Whitney felt a quick stab of regret. She hadn’t called the twins in a couple of weeks. She may try to stay out of her sister’s perfectly groomed hair, but the kids were another matter. Quinn couldn’t be more Whitney’s opposite if she tried. They’d heard the same thing growing up all their lives, especially since their teenage years. That’s when they really came into their identities.
Their mother had always used their full names, in conversation, addressing them, discussing them. Sarah Whitney and Ashleigh Quinn went to school today. Sarah Whitney and Ashleigh Quinn are going to camp this summer. Sarah Whitney and Ashleigh Quinn, get down here right now. Finally, Sarah Whitney rebelled, insisting that she be called just plain Whitney. Ashleigh Quinn had concurred, going with her more esoteric moniker, Quinn. It had taken several months of arguments, but the girls had prevailed. They became Whitney and Quinn, and their personalities diverged along with their names.
One thought led to another and Whitney realized she hadn’t heard from her little brother in a while, either. Reese Connolly was so far off her radar most of the time that she forgot he existed. That’s how she always wanted it. Who said families had to be close?
Tamping down a moment of frustration, Whitney went to her stainless-steel refrigerator and pulled out a can of sugar-free Red Bull. Coffee and more caffeine, the secret to her figure. She jokingly called it the model diet. Cracking open the can, she stood at the sink, staring out the kitchen window at the huge birch tree in her backyard. A male cardinal parked his red feathers on the bird feeder, chirping contently while he ate his breakfast. Two squirrels barked at each other in a game of chase, and the breeze lightly shuffled leaves from the tree onto her deck. The Virginia creeper that was slowly strangling the bark from the tree reminded her of her past.
Whitney had never quite recovered after her parents’ deaths. In an instant, all the comfort and stability she had known was gone. The Connollys were returning from an evening at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center, a drive they’d taken innumerable times. In a brutal collision, two loving, vivacious, happy people were stolen from their family by a drunk driver. Though it had been eight years, time hadn’t lessened her sense of loss.
The uneasy peace their parents had provided between the siblings never fully recovered. The three children split their parents’ fortune, but the rift between them grew with each passing year.
Whitney struck out on her own, throwing herself into her work, building her career. It fell to Quinn to mother Reese, shepherding him through his final year of high school, then getting him settled at Vanderbilt. Quinn had met Jake Buckley by then, and was getting pretty hot and heavy with him, but Jake was a good guy. Waiting for Quinn’s little brother to get out of the house so they could marry wasn’t a big problem for him. Quinn’s money would cement his place in the world.
The unwelcome thought of Reese made Whitney’s stomach turn. Even all these years later, she still resented him. Reese had always been an exceptional child, gifted in ways Whitney would never be. He was brilliantly smart and driven. He entered Vanderbilt when he was fifteen, finished his undergraduate coursework in two years and started in their medical school program. Now Reese was finishing his final year of residency in psychiatry.
Whitney thought back to the last time she’d seen him. It wasn’t a planned meeting, they’d just run into each other at Quinn’s home. He’d been talking about going to some godforsaken country in South America to work with a group operating on poor people. What lofty aspirations the boy had. Yet Quinn had been all dewy eyed about it, such an amazing opportunity, he’s so young, blah, blah, blah. Grudges could last a lifetime, Whitney knew that better than anyone. Quinn understood. She didn’t approve, she just understood.
Maybe she should give her sister a call. She looked at the clock. Surely Quinn was finished with tennis or dropping the twins at school or whatever it was she did in the mornings with all of her and Jake’s money.
Taking one last look at the birch tree, she shook off the past.
She picked up the phone and speed dialed her sister’s cell phone. The voice mail answered instead, requesting in Quinn’s perfectly cultured southern accent that she leave a message. Whitney hung up without saying a word, instantly relieved. She’d just try again later.
Slamming the empty can into the sink, she walked back to her office. She wheeled her chair back to the desk and pulled out her file on the Southern Strangler. Maybe she could get some more work done on the background story. She was theorizing on many of the killer’s attributes, working off research that she had gathered over the years on serial kidnappers and killers.
