Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  “Ruth, no buts.”

  “I thought I got to kill the other woman.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “After the mess you made of things in North Carolina? No, Ruth. You don’t get rewarded for fucking up.”

  Rock, rock, rock.

  “Don’t pout, Ruthie. Keck will be fun. I promise. She’s become a liability. Too smart for her own good. She’ll figure out the victim pool anytime now. Those perverted, stupid idiots on her site blew the surprise. So she has to go now, before she alerts anyone else. This is a big favor for me, a personal favor. You know what happens when you do me personal favors, right?”

  “I get to ask a favor in return.”

  “That’s right. You’re such a good girl. Now go. Take care of this pesky bitch for me.”

  Ruth got to her feet. “Yes, Ewan. If you say so.”

  “I say so. Take off. I have other things to do. And, Ruth? You know what to do if you’re caught.”

  Her lips turned down and her face got white. “Yes, brother.”

  He watched her scramble from his apartment and sighed. Maybe he should have given in to the impulse to have her die back in North Carolina? No, what’s done was done. Her mistakes would accelerate the plan. While the Jackson bitch was smart, she wasn’t a magician. He knew Ruth was telling the truth—she’d tried to keep his secrets. He’d been so careful to cover his tracks. New names every year. New cities. New faces, too. Ruth was the only one alive who knew who he really was, the rest of his family was dead or gone. His mother especially, she was bat shit crazy, didn’t even remember she’d had children. He’d gone to see her once, three years earlier. Just to be sure. Her brain was mush, the years of insanity and the cancer drugs had turned it into psychotic cornmeal. She saw devils on the shoulders of her guards, who had to force her to bathe since she’d developed a fear of water. She’d become a regular Medusa, her hair twisted into smelly, unkempt dreadlocks. She’d been trapped inside her own mind.

  No, he was safe on that account. He had no concerns about anyone finding out the truth. The bitch was dead.

  But he had the final three chess pieces moving toward him. Which would it be? Who would win the game? Who would be found worthy? Which pawn would cross the length of the board and have the chance to watch him kill Jackson, in the method of the winner’s killing profile? He’d chosen his three favorite historical killers for the last. Watching her die by any of their methods would be good fun.

  The million dollars was incentive, certainly. They were all highly motivated. If he had to lay down odds, he’d have to say the young lad from Boston was the likeliest candidate. When they’d talked, he seemed calmer than the rest, more mature. More focused. He was independently wealthy, so he wasn’t in it for the money. Not like California—he was in debt up to his ears, his house had been foreclosed on, he had no ties, no foundation. And an extra long trip—probably not fair, stacking the odds against him like that, but he was so obviously mercenary. Sadly, his boy from Long Island was riding the edge. He was unpredictable, maybe even crazy. No, he thought Boston was the real contender.

  A new apprentice. How very exciting.

  He smiled to himself as he watched Ruth drive away. There were words she used to say to him when they were children. They held no meaning for him before, but as he grew older, they finally, finally started to make sense.

  Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

  He was Ruth’s God. Just like he was about to become Taylor Jackson’s God. Time to finish this. He was getting bored. He understood bostonboy’s impatience, sometimes challenges grew tedious. They had to be resolved, or else they were just open-ended tasks. Sisyphean.

  He turned from the window and grabbed his lanyard with the laminated badge that spelled out her doom. Strung it around his neck and looked down at the smiling visage, the face that even he barely recognized anymore.

  Oh, yes, Taylor. It’s nearly time.

  NOVEMBER 8

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Nashville’s skyline rolled into Taylor’s view, the lights of the Batman Building glowing in the darkness, the new Pinnacle tower with its tiny branding sign, so understated. Blue, red and yellow lights reflected off the Cumberland River as they drove across the Shelby Street Bridge, the colors mingling with the dark water, rippling and shimmering in a seductive dance.

