Текст книги "Judas Kiss"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Praise for J.T. Ellison’s debut novel

ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

“A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…

a completely convincing debut.”

–Author Lee Child

“Creepy thrills from start to finish.”

–Author James O. Born

“[All the Pretty Girls]] has the attention to detail, unexpected twists and puzzles that are vital to topflight crime fiction.”

–Nashville City Paper

“Relentlessly paced and intricately plotted—

and it features a villain who will have readers looking over their shoulders, even in the daylight.”

–Romantic Times BOOKreviews (four stars)

“With this debut thriller, Ellison puts her mentoring by Lee Child to good use.”

–Library Journal

“Complex and sharp-tongued, Taylor Jackson is destined to become an icon in crime fiction.”

–Author Kristy Kiernan

“The book is taut, tense and suspenseful. The best part of All the Pretty Girls, though, is its breathless pace.”

–The Tennessean

“A turbocharged thrill ride of a debut.”

–Author Julia Spencer-Fleming

“Ellison hits the ground running with an electrifying debut.”

–Author J.A. Konrath

“Southern readers will find All the Pretty Girls a thrilling ride through a well-known locale, and the rest of the country will get a closer view—

and a different perspective—of Music City.”

–BookPage

“Fast-paced and creepily believable.”

–Author M. J. Rose

“A spine-tingling thriller you will not want to miss.”

–Romance Reviews Today

“Ellison’s talent is evident not only in her ability to create nail-biting suspense, but also in her vivid characters.”

–Author Tasha Alexander

“J.T. Ellison’s fast-moving debut is as smooth as fine Kentucky bourbon.”

–Romance Reader at Heart

“Ellison’s characters—whether major players or quiet students—will stay with you long after you close the book.”

–Author Pari Noskin Taichert

Also by J.T. Ellison

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ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

®

To Del Tinsley,

without whom none of these books would see the light of day. And for my Randy,

without whom I would be lost.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While the execution of the words belongs to the author, we can’t make the books come alive without our research, our cheering sections and our inspirations. Thanking people is truly one of the most exciting steps in writing these books. So please indulge me while I wax poetic about my team.

My incredible agent Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group, who always knows exactly what to say and when to say it, and Stephanie Sun, who makes every exchange a pleasure. My extraordinary editor Linda McFall, the woman who makes these manuscripts into coherent books. I couldn’t do it without you. And a special thanks to assistant editor Adam Wilson, who makes the business end so much fun. Between the two of them, they turn my words into magic, for which I will be forever grateful.

The entire MIRA Books team, especially Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Michelle Renaud, Adrienne Macintosh, Megan Lorius, Marianna Ricciuto, Tracey Langmuir, Kathy Lodge, Emily Ohanjanians, Alex Osuszek, Margaret Marbury, Dianne Moggy and the brilliant artists who create these fabulous covers: Tara Kelly and Gigi Lau.

My independent publicist Tom Robinson, who is truly a master at finding just the right spot to place me. Thank you for everything!

The librarians across the country who’ve seen fit to order my books—it warms my heart every time someone says they found me in their local library!

Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department, my go-to, my first resource, my friend. He helps Taylor come to life in ways I never could. Dr. Vince Tranchida, Manhattan Medical Examiner, who makes sure Sam does everything right.

Duane Swierczynski, for not knowing Polish. Elizabeth Fox, who stunned me with an e-mail—“I’m Taylor!”—and has since become a cherished friend. My amazing critique group, the Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Del Tinsley, Janet McKeown, Mary Richards, Rai Lyn Woods, Cecelia Tichi, Peggy O’Neal Peden and J.B. Thompson, who don’t ever hesitate to tell me when I’ve mucked it up, and are the first to cheer when I get it right. I love you guys!

And an especial thanks to J.B., who always helps me get these pages ready for New York’s eyes.

Laura and Linda, my goddesses at Borders—Cool Springs, who welcomed a new local author with open arms, and staff recommendations! Thanks, ladies!

First reader Joan Huston needs a special thanks this time as well, for making me worry about my opening in this book. It’s stronger because of her concerns. My dear Tasha Alexander, the only woman who can actually keep me on the phone instead of at the keyboard, though many times we can do both at once. I love you, honey!

My esteemed fellow authors Brett Battles, Rob Gregory-Browne, Bill Cameron and Dave White, for the IMs; Toni Causey, Gregg Olsen, Kristy Kiernan for constantly cheering me on and making me laugh, and all my Killer Year mates for being such amazing influences on me.

