Operation Angelmaker had a real name, “The Joint Preparedness Task Force on the Convention of Potentially Dangerous Assets,” but TJPTFOTCOPDA just didn’t work as an acronym. So OA they became, a covert group so secret only the immediate members knew it existed. There was no congressional oversight, no Presidential discretion, just the head of the CIA and people on a purely need-to-know basis.
The arrangement Atlantic made with Garrett Woods was for Baldwin to be borrowed, from time to time, to oversee “projects.” What Baldwin actually did was profile these international serial killers, men the United States government would normally seek to put in jail. These killers were valuable to their country’s government, or valuable to the United States in some capacity. Men with unnatural proclivities, as Atlantic so aptly put it. Baldwin’s job wasn’t to keep them out of trouble, or keep them hidden, so much as predict where they might strike next. If the Angelmakers knew where a killer would hit, they could arrange for bait to be delivered, usually in the form of a contract hit that needed the assassin’s immediate attention. It kept the innocents from too much risk, and allowed them to keep closer tabs.
If he were honest with himself, the cross-cultural analysis was fascinating. Nature versus nurture didn’t exist in the Angelmakers. Evil superceded all.
The program went against every grain of his being, but he understood the necessity of wet work. Baldwin had always been a good soldier. He agreed to work with the group with one condition. The United States government wasn’t much in the habit of using their assassins in their own backyard. If any of these men ever stepped foot on U.S. soil again, Baldwin would be notified. He knew what these maniacs were capable of. He insisted on the stipulation, and Atlantic agreed.
He’d been working with the group for ten long years. They had at least fifty men and women in their sights at all times.
Garrett’s sudden heart problem was a fallacy. Baldwin had been pulled to Quantico so Atlantic could honor their agreement. He was being warned, and given the tools to suss out his enemy. A nemesis had disappeared from the OA’s radar screens. The killer had cleared out his home, taken all his papers, all his false IDs, and disappeared. The chatter on the circuit was he’d contracted a job in the States, but so far, no one would own up to the hit.
The assassin was an American, at least by birth. He’d been brought up all over the world, the brilliant, prodigal son of a career diplomat. He’d started killing early, sanctioned by the government. His extracurricular activities were hidden well, he had worked hard to be quite discreet. But he wasn’t quiet enough. Once he’d gotten the OA’s attention, they knew he needed to be watched. And now, all the field reports agreed. The killer known simply as Aiden was making a transatlantic journey.
Baldwin had danced with Aiden many times. He could recognize his signature anywhere. Aiden liked to be thought of as an old-school assassin, an artist who used a silver garrote to strangle his victims. He had at least forty kills to his name that they knew of; the actual number could have been much higher. He played the game, knew about the OA team, knew he was fed targets. He was an indiscriminate sort—he didn’t need a type, just needed a neck. That made him especially dangerous.
If the reports were right, if Aiden was truly in the States, Baldwin needed to keep a very close eye on him. If he could find him.
Eleven
Taylor and Fitz sat at a patio table in the back of Las Palmas. The front room was filled with giggling Vanderbilt co-eds and migrant workers on their lunch break, a testament to the quality of the restaurant as well as its reasonable prices. Taylor was nibbling a steak fajita quesadilla, Fitz was plowing through a taco salad. A pitcher of sweet tea separated them.
“So what did Price say?” Fitz asked.
“He understood, for starters. He’ll fight any disciplinary action taken against Lincoln. So Linc will feel a lot better about that. Poor guy, he was completely rattled. I don’t know if it was the dope or the sheer terror of having to report that he’d been smoking it. Can you imagine Lincoln with a few toots in him?”
Fitz laughed. “No. Mr. Fancypants has always struck me as the one scotch before dinner because it looks good, rather than enjoying it type. He isn’t much for losing control.”
“Well, that’s to be expected, if you think about his background. Damn, it would be nice to have him back to work this Wolff case. I’ll bet there’s a ton of financial discovery, right up his little computer-literate heart’s alley. Marcus is back tomorrow, right?”
Marcus Wade, her youngest detective, had been out for four days doing his in-service training rotation. Without the two detectives, the squad had been too quiet.
“He’ll be in bright and early tomorrow. We can get him up to speed with the Wolff case, let him go to town. Media’s having a field day with the 911 tape.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. I heard it last night. It’s gut-wrenching.”
“Wish they wouldn’t do stuff like that. Makes our life harder.”
“No kidding.” She took a bite of quesadilla, wiped her mouth off with a napkin. “When we finish here, I want to take a run out to the Wolff house. The second interview with Todd Wolff is scheduled for two o’clock. Corinne’s whole family came to Forensic Medical this morning, did I tell you that?”
“No.”
“Yeah, well, they were all in the lobby when I left the autopsy. It was miserable. They told me Todd took Hayden to his parents’ house. Do you know where they live?”
“Not offhand. Did they say it was far?”
“Didn’t say. I haven’t gotten a call telling me he isn’t going to make round two, so I assume it’s close by. Think he’ll show up with a lawyer?”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “If he knows what’s good for him, but with any luck, no.”
