Judas Kiss

by J. T. Ellison

  “No, go on.”

  “It was like she wanted me. Sexually, I mean.”

  “She isn’t married, is she?”

  “No. She’s…” She cocked her head to the side. “You know, I don’t know too much about her. I was so busy focusing on Corinne that I didn’t look too far into the rest of the family. Then we have the lovely moments without a badge this week. I’ve glossed over too much. We’ll have to spend the next few weeks filling in all the pieces. Never mind about Michelle. There’s nothing there. Like I said, it was probably my imagination.”

  Marcus knocked on her door. “Hey, I was talking to Sam, she wants to talk to you. I’m going to transfer her in, okay?”

  “Sure.” Taylor waited for the buzz that indicated a forwarded internal call, then picked up the receiver.

  “I refuse to go to any more charity events,” Taylor said.

  “Then goodie for you that’s not what I’m calling about. I have something you’re going to love.”

  Taylor snickered. “Goodie for me? What are we, five? What’s the big news?”

  “DNA’s back on Corinne Wolff.”

  “Ooh, you’re right. That is something I want. Give it to me, sister.”

  “You’re not going to believe this. The semen deposit was left by Henry Anderson.”

  “Henry Anderson, as in my video-crazy pedophile? The one who Todd Wolff was working for?”

  “Todd Wolff was working for Henry Anderson?”

  “Long story, but yes. In a nutshell, that’s exactly what’s been happening.”

  “There’s more.”

  “What?”

  “Henry Anderson was the father of Corinne Wolff’s son.”

  Taylor clicked the speakerphone button, gestured at Baldwin to pay attention. “Say that again.”

  “Todd Wolff was not the father. The DNA on the fetus shows that Henry Anderson was the father of Corinne Wolff’s child.”

  “Sam, you are the greatest gift a homicide detective could ever have.”

  “Well, thank the mayor, because if he hadn’t asked for the proof that we could streamline the system, I never would have put this case’s DNA on the fast track.”

  “I hope this means you’re getting a new lab?”

  “I don’t know, T. I gotta run, we’ve got Aiden’s autopsy done and I need to write up some notes. By the way, tell Baldwin the crime scene techs found Aiden’s clothes in a bin behind the McDonald’s on West End. We’ll get that sent to his lab, if he’d like.”

  Baldwin said, “Yes, please, Sam. Did you find an ID?”

  “There was a wallet and a passport, both with ID in the name of Jasper Lohan. High-end stuff, they look legitimate.”

  “Jasper Lohan. I don’t recognize that name for him. No wonder we lost him in St. Louis. Cunning bastard.” He wrote a quick note, then said, “Okay. Thanks.”

  They hung up with promises to have dinner over the weekend. The banality of the arrangements made Taylor long for some peace and quiet, reminded her that she wasn’t like everyone else. Making plans was a luxury, a formality. In most cases, either she or Sam, or Baldwin, or Sam’s husband Simon, would be called to work a case. They lived in twenty-four-hour-a-day jobs, their lives cordoned off at the whim of a criminal.

  Taylor toyed with a pencil. “Corinne’s mother was right. Corinne was having an affair.”

  “Goes a long way toward explaining the claustrophobia that Corinne was suffering from. A psychosomatic response to infidelity. Maybe she and Henry had broken up and she found herself pregnant.”

  “If they’d broken up, why did she have sex with him right before she died? And why do these—” she waved the stack of love notes taken off Corinne Wolff’s computer at him “—have recent dates? No, Corinne was still deep into the affair.”

  “Well, a better question is, did Henry Anderson kill her?”

  Taylor thought about that for a moment. “I think Todd did it. That level of rage—I can see Todd finding out his wife was cheating on him, maybe even learning that the baby wasn’t his child, and snapping. We have the evidence against him, the blood in his truck, on his toolbox. A stranger isn’t going to know about the drawers in her closet, that’s an intimate spot to stash the tennis racquet after you’ve beaten someone to death with it. He’s been lying from the beginning, saying he was in Savannah when he was really in Nashville, or within a tank of gas to Nashville. Why did he lie if he didn’t kill her? It’s a helluva lot easier to prove an alibi that’s real than create a false one. No, my money is still on Todd. Henry Anderson is scum, but he’s a pussy. He’s a manipulator, someone who knows what buttons to push to take advantage of people. Blatant violence seems a bit strong for him.