My fellow Murderati bloggers, who inspire me daily, especially Pari Noskin Taichert, the best sounding board out there.

Lee Child and John Connolly, for making me think about every word, and John Sandford, who needs thanks for inspiring me every time.

My parents are the most enthusiastic cheerleaders for my novels, and need to be paid a commission on their book sales. Their love and support is phenomenal. My wonderful brother Jay, and Kendall, Jason and Dillon, for putting up with their wayward aunt. My other wonderful brother Jeff, who always, always makes me laugh. And where would I be without my darling husband to keep me grounded? Thank you, baby, for not letting me float away. You make all of this worthwhile. Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic license is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.

Prologue

Blood.

It was everywhere. The floor, the walls, the body. All over the jeans and T-shirt too. Damn, how was that going to come out? With a grimace, the killer set down the weapon and stood over the now inert body. No more arguments. No more screaming about failure, lost promise, disappointments. The wail of a child built in the distance, drowned out by the fury humming in the killer’s ears. A smile broke.

“You horrendous bitch. This is exactly what you deserve.”

Ten hours later

“Mama?

“Mama, Mama. Hungy. Cookie, Mama. Cookie.

“Wake up, Mama, wake up.

“Went potty, Mama. Good girl.

“Mama?

“Mama owie? Owie? Boo-boo? Mama fall down?

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“Bankie, Mama.

“Bankie. Teddy.

“Mama! Mamaaaaaaaaaaa.

“Night-night, Mama. Bye-bye.”

Monday

One

Michelle Harris sat at the stoplight on Old Hickory and Highway 100, grinding her teeth. She was late. Corinne hated when she was late. She wouldn’t bitch at her, wouldn’t chastise her, would just glance at the clock on the stove, the digital readout that always, always ran three minutes ahead of time so Corinne could have a cushion, and a little line would appear between her perfectly groomed eyebrows.

Their match was in an hour. They had plenty of time, but Corinne would need to drop Hayden at the nursery and have a protein smoothie before stretching in preparation for their game. Michelle and Corinne had been partners in tennis doubles for ages, and they were two matches from taking it all. Their yearly run at the Richland club championship was almost a foregone conclusion; they’d won seven years in a row. Tapping the fingers of her right hand on the wheel, she used her left to pull her ponytail around the curve of her neck, a comfort gesture she’d adopted in childhood. Corinne hadn’t needed any comfort. She was 16

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always the strong one. Even as a young child, when Michelle pulled that ponytail around her neck, the unruly curls winding around her ear, Corinne would get that little line between her brows to show her displeasure at her elder sister’s weakness. Remembering, Michelle flipped the hair back over her shoulder with disgust. The light turned green and she gunned it, foot hard on the pedal. She hated being late for Corinne.

Michelle took the turn off Jocelyn Hollow Road and followed the sedate, meandering asphalt into her sister’s cul-de-sac. The dogwood tree in the Wolffs’

front yard was just beginning to bud. Michelle smiled. Spring was coming. Nashville had been in the grip of a difficult winter for months, but at last the frigid clutch showed signs of breaking. New life stirred at the edges of the forests, calves were dropping in the fields. The chirping of the wrens and cardinals had taken on a higher pitch, avian mommies and daddies awaiting the arrival of their young. Corinne herself was ripe with a new life, seven months into an easy pregnancy—barely looking four months along. Her activity level kept the usual baby weight off, and she was determined to play tennis up to the birth, just like she’d done with Hayden. Not fair. Michelle didn’t have any children, didn’t have a husband for that matter. She just hadn’t met the right guy. The consolation was Hayden. With a niece as adorable and precocious as hers, she didn’t need her own child. Not just yet.

She pulled into the Wolffs’ maple-lined driveway and cut the engine on her Volvo. Corinne’s black BMW

535i sat in front of the garage door. The wrought iron Judas Kiss

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lantern lights that flanked the front doors were on. Michelle frowned. It wasn’t like Corinne to forget to turn those lights off. She remembered the argument Corinne and Todd, her husband, had gotten into about them. Todd wanted the kind that came on at dark and went off in the morning automatically. Corinne insisted they could turn the switch themselves with no problem. They’d gone back and forth, Todd arguing for the security, Corinne insisting that the look of the dusk-todawns were cheesy and wouldn’t fit their home. She’d won, in the end. She always did.

