Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  The checkmark in her win column would catapult her into the position she so longed for, the head of the BSU.

  A knock on the door had startled her. Troy had come to the hotel room, shaken like a little boy who has been exposed to a scary movie. Promised that it would never happen again. Begged her to stay with him, to help him. The sight of him, so handsome, so remorseful—she decided one last little fling couldn’t be all that bad. No sense wasting the X.

  They’d had frenzied sex, him plunging into her over and over so hard she felt the bruises form. He promised to take care of her forever. He told her he would do anything she wanted as long as she let him stay. He loved her. He’d never felt anything like this before.

  He’d made love to her then, taking his time, doing all the things that he knew she loved, until she’d screamed his name, and God’s, at the top of her lungs.

  Her breath was starting to return to normal. Maybe there was a way to make this work after all. He was still in her, had her pinned against the mattress like a butterfly on a piece of cork.

  “Let me up. I need to wash.”

  “No, Charlotte. But I do.”

  The blade was so sharp she didn’t feel the cut. Didn’t feel the knife sweep through the tender skin on her neck like it was butter. It took a moment to register what was happening, that he’d just done what he’d done. The lying bastard. Her eyes teared, and she tried to scream. There was the pain, finally, as she realized he’d cut her so deep, her vocal cords were severed. In a moment of disgust, she felt him harden in her and realized he was pumping away, coming again, crying out her name as she went away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  New York, New York

  Tuesday, December 23

  8:00 a.m.

  Lieutenant Tony Eldridge and Detective Emily Callahan sat across the breakfast table from Taylor and Baldwin, industriously sucking down cappuccinos. They were in the Heartbeat restaurant of the W Hotel, ostensibly coming up with a game plan, a breakfast strategy session.

  Ordering the food had taken nearly five minutes with all the specifics the New York cops asked for. Emily had requested organic granola, fruit cut with a fresh knife, local farm yogurt, wheat grass juice and an immunity-boosting smoothie, smiling unapologetically at Taylor. Eldridge opted for the steel-cut oatmeal with brown sugar, cranberries, raisins, toasted almonds and warm milk. Even Baldwin got caught up in the health frenzy, taking pastel eggs with fruitwood bacon and roasted potato veggie hash. Taylor tried to play along but felt like a child, ordering peanut-butter-and-jelly crepes. It was as close to normal as she could find on the menu. Even the food added to her sense of dislocation. The one thing of comfort was the orange gerbera daisy in the stainless-steel vase. Hard beauty for such a gentle flower, but fitting, somehow.

  After the waitress left, Taylor fiddled with a ripe pear and took in the multicolored reflective glass column to her right. She wanted out of New York, wanted to get back home and…and…she didn’t know. She didn’t know what she wanted. Home seemed like a haven now, a place to escape to, to be rid of this city and its implied threats.

  Baldwin turned over the cell phone. Eldridge promised to do everything he could to trace its origins, see if they could find some answers.

  They talked of the things that gave them common ground until the meal was finished. Eldridge slurped the last of his espresso, setting the cup in the saucer delicately.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, let’s run through this again. Tell me everything you remember about Delglisi, everything he said. We must be missing something.”

  Taylor set the pear on her plate. She focused her thoughts, went back to that dank room. Smelled his cologne, heard his voice. Chills ran down her arms.

  “A few things stood out. He said he had a business proposition for me. I asked if this had anything to do with the Snow White case, and he said I was closer to him than I thought. He said there was a situation that needed to be handled, and that if something happened to screw with his interests in Nashville he’d take the heads of my team. He talked about family.”

  If something happens to jeopardize my interests in your fair city, I’ll start taking your friends’ heads off, one by one. She swallowed hard at the fury that rose in her gut. Just talking about the threat pissed her off.

  “Did you get the sense he was referring to Snow White, or something else?” Baldwin leaned back in his chair, his coffee cup held loosely in his hand.

