“Baldwin. I’ve tripped the silent alarm. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t, not entirely. This person you saw, describe him to me.”
“Hey. Tell me what is going on.”
“Taylor, please, I’m asking you to trust me. Just tell me what he looked like.”
Taylor conjured the man, feeling her pulse race as he reappeared in her mind’s eye.
“Tall, at least six-two. Brown hair, longish, falling over his right eye. Tan slacks, a cream sweater under a blue windbreaker. I couldn’t see any more than that.”
“If I faxed you a picture, could you ID him?”
“You know who this is? What the hell?”
“Just…go grab this fax. I’m sending it now. I think I might know who it is. And if it’s him, you’re in danger.”
“I can take care of myself, Baldwin. Unless he can stop bullets—”
“Not from him. No one is safe from him, gun or no. Just go look at the fax, Taylor.”
His voice was strained and coupled with a note she’d never heard before. Fear. It scared her. She climbed the stairs two at a time and went into Baldwin’s office on the second floor. The paper was printing out of the fax machine. She picked it up and glanced at it.
“Yes, Baldwin. It’s the same guy.”
“Oh, God.” Baldwin was breathing heavily into the phone. “Where the hell are the cops?”
“Uh, babe? I am a cop, unless you forgot.” Her doorbell rang. “Hear that? They’re here.”
“Check before you open the door.” She started down the stairs, listening to Baldwin screaming at someone in the background. Wow, she’d never heard him get this rattled before. This character must be quite the creep.
The doorbell rang again, and she saw movement through the glass insert. She reached for the knob. It felt slightly hot, but she knew that was her imagination. She turned the lock and swung open the door.
The vision before her looked like something out of the apocalypse. Surreal. B-movie cinematic. Two burly men, one blond, one redhead, both crumpled in a bloody pool at the top of her steps. She could see an early-model generic gray Ford Taurus parked on the street in front of the house, knew they were the undercover unit the alarm company had sent. Their throats gaped at her, slit wide from a sharp blade. The redhead was still alive, barely. She could see him mouthing the word sorry over and over, his eyes blank, emptying. His mouth stopped moving as she watched.
Her peripheral vision registered the man who’d been at the edge of the woods standing in the grass of the front lawn, hands in his pockets. She looked up and time stopped. They stared at each other, eyes locked. He didn’t move toward her, didn’t threaten. Then he nodded, puckered up his lips and blew her a kiss. Taylor blinked, hard, not believing what her mind was telling her was happening, and he was gone. Not more than two seconds had passed.
“Oh, my God,” she yelled. She slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. Jesus, she’d had a clear shot at him. She’d never raised her weapon. What in the hell? Had she frozen? Had he been a figment of her imagination? Her training was unconscious at this point, she should have leveled her weapon and taken a shot. Why hadn’t she? Confusion flooded in; she came back when she heard yelling.
“What, what?” Baldwin was roaring in her ear. She ignored him for the moment, ran upstairs and secured a second and third magazine for her gun. She came back to the top of the stairs, sat on the step. Putting the gun in her lap, she opened her cell phone, called in to dispatch. Two phones, one gun, and one suspect who was playing tricks with her head. She didn’t like the odds.
“Hold on,” she said to Baldwin as dispatch came through the line.
“Nashville dispatch.”
“This is Lieutenant Jackson. Code three, 10-51, 10-54. Repeat, 10-51, 10-54! Officer needs assistance code three. I need bodies at my location, my home address immediately. I have a suspect on my property, armed and dangerous, repeat, armed and dangerous. He’s just killed two security guards on my front step. I don’t have him in my sights—I am locked inside the house. I need you rolling now!”
“Oh, dear, sweet Jesus.” Baldwin was cursing in her right ear. Dispatch was moving, incredulous at her call.
“Lieutenant, confirm that for me again. You’ve got a 10-51, 10-54, code three, officers down. We are rolling, lights and sirens, Lieutenant, ETA three minutes. You all right?”
