Текст книги "So Close the Hand of Death"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Thirty-Three

Taylor left Colleen in the conference room alternately vocalizing her anger with Taylor and casting coquettish glances at Lincoln. She found a quiet corner at the end of the hallway. The industrial fluorescents were over-bright. Or maybe she was overtired. She glanced at her TAG Heuer watch, it was nearly morning. The interview had taken almost an hour, with Colleen fighting her every step of the way. She had enough information to go forward, but something was missing. Specifically, why Colleen had been targeted in the first place. There were plenty of true-crime blogs on the web. Even a couple of other national sites that were run out of Nashville, according to Colleen. So why her? There was something missing, a piece they were overlooking, but damn if she could see what that was.

Taylor leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. What kind of game was Ewan Copeland playing? Was he responsible for the murders in New York, San Francisco and Boston? There was no way he could possibly be in all three places at once—he could have committed one of the series, but not all three, on two separate coasts. There was only one conclusion: he’d finally actualized his training from the Snow White Killer and recruited a group of apprentices to work alongside him, even going so far as to bring his own sister into the mix. The thought sent chills to her very marrow.

But more people meant more opportunities for leaks, for mistakes. And that might bring her the chance to end all of this sooner rather than later. All it would take to end her nightmare was a twitch of her forefinger. One clean shot, and the world would breathe easier.

She revisited her ongoing fantasy, thought about how she could lie in wait, and kill Copeland the moment she had confirmation that it was really him. She envisioned the setting—Copeland begging for his life, his pleas falling on deaf ears as she stood over him and shot without hesitation. The end.

Getting away from Baldwin and her team to enact such measures wouldn’t be difficult. Deception was a part of her job, misleading statements, sleight of hand. She was a magician with real handcuffs.

Everything up to now has been a dress rehearsal, you bastard. I won’t let you hurt anyone else I know.

God, she was tired.

“Are you okay?”

Taylor’s eyes flew open at Baldwin’s voice. He’d managed to sneak up on her. Good grief, had she dozed off standing, like a cow in a field? She nearly laughed at the image.

“I’m fine. You scared me.”

“Sorry about that. I thought you might have a headache. Your forehead is all squinched up like it gets when something hurts.” He ran his thumb softly across the two little wrinkles that appeared between her brows when she was frustrated or concentrating. Her railroad tracks, he called them, miniature furrows in her otherwise smooth skin. Her mother had good skin, and her grandmother before her. Lots of collagen. They’d both aged well, she hoped she’d get the same chance.

Something hurt, all right. The bleeding edge of her soul where she’d taken the knife and sliced off a piece the moment she’d decided on revenge as the only path to sanity. She tucked it away. There was plenty of time to wallow later.

“I’m good. Just thinking. What’s happening with you?”

“Waiting on a bunch of call backs. It’s rather frustrating not to be able to do anything.”

“You’re here. That’s doing something.” She pushed off the wall. “Want a coke?”

“Nothing cold. I need coffee. It’s freezing in that interrogation room.”

“I need a coke. Sorry you had to suffer. I keep it cold in there on purpose. Makes the bad guys ’fess up quicker. I have a hard time keeping a straight face when I’m in court and they play video of the interrogations. Watching the suspects try to warm their hands with the cuffs on is a source of great amusement for me.”

“Taylor, my dear, you are a first-class sadist.”

“You know it.”

They started walking, shoulders touching. Taylor took comfort in the contact. It reminded her that even though she was alone in this, she had someplace to turn if she backed out, or if she truly needed a safe place to run to.

“How’s Colleen Keck?” Baldwin asked.

They reached the soda machine. Baldwin peeled a dollar out of his wallet and put it in, chivalrously handed the Diet Coke to Taylor. She accepted it, cracked the lid and took a long drink before she answered.

“I had to have Lincoln take the blog down, but that’s as far as I can go. Colleen is not cooperating the way I’d like. She’s more worried about protecting her sources than helping us stop the Pretender. Without her permission to scan the personal information of the blog commenters, I’ll have to get a warrant, and warrants take time. I lied a little, told her we were already contacting them, but she’s no dummy, she knew we couldn’t do that without securing paper first. I left Lincoln in with her, she seems to have developed some rapport with him. If that doesn’t work, I thought I’d let you have a go at her, see if she’ll soften up.”

