Coffee half finished, Baldwin went back to stacks of pages, scanning the names, departure flights, dates, numbers in the party. He was looking for a man traveling alone, buying one-way tickets, or tickets with extended return dates. This was Aiden’s usual standard operating procedure. Baldwin was a fan of Occam’s Razor, figured all things being equal, starting with the most obvious answer was generally the best approach.
It was 4:00 a.m. when he finally saw it. He flipped open the file of the eighth report and the name practically jumped off the page.
“Gotcha,” he whispered.
Wednesday
Fourteen
Taylor stretched. She’d fallen asleep despite her intent to stay awake for the remainder of the night. The malice from the previous evening was lost in the warm sunlight streaming through her shades, and she wondered briefly if she’d dreamed the whole thing. But no, the Glock was still in her hand.
The television came on, the morning news blaring. She tuned it out, rolled around in the sheets for a few moments, having her usual morning debate. Get up or play hooky. The former always won, unfortunately.
Groaning, she secured the weapon and pulled on a pair of yoga pants. She thought about washing her face, and made five steps toward the bathroom but drew up short when she heard the now familiar words.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”
Michelle Harris’s tear-stricken voice drifted from Taylor’s television. She sat back on the bed and listened to the rest of the tape, following with the visual on the television screen, the lines scrolling slowly.
Taylor shut her eyes and rubbed her knuckles against the closed lids. The media would make hay out of this as long as they didn’t have something more sensational to cover.
Michelle Harris’s voice, sharp and immediate, made Taylor sit up. Live, or recently taped, the words were unfamiliar. This was a new interview.
Taylor reached for the remote and turned up the volume.
Michelle Harris was wearing a white button-down shirt that washed out what little color she had left in her face. Her cheekbones created dark hollows, her lips were bloodless, her hair lashed back in a ponytail so tight it seemed to pull the hairs from their roots. She looked like absolute hell.
“Miss Harris, when was the last time you saw your sister?”
“On Friday. We grabbed a Starbucks after tennis.”
“And you never saw your sister alive again?” The anchor’s eyes were misty, she obviously felt every word’s impact.
“Yes. The next time I saw Corinne, she was, she was…dead.” Michelle’s voice was breaking, rich with emotion, but her eyes remained dry.
“And you,” the anchor began, but Michelle interrupted.
“Whoever killed her needs to know that we won’t stop until he is caught. We will hunt you down, and kill you ourselves. You can’t do something like this and not get punished. I just can’t believe that someone could do this to my sister. It’s not fair.” Overcome with emotion, she began to cry. The anchor threw it to commercial.
Taylor punched the power button with her thumb, and the television snapped off. Damn it. Just what they needed, Michelle Harris on national TV, playing the victim.
Morning soured, she went downstairs, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She was famished, so she poured a bowl of cereal. Checked the milk, yes, still fresh enough—the organic stuff Baldwin had talked her into lasted at least a week longer than regular. Dropped a tea bag and some honey in a cup, splashed in a little milk, then filled it with boiling water from the in-sink tap. Stood at the kitchen sink, gazed out into the backyard. Spooned crunchy wheat biscuits into her mouth slowly, watching the woods, thinking.
A huge rabbit was in the back, nibbling on the clover. Taylor could see another farther back into the thicket, on alert, watching over his mate as she foraged for breakfast. The knowledge that she’d soon be sharing mornings with baby bunnies made her smile. She watched the creature hop slowly forward, just a few inches at a time as it grazed. Then it stopped, ears alert, nose twitching.
With a suddenness that made Taylor’s heart race, the rabbit fled, scared by something. A dog, most likely, Taylor could hear the faint echoes of barking bleeding through the air. She looked closer at the spot in the lawn vacated by the panicked rabbit. What was that?
She set the bowl in the sink and made her way to the back door. Stepping out onto the deck, she heard the alarm buzz its warning tone. Shit. She’d forgotten to turn the damn thing off. She dashed back inside and punched in the code. It squawked and the series of lights turned green. Disarmed.
