Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  The directory listed Dr. Walberg’s office on the seventh floor. She pushed the up button on the left side of a bank of elevators, the doors to one opposite her slid open. Once inside, Taylor glanced in the smooth, mirrored wall surface and cursed. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and shook it, turning upside down and running her fingers through as a makeshift comb. The humidity coupled with the threat of rain had created a riotous mass of baby curls around her face, which caused her hair to get wavy and stick out in all directions. She flipped back up, gathered the mess into her left hand and wound the holder back into place. She was swiping on Burt’s Bees pomegranate lip balm when the doors clanged open.

  A hugely pregnant woman appeared, her belly distracting Taylor from noticing anything else about the woman. Well, she was in the right place. Taylor held the elevator doors for her. The woman waddled in and gave her a tired smile.

  “Damn Braxton Hicks. I thought this one was for real.”

  Taylor tried for sympathetic as the doors slid closed, then grimaced. Not her idea of a fun day, that. She hadn’t felt the tug, the desire for motherhood yet. And pushing thirty-six, she was going to have to think about it. But not right now. She’d had a scare a few months prior, and that had been enough to convince her that she was not, by any means, ready.

  On the seventh floor, she went a few feet down the hallway and entered Suite 702. The door opened into a large space full of comfortable chairs and baby magazines. Dual receptionists looked up in unison.

  Before Taylor could say a word, the woman on the right stood and waved her toward a door that said PRIVATE. Taylor crossed the waiting room, ignoring the looks from the curious. She opened the door and the receptionist greeted her.

  “You must be that policewoman the doctor said was coming over.”

  “How did you know?” Taylor asked, shaking the woman’s hand and handing her a card.

  “Honey, I know all our patients. We aren’t scheduling new clients these days. Dr. Walberg’s practice is full up. And the gun is a bit of a giveaway. Who do you see?”

  “Oh, um,” Taylor started, and the receptionist just smiled.

  “Make sure you get your annual and a Pap, dear. And don’t forget your monthly breast exam.”

  “I did. I won’t. I mean, I will.” Taylor shook her head. “Is Dr. Walberg—”

  “She’s waiting on you right now. Here you go.”

  The receptionist knocked once on a wooden door, then opened it. A small woman with dark gray hair and wireless glasses sat behind a massive mahogany desk.

  “Dr. Walberg? Lieutenant Jackson is here.”

  The doctor popped out of her chair with a litheness that belied her age, came to the door and shook Taylor’s hand. “Thank you, Darlene.” She nodded in dismissal at her receptionist, then closed the door behind her.

  “Hello, Lieutenant. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. Most of my work involves happiness, not murder. Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Good. Here, let’s sit. I have Corinne’s file. Your colleague faxed over the warrant, so I’m free to discuss anything you need to help solve this case.”

  “I appreciate that, doctor.” Taylor sat, crossed her legs and rested her hands in her lap. “My first question is, did you prescribe lorazepam for Corinne? We found therapeutic levels in her bloodstream.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Taylor was taken aback. “Really? I thought that it wasn’t good for pregnant women.”

  “Considering some of the alternatives, lorazepam is the best choice for pregnancy. Especially in the third trimester. Corinne was having episodes, panic attacks. She asked for something benign to help take the edge off. I also gave her the name of an excellent psychologist who was working with her on some behavioral therapies. Panic disorder is something that can be conquered, and Corinne was making great strides.”

  “Did anyone else know about this? Her husband?”

  “I doubt it. Corinne was horrifically embarrassed by the…lack of control, she called it. She’d always been a major overachiever. She was an athlete, a world-class one for a while. Ever since she was a teenager she had a presence of mind about her that I don’t usually see in women twice her age. Everything she set her mind to, she accomplished. Excelled. Grades, sports, boys. The panic attacks were not on her game plan. Of course, I don’t think getting murdered was on her agenda either.” Sadness crept across the doctor’s features. She cleared her throat, and Taylor got the impression Walberg was holding back tears.

