Текст книги "14"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

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Baldwin played with her hair, then rubbed her shoul

ders. “Will it wait?”

She sat back, out of his reach. “I think you might want to hear this. Mars is a bad dude. He left Nashville in the late eighties, right about the time Daddy got sent to Brushy Mountain for that stint for trying to bribe Judge Galloway. He was an accountant here, moved to Manhattan, put out a shingle and started to take clients. A few years later he’d gone down on a racketeering charge. A year after that, they got him on a separate RICO charge, convicted him of racketeering since it was the second charge within a tenyear period. This time they sent him to the federal peni

tentiary. He served six years of a fifteen-year sentence, got out early for testifying against a man named Horace Macon. Macon was a low-level crime boss working for a guy named Tony Tartulo. The trial was the first step in the fall of the Tartulo syndicate. So now Mr. Mars has himself wrapped up in the Mafia. He gets out of prison, and within six months he’s running a highly lucrative real-estate firm, and holds a controlling position in a hedge fund that focuses on REITs.”

“Real estate investment trusts. Seems like a conflict of interest.”

“You think? Here’s what so damn interesting. Horace Macon was just a soldier in Tartulo’s organization. But Tartulo was sworn enemies with another boss, Edward Delglisi. Delglisi is in charge of a huge crime syndicate. My bet is he brought Mars in. Testifying against Macon must have been a setup to take down Tartulo. Mars does the dirty work for Delglisi.”

“Let me get this straight. Mars used to be your dad’s accountant. He’s moved to New York and gotten involved 14

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with the Mafia, specifically Edward Delglisi. He was planted in a rival organization and ultimately testified against Horace Macon, effectively ending the Tartulo crime syndicate. Edward Delglisi steps into Tartulo’s place and becomes a very powerful crime boss.”

“That’s the nutshell version, yes.”

“What kind of hold does Delglisi have on Mars?”

“Good question. And the other question is does Mars know Snow White? Martin Kimball said Snow White’s note came from Mars’s printer.”

Baldwin fingered the notes. “I’d like to know the answer to that.”

“Me, too. There’s more. It’s unbelievable all the in

formation Frank discovered. Mars’s business is a real estate investment trust, right? The REIT manages to reduce the taxes that the individual corporations have to pay on these properties, lets them buy under the corpo

rate name, and their holdings are vast. Frank dug up some of the property listings in the REIT. They own ev

erything from apartment building to houses to corporate strip malls. And guess where they have material assets and properties?”

“Nashville.”

“Give that man a prize. To be even more specific, that place where the Snow White copycat hit yesterday after

noon? One of fifteen small, low-income houses that are listed on the rolls. If we were to raid all those properties, I’ll bet you fifty bucks that more than one operates as a massage parlor.

“This is definitely why Frank Richardson was killed, Baldwin. I don’t think this is directly related to the Snow White murders. I think he uncovered the sideline for Burt 238

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Mars’s little company. Oh, why didn’t he just call me? I could have taken care of him.”

“You have all the addresses of the properties they hold in the REIT?”

“It’s right here.” She waved a sheath of papers at him.

“I think we need to find Burt Mars.”

The phone rang in the kitchen. They both looked at their watches. It was past midnight, late for a call that didn’t mean someone was dead. Taylor got up and went to the handset, saw the number was Lincoln’s cell phone. She answered it, voice grave.

Lincoln was nearly jovial. “Great, you’re up. I have some good news for you. Want to hear it?”

“You know I do. You found Jane Macias alive and kicking?”

“Okay, not quite that good. Ballistics came back on the bullets that were used in the hospital shooting. Octagonal polygonal rifling characteristics, fragments of what looks like a .41 caliber bullet. Forensics says the gun was a Desert Eagle Jericho.”

“A Jericho, not the Baby Eagle? They’re kind of rare around these parts.”

“Yeah. Only made them for a year before they were replaced by the Baby. Here’s the good news. Frank Rich

ardson was definitely killed with the same gun.”

Her gut was right. The tension came flooding back.

“Someone was trying to shut him up.”

“Looks that way.”

“I think I may know who’s responsible, peripherally at least.”

“Who?”

“Burt Mars.”

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“Wait a minute. Isn’t he the accountant whose printer was used in the original Snow White case?”

“Good memory. Yep, he’s the one.” She ran through the information with him, then got off the phone, turned back to Baldwin.

