Текст книги "All The Pretty Girls"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

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The station had called, too, wanting her to come in and cover some new angle on the serial rapist that was breaking, but even that had to wait. Imagine, she was putting her own career on hold. She’d deal with that later. First, she had to see Quinn. She forced her brand-new BMW X5 through the meandering traffic on Highway 70. This stretch of road, over Nine Mile Hill from Bellevue into the West Meade area, always lagged. All the locals knew that a speed trap waited to catch drivers as they blew over the hill faster than the forty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit allowed. She weaved, and touched her brakes as she came through the yellow flashing lights in front of St. Henry’s, warning her to slow down to fifteen miles an hour so she wouldn’t run over any lingering schoolchildren. She slowed to sixty-five, then punched the gas as she passed through the intersection. She saw a crosswalk monitor shaking a fist in the air in her rearview mirror, but didn’t slow.

The SUV gleamed in the sunlight, briefly blinding other drivers as it flashed past, narrowly missing bumpers and side mirrors. Horns blared, fingers were thrown, but Whitney ignored the danger she was putting herself and the other drivers in. The West Meade split at Highway 70 and Highway 100 was congested as usual, the awkward traffic pattern begging for an accident of mammoth proportions, but she caught all the lights. She found the short stretch of open road where Highway 70 briefly became the Memphis–Bristol Highway that indicated the wealth of the land had just increased tenfold. The sign for the Belle Meade Mansion flashed by in a blur of white and she realized 156

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she’d missed her turn onto Leake Avenue. No matter, she could get to Quinn’s house through the main entrance to Belle Meade. The railroad tracks flashed by on her left and suddenly she was on top of the entrance. She knew she was going too fast as she tried to take the right turn. She braked hard, and the X5 slid into a 90-degree turn onto Belle Meade Boulevard. As the Beemer tried to obey its master and turn on a dime, Whitney lost control. The SUV weaved precariously, flashing across the turning lane right into the two bronze Thoroughbreds that graced the entrance into the Belle Meade enclave.

The life-sized metal horses bucked into the air and crashed onto the street behind her. The impact didn’t stop her SUV, which continued across the median into the oncoming traffic on the Boulevard. Drivers swerved to miss her, but one car stayed its course. Whitney’s BMW plowed into and over the Audi station wagon, crushing the car and its three occupants. In her panic, she’d neglected to fasten her seat belt. Without the restraint to hold her in place, the impact hurled Whitney through the windshield as if she were a missile. Her left foot caught in the wiper blade, and her broken, bloody body splayed on the shiny hood, mingling with the splat of a couple of lovebugs, all three joined forever in death.

Twenty-One

Baldwin had just arrived at the airport, checked his bag at the curb and was heading inside to grab a cup of coffee before his plane returned to Nashville, when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and smiled. Taylor had tried to call him late last night, or early this morning, seeing as the time code on the message was 3:30 a.m. She hadn’t left a message. He must have slept through the ring. He hated missing her calls, and wondered why she had tried him in the middle of the night. Sometimes it got to the point that they spoke to each other’s voice mail for a whole day, trying to match up.

“Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

Taylor’s voice was a little shaky, but she sounded all right to him. “I’m fine. When are you coming home?”

“I’m at the airport now, my flight leaves in half an hour.”

“Good. I, uh, we, uh—”

Baldwin heard a beep in his ear, glanced at the display and interrupted her. “Hold on a sec, Grimes is 158

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calling my other line.” He hit the flash button. “Hey, Grimes.”

“Baldwin, you haven’t gotten on the plane yet, have you?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah. And the media is broadcasting the story already.”

“Wait a second, would you? I need to get off the other line.” He clicked over. “Taylor, I have to go. Let me call you right back.” He hung up before he heard an answer and switched back to Grimes.

“Where is she?”

“They found her body off Highway 81 right outside of Roanoke, Virginia. The guy who found her called his girlfriend and told her to call the local Fox affiliate before he called the police. Wanted his fifteen minutes of fame. And before you ask, no, he doesn’t look good for the crime. But we need to get up there ASAP. I’ve got a plane chartered here at the private airstrip. Go grab a cab and have them run you to this terminal, okay?”

The stress in Grimes’s voice was palpable. Baldwin started walking toward the exit with purpose, firing questions as he made his way through the throng of people.

“What else do you know?”

