The girl was quick, athletic, built like a fireplug, or a gymnast. She was a powerful runner. She made it all the way to the stairwell, threw open the door. She miscalculated—instead of continuing to run, she tried to pull the door closed behind her. Taylor burst through the door, knocking the girl over. She scrambled to her feet and headed down the stairs. She made it down a whole flight before Taylor, longer legs making up precious time, caught her. She grabbed a fistful of the girl’s hair and yanked, drawing her up short like a wild horse. She was breathing heavily, struggling. Taylor clamped another hand down on her shoulder, spun her and slapped cuffs around her wrist.
“Bitch,” the girl screamed.
“Nice to meet you, too. What’s your name?”
“Fuck off.”
Taylor was getting sick and damn tired of being told nasty things by children. She was so much bigger, it took nothing at all to pin the girl to the wall.
“Listen to me, you little brat. You’ll show me some respect or I’ll haul your ass to jail. Get it?”
“You can’t arrest me. I’m a minor.”
Taylor laughed. “Watch me.”
She hauled the girl by the arm up the stairs and back into the hallway. She thumbed her radio as she strode down the hall, dragging the struggling girl behind her. “Dispatch, I need backup, my location. Vanderbilt surgical floor. I need to transport a prisoner.”
“You can’t do that. I didn’t do anything,” the girl screamed. “I want my parents.”
“Oh, we’ll get your parents, sugar. Though you’d be better off talking to me right now. For all I know, you’ve done nothing wrong except try to come see your boyfriend. I do assume Juri is your boyfriend, right?”
They were at the Family Room now, and Taylor opened the door, pushed the girl through. The Edvins weren’t in the room. Good. She sat the girl on the couch, arms stuck awkwardly behind her, and glared at her. The girl wasn’t stupid—she could see she was beaten. She’d have to go through Taylor to get away, and with the handcuffs… She sagged back into the couch and pursed her lips.
Taylor crossed her arms across her chest, leaned against the door.
“Is Juri your boyfriend?”
Silence.
“Answer me, damn it. I’m not in the mood for games.”
The girl was pretty in a sullen, troubled way, her lips overfull right at the top center, making them overtly lush, freckles sprinkled across her forehead and cheeks. She was fighting tears.
“His name is Thorn,” she said finally, somewhat mollified. “And yes, he is my mate.”
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Where were you two planning to go?”
The voice was stronger now. “Anywhere but here. Away. We need to go away. It’s not safe.”
“Safe from whom?”
The girl’s eyes flashed, but her lips stayed together. Okay. Taylor tried again.
“What did Juri have to do with the murders in Green Hills last night? And what’s your role in all of this? If you were involved, in any way, you’ll pay just as dearly as if you wielded the drugs or the knife yourself.”
“I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. Neither did Thorn. He was with me the entire night.”
“Really? He wasn’t with you when I chased him through the woods. Let’s try that again. Where were you last night?”
A gaze full of derision lasered into her. “Packing. Thorn went for supplies.”
“So we’ve established that Juri is Thorn. Good. You realize he’s broken a number of laws, and we’re holding him as a suspect in the murders of seven people?”
“He. Did. Nothing,” she hissed. Taylor felt a warmth begin in her chest, noticed the girl’s lips were moving. She stepped to the side, broke eye contact. The warmth ceased. Taylor thought about Ariadne for a brief minute, wondered what she’d make of that. Being around Ariadne made her feel good, even though the woman was certifiable. Now she felt angry, drained. She chalked it up to exhaustion, went back to the girl.
“That’s not what the evidence says. And what about your parents? Wouldn’t they worry if you ran away?”
She tossed her head, then gasped a little when her shoulders pulled tight. She’d forgotten she was handcuffed. She licked her lips. “They don’t care about me.”
“I’m sure they do. What’s your name?”
She didn’t answer, so Taylor took a guess. “You’re Ember, right?”
She stiffened.
“Ember, what’s your real name?”