  Baldwin drove them straight to her office at the Criminal Justice Center. She’d called the team in, too, rousting them from their warm beds. McKenzie met them in the Homicide offices, yawning, with coffees and a homemade chai tea for Taylor courtesy of his partner Hugh. Baldwin accepted one of the coffees and peeled off from the group, went to one of the interrogation rooms to make some phone calls. Marcus rolled in five minutes later looking like he might not have gone to bed yet. Only Lincoln was impeccably dressed, looking sharp in a crisp white Armani shirt tucked into darkwashed Seven jeans with black tasseled loafers, topped with a dark purple suede jacket.

  “Clotheshorse,” McKenzie said to him as he handed over the steaming cup of coffee.

  “I could help you sometime. We could go shopping. The poindexter look went out a few years ago.”

  “What, you want to be my girlfriend now?”

  “You already have Hugh for that, sugar.”

  “He’s my wife, dumb ass. Husbands don’t go shopping with their wives. That’s what they save for their mistresses.”

  “Ouch,” Marcus said, laughing. “He got you there, Linc.”

  “Boys,” Taylor warned. “Play nice, or Mommy will take all your toys away. Thank Hugh for the chai, Renn. It’s delicious, as always.”

  McKenzie shoved Lincoln’s hand away from his cup of coffee, just saving it from being doused in cream. “I will. He says you owe him dinner.”

  Taylor smiled at them. She was happy to see McKenzie fitting in so well with Marcus and Lincoln. He was a very capable detective, and she knew he’d earned their respect on that front. He’d earned hers, too, that was why she’d brought him on as a permanent member of the team. But respect and friendship were two very different things. The three seemed to have bonded quite well. Which was good. She could stop worrying about it. Maybe Fitz would come back to Homicide, too. Lord knew she’d take him back in a heartbeat if he were willing. Becoming the collateral damage of a serial killer wouldn’t be an easy thing for him to put away; he could take his twenty and run off forever. He’d been considering doing just that when he’d been kidnapped—he and Susie had been on a decision vacation, planning out their future.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. The loss he must be feeling overwhelmed her—she only knew Susie casually and she was torn up about her death. She hated that he was lying alone in the hospital. She just wanted to go back to Vandy and hug him, just so he knew she loved him. Later. She’d go tomorrow. He’d kill her if he knew she was fretting about him instead of focusing on the task at hand.

  The Homicide office was crowded with the overnight shift, so Taylor led them to the conference room. As she turned on the lights, her cell rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but answered it anyway. There was too much happening to miss any opportunity to learn something new about the case. She vaguely recognized the voice on the other end.

  “Lieutenant Jackson, this is Paul Friend. I’m a producer at Fox News—we actually worked together the last time you were on, with Kimberley? During the Snow White case?”

  Ah, that was it. Paul Friend had produced the segment, had been the voice in her ear instructing her of breaks and fresh camera shots. “Yes, Paul. How are you?”

  “Awake at this ungodly hour, unfortunately. We’ve gotten an unconfirmed report about a murder victim. Make that two victims. Out in San Francisco. Staged to look exactly like the Zodiac Killer’s first kill. A letter was sent to the Chronicle and everything. Turns out the victims were participants on a blog called Felon E
, and my sources tell me you’ve been talking to the owner of the blog. We’re running the story during the morning show. Would you be willing to confirm for us?”

  “Confirm what?”

  “That this anonymous blogger knew the Zodiac Killer was picking victims from the blog and didn’t share that information with the police, or warn the other participants? Oh, and I should mention, we had another set of murders here in New York that looks strangely like the Son of Sam case. The men who were shot were also frequent commenters on the Felon E blog. And just so happens there was a note left near the bodies that said, and I quote, ‘There are other Sons out there, God help the world.’ Since I don’t think David Berkowitz has managed to escape from prison…”

  Oh, crap.

  “Sorry, man. I don’t know the first thing about it.”

  “You don’t? Because I would think you of all people could understand the need to warn people if a copycat killer is on the loose. Especially since you may know exactly who is responsible. Come on, Lieutenant. Just between us, off the record. After your involvement with the Snow White case, and your attendance at the massacre in North Carolina yesterday morning, it’s obvious what’s happening. Listen, I’ve been watching things. I know the Snow White’s apprentice got away. He’s out there, and he’s been quiet for too long. This feels like him. You have to admit that, at least.”