“Other than the national news has already picked it up before we’re on the scene? Well, she was strangled, I know that for sure. But the highway patrol officer I talked to down there wasn’t the friendliest cuss in the world. This isn’t going to be like Noble. So that’s the extent of it.”

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instructing the driver and talking to Grimes at the same time. “Okay, I’m in a cab and should be over there in five minutes. We’ll talk on the plane.”

He clicked off, then punched in the speed-dial number for Taylor. She picked up before the first ring had ended.

“Thanks for hanging up on me.” She sounded pissed and Baldwin grimaced. He hadn’t meant to be rude, and told her that.

“I know you didn’t. What did Grimes want?”

“Marni Fischer’s body has been found in Roanoke. I’m on my way over to the jet so I can catch a ride up there. I don’t think I’ll be home tonight after all, honey. I’m sorry.” He was genuinely distressed, he hated spending too much time away from her.

“Uhhh, that’s okay. Just give me a call when you get some free time. I’m sorry, babe, I know you didn’t want it to end up like this.”

“No, but I was expecting it. Time frame was right. You were about to ask me something earlier.”

“Oh, that’s okay, it can wait. I have to go anyway, I’m meeting Sam. Just call me later, okay?”

“I will, sweetheart. Love you,” he said almost absently. Once he’d determined Taylor was fine and needed nothing from him, his head had gone immediately back to the case. He hung up and shoved the phone back into its holster.

Roanoke, Virginia. The killer started in Alabama, went to Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, then Georgia and now had ended up in Virginia. He flipped open his phone and made a quick call back to Quantico. His boss, Garrett Woods, answered on the first ring.

“Baldwin, are you on your way to Virginia?”

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“Yes, I’m pulling up to the private terminal in Atlanta right now, Grimes has a plane ready to go. Do me a favor, would you? Put the locations of the dump sites and kidnapping sites into the geographical database, see what it spits out. I want to see if this guy is flying by the seat of his pants or if he might be following some sort of geographical pattern. Have them try to find central locations he could be working out of, and put in the assumption that he’s not from any of the areas that he’s been working in.”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“I’ll call you from Virginia. Until I get on the ground I want to hold off making any more judgments.”

“Okay then, but get back to me later and let me know what you think.”

“Will do, Garrett. Thanks.” He clicked off just as the taxi pulled up in front of the private air terminal. He jumped into the cab, juggling his cell phone and briefcase. His cell rang again, an unfamiliar number with a Georgia area code. He got settled in the cab and answered on the third ring.

“John Baldwin.”

“Dr. Baldwin, this is Sheriff Pascoe. I’ve gotten the report back from the lab on the note found in Marni Fischer’s car. There weren’t any discernible prints, just a couple of smudges. Could be from the victim, but I can’t guarantee that. There just wasn’t enough to go on.”

“Well, it was a long shot. He’s not making a lot of mistakes, there’s no reason for him to start now. Particular and precise, that’s our boy. Thank you, Sheriff. I appreciate you working so quickly on that.”

“You’ll keep me up-to-date on what happens, right?”

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“Absolutely. You have my number, feel free to call anytime. I have to run, I’m at the airport now. You take care.”

He shut the phone, overpaid the cabbie and made his way through the glass double doors. Grimes was standing in the middle of the large room and looked relieved when he saw Baldwin.

“We’re wheels up as soon as you get on the plane. You ready to go?”

“Let’s do it,” Baldwin said.

Twenty-Two

Taylor was as hungover as she had ever been. She vaguely recalled the night before, crying into her beer, and later in the evening, Crown Royal. That had been a mistake, she hated whisky. It tasted like firewood soaked in grain alcohol, like she was chewing on wood chips. She’d thrown up almost as soon as she finished it. That’s when Sam had decided Kat should follow them home in Taylor’s truck. The ride was short, and Sam had poured Taylor into the bed. She woke with a headache, feeling nauseous, a gnawing certainty that something was wrong momentarily obscuring her thoughts. Then she remembered, and felt sick again. After her brief chat with Baldwin, she’d managed a shower and set off for work, dark-lensed Maui Jims on in an attempt to shield her eyes from an overly bright sun. When had the sun become so powerful, started giving off midafternoon light so early in the morning? She was sure that it had never glowed with such a vengeance. She opened the door of her Xterra and got in, gri– All the Pretty Girls 163

macing. She sat back in the seat, turned her XM radio on, flipped to Lucy, her favorite alternative-rock station, turned the volume to a bearable level and lost herself in the music.