  “Something else. He didn’t feel Snow White was a danger, that’s for sure. He called him a peon of a killer. Didn’t seem to think he was worth his time. I think there’s more to it, too. Lieutenant Eldridge, why don’t you fill us in a little more on Edward Delglisi? Maybe if I know more about him I’ll have an easier time making sense of his threats.”

  Eldridge looked at Callahan, nodding as he took a sip of water. Her show to run. Callahan cleared her throat and launched.

  “Okay. L’Uomo has been around for about twenty years now. We don’t know much about him, only get a string of murders that crop up with his signature every once in a while. Businesses fail, storefronts close, and three or four bodies show up. People who cross him don’t get to hang around for long. He runs an import/export business, but he’s quiet and quick. He floats people around, has a lot of money, and has never been caught. He’s got deep pockets and a lot of people on the payroll.”

  “How does Burt Mars fit in?” Taylor asked.

  Callahan handed a file across to Taylor. “Mars. He’s a stool. But smart. He was the single biggest reason the Tartulo family went down. He’s L’Uomo’s bank. Here’s some reports you may find interesting. Mars has been shuffling L’Uomo’s money around for quite a while. Uses that Manderley REIT hedge fund. Only we can’t find it. Every time we get close to the source of the funding, it literally disappears. One of the better money-laundering schemes we’ve come across. The feds are working it, too. Dr. Baldwin, you could probably find some more information from your end.”

  Taylor handed the file to Baldwin. He flipped it open, glanced through it, then said, “I’ll do that. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “But there’s one little problem. We found Burt Mars dead in his apartment last night. Shot at close range. Looked like a typical home invasion.” Callahan shook her head. “Right down to the computers being stolen.”

  Taylor met her eye. “Let me guess. All of his business information was on those computers.”

  “That’s what we suspect. He had a huge office—the master suite of the apartment had been converted. There was enough wiring to send up the space shuttle. Just nothing left to plug in.”

  Taylor felt disappointment roll off Callahan in waves. “You’re sure it was Mars?”

  Callahan pushed another file across the table. Taylor opened it without picking it up. There was a photograph of a small man with blond hair and Buddy Holly glasses, a hole where his chest should have been. She recognized him at once. Her dream flooded in, vivid and raw. A sandy-haired man clapping her dad on the shoulder. “Your own little Manderley.”

  Eldridge brought her back. “One lead gone. But there’s still Delglisi. Like we said yesterday, no one has ever seen him before—he’s like a mythical legend around these parts. We’re not even certain Delglisi is his real name. It’s one of many that he’s assumed over the years, but the one that’s been the most consistent, the deepest in the files.”

  Taylor sat back in her chair. “What does he import? Drugs?”

  Callahan shook her head. “No. Something much more valuable. People.”

  “From where?” Taylor asked.

  “Everywhere. It’s been mostly Hispanic lately, from what we’re hearing. He did a stint of Chinese, and some other Asians, but it seems he’s switched solely to Mexican and South American immigrants lately. As you can imagine, he’s really popular with Homeland Security.”

  “What happens when they get here?”

  “They go to work. In the shops, in the sex trade, wherever they’re needed. They ne
ed to work off their passage.”

  Baldwin looked at Taylor. “He’s just a plain old slave trader.” Taylor snorted through her nose.

  “Some plain old slave trader. Things are making a little more sense now.”

  “How’s that?” Eldridge stopped everything.

  “We had a case in Nashville last week. A Guatemalan girl by the name of Saraya Gonzalez was found in the woods, injured, in pretty bad shape. She’d run away from a ‘massage parlor’ where she was being forced to have sex with men on camera. They were making sex tapes. There’s just one problem. The same day we found her, Saraya was murdered in the hospital. She was shot by a man who fled the scene. He actually took her from her room, but we caught up to him and he killed her. We recovered bullets and shell casings for ballistics, put them in the system, but we had no leads when I…when I…”

  “Was kidnapped,” Baldwin filled in.

  “Right. Seems a little strange to refer to myself in those terms. Anyway, there was nothing that we had outside of the crime scene that would lead us to the shooter.

