Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  “Of course I am. If I hadn’t pulled him into the case, he wouldn’t be dead. There’s just no two ways about that.”

  “You don’t know that. This may be a completely unrelated incident. He may have been a target all along. What’s your gut say?”

  Taylor stood and paced her boss’s office. It was much roomier than her little box downstairs. The box that had belonged to Price before he was moved up the ranks.

  Price was a good man. He’d always been an ally for Taylor, as well as a friend. A lesser man may have thrown her to the wolves on any number of occasions. Instead, he always had her back. She had nothing to lose by telling him what was on her mind.

  “My gut says he bought it because of something he found yesterday. He came to me, to the office, said he had information for me. We find what that was, we find out who killed him.”

  “Start with the time of death. Figure out when he was killed, and you’ll be able to nail his movements after he left this office.”

  “Actually, I checked. The M.E. on the scene said he’d been dead at least ten hours. So he would have to have been killed sometime between five last night, when he came to the office, and three in the morning. The call came in at two-thirty today, so it’s entirely possible that he’s been dead this whole time. We need to see if he ever made it home last night, go trace his phone calls. God, I am sick about this one.”

  “Okay then. Pass along everything you have to Lincoln. This is his case, let him run the show.”

  “But—”

  “Taylor, there’s no but about it. You’re getting married tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten. You need to go do the things you need to do to be ready for that. Because trust me, I won’t let you screw that up. Get out of here. Go home. Get ready for the rehearsal dinner. Let us handle this.”

  Taylor allowed herself to be shooed out of his office. She talked to Lincoln, asked him to track Frank Richardson’s timeline, told him what she was doing. She wasn’t going home, not just yet. She needed to make a stop first.

  *

  The Tennessean offices were still ablaze. Taylor knew they didn’t usually put the paper to bed until well after midnight. There would be people around for her to ask for help.

  She showed her badge at the front desk and asked for the managing editor. The receptionist pointed to her left, the open stairwell. Taylor climbed up one floor. Greenleaf met her at the door to the newsroom.

  “I have bad news,” she opened with as they shook hands. Greenleaf had been around the block before, didn’t need it sugarcoated.

  “Let’s go in here.” He ushered her into a small conference room off the newsroom, where they could have a little privacy.

  “Did you find Jane?”

  “No. Not yet. Frank Richardson is dead. He was murdered sometime late last night or early this morning in an empty apartment in Bellevue. I’m sorry to have to drop it on you like this, Steve, but I need to know. Did Frank tell you anything about what he was working on yesterday?”

  Greenleaf was dumbstruck. He stood at the door to the conference room, mouth agape. His administrative assistant came with a paper for him to sign. He told her the news and Taylor only cringed a little when his assistant burst into tears. Taylor felt the knot take hold in her neck. She didn’t have time to assuage grief right now. She needed to find out what, why and who had killed Frank Richardson.

  “Steve,” she tried again gently. “I’m sorry. I know you were friends. And I hate to be callous, but I need your help. I need to get on the computer Frank was using yesterday. Please, Steve. This is important. Did Frank tell you what he’d found?”

  Greenleaf finally found his voice. He held tightly to his assistant’s arm. “No, Lieutenant, he didn’t. Oh, my. Oh, poor Frank. He didn’t deserve to go like that, in violence. He always wanted to die in his sleep when he was one hundred and eight. That was the age he’d picked. Felt like he’d have lived a full life if he could make it. Oh, no. His wife?”

  “The chaplain is over there, I’m sure. Steve, I’m sorry. I need to get on that computer.”

  She could tell they were terribly upset by her insensitivity, but they rolled with her, getting her into the room Frank had been using. Greenleaf finally excused himself, face still white with shock. He said he needed to go prepare an obituary worthy of Frank’s contribution to the paper, and society in general.

  She sat down at the computer, wishing she had Lincoln with her. He was the brilliant computer mind; she’d always relied on him. But she wasn’t a slouch herself.