She’d tried many times to figure the exact moment she’d fallen in love with Baldwin. It was his vulnerability that had attracted her in the first place. She had sensed the emptiness in him the moment she’d met him, felt it reflect in her own heart. Was it love at first sight? Was it the first time they’d touched, a casual grazing of the hands? She’d been drawn to his tortured soul, searching for her own forgiveness as she tried to help him achieve his.

She shook herself out of the reverie, her headache starting to lessen. Baldwin. He was her man now. She wished he were here with her. He would placate her with his strong hands, lift the hair on the back of her neck, murmur in her ear as he caressed her body. And she would let him. But now, so early into their happiness, she was going to blow the whole thing. Her hand went to her forehead as a wave of nausea pulsed through her. Shit. She turned the engine over and put the truck in gear. Driving toward West End, she tried to focus on the news she had received and failed. Things felt different this morning, but she chalked that up to her killer hangover. She glanced in the mirror and gave herself a lopsided smile. She’d figure her life out later. When her head didn’t feel like it was going to explode. She made her way through the traffic in West End and drove into the outskirts of Belle Meade. She had promised, before she was totally gone, to meet Sam at Starbucks this morning.

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Taylor pulled into the lot and parked her truck. Making her way past the high-school girls in their green plaid skirts, white socks and Birkenstocks that populated the outdoor seating area, she made it to the door. An older gentleman balancing a tray of coffees kindly held the door for her with his butt. Her southern training kicked in and she gave him one of her best smiles as she passed. He grinned back a little sheepishly. Taylor with a full-watt smile on her face could bring the best of men to their knees. She spotted Sam in a cozy corner with overstuffed chairs and a small glass table loaded with drinks, cinnamon buns, a slice of iced lemon pound cake and a lonely bran muffin. Taylor snickered back a laugh. Sam’s pregnancy was getting the better of her, she was wolfing down every sweet in sight.

“There she is, the woman every man wants and every woman wants to be. Sit yourself down here before your latte gets cold, girl.”

“I don’t envy anyone my position today. I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, you’re looking a little rough around the edges. Nice shades, though.”

Taylor reached over and gave Sam a hug. She searched her friend’s face hard, wondering if there was more from last night that she didn’t remember. Sam didn’t seem perturbed, so Taylor relaxed and sank gratefully into an overstuffed green velvet chair. She started to reach for her latte, and heard sirens. They were getting louder by the minute, and she chided herself for wondering if they meant she would have to be making a call to a scene.

“Hear that? Hope it’s nothing major.”

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“Yeah, probably a Belle Meade housewife with a hangnail.” They both hooted out a laugh, it was just too easy to make fun of Nashville’s elite community, to pretend that they didn’t come from that enclave of Nashville society. When they stopped guffawing, Taylor realized that Sam was about to explode with some kind of news. She knew right away what it was going to be.

“Went to the doc this morning for the ultrasound.”

“Ooooh, could they tell what we’re having?” Sam’s excitement was catching, they’d been waiting for the ultrasound to find out the sex of the baby. Simon hadn’t wanted to know, but Sam’s relentless begging had finally won him over.

“Well, in a way. There’s a fifty-fifty chance we’re having a little girl.” Taylor started grinning, wondering immediately if she would turn out to be the tomboy her mother was. She almost missed Sam’s next sentence.

“And there’s a good chance we’re also having a boy.”

Taylor stopped, waiting for the words to sink in.

“Twins? Twins! Oh my God, Sam, you really don’t waste any time, do you? Instant family! Is Simon about to die?”

“He is, but he’s happy. He says at least now we can stop worrying about the perfect names. Call them One and Two and be done with it. I told him it sounded like he was naming petrie dishes, but he just laughed.”

Simon Loughley owned the only forensics lab in town, Private Match. It was just that, private and very discreet. Also very expensive. Metro Nashville had used their services in the past on tough or expedient cases. Sam continued prattling on, to Taylor’s amusement. She knew Sam wanted to be a mother, and couldn’t be 166

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more pleased that she was having two at once. It was too early for the doctors to be certain of the sex, but the second heartbeat had been exceptionally strong. Taylor could also see the fright behind Sam’s eyes. Caring for two newborns would be a much different challenge than just one at a time. But she knew Sam would be a great mother. She wondered if she would, then pushed the thought aside.