“Confirmed, off-duty officers down. I am uninjured, but I’ll be better when y’all get here. Tell them the suspect is six-two, brown on brown, wearing tan pants, cream sweater, blue windbreaker.”
“Will do, LT. Be careful.”
She hung up. She could hear the faint screams of the sirens already, knew she’d be fine, but her hands were shaking. She slipped the cell back into its belt hook, palmed the Glock. He couldn’t unlock doors and get inside that quickly, and even if he did, she had her weapon trained on the stairwell, locked on the front door. Sweat beaded on her forehead, in the small of her back, between her breasts. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to force the adrenaline back into dormancy. Anger replaced the physical rush. She hissed at Baldwin.
“What in the name of all that’s holy is happening here? And how do you know this person? Talk fast, the cavalry is coming.”
“Oh, Taylor. I am so sorry. I should have trusted my own judgment. I knew you were in danger, I just didn’t realize he’d move so quickly. I’m getting on a plane. I’ve already got the pilots gassing up and revving the engines. I’ll be wheels up in fifteen minutes. When they clear the scene, get out of there. Go to the office, make sure you’ve got a guard on you. If it makes you feel better, it’s me he wants.”
“Who wants? Baldwin, you are making no sense.” There was banging on her door. She looked out the front window, there were four police cruisers and multiple people milling across her front yard. “They’re here. I need to go deal with this. You’re coming now?”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Who is he, Baldwin?” She walked down the stairs, listening to his struggle on the other end of the phone. Knowing he was coming somehow gave her the courage to open the door, allowing the sight of the two dead security guards to fill her with horror again. Weapons were everywhere, black and dangerous, bristling with unvented fury. Officers surrounded her house, scattering like quail into the backyard and the forest beyond. The scent of blood was strong in the air; the dogs across the street were baying in frantic unhappiness.
“Who is he?” she asked again.
“His name is Aiden,” Baldwin answered. “It might as well be Death.”
Twenty-Seven
Taylor was sitting in the break room at the CJC, toying with a Styrofoam cup. She looked at the fat industrial wall clock for the thousandth time. Damn it, it was nearly noon. When were they going to come talk to her? And where was Baldwin?
This sense of doom, of not being able to do anything, was worse than anything she’d ever felt. Waiting wasn’t exactly what she was built to do. Kick ass, take names, and worry about the ramifications later, that was her job. Sitting around being protected, that wasn’t on the menu when she check-marked the box and signed up to be a cop. She was the one who was supposed to be doing the protecting.
Instead, she sat in this overly bright room, away from the nexus of communication. Hell, she hadn’t even been allowed to drive herself to the office. Baldwin must have called in to Price, because a burly patrol officer named Bud had bodily taken her from the house and thrown her into his cruiser. He screamed off into the quickening morning with her in the passenger seat, slightly dazed at the ferocity of his action. She wasn’t accustomed to being pushed around.
Price had met her at the doors to the CJC, his mustache drooping. Fatigue, anger, hunger—all showed up in the man’s facial hair. Taylor had learned to read the twitching of his lips before looking into his eyes long ago. When she realized he was worn-out, she did look him in the eye. What she saw there worried her. More was happening than she wa
s being told.
She’d been debriefed, escorted to this room, handed a cup of coffee and told to sit tight. Price had shut the door behind her and she’d half waited to hear the sound of the lock being thrown. It hadn’t, but she decided she’d listen to her boss and sit still. The minutes ticked by, ten, fifteen, thirty, forty-five, fifty-five. Nearly an hour passed with no word. The clock slammed into the top of the hour and she couldn’t take it anymore.