  She’d been working for an hour and coming up dry when a small noise made her look up. Daphne Beauchamp stood in the doorway.

  “I heard what happened. You look frustrated.”

  Taylor glanced at her watch. Rehearsal was in less than two hours. Still, it was awfully late for the young archivist to be at work. She greeted her, gestured to a chair.

  “Why are you here so late?”

  “No offense, Lieutenant, but that’s kind of a stupid question.”

  Taylor looked at her closely; there were deep black circles under her eyes. The girl wasn’t sleeping.

  “Afraid to go home?”

  Daphne nodded. “Hell, yes. I’d be an idiot not to be, don’t you think?”

  “I think it’s completely understandable. This is a safe place. If you’re happier here, stay here.”

  Taylor continued scrolling through the computer screen. Daphne stood and looked over her shoulder.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to find the information Frank Richardson was looking at. He came to my office, said he had something for me to see but didn’t leave anything for me. There was nothing found with his body, and so far, we haven’t recovered anything from his house or his car. Which tells me if Frank had his notes on his person, the shooter took the information with him.”

  Daphne flinched at the word shooter, but straightened her glasses and nodded. “So you need to find what he thought was so important.”

  “Right. I’ve been going through the files, and I haven’t hit on anything that stands out to me. Would you like to give it a try?”

  “Why not? Here, shove over.” Daphne took a chair and set it next to Taylor’s. “Show me where you’ve been.”

  Taylor started running through the memory cache of the computer, showing Daphne the steps she’d taken.

  They worked comfortably for ten minutes before Daphne spoke again.

  “You think she’s dead?”

  It took Taylor a moment to process. “Who, Jane?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I wish I could tell you no, but she might be.”

  “Thank you for being honest with me, at least. Skip came over last night all in a dither. He’s crazy about her, but he made a move on me. Men are idiots.”

  “Sometimes they are, Daphne. Sometimes they are.”

  The girl was staring at the computer. She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled. “Oh, and so am I. Hold up a second. Move. Move move move.”

  Taylor stood and took a few steps away.

  “Why did I not think of this earlier?” Daphne scooted her chair closer. She mumbled and grumbled to herself for a second, then a list of files filled the page. “Got it!”

  “What do you have?”

  “I should have thought of it sooner. This computer has a dedicated printer. I’ve just resent every document that was printed off of this for the past two days. Somewhere in there, we might find an answer.”

  *

  The rehearsal dinner was complete, and Baldwin and Taylor were back at the house, looking over the files Daphne had pulled. She’d hit the mother lode. Frank had apparently printed out more than one hundred pages of information, everything from property records to crime statistics. When Taylor left, a stack of papers in her hands, Daphne had looked so forlorn that Taylor had invited her to the rehearsal dinner. The girl had been chatting with Marcus when they cut out. From t
he look on both their faces, the Titans’ football player might just be a thing of the past. Taylor felt like a damn cupid.

  The rehearsal had gone as well as could be expected. Their priest, Father Francis, was a kind, white-haired man who’d come out of retirement to see Taylor married off. He’d christened her, given her first communion, counseled her when her father went to jail—it was only fitting that he see her into the arms of marriage, as well. He and Baldwin got along, Taylor knew they’d been meeting for golf dates earlier in the fall when the weather was holding up. At the time she’d found it amusing—her fiancé and the priest playing golf. Now it just freaked her out. Father Francis had played golf with her father for years. He was part of a regular foursome with Win Jackson, Burt Mars and another member who’d passed away years before. Taylor resisted the urge to cross-examine him as he instructed her and Baldwin in their vows.

  They hadn’t planned a formal dinner for after, just called in to an Italian restaurant nearby the church called Finezza, told them they’d be bringing in nine people. Ten, if you included their newest member, Daphne. They ordered pizza and drank wine out of water tumblers, enjoying themselves, nice and low-key.