  “But I may be wrong. It’s been ten years since I’ve had this guy on my radar. He may have changed. Obviously being in jail didn’t help him find the error of his ways and clean up. It’s entirely possible that he did kill her.”

  She stopped, lost in thought again.

  “You know, Baldwin, you were right. When I told you about my interview with Dr. Ricard, Corinne’s therapist, and she hinted that Corinne had a lover. You hit the nail on the head about the baby not being Todd Wolff’s.”

  “What did she say exactly?”

  Taylor grabbed her notebook, flipped to the pages where she’d written down her interview with Ricard.

  “Here it is. ‘Instead of fighting, she acquiesced. Allowed herself to be used.’ I asked about Todd using her. She said, ‘By many people. Husband, family, siblings, lover. You’ll hit upon the truth soon enough, Lieutenant.’ Right there. Lover. She was helping Corinne deal with having an affair. Both Ricard and Katie Walberg, the OB/GYN, said Corinne was a serial monogamist. Maybe sleeping with two men at once was too much for her psyche.”

  “Not sleeping with two at once. Caring about two at once. That was the problem.”

  “You’re probably right. Maybe she was breaking it off with Henry and he killed her. We need to go see Mr. Anderson. Maybe he can shed some light on this.”

  They stood.

  “Bring your handcuffs,” Baldwin said.

  “Oh, trust me. I intend to.”

  Thirty-Seven

  They caravanned over to 51st Avenue in northwestern Nashville, a small section of town aptly named the Nations. It was across Interstate 40 from Sylvan Park, the mirror image of the state street routes Taylor and Sam used to trace with their parents on pilgrimages to Bobby’s Dairy Dip.

  The Nations was an upstanding industrial area which quickly gave way to squalor. It was another one of those bizarre Nashville disunions, a forgotten zone in the midst of splendor and plenty. A five-block area dedicated to crime. The police presence was heavy, trying to quell the rampant drug and sex trade. They were losing the battle.

  Here in this little molecular oasis of misery, the residents operated in the land time forgot. Pay phones outnumbered cell phones and were still prevalent on every street corner, graffiti-painted and piss-filled. Teenagers wandered in baggy pants and cornrows, holding forty-ounce beer cans wrapped in brown paper bags. Crime, negligence, fear, all the horrors of life seeped in under the cracks of their doors in the middle of the night, carrying away their faith in humanity. These people didn’t just distrust the police, they didn’t acknowledge their existence. Justice was meted out behind gas stations and in dirty alleyways, business conducted under broken street lamps and in fetid, unair-conditioned living rooms.

  It was the perfect place for a pedophile to hide.

  The left-hand turn onto Centennial Boulevard took Taylor into what could have been a war zone. Damage from a tornado that blew through Nashville in 1998 had destroyed this area, and not much had been done to return it to its previous semi-squalor. Two patrol cars slid by, both drivers put their hands out the window with their palms down—the universal cop signal for fair sailing. All is well, be careful out there. We have your back. Taylor signaled the same back to them.

  Within minutes, they pulled up to the address on re
cord for Henry Anderson. It would be generous to call the domicile a house—it was little more than a shack, the roof sagging, the windows boarded with cardboard. They could see muffled bits of the Cumberland River beyond the property. The likes of Anderson wouldn’t be accepted in a neighborhood that had expectation.

  Anderson wasn’t living large. The money he was pulling in from the pornography obviously went toward something else, Taylor speculated. Drugs, perhaps. The house looked like it could double as a meth lab.

  Baldwin had gotten quiet as they pulled up. She put the car into park and raised an eyebrow at him.

  “This place is a dump,” he said. “Surely a criminal mastermind isn’t living in this hell. What’s he doing with his money?”