Corinne always turned off the lights first thing in the morning. Like clockwork.

The hair rose on the back of Michelle’s neck. This wasn’t right.

She stepped out of the Volvo, didn’t shut the door all the way behind her. The path to her sister’s front door was a brick loggia pattern, the nooks and crannies filled with sand to anchor the Chilhowies. Ridiculously expensive designer brick from a tiny centuries-old sandpit in Virginia, if Michelle remembered correctly. She followed the path and came to the front porch. The door was unlocked, but that was typical. Michelle told Corinne time and again to keep that door locked at night. But Corinne always felt safe, didn’t see the need. Michelle eased the door open.

Oh, my God.

Michelle ran back to her car and retrieved her cell phone. As she dialed 911, she rushed back to the porch and burst through the front door.

The phone was ringing in her ear now, ringing, ringing. She registered the footprints, did a quick lap around the bottom floor and seeing no one, took the 18

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steps two at a time. She was breathing hard when she hit the top, took a left and went down the hall. A voice rang in her ear, and she tried to comprehend the simple language as she took in the scene before her.

“911, what is your emergency?”

She couldn’t answer. Oh God, Corinne. On the floor, face down. Blood, everywhere.

“911, what is your emergency?”

The tears came freely. The words left her mouth before she realized they’d been spoken aloud.

“I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”

“Can you repeat that, ma’am?”

Could she? Could she actually bring her larynx to life without throwing up on her dead sister’s body? She touched her fingers to Corinne’s neck. Remarkable how chilled the dead flesh felt. Oh, God, the poor baby. She ran out of the room, frenzied. Hayden, where was Hayden? Michelle turned in a tight circle, seeing more footprints. No sign of the little girl. She was yelling again, heard the words fly from her mouth as if they came from another’s tongue.

“There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…Hayden?” Michelle was screaming, frantic. She tore back into the bedroom. Something in her mind snapped, she couldn’t seem to get it together.

The 911 operator was yelling in her ear, but she didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. “Ma’am? Ma’am?

Who is dead?”

Where was that precious little girl? A strawberryblond head appeared from around the edge of the king-sized sleigh bed. It took a moment to register—

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Hayden, with red hair? She was a towhead, so blond it was almost white, no, that wasn’t right.

“Hayden, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?”

She gathered the little girl in her arms. Hayden was frozen, immobile, unable or unwilling to move for the longest moment, then she wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders with an empty embrace of inevitability. Pieces of the toddler’s hair, stiff and hard with blood, poked into her neck. Michelle felt a piece of her core shift.

“Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?”

The operator’s voice forced her to look away from Corinne’s broken form. She raised herself, holding tight to Hayden. Get her out of here. She can’t see this anymore.

“Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…” They were on the stairs now, moving down, and Michelle could see the whispers of blood trailing up and down the carpet.

The operator was still trying to sort through the details. “Hayden is your sister?”

“Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.”

As Michelle reached the bottom of the stairs, the child shifted on her shoulder, reaching a hand behind her, looking up toward the second floor.

“Mama hurt,” she said in a voice that made her sound like a broken-down forty-year-old, not a coy, eighteen-month-old sprite. Mama hurt. She doesn’t anymore, darlin’.

They were out the front door and on the porch now, Michelle drawing in huge gulps of air, Hayden crying silently into her shoulder, a hand still pointing back toward the house.

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“Who is dead, ma’am?” the operator asked, more kindly now.

“My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s…

she’s cold.”

Michelle couldn’t hold it in anymore. She heard the operator say they were sending the police. She walked down those damnable bricks and set Hayden in the front seat of the Volvo.

Then she turned and lost her battle with the nausea, vomiting out her very soul at the base of the delicate budding dogwood.

Two

A morning off.

Instead of lounging in bed, luxuriating in the crisp sheets and getting irritated with the Tennessean, Metro Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson was squinting at the ceiling in her living room, a small flutter of panic moving through her chest.

“Baldwin?” she called, stepping closer to the fireplace. “Baldwin!”

“What?” A voice floated down the stairs, tinged with impatience.

“You need to see this. I think the ceiling is wet.”