“What is she hiding?”

“I wish I knew. She’s certainly aware of the situation, and she’s given me enough so I can start calling the other jurisdictions. She’s holding something back, and damned if I know what it is, or why.”

“What other jurisdictions?”

“Boston and New York, so far. I just got a call from Paul Friend at Fox News, they’re putting the story together. It’s only a matter of time before the whole world knows.”

“Do we need to bring Hall and the North Carolina guys in on this, too?”

“According to Colleen. She’s profiled the cases and feels they’re all connected.”

Baldwin was silent for a moment. “She’s probably right.”

“Hell, I know that. Copeland’s sister in North Carolina, and some of his other little buddies scattered across the country? He’s showing off, telling us how much control he has. And he’s two steps ahead of us. That’s the problem. What in the name of all that’s holy is a blogger doing putting together the pieces of my case before I get a chance to?”

“Your case. You’re assuming jurisdiction of the case?”

“Of Keck’s portion of it, yes. Keck is my responsibility now. We need to find out how he knows her online persona as Felon E, and fast. I think she’s just being used as a tool, because she has a direct connection to me. I was her husband’s training officer. Only for a couple of weeks, but that’s long enough. I passed the sergeant’s exam, got transferred into plain clothes, and he was picked up by another officer. Two years later, Tommy Keck was shot in the line of duty, doing a drug stop out on Interstate 40. The shooting is on video. Keck walked back to the car he’d pulled over, and the driver laughed as he shot him. Car took off, left Keck lying on the side of the road, drowning in his own blood. It was all over the news. Colleen had given birth just a few weeks earlier. He was just back from paternity leave. It was terrible. Just…senseless.”

“And now Colleen Keck has become a pawn in Ewan Copeland’s game. We should look into her past as well, just in case. Where is she from?”

“I don’t know. What bothers me is he’s decided to start pulling ancillary people into the game. Tommy’s been dead for a long time, and though I’ve met Colleen, it was only a couple of times, and at his funeral. I didn’t even recognize her when she showed up. She looks…different.”

“Grief does that to a person.”

“Of course it does. But that was four years ago. I wasn’t on Copeland’s radar then. It wasn’t until Snow White reemerged that he caught wind of me. We’ve always agreed that he saw me on the television at the beginning of that case.”

Baldwin tapped his forefinger against his front teeth. “Maybe. Maybe not. We’ve been assuming that. Assumptions are very dangerous things. Once we add the Kecks into the equation…I don’t know, Taylor. You could have come across him much earlier than that.”

“No. No way. How?”

“I don’t know. But I think we should do a records search, see if we find anything.”

“Search what records?”

“All of them. Everything Metro and the FBI has. I think we should go back through your arrest record, and I’d like to put together a ViCAP query as well. You’ve been his target all along. He’s showing off for you. Haven’t you ever asked yourself, why?”

“Every day.”

“I think we need to think differently about this. We need to pull all the minds together, in one place. Let everyone have a hand in.”

“Your team and my team? Or are you thinking a task force?” As she said it, she felt her heart drop. Was he starting to get the idea that she was planning to hunt the Pretender down, was trying to distract her with procedure? She must be more transparent than she thought. Task forces meant layer upon layer of accountability. Accountability took time. Time was a luxury she couldn’t permit. Not if she was going to finish things herself.

“Multiple jurisdictions, multiple cases. That might be the easiest way to coordinate. We let them worry about the other states so we can focus on Tennessee. On you.” Crap, he was getting suspicious. She played with the tab on the top of the Diet Coke. “I don’t know, Baldwin. Besides, that’s out of my hands, I can’t make that call. Task forces cost real money. It’s way above my pay grade, and you’re on suspension, so it’s out of yours, too. I’m going to call Emily Callahan up in New York, see if she knows what’s going on with the case up there, then report to Commander Huston and drag A.D.A. Page out of bed. Let Julia handle Colleen’s privacy protestations.”