The girl drew herself up straight. “The only name I have is Ember. And I’m through talking to you. Get me a lawyer, or let me go.”
When did kids get so damn cognizant of the law? Taylor sighed, pulled her hair down and massaged her temples. A voice crackled on her radio—her backup was here. They came through the door a moment later, Paula Simari and Bob Parks.
Parks nodded at Taylor, said, “What have we here?”
“Hey. Girl claims her name is Ember, but that’s an alias. She just invoked. Mirandize her, take her downtown, find out her real name and call her parents. Do whatever it takes,” she said, eyebrow raised. Intimidating children just wasn’t her idea of fun, but she needed answers, and she needed them now.
Simari cracked her knuckles, and Ember jumped. Taylor wondered what made her so anxious. They got her on her feet. As they were walking out, the girl turned back to Taylor, a knowing grin playing on her lips.
“Call Miles Rose. He’s my father’s lawyer.”
She looked Taylor straight in the eye, defiant to the end.
Taylor edged closer. “Miles Rose is a defense attorney, and a smarmy one at that. Why does your father need a defense attorney?”
“He hired him after my brother was killed. We know how justice works in this country. The innocent stand accused and the guilty walk free.”
“Your brother?” Taylor asked, confused.
Ember shook her head. “By the Gods, you are stupid, aren’t you? You’ve already talked to my parents. My brother’s name is Xander.”
“Xander Norwood?” It finally dawned on her who Ember really was. “You’re Susan Norwood, aren’t you?”
The girl’s face closed. “My name is Ember. That is all you need to know.”
*
Taylor went back to Juri. Maybe she could leverage this new information.
His parents were back in the room, trying to coax him into being the good little boy he should have grown into. He wasn’t falling for it, had turned the other cheek and was ignoring them.
Taylor tapped Mr. Edvin on the shoulder. “May I?” she asked.
His face was haggard, the lines between his forehead deeper, grooves cut in the flesh. “By all means, Lieutenant. I believe Helga and I are going to get dinner. Take all the time you need. I assume our boy will not be coming home right away?”
“Perhaps not, Mr. Edvin. He’s certainly not leaving the hospital for the next few days. The guard will stay on the door in the meantime. Thank you for working with me. I appreciate all your help. We’ll be by your house to talk more later. Here’s my card. Please, call me anytime, day or night, if you have any questions or concerns.”
Taylor opened the hospital room door for them, motioned for Rob to come in again. He slid in and leaned against the wall, out of the way.
The door closed softly behind the Edvins. Taylor took her time getting settled in the chair next to the bed again, weary. She propped her boots on the rail, legs crossed at the ankle.
“So, Juri, it’s just us. Would you prefer me to call you Thorn?”
A small sound of concurrence rose from the bed.
“Thorn, where do you get the drugs? Who’s your dealer?”
He turned to her then, his face so tight as he tried to control his emotions that his cheekbones strained hard and white, nearly cutting through his skin. She could see the tracks of tears as they slid down to his chin. “Is Ember okay? Can I see her?”
“She’s being taken down to the Criminal Justice Center.
She’ll be questioned, and we’ll go from there. Where were the two of you trying to go?”
“Away.”
“Okay. I understand. You weren’t happy at home, wanted to run away. But I really need to know where you got the drugs.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “A friend.”
“The friend’s name, Thorn. Come on, man, let me help you.”
He shook his head. “He’ll kill me. He’ll hunt me down and kill me. I can’t tell.”
“Okay. Talk to me about Brittany Carson then. What were you doing at her house?” He started to say something but she held up a hand. “No, don’t even try. I’ve got your DNA being analyzed right now, and I’m betting it will match the semen stain we found outside the den window. Were you standing out there, masturbating, watching Brittany?”
Slowly, he nodded, face aflame.
“Thank you for telling me the truth. That’s a start. Did you give her any of the drugs?”
He nodded again. Taylor felt the breath leave her body. She glanced at Rob, saw him staring at the boy with interest.