She worked quietly, the hour passing quickly. Closing the file, she stretched and decided it would be a good idea to hit Starbucks for another coffee. She always asked for Starbucks cards as presents, she lived off their espresso. She walked to the living room, gathering her purse, when something on the television screen caught her eye.
A News Alert was flashing across the screen. They’d found Marni Fischer.
She sat and turned up the volume. The anchor was intoning that Marni Fischer’s body had been found off Highway 81 in Roanoke, Virginia. Roanoke. Something niggled at the back of Whitney’s mind. She ran back into her office and pulled the file out again, reading the names of the cities involved.
“Huntsville, Baton Rouge, Jackson, Nashville, Noble, Roanoke. Huntsville, Baton Rouge, Jackson, Nashville, Noble, Roanoke.”
Her heart was starting to beat just a little faster. Hands shaking, she pulled out the notes again, copies of the poems she had printed from her e-mail. She read through them, her breath coming in little gasps. Read them again. And again. Then it hit her. She knew who the Southern Strangler was.
She dropped the files and grabbed her cell phone out of her purse. Journalistic creed be damned. Screw the anchor job in New York. She had to warn her sister.
Eighteen
Taylor sat back in her chair, her hands entwined in her long blond hair. Sunlight glinted through the slats of the Venetian blinds behind her, the window one more small concession to her rising credibility in the world. The words of the doctor slapped through her brain like a pinball. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.
She ran the conversation with Dr. Gregory over and over in her head, as if she could rearrange the words, realign their meaning.
“That’s impossible. I’m not late. I haven’t ever been late. I think I’d know if I was late. And I’m on the Pill. Trust me, it’s not something I forget about. So you have to be wrong.”
“Taylor, these things happen. The tests are very sensitive, they can detect pregnancy hormones almost immediately. What you need to do is relax. I’m going to prescribe a prenatal vitamin for you and I want you taking one milligram of folic acid every day. No drinking, of course. And I don’t suppose I have to tell you no smoking?”
Taylor felt like throwing up. Psychosomatic, she told herself. She couldn’t have morning sickness just because the doctor told her she was pregnant.
“I’m telling you, Doc, this just can’t be. I never—”
“It can, and it is,” he said gently. “Now, I want you to make an appointment with your OB/GYN, and she can go over all of the additional information with you.” His voice had quieted even more. “This is a blessing, Taylor. With the damage done to your body, you should be jumping for joy that it happened so soon. It’s going to be fine, I promise. I have to run now, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
He’d hung up as soon as she whispered okay back to him. She stared at the phone receiver, then tossed it across the room like it was a snake that tried to bite her. Damn. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to have a baby. Just not now. At least, not until she knew if Baldwin was into that kind of stuff. They had been too busy doing what it took to make a kid rather than talking about the consequences. Consequences. Hell, she sounded like a thirteen-year-old in an after-school movie. What in the name of God was she going to do?
She picked up her cell phone and dialed
Baldwin’s number. As soon as she hit Send, she hit End and put the phone down on the desk in front of her.
The tears started to come, and she felt even worse. As a woman in her mid-thirties, she should be thrilled at the mere thought of a healthy child. Nearly everyone she knew had at least one child in the stable. The ones who didn’t were desperately trying—innocuous prescription bottles of Clomid suddenly appearing on the bathroom vanity, the fervent prayers that the little stick would turn pink and the bleeding wouldn’t begin. Then that heart-stopping moment when it did. The shots of Ovidrel, once daily, the woman bent in half in front of the mirror making sure her man is sticking her right. The prayers again that the maturation of the follicle would kick out that magic egg. The basal thermometers, the ovulation kits, tired husbands jacking off into plastic cups, their despair and embarrassment nearly as bad as their wives’ desire for offspring. The in vitro fertilization, the bank accounts dwindling, all in that desperate search for something permanent of themselves to be left on this earth. Most of these women had spent years trying not to get pregnant; suddenly finding themselves unable to fulfill that one promise of womanhood was more than they could take.