  “Funny, you read my thoughts. Let’s go see.”

  They exited the vehicle. Marcus got out of his Caprice. All three dressed in plainclothes, sunglasses on, looking like cops, it was no surprise that there wasn’t a single person in sight. Taylor knew they needed to show strength, not hesitate. She strode across the dust bowl that passed for a lawn in front of Anderson’s house and banged on the door.

  “Police! Open up!”

  Nothing.

  She pounded her fist against the door again, three times, the sound echoing. Before she could hit the door a fourth time, it opened a crack. A woman peered from the bowels of the house. Taylor smelled a unique miasma of odors—fear and old garbage predominant among them.

  The door opened a little wider. The woman—check that, the girl—who stood before them wasn’t smiling.

  “Whaddaya want?”

  Taylor could see the girl wore a uniform. She had a nametag on her left breast that read Waffle House, with Wendy written in crooked, childlike letters beneath the corporate logo. She wore a black golf visor with pinon buttons affixed to the sides. Her hair was skinned back from her face in a semblance of a ponytail, blond at the ends, the roots twisted and oily, nearly black. Her eyes were dull brown, the whites slightly red as if she hadn’t slept well or was indulging in some recreational drug.

  “We’re looking for Henry Anderson.”

  “Isn’t here.” She started to shut the door, but Taylor stuck the toe of her cowboy boot into the crack. She stifled a yelp as the door slammed onto her toe.

  “We’d like to come in. Wendy? We’re with Metro homicide. We need to talk with Henry.”

  The girl squinted at Taylor. Her teeth were showing, small and crooked, pointed inward as if they were recoiling in horror from the life their owner had chosen. Without a word, she walked away from the door.

  Taylor glanced over her shoulder at Baldwin. His hand was resting on his weapon, Marcus had his holster unsnapped and his service Glock an inch out of the leather. They nodded. Taylor pushed the door open with the toe of her boot and let it swing away.

  The inside of the house was stifling. A broken fan sat on a milk crate in front of a rump sprung couch, ashtrays and empty beer cans spilled over the edge of what Taylor assumed was a kitchen counter.

  “Henry’s not here,” Wendy repeated, lighting a cigarette. She took a deep draw, blew the smoke out with a cough.

  “Don’t you want to know why we want to speak with him?”

  “Not my business. I rent from him. He don’t live here.”

  Add slumlord to Anderson’s list of sins.

  “Where does he live, Wendy?”

  “Dunno.” She resumed smoking, standing warily five feet from Taylor. She held her left arm across her stomach. Taylor looked closer. The girl was slightly hunched over, and in the dim light, Taylor realized that standing was causing her pain. Coupled with the hunted, faraway look in the girl’s eyes, the remnants of a bruise fading from her check, Taylor was overcome with pity.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Wendy. Tell us who hurt you.”

  Something fired in the girl’s eyes, whether it was pride or fury, Taylor didn’t know.

  “I’m fine,” she said carefully.

  “You don’t look fine. Did you get kicked in the stomach?”

  “None of your beeswax.” She stabbed out the cigarette, turned away.

  The childish answer broke Taylor’s heart. There but for the grace of God go I. Then again, maybe not. Taylor had never understood the cycles of domestic violence. She’d seen the outcomes time and time again. The plays for control, the vicious fights that escalated to beatings, the beatings that got more and more severe until they sometimes resulted in death. How hard would it be to just walk away? These men who knew how to strike without leaving visible bruises, Taylor would like to round them up and shoot them all.

  She caught Baldwin’s eye. He was the psychiatrist, let him try.

  As Baldwin moved to talk to the girl, Marcus and Taylor took a lap around the house. Dirt-filled crevices, roaches, abandoned magazines without covers, pizza boxes. The bathroom hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, and a lone plastic stick sat on the cracked vanity. A pregnancy test. Too much time had passed for the results to still be visible, whether hours or days, Taylor didn’t know. There was no sign of Henry Anderson, no men’s toiletries, no clothes. It seemed Wendy had been telling the truth, Anderson didn’t live here. Not anymore.

