Текст книги "Judas Kiss"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

A thought hit her. “It can’t be Terrence. He’d recognize Lincoln, wouldn’t he?”

“Well, he kept that cue-ball look after you left, and grew a beard.” Fitz laughed. “Scruffy, moth-eaten curly shit, too. He looks like a hood, not at all like his usual dapper self. And Terrence only dealt directly with you and me. So he’ll fit in okay. Besides, until his little foray onto the wild side, he was only working with the CI. Terrence wouldn’t have ever seen him.”

“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.

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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 runthrough 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.

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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 dif-124

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ference 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. Judas Kiss

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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 126

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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 babyproofed 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 Judas Kiss

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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.

“I feel a draft coming from the wall.” He started running his hands along the tapestry. Taylor was struck by a thought.

“Pull the tapestry aside, I think there’s something here. Manchini’s house, next door? She had a door on this part of the living room wall, must be a basement.”

Fitz wrestled the heavy cloth away from the wall.

“Bingo.” The draft was coming from the hole where the doorknob should have been. That made sense; in order for the tapestry to lie flat against the wall the Wolffs had to remove the knob. Instead of struggling to get 128

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behind the heavy tapestry, Taylor and Fitz lifted it gently from the wall and laid it on the leather chair. The door opened inward, revealing a set of stairs that led to darkness. Sure enough, a basement.

“Did anyone pick up on this yesterday?” Taylor asked.

“Not that I know of.” He went down the first three steps, then charged back up, swiping at his face.

“Argh!”

“What?”

“Spiderweb.”

Taylor laughed so hard she had to lean back against the wall to keep herself from tumbling down the stairs. The spiderweb in question was swinging merrily to and fro as Fitz sputtered and scratched at his head. She nearly bit her lip in two trying to stop the giggles.

“It’s not a spiderweb, you old fool, it’s the pull for the light.” She reached around him and tugged on the string. The naked hundred-watt bulb came on with a snap, blinding both of them for a moment. Blinking as her eyes adjusted, Taylor stared down the stairs, the light illuminating only the immediate stairwell. Fitz was grumbling behind her. She unlatched the snap on her holster, slipped her Glock out of the creaking leather. Holding it at her side, she started down. There was a landing, and she stopped, cautious, sticking the gun and her head around the corner at the same time, just in case. She saw nothing to alarm her, and returned the weapon to its holster as she went down the remaining steps. There was a light switch at the base of the stairs. Taylor flipped on the overhead fluorescent.

It was a standard basement: cement floor, unfin– Judas Kiss 129

ished walls on three sides, one painted, as if the owners had contemplated finishing the room and wanted to see what it would look like. The barest whiff of stale air indicated a minor mold problem; the floor was cluttered with stacks of cardboard boxes, bicycles, sleds. All the material that wouldn’t fit nicely in the garage was placed haphazardly down here. It was just a storage space, probably only four hundred square feet: twenty feet deep and twenty long. Certainly nothing exciting.

She returned the weapon to its holster. They did a pass through, looking behind boxes, but Taylor didn’t see anything out of place.

“Let’s get Tim back out here to go through all of this, okay? Just in case.”

“Will do.” He froze, then spoke, dramatically sotto voce. “You hear that?”

She stopped moving and listened. Yes, she did hear something. Footsteps. There was someone in the house with them.

There was no hesitation. Her weapon was drawn and pointing up the stairs before she took another breath. Fitz had his gun palmed too. Using hand signals, Taylor indicated that she was going to go up the stairs and he was to follow.

The steps creaked as Taylor tread on them, and the footsteps above stopped abruptly at the noise.

“Shit,” she whispered. The element of surprise was gone. She got to the top of the stairs in a heartbeat. Leading with her gun, her eyes swept the living room. No immediate threats. Fitz was bumping up against her back. She nodded at him, then took three quick steps out into the room and turned left, into the foyer. Fitz 130

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went right, into the kitchen. Nothing, nothing, nothing. They met again in the dining room, and Taylor pointed at the ceiling with her Glock. They listened carefully. There they were again, the footsteps. Whoever had invaded the house was upstairs.

Standing at the base of the staircase, Taylor was just taking the first step when a shadow crossed the hallway. Holding her breath, she aimed her weapon at the banister. Step one, step two, step three, no one in her sights yet, step four, step five, there, the shadow was getting closer, closer, step six…

“Police, don’t move! Hold it right there,” she shouted.

The shadow jumped and screamed. Taylor’s finger tightened on the trigger, and she took one more step.