“I cry uncle. This is going to take more work than you or I can handle tonight. I think it’s time to pack it in.”

She went to the couch and sat, patting the seat next to her, encouraging him to sit down. He obliged, took her hand in his, fiddled with her engagement ring.

“I love this stone,” he said, smiling.

“I love it, too. And I can’t wait to add that band of platinum to it tomorrow. But I don’t know how much more I can take, Baldwin. I feel like I’m abandoning everyone, right in the middle of the biggest case we’ve had in years. How can I do that?”

She stood abruptly, unable to sit still. She paced the living room, watching Baldwin watch her steps.

“Honey, there’s only so much you can do.”

“But this one is personal, Baldwin. There’s just some

thing here, I can feel it in my bones.” She stopped in front of the fireplace, fiddled with a piece of pine garland they’d put up in a meager attempt to dress the house for Christ

mas. There was no sense getting a tree since they would spend the holiday in Italy. At least, that had been the plan until her world blew up.

“Baldwin, I’m afraid of what we’re going to find. I’m afraid all of these incidents track back to something bigger. I’ve got a very bad feeling about all of this. My memories, Burt Mars, Frank being shot, everything is pointing in a direction I don’t want to go. My instincts are on fire. I’m afraid that this involves my father.”

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It was Baldwin’s turn to pace. “So what do you sug

gest?”

Taylor bit her lip. “I think, maybe, we should wait about the honeymoon. Postpone Italy just until we get this resolved.”

“But go through with the wedding?”

“Yes. Tomorrow goes off as planned. Sunday, we pick up on the case, work it until we get some kind of resolu

tion. At least not leave with so much up in the air. There’s obviously something major at stake here. They’re killing witnesses. Frank, Saraya. Who knows who else. Couple that with the Snow White copycat, and I just don’t feel right about leaving at all.”

Baldwin rose and crossed the room to her, put a hand under her chin and forced her to look into his eyes. “You know there’s a good chance it won’t resolve itself soon.”

Taylor shook her head. “No. It will. I can feel it about to break. I just know it will.”

He leaned over and kissed her, and she nearly melted with their joining. The man could lay one on, that was for sure. When they came up for air, she put a hand on his chest.

“Do that again and I won’t be leaving.”

“I don’t mind if you stay.” He leaned into her again, but she pushed him back with a smile.

“Seriously.”

“We can postpone the honeymoon if you want. That won’t be a big deal.”

“You’re sure?”

“No. I want to get the hell out of Dodge, but I can’t leave this behind any easier than you. So yeah, let me make some calls. Put everything on a temporary hold.”

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“You’re the greatest man in the world, you know that?”

He just turned and raised an eyebrow at her, a blatant invitation. She shook her head, laughing. “I’m going to head out. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

She kissed Baldwin hard on the lips, then drove downtown, checked into the Hermitage Hotel, got her room and climbed into the bed. Relief flooded her system. There was no way she would have been able to leave the city behind with all of the issues they were having. She needed to catch the Snow White and his copycat, find Jane Macias and figure out who killed Frank Richardson. Then her con

science would be clear enough to allow her to leave it all behind.

Feeling more settled than she had in a week, Taylor snuggled into the luxurious sheets. Sleep overtook her. She dreamed of the New Year’s Eve party, the details sharper, more immediate.

She was tucked in her little spot at the top of the stairs. She could see the ball going on below her. There seemed to be hundreds of people, all dressed in the most elabo

rate of costumes. The music was loud, and the people twirled around like marionettes, flutes of champagne dis

appearing at an alarming rate—tuxedo-clad waiters circling the foyer and ballroom, keeping the guests well supplied.

Taylor felt herself waiting, impatient, while the scene played out.

The heavy woman in the Marie Antoinette wig, pow

dered face, the black triangle patch meant to be stuck to the corner of her mouth askew and half-unglued, sat down hard on the bottom step—a full forty-seven steps away 242

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from Taylor in her little hiding place. Taylor felt the con

cussion of the woman’s sudden not-quite fall, smelled the alcohol waft up the stairs mixed with another scent, a powdery musky smell. The woman giggled and shooed her would-be rescuers away. After three waiters had helped her up, she waddled off, dress swinging precari

ously. Her hair had come undone and was sticking out from under the wig, long and dark against the creamcolored corset. Then there was quiet for a few moments before her father and mother came into view, several people at their heels.