“Callahan. I’ve always had a soft spot for her, considering. Tell her I said hello.”

Considering the fact that instead of honeymooning in Italy, they’d spent a couple of days in New York with then-detective-third-grade Emily Callahan from the 108th precinct of Long Island, trying to solve the case of the Snow White, the bastard who was the Pretender’s maker. He was dead and gone, now, a victim of his creation. She hoped the Pretender would soon follow in his mentor’s footsteps.

They reached the break room, and Taylor decided to change the subject.

“Enough of all this. What have you been doing? I thought you’d pop in on me and Colleen.”

Baldwin sighed heavily. “I’ve been on the phone with Kevin. He’s been working on Ruth Anderson’s hard drive. If there’s something to find, he’ll get it.”

Taylor had always wanted to get Lincoln Ross and Kevin Salt in a room together and set them to work on the same impossible task, just to see who could finish faster. She’d put money on Lincoln, but Salt was worth every penny Baldwin paid him.

“Can you do that? I thought you were suspended.”

He gave a rueful laugh. “I am. Couldn’t be better timing, either. My team is working directly with SSA Hall. They flew the evidence from North Carolina to Quantico. Garrett is in charge of things for the time being, but Kevin is keeping me informed. Right now, I’m afraid I’m a man without a country.”

“Hmm. A man without a country, yet Kevin was happy to give you the particulars…”

Baldwin smiled. “Well, to his credit, he snuck the call in from the bathroom. I may have to promote his ass when I get my command back. Anyway, it’s going to take more time. Ruth Anderson has been in contact with an awful lot of people.”

“Surely Ewan Copeland is in her system? Can’t we find out where he is from that?”

“They’ve been covering their tracks for years. It’s going to take more than a couple of hours. Kevin’s a genius, but he’s only one man. And as far as we can tell, Copeland hasn’t used that name since he was eighteen and got spat out of juvie. He completely dropped off the radar.”

“Right.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t we head back to the house, take a shower, catch an hour’s worth of sleep. You’re dead on your feet, I can see your molars every time you yawn.”

“I’m not yawning,” she said, just as her jaw spontaneously opened, wide enough that her ears cracked.

“Yeah, right. Make your calls, then I’m taking you home for a couple of hours.”

She had to admit he was right. These were the in between hours, when paperwork created lag time, research was under way and information was barely trickling in.

She decided to be smart. She might as well take advantage of the momentary lull. She had no idea when she’d get another chance to rest. They’d call if they found anything relevant.

“It’s going to take Julia Page a while to secure the warrant, I’ll have Marcus or McKenzie type it up. Callahan won’t be in the office for a couple of hours, no sense dragging her out of bed so early. And she’s on eastern time, it’s an hour later there. Let me tell the boys I’m taking off. A couple of hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt. I’ll meet you in the parking lot in five.”

She watched Baldwin walk away, waited until he was out of site, then started down the hall to her office.

Maybe she could parade through the lot, or wander up the street, see if he took a shot? He wasn’t in the building, and so long as she was safely ensconced in the CJC, he couldn’t get at her. She needed to be outside, out in the open, marking her scent along the trees, drawing him closer and closer.

If only it would be so easy. No. She’d been in Nashville long enough now that if he were here, he’d know she was back and gunning for him. It was time to start hunting.

Thirty-Four

Taylor had never been happier to see her exit.

She’d thought about getting a condo downtown for years, and with the influx of housing in the Gulch, Terrazzo and The Icon opening with their rooftop pools and private security, she was even more tempted. She’d spent most of her adult life in a cabin atop a hill west of town, and when she and Baldwin got engaged, they’d bought a home together, one that was big enough for them both to have offices, and a beautiful bonus room for her pool table. She loved the house. It was open and airy, lovingly decorated in their eclectic style, but at times like these, when she was hauling herself home, twenty minutes from downtown, she wished she had something closer. Driving, hell, walking a few streets over from the office would be a nice change, especially when she was this tired.

Her insomnia was getting worse the older she got, and she’d noticed that lately her waking hours were tinged with a slight fog. Stress and years of sleepless nights were finally catching up with her. When she did sleep it was due to sheer exhaustion. Not good. Situations like that would take her off her game if she wasn’t careful. She would run, run, run then collapse, never getting the right amount of sleep, and to be honest, until now, never really having to. She could do with three or four hours a night and be perfectly fine.