  “You’ve been treating her since she was a teenager?”

  “Yes. Though her mother probably doesn’t know that. She started coming to me right after her sixteenth birthday, before she became sexually active with a boyfriend. She wanted to go on birth control pills and get instructions in the proper way of handling condoms. I nearly laughed that first time. She was so matter-of-fact outwardly, but you could tell that inside she was scared to death. That was Corinne, though. She would never let anyone see anything but the calm, cool, rational, successful side.”

  “Except you.”

  Dr. Walberg nodded. “I was frank with her, treated her with respect, then told her not to go to bed with the boy. That she’d have plenty of time to get to the physical side of life. She lost her virginity that weekend.” The doctor’s face softened, and she smiled. “That girl was more stubborn than any mule. Tell her not to do something, tell her she couldn’t do something, and she’d do it just to spite you.”

  “You liked her.”

  “Yes, I did. I’d like to think we were friends as well as doctor and patient. She was a lot of fun. Girl like that, so driven, so composed, she reminded me of myself at her age. I took that sass to medical school. Corinne could have done anything she wanted, instead decided to go the marriage track. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just saw her changing the course of humanity with her drive. It was a shame that she settled.”

  “And the lorazepam? What was giving Corinne panic attacks?”

  The doctor looked out the window. “She wouldn’t tell me,” she said softly. “Just described the symptoms, said it was getting to be more than she could control, and was there something that could help. She wouldn’t tell me a thing. And now we’ll never know. Damn her.” The doctor took off her glasses, wiped a hand across her eyes.

  “The therapist?”

  She put the glasses back on and raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to try. I sent her to Dr. Ellen Ricard. She’s downtown on Broadway, by Arby’s. In the same building as Dr. Wang’s LASIK enterprise.” She scribbled a number on the back of a card, then handed it to Taylor. “Here. Call ahead. Ellen’s usually booked all week. You’ll have to see her after hours. Tell her I sent you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The doctor was tensed in her chair, obviously ready to get back to her patients. Taylor paused for a moment, then asked, “Doctor, you said Corinne started coming to you at sixteen. After that first sexual partner, did she confide in you about any others?”

  The doctor stared at Taylor, brows knitted as if she were making a great decision. Taylor waited her out. There was a battle raging behind the doctor’s eyes. She finally smiled, the gesture not reaching her eyes.

  “Lieutenant, I’ll tell you this. Corinne liked sex. That was another reason I was surprised she settled down so young. Once she had it that first time, nothing could stand in her way. She was hyperactive sexually all through high school and college. She wasn’t giving it away, mind you, she just practiced an overly healthy version of serial monogamy. Before she married Todd Wolff, she’d had dozens of sex partners. Though according to her, when she did marry Todd, that was it. She didn’t cheat. Said it would be tacky. I hoped it meant she’d grown up.”

  Taylor stuck out her hand and the doctor shook it, her own cool and dry to the touch. “Thank you, Dr. Walberg. You’ve been a huge help. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “You’re welcome,
Lieutenant. If you need anything else, you know where I am.”

  Taylor left the woman standing at her plate glass window overlooking downtown, lost in thought.

  *

  Taylor called the number on the psychologist’s business card the moment she exited Walberg’s office. She let the number ring and punched the down button on the elevator. If she could reach Corinne’s therapist, she was only two minutes from her office. After four rings, an answering machine came on with instructions to leave a message. Taylor did, asking for Ellen Ricard to call her back as soon as possible.

  She stepped in the elevator and glanced at her watch. If Walberg was right, Ricard wouldn’t get back to her until after five or six at the earliest, when her normal day’s schedule ended. It was four o’clock now. Plenty of time to get back to the office, go over her mental notes about Corinne’s background, check in on the Wolff crime scene and secure a warrant for Dr. Ricard’s records. Then she could start combing through the home movies she’d brought from the Wolffs. Joy.