“We can tag team him, see if he’s come up with anything else. The autopsy was pretty straightforward. Someone beat the living hell out of Corinne. There were signs of strangulation too. I want to look closer into Mr. Wolff’s days away.” She set her fork down on the edge of the plate, suddenly not hungry.
“So, tell me. Do you know what case Lincoln is on?”
Fitz dunked a tortilla chip in the spicy salsa and crunched before answering. “No, but I can guess. While you and the fed were off gallivantin’, he had several calls with that confidential informant he’d been wrangling, the kid working as a deejay?”
Taylor nodded that she remembered, and Fitz continued. “Well, the CI started talking big that he would be willing to distribute drugs through the club. He needed a dealer. Lincoln was the behind-the-scenes guy for a week, and then he dropped off the radar. I think Vice decided to keep him on it. Linc’s a smart kid. He can land on his feet. But couple all that information, and I’d assume it’s something to do with our good friend Terrence Norton.”
Taylor groaned. Terrence Norton had been a fly in the department’s ointment for years. A hoodlum, a generic neighborhood thug, he’d risen through the ranks of the underbelly of Nashville with meteoric speed. Drugs, shootings, assaults—the kid had a rap sheet fourteen pages long but skin like Teflon. None of the charges would stick. With each hung jury, each dismissed case, Terrence grew stronger. He was the main conduit of heroin and cocaine into Nashville, running the drugs up I-24 from Atlanta. But Terrence reported to someone, wasn’t high enough to be running the operation himself.
Taylor desperately wanted to see him nailed and out of her hair. She’d thought the chance was there—two months earlier, the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation had taken over a case of possible jury tampering. The final report had been on top of Taylor’s files when she returned from Italy, finding no apparent wrongdoing. The TBI had happily dumped Terrence squarely back in the locals’ lap, but kept the task force open, just in case something broke.
Terrence had been relatively quiet in the time since she’d been back, hadn’t killed anyone that they knew of.
A thought hit her. “It can’t be Terrence. He’d recognize Lincoln, wouldn’t he?”
“I worry about him. I’d never forgive myself if we lost him. He gave me the sense things would be breaking soon, so hopefully we’ll have him back.”
“Amen to that, sister.”
Taylor pushed away her plate, let the companionable silence build. She hated to drag everyone into her paranoia, but she knew she needed her back watched.
“Someone’s watching me.”
Fitz met her eyes, didn’t blink, or shake his head, or pat her on the arm. She appreciated that. He knew her well enough to know if she felt she was being watched, she was.
“Think it’s Snow White’s apprentice? Sorry, the Pretender?” He made little quote marks with his fingers. “Why would he call himself a pretender, anyway? Seems derogatory to me.”
“I think he’s shooting for something like a pretender to the throne. Someone who should rightfully rule, but circumstance has taken their monarchy. A self-anointed king of serial killers. No one said he wasn’t cocky.” She took a drink of her tea and shifted in her chair, glancing around as she settled back in.
“No, I don’t think it’s him. I don’t know why, but this feels different. Wrong, somehow. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I can feel it, you know? Like electricity. It’s so strange. Ah, hell. I’m just getting spooky. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Now who’s kidding who?”
She smiled. “I know. It will be fine. I’m aware of it, so that’s nine-tenths of the solution right there. So. You want to go to the Wolffs’ house with me? Do a run-through before the interview?”
“Why not. I don’t have anything better to do. Let’s go.”
The Hillwood neighborhood that the Wolffs lived in was quiet on this Tuesday. Much less frantic than the day before. The crime scene tape was still strung across the Wolffs’ driveway, a patrol officer was sitting quietly in his cruiser in front of the mailbox to discourage any thrill-seekers from coming by and messing with the scene.
Until the scene was officially released, they needed someone to keep guard. Taylor hoped that would happen today, there was no sense in wasting resources that could be used elsewhere.
Taylor pulled in behind the cruiser. The officer left his vehicle as she and Fitz climbed out of the Impala. Official business, they needed to have department vehicles on the scene. Taylor had never been fond of the Impalas, but what could you do? Couldn’t exactly ask the new chief to assign Porsches to the troops. The Chevy had some get-up-and-go at least, could haul ass if needed, unlike the Mercury she’d been forced to drive as a junior grade detective. She always felt so conspicuous in the white sedans, figured it was from too many years driving an SUV in a town where bigger was always considered better and a GMC Suburban was de rigeur for any class.
Fitz had started talking regional barbeque contests with the patrol, so Taylor took the opportunity to examine the Wolffs’ house. On the face, it was no different than yesterday—a handsome two-story tan brick colonial with a narrow white picket front porch, blue shutters, four curtained windows symmetrically set on either side of the front door, up and down. A chimney rose from the left side, the great room’s fireplace.
Taylor had noticed that both the Wolffs and Mrs. Manchini had converted to gas fireplaces. It was difficult to find newer homes in Nashville with the traditional wood-burning style, and Taylor had warned Baldwin that no way, no how was she going to go with gas. Pretty, convenient, easy, yes, they were all of those, but Taylor liked the real deal—the smell of smoky maple or popping oak hardwood, the action of piling in the kindling, stuffing the paper, stacking the wood. She’d much rather spend some time and effort to have a fire than stare at glowing coals and fake flames.
