Текст книги "Where All the Dead Lie"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

CHAPTER FIVE

Edinburgh

The papers screamed the news, the radio and television repeating the story over and over at ten-minute intervals, making Memphis’s head ache. Another girl was gone. Hannah Straithwhite—an eighteen-year-old student. London was up in arms—she was the third girl to go missing in the past three months. No bodies had been found, no signs of foul play. Just a regular girl, from a regular world, disappearing from the streets of her life.

A clear pattern had emerged. All three girls were blonde, eighteen, students, though from different areas of London and wildly different socioeconomic backgrounds. It was a nightmare, and he knew he was going to get dragged in.

Ever since he’d participated in the capture of the Italian serial killer Il Mostro and his literally evil twin, the Conductor, anything that remotely smacked of a serial case was dumped in his lap. His superiors expected a good close. Not that he wasn’t willing, of course. More work meant less downtime, less time to think and thus dwell. And around the holidays, that was for the best.

Thank God for the train. An escape. He was looking forward to seeing his father. Being away from New Scotland Yard for a bit. Tomorrow his commander, Toy McQuivey, was sure to pull him into the wet-wool-scented head office and ask him to take charge of the Straithwhite case. But that was tomorrow. He had all night ahead of him.

He stared out the window. Into the darkness, the quickening night.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the offer he’d just made to Taylor. It was selfish of him to want her near. He could delude himself into thinking it was about work; she was a damn good investigator. In addition to being the loveliest woman he’d ever set eyes on. He had no business pursuing her, he knew that. But he’d been brought up to take what he wanted, and she presented a challenge. She loved her G-man, no doubt about it, but there was an opportunity. He could feel it. Her catastrophic injuries had changed her, made her…afraid wasn’t the right word. Cautious, then. And he knew they weren’t getting along. It wasn’t very sporting of him to try and separate them, but if there was ever a time….

God would strike him down for this, but he didn’t care about eventualities. Not anymore.

Memphis didn’t know if he loved Taylor or simply wanted to acquire her, but either way, having that gray-eyed woman in his life made him feel alive for the first time since his wife, Evan, died.

Besides, he wasn’t lying about his psychologist friend. Dr. Madeira James was married to one of Memphis’s best chums from school, Roland MacDonald, the second son of the Earl of Killicrankie. Roland was content to live the squire’s life, not having to work, spending his time hunting, fishing and otherwise engaged outdoors. He’d gone to America in the late ’90s and returned with Madeira, already in possession of a doctorate at the tender age of twenty-two, already ripe with his child. Maddee, as she was known, was great fun, a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and a wide smile: a good mother, a good wife, and a good friend to Memphis and Evan. She’d helped pick up the pieces after Evan’s death, and Memphis trusted her with his life.

She’d be perfect for Taylor.

If only Taylor would agree to come over. He doubted his money or title impressed her; she’d grown up with largesse and wasn’t enamored of its abilities to smooth one’s life. It was going to take much more to steal her away from Nashville. It would take compassion, and understanding, and freedom. Freedom most of all. And that he had the ability to give her.

They had so much in common, more than she really knew. Privileged upbringings, yet a desire to eradicate evil, to solve crimes, to put away the bad guys. He knew Taylor was reacting to her father’s illegal activities when she decided to become a cop. His path was more direct.

There was a killer, famous in the U.K., who was on a rampage while Memphis was in school. He was known as the Jeweler. He started killing the same year as the infamous Babes in the Woods murders, 1986, and was forever linked to the two young girls found strangled in the woods outside Brighton, even though he wasn’t actually responsible for their murders. He’d killed eight women, all by stabbing, then disappeared off the map. He’d been suspected in the murders of dozens more, women who were lost and never found. Mostly prostitutes, but a few upscale schoolgirls as well.

During the killings, Memphis was just finishing at Eton, on his way to Cambridge, and was convinced that those murders, plus the two lost girls in the woods, with their constant news coverage, instilled the investigative bug into his world. He was captivated by the case in Brighton, followed it in the papers. One night, he and a couple of school chums had gotten legless on whisky and taken a drive up to the woods. He remembered stumbling into the forest, then stopping, certain that the ghosts of the strangled girls were nearby. He nearly pissed himself getting back to the car, his chums in no better shape.

It took more than the idea of a specter to run him off a case now.

He stepped out of the Waverly train station into a spitting cold rain at half six, grabbed a taxi and headed up the Royal Mile.

