Текст книги "14"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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They then broadcasted their presence to the nearly empty bar, the dark-haired bridesmaid doing the introduc

tions.

“Yoo-hoo, y’all. I’m Coco, the redhead down there is Barbie, and this bee-utiful gorgeous creature in the middle here is Sierra. Sierra’s getting married, y’all. Buy us a drink!” Separately, the names were all fun and unique. Coupled with this group, they seemed more like naughty burlesque pseudonyms, a compilation from the game “Get Your Porn Star Name”—matching your first pet’s name to the first street you lived on. Jane wondered if they had normal last names, or something bizarrely exotic to match. Jerry went to do their bidding and the women turned away from the bar, sighting on any available man in the premises. Jane looked over her shoulder; there were only two other patrons in the bar, one a lonely-looking older man who’d been staring into a glass of beer for the better part of an hour and a handsome, military type with a wedding band. Jane smiled. He seemed like a sweet kid. She figured his friends were all next door, and he was just being true to his bride.

An anemic surplus for the bridezillas to choose from. 110

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Maybe that would assure that they’d leave sooner rather than later.

But no. Unaffected by the lack of male companionship, the women were getting louder by the second. Jerry brought their drinks, which they slurped back, and imme

diately demanded seconds. Coco, Barbie and Sierra didn’t seem to care that there weren’t any real targets for their affections; they turned to each other, closer than regular girlfriends should be. The brunette brought out a pack of cigarettes shaped like penises, which bowled over the other two women. Bellowing laughs like water buffalo, soon all three were sucking down the smelly cigarettes. Noisy, smoky drunks. Not what Jane had signed up for tonight. Jane got tired of sitting near them and moved, closer to the jarhead. He seemed to be minding his own business, maybe he’d leave her alone.

But the jarhead leaned in when she sat, a conspirato

rial smile playing across his handsome features.

“Didn’t know that when you built up enough seniority at the strip club, you get Tuesdays off, did you?”

“Ouch,” Jane replied. “That’s kind of harsh.”

The man blushed and Jane felt bad. “Harsh, but funny. They’re a trip. I hope I’m never so ridiculous in public when I decide to get married.”

The man lit up. “You’re not married?”

“No, hon, but you are.” Jane looked pointedly at his gold band.

“Yeah, I am. Well, sort of. She left me. I just got home and found out.”

“Home? From?”

“Oh, you know, I can’t really talk about it.” He colored slightly. “Sorry, it’s just one of those things.”

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“Of course. I understand.”

Jane dismissed him by sticking her nose back in her book. Maybe he’d leave. He was cute, but she didn’t need another male situation. She already had Skip panting after her, though he didn’t seem to get it. No career singing, no girlfriend to Skip. He just never truly believed.

“Troy.”

Annoyed, Jane mentally marked her spot, again, and met his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“My name. It’s Troy.” The soldier was giving it one more go.

“Nice to meet you, Troy. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to…”

“Sure, yeah, totally, I understand. Tell you what. Let me buy you a beer.”

Jane frowned at her bottle. Gosh, it was almost gone. She must have been sipping while she watched the bache

lorette train wreck. She looked back at the bar. Barbie, no, it was the bride-to-be Sierra, had started to loosen the ties to her halter top. She was trying to climb out of it and into warmer climes: Jerry the bartender’s lap, as if she just realized that it was clearly an inappropriate outfit for the cold weather. Jane giggled out loud at the sheer ridiculous

ness of the situation.

“Sure, Troy, you can buy me a beer. But after that I need to get to get back to my studies.” Studies. She nearly blushed. She was reading a bodice-ripper she’d snatched as she walked out the door; it was hardly keeping her at

tention.

“Great. I’ll be back in a flash.”

Jane watched as Troy went to Jerry, held up two fingers and turned back, leaning against the bar in a casual “I don’t 112

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notice the three drunk and half-naked women crawling around on the bar next to me.” He smiled at her, but the three women glommed onto him immediately, and Jane shook her head. It might take a few minutes for Troy to get her beer back to her.

Jane tried to smile back, but her head was getting foggy. Man, how many beers did she have? She remembered the two, but her head felt like she was bombed. Wow, her equi

librium was gone. A little voice inside her said get up and walk it off, but her body wasn’t cooperating. She felt something clawlike and hard, a hand under her arm, saw a vague outline of a face, and realized the older guy had come to her rescue.