  There were many toasts to the couple’s happiness. Taylor lifted her glass again and again, wondering what the phrase meant. Happiness was a state of mind, sometimes elusive, oftentimes immeasurable. She was happy tonight, in her way. Content, even. But was she the right gauge for the implications of the emotion? She imagined there were people, women getting married, who were simply happy to have a house, a nice ring and a long train to their dress.

  Taylor wasn’t about that. She wanted to see a week without a dead body, for starters. That would make her happy. She’d like to have Frank Richardson’s killer in her sights. Yeah, that would make her happy. She’d like to have the Snow White Killer and his accomplice on their knees in front of her, hands cuffed, a fresh clip loaded into her Glock…panic swarmed her chest. These weren’t the right thoughts for a soon-to-be-married bride to be having. She should be dreaming of sugar and spice and everything nice.

  Maybe she was a little drunk.

  Baldwin saw the way the night was headed, took charge of getting his bride home. She drank a Diet Coke in the truck and felt better. The snow had stopped; the white layers looked like wedding cake. She giggled at the image, and Baldwin laughed with her.

  They got home, changed, and tried to find something to do outside of their bedroom. Taylor was too keyed-up to sleep, so she challenged Baldwin to several games of eight ball, then collapsed, wired but exhausted, on their living-room couch.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I want to figure out why Frank Richardson was killed. And I had to bite my tongue so I didn’t interrogate Father Francis.”

  “Was that why you were acting so weird? I was starting to think you were getting cold feet again.”

  “You’re assuming I ever warmed them up.”

  “Taylor—”

  “I’m kidding. Stop already. No, I’m thinking about Frank, and Burt Mars, and I can’t help myself, honey, I need to go over these files.”

  Baldwin sighed good-naturedly. “What can I do to help?”

  Two hours later, Taylor felt confident she knew what was going on.

  “Burt Mars was a very bad boy.”

  Baldwin was stretched out on the couch in the living room. Taylor sat on the floor, the printed papers from the Tennessean spread across the coffee table. It was nearing midnight. She needed to get this wrapped up and get out of the house. They’d agreed that she would spend her last night as an unmarried woman at the Hermitage Hotel, a suite they had for the weekend. She’d stay there alone tonight; he’d join her there tomorrow, for their wedding night, then they’d check out and go to Italy Sunday morning. A great plan that hadn’t anticipated a late night combing files.

  Baldwin played with her hair, then rubbed her shoulders. “Will it wait?”

  She sat back, out of his reach. “I think you might want to hear this. Mars is a bad dude. He left Nashville in the late eighties, right about the time Daddy got sent to Brushy Mountain for that stint for trying to bribe Judge Galloway. He was an accountant here, moved to Manhattan, put out a shingle and started to take clients. A few years later he’d gone down on a racketeering charge. A year after that, they got him on a separate RICO charge, convicted him of racketeering since it was the second charge within a ten-year period. This time they sent him to the federal penitentiary. He served six years of a fifteen-year sentence, got out early for testifying against a man named Horace Macon. Macon was a low-level crime boss working for a guy named Tony Tartulo. The trial was the first step in the fall of the Tartulo syndicate. So now Mr. Mars has himself wrapped up in the Mafia. He gets out of prison, and within six months he’s running a highly lucrative real-estate firm, and holds a controlling position in a hedge fund that focuses on REITs.”

  “Real estate investment trusts. Seems like a conflict of interest.”

  “You think? Here’s what so damn interesting. Horace Macon was just a soldier in Tartulo’s organization. But Tartulo was sworn enemies with another boss, Edward Delglisi. Delglisi is in charge of a huge crime syndicate. My bet is he brought Mars in. Testifying against Macon must have been a setup to take down Tartulo. Mars does the dirty work for Delglisi.”

  “Let me get this straight. Mars used to be your dad’s accountant. He’s moved to New York and gotten involved with the Mafia, specifically Edward Delglisi. He was planted in a rival organization and ultimately testified against Horace Macon, effectively ending the Tartulo crime syndicate. Edward Delglisi steps into Tartulo’s place and becomes a very powerful crime boss.”

