three good men for no reason other than his own desperation to solve an unsolvable case. Arlen was dead, the case was solved. Then another little girl turned up dead. They’d found hairs on her body, and a DNA comparison didn’t link them to Arlen.
There was an inquiry. Baldwin could see the judgment in the eyes of the agents around him. Getting scum off the street was one thing, and Arlen had been scum: a purveyor and seller of child pornography. Losing, no, sacrificing three good men, though, in the guise of taking down a killer? No one accused him directly, but he felt the eyes on the back of his neck. He sat with the ghosts of his friends every night. It was too much, and he left.
By the time he’d arrived at his boyhood home in Tennessee, he was already too far gone to save. A life sentence for murder would have been easier than a death sentence of freedom. He’d had no contact with his old life for six months, except the occasional phone call from his old boss, which never went well. He’d wallowed in guilt, drank to excess, popped every pill he could find. Anything that would make him numb.