Her mother was complaining about the woman who was dressed so similarly to her. The women were simper

ing back and forth to one another, commiserating. How rude to neglect to check with the hostess about her costume.

The men talked loudly, expansive with drink.

“Win Jackson, you’ve obviously made a deal with the devil,” a dark-haired man brayed.

“Yeah, Win, your own little Manderley, is it? What did you do in a past life to get so goddamned lucky in this one?

The judge should have thrown you in jail, not dismissed the charges.” A sandy-haired man with thick black glasses smacked her father on the shoulder. Win laughed.

“Manderley? Shit, let’s just hope the place doesn’t burn to the ground. Kitty would have my head.”

Then one of the men coughed, put his hand up to his mouth….

Taylor fast-forwarded the dream. She remembered the light.

Despite being tucked back in by Mrs. Mize, the music 14

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was so loud that she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d crawled out of bed again, wandered unseen to the top of the stairs and secreted herself in the little space she called her own.

In the foyer of the big house, there was a sparkling lamp, which was built out of a multitude of pretty little chunks of crystal. It sat on a Louis XIII desk, against the damask wallpaper. It was nearly white, there were so many shiny pieces, and it caught the light of the chandelier above it.

Taylor focused on the lamp. She could see the reflec

tions of the people passing by in the ballroom to the left, twirling, waltzing, drinking and sitting. She could smell the champagne, smell the sweaty reek that wafted up the stairs. It was late, they were deep into the party now. Someone had vomited, she could remember the slight stench coming from the hallway bath. Her mother had given up—the Marie Antoinette wig was sitting on a ladder-backed chair. She’d taken it off at some point, still miffed at her guest’s gauche behavior. Taylor imagined her mother was still muttering about the fat old cow ruining her look.

Manderley, Manderley, Manderley. There was some

thing…

The room phone woke her. Sunlight was streaming in the windows. She rolled and answered the phone, vaguely aware that something wasn’t quite right. A cheerful voice told her this was the 8:00 a.m. wake-up call she’d asked for. She thanked them and hung up.

What was it? Something from her dream, the party, her parents.

Manderley.

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Her heart beat a little harder.

That was the name of Burt Mars’s new company. The Manderley REIT.

Twenty-Six

Nashville, Tennessee

Saturday, December 20

2:00 p.m.

“Has anyone seen my freakin’ veil?”

Taylor was turning in circles, shaking her head in frus

tration. She scattered a stack of boxes, lifted magazines, opened drawers. No veil. There was so much white around, her dress, her train, the flowers, the chairs—she thought for a moment that a snowstorm had come indoors and piled up in her hotel room.

There was no answer to her question. Where in the hell could it be? She could hear the twins, Maddy and Matt, crying and Sam’s low voice trying to soothe them. Simon spoke, as well, but Taylor couldn’t make out the words. She looked at the clock on the mantel. She was due at the church to walk down the aisle in less than forty-five minutes.

She gave up the search and plopped to the floor, her dress bloating out around her like a mushroom cloud. She 246

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could only imagine what she must look like, sprawled on the carpet, but at this point, she couldn’t give a moment to care. She was bloody tired, and all the fuss was making her teeth clench.

The wail of one of the babies was getting louder, and Taylor looked up to see Sam come into the room, a single infant in her arms. Her floor-length white taffeta gown rustled as she moved. A large terry-cloth towel draped toga

style over her shoulder, shielding the dress from any extra

neous waste that might appear from either end of her daughter at any inopportune moment. She gave Taylor a weak grin.

“Colic. Perfect timing, huh? God, I’m sorry, T. What are you doing on the floor? You’re going to mess up your dress.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to go.”

Sam ignored her. “Get up and let’s get you finished.”

“No. I’m tired of the commotion. I don’t want to get married in front of all these people. My hair is five miles high. That hairdresser was an idiot. I look like a meringue. I’d rather elope. And I can’t find my veil.”

Sam bit her lip, trying not to laugh. She didn’t succeed. After a moment of baleful glaring, Taylor joined in her mirth. Petulance was her first sign of stress. Sam glided across the room and whipped the veil out of the plastic casing. “It’s right here, on the hanger that your dress was on. It was just in the back. Your hair has to have something for the combs to anchor in, and it looks lovely. Do you want to get the veil on now or at the church?”