“Lieutenant, don’t shoot!” the silhouette yelled, and Taylor, recognizing the voice, eased the pressure off the trigger, just a fraction. A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs, hands up.

Taylor lowered her weapon. “Christ almighty, Page, what the hell are you doing, trying to get yourself killed? I almost shot you!”

Fitz was laughing, the eerie tension forcing emotion to the surface. He and Taylor slumped together on the stairs, guns at their sides. Julia Page, the assistant district attorney, stood at the balcony, her arms now crossed on her chest, chin-length curly chestnut hair sticking out in every direction as if it had been frightened and was trying to get away.

“What the hell are you doing creeping around here with your guns drawn?” Page demanded.

“What the hell are you doing here without calling me first?” Taylor snapped back.

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“I did call you. Left you a message and everything. Said I was coming over to meet you. God, Taylor.”

Page came down the stairs, ashen. Taylor whirled and went into the kitchen. Her hands were quivering, and she jammed them into the front pockets of her jeans in an effort to hide the fact. Page and Fitz both followed a moment later, but Taylor could tell Fitz had said something to Page. She was bristling, her hair looked like she’d stuck a finger in a socket. Page’s hair was a dead giveaway to her every emotion. The sight made Taylor want to laugh, and the effort it took to hold the bubbling mirth down helped her regain her composure.

“That was a close one, Page. You should have called out when you came in.”

This time Page looked at the ground, chagrined. “I know. Sorry. I didn’t see either of you and just assumed you’d gone around back or something. I thought I’d get a look, form an impression without bothering you. Sorry,” she repeated.

“It’s okay. But now you know why we ask for nonessential personnel to get clearance before they enter a scene. Didn’t the patrol outside tell you to announce yourself?”

The pointed chin raised an inch. “I’m not exactly nonessential, Taylor.”

“Yeah, but you almost got forcibly made redundant, so next time….” Her hands had stopped shaking, the adrenaline coursing through her system ushered back to its home.

Page nodded. “Okay, okay. I just wanted to see the place. I didn’t talk to the officer outside, I waved at him and he waved back. How is the investigation coming?”

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“We don’t have much to go on yet. We’re supposed to be meeting with the husband at two.”

“Well, it’s one forty-five now, you’d best get going if you want to make it.”

Taylor looked at her watch and cursed. “Yeah, we’d better go. We can talk after, okay? Meet me in my office at three or so. Will that work?”

Page nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

The three exited the house. Fitz slapped a new label on the door. He peeled off from the two women and made his way to the patrol, and Taylor knew the young man was going to get a tongue blistering. He should never have let the A.D.A. in the premises without alerting the two officers inside. It was sloppy work. While the situation never got entirely out of hand, it had been close. That was a story that would have made the national news—A.D.A. shot by lead investigator of case. Taylor shook her head at the mere thought. Besides, she liked A.D.A. Page. Would have hated like hell to kill her.

Todd Wolff was waiting for Fitz and Taylor in the lobby of the CJC, alone. This cheered Taylor to no end. No lawyer meant they’d be freer with their questions. She had to give Wolff credit, it was a good trick. Show up without a lawyer, make yourself look innocent. After some essential paperwork, they’d gotten him signed in and made comfortable in a blue interrogation room simply furnished with a table and four chairs, two on either side of the table. Sodas all around, video and audio rolling, Fitz led him through the particulars.

“You know you have the right to legal representa– Judas Kiss 133

tion, don’t you Mr. Wolff?” Fitz scratched at his ear with a pen, doing his damnedest to look disarming.

“I didn’t think I was under arrest,” Wolff said.

“You’re not. We’re just talking. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it. You know how that works. So, if we’re all good, tell me your full name, please.”

“Theodore Amadeus Wolff. Todd for short.”

“Your date of birth?”

“August 4, 1979.”

“Place of birth?”

“Clarksville, Tennessee.”

“Social?”

“413-00-8897.”

“Address?”

“4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court, Nashville, 37205.”

Taylor nodded at Fitz, and he leaned back in his chair, gesturing for her to go ahead.

“Okay, Todd. Thanks for that. Let’s get started, shall we? You have everything you need?”

“I do. Let’s get this over with. I want to get back to my daughter.”

Taylor tapped her pen on the table. “We heard you took Hayden to your parents. Where do they live, Todd?”

“Clarksville.”

“Any particular reason you didn’t leave her with your in-laws? They’re a bit closer. Wouldn’t it be more convenient for you?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

Taylor didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow. After a moment, Todd reached some kind of decision.