Maybe it was just this case, the horror of what happened to Fitz, the pressure she’d put on herself to eliminate the threat to her life’s order, but she was feeling the lack of sleep keenly. It worried her. She didn’t want to be anything less than razor-sharp right now. Since she didn’t know how long this case would drag on, she really needed to start taking better care of herself. Even the tiniest slip could derail her world, and she couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not now. Not when she was so close.

After this case was over, she could always get Sam to give her something to sleep. Or Baldwin, though she hated admitting her weakness to him. She liked that he reveled in her strength. It made her feel even stronger, more inspired. No, Sam was the place to go. Even if it was just for a night, she could recharge the batteries.

Baldwin had been quiet on the way home. She loved their silences as much as their conversations. It was a sign of true love to her that she could be quiet with him, letting the air charge with electricity without ever saying a word. He had a stillness inside of him, a deep inner peace, which attracted her like a fly to honey. She had the same piece of quietude within her, and the two spoke to each other wordlessly, their bodies flowing in a symbiotic dance.

He pulled into the garage and smiled at her. “Go upstairs. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

She was happy to oblige. She felt her body dragging as she mounted the steps. The sun getting ready to rise, casting meager light through the blinds. She pulled the curtains shut so the room was totally dark, stripped off her clothes and fell naked into the freezing bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Baldwin paced the downstairs, making laps through the dining room, foyer, living room, kitchen, dining room. He knew he needed to get some sleep. He was just as deep in the slumber deficit as Taylor was, and she’d been visibly dragging. As tired as he was, his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. The idea that Taylor had come across Ewan Copeland’s radar earlier than they’d originally thought was haunting him. If he’d known that, he would have approached this case very differently.

He stopped to put the kettle on, maybe some herbal tea would help him relax. He was amped up on caffeine and adrenaline, and pure, unadulterated fear. Losing Taylor was something he’d never be able to handle. He knew that now. The mere thought that he’d miscalculated, that he could have gotten her hurt or killed with his mistake, nearly handicapped him fully. All he wanted to do was get Taylor on a plane, get her the hell out of here. Find some little tropical island where he could buy off the local constabulary to keep them safe and protected, hire a phalanx of bodyguards and nestle down until this bastard was caught.

Not rational, but tempting. Very tempting.

The stove’s small burner was taking forever to heat up. He decided to go out and get the mail from yesterday. They’d been gone to North Carolina and he’d not bothered to get it when they first arrived home. He disabled the alarm so the beeping wouldn’t wake Taylor and slipped out the front door. Sunlight streamed into his eyes, making him squint. He put his hand to his forehead to block the light—fresh, new sun, first of the day, as blinding as a strobe light.

The mailbox was full, the usual crap. He thumbed through the stack as he walked back to the house. Bill. Bill. Credit card solicitation, two of them, one for him and one for Taylor. Catalogs from stores they’d never shopped. Magazines. He sighed. Just a bunch of junk. He shuffled the edges back together as he returned to the house.

He almost missed it.

If he hadn’t tripped on the step and dropped the stack, he wouldn’t have seen it until it was too late. It spilled out onto the brick patio, buried between the magazines. A red envelope, with the name Taylor hand-printed on the front. It wasn’t glued closed, the flap was just tucked into the bottom of the envelope. He used his pen to feed it open. There was a Valentine’s Day card inside.

He opened it, ignoring the schmaltzy words in favor of reading the note inside. It said:

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

Colleen Keck is Dead

And So Are You.

Inside the card was a thin, clear plastic case with what looked like a CD inside.

He dropped everything on the steps and rushed inside the house, slammed the door behind himself, took the stairs two at a time.

Their bedroom was dark, quiet, the only noise Taylor’s soft breathing.

She was fine.

He wasn’t. He was thoroughly rattled. He watched her sleep for a few minutes, then quietly went through the entire house, clearing closets and bathrooms. No one there. No traps, no tricks. The son of a bitch was playing with them again.

