Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

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Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 106

by J. T. Ellison


  Sam went back to the woman’s body, looked at her feet. Sure enough, they were covered with calluses. Her hands were also rough and cracked, the nails short and neatly filed. Menial labor then, maybe in a restaurant kitchen. Hard way for a middle-aged woman to live. Especially if she was undocumented. The simple fact that her family had clammed up was a clue that she wasn’t in the States legally.

  Not a huge surprise. Though the laws were stringent now, for a time, Tennessee had possessed the most lax immigration regulations in the country, to the point of allowing thousands of undocumented workers to get driver’s licenses with just a pay stub and water or electric bill to “prove” residency. They’d come from all over the United States, and south of the border, to purchase that little piece of plastic that said they belonged. No more; the laws had changed and were practically draconian in comparison. Proof of citizenship was required now.

  But in its wake, the initial freedoms had left behind a massive gang problem. Mainly members of MS-13. Not a nice bunch of folks. Sam saw the vestiges of their march for primacy almost daily.

  She heard whistling from the corridor, and a few moments later, Marcus appeared, his floppy brown hair under a University of Tennessee baseball cap, Stuart hot on his heels.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Marcus said. “Crazy morning. Did you hear about it?”

  Sam shook her head. She’d been well lost in her own thoughts. “No, what happened? You catch a break on our hit-and-run?”

  Marcus glanced at the naked body of their Jane Doe. “No, not her. Though I do have a name, Marias González. Guatemalan. Undocumented. She lives over in South Nashville, Antioch area, near Nolensville. I’m heading there after the post. No, the big excitement was we got the guy who left that jump drive at Café Coco, the one with all the kiddie porn on it? Remember?”

  Sam did remember. What sort of idiot went to public computers, popped in a jump drive and looked at pornographic pictures of children, then managed to leave the jump drive behind? That was beyond her comprehension. Metro had been trying to make an arrest in the case for almost two months. Taylor had told her the man was a true sociopath and extremely dangerous—trying to get away with such a personal act in public was indicative of his narcissism.

  “Yeah, he’s a grad student at Vanderbilt. Looks like an Abercrombie and Fitch model, all square jawed and handsome. He wasn’t so pretty crying his eyes out, I’ll tell you that. Stupid fool. We’re going to wrap up a whole ring of local and national pedophiles with the information on his computer. Lincoln’s combing through the hard drive for Sex Crimes right now.”

  “That’s wonderful news. One less creep on the street.”

  “You said it, sister. He’s a piece of work. So let’s talk about Marias here. What’s her story?”

  Sam gestured toward the computer, where the file was still open. “Did you see the note Keri left about the $1,000 in her pocket?”

  “Yeah, I was there when they found it. The stain? Looks like it came from a dye pack to me.”

  Sam stopped and looked at Marcus. “You mean from a bank robbery?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “Ah is right. So you can imagine what’s going through my head.”

  She could do exactly that. In addition to phantom kiddie diddlers romancing their twisted psyches in the coffee shops, the Regretful Robber continued to wreak havoc all over Metro.

  “You think she’s in on the robberies?” Sam asked, pulling on her gloves and signaling to Stuart to prep for Ms. González. Sam went to look at the X-rays. “Typical crush injuries on the X-rays, compound fractures of the tibia and fibula on both legs, the femurs also cracked. Skull fracture. The jackpot will be her brain. I’m expecting a large subdural hematoma. All that pressure and nowhere to go.”

  “I suppose it’s possible she was the robber. Though the guys in Special Crimes have been working under the assumption that it’s a man.”

  “You know what happens when you assume.”

  “Ass. You. Me. Got it.”

  “But if she’s involved, why come to the CJC? With your family in tow?”

  “They were going to force her to confess?” Marcus said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to, or her car was one of the ones that had been stolen. The $1,000 could have been remuneration—that is this guy’s M.O.”

  “Also possible. But I think it was something more. Did you see the fibers they collected from her pocket?”