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equipped to deal with Hayden right now. The Harrises are great, and we get along fine, but Corinne was…special to them. The favorite. Hayden is the light of their lives. They’re mourning, and I didn’t want a constant reminder of what they’d lost running around their house. You know?”

He looked so forlorn that Taylor believed him. She eased back in the chair, adopting a more casual stance.

“That was a kind thought. Tell me about your wife, Todd.”

Wolff nodded, gathering himself. When he finally spoke, it was with a quiet strength, as if some font of internal fortitude had opened a wellspring in his heart.

“Corinne was, well, a force of nature. We met in college, and I fell hard immediately. We went to Vanderbilt, you know? She was a cheerleader, I was warming the bench with the basketball team. She was perfect, all bubbly and sweet, this crazy smile that just shot through me. Everybody loved her. She was the president of her sorority, captain of the tennis team, a straight-A student. We were together for a week when I told her I was going to marry her. She said yes.”

He smiled to himself, eyes gone fuzzy at the memory. “We were sitting on the deck at San Antonio Taco Company, drinking too much beer and eating tacos, and I just leaned over and said ‘I’m going to marry you, you know.’ She smiled and said, ‘Well, when you ask, I’ll say yes.’ It was perfect. She’s, she was amazing. I can’t believe I’m never going to see her smile again.”

Taylor gave him a moment to gather himself, watched him wrestle with the memories. He was a handsome man, jet black, wavy hair, eyes so brown Judas Kiss

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they looked black, a wide, firm mouth. Ropy muscles in his forearms implied strength. Taylor could imagine any one of a thousand sorority girls who would say yes to marriage material like that.

“So tell me how you got home from Savannah so quickly yesterday.”

His head snapped back as if she’d struck him.

“I…I told you. I broke every speeding law on the road.”

“And managed to cut two hours off an eight-hour drive.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The silence hung heavy in its accusation. Todd didn’t speak, just set his lips and shook his head. Taylor came at him again.

“Do you have a life insurance policy on Corinne?”

Todd sniffed a few times. She could see the internal debate, the realization that he’d been careless, should have known better than to come without an attorney.

“Todd, I asked you a question. Did you have a life insurance policy on your wife?”

“Yes. Of course I did. We’ve got a child. We’ve got policies on both of us in case something happens.”

“For how much?”

He mumbled a number.

“Say that again? I didn’t hear you.”

“We each have policies worth three million dollars. I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer now.”

“Did you murder your wife, Mr. Wolff?”

He stood suddenly, the chair scooting back with a screech. “No, damn it. But you’re going to try and pin this on me, I can see it. And I don’t intend to be made a 136

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fool of, Lieutenant. I didn’t kill my wife. Am I under arrest?”

The room was thick with tension. Taylor stared into Wolff’s black eyes and saw the first vestiges of fear forming. It just served to pique her interest.

“No. You’re not. Yet.”

Twelve

Taylor was sifting through the afternoon’s events in triplicate when her phone rang. She recognized the number as Forensic Medical, Sam’s extension. She glanced at the wall clock. Five. Too early for toxicology reports. She answered on the second ring. There was no greeting, just Sam’s overt enthusiasm spilling out of the receiver’s speaker.

“You are a lucky woman.”

Taylor tipped her chair back and put her feet up on her desk, crossing them at the ankle. “Why would this be?”

“Because you are going to go home, take a shower, put on something fabulous, and join me as my date for the evening.”

“Oh, hell no. I’ve got a shitload of work to do, and I am definitely not in the mood.”

“You don’t even know what it is and you’re turning it down?”

“Yes.”

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“Oh, Taylor, you’re a stick-in-the-mud. I insist you accompany me. I’ve lost my date for the evening, he is head over heels in love with some microbe growing in a petri dish in his office. I need an escort. It’s not acceptable for a young lady such as myself to be out on the town all by her lonesome. So get your shit together, go home and get yourself in something elegant.”

Taylor groaned. “Elegant? What, pray tell, are you planning to drag me to?”

“The American Cancer Society Dinner. I’m the keynote speaker.”

“No, Sam. Absolutely not,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at six forty-five. You should wear that red dress we got you in Barbados.”

“There’s no place for me to carry my weapon on that dress.”

“And that, my darling friend, is the point. I don’t think you’re going to have to shoot anyone at the Frist Center.”

“Famous last words. I remember the last time you told me I wouldn’t need a gun, I ended up being kidnapped.”