The clatter of footsteps on the stairs assured Taylor that her fiancé was making the trek from their bedroom on the second floor down to her, in the room directly below, posthaste. He appeared at her side, joined her in craning his head toward the living room ceiling. A dark gray stain was moving across the joint, treading a thin line of damp. As they stared, a small drop of water beaded up from the end of the discoloration. Neither of them moved as it grew, larger and larger, 22

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then broke off and fell with a muffled plop onto Baldwin’s shoulder.

They sprang into action, no words needed. Baldwin sprinted back upstairs toward the bathroom to turn off the water. Taylor went to the kitchen and came back with a spaghetti pot. She stood under the dribble, catching droplets of water as they rushed through the surface of the drywall and fell to earth. God, what next?

Baldwin came back to the living room with a stepladder. “This house is built on an Indian burial ground, Taylor. I swear it. I turned the water off. We can set the pot on this. It might help keep the carpet dry.” He positioned the ladder under the leak and took the container from Taylor, setting it on the top. A happy plink rewarded his efforts.

They shared an exasperated laugh. In the month they’d been home from their pseudo-honeymoon, everything that could go wrong with their relatively new house had. A fitting metaphor for their life. No matter what they planned, how they tried, they couldn’t seem to get onto the right page and make it official. Taylor was content to remain unmarried. Baldwin was starting to come around to her way of thinking.

“Who do you want me to call? The home warranty place?” He started for the kitchen.

“Yeah. The number is in the folder in the server. They’re going to have to send out a plumber now, we can’t wait.”

He opened the drawer and pulled out an overstuffed file folder. “Okay, I’ll make the call. But I’ve got to finish packing. My flight leaves at ten-thirty.”

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Taylor gave the ceiling a last hard stare, then joined Baldwin.

“Here, give me that. I’ll call. You go on and finish packing. Besides, the plane leaves when you tell it to. Director.”

He shot her a look. “I’m not the Director. I’m the Acting Director while Garrett has this stupid surgery. That just means I get to push his pencils around his desk and pretend to look important for two weeks. Seriously, I’d rather stay here, fight with the plumber.”

Garrett Woods, director of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit and Baldwin’s boss, had called the previous evening. He’d gone for his routine yearly physical and ended up hospitalized, scheduled for a triple bypass. He needed someone he trusted to hold down the fort. Baldwin was the obvious choice. Taylor hoped it wasn’t a play to get him to come back and run the BSU permanently. There’d been quite a shake-up while Taylor and Baldwin were in Italy, celebrating what should have been their honeymoon. The man who’d been leading the BSU, Stuart Evans, had been summarily fired after a personnel issue made headlines. The Bureau wasn’t a big fan of having their personal laundry aired in the media. Garrett Woods took the position again, leaving his number three in the bureau spot. He hadn’t been happy working at that level anyway, was thrilled to return to the BSU and make things right with his investigative divisions and behavioral analysis unit profilers.

“You need to go tend to Garrett’s cases. And make sure he listens to the doctors. I can’t believe he’s so sick.”

“Me neither. He seems so indestructible to me, always has. So you think you can handle this?”

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She kissed him, then pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. It’s just a little leak.”

“Okay, then. I’m going to finish packing.” With a pat on her rear, he left the kitchen. She smiled after him. God, what a goof she’d become. Fools in love…

And their love nest was falling in around their ears. This would be the fourth time she’d had to call for service since they’d moved in two months ago. There had been contractors crawling all over the place for silly little issues—a broken fan blade on the heater, a squirrel who’d nested in the crawlspace and chewed through some electrical wiring, a faulty thermostat on the freezer. Now a leak in the master bath. They were making their bones with the warranty company. She got the plumber’s name and number, left them a message, then went upstairs, determined to make Acting Director Dr. John Baldwin regret that he was leaving for two weeks and prove her point. The Gulfstream couldn’t exactly leave without him. The phone rang as she hit the second stair. What now? She backtracked, went to the kitchen and saw the number on the caller ID.

“Hi, Fitz,” she answered.

Sergeant Peter Fitzgerald, her second in command, greeted her brusquely. “I know it’s your day off, but you need to come in. We’ve got a murder that’s going to have fleas.”

“Who?”

“Some sweet little mother out in Hillwood. I’m hearing words like Laci and Peterson.”

Taylor shuffled her fingers through a notepad that sat next to the phone, ready for an urgent message. No, thank you. I’m not in the mood for a murder. I think I’ll Judas Kiss

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pass. But she couldn’t. She was the homicide lieutenant, and if her team needed her, that meant she would show.