“…So I told the doctor that it serves me right, using Depo-Provera all those years. When the eggs realized they could finally get out, they all crowded to the door. It’s weird, I can just feel that they are brother and sister.”

Taylor leaned into Sam, giving her a soft hug. “It’s going to be wonderful, honey. We’re going to have a ball!”

Sam looked at her, eyes searching for some confirmation that Taylor had laid the devils to rest about her own situation. With perfect timing, Taylor’s cell rang, giving her an excuse to look away. She flipped the phone open and chose a point well over Sam’s left shoulder to look at.

“Taylor Jackson.” She immediately started shifting in her chair. “Hello, Dr. Gregory. No, I’m fine.” She was silent for a moment. Then a moment more. “Are you sure?” The lightness that infused her voice made Sam look at her sharply. Taylor’s grin reached from one side of the room to the other. “Thank you. No, really. Thank you.”

She hung up the phone, biting her lip.

“Good news?” Sam asked.

Taylor settled back in her chair. “Apparently his nurse Shelby mixed up some of the test results. A woman with the last name Taylor is pregnant. I’m not.”

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“I thought that might be the case. You didn’t have the look.”

“And you didn’t tell me that? I could have used a little doubt last night.” Taylor didn’t quite know whether to laugh or cry. But the relief she felt was overwhelming. The time just wasn’t right for her and Baldwin. Maybe, well, who knew?

Sam, in her ever-placating way, reached out a hand and patted Taylor’s arm. She didn’t need to say a word. After a long moment, Taylor started to speak, but just as she opened her mouth, Sam’s pager went off. She unhooked it from her purse strap, looked at the readout and grabbed her cell phone. Punching in a few numbers, she quickly became the medical examiner instead of an excited expectant mom. She hung up, shaking her head.

“Damn, I’ve got to go. Fatal car wreck at the entrance to Belle Meade Boulevard. That’s what all the sirens were about. Wanna come along?”

“Sure, why not. I’m waiting for Lincoln and Marcus to call me anyway.”

The two women got up quickly, tossing trash in silver containers at the door, and made their way to their respective cars. Sam called out, “Follow me,” then disappeared into her new silver BMW 330Ci, a wedding present from Simon.

The accident scene was as gruesome as the copious sirens had foretold. Sheets covered victims, blood leaked onto the warming pavement, glass and bits of automotive wonders were scattered carelessly about. A child’s doll lay forsaken in the middle of the street under a plate of shattered tempered glass.

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Taylor marveled at Sam’s ability to shake off her normal life for her work. She was barking orders, looking under sheets, moving through the mayhem like a swan through a shimmering lake. As a medical examiner, it was her job to deal with carnage and mayhem, but she was so smooth and seamless that everything seemed under control the minute she got to a scene. Taylor just sat on the hood of a patrol car and tried to stay out of the way. This wasn’t her case, and there were enough people milling about that she didn’t need to get in the way.

Sam came over to her, her face a bit ashen.

“You okay?” Taylor asked with concern.

Sam shook her head and shrugged. “I am, but this is one nasty wreck. Woman in the X5 ran over the Audi over there like a tank. Killed the occupants instantly. Driver’s license says the mom’s name is Tina Young. They’re IDing the kids by the names on their backpacks—Meredith and Jason. Elementary-school age. It’s pretty nasty, took the mom’s head right off. At least I can tell the rest of the family it was quick, I doubt she had a second to know what hit her.”

“Who’s the chick from the X5? And what is it about Beemers in this town? Am I really the only person who doesn’t have one?”

“You finished? Good. The X5’s driver was Whitney Connolly. No seat belt, sailed right over the air bag and through the windshield.”

Taylor felt the shock go through her like a bolt of lightning. “Whitney Connolly, the reporter from Channel Five?”

“Yeah.”

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“Oh, Sam. This place is going to be crawling with news trucks. What can I do?”

“Just try to distract them while I get her taken care of, okay? If anyone from Channel Five rolls up, they’re bound to recognize her SUV.”

“Do you want no comment, or do you want me to confirm that it was her?”