She went back to the yard, bare feet cold as she picked through the still dew-wet grass. A lump of dark was thirty feet to her right, in line with the kitchen window.
She drew closer, scenting the murk of decay, heard the buzzing of the flies. A furry pile, red and slick. She recognized the cottontail of a rabbit, the body skinned, turned inside out. Poor beast. There was a thin line of wire digging deep into the animal’s neck, the ends wrapped around each other like a twisty tie on a loaf of bread.
She felt exposed, her T-shirt too thin, and she rubbed her arms up and down for warmth. She wasn’t an idiot, knew this was a message. The who wasn’t the important question, she assumed it was from her nocturnal stalker. Why she was being targeted, that’s what she wanted to know. Was this the work of the Pretender? He seemed too subtle for gross displays, but perhaps they’d misread him.
She didn’t want to touch the carcass. She needed to secure it in some way, keep it intact and safe from the multitudes of predators that would surely come to scavenge. Preserve the integrity of the message so a tech could come collect it as evidence. She went around the side of the house. The lid from the trashcan wouldn’t work, it was too flat. There was an empty flowerpot, a good-sized one that held a dead hydrangea. Perfect. She dumped the flower and the dirt onto the ground, then went back to the dead rabbit, carefully placing the pot over the body. That should keep for an hour or so.
Feeling eyes on her from every corner, Taylor left the makeshift shrine in the yard and went back inside. Her morning’s peace shattered, she abandoned the cup of tea on the counter, dressed quickly and headed into the office.
There were news vans lining the streets in front of the CJC, receiver satellites pointed toward the heavens. Taylor decided to park in the adjacent lot so she wouldn’t have to run the media gauntlet. She walked the cement ramp, spiraling down toward the street, her boot heels echoing with each step. The repetition calmed her, the pattern resonating through her mind.
She managed to slip in the side door unnoticed. The building itself was humming, noisy, aware. She stopped for a Diet Coke, feeding her dollar into the machine, the can dropping with a clatter. Normally the noise thundered through the halls; today it was barely heard. She entered the Homicide office, saw Lincoln Ross sitting with one butt cheek on the edge of his desk, holding court. It looked like half of headquarters had jammed into Homicide.
A few people acknowledged Taylor, polite “Loot’s” and “Morning, LT.” She nodded back, caught Lincoln’s eye.
His face lit up when he saw Taylor. He jumped off the desk and greeted her with a hug. She hugged him back, hard, thrilled that he was out and obviously okay. She stepped back and took him in. More than okay. Lincoln had a gap-toothed smile that spread from ear to ear. His new look made him seem vaguely like a pirate—bald head, curly beard, eyes flashing with charm and intelligence. Toss him a cutlass and he’d be ready to rapier his way through downtown Nashville.
“Girl, you look great. Whatcha been doing while I’ve been away? You and the fed have a good trip?”
“It’s damn good to see you, Linc. First things first. What’s happening?”
He smirked and waggled his eyebrows. “I got Terrence Norton for you, all tied up with a pretty little bow.”
They bumped knuckles, her generation’s version of a high five. “Really? That’s gre
at news, Lincoln. But why is every newsie in town camped on our doorstep?”
“Got his boss, too.” He said it with such nonchalance that Taylor instinctively knew it was someone visible that no one would ever expect.
“Okay, you’ve got me. Who’s been running this train?”
“Our very own Sidney Edgar.”
She drew back in surprise. “Kong?”
“Yup.”
“Sidney Edgar, wide receiver for the Tennessee Titans. You are shitting me.”