  “That’s the nutshell version, yes.”

  “What kind of hold does Delglisi have on Mars?”

  “Good question. And the other question is does Mars know Snow White? Martin Kimball said Snow White’s note came from Mars’s printer.”

  Baldwin fingered the notes. “I’d like to know the answer to that.”

  “Me, too. There’s more. It’s unbelievable all the information Frank discovered. Mars’s business is a real estate investment trust, right? The REIT manages to reduce the taxes that the individual corporations have to pay on these properties, lets them buy under the corporate name, and their holdings are vast. Frank dug up some of the property listings in the REIT. They own everything from apartment building to houses to corporate strip malls. And guess where they have material assets and properties?”

  “Nashville.”

  “Give that man a prize. To be even more specific, that place where the Snow White copycat hit yesterday afternoon? One of fifteen small, low-income houses that are listed on the rolls. If we were to raid all those properties, I’ll bet you fifty bucks that more than one operates as a massage parlor.

  “This is definitely why Frank Richardson was killed, Baldwin. I don’t think this is directly related to the Snow White murders. I think he uncovered the sideline for Burt Mars’s little company. Oh, why didn’t he just call me? I could have taken care of him.”

  “You have all the addresses of the properties they hold in the REIT?”

  “It’s right here.” She waved a sheath of papers at him. “I think we need to find Burt Mars.”

  The phone rang in the kitchen. They both looked at their watches. It was past midnight, late for a call that didn’t mean someone was dead. Taylor got up and went to the handset, saw the number was Lincoln’s cell phone. She answered it, voice grave.

  Lincoln was nearly jovial. “Great, you’re up. I have some good news for you. Want to hear it?”

  “You know I do. You found Jane Macias alive and kicking?”

  “Okay, not quite that good. Ballistics came back on the bullets that were used in the hospital shooting. Octagonal polygonal rifling characteristics, fragments of what looks like a .41 caliber bullet. Forensics says the gun was a Desert Eagle Jericho.”

  “A Jericho, not the Baby Eagle? They’re kind of rare around the
se parts.”

  “Yeah. Only made them for a year before they were replaced by the Baby. Here’s the good news. Frank Richardson was definitely killed with the same gun.”

  Her gut was right. The tension came flooding back. “Someone was trying to shut him up.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “I think I may know who’s responsible, peripherally at least.”

  “Who?”

  “Burt Mars.”

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t he the accountant whose printer was used in the original Snow White case?”

  “Good memory. Yep, he’s the one.” She ran through the information with him, then got off the phone, turned back to Baldwin.

  “I cry uncle. This is going to take more work than you or I can handle tonight. I think it’s time to pack it in.”

  She went to the couch and sat, patting the seat next to her, encouraging him to sit down. He obliged, took her hand in his, fiddled with her engagement ring.

  “I love this stone,” he said, smiling.

  “I love it, too. And I can’t wait to add that band of platinum to it tomorrow. But I don’t know how much more I can take, Baldwin. I feel like I’m abandoning everyone, right in the middle of the biggest case we’ve had in years. How can I do that?”

  She stood abruptly, unable to sit still. She paced the living room, watching Baldwin watch her steps.

  “Honey, there’s only so much you can do.”

  “But this one is personal, Baldwin. There’s just something here, I can feel it in my bones.” She stopped in front of the fireplace, fiddled with a piece of pine garland they’d put up in a meager attempt to dress the house for Christmas. There was no sense getting a tree since they would spend the holiday in Italy. At least, that had been the plan until her world blew up.

  “Baldwin, I’m afraid of what we’re going to find. I’m afraid all of these incidents track back to something bigger. I’ve got a very bad feeling about all of this. My memories, Burt Mars, Frank being shot, everything is pointing in a direction I don’t want to go. My instincts are on fire. I’m afraid that this involves my father.”