Sam looked at the scene for a moment. “You might as well realize her identity, but only to the Channel Five folks. They need to know right away anyway. Just use your discretion.” She walked back to the scene, moving quickly to get yellow tarps over the bodies. Taylor walked back across the street. Uniformed officers had already closed the road. No one was going to get through but the news trucks. And they were bearing down already. Taylor was relieved to see that the first one was Channel Five, then remembered that they had the Rainman story. Oh well, they’d better stay clear of that with her. At the very least they could have a quick confab and get things straightened out. She waved them down and directed them to the side of the road.

She recognized the reporter and her cameraman. Thankfully, it wasn’t tiny Edith, but this particular reporter had covered many of her scenes in the past and had been just as obnoxious. She knew she’d have to hit quickly to keep them from rushing off and ignoring her. She motioned for the driver to open his window and slipped her head into the van.

“Tommy, Stacy, good to see you.”

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thought this was just a car accident.” Stacy Harper was a bottle blonde with square tortoiseshell glasses and a distinctly Yankee accent. She had been poached from Channel Two the year before. She knew Nashville, but Taylor felt she was a bit too whiney. Rumor had it she was dating one of the Tennessee Titans football players, which wouldn’t surprise many. She had that perfect overbite that drove men wild.

“It is a car accident, but I need to tell you something.”

Stacy and her cameraman were getting impatient, ready to pull out the camera and start shooting some broll for Stacy’s package. The more raw footage they could compile, the better.

“What, Lieutenant? We need to start getting some shots of this scene so it can make the midday report. Hey, you want to comment on the Rainman?”

“Drop it, Stacy. Focus. Whitney Connolly was in the accident. Her X5 hit another car, killing all three people in it.”

Stacy’s eyes lit up for a moment. Immediacy was the name of the media game, and there was nothing like a scandal to boost the noontime ratings. “So you’re arresting her for vehicular manslaughter? Was she drunk? I have to call my producer, he’s going to flip.” She started to pull out her phone but caught Taylor’s eye and stopped. Realization dawned on her face.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. She’s not…”

“Yes, she is. So I think you do need to call your producer. We’re only telling you so you can talk to the station and get moving on whatever it is you need to do.”

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be a very complicated day. They swung into action, getting into the back of the van and starting to make calls. Taylor stepped away from the van just as Channel Four’s van pulled up. She could see another satellite truck coming down from West End. She signaled a

“hurry up” to Stacy and Tommy and started back toward the Channel Four van.

When they pulled to a stop, Taylor could tell they knew what was going on. Laura McPherson, the pretty brunette with what Taylor thought was one of the higher IQs in the field, stepped out of the van and came right for her. Taylor braced herself for the onslaught.

“Is it true that Whitney Connolly was killed in the accident?”

It never ceased to amaze her how quickly news could spread through Nashville. Taylor’s mouth started forming a “no comment” when Laura shot out her hand, palm up.

“We’re not going to do any film, so you can relax. We heard that Whitney was killed as well as three others. Someone on the scene called me to put in the tip, said she thought she recognized Whitney before they covered her up.”

Taylor sized Laura up. Young, smart, as ambitious as any other reporter, yet the girl had never burned her before. She was one of the few, and though Taylor knew better than to think it would never happen, she respected that the woman hadn’t ever misquoted her or screwed up a report. Taylor knew the rest of the force felt the same way. It was common knowledge who could be trusted and who needed to get the runaround on details. Laura had always done a nice job working the angles 172

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and hadn’t left anyone out to dry. Integrity in a reporter. Taylor almost laughed.

“All right, but just because it’s you. Whitney Connolly is dead. What are you going to do now?”

Laura gave her a look. “Talk to my producer, of course. Whitney was an icon here, we’ll want to put together some of her best work to honor her with. I wouldn’t worry about the rest of us, everyone will be keeping their cameras off. Respect for your fellow journalist, you know?”

“Why aren’t you guys like that with everything?”

“C’mon, Lieutenant, you know how it is. We certainly don’t want to offend any of the viewers. Besides, it’s just not right to capitalize on her death, you know?

I kind of admired her.”