He retreated to the downstairs, did the same sweep, then went back out to grab the mail. It was scattered on the front steps where he’d dropped it. He picked up the card from the concrete, ignoring the words this time, looking at the jewel case.

Using the American Express envelope balanced against a Clipper Magazine, he flipped the case over. There was writing on the CD itself, block letters in black marker. Numbers. Before he could decipher them, he felt his heart rate rise, the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Someone was behind him.

Jesus.

He went very still.

So this was it. Even on high alert he’d been caught unawares, standing outside his own home. The front door was unlocked, the alarm momentarily disabled. Perfect timing. How could he have been so stupid, to let his guard down when Taylor was at her most vulnerable?

Nothing. No shots, no sounds.

He couldn’t help himself, he looked over his shoulder.

There were two men standing on either side of him. Big boys, fit, heavy through the torsos, wearing sunglasses and holsters. Neither one moved, nor went for their weapons.

He was still breathing.

Baldwin took his time standing up. He gathered the stack of mail, then smoothed his pants down. A lapse in his mental judgment, going to the mailbox unarmed, unseeing, rushing into the house, leaving the door unlocked. Caught up in his own mind, so focused that he kept forgetting what was at stake.

The men didn’t move.

“Gentlemen,” he said finally. “What can I do for you?”

“Is Miss Taylor okay, sir?”

Sir. Miss Taylor. Deferential. His breath came back, he had to force himself not to gust out a huge, relieved sigh. They were on the job. Taylor’s guards.

“She’s asleep. Who are you?”

“I’m Wells. That’s Rogers. Miss Taylor hired us. Personal protection. She missed her call in.”

He wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t going to take any more chances. He should have done this back in North Carolina before things went to shit.

“ID. Now.”

They pulled out credentials, pictures that matched their faces, the P overlaid with a dollar sign, Price’s insignia, stamped plainly on their papers. Everything looked legit.

The bigger of the two shifted slightly, a subtle movement. Baldwin saw that his hand was now resting on the butt of his gun.

“Sir, I have to ask again. Where is Miss Taylor?”

“She’s fine. We’re exposed. Come inside,” Baldwin said.

The men followed him without hesitation, he wondered exactly how forceful his voice must have sounded. They didn’t work for him; they worked for her. Maybe she’d told them to follow instructions from Baldwin, too? No, that didn’t sound like Taylor. Damn woman, prancing off on her own to arrange her security. Like the FBI wasn’t enough. Like he wasn’t enough.

He composed himself as the two men crowded into the kitchen. They were wide, not as tall as Baldwin but much thicker through the chest and forearms. Strong. Capable.

“Tea?” he asked, motioning toward the kettle.

They both shook their heads. Baldwin assumed tea wasn’t exactly the right drink for these two. Battery acid on the rocks, perhaps.

“You’ll forgive us, sir, but we need to lay eyes on her, make sure she’s okay firsthand. Orders from Mr. Price,” Wells said.

“I understand. She’s fine, she just crashed. I wanted her to get some sleep. It’s been a long couple of days.”

“Tell me about it. But—”

“I’m not waking her up so you can satisfy Price’s curiosity, you understand?” Baldwin tried to keep his tone pleasant, but he’d had just about enough. Wells recognized the signs of impending anger, weighed his choices, then nodded briefly.

“Give me a second,” he said, then flipped open a cell phone. Baldwin heard Price’s voice on the other end of the phone. Wells relayed a status update, said “uh-huh” a couple of times then handed the phone to Baldwin.

“He wants to speak to you.”

Baldwin took the phone.

“Hello, Mitchell.”

“Well, you don’t sound as angry as I expected. She told me you called off your dogs. I think she’s just scared, Baldwin, and hates to admit it to you.”

“You could have given me a heads-up when she called.”

“And risk the wrath of Khan? Hell no. That’s her business. Her cash.”

“You’re right, Mitchell. It’s her choice who to trust right now. I won’t keep you, I just wanted to confirm that these boys were yours.”

“They are. Keep safe, Baldwin. Keep her safe for me.”

Baldwin clicked the phone off and handed it to Wells, who stowed it in jacket pocket.