  “Then a reporter friend who was helping with the Snow White case, Frank Richardson, was killed. He had just found out some information on Burt Mars. You say Mars works for L’Uomo? Well, Frank was killed by the same gun as Saraya Gonzalez. It seems to me that L’Uomo’s ‘interests’ in Nashville are as sordid and simple as that.”

  Eldridge sat back in his chair. “We’re talking about the Frank Richardson, right? Guy who won the Pulitzer? You say he was a friend?”

  “Briefly. But yeah, he was a good guy.”

  Callahan was taking notes. “Killed with what kind of gun?”

  “Both Frank and Saraya were hit with a Desert Eagle Jericho .41 caliber. Israeli made, they don’t make—”

  “Them anymore.” Eldridge smiled, and Callahan got a look of pure joy on her face. She tapped her fingers on the table. “I may have something for you, Taylor. We have ballistics from several scenes that involved L’Uomo’s big assassin, the one we call Atlas. He uses a Desert Eagle. That could be the tie-in you’re looking for. If Atlas was dispatched to Nashville to take care of a few loose ends, then we have the answer to your question. And that hole in Mars was made with a big gun. Ballistics will tell us for sure, but I’ll take odds that Atlas killed Mars, too. Delglisi is tying up loose ends.”

  I wonder what that makes Win. Taylor pushed the thought away.

  “I’m a little foggy on the particulars. I saw his face, know he was a huge guy, but don’t really remember it. You think it was Atlas who snatched me?”

  “Yes. Especially if he was already in town on errands. He was most likely instructed to bring you to New York unharmed.”

  “So Delglisi could try to bargain with me, threaten me? Why wouldn’t they just deliver the message in Nashville?”

  “That wouldn’t show you how much power he has. It was much more dramatic to snatch you from your wedding. Bigger impact.”

  Taylor looked at Baldwin. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. He just nodded and smiled back. They’d had a wedding night of sorts fifteen floors up the night before. There was more to them now than words or paper could provide.

  With some effort, Taylor broke eye contact with Baldwin and turned to Eldridge. “So we tie this all up, neat and tidy, with a little bow. Except for one thing.”

  “Win Jackson,” Baldwin interjected.

  Taylor gave him a look of gratitude. “Exactly. What does my father have to do with Edward Delglisi?” She turned to Eldridge and Callahan. “Have you come across any information that would explain his presence in all of this?”

  They both shook their heads. “No, we haven’t.”

  Shit, Win. As much as she hated it, she was actually worried for him.

  She excused herself to use the restroom, giving Baldwin an “I’m fine” look as she left. She crossed the parquet floors, the heels of her boots thudding dully. She stopped at the glass-fronted fireplace for a moment, warming her hands and watching a thoroughly New York woman who was lingering briefly at the entrance to the restaurant so she could be admired. Glossy black hair, dark jeans tucked into chocolate suede boots, a white cashmere scarf wound around her neck—Taylor blinked and the chic girl was in motion, whipping the scarf off, coat and sunglasses gone, and she was across the room and being greeted by her party. Effortless. Not a word Taylor often used to describe herself.

  The hotel’s asymmetrical floor-to-ceiling windows, frosted glass with leaves pressed between the panes and the occasional cobalt square, looked out onto Lexington Avenue, which was teeming with people getting ready for the holidays. Even the cars and buses and police cruisers radiated good will. The hustle and bustle of the city was depressing Taylor. There was something sinister about this place now. Just knowing that Edward Delglisi, L’Uomo, was involved with her father in any infinitesimal way horrified her. She wondered if Win was still alive, wondered if he was in hiding from something bigger than them all. If Mars had been a target, it stood to reason Win was, too.

  She used the restroom and returned to her seat. They’d been talking about her; the conversation ended abruptly as she sat down. To cover her discomfort, she took a bite of the pear, amazed at its sweetness, the grainy texture welcome in her now-tart mouth.