  As they talked, Sam did her external on the victim, looking carefully for anything that wasn’t consistent with the accident. She made notes of cuts and bruises, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and signaled to Stuart, who took up his scalpel and opened the woman like he was pulling down a zipper. Marcus took an involuntary step back to avoid the splash of blood that welled over the edges of the incision.

  “What fibers?” Sam asked. “I didn’t see it in the report.”

  “Sloppy of them not to include it. There was a wad of something synthetic, almost like a tangle of fishing line, but much more delicate. I thought it was hair, but Keri said no, it wasn’t organic. I have no idea what it could be.”

  “I want to see it,” Sam said. “Keri wouldn’t have made that mistake, I probably just didn’t read far enough along in her report.”

  Stuart was making quick work of Marias’s post; she could step out for a moment. She and Marcus crossed the autopsy suite to the evidence room. The door was hermetically sealed; there was blood evidence in here that needed special attention. She set her finger on the new biometric scanner. All evidence was now kept under lock and key after one of her MEs had been caught stealing marijuana from the evidence lockers. He’d been fired immediately, and new security measures put into place, including cameras and the fingerprint scanner. It helped her keep track of who went where in the morgue.

  Keri had left everything for the case right where it was supposed to be. Sam smiled. She liked having a tightly run ship. No searching, no wasted time and effort. She opened the evidence locker, found the bags that matched her case, then went through smaller envelopes until she located the one labeled Left Pocket.

  Using tweezers, she teased out the wad of fibers. It only took her a second to identify them.

  “Wig hair. This is from a wig.”

  “Was she wearing a wig?”

  “No.”

  “Does the Regretful Robber wear a wig?”

  “That I can’t answer.”

  “All right. But why would she have wig hair in her pocket?”

  Sam thought about it for a minute. “Maybe she’s got a family member with cancer. They lost their hair, she buys them a wig. She obviously doesn’t have much money. She might not be able to afford the real-hair ones they’re making now, those are surprisingly expensive.”

  “That’s solid. But in her pocket?”

  “Locard’s theory. Plain old transference. She touched the wig, the strands came away, and either she didn’t realize it, or she didn’t want to drop them on the floor so she just tucked them in her pocket.”

  “Head’s ready,” Stuart called out.

  They tidied up the evidence and went back to the body. The hematoma was visible on the brain, right where Sam expected it to be.

  “Okay, go ahead,” she said to Stuart, who proceeded to remove the brain from its cavity. There was a large squelch as it came away. Sam watched Marcus pale. She’d had seasoned detectives drop at autopsy plenty of times, but Marcus had always been unflinching.

  He shook his head. “Never have gotten used to that sound. The pop when the skull comes free, either.”

  Stuart placed the brain gently on the dissection tray. “Brain’s ready,” he said.

  Sam punched Marcus lightly on the arm. “The body is a temple of noises, my friend. You want to stick around for the dissection?”

  Sam’s cart was all assembled with her knives, ready for the afternoon’s work. She was very particular about her knives. She ha
d a set of stainless steel Henckels. They were no different than the set she had in her kitchen, except for her workhorse: the twelve-inch blade she used for hearts and livers. She had a regular eight-inch chef’s knife, two smaller slicing blades, a set of forceps and a pair of long, delicate, gold-tipped Metzenbaum scissors. Her tools were her pride and joy. She carried them in a large black leather knife case, like a chef. She didn’t trust anyone else’s tools. She even had a brand-new Dremel that she was itching to try out. Simon had given it to her for her birthday. Love between scientists at its best.

  Marcus shook his head. “I think you have it under control. Let me know the final findings, okay? I need to get down to her house, see if I can figure out what her life was about.”

  “Good luck,” Sam said, making a long slice along the woman’s liver.

  “You too,” Marcus replied, a smile on his face. “Don’t have too much fun with the organs.”

  “I’ll try,” she said. Every body had a story to tell. It was her job to read them right.