“Thanks, I’ve got it,” she tried to say, but the words came out garbled, nonsensical.

There was a brief moment when she realized that this was no good, that she needed to yell out to Troy. He was big and strong and could fight off this creepy man with the wispy hair, help her break free, but the moment was lost and she swam away into the ether, feeling nothing. Ten

Quantico, Virginia

Wednesday, December 17

8:00 a.m.

Charlotte Douglas stretched, arms over her head, her breasts pulling against the thin silk of her blouse. Three interns walking by her office lingered in the hallway, watching the show. She knew it, arched her back a little more and tossed out a high-pitched sigh. One of the interns groaned aloud, and his friends hustled him away. Charlotte relaxed and giggled. Boys. So easy to manipulate. They’d be hanging around for days, willing to do anything she might need. It helped to have gophers, especially hand

some dark-haired runners from Ivy League schools. Mmm…

She’d called Baldwin’s office, had a brief, nasty tête

à-tête with him. He dumped her into the lap of his acting director, who in turn touched base with the Nashville homicide office and set up an appointment with the head of Metro’s Criminal Investigative Division, Captain 114

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Mitchell Price. Everything was in place. She knew the Snow White Killer inside and out. And she knew she could catch him. It was just a matter of timing. Charlotte had hung up the phone with a smile on her face and made another brief call. Within five minutes, Pietra Dunmore was standing in her doorway. There was nothing about forensics that Pietra didn’t know. She’d written or coauthored at least six books on the subject, lending her expertise to universities and training seminars all over the country. She was the preemi

nent forensic scientist on the BSU staff, and didn’t care who knew it. The diminutive Pietra stood only five feet tall, but was a giant in all other respects. Charlotte had a level of admiration for the woman, and knew that because Pietra was black, they would rarely be competing for the same pool of men. Pietra didn’t do white guys, and Char

lotte didn’t go black. Simple.

“What can I do for you, Charlotte?”

“We’re heading down South.”

“For what?”

“I need you to present some findings on the Snow White Killer case. I’ve e-mailed you the details.”

Despite Charlotte’s dramatic presentation, Pietra wasn’t rattled. “Old or new?”

Charlotte had given the woman a broad smile. “Both. We have some fascinating new information to share.”

Now Pietra stood in her doorway, her briefcase in her hand. It was time to go. Time to make her mark. Time. Eleven

Nashville, Tennessee

Wednesday, December 17

8:30 a.m.

Taylor pulled off Highway 70 into the parking lot of the Belle Meade Galleria, a strip of high-end stores in the heart of Belle Meade. Luck was with her—she found a spot near the door of the restaurant. Le Peep was a neigh

borhood favorite, an eclectic breakfast and lunch place that attracted many of the denizens of the local community. Even on a freezing Wednesday morning, the place was nearly full. Taylor spotted Frank Richardson sitting at a table in the rear of the restaurant, happily munching on eggs and toast and plowing through a liter of hot coffee. She joined him, shrugging out of her shearling jacket. The waitress came by and she asked for a Diet Coke, toast and fruit. The late night, coupled with no sleep and a gnawing in her stomach, meant she’d be better off without the jarring caffeine rush of coffee and a full breakfast. No more iron-clad stomach for her. As she’d gotten into her 116

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thirties, she’d been keeping all her stress in her gut. It was just easier to avoid the causes that made things worse. Frank Richardson hadn’t missed a beat, continuing his forceful eating frenzy as she got settled. He dipped his toast into a sunny-side-up egg, practically groaning with pleasure.

Taylor watched him chew and swallow with gusto, en

tranced by the shine of grease on his lower lip. The sight made her already unsettled stomach turn, and she looked away briefly. He wiped his mouth and gave a tiny, delicate belch.

“The Europeans just don’t know how to do eggs, you know? They try their damnedest to make ’em like you want, but there’s just something missing. Maybe American chickens lay better eggs than the French. I don’t know.”

“Well, my fiancé and I are supposed to go to Europe soon, so I’ll keep that in mind, do some testing myself. See if the Italians are better at eggs than the French.”

Richardson looked at her left hand wryly. “You’re getting married and heading to Italy for your honey

moon?”