“We’ll just wait here until she wakes up, sir.”

“Fine. Have a seat. She’s been out for about an hour, I’m going to wake her up at seven. Try not to break anything while you wait.”

They didn’t sit, but Wells leaned against the kitchen counter, meaty arms in a pyramid across his chest. His partner, Rogers, was the quieter of the two. He simply stared at the floor as if he found the wood grain the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, looking up occasionally as if asking permission to continue imitating a statue.

Baldwin shrugged and left them to their devices. Damn if he didn’t feel good having them around. This was all spinning out of control, the grains of sand shifting through the hourglass faster and faster. He could feel it in the very air that surrounded them, a sense of expectation, of doom. They were hurtling toward the resolution of the case whether they wanted it or not.

He called in to Lincoln and asked about Colleen Keck. She was apparently fine, madder than a wet hen that she wasn’t being allowed to leave, but safe, and alive. So the card wasn’t entirely accurate. Just another stupid threat. He told Lincoln to take extra precautions, then hung up the phone.

He discarded the mail on the counter and put on a pair of purple nitrile gloves from the stash in the kitchen’s junk drawer. The beef brothers watched him with interest.

The CD jewel case was taped closed. It had been hand-delivered, obviously. No postmark on the envelope, nothing that could be traced. Smart, creepy as hell. He hated that the Pretender knew where they lived, could access their home at any time.

“Hey, did either of you guys watch the house over the past day?”

Wells shook his head. “No, sir. We followed you to Forest City. Damn boring drive, I’ll tell you that.”

“What, the majesty of the Blue Ridge didn’t do it for you?”

“I prefer the Rockies, sir. Those are real mountains. Better yet, insert me through a HALO jump twenty-five thousand feet above the Hindu Kush. That’s some fun times.”

Wells almost cracked a smile. Almost. Rogers looked interested for the first time.

Mercenaries. Ex-military yahoos, back in the States. Professional tough guys, keeping tabs on his fiancée. He didn’t know whether to be furious or grateful.

“Well, while y’all were on our tail, our killer dropped this in our mailbox.”

“We should call that in, sir,” Wells said, reaching for his pocket.

“Just hold on, okay? Let me see what this is first.”

Wells stopped. There was something to be said for career soldiers, they took instruction well.

Baldwin went to the pantry and took out a small toolbox, one equipped for a rudimentary forensic investigation. A to-go kit. He withdrew fingerprint powder and a brush. Prepped the jewel case, then brushed the powder over the slick casing. Nothing. He used a scalpel to slice through the tape that held it open, then took up a fresh brush and followed the same procedure on the inside. It was too much to hope that there would be prints… Disappointed again. Clean as a whistle.

He took the CD from the case and read the letters. It was gibberish. A bunch of numbers and letters, which meant nothing to him. He was decent at codes, it was one of the weird little things he’d picked up, but nothing was leaping out, announcing itself. He ran it through his mental ciphers, still nothing.

He carefully copied the letters and numbers into his notebook, then left the kitchen for the living room. They had a Bose stereo system. He popped the CD in and hit Play. Turned the volume down so whatever was on the CD wouldn’t go booming out into the world and wake Taylor.

The strains of some familiar music started, and Baldwin shook his head. What a crude, silly attempt to send a message.

It was a song from the fifties, by the Platters. He’d never thought of it in this context. It was perfect for a stalker.

“Oh, yes, I’m the great pretender…I’m lonely, but no one can tell…you’ve left me to dream, all alone.”

Jesus. He was overcome with rage. This goddamn freak was getting on his nerves.

“What’s it mean, sir?” Wells asked. He and Rogers had come into the living room, obviously concerned. Baldwin realized he’d been clutching the jewel case so hard that it had shattered. A small drop of blood dripped off the end of his finger onto the hardwood floor, followed by quicker, more insistent drops. Crap. He’d cut himself badly.

He pushed Stop on the player, ignored Wells and Rogers’s offers of help, and went to the kitchen. Grabbed a towel from the drawer and wrapped it around his hand. Stalked back into the living room to see how much blood he’d spilled on the floor. Wondered how many more chances he was going to get.