Taylor rolled her eyes and got up off the floor. “I should wait until the church. I don’t want to mess it up in the limo. 14

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I just didn’t want to forget it.” She examined the folded tulle; it looked like a mile of fabric. “Damn, Sam, how long is this sucker?”

Maddy wailed, but Sam didn’t miss a beat. “Cathedral. Like your dress, but a little longer, so it will stretch out behind you and look glorious. Now, quit it, would you? I need to get this girl settled down.”

Another scream came, this one slightly lower pitched, and Sam’s face crumpled. Taylor patted her on the arm.

“Go on and deal with them, Sam, I’ll be fine. I’m just nervous. You go do what you need to.” Sam nodded and disappeared.

So this was it. The moment she’d always dreaded and never thought she’d have. Her emotions were a bit more mixed than she’d expected. Giving herself, the most precious gift she could bestow, to Baldwin was undoubt

edly a smart, sound move. But she couldn’t help but wonder why she’d agreed to this, why she hadn’t insisted on a quiet beach somewhere, which was what she pre

ferred. It was too damn late to worry about that now. A big church wedding wasn’t exactly how she’d wanted to do the deed, but here she was. The twin cores of her psyche were both churning—one with nerves, the other with bliss. Anxiousness wasn’t the only problem weighing on her mind, though.

She drew the folded piece of paper out of her bra. Despite it all, she’d wanted at least some part of her father there with her that day. She couldn’t put her finger on why—but instead of overanalyzing her feelings, she’d decided to accept that she had them and move on. The newspaper clipping was nearly two months old, worn and creased.

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Missing Nashville Capitalist Feared Dead

St. Barthélemy, French West Indies (AP)

The search for a Nashville man who disappeared while sailing off St. Jean turned into a recovery mis

sion after rescue teams found his empty yacht, THE

SHIVER.

Search crews on Monday continued to seek Win

throp Jackson IV, 56, industrialist, entrepreneur, banker and convicted felon. Rescuers said it was unlikely that he was alive after two days missing. His abandoned yacht ran aground just south of Les îlets de la plage Hotel in St. Jean, the two motor die

sel engines still running.

The article went on, the dry, impersonal tones of an anonymous young reporter doing his job. Taylor folded the square and slipped it back into her bra. Win would be with her, whether he was alive or dead. Two months of no word, his body never found…it was easy to believe he was gone. That he’d simply imbibed a few too many Boodles and tonic and fallen overboard. The French authorities made it clear that they felt that was exactly what happened. With a Gallic flair all their own, they had patted her shoulder and left her to wonder. She didn’t buy it. He was much too experienced a sailor to get drunk and fall off his boat. But if he’d had a few and been pushed over…

She glanced at the clock again. Shit. They had to go.

“Sam?” she yelled. “We’ve got to get out of here. Are you ready to hit the limo?” As she spoke, Taylor made her way into the connecting room of the suite. Babies were crying; Sam was changing a diaper while Simon tried to get a pacifier into Matt’s mouth. The scene was mayhem. 14

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Sam looked up and Taylor saw the flash of panic in her eyes. The twins’ attack couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Simon was stunned into uncharacteristic silence at the sight of Taylor in her wedding dress. Matt screamed louder while his father held the pacifier just a fraction away from his eager mouth. Taylor raised an eyebrow at him, and he blushed, realizing the teasing he was giving his cranky son. One entreating screech discharged, he nodded at Taylor.

“Nice dress, babe. You’re going to be a hit.”

“Thank you, kind sir. But we’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want Baldwin to be waiting on me. Let’s go do this.”

They gathered everything they could, tucked crying babies into car seats and left the suite. They made their way down the hall to the elevator, Simon lagging a few steps behind. Taylor looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. He needed help. She put a hand on Sam’s arm.

“I tell you what. Do you want to ride over with Simon?

Help calm the babies down? I’ll be perfectly fine by myself in the limo.”

Sam shook her head. “No, I couldn’t let you do that.”

Taylor could feel the wave of relief the suggestion offered. “Yes, you could. It would probably do me good to have a few minutes to myself, anyway. Gear up for all this. Get my head in the game. Choose whichever sports analogy suits you. A little alone time would be good. And it’s only a ten-minute ride. Seriously, Sam, you go on with Simon.”

They hit the ground floor and spilled out of the elevator—white satin and silk flowed into the vast open

ness of the hotel lobby like a river of ice. Several heads 250

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turned, faces filled with delight. Who wouldn’t smile at the sight of a bride on her wedding day?