  The sun was back out, the storm clouds dissipated. It had rained while she was inside, hard, from the looks of it. The air had a bite to it; the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees in the wake of the storm. She shivered as she got into the Impala. Crazy weather.

  She’d left the radio tuned in to JACK FM and when she turned the ignition, one of her old favorite Duran Duran songs, “Hungry Like The Wolf,” spilled from the speakers. Singing along, she turned right on Charlotte Avenue, crossed under I-40, then exited onto James Robertson Parkway. The roads were still wet and slick. There would be plenty of accidents clogging up the highways tonight.

  Five minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the CJC. Streams of workers were exiting the doors, the day shift over. At least it would be quiet in her office, for another hour or so. She might even have a moment to make a call to Baldwin, see how his day was shaping up. She could bet that he hadn’t seen some of the items she had today.

  Smiling to herself, she took the back stairs, slid her keycard through the mechanized device and pulled on the door as soon as she heard the lock disengage. She stopped at the soda machine for a Diet Coke, then walked the thirty steps to the homicide office.

  Marcus and Lincoln were sitting quietly at her desk, their heads bent together at a conspiratorial angle. They didn’t hear Taylor enter the room, didn’t move. Their eyes were locked on a laptop placed on top of Taylor’s desk.

  “Lucee…I’m home.” Both men jumped in surprise. Taylor smiled at them. They didn’t smile back. Taylor felt her heart do a quick shuffle. She’d never seen the two of them look so serious. Or bleak.

  “What’s wrong with you two? Lincoln, why are you here? I thought I gave you the rest of the day off.”

  Marcus looked at her, face distorted as if he were in pain. “I called him in, LT. I needed his help. It’s…” He trailed off, bit his lip.

  Lincoln took a huge, deep breath. “Tell her.”

  “Tell me what? Did I get fired while I was out? C’mon, you guys, you’re freaking me out.”

  Marcus turned the laptop around. He whispered, “I’m sorry,” then left the office.

  Lincoln walked around the desk and put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “This is my personal laptop from home. Hit play. Don’t turn the sound up. When you’re done, we’ll be here.” He stepped out of the office, pulled the door closed behind him.

  Taylor stared after him for a brief moment, then sank into her chair. She pulled the laptop onto her lap. The screen was frozen on a black background. A large white box was centered on the screen with a smaller black arrow indicating “play.” She clicked on the arrow.

  The video buffered, loading. Fifteen percent, forty-five percent, seventy percent, one hundred percent. Taylor’s heart was hammering in her chest. What the fuck was this?

  The screen stayed black for a moment, then she saw…people. The video wasn’t clear by any means; it was dark and grainy, in black and white. But she could easily make out two people. A woman and a man. Naked. Obviously having sex. The man was on his back, the woman on top. The shot was from a slightly downward angle, about twenty degrees right of center. A thick fringe of blond hair hid the faces of both participants. They rocked together, fitting well, neither one frantic, a seductive dance as old as mankind itself. There was subtle shifting, the pace quickened. The woman arched, then stopped moving. The man’s arms slid around her body. Taylor saw what looked like a tattoo on the man’s right wrist. Her hand went to her forehead, then to her mouth. She knew that tattoo.

  The woman moved slightly, shifting to the left. The man’s profile came into view. Taylor realized she was looking at her old partner and lover, David Martin. What in the…

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  The woman who’d climbed off David Martin was Taylor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Taylor fought back a wave of nausea. Her thoughts collided rapidly, a centrifuge of denial. There was no way the woman on the tape was her. But of course it was. As she looked closer, she recognized her sheets, her lamp and the windowsill. This was her bedroom in the cabin. And David Martin was alive. The video had to be at least two years old.