Sidney “King-Kong” Edgar had been a first round draft pick, a rainmaker for the Titans, a young man out of Atlanta who had more brawn than brains. He was six foot four inches of lean, hard muscle, devastatingly dangerous when his hands got within five feet of the pigskin, and a gangster thug to boot. Since he joined the team, Kong had rushed for over one thousand yards and been arrested no less than eight times, always skirting the edge of felony territory. He ran with a bad crowd, a posse of ruffians who traveled between Nashville and Atlanta, lawless men who were regularly picked up for weapons and drug-related charges.
Though as far as Taylor knew, they’d never been connected to Terrence Norton’s gang. She said that, and Lincoln nodded.
“We didn’t know that either until last night. I have to say, I can act. After Sunday night…” He gave her a meaningful look she understood immediately. He’d smoked crack with them, so they’d accepted him.
“Anyway, my CI told me the big dog was coming in. He very kindly left his cell phone on so I could hear the deal being made, and I called in the cavalry. It was too sweet. Caught Kong and Terrence Norton with their hands full of crack baggies.”
Lincoln was obviously still riding the adrenal train. Taylor thought he was probably putting a good face on the situation; she knew it must have been dicey, moment-to-moment danger.
In that inevitable way with men who’d had street violence bred into them before they were weaned, Edgar had always seemed a little too close to the edge. It was a sad thing. So many of those boys pulled themselves up by the bootstraps, got straight, made something positive happen. And some were just a little too weak, too easily seduced by the illusion of power.
Lincoln was wrapping up his tale. “We brought him in, got him processed. King Kong and Terrence, plus fifteen others, will be arraigned this morning. That’s what the news is here to see.”
Taylor squeezed his arm. “Have you been debriefed?” When he nodded, she said, “You take the rest of the day off. Go get some rest. You must be completely exhausted.”
“You sure, LT? I hear you’ve got some stuff on your plate.”
“I’m sure, Lincoln. Whenever you’re ready, no rush. But yeah, I need you sharp, so you go do what you need to do to get yourself back in the real world. We’ll pick up with you tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal, Loot. Thanks.”
She left him to his adoring crowd and went into her office. Marcus Wade joined her after a few minutes.
“Morning, Marcus. How’d in-service go?”
“I still have a badge, and a gun. My fifth day is scheduled for June.” He rolled his eyes. In-service, while required, was generally considered one of the most boring weeks out of the year. Cop school, four days of repetition of items they already knew by heart. Inexplicably, the gun qualifications came a few months later, a single day of shooting to requalify.
“Mine is too, I think. We must be on the same testing day. Well, that’s good news. Fitz bring you up to speed on the Corinne Wolff murder?” He nodded. “Good. I want you on that case, but I need you to do something for me first.”
She leaned over, spoke quietly so no one enjoying the Lincoln Parade could accidentally overhear.
“I met someone last night who I think may have something shady going on. I’d like you to do a quick run-through of his background. Anything and everything you can find on the guy, okay?”
“No problem, LT. What’s his name?”
“Tony Gorman. I’d assume the full name is Anthony. I don’t have much more than that, and it’s a generic name, but if you pull the DMV records, I can ID him. Then you can dive in, see what his story is.”
“I assume I’m doing this quietly.”
“You got it, puppy. He’s tied-in somewhere, was at a charity dinner last night, so he’s got some money. I didn’t recognize him, but he knew me. Only he called me Tawny. When I challenged him, he thought I was being coy. And that makes me uncomfortable.”
“Tawny? That sounds like—”
Taylor blushed. “Exactly. And that’s about how he treated me. Look at this.” She shrugged out of her cotton sweater, pulling her right arm out to show the underside of her bicep. There were four distinct round bruises. Marcus’s eyebrows disappeared beneath the shock of bushy brown hair that flopped over his forehead.
“Why didn’t you arrest him?”
“I thought about it, but if he was truly mistaking me for someone else, I had no cause. He was just an overzealous jerk. Not a prison offense, you know? But he won’t forget meeting me anytime soon. I got him in a forearm lock and he tried to get away. Another few seconds and I would’ve snapped his arm in two. I bet he’s got a nice bruise this morning too.” She slipped her arm back into the sleeve of her sweater, pulled it down.