By the time they hit the doors, it was settled. Sam gave Taylor a grateful hug and tucked her into the limousine waiting at the front door. As the door slammed behind her, Taylor drew in what she thought had to be the first full breath she’d had all day. The back of the limo was creamy soft and dead quiet. Bliss. She sank back into the seat and shut her eyes, barely noticing the car leave the curb and start toward the church.

Alone at last.

Taylor felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins. This was it, then, the point of no return. She just hoped she wouldn’t pass out at the altar. Good grief, her hands were shaking. Tough girl, falling apart at the mere idea of standing in front of all those people. The beginnings of a stream of panic made her heart start to beat a little harder. Stop! she told herself as sternly as she could muster. He’ll be standing there with you. A few deep breaths, and the trepidation was momentarily quelled.

She opened her eyes and took in the sights as the limo cruised through downtown Nashville.

They were on Sixth Avenue, and the driver turned west on Church Street. They came to a stop at the light in front of the downtown library. To her right, a group of homeless people caroused the park nestled between the buildings, seeking shelter from the chill day. A jogger passed across the street, glancing fearfully over his shoulder, as if the homeless would take him down like a pack of rabid dogs. They were past Morton’s now. Down to her left on Eighth was the Nashville Sporting Goods store, the scene 14

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of her first armed robbery. The owner had been shot, but lived, thanks to her quick efforts to save his life. The suspect had never been arrested; the case was still open after twelve years. The owner was dead now, of natural causes. New victims manned the counters.

The YMCA appeared on her right, and she was struck by just how much crime occurred on this strip of road, how much of her history as a police officer could be traced to this route. She’d chased a man right there, up McLemore Street, dodging bullets as he shot at her in an attempt to get away. That one she’d caught, and seen him convicted for stabbing a twelve-year-old boy at the entrance to the Y.

The industrial grit of the city spilled before her, naked in the winter air.

As they passed the NES building, the scene improved. The old and the new sections of the city kissed and made up, working into the medical district, dominated by Baptist Hospital. They flew up Church onto Elliston Place before the limo turned onto West End Avenue and started out of town, toward the church. Taylor was tempted to thank the driver for the tour through her past life, but balked, instead thinking ahead to the moments to come. Taylor could only imagine the bedlam that was ensuing at St. George’s. She was in the midst of an idyllic vision of Baldwin rushing to greet her at the door, telling her he’d decided they should just skip this part and head directly to Italy, when she noticed the limo turn off West End. The idiot driver had taken the exit for 440, the short beltway surrounding the west and south sides of the city. They were headed north; this road led most decidedly away from St. George’s. While Nashville had the quaint ability of allow

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ing a driver to get anywhere quickly with fifteen equally amenable routes, this detour was going to make her late. Scooting forward, she tapped on the divider, signaling for the driver to drop the opaque glass. He ignored her. Laughing now, she realized that this was a fun little trick that was being played on her. Oh, funny, funny. Now she under

stood why they wouldn’t let her in her office. Wrapping presents, my ass. They were planning this little escapade with the limo driver. Imagining each member of her team’s gloating faces, she vowed to get them back. The limo was exiting 440 onto I-40 West. Good timing. She knocked on the glass again.

“Okay, very funny. I’m sure they told you to make me sweat. You can tell them mission accomplished. I’m going to kill the bastards, but they got me. So how’s about you take this exit for Forty-sixth Avenue and cut across Char

lotte through Sylvan Park to West End?”

Nothing. She banged harder.

“Hey! Hey, I’m talking to you. Put this divider down right now. The joke’s a good one, but it’s over. Either put the divider down or pull over.”

At last, the driver complied. He pulled to the side of the road, safely off on the shoulder. Traffic whizzed by on their left. The glass partition didn’t budge, and Taylor felt a wave of fury pass through her. The game was amusing, but enough was enough.

She was a cop, for God’s sake. She would force the damn driver to put the partition down. She reached for the door handle. The door was locked. She pulled on the han

dle again and again, with no result. Sliding across the ca

pacious seat, she tried the other door. Also locked. What the fuck was happening? A vanload of children 14

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passed them by, all their happy faces stuck to the windows on the right side of the van, contemplating and waving to the solitary limo on the side of the road. Taylor had a moment of sickening clarity, realized that this wasn’t a joke. Calmly, she slid back to the right and knocked on the glass again. There was no response.