“Thorn, I know you’ve been read your rights already, but I’m going to do it again, okay? Because I have to place you under arrest for murder.”
“I didn’t murder her! It was Ember’s idea—she hated her. Hated her. I was just going along with it because she wanted me to.” He started struggling in the bed, this time managed to pull an IV loose and detach his heartbeat monitor. The machine began its claxon call and Taylor knew they were done. Two nurses burst into the room, shoving Taylor out of the way. She stepped back, watched them reattach the line, fix the feeds, get the boy settled.
When they were finished, she read him his rights again, made Rob handcuff the little bastard to the bed and walked slowly down the hall to the elevator. She glanced at her watch—7:00 p.m. Brittany Carson’s harvest would have started. She choked on the sorrow, pressed the button on the elevator.
One down. So why did she feel like this was just the beginning?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Northern Virginia
June 16, 2004
Baldwin
Baldwin drove, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while Sparrow worked frantically on her laptop. It only took an hour door-to-door—lucky, considering the time of day and the usual traffic congestion in suburban D.C. They’d sailed up 95, got on the George Washington Parkway, skirted through the western edge of D.C., up the Potomac River and out to McLean, then took Georgetown Pike straight into Great Falls. Baldwin couldn’t help but notice when he passed Spring Hill Road; he’d dated a woman who lived in a neighborhood down there. It was beautiful in this part of the suburbs, ancient trees and horse farms and glens led to stunning houses situated far off the beaten path. Not the usual tableau when one considered murder, unless you counted the infamous story of the headmistress of the Madeira School, Jean Harris, who’d murdered her ex-lover, Scarsdale Diet pioneer Herman Tarnower. That had caused a bit of a scandal. Or the twisted Edward Chen, who’d murdered his family, then left them in their house to rot for four years before he and a friend cut them up and dumped their body parts in the Chesapeake Bay. Baldwin remembered that case vividly—he’d been working with the detectives who broke the case at the time.
And now the Clockwork Killer was adding his name to the mix. He would most likely overshadow any and all previous murder stories, and those to come in the future.
The Kilmeades, and Harold Arlen, lived off Walker Road, before the turn for River Bend Country Club. The houses were generous, both in structure and land, but the neighborhood they lived in was a cloister, allowing the houses to lie closer to one another, with garages below the living spaces. The architect had been going for a style similar to a British mew, and the environs reminded Baldwin of Notting Hill.
The sun drilled into Baldwin’s eyes as they got out of the car in front of the faux Tudor-style houses. He couldn’t help but steal a glance at Arlen’s front door, closed and locked, seemingly unaware of the storm that was about to batten its hatches.
They mounted the stairs to the Kilmeades’ neat, clean porch. Baldwin rang the bell, and a few moments later, Mrs. Kilmeade answered the door in a flour-covered apron à la June Cleaver. The delicious, yeasty scent of baking bread spilled out onto the porch.
“Oh, hello there. Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Kilmeade, I don’t know if you remember…I’m Supervisory Special Agent John Baldwin, and this is Special Agent Jessamine Sparrow. We spoke briefly two days ago—”
“Yes, yes, I remember. How could I forget? Such a terrible time for those poor families.”
“It is, ma’am. We were hoping to steal a few more moments of your time, if you’re available. We need to ask you a couple of questions about your daughter, Evie.”
Her face fell, then she pulled herself together. “Certainly. If you don’t mind me working while we talk, I’m in the middle of a project with my boys. We make our own bread weekly—we’ve got three loaves done right now.”
She allowed Baldwin and Sparrow into the house, her natural graciousness only barely hiding her perplexed look.
As promised, the boys were in the kitchen, quietly kneading dough. In the attached eating area, Mr. Kilmeade was reading a book so thick Baldwin’s first thought was encyclopedia. Mrs. Kilmeade leaned down and whispered in his ear; he turned and met Baldwin’s eye before standing.
Baldwin’s guess was close. When Kilmeade came into the kitchen, he brought the book with him—it was a world atlas.