  Callahan looked at Taylor strangely, obviously trying to imagine what it must be like for an upstanding cop to have a father who was associating with the lowest of lowlifes. Her brows knitted as if she couldn’t quite make the leap. Taylor decided to save her the trouble.

  “Win Jackson has been a crook since day one, Emily. Don’t worry yourself over it. This is all gelling for me. Now, if we could just wrap up the Snow White case. Baldwin, was there any more news about the Macias girl?”

  Eldridge nearly jumped out of his chair. “What Macias girl? What are you talking about?”

  Taylor raised an eyebrow. “We had a girl go missing last week, during the height of all the Snow White killings. Fit the vic profile for the Snow White. Her name is Jane Macias.”

  “Holy shit!” Callahan and Eldridge exchanged looks. Taylor held her hands up.

  “What, what is it? Do you know where she is?”

  Eldridge had gotten pale. “No, but I know who she is. She’s a reporter, was a reporter, at least. Did some articles last year about Delglisi’s operation. Her dad owned a restaurant up here, in Little Italy. It’s the same old story—Delglisi’s goons hit the place up, offering protection. Macias said no way in hell. They made it clear that if he wanted to stay open, he’d comply. He must have gone along with it eventually. They usually do. About a year ago, Macias had an accident. Slipped and fell in the kitchen of the restaurant, managed to get the knife he was carrying buried to the hilt in his stomach. His daughter found him.

  “Word on the street was he tried to get out, and Delglisi ordered his murder. Jane Macias was working for the New York Times, a junior cub reporter. She bylined a story about the corruption in the restaurant business, how the foreign mobs are taking over the city.”

  “Where’s the mother?”

  “The Maciases were divorced. She’s remarried, name is Ayn Christani. I don’t think she lives in the city, though I remember something about her moving to Boston a few years back. So Jane has gone missing in Nashville? What’s she doing there?”

  “She’s working for the Tennessean, our daily. She disappeared last week and she fits the profile. We’ve been assuming all along that she’s a casualty, that we just haven’t found her yet. But with this new information, it seems like we’re off base. Delglisi’s cleaning house.”

  Taylor thought about Frank Richardson, and the photos of Jane Macias. Her father. That silky voice who promised to hurt her if she didn’t look the other way. Anger built in her chest.

  She looked at Baldwin. It was time to go home.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Baldwin made a quick series of calls. One to the FBI offices in New York that handled money laundering and RICO matters, one to the pilot of the FB
I plane sitting at the ready at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, the closest private airport to Manhattan. He arranged for a car service to pick them up, then they checked out of the hotel.

  Standing on the sidewalk waiting for the car to arrive, Taylor mentally replayed the taped message from the cell phone. Her father’s voice. God, she hadn’t heard it in so long. It had been so easy to go along with everyone’s assumptions that he was dead. To ignore the sense of wrongness in her gut. But the voice on the tape certainly seemed to dispel that theory.

  What in the world could her father have to do with Edward Delglisi? Was Burt Mars the key?

  She must have made some sort of noise, because Baldwin quickly hung up his cell phone and took her hand in his.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She smiled.

  “I don’t even know where to begin. There’ve been a few revelations this morning, haven’t there? I’m just trying to understand Jane Macias’s role in this. I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence. Can you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. What if Snow White took her purposefully to calm things down between him and Delglisi? Jane may be a tool to broker peace. If someone is killing in Snow White’s name, under his sanction, but went against the plan and hit the massage parlor, Jane could have been taken to appease Delglisi. Deliver the girl who caused him trouble, get on his good side. Trade one for the other?”

  “That’s…who knows. Might be what’s going on. But how does my father play into all of this? Do you think he’s working with Delglisi?”

  Baldwin ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. I think you need to prepare yourself that he may be involved with Delglisi.”

  A black Lincoln slid to the curb, and the driver came around to greet them. He got them settled and pulled away. He spoke over his shoulder as he tapped the horn and jerked the wheel, a perfect imitation of a taxi driver, just wearing a black suit and driving a nicer vehicle.