  “You’re making some pretty big assumptions there, Mr. Friend.”

  Friend was quiet for a moment. “Lieutenant, we’re on the same side here. I want to help you catch these guys. See real justice done. Who knows how many of them are out there?”

  “I don’t know anything. I’m sorry. Seriously, Paul, you’re sharing new information with me, not the other way around.”

  “You don’t want to be like this, Lieutenant. You want to work with me. I can help you.”

  “Really, Paul, I haven’t heard anything about it. Sorry. You’ll have to double-source somewhere else. Have a good night. Morning. Whatever.”

  She hung up and turned to the guys. “We need to move, now.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow. “You just lied. Naughty, naughty.”

  “Yes, well, you can spank me later. We need to save Colleen Keck’s ass first. Who knows about her calling in outside of us? Dispatch?”

  “No one that I know of. Lincoln talked to her, he called you.”

  “We might have a leak, so pay attention to anyone who’s showing an interest in this case. Let’s find out what Ms. Keck has managed to uncover.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

  From: 44cal@ncr.ss.com

  Subject: Charleston, WV

  Dear Troy,

  Rocking in the free world.

  44

  “I could do it right here. Right now.

  “Fucking McDonald’s. Happy, nasty children playing. I’ve got the AK, it’s loaded and ready to go. I could just spray them all. That would get their attention.”

  Not such a good idea, homey. There aren’t enough. You need more. Many, many more.

  He counted them—fourteen. His rancor subsided. The angel was right, fourteen wasn’t enough. He needed to make it a proper mass killing. Like that rag head down in Texas. He put on quite a show, but the dumb fucker got himself shot and was paralyzed. No, suicide by cop wouldn’t work. He didn’t want to die, not now, at least. He had things he wanted to do. Books to read. Especially that, and if he managed a death penalty case, he’d have years to fill.

  He loved to read.

  I love to read, too. Remember that great one, about the stalker who cuts the woman in half?

  “Hush. I’m trying to think here.”

  No, he needed to make sure he was in Tennessee before he went postal. They killed their criminals dead, dead, dead, dead. And death row was his goal. He giggled. Going postal. That was exactly what he was going to do. Falling Down, like Michael Douglas when he lost his shit and went on that righteous spree. That was cool, but Douglas was weak in the end. That was before his facelift, too. What stupid motherfucking man got a facelift?

  He’d enjoyed killing those faggots in the park in D.C. They hadn’t expected him, the Avenger, to glide up to them and open fire. The look on their faces was priceless. They were about to ask him to join their little party, to be a third. Probably wanted him to be on bottom. Dickwads.

  The angel start to rap. All the little dickwads, sitting in a row. Pow. Kapow. Blammo, and so. You’re dead. You’re dead. You’re dead, and gone-o.

  A thought came to him. A big, beautiful thought. He could find a gay bar. They are always crowded, every night of the week. Oh, imagine that. A whole room full of the abnormal assholes. He knew there was a gay bar in Nashville, a big one. He could go in there, shoot it up. Mow. Them. Down. Oh, my. Oh, that was just perfect.

  He got goose bumps, felt them parading up and down his body. His erection was nearly instantaneous. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  The angel was quiet for once, savoring the idea. Fuck the game. Fuck that twisted asshole running it. He was done playing by other people’s rules. He was in control now.

  He reset his GPS. Instead of stopping in Louisville and shooting the senator’s gay-as-a-three-dollar-bill aide like he was supposed to, he was heading straight for Nashville.

  Good plan, homey. You’re finally getting it.

  He lit a cigarette, looked at the bottle of medicine in the console. Rolled down the window and threw it in the trash, followed a moment later by the still-lit cigarette. He was going for broke. No more pretending, no more pills. No more games. Screw the target, that Jackson bitch. He didn’t care about her anyway.