“Some light reading?” Baldwin asked, trying to break the ice.
“Something like that.” He set the book on the counter. “We homeschool, you see. I was planning tomorrow’s geography lesson.”
The boys groaned in unison, but smiled at their dad.
Baldwin had a moment’s flashback of his own father helping him with his schoolwork. His dad always seemed to have time to help him; now he understood that he made time. Of course, that was before. Before Baldwin’s life got shaken into a million pieces.
His parents were killed in a car accident when he was just sixteen. His mother’s sister, Agatha, was his only living relative, and she was much older. He’d gone to live with her, on the west side of Nashville, attended a school of her choosing, Father Ryan. He’d hated most every moment of it. Though nominally a Catholic, even now Baldwin considered himself one of the fallen.
Memories started to flood in, but he wiped them from his mind. He had work to do, and revisiting the painful parts of his past wasn’t on the agenda.
He cleared his throat. “I understand completely. Would you mind if Special Agent Sparrow and I talk to you and Mrs. Kilmeade alone?”
Kilmeade looked startled for a moment, then nodded. “Boys, why don’t you go look through that geometry lesson we abandoned earlier. I’ll come quiz you in a few minutes.”
Polite and respectful, the Kilmeade boys rose from the kitchen counter as one and disappeared from the room. Kilmeade listened with a practiced ear until the soft noise of a door closing reached them, then turned to Baldwin with a smile.
“So, what’s happening? Julie said you needed to talk about Evie?”
“Are you up for a few questions?”
“Of course. Evie’s been gone for months. We’ve battled through as best we can with God on our side. He’s helped us stick to the path. She was a special little girl—we weren’t surprised that He decided to take her from us. She always was an angel on earth.”
The words sounded good, but Baldwin could hear the note of despair that lingered beneath them, saw the brief flash of pain in the man’s eyes. Kilmeade was a man, a provider, a father, and he obviously took those responsibilities very seriously.
“Besides,” chimed in Julie Kilmeade, “we’re working on adding to the family.” She touched her belly reverentially; Baldwin could see the slight swelling there, covered by the apron. Replacing their dead child with a living, breathing proxy?
The Kilmeades struck
him as a happy family, solid and close, but with little brown edges like spoiled roses. Hardly surprising, considering the devastating loss they’d sustained so recently. Interesting that they hadn’t mentioned it when they talked before.
“Congratulations,” Baldwin said.
“Thank you.” Kilmeade reached out and took his wife’s hand. “Now, what can we help you with?”
“We need to talk about Harold Arlen.”
“Harry? Whatever for? Why would the FBI be interested in Harry?”
Baldwin took a seat at the kitchen table. “I have to ask you some difficult questions. Would you mind joining me?”
Everyone got seated, then Baldwin continued.
“We found a note on your daughter’s obituary page from Harold Arlen.” He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket, smoothed the wrinkles out and placed it on the table.
“Well, sure. They were buds, Evie and Harry. She adored him. He was quite crushed when she passed.”
“Mr. Kilmeade, you were aware that Harold Arlen was a sex offender, correct?”
“That was a part of Harry’s past. He was fully rehabilitated. He ran a group for those less fortunate than himself, those who still struggled with their urges. But Harry, no, he is one of the good guys. He hated that he’d done those things, and was so happy to be on a clean path. God smiled upon him in prison, you know.”
Doesn’t He always? If Baldwin had a dollar for every convicted felon who told him he’d found Jesus, he could retire.
“Mr. Kilmeade, you’re a psychologist, correct? You work with the incarcerated?”
“That’s right. I’m finishing my dissertation now. I’m planning to open a private practice specializing in criminal rehabilitation.”
“So you understand, on an empirical level, that sex offenders rarely change. They simply disguise their behavior.”
Kilmeade bristled, sitting forward in his chair and narrowing his eyes. “Are you insinuating that Harry did something to Evie? Because I’ll tell you, that isn’t the case. He was never alone with her.”
“Never? You’re absolutely sure of that?”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 52