Oh, screw this, she thought. She stood, tossed the cup in the trash and got her hand on the door. She opened it to see Baldwin coming at her like a heat-seeking missile. He had dark circles under his eyes, but he smiled. There was still a tiny bit of lingering tension after their fight, but when he put his mouth on hers, all was forgotten. She luxuriated in his kiss, in his nearness. She wrapped her arms around his body, wondering if he was always this warm. She didn’t want to be the one who ended the kiss, waited for him to pull back. When he did, she stepped away, breathless, slammed the door and crossed her arms across her chest.
“That took more than an hour. Talk,” she commanded.
“Wait a minute,” he replied. “Price is—”
The door to the break room opened again and she jumped out of the way. Price entered the room. He didn’t speak, just helped himself to a cup of coffee. He sat at the table, took a healthy gulp and grimaced.
“God, that’s bad. It must be old.” He reached over his shoulder and tossed the remains in the sink, set the cup down on the table with a soft plop, then sighed heavily.
“Captain, what is going on?” Taylor’s words were measured. She was starting to get highly annoyed.
Price and Baldwin shared a look. Price’s nod was barely perceptible. Baldwin gestured to the chair, indicating Taylor should go ahead and have a seat. With a glare at them both, she did.
“What?” she asked.
“Okay.” Baldwin pulled out a chair with a scrape, and sat. “There are two things happening right now. We’re searching the woods behind our house for Aiden. He is exceptionally dangerous, and pissed off at me, which makes him even more frightening.”
“Baldwin, who is he?”
He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “That is a very long story.” He looked at Price. “This guy is on our wanted lists. He’s international, which is why you aren’t familiar with him. We don’t know why he’s in the States.” Price nodded, and Baldwin turned back to Taylor. “We have something else going on that you need to deal with first.”
“Just tell me what’s happening.”
Both men grew silent. Taylor waited for a moment, doomsday thoughts spinning through her head. When neither spoke, she threw up her hands in frustration.
“For God’s sake, I can handle it. Did my dad break out of prison, or my mother die?”
“No,” he answered.
“Then the world isn’t at an end. Just tell me already. You know I hate this kind of shit. Stop protecting me.”
Baldwin looked at Price, then back at Taylor. “The media has your videotapes.”
Taylor didn’t move, but her heart fluttered. She’d spoken too soon. The apocalypse was upon her. “No,” she said.
Price cleared his throat. “Yes. It gets worse. There is a tape circulating of the night David Martin died. It shows you shooting him.”
“I know I shot him. I was there, remember? He was chasing me through the cabin, trying to kill me. I had to shoot him. It was him or me.” Her voice sounded weak, and she sat straighter in the chair. “It was him or me,” she repeated more firmly. “Everyone knows that already.”
Baldwin nodded. “We know. But the videotape that’s been released doesn’t exactly show that.”
“What are you talking about? If it’s off the cameras that took the shots of us having sex—sorry, Captain—then it will show exactly what happened. I’ve seen the sex tapes. The angle would have been perfect.”
“The angle was perfect. But it doesn’t look like self-defense. He was begging you not to shoot him, and you take a step closer and plug him.” She started to interrupt but Price raised his hand. “I know you didn’t kill him like that. Your version of what happened stood up in court, and I know you wouldn’t lie. But someone has made it look like that’s exactly what happened, and it’s been fed to the media. We have a bit of a problem, as you can imagine.”
“What’s the problem? I’ll go on television and tell them what happened. That whatever they’ve been given is a fake.”
Baldwin and Price exchanged glances again.
Price spoke first. “Taylor, I can’t stop this immediately. We have to go meet with the Office of Professional Accountability. They are making some serious noise.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Baldwin.
“Don’t worry, babe,” he said. “It will all be fine. Go with Price. I’ve got some calls to make. We’ll figure it out, I promise. Okay?”
Taylor stared at him, recognized that he was barely holding it together. Things must be worse than she could imagine. She licked her lips and gave him a tiny smile. She realized he’d been holding his breath.
“Okay.” She turned to Price. “But Captain, tell me one thing. How did this tape make it to the media?”