The level of guilt Taylor felt rose appreciably. She wasn’t trying to get pregnant. She didn’t want to be pregnant. Hell, she and Baldwin were just finding each other. How would that fragile union support another life? They had never spoken of children. Their lives didn’t seem to have room for that kind of future right now.
A knock on her door startled her. She quickly wiped away the tears, cleared her throat, mussed her hair and said, “Come in.”
The door opened and ADA Julia Page stepped into the room. Glancing over her shoulder, she shut the door behind her, then leaned back against it. She looked Taylor up and down.
“Bad time?”
“No, not at all. I was just…” Taylor shrugged as her voice trailed off. No need to explain herself. Julia wouldn’t be interested in the details.
Julia Page was one of the assistant district attorneys representing Davidson County. Smart as a whip and about as tall as a dandelion, she looked more like a Pomeranian fluffed out for Westminster than the cutthroat attorney that she was. Her light brown curls framed her face, making her seem innocent and pure, a tactic that had snowed many a criminal. They got on the stand and saw her sweet blue eyes and cupid-bow lips and just knew that this sweet young thing was no threat. How wrong they were.
“Good, because we need to talk.” Page stayed standing, keeping her eye level with Taylor’s sitting form. “I think we have a problem.”
Taylor groaned. If ADA Page was visiting with a “problem,” it must be a doozy. A headache began to take hold behind her right eye. She reached into her top drawer and drew out a bottle of Excedrin, popped the top, then shook three out into her hand. She put them in her mouth and chased them with a swig of tepid Diet Coke. A thought hit her hard as she swallowed—caffeine. She probably shouldn’t be having either the pills or the soda. She shook the thought off.
“What’s wrong then, Page?”
Page took a deep breath and practically spit out the words. “Terrence Norton.”
“What did the little turd do now?”
“He just walked out of Judge Hamilton’s court a free man.”
That caught Taylor’s attention. “What do you mean, a free man? We have him dead to rights on murder one.”
“Had,” Page corrected. “Had him dead to rights. Jury acquitted him in forty-five fucking minutes. Forty-five fucking minutes, Taylor. All the evidence, the testimony, hell, the witnesses, none of that seemed to matter. We lost this trial, and it’s a huge mess. You heard about the projects shooting a few days ago?”
Taylor nodded. “East Homicide caught it, they had the shooter in custody by the end of the night.”
“Well, the vic was going to be a witness against Terrence in this trial. A few weeks ago, he changed his mind and his testimony, decided that he didn’t see what he thought he saw. Refused to testify. We dropped him from the list, we had other witnesses. It smells like a hit, just in case he changed his mind again. The shooter is from Atlanta. He’s claiming he was in town to see a friend who lived at the apartment next door to the witness. Says he and his ‘friend’ had an argument over the price of a package of heroin, the kid was lingering and was shot accidentally. That’s just too damn convenient for me.”
“I agree. There’s more there. So Terrence is running drugs out of Atlanta now?”
Page snorted. “Right now, Terrence could be walking on the moon. He’s really managed to build a reputation for himself. Did you know he’s moving around town with four bodyguards when he’s not in the lockup? That smacks of drugs to me, no pun intended. We don’t have anything on it though.”
“And the trial fell apart?”
“Yeah. His peers didn’t think we substantiated our facts. That’s a quote from the jury foreman, by the way. He’s out on the courthouse steps, talking to Channel fucking Four about it. And every other station that will listen.”
“Can’t you throw a gag order at them, or something?”
“No. Trial’s over, they’re free to say what they want. Terrence walked out of there like Michael Jackson, to the cheers of his fans. We have a serious problem here, Taylor. A really fucking serious problem.”
Energy spent, Page flopped in the chair, head down. “We had him. I absolutely can’t believe they acquitted him. This is the third time in the past few months. We have a serious problem,” she repeated. Page was talking to her chest now, and Taylor could feel the waves of frustration rolling off her like a desert breeze.