The rain began falling in earnest. He ducked into the alleyway that led to The Witchery, one of his favorite restaurants in the world. He skipped the main dining room and went to the second door, to what was known as the Secret Garden. The maître d’ recognized him, gave him a wide smile.

“My Lord Dulsie, what a pleasure to see you. As always. Our favorite earl is below. Shall I take you to him?”

“Yes, please, Alfred. Lovely to see you as well.”

They descended the stairs under the watchful eye of a large elk. The earl was tucked away in the corner, at the best table, his serious brown eyes focused on the menu, though he knew it by heart.

Memphis let Alfred take his coat and slid into the chair opposite. “Happy Birthday, Father. You’re looking well.”

The earl set his menu down and smiled warmly at his eldest son. “Ah, James, my boy. So good to see you. You’ve come alone? If I had known I’d have invited Jenny Blakely.” He cast an appraising eye over his son.

His father was forever hoping he’d get over the death of Evan and find a new woman to settle down with, and was keen on making the match himself. They’d had a few minor rows about it already, his father proclaiming, “If this was two hundred years ago, I’d have made the match for you and you would have thanked me for it.” The earl was full of it. He was about as dedicated to the antiquities of the peerage as Memphis was.

“Jenny Blakely is a pretentious cow and you know it.”

The earl spit out a laugh, then shook his head in admonishment. “Now, now, Memphis, that’s no way to talk about a lady.”

“She’s not a lady, Father. Have you seen the mole on her eye? It deserves a title of its own.”

They went on like this for an hour, teasing, poking, eating a luscious meal and chasing it with a fine port. The earl grew serious as he signed the bill.

“I know this is a difficult time for you, James. Why don’t you come to Johannesburg with us? Get away from here. From the ghost of Evanelle. I can see her haunting you, still. It breaks my heart to see you suffer.”

Memphis squeezed his father’s arm. “I know it does. I promise, things are better. But no, I won’t be able to get away. Work, you know. And I’ve invited a friend to come stay for the holiday.”

“A friend?” His father wasn’t subtle, he waggled his eyebrows at him lasciviously. Memphis smiled.

“A good friend. The investigator I met in Nashville. I’ve mentioned her before, I believe. Taylor Jackson.”

“You have. Well. I hope that she comes. For your sake. No one should spend Christmas alone.”

“No need to worry about me, Father. I have more than enough to keep me busy.”

The earl insisted on dropping Memphis at the station, good-naturedly grumbling about him not coming back to the estate. They parted with a hearty handshake, as always, and Memphis boarded the last train back up to London.

Accepting a cup of tea from the trolley girl, he checked his email and sighed. He was in for a long night. The commander hadn’t bothered to wait until the morning; he was calling Memphis into the Straithwhite case immediately.

So much for his escape.

Despite his grousing to Taylor, he had to admit this case was intriguing. A challenge. He always did love a challenge.

He put a call in to his detective constable, Penelope Micklebury, known far and wide as Pen. She answered on the first ring, the annoyance clear in her voice.

“Left me to stand in the rain while you had a beautiful dinner with Daddy, eh, Memphis?”

“My repasts are none of your concern, Pen. You eat like a bird anyway, you would have hated it. Tureens of soup and platters overflowing with rich, juicy meat. I can barely move, I’m creakingly full.”

Pen was a vegan; she moaned aloud at the thought. “That stuff’s going to rot you from the inside, Memphis.”

“Perhaps. Where are you?”

He could hear her heels clicking on the pavement, then a door slammed and things quieted down. She must have stepped into her car.

“Victoria. Had a date. Did you get a call from the Boy Toy?” she asked in turn.

“He sent me an email. I’ve just seen it. And if you keep calling him that, he will find out. And I won’t be able to save you.”

“It’s just a bleeding nickname. You’ll be in tomorrow?”

“Unless you need me tonight?”

“No. I’ve got things covered here. Assembling the files, all that. Go and have a rest.”

“Fine, Pen. Until then.”

He hung up, watched the lights from the village to his right flash by as the train crossed the countryside. In the daylight, this was a beautiful part of the trip, but in the darkness it became murky and lonely. A fitting scene, really. He was feeling rather lonely tonight.

CHAPTER SIX

Taylor and Baldwin were both quiet on the drive downtown. Another indignity—Taylor hadn’t been cleared to drive yet. She was dependent on Baldwin, or Sam, to get her around town. She was tempted to get a car service, but stopped when she realized she’d be just like her mother, chauffeured around by relative strangers. Kitty Jackson hadn’t been in the front seat of a car for two decades.