  I’m coming for you, motherfuckahs.

  Kill the gays, kill the gays, kill the gays.

  The angel yelled, Wheeeeeeee.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Colleen couldn’t find the place to park that Lieutenant Jackson had suggested, so she went to the underground parking garage across James Robertson Parkway from the CJC instead. She drove down the ramp, surprised at how well lit it was inside. Not bad for the middle of the night.

  She positioned the car under a bright light for a little extra safety. She slung her laptop bag over her shoulder, lifted a sleeping Flynn from the backseat of the car, and hurried into the elevator. There was no one around, which made her feel a bit better, but she wasn’t about to take any chance. She had one of Tommy’s old guns tucked into her jacket pocket. She’d be damned if someone would hurt her or Flynn.

  The streets were empty. The Cumberland River shone brightly to her right, the murky dark water lit up by the array of lights on the bridge. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. A cold, slithery finger of fear slipped under her scarf, and she pulled Flynn tighter to her chest, no longer worried if she woke him. She sprinted across the street and up the stairs to the CJC. She could have sworn she saw a man follow her, saw a dark blur out of the corner of her eye, but then she was at the door to the building. She rang the buzzer, gesticulating wildly to the guard who was seated behind the glass partition. He buzzed her in and she pulled the door shut behind her, felt it latch securely.

  “I think I’m being followed,” she whispered to the man. “Can you watch out for someone who doesn’t belong?”

  “I’ll do what I can, ma’am, but we don’t get a lot of normal folks running around in the middle of the night. Are you Mrs. Keck?”

  She only flinched a little bit at the Mrs. designation. Too young to be a widow, too old to be a Miss. And Ms. always sounded like a mosquito buzzing out of the person’s mouth. At Flynn’s school they simply called her Miss Colleen, in that quaint Southern way that kept children on a more formal but still personal level with their parents’ female friends. Of course, it was only for the women, she didn’t have a single recollection of someone ever saying Mr. Tommy.

  The guard was looking at her, perplexed. Oh, please tell me I didn’t say that aloud. She tried again.

  “Yes, I am. I
’m here to see Lieutenant Jackson.”

  “Yep, you’re on the list. Sorry about your husband, ma’am. They’re waiting for you. Just go knock on that door over there, someone will let you in.”

  “Thank you.” She fought back the urge to tip him, almost laughed out loud. After her years as a journalist, she was so used to handing out the twenties when she was in need of information the reflex was ingrained into her.

  Flynn had miraculously stayed asleep during her panicked flight from the parking garage. She blessed his father’s genes. Where Colleen would start and wake from the tiniest click or knock in the house’s night, Tommy could sleep through a tornado siren going off next to his bed. He was forever sleeping through his alarm. Flynn was the same way: easy to fall asleep, hard to rouse.

  Her third knock was answered by a handsome black man, about six feet tall, impeccably dressed. She almost laughed out loud—who looked that good, that put together, at three in the morning? He smiled at her and she saw the gap between his front two teeth. He looked like a rock star, someone she couldn’t place. She had his CDs though. Damn, what was his name? Lenny something. She racked her brain. Kravitz. That was it.

  He saw her trying to place him and smiled wider. He must be used to the double take people did when they saw him. Of course, that was what most folks in Nashville did—the country music capital of the world attracted a bevy of famous musicians, songwriters and singers, not to mention several actresses and actors who enjoyed the illusion of privacy Nashville afforded. Folks might look twice when Nicole Kidman wandered into Starbucks with Keith Urban and Sunday Rose, but they’d never do anything more than smile politely and say good morning. It just wouldn’t be polite to hit them up for an autograph when they were just trying to fuel up on caffeine.

  He ushered her inside. “You must be Colleen Keck. I’m Detective Ross. Sorry about all this.”

  “You and me both, Detective. Have you heard anything?”

  Ross closed the door behind them and gestured for her to follow him. “No, nothing yet. We all just got here. The LT is on the phone to some of her contacts. I think she’s expecting you to brief us, can you do that?”