  She had a moment of guilt—she could use her work to heal. Despite the random flashbacks to the kidnapping, she was healing.

  But Taylor was forced to run away. Sam couldn’t help but think that work would have been a better fix for her as well.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Memphis knocked on Taylor’s door at five minutes to seven. She’d rested up, washed her face, and changed into black wool slacks and a cream cashmere turtleneck. At the last minute, she put on her grandmother’s pearls. Memphis said they dressed for dinner, and the pearls were original Mikimotos—a beautiful, graduated, princess-length strand with a delicately scrolled platinum clasp that had a tiny, perfect pearl on it. She hoped that would be dressed enough.

  She opened the door, and Memphis looked on her with approval.

  “Very nice. Shall we?” He extended his arm, and she accepted it. They started down the hall. “I talked Cook out of serving downstairs in the main dining room. I didn’t feel like giving the radiators a workout. We’ll be eating in my parents’ dining room, the second dining room, we call it, instead. Be prepared, she’s gone a bit all out.”

  They went down a flight of stairs, not the same ones she’d been on earlier, and entered another wide, open passageway. Delicious smells wafted out of the room at the end of the hall.

  Goodness, Memphis. Just how many stairways are there in the castle?

  He stopped, brows knitted. “You know… I’ve no idea.”

  She shook her head. How very Memphis.

  She was no longer a stranger to the castle’s opulence, but the second dining room, as Memphis called it, was as fine as the finest restaurants she’d ever been in. A fire crackled in the grate; she could have stood, only slightly stooped, in its cavity if she chose. The mahogany table could comfortably seat fourteen. Above it floated a crystal chandelier, each drop pendant reflecting the glow of the ten white pillar candles she counted. Crystal goblets, delicate china on engraved chargers, four sterling forks, three knives. Intimate dining. Yeah, right.

  All out?

  He just smiled.

  At least they weren’t sitting at opposite ends of the table—she would have felt like a fool. She’d have to shout pass the salt, and the room would echo in return.

  Memphis grandly held her chair for her, then tucked himself in on her right side. He’d remembered that she ate continental-style, with her left, and hated to bump the person next to her. Goodness, he wasn’t playing games. He wanted her to know that he remembered every little detail. The momentary flush of flattery was replaced with a tiny touch of concern. Fantasy could easily turn into obsession. She’d seen it happen time and again, with poor results.

  She dismissed the thought. He’s trying to woo you, stupid girl. Not own you.

  No one else joining us?

  “Of course not. The servants take their meals in the kitchen—some traditions aren’t easily changed. Trixie will see to them. That’s her job.”

  Soundlessly, two young girls appeared with the first of the seven courses Cook had planned for them.

  They started with a thick fish soup Memphis said was called Cullen Skink, then moved into more traditionally French fare. The venison stew must have been for the servants.

  Memphis explained that Mary, Queen of Scots, was responsible for the French inflection to their cooking, having brought a passel of countrymen back from France when she returned. There was delicate Dover sole, beef Wellington, venison, fresh veg, carrots and peas and mashed potatoes, a dizzying array of cheeses, then burnt cream—she knew it as crème brûlée—and apple frushie, a delicious open-faced tart, for dessert. Memphis had also opened a bottle of Châeau Latour ’54. She couldn’t help herself; she was impressed, and said so.

  “I’ll show you the wine cellar later. You’ll love it. Father is quite the oenophile. He’s been adding to the collection for years, through auctions, estate sales, the works. He has over 50,000 bottles down there.”

  “Wow,” she managed to say. That was quite a collection.

  Taylor ate until she was uncomfortably full, succeeding in eating only two bites of the apple frushie before she couldn’t handle another bit.

  She pushed her plate away and picked up her pen.

  My God, that was amazing. Thank you.

  “It was, wasn’t it? Shall we repair to the drawing room and have some port? It will help you digest.”

  Good Lord, Memphis, you’re making me feel like I’ve stepped onto the page of a Victorian novel.