“Fine. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be on the road.”

“The fed gone yet?”

“He’s finishing packing.”

“Well, go kiss his pretty little face goodbye and get your ass down here. We need you.”

She hung up and the phone rang again. The plumbers. They greeted her warmly. Of course they would, she’d be sending their children through college if this was more than a simple leak. They said their technician would be out in an hour. She told them where she’d hide a key, then ran up the stairs. Baldwin was zipping his suitcase.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Good, come on. I’ll drop you off. I have to go in.”

“Who died?”

Ah, the bliss of living with a fellow law enforcement officer. He just got it.

“Fitz says it’s a young mother. It must be catching on fire for him to drag me in on my day off.” She pulled a black sweater over her gray T-shirt and went into the offending bathroom. She brushed out her hair and gathered it into a ponytail, frowned at the toilet, where she assumed the leak had generated, then went to her closet and grabbed a pair of boots. Hitching up the legs of her jeans, she slipped into the Tony Lamas without sitting down and jumped up once, landing softly to set her heels and drop the pant legs. Ready.

Baldwin was standing in the doorway to the master, 26

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watching with a bemused smile on his face. “Thirty seconds flat. Not bad. You look stunning.”

Taylor rolled her eyes at him. “Let’s go, lover boy. The sooner you get to Quantico, the sooner you can come home.”

Three

Taylor met Fitz in the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center. Clouds scudded across the graying sky. Despite the beauty of spring in Nashville, the weather was wholly schizophrenic. Sunny one minute, stormy the next. She took off her sunglasses and slipped one temple into her sweater collar.

“Yo,” Fitz called, pointing to a white Chevy Impala, his official department issued ride. “I gotta run back to the office for a second. Want a drink?”

Taylor nodded her head and started for the car. She took the passenger’s side, pushing the seat back to accommodate her long legs. Fitz disappeared into the bowels of the CJC and returned a few minutes later with two Diet Cokes. He slid into the driver’s seat, handed over the soda. She cracked the lid and sipped, then put the can between her thighs.

The sun popped out for a brief second, enough to blind her, so she put on her new Ray-Bans, a purchase she made in the duty-free in Milan’s Malpensa airport. They were wide and black and made her feel glamor-28

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ous, a tiny homage to her new European sentiments. Traveling in a foreign country with a native speaker of the language had the tendency to make you feel more. She’d been on several trips overseas before, but had never experienced them the way she’d experienced the three weeks touring Italy with Baldwin.

She was having trouble acclimating. She missed the slow easiness of Italian life—the languid drives, the frequent stops for food and wine, the symmetrical beauty of the olive groves and vineyards and cypresslined drives, the feeling that she was very, very young. And if she were being absolutely truthful, it had been damn nice to have three whole weeks without a single dead body.

The clouds smothered the burgeoning sunlight again, but she left the glasses on. Annoying, that’s what these transitional months were. She wanted it to be one or the other, warm or cold, sunny or cloudy. Fitz pulled out of the parking lot.

“How ya doing?” he asked.

“I have a leak in my bathroom,” she pouted.

“I told you not to buy a new house. If you’d gotten one constructed like they should be, something solid, like those great old Victorians in East Nashville, you wouldn’t be having these problems.”

“No, Fitz, I’d just have termites and gang-bangers. No thanks. Gentrification just isn’t my thing.”

“Spoiled.”

“Not. We just wanted something…airy.”

Fitz laughed. “Airy my ass.You wanted something big enough for that damn pool table and a passel of kids.”

Taylor turned to him, suspicious. “What in the world makes you say that?”

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He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. It made his face look crooked, like Popeye full of ruddy wrinkles. “You don’t?”

“Don’t what?”

“Want to have a pack of brats with the fed.” He said it so calmly she went on immediate alert.

“Where are you hearing this stuff? I’ve never said anything about having a baby. We can’t even manage to get married, so I’m hardly gunning for offspring. I don’t know if that’s something I ever want to do.” She looked out the window, watched the edge of downtown Nashville slip away like a veil was lifted. Brick and cement became foliage. They were on West End, heading out to Hillwood. A bucolic drive through the suburbs. Was that prompting Fitz’s question?

“Okay, girlie, I’m convinced. But I’m hearing this crime scene might be a bit off-putting. If you were fixing to get yourself knocked up, I might encourage you to skip this one, look the other way.”