She wondered briefly what Kitty was up to. They hadn’t spoken since Taylor had arrested her father and sent him to jail. Even though Kitty and Win had been divorced since Taylor was in college, the woman always took his side. Taylor knew it had nothing to do with a soft spot for Win and their once-happy life, and everything to do with the embarrassment of the scandal. Tongues wagged throughout Davidson County’s elite when Taylor had sent her own father to prison.

She colored at the memory, anger rising. Typical that the consensus would be that she’d acted impetuously rather than that Win deserved condemnation for breaking the law. It was one of the reasons she eschewed her mother’s social set; the values and morals were a bit askew. In their minds, every family had a blackguard. It just wasn’t seemly to draw attention to such a situation.

She chased the thoughts away as Baldwin pulled in in front of the Criminal Justice Center. Snow began to fall in tiny, glittery flakes, making the brown bricks shimmer. Taylor felt a great sense of contentment run through her, the same she felt every time she looked at her office. She was home. And soon she’d be allowed to get back to her first love: the job.

She smiled at Baldwin, and he grinned back at her.

“Go on. It’s noon now. I’ll be back to get you at two. Okay?”

She touched his hand briefly in acquiescence then got out of the car. Breathed deep lungfuls of chilly, snowy air. Tried to keep the skip out of her step as she crossed to the stairs, dug her pass card out of her back pocket. She swiped it and almost got teary at the noise of the door unlocking.

The hall smelled like Clorox. The floors had just been scrubbed, almost as if they’d been sanitized for her return.

The Homicide offices were full, her elite team—the murder squad—all in attendance. A full house meant no active calls, and a chance for everyone to catch up on their paperwork. They weren’t here for her. No one knew she was coming in today.

She hesitated for a moment in the doorway, but the room was so small that Renn McKenzie, the newest team member, and thus the one stuck sitting by the door, caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned toward her.

“LT!” he said, standing so quickly that his papers spilled to the floor. He was joyous, a huge smile on his face, and the general cry went up immediately. Before she could take a breath, she was being hugged and patted, passed around from person to person like a beach ball at a stadium. Marcus Wade was the first to grab her, then Lincoln Ross, then Renn. She was breathless and giddy; damn, it was good to see them all.

To be honest, she’d been avoiding everyone. She was their leader, and she wanted them to see the strong, confident Taylor they were used to. Taylor weak and mewling wasn’t helpful.

Despite her lack of voice, she was feeling better, could hide the headache behind the fog of Percocet, could smile without wincing. Her balance had improved to the point where the stupid cane wasn’t necessary anymore. Every day she could see the path back becoming shorter. She just wished it would hurry up and end already. Something in her knew that the sooner she got back amongst her people, the sooner she’d heal.

They were all talking at once at her, each finishing the other’s sentences, and she felt the most at ease she had in weeks. She made a mental note to send Dr. Benedict a bottle of eighteen-year-old single malt Scotch. He must have known this would be part of the deal, and what she needed as well.

“Heya, Lucky. We didn’t know you were coming in today,” Lincoln scolded. “You should have told us.”

Marcus set his fists on his hips, the left brushing against his Glock. “Yeah, we’d have prepared a little better. Have junior over there make a cake or something.”

Renn shot him a bird. “Hugh does all the baking in our house, and you know it.”

“Bake this,” Marcus said, making a completely obscene gesture with his tongue and cheek. They busted up laughing, and Lincoln hushed them.

“Good grief, y’all need to give it a rest.” He turned to Taylor, put his arm around her shoulder, guided her past the guffawing detectives. “They go at it like this all day. It’s exhausting.” But Lincoln had a wide smile on his face, the gap between his front teeth adding to the merriment. He’d cropped his hair again, the dreadlocks gone. He looked like a very serious Lenny Kravitz, his impeccable Armani dove-gray suit unwrinkled, his tie done in a perfect Windsor knot.

Taylor pointed at the suit; Lincoln was a clotheshorse in the worst way, spent all his spare change and most of his paychecks on the finest materials and cuts available. But the tie was an added touch that he didn’t usually worry about unless he had a date he was trying to impress. She had to admit, Lincoln done up in full kit, with his smooth café-au-lait skin and perfect profile, was a sight to behold. She’d always wanted to get him in a tux—she imagined that would be breathtaking.

“Court in an hour,” he said.

Ah. That explained it. Marcus and Renn, by contrast, were in jeans and sweaters, comfortable, prepared for the weather. Prepared for anything that might come their way. Her team was unflappable. She’d done everything in her power to make them that way.