  “Oh, no. If this were Victorian times, I’d head off for port and cigars and whist and you’d be stuck with the ladies, nannering on about…whatever it is you women nanner on about.”

  “Ha,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm, then scribbled in her notebook.

  Besides, you know exactly what we women talk about when we get together.

  “Length, breadth and depth, I assume. What else is there to discuss?”

  Memphis, you are extremely naughty.

  It was so comfortable. She was so comfortable. Even her head hurt less. That was the wine and pills and jet lag talking, she was sure of it.

  The room Memphis took her to next was more her speed, subtly decorated while still lavish, but not overdone. The walls were paneled in dark wood. Two leather club chairs faced a leather sofa with a table in between. The fire was off to the right. Half the room was another library, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the other half an office centered around a stunning oak rolltop desk. Very masculine, very posh, but eminently comfortable.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “This is part of my suite of rooms,” he said. “My office, when I’m here. I like to have a bit of privacy. Why don’t you try talking some more? I know you need to practice. It sounds like your voice is working.”

  “I…” Nothing else came. Her throat constricted. Damn it. She wasn’t ready. She just wasn’t ready. The pressure of being asked to speak was too much for the tenuous hold she had on her voice.

  Memphis took a step toward her. He traced her jawline with his forefinger, then slowly moved his hand down until his palm cupped her throat. Her traitorous heart responded by speeding up. She could feel her pulse fluttering under his thumb. His eyes met hers, desire plain in his gaze.

  “Try now.”

  She shook her head.

  “Poor darling. I wish I could fix you myself. Take away the last month, take away your pain.”

  They stood there, face-to-face, transfixed. She felt oddly vulnerable, in this position of supplication before him, his hand wrapped around her neck.

  Memphis was a strong man. All he had to do was squeeze. Cut off her air supply. It would stop her pain. No more struggling, no more looks. No more people talking about her behind her back—well, that wasn’t true. Tongues never cease, even in death. She just wouldn’t be around to hear it. She’d drift away without a care in the world, the scent of Memphis strong in her nose.

  Good grief, Taylor. Get hold of yourself.


  He meant what he said. No pity, no coddling. Just a statement of fact. He wished she didn’t have to go through this. No one else had said that to her.

  Interminable moments passed. His eyes spoke to her, questioning. She didn’t know how to answer. He finally began to lean his head in and she went rigid. He stopped immediately, dropped his hand and turned away.

  “Don’t worry about it. Your voice will come back in time.” He went to a small drinks cabinet, poured the port into snifters.

  “I do hope you like vintage.”

  He handed her a glass as if nothing had just happened.

  Her heart was still pounding. She dragged a breath into her lungs, fought for composure. Wished for that stiff upper lip all Brits seemed to possess. Took a sip of her port, then grabbed her notebook.

  Of course I do. Tawny and ruby aren’t my thing, I’m glad that’s what you have. It’s delicious.

  He’d made a lucky guess on that one, she wasn’t sure she’d ever discussed port with him before. Of course, vintage was more expensive. She recognized that Memphis, while quite understated about his heritage, did enjoy the trappings that came with it.

  She started to sit, then felt the strangest sensation down her back, accompanied by a draft of cool air across her shoulders. Her senses went on alert immediately. She’d been a cop long enough to recognize the feeling. They were being watched.

  She angled her head to look behind her, assuming one of the servants had entered the room. There was no one there.

  Her spine grew cold. She hadn’t imagined it. Had she?

  She looked back to Memphis, who was whistling slightly as he poured himself another little bit of port. Topping off, her father always called it. He’d done that every time he’d poured a drink—taken a healthy swallow, then filled his glass again. Maybe she’d just had a little too much.

  Memphis turned and caught her looking at him. Her face must have registered her distress.

  “What’s wrong?” He crossed the room to her, set his glass on the table and sat on the sofa next to her. Took her hands in his. “Jesus, your hands are like ice. I told you this place was hard to heat.”

 

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