He had the good manners to look embarrassed. “I got an anonymous phone call around seven-thirty this morning, saying you were filmed in a compromising position. The caller assured me that it was going to air on the midday news. But whoever did this coordinated their attack, Taylor. The sex tapes haven’t broadcast yet locally, they are on the national cable news networks. Damn media fuckers didn’t bother to confirm the source. It was out before I had a chance to stop it.” His voice broke. “And I did try, Taylor. I did try. We could demand they take down the story, but that’s going to add fuel to the fire. The sex tapes and the subsequent shooting video, all of this has been carefully planned to take you down. We’ll figure out another way to fight it, I swear to you.”
Oh, this was not good. This was not good at all. The word national replayed itself in her mind a few times, giving her a real flavor of the exact type of shit she was in. Taylor shut her eyes, tried to remember the last time she’d been called in front of the OPA. It was still called the Investigative Services Division then, and it hadn’t gone well. There were new people involved now, new management. Maybe this would go smoothly. A knot in her stomach gave way to a fiercer, gnawing pain. She winced, swallowed hard, then opened her eyes.
“Fuck,” she said.
Twenty-Eight
Metro’s Office of Professional Accountability was freezing cold. Someone had turned the air-conditioning on full, complete overkill considering the still moderate temperatures outside.
It took all of Taylor’s self-control not to shake. She didn’t want to give the wrong impression, didn’t want Captain Delores Norris to think she was scared. She figured the air-conditioning was a trick they used. Anything to make themselves feel more powerful. Price didn’t seem affected, just crossed his left ankle over his right knee and sat quietly, obviously lost in thought.
Taylor hadn’t had much contact with the OPA since David Martin’s death, only a standard investigation a month ago when she’d been forced to discharge her weapon into the killer called Snow White. That was fine by her. The officers of the OPA weren’t ever very popular with the rank and file. They couldn’t afford to be chummy, had to keep themselves separate, above reproach. No fraternization.
When the ISD became the Office of Professional Accountability, Fitz had immediately christened them the Oompas. Homicide had gotten a good laugh out of that, the name drifted through the ranks until it was almost second nature. Taylor figured everyone called the OPA crew the Oompa-loompas. Behind their backs, though. Never to their face.
When the new OPA captain had been tapped three months ago, the unit’s nickname became more prescient, and Taylor often wondered if their Chief of Police actually had a sense of humor. The new captain’s name was Delores Norris, and she co
uldn’t have been more than five feet tall. She beat Metro’s minimum height requirements by being black and a woman, moved quickly through the ranks and ended up as the head of the most hated department on the force. Her diminutive physical presence only perpetuated the nickname, and it didn’t help that she had slightly bowed legs that forced her body into a swaying walk. As she waddled down the halls, a faint strain of Oompa, Oompa could be heard. Taylor didn’t know how the woman stood being the center of so much derision.
Especially now. At the moment, Taylor was the target of the Oompa’s derision, and she didn’t feel at all amused by the situation.
Delores Norris sat high, back straight as an arrow, the cloth of her starched uniform jacket not touching the back of the chair. Her hair was cut short, close to her head, with wiry gray curls around the temples. She read a report in front of her, tapping her pen along the manila edge. Every third second, she looked up at Taylor over bright red plastic half-moon glasses and shook her head slightly. After what felt like an hour of this scrutiny, Norris closed the file, set the pen alongside.
“So, Lieutenant. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am to see you in my office today. You’ve had an exemplary career with Metro, one worth watching. I’ve been keeping my eye on you, young lady.” Her accent was odd, not foreign, but strange, like she was covering a severe lisp. She put emphasis on the wrong words, making the cadence of her voice grating.
Taylor felt like an errant schoolgirl. Making fun of the Oompa was easy when you weren’t face-to-face with her principal’s scowl. Taylor just nodded weakly, not sure what the woman wanted her to say.
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