She looked into her office, at the empty desk, just waiting for her to return, and decided to stay out in the bullpen. Not enough room in there anyway.

She sat on the edge of McKenzie’s desk and smiled at them. They toned down the jubilation and crowded around her.

“Have you been cleared to come back?” Marcus asked, just as Renn jumped in with “How’s the voice?”

She pointed at her throat and shook her head. She pulled out the notepad and wrote Willig on it, turned it around and showed them.

There was a collective groan, which completely made her day. Mandated visits with the department shrink were no fun.

She wrote Condition to return, which cheered them all up.

“Tell her what she wants to hear, and you’ll be back to us before you know it,” Marcus said.

She had every intention of doing just that, but not in the way Marcus was suggesting. There was no way, no way in hell, she was going to let anyone inside her head. Especially the shrink who she’d have to pass in the halls and say hello to in the coffee room every day.

The boys didn’t need to know that. She smiled and nodded, rolling her eyes for emphasis. They all laughed.

“That’s good, because we need you back. We’re up to our ears in work. We’re catching extras while Special Crimes deals with the Regretful Robber cases. They’re all kinds of tied up, have almost all their manpower looking for him.”

Over the past several weeks, there had been a spate of bank robberies in the Metro area, all very carefully orchestrated by someone who seemed to know exactly how to cover his tracks. He wore a mask, used stolen cars, and carried a mean .40 Glock 21 that he wasn’t afraid to use. A few weeks ago out in Hermitage, he’d shot a hole in the ceiling of a U.S. Bank when the teller took too long getting him his money.

But in a twist worthy of Robin Hood, he returned the stolen vehicles to their rightful owners in the dead of night, with a small cash bonus inside. Hence his name inside the CJC: the Regretful Robber. Thank God that hadn’t leaked to the press yet.

McKenzie chimed in. “Without you guiding the ship, things get a little crazy around here. We’ve got a new sergeant who’s a complete dick. Thinks he owns the world. He’s always pushing us off in the wrong direction.”

Lincoln chimed in, using a dopey voice. “‘This isn’t an assault, it’s a matter of record. Close the case.’ We’re gonna get creamed in the media if they ever find out. They’re trying to cook the numbers again, make it look like the assault rates have dropped. You should see what they’re doing in Sex Crimes. Driving us all crazy.”

Tell Huston

Lincoln nodded. “We did. She’s fighting it for us, but the chief made new guidelines again. Rumor has it he has a job offer. Supposedly, he’ll be gone by Christmas, which is going to make an even bigger mess. When someone from the outside starts looking at these figures, we’re all going to come under fire.”

He shook a sheaf of papers at her, and she shook her head.

I won’t let that happen.

Marcus sat back at his desk. “Wish Fitz would come back. Have you talked to him?”

She shook her head. She wanted Fitz back, too, though she didn’t see how either of them would manage to lead, between her lack of a voice and his lack of spirit. Fitz had lost too much, and Taylor didn’t know if he was going to recover. She’d tried going to see him, but they’d ended up sitting in silence until Fitz’s one good eye started to leak, and she knew that when he looked at her, all he could think about was the Pretender, and what he’d taken away from them all. She was waiting for him to reach out; pushing herself on the people whom she loved but who were not thrilled with her had gotten too hard. Between Fitz and Sam, the blame lay squarely at her feet, and right now, forgiveness was too much to ask of them. She understood that completely. She wasn’t ready to forgive herself, either.

They chatted a bit more, catching up, until Renn asked, “What time’s your sit-down with Victoria?” He was the only one of them who willingly saw the shrink. He had his own battles and demons—coming from the goth world, being gay, losing his fiancée to suicide over his doubts about his sexuality, fighting for respect amongst his peers—all of this had led him to mighty introspection. He and Willig were big buddies.

Taylor glanced at her watch, the gold-and-silver Tag Heuer Baldwin had given her for her birthday. She bolted upright—she was going to be late.

Lincoln grabbed his leather portfolio with his notes. “I’ll walk you, I need to get over to the courthouse. Judge Oscar will wring my neck if I don’t present my glorious self on time.”

Taylor hugged Marcus and Renn goodbye, agreed to dinner soon, and let Lincoln escort her from the room. Just spending some time with the guys made her feel immeasurably better. Lincoln kept up a cheery discourse while they walked, and Taylor felt damn near normal for the first time in weeks. Benedict was right, getting back into the swing of things would help. She could feel the words bubbling in the back of her throat, just ready to spill out.