  Oh, Jesus. She forced herself to watch it again, then again. All three times, the video ended with a clear shot of Taylor’s face and naked breasts as she passed the camera. Taylor knew the path she was taking, she was on her way to the bathroom. The first thing she’d done every time she finished having sex with David Martin was take a shower. Something deep inside her was never happy with their encounters, and she always wanted to wash him out of her as quickly as possible after their interludes.

  She took a huge, gasping lungful of air, realizing she’d been holding her breath so long she was starting to see spots. Lincoln and Marcus had seen this. Her team had seen this. Dear God. Where had this tape come from? And how in the world did it get posted to the Internet?

  She stood abruptly, knocking the laptop off her lap. It clattered onto the floor. She whirled around and went to the door. She opened it and gestured to Lincoln and Marcus, who were sitting, waiting. They came in the room silently, Lincoln shutting the door on them.

  Taylor was trying to keep her cool.

  “Sit down, both of you.” They sat.

  “Where did you find this?”

  Marcus raised his head. He looked utterly miserable. “I was looking for the man you had the run-in with last night. I’d been trolling most of the afternoon, plugging in various names, cross-referencing his with Tawny. There was a site that had a match, deep down into the Google file directory. I clicked on the link, tried everything, but I couldn’t get to it. So I called Lincoln. He guided me through. We saw rather quickly that it was a partnership site, one that the members have to join to access the videos.”

  “It’s sophisticated as hell, Taylor. I had a bitch of a time hacking it. But I got in. And we pulled up the link that matched.” Lincoln looked at her. “You should sit down.”

  “What?” she asked.

  Lincoln swallowed and Marcus looked like he was about to burst into tears.

  Taylor gritted her teeth. “What, God damn it?”

  Lincoln looked her in the eye. “There are eight more videos like this one. All with you and David Martin. People pay to download them, one hundred dollars a pop. The site is called Selectnet.com.”

  Taylor felt the world shift the tiniest bit on its axis. Her chest closed and she couldn’t breathe. She shut her eyes and willed her body back into action. She would be damned if she was going to faint in front of them. It took a moment, but the vertigo stopped, and she opened her eyes. They were both watching her carefully, as if readying themselves for a defense in case she whipped out her weapon and started firing at them. It was a thought. Jesus. She carefully laid both hands on the desk, well within their sight. They both relaxed fractionally.

  “Who else knows?” Flat, girl. Stay emotionless. You are in control.

  Lincoln looked at Marcus, th
en back at her. “Just us. We thought about disabling the videos, but then they’d know we were in their system. They might shut the whole thing down and disappear. There are…other items that we may need to look at in addition to yours. We figured it would be better to wait, show you, and create a plan of attack. We assumed that you didn’t know that you were being taped.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that Taylor fought the urge to come around the desk and hug him. No matter what, they’d believed in her.

  “No, I didn’t. I…” Oh shit. She heard the crack in her voice. Do. Not. Cry. You are not allowed to cry. Fury and frustration clogged her mind. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit someone. She wanted David Martin to come back to life so she could strangle him. She cleared her throat, tried again.

  “David Martin is the last person in the world that I would want to keep for posterity.” She tried to smile, knew her lips were crooked. Holy shit. What were they going to do? Something like this could ruin her. Think, girl. Her mind felt like sludge, all she could see was the image of her getting off the bed and David Martin’s smug, dead features as he watched her walk away.

  “We’ve been running backtraces all afternoon. I think I found the name of the company that manages the site, though they are buried, and I mean deep. It’s a firm out in California.”

  Her head was clearing a bit. “Okay. What was the connection to Tony Gorman?”

  Marcus took over. “He’s a member of this online club. From what we can tell, the members pay a fee, go through a background check, and are then voted into the membership. Once they are in, they can upload, download, watch anything. There are five levels of membership, each with its corresponding site archives. The more money you put in, the deeper you can go. These videos were in the third level of membership. We looked at some of the others. The first two tiers are all homemade, poor quality kind of stuff. The third was better quality, but still not fantastic. We assume that the higher up the chain you go, the better the footage.”