“Well, no one is going to do that tonight. I promise. Just some rubber chicken and a bunch of free champagne. You need a break. I bet you’ve been after the bad guys all day.”

“Of course I have. It’s my job.” But Sam had already hung up. Taylor rolled her eyes, put the phone back in the cradle, and dropped her feet to the floor. Choices. Sit at her desk, filling out paperwork, listening to the B-shift detectives fart and tell bad jokes while they waited for a case to break, or get dressed up Judas Kiss

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in something hideously uncomfortable and make nice all night. She really didn’t know which option would be worse.

Taylor eyed the red dress dubiously. She was already in a strapless bra, thigh-high sheer black hose and three-inch black pumps. Sam and Simon had brought the dress back from a Caribbean vacation, Sam gushing over the clingy style, declaring it would be gorgeous on her figure. Taylor had thanked her, but never tried it on. It was a postage stamp as far as she was concerned.

Well, bottoms up. She slipped the fabric over her head, surprised at how heavy it felt, considering how little of it there was. She shimmied until the dress stopped, hitched against her hips, and she tugged at the hem. Suddenly it was on, flowing, draping, hitting her curves in all the right places. She looked into her mirror. Holy shit. Sam was right. It was pretty. Delicate spaghetti straps, deep across the bust, showing off her décolletage to perfection, an empire waist that let the clingy fabric float around her knees. She was going to have to put on this getup for Baldwin, he’d enjoy it. She left her hair down, and it swished full and thick against the middle of her back. She put on a touch of eye shadow and mascara, and feeling risqué, painted her mouth with a deep crimson stain, then topped it with some Carmex. Done. A stranger in red. A horn beeped and she snapped off the light, rushed down the stairs, grabbing her purse and a wrap as she exited the front door. The small clutch was a concession she’d been required to make. She hated carrying a bag, dragging one around was counterintuitive to her 140

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lifestyle. Normally, as long as she had pockets for her Chapstick and a belt to attach her holster she was all set.

But there was no good place to stow a weapon in this outfit. She could have tied a blade in her garter, slipped a one-shot revolver into her cleavage, but they were too impractical. So she settled on a black satin evening clutch that was just big enough for a Taurus 941 .22 revolver with a nice, short two-inch barrel, one of the many “fun” guns she had in her safe. Her normal ankle weapon was a bit larger, a .22 Beretta that she kept inside her right cowboy boot in a custommade leather pouch, but the Beretta was just heavy enough to be a pain to carry in this purse. Sam whistled at her from the open top of her BMW, a construction worker catcall.

Taylor flipped her the bird, then yelled, “Put the damn top up. It’s way too cold out here to be buzzing around like this.” She locked the door behind her and walked to the car, a tiny bit unsteady on the unfamiliar heels.

Sam just smiled. “Fine, grump. I figured you’d like the fresh air.” The top whirred into place and snapped closed. “You look nice.”

“So do you.” Sam was wearing a midnight-blue Grecian styled gown, strappy gladiator sandals on her feet, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, the bangs thick and stark across her forehead. As usual, she looked chic and together. Taylor pulled down the mirror as Sam put the car in gear and backed out of the drive, feeling a bit garish with the red lipstick.

“Don’t touch it. You look fabulous.”

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Taylor put the mirror back into place and smiled at her best friend. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. So, how’s everything?”

They chatted during the fifteen-minute drive, catching up on non-law-enforcement issues. Sam scooted through the light traffic and when they pulled up in front of the Frist valets, Taylor felt as relaxed as she had in days.

They dropped the car, went inside the stunning museum’s outdoor tent. The fête was underway. Blacktie-clad men and elegantly gowned women strolled, drinking champagne and nibbling hor d’ouevres served on silver trays. Sam and Taylor each accepted a flute from a waiter and toasted one another, clinking glasses softly. “Salut, ” Taylor said, the word making her miss Baldwin.

They circulated through the room, greeting people they knew, which was most of the crowd. Several of Taylor’s mother’s friends came up and complimented her on her dress, asked how Kitty Jackson was faring these days. A few deigned to ask about Win, her father. She answered both with equal insouciance—Kitty was fine, she’d met a Swiss banker skiing in Gstaad over the winter and had elected to stay in Europe for the remainder of the spring. Win was in a minimum-security prison in West Virginia, a guest of the federal government. Most people didn’t know all the facts behind the Win Jackson case. The feds had managed to keep his role in a huge money-laundering and human trafficking ring relatively quiet. Win wouldn’t be testifying against his former boss. The man known eponymously as L’Uomo was in a Brazilian jail at the moment, most 142