“I’ll find out what his deal is, Taylor. You can count on it.”
“Thanks, Marcus. Let me know when you find something. I’m sure it’s nothing, just a mistake.” Her words were stronger than her mind. Gorman had looked at her like he knew her intimately; she had the distinct feeling that there was more to the sexy moniker than met the eye. Either she had a doppelganger out there plying her wares, or something was up. Combine that with the dead rabbit from this morning….
Marcus was just outside the door. She called after him. “Marcus, one other thing?”
He turned back. “Sure, what?”
“Have Tim Davis take a run out to my house. Someone left me a present in my backyard this morning, a dead rabbit. It had been garroted. I secured the remains. Ask him to run some forensics on it for me, okay?”
Marcus came back into the office, eyes filled with concern. “Someone killed a rabbit and left it in your backyard? Are you sure it wasn’t caught in a snare and flailed into your yard?”
Taylor saw the desecrated creature in her mind’s eye, gray and red commingled, the wound ends of the silver wire thrusting out of its neck. A shudder ran through her.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Marcus was eyeing her. She could see the speculation rampant behind his gaze. He shut the door and sat opposite her.
“Is everything okay, boss? You seem a little…”
She pulled the rubber band from her hair impatiently and slung it back up. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just been a long couple of days, and someone is playing a sick joke on me. That’s all. It’s nothing to worry about.” She gave him a winning smile, but he didn’t smile back. He just nodded and rose, looking at her with obvious concern.
“I’ll let you know what we find, okay?”
“Thanks, Marcus.” She hesitated a moment. “While you’re at it, put a trap on my line. I’ve been getting hang-ups. I’m sure it’s just someone trying to make me uncomfortable.” When he started to speak again, she just shook her head. He stared at her, but kept his mouth shut.
After he’d left, she looked at the phone. She really should call Baldwin, let him know everything that was going on. She toyed with the phone receiver, her hand tracing figure eights on the smooth black surface. The phone lit up, the caller ID indicating the call was from Forensic Medical. There was plenty of time to call Baldwin and play damsel in distress. Later.
“Lieutenant Jackson,” she answered, her voice strong once again.
“Taylor, it’s Sam. I’ve got something you need to hear about Corinne Wolff.”
Fifteen
Taylor listened to Sam, writing down the words to make sure she had the record in front of her, then hung up the phone. She toyed with the cord for a mom
ent, wondering. On its face, the news wasn’t anything significant. But considering the victim’s previous delicate condition, it was…interesting.
More questions for Todd. Taylor glanced at her watch. Ten thirty-five.
“Oh, shit.” She scrambled up from the desk, bringing along the yellow notepad with her scribbles. She was already five minutes late to her third interview with him.
Taylor met Fitz outside interrogation one. He gestured for her to follow him into the printer room where they had the camera feed from the interrogation rooms. The antiquated television monitor was on, the cameras rolling, capturing the movements of the two men ensconced in the room. Todd Wolff had brought a lawyer this time, not willing to make the same mistake twice. They were sitting side by side at the table, each man sitting with his arms crossed across his chest, not speaking. They looked impatient, slightly annoyed, and worried. Perfect.
Taylor watched for a moment. “Look at Wolff. He looks nervous, don’t you think?”
“He doesn’t look happy, I’ll give you that.”
Taylor pulled her hair down, reworking the ponytail. “I just talked to Sam. We’ve got some interesting items to discuss with Mr. Wolff.”
“Well, the hotel he claimed to have stayed at said he wasn’t there over the weekend. So he’s got one whopper of a lie in the bank already.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Can the cell phone company triangulate where he was when he got the call?”
“There’s a warrant being drawn up as we speak.” Fitz looked at the monitors again. “Think he’s responsible?”
“I don’t know. I want to gauge his reaction to this information Sam just gave me, see what he gives us.”
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