“Jesus Christ, Fitz, tell me what’s at the scene.”

“Parks is there. Hey, there’s a picture in the visor. Grab that, wouldja?”

Good, Taylor thought. Bob Parks was as levelheaded a patrol officer as Metro employed. If there was something wild at a crime scene, he would know how to tamp it down so the press couldn’t get too insane. She unfolded the sun visor, expecting a crime scene photo. Instead, a picture of a boat dropped into her lap. She turned it around so it faced up. It was pretty, white with tall sails, sliding through impossibly blue water.

“Yes…?”

“Parks said it was a little gruesome out there, that’s all.”

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“No, I mean, what’s with the boat?”

“Thinking of buying it.”

Taylor looked at the photo again. It was…well, it was a boat. That’s as far as she went with sailing. Not her forte.

“When are you planning to drive this boat?”

“Jeez, LT. It’s called sailing. And it’s for when I retire.”

Fitz clamped his mouth shut. Taylor recognized the action—he was finished talking about it. He’d warned her about the scene and lobbed a bombshell about the future; that was as far as he was willing to go. Great. An ambulance whipped past them, coming from the opposite direction. Going to St. Thomas, she thought. She mentally crossed herself, as she did every time she heard a siren. After thirteen years on the force, five of them in Homicide, she wasn’t so jaded that she still couldn’t have some compassion for the strangers in this world who might need a little looking over. She toyed with her new engagement ring. The postengagement pre-marriage ring, actually. When he’d first proposed, Baldwin had given her a stunning twocarat Tiffany sparkler, with delicate baguettes parading around the platinum band. Gorgeous, but impractical. And since the wedding hadn’t gone off—no fault of her own, she’d been unceremoniously Tasered and flown unconscious to New York with poor Baldwin standing at the church waiting for her—the new ring was a representation of a second chance. He’d arranged to slip away for a few moments in Florence, then shown up for dinner at a little place they’d fallen in love with called Mama Gina’s, a flush around the crinkles of his intense emerald eyes. To the Judas Kiss

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delight of their regular waiter, Antonio, and the rest of the restaurant patrons, he’d dropped to one knee and presented her with a new ring. One that held an even deeper promise. The five Asscher cut diamonds twinkled from their platinum channel setting. Baldwin told her each diamond represented the next five years of their lives together, and he’d buy her another in twenty-five years.

Aside from the romantic notion of it, the practicality of the ring touched her. It was flat. It didn’t catch on things like the Tiffany. And it wouldn’t get in her way if she had to fire her weapon unexpectedly. The gesture was overwhelming, and she’d almost told him to find a church that very moment. He knew what she was thinking, and that had been enough. She hadn’t decided whether she was ready to try again. She dragged herself back to reality when Fitz harrumphed at her. He was turning onto Jocelyn Hollow Road, and Taylor could see the parade of vehicles lined up at the end of the normally quiet street. The attendance to an unnatural death often seemed a three-ring circus to the uninitiated. The entrance into the cul-de-sac was blocked by a confluence of vehicles. There were five Metro blue-and-white patrol cars. First responders had already left the scene. Whenever 911

dispatched the police, the closest fire engines and an ambulance were actually sent before the squad cars. Standard operating procedure. The clues were apparent; there was no hurriedness, no rush. There was nothing that could be done for this particular victim, so the next steps were being taken.

The why had begun.

Fitz stopped the vehicle three houses away and they 32

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exited the car, making their way to the command station at the base of the driveway. A sign on the black mailbox had the name WOLFF in curly letters. Taylor always wondered exactly why people would want to advertise their names on their domiciles. An address she could understand, but the name…it seemed silly. And a safety issue. The last thing in the world she would ever do is publicize where she lived. Of course, she wouldn’t know what name to put on the mailbox. Jackson? Baldwin? Jackson-Baldwin? That just sounded like a funeral home.

A crowd of people had gathered directly across the street, standing in the yellowish grass, waiting. Recognizing the authority in Taylor’s stride, they started yelling when she came close. One voice rose above them all.

“What happened? We have a right to know what’s going on at the Wolffs’.” Fear made the man’s voice tremble.

Taylor turned, took in the speaker. He was an older man, with black hair that looked suspiciously dyed. Unshaven, thick glasses, pajama bottoms, jean jacket over a dirty sleeveless undershirt. Her immediate thought was widower and she stopped, feeling sorry for him.