With that, Laura disappeared back into the news truck. Others were pulling up, the whole contingent of ABC, CBS, NBC and Fox local affiliates were in attendance, but there wasn’t any activity from them. No satellites going up, no cables being unrolled, no copy being written. They were all huddled together, allegiances to individual stations forgotten, grieving the loss of one of their own. An unscheduled funeral cortege on West End. That’s how we do it, she thought. When one of our cops goes down, that’s how we handle it. All the animosity is forgotten, all the hate and fear is gone. We all grieve together. Most of the time. It had never occurred to her that the media would react in the same way. Thank God, at least none of them were clamoring for information on the Rainman. They were too shocked to think clearly, for once. Taylor left them and walked back across the street toward Sam. She thought her All the Pretty Girls

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friend still looked a little pale and could only imagine what she herself looked like. The first rush of adrenaline had passed, the hangover was back with a vengeance and she was very tired. As she reached Sam, she went to put an arm around her, then drew back when she saw the smear of blood on her sleeve.

“You’ve got some blood on you.”

Sam looked down in surprise. “Hmm, clumsy of me. Oh well, it’ll come out. How’s everything with the newsies?”

“They’re all standing down. No photos, no film. They’re pretty shook up, most are just trying to decide how best to lead the show without upsetting the whole city. Actually not being vultures, which is nice. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

Sam gave her a smile. “Thanks, T, you’re the greatest. I’ve got to get to the morgue. You all set?”

“Yeah. I’m going to head in to the office. Take some aspirin. Get caught up on some things. Hope the boys have solved all my cases so I can put my head on my desk and sleep for an hour.”

“All the men in the world, and so little time. Tell Baldwin I said hi.” Sam gave her arm a squeeze and walked away.

Twenty-Three

Baldwin stood in the glaring sunlight, shielding his eyes and watching the panoply of activity around the body. Each person at a crime scene had a specific task, yet it looked like ants at a picnic, chaotic and busy. The similarity to the previous crime scenes was disconcerting, and he tucked the thought away to be brought back out later. He ducked under the yellow tape and worked his way to the periphery of the activity. Marni Fischer was certainly getting the best attention a body could get. He made his way to her, slipping on his Ray-Bans so he wouldn’t have to squint. Mesmerized by what had been a beautiful young woman, he squatted for a closer look, swatting flies away from his face. Marni Fischer was naked, lying on her back, arms spread out to either side. Her arms ended at the wrist, her hands no longer in their proper place. That’s where the similarities ended. He’d been right on the money. The killer was escalating, the violence increasing. His eyes traveled to what had been her face; knife All the Pretty Girls

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slashes had rent channels over an inch deep in a crisscross pattern from her forehead to her chin. The deep cuts were borne of rage. Baldwin wondered what she’d done to piss him off.

He made a mental note to check the sexual activity—

seduction had been the previous MO, that might be different here, too. Her legs were demurely crossed at the knee, a gold chain nestled incongruously around the fragile bones of her right ankle. It struck Baldwin that it looked more like a shackle than purposeful decoration. Another, smaller zone had been created a few yards from Marni’s body. A pale hand, palm up in supplication, was nestled in the long grass. They were getting more adept at finding the hand of the last victim, at least. The local cops knew what to look for; they found it rather quickly. Why had the killer started leaving the hands away from the body? Just another item to add to his ever-growing list of quirks, the elements that made up the psyche of a murderer.

A breeze kicked up, and Baldwin was surprised to see a bank of black clouds approaching from the west, crawling furiously over the mountains. He wondered how long he’d been standing, staring. Better get a move on before it started to rain. The beauty of a southeastern summer afternoon, a thunderstorm was bound to crop up. He turned and looked back at Grimes. The man wasn’t going to make it. He’d been going downhill steadily since they’d gotten the call that Marni had been found. Right now he was trying to avoid the klieg light of a news truck instead of accompanying Baldwin to peruse the corpse. He was going to have to find a way 176

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for Grimes to get some rest, but while this killer was on the loose, that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. Giving Marni Fischer one last lingering look, he started to walk to Grimes, but a voice rang out behind him.

“Can we move her now, Agent?” The voice was tinged with sarcasm. Baldwin looked toward the source, a beefy young sergeant with red hair, freckles and large hands that were balled into fists. Locals upset that their turf was being trampled on by the FBI. He could understand their frustration. FBI swoops in, literally, to steal their case right from under them. Just like he’d done to Taylor. He turned and signaled to Grimes, an implied question in the wave, and Grimes shook his head. Baldwin felt a tap on his shoulder. It was actually more of a punch, and he turned to see the redheaded sergeant standing belligerently next to him, his hands now restored to their proper place, holding the man’s hips to his legs.