She cursed, loudly and extensively. The string of oaths was impressive even to her, and made her feel a little bit better. There wasn’t a lot she could do locked in the backseat of a limousine. There was a wet bar packed with champagne, but a drink didn’t seem like the best idea. But to the left of the bar was a small green light. A speaker.

“I’ll be damned,” she muttered. He must have heard ev

erything she’d said. Scooting forward in the seat, she pushed the talk button, trying hard for a more reasonable tone.

“Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

There was still no answer. Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, she was more than willing. She knew the divider wouldn’t be bulletproof.

She reached into her satin handbag, a brief moment of thankfulness overwhelming her as she remembered the argument she’d had with Sam over carrying the stupid thing. Purses just weren’t Taylor’s style. Sam had assured her that she’d need somewhere to stash a few items. Taylor had relented, deciding that she didn’t want to strap a gun to her leg for her walk down the aisle. A diminutive pearlhandled .22 that she’d bought at a collectors’ gun show a few years back fit perfectly into the tiny bag. Thanking whatever unseen force that influenced her decision to carry on her wedding day, she snapped open the bag and palmed the gun. She drew her fingers out, trying not to 254

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draw attention to the fact that she was now armed. It didn’t matter. The panel between them dropped.

The driver turned and smiled, and Taylor had a brief moment when she thought, no, I’ve been wrong, this is all a joke.

A flash of black caught her eye and she focused on the object in the driver’s hand. Her heart skipped a beat and she sucked in her breath involuntarily. Her brain registered the situation. It took only a fragment of a second, but when the smile widened, she knew absolutely that she had to get her weapon up, now.

The motion was smooth, graceful, lightning quick. Such close quarters, there was no need to aim, just cock the hammer and pull. A full squeeze, the roaring boom. But her body convulsed. Pain shot through her. She dropped her weapon, dropped the bag, her eyes rolled back in her head. Her last thought tore through her like an electrical impulse—Baldwin is going to kill me. Then all was dark.

The driver grinned at his handiwork. Everything was going according to plan. All he had to do now was make the body disappear. He turned back in his seat, turned the key with his gloved right hand and glided back onto the highway. He went a short way, then exited onto the huge flying overpass that led to Briley Parkway. A few miles ahead was an airport and a plane. All he needed to do was reach it, and he would be home free. All the missions ac

complished. His boss would be very happy. Twenty-Seven

Nashville, Tennessee

Saturday, December 20

3:40 p.m.

Baldwin paced outside the grand edifice of St. George’s, seeing everything and nothing. He was vaguely aware of being cold; he had no overcoat on, just a formal morning suit—traditional tailcoat in dark gray, a barely discernible stripe in his trousers, waistcoat in a subtle dove-gray check and a slate ascot replete with a mother-of-pearl stickpin that had belonged to his great-great-grandfather. Taylor might laugh at him for being such a dandy, but he only intended to do this once, and he wanted to do it right. Besides, the various shades of gray reminded him of her eyes. Yet there was no bride.

He checked his watch again. She was forty minutes late. And he was dying inside, shriveling up second by second. Each heartbeat hurt a little more than the last. In all the fantasies he’d had about this day, Taylor not showing wasn’t among them.

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St. George’s Episcopal Church was situated in Belle Meade, barely fifteen minutes from the Hermitage Hotel in downtown Nashville. Ten minutes if the lights were all green and there was no traffic. There was no reason for the limo to be taking this long to get to the church. If it had broken down, or there’d been an accident, either the limo company or the responding officer would have called to let them know. The wedding party was all law enforce

ment, either Metro or medical examiner, and most of the guests had their hand in the mix in one way or another. Nashville was small enough that very few members of Metro Police Department didn’t know the LT was getting hitched today.

Calls to Taylor’s cell phone were useless; Sam had it stashed in her diaper bag because Taylor didn’t have room for it.

Baldwin fought the urge to strip off his jacket and run howling into the parking lot. Damn it, where the hell was that woman? How could she do this to him?

A gust of warm air enveloped Baldwin midstride and the strains of Handel’s Water Music drifted to his ears. Fitz came out of the large wooden doors that led to the nave of the church. An avuncular smile filled his broad features. Baldwin stopped pacing for a moment, happy to have the short-lived heat and the company.

“Son,” Fitz began, but Baldwin shook his head and held up a hand.