Taylor nodded, and he gave her a genuine smile.

“Lucky girl. When?”

“Supposed to go on Sunday. At this rate, I don’t think we’re going to be able to pull it off.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Missed my eldest daughter’s birth when Martin Luther King got hit. Had to leave right from the hospital, my wife having contractions every two minutes but breathing fire down my neck to go, to get the story. She’s a mighty fine woman, to send me off for my career when I should’ve been there, helpin’ her.”

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“She sounds amazing. You got the story, of course.”

Taylor knew he had, of course he had. He’d won numerous journalism awards for his coverage of the civil rights leader’s assassination.

“I did at that.” His blue eyes twinkled, and Taylor couldn’t help but smile. Robust and full of life, that’s how she would describe Frank Richardson.

Her food arrived and she nibbled at the toast, followed it up with some grapes and cantaloupe. Even in winter, there were summer’s touches all around, and she longed for a warm breeze.

Richardson finished mopping up one last bit of egg with his toast, shoveled two bites of biscuit in his mouth, then pushed his plate away.

“Okay,” he mumbled, a few bits of dough spraying onto the table. “You ready to do this?”

Taylor pushed her plate back, as well. “Yes.”

She followed him, silently offering a ten to cover her part of the meal, but he shooed it away, paid at the counter in the front of the restaurant. They walked into the milky sunlight, not needing to shade their eyes.

“I’ll see you there,” Taylor said, and Richardson nod

ded. Good humor was gone. They were preparing to delve into the Snow White murders, feel the slippery, viscous blood, bear witness to the knife wounds, taste the scent of carnage on the backs of their tongues.

Frank Richardson had masterfully documented the reign of terror the Snow White Killer induced, and going through his old files would bring those ten murders to life in a way the dry tomes of the police reports and murder books couldn’t, wouldn’t. Richardson was the writer, not the homicide team. His words were stronger than pictures. 118

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Taylor started up the 4Runner, suddenly weary. She could have done this herself, or assigned one of the homicide team to do it. But something in her wanted the company, the close quarters of another soul who under

stood. Journalists and cops, the best of friends, the worst of enemies.

Plus, Baldwin was bringing the illustrious Charlotte Douglas to the homicide offices at some point this morning, and Taylor really wasn’t in the mood for it, not right now. She’d never met Charlotte, but knew plenty of women who fit the bill. A viper, that’s what Baldwin had called her. If it were the truth, there’d be plenty of fire

works to deal with at lunchtime, thank you very much. On the phone with Richardson the previous evening, Taylor had suggested they just go to the library, pull the in

formation up on LexisNexis. That’s what she would have done, that or hit the microfiche machine. But Richardson had offered to take her directly to the source. To use the paper’s morgue would assure them a thorough look through all of the files, all the stories that had gone into print. Rich

ardson had slyly pointed out that the newspaper also had copies of his complete stories, the prepublication drafts that had been edited down for space and public consumption. Richardson had retired a few years back, an illustrious career behind him. Taylor figured he wanted to visit his old home away from home. All hail the conquering hero. She couldn’t deny the man that small joy. Actually, she understood. If she ever left Metro, she knew she’d no longer be complete.

The trip down West End wasn’t long enough, and before she realized it, they were pulling in to 1100

Broadway, home of the Tennessean.

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They took two spaces in the tiny parking lot in front of the building. They entered through the glass doors, Richardson all smiles, slapping the security guard on the back. Outside those doors, out on the street, Richardson was just another slightly overweight graybeard, finishing out his retired years in relative peace and quiet. Here, he was a rock star.

A brief call was made and three minutes later, the newly appointed managing editor of the newspaper rushed down from the third floor to say hello to his old friend. Intro

ductions were made, the editor looking Taylor up and down before carefully nodding and welcoming her to the paper. He knew there was friction between Taylor’s group and some of the crime reporters on the beat. When she didn’t raise the issue, he smiled. Time and place, and all that.

As they made their way to the newsroom, Taylor’s hand was shaken no less than forty times by people who’d heard Frank Richardson was in the building and wanted to say hello. It was only polite that they acknowledge their homicide lieutenant, as well, the woman who’d told the former lead crime reporter Lee Mayfield to go fuck herself on more than one occasion. The Tennessean staff hadn’t liked Lee any more than Taylor and the rest of Metro. Taylor’s cell phone rang and she hung back for a moment to answer it. Seeing the number, her heart filled with dread, goose bumps prickled along her arms. She flipped the phone open, held it to her ear.