  They went back to the overheated living room. Wendy sat on the decrepit couch. She was crying quietly. Baldwin was perched on the milk crate next to her, holding her hand.

  Baldwin spoke without taking his eyes off the girl.

  “Anderson lives in East Nashville. He holds this house as an address for the police, rents it out. Wendy hasn’t seen him for weeks. I believe her,” he added. A fragile trust had obviously been forged between them. Baldwin handed her something. His card, Taylor assumed, and they bid the girl goodbye.

  Out in the yard, Baldwin ran his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. Taylor saw a glint of silver deep in the black, a precursor to the more salt than pepper look he’d obviously have in a few years. He had a few strands starting in his temples already; this streak was new.

  “I’ve got the address for Anderson. She mails him a money order biweekly to cover the rent. She just lost a baby. You were right, the boyfriend kicked her in the stomach a few days ago, she miscarried yesterday. Didn’t miss her shift at work though. She said she couldn’t afford to skip work. Poor girl.”

  Marcus leaned against his car. “Are we going to go pick him up?”

  “You betcha,” Taylor replied. “Let’s go.”

  Judge Sophia Bottelli was less than pleased with Taylor.

  “And why didn’t you know about this alternate address for this Anderson, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. This is a breaking case, moving quickly. We only discovered Anderson’s involvement less than twenty-four hours ago.” C’mon, lady, just initial the fucking amendment to the warrant and let’s be done with it. Quit busting my chops, time’s a-wasting. She couldn’t say that, of course, there’d be no surer way to a cell for contempt charges if she spoke aloud. You’re being bitchy to the bench, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But jeez, busting her balls wasn’t helping things.

  “I trust that this is the last time I’ll be hearing from you about this warrant, Lieutenant. I’ll have it faxed with my signature. But no more. I expect to see results from you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Actually, Taylor kind of liked Judge Bottelli. She was tough as nails, but so far had treated them fairly. She’d see what time brought. Obviously her fall from grace earlier in the week was still fresh on the minds of Nashville’s judicial branch. Damn it. She was going to be rebuilding herself for quite some time. The Oompa’s overreaction in stripping her of her badge would have lasting effects.

  The fax machine spit out a single sheet of paper. “Got it,” Taylor yelled. No more time to feel sorry for herself. It was time to roll.

  She hustled out to the homicide office. Marcus and Lincoln were in consultation, Baldwin standing behind them, leaning in with interest.

  “What’s up?
”

  “Nothing yet,” Lincoln answered. “I’m working on something, but if it doesn’t pan out, I don’t want to waste your time. Go snatch up Anderson before he gets wind of your imminent arrival.” He nodded once at Baldwin, then left the room.

  Taylor looked at Baldwin, who threw his hands up in the air. “I know nothing. Let’s go.”

  The drive to East Nashville only took five minutes. As they turned onto Eighth Avenue North, the leafy street filled with restored Victorian homes, Taylor shook her head.

  “You realize that he lives one block away from Betsy Lerner, our Lieutenant in Sex Crimes? He must be using a false name.”

  Baldwin shook his head. “He isn’t. Marcus pulled the records while you were talking to the judge. The property rolls for this address have him listed as owner, but he had a cosigner on the loan, so that name is primary.”

  “What’s the cosigner’s name?”

  “Antonio Giormanni.”

  Taylor expertly whipped the vehicle into a parallel spot that didn’t look large enough for their sedan, then slammed the car into park and turned in her seat.

  “I am going to spit nails in about two seconds.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve met the son of a bitch. Though he uses the name Tony Gorman in public. Baldwin, I have been played. Royally played. Tony Gorman and Henry Anderson are buddies, and hoo-boy, I have been played to the fucking hilt.”

  She banged her hands against the steering wheel. Marcus came to her door. She put the window down.

  “Antonio Giormanni is listed as the co-owner of this house,” she said. “Does that name sound familiar?”

  Marcus looked at her for a long moment, then smacked his hand against the roof of the car. “Tony Gorman?”