Terrence Norton was a nobody from nowhere. Just another kid from the projects who had himself a rap sheet a mile long, assault, burglary, rape, murder, drugs. He got around the criminal scene, and with each arrest, his street cred went a little higher. With each acquittal, he became stronger, more important in the community. He was becoming a legend, and that was the most perilous thing a young criminal in Nashville could be. If he’d gotten strong enough to be bringing in drugs from out of town, he was more dangerous than they realized.
Taylor understood why Page had come to her. Fitz had developed a sort of rapport with Terrence after his best friend was murdered by another bad guy in the projects. Fitz had been trying to get Terrence to admit that the thug, known as Little Man Graft, had shot Terrence’s friend. In the course of making the case, Terrence had been busted for shooting a homeless man. When he’d been brought in, Terrence immediately asked for Fitz, offering to turn on Little Man for some consideration on this latest shooting charge. His testimony had secured Little Man a cell on death row.
Fitz had worked a deal with the punk, knowing full well that the officers on the scene of the homeless shooting had recovered a gun that matched the description of what Terrence had been carrying. Fingerprint analysis proved Terrence handled the gun, and the ballistics matched the gun to the bullets that killed the homeless man. Still, this jury had seen fit to let him off the hook. Page was right. They did have a problem.
Taylor eyed the woman. “What do you think is going on?”
Page looked her straight in the eye. “Take your pick. Jury tampering, witness intimidation, a corrupt judge.”
Taylor laughed. “Yeah, right. Terrence Norton has gotten to Judge Hamilton. The man’s an icon in this town. He’s put away more criminals than you or I have ever met. There’s no way Hamilton’s involved.”
“You don’t think?” Page was staring harder, and Taylor felt a qualm in her stomach. Taylor’s own father had been convicted of interfering with the election of a federal judge, and had done time for it. Taylor wasn’t quite sure what Page’s glare was insinuating. Judges were bought with money. Terrence Norton didn’t have enough to get to a judge. Not yet.
“No, I don’t think.” Taylor returned the stare, her gray eyes steely. “Jury tampering and witness intimidation I can buy. But not Judge Hamilton. And I think you’d be wise to stay away from that train of
thought. ADAs have gone down for much less.”
Page stood up, huffing. “What are you saying, Taylor? That you’ll report me for having doubts about why one of our most notorious criminals manages to walk out of court every damn time we arrest him, despite hard-core evidence?”
“Sit down. You know I’m not saying that. Jesus, Page, I think you’d know me better than that by now.”
Page was still puffed up, spoiling for a fight. “I’m coming to you because I trust you, Taylor. If there’s anyone in this town that I can believe in to see that this gets made right, it’s you. You’re not exactly the squeamish kind, you know?”
Taylor dropped Page’s gaze, rolling her neck to relieve the tension. Not squeamish. Page was right about that. Taylor had killed, and more than once. She’d fought her way out of bad situations before, with force when necessary, and had the scars to prove it. She wasn’t a violent woman by any means. No screaming fights, no broken glass, no beatings by a man. Yet the edge of mayhem lurked in the recesses of her mind, waiting. What female in any kind of law enforcement didn’t have some inkling of brutality bred in her? She fingered her neck and said softly, “Julia, sit down. Let’s talk.”
The fight went out of the ADA and she sat back down, suddenly looking like a vulnerable law student seeking quarter for a perceived transgression. She fiddled with a curl over her ear, and Taylor realized how young she really was. It was easy to forget how young they both were. Seeing death and destruction every day, living in the world of crime, made them older than their years.
“I think we’d do right to look at the jury and witness angles, rather than at Judge Hamilton. Terrence has a much better shot at intimidating the people of the community who come into contact with him or his thugs than he does a criminal-court judge.” Page started to say something, but Taylor held up a hand. “Now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t look into Hamilton. I just think it’s much more likely that Terrence is screwing with the people he has ready access to, that’s all.”
All the Pretty Girls Page 11