A closer look at the house revealed the slightest difference in the color of the brick between the top and bottom of the house. It would only show in the most perfect of light. Well, that made sense. This section of town, with its stunning one-and two-acre lots and trees, had undergone its own renaissance. The allure of having a little land was popular in Davidson County. Most of the original homes in the development were like Mrs. Manchini’s one-story rambler, tiny in comparison with new houses recently built.
An army of architects had moved through Hillwood in the recent years, helping new and old residents add on. Some people took the carport or garage, made it into a living room, built a new portico, cut in some skylights and were thrilled with a simple renovation. Others, with more grandiose plans in mind, put entire second stories on their homes. That’s what had happened with the Wolff house. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see the lines well. It was a beautiful job, but Taylor could see the bones of the rambler beneath its stately new persona.
Those extensive renovations would have been as expensive as buying a brand-new home, but the schools, the land, and the country club nearby were excellent enticements for a young family like the Wolffs. She had wondered why they didn’t live in one of his developments, but decided that perhaps it was the same reason she and Baldwin had opted out. No trees and no privacy. The houses Wolff’s company built were stunning, but the lots were close together and the land had been cleared entirely, which meant every tree was newly planted by a landscape designer. Regardless of size, they didn’t have the stately beauty of the real deal. This neighborhood, on the other hand, had a homey, genuine feel. And much more privacy.
She signaled to Fitz, who broke away from the patrol officer and met her in the driveway.
“You ready to go in?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sorry. Junior over there was all excited about the Memphis Bake, but he had it confused with the Huntsville Social Club. Got him straightened out.”
“Very generous of you. I assume you feel he wouldn’t be any competition?”
“That kid? Ha! He wouldn’t know pepper from paprika. Doesn’t have a chance against old Pops here.” He tapped his chest. “Pops has got it going on, I’ll tell you for true. I’ve found the most subtle nutmeg, comes from this little back alley store in Bombay, doesn’t taste like anything out there. They won’t know what hit them.”
Fitz was a world-class amateur barbeque enthusiast, winning all the regional competitions with his amazing rubs and slow-cooked Boston butts. He traveled to various contests most weekends, racking up the awards and bringing lunch for them all every Monday.
“You put nutmeg in your barbeque? Isn’t that illegal?”
Now it was Fitz’s turn to laugh. “Only in Texas, darlin’. Only in Texas.”
He took off for the house, Taylor following him closely. The seal was intact on the front door. Fitz slit it open with a pocketknife and they went in.
The scent of death was still strong, lingering in the bloody carpet, the walls. Taylor wondered if Todd would try to sell the place or go on living there. Though he hadn’t had the same shock as Michelle Harris, seeing Corinne in a pool of blood in their bedroom, there was no question a life had ended under this roof. Violence stayed, steeping in the walls, regardless of the abilities of the professional cleaners. They could clean the surface, but the malevolence could never be fully exorcised.
They moved in a pattern similar to the prior morning, through the dining room into the kitchen, then into the tastefully decorated great room. Architectural Digest magazines were stacked with precision on the coffee table, three crystal clocks each told the same time, and a honeysuckle scented candle with one half inch of pristine white wick showing sat in a rose marble holder. The mantle over the fireplace held three espresso colored vases in various heights, each filled with a slightly different shade of cream silk orchid. The walls were done in faux Venetian plaster in an ecru tint. The furniture was soft
chocolate leather. A forty-inch flat screen television was mounted on the wall across from the sofa. The Wolffs certainly appeared to be living the good life.
And considering the fact that the Wolffs had an eighteen-month-old child, the only real evidence was the understated nursery, the baby gate and the baby-proofed cabinets. It was astounding, really. Taylor had seen homes like this before, knew people who just didn’t become gaga over their children, buying every plaything on the market, turning their formal living areas into romper rooms. Hell, she’d grown up in a home like that, and she’d turned out just fine. It was her parents who were royally fucked up. Not that she was lumping the Wolffs in with her parents, of course.
“What’s this?” Fitz asked. He was standing next to a short cognac-colored smooth leather chair, which sat beneath a hanging tapestry at least seven feet in length depicting a leaping unicorn being speared by a group of men. He fingered the cloth.
Taylor joined him. “It’s a reproduction of one of the Unicorn Tapestries. The Unicorn Leaps the Stream, I think.”
“Are you sure it’s not the real deal? It’s pretty heavy.”
“No, it’s just a nice reproduction. If I remember, the originals are in The Cloisters, part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. They’re French, fifteenth century or so, made for Louis XII, I think. They probably bought this at the Met’s Museum bookstore, or out of the catalogue. Why, what’s the matter?”
Instead of speaking, Fitz’s mouth quirked up in a tiny half smile and his blue eyes twinkled in amusement, then he turned back to his task. He sometimes gave her that face, half-proud, half-bemused, looking right through her in that odd way that made her pull at her ponytail with self-conscious embarrassment. It wasn’t her fault that her parents had dragged her to every museum known to mankind and she remembered this shit.
Judas Kiss Page 9