“Morning, Lincoln. Everything okay?”

“Morning, LT. How’d you know?”

“Who is it?”

“No body or anything like that. There’s a missing

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persons report. Girl named Jane Macias.” Taylor cringed, thought about her earlier Janesicle Doe. Oh, the flippant moniker was coming to bite her in the ass.

“Fits the profile of these girls?”

“Yeah. Her boyfriend called it in, said she left her apart

ment last night and she’s been MIA ever since. He’s totally freaking out, says she’s got long black hair. I figured there’s no sense taking any chances, went ahead and started some of the paperwork.”

“Maybe, just maybe, it’s not him. And if it is, maybe we can beat him to the punch this time. I’ll be over there shortly. Thanks.”

She hung up, leaned back against the wall for a minute, caught her breath. Fast moves, this guy. She opened her phone again, made a quick call to Baldwin. His voice mail clicked on. She left a message for him to call her ASAP, or meet her at the homicide office as quickly as he could. No time to worry about lost or past loves. Lincoln wasn’t prone to hysterical fits; if he thought the descrip

tion of the missing girl matched that of their profile victim, she did. So they needed to move quickly.

She strode through the newsroom, made her way to the back of the offices. Richardson was there, chatting it up with one of the archival interns. She caught his eyes, signaled for him to step away. He did and turned to her, concern filling his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Taylor pitched her voice low; the intern was craning her neck, trying to hear what was up. “One of my detectives just called. There’s been a missing-persons report, a girl who matches the victim description. I need to go, follow it up. Can we get together later, talk about all this?”

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Richardson had the audacity to look crestfallen for a brief moment, then brightened as if he realized how ludi

crous that was. “Of course, of course. I understand com

pletely. Is there anything I can do? Do you need someone from here to help?”

“No, I’m sure we can get it covered. But I need to head back to the homicide offices, see what I can find out. With any luck, it’s just some girl with black hair who didn’t come home last night.”

“Eooop!”

Taylor jumped at the sound, a cross between a hiccup and a deep breath. She looked over Richardson’s shoulder to see the archivist, standing with her hand over her mouth. The girl wore a starched white shirt, long black skirt, thick black wool stockings and loafers. Her hair was pulled back with a headband, and her glasses, a nifty modern frame, were askew on her nose. She was white as a sheet. They rushed to the girl’s side, ready to perform any services needed.

“What’s the matter? Are you choking? Is everything okay?”

Her eyes started to tear, and she dropped her hand to her side, looking alone in the world. She crumpled, leaned back heavily against her desk. “My roommate has black hair, and she didn’t come home last night. I mean, I never saw her after she left.”

Taylor stood straighter. “What’s your roommate’s name?”

“Jane. Jane Macias. She’s a reporter here, works right out there in the newsroom. Oh my God, is she dead? Oh my God! ” She started to fling her arms about, and Taylor grabbed her, held her still.

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“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down.” Taylor talked to her softly, almost under her breath. “Calm down. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

She caught Frank Richardson’s eye, and saw he was thinking the same thing she was.

But your friend might not.

Twelve

He took a long drag on the cigar, blowing the smoke in a blue puff directly at the ceiling. His doctors would heartily disapprove if they knew he was smoking again. He didn’t care. Life was too short. He spun the cigar in the cut-crystal ashtray, grateful for the hard edge, which made it easier to knock the burning ash off the tightly rolled tobacco leaf.

He flipped the paper open, overcome with emotion when he saw the headline.

Snow White Killer Resurfaces, Kills 4th

No Leads in Bicentennial Mall Murder

Oh, the beauty of it, the pure, exquisite joy. To see that name again, to know the fear that beat just below the surface of every heart that read those words. Snow White Killer. Oh, the boy was doing well, so very well. The article captured the frisson of fear that was sweeping through Nashville. The previous generation was talking of nothing else. The younger were fed by rumor and innuendo, the vivid fear of their parents making them 124

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lock their doors and keep their own youngsters under a watchful eye. The whisper campaign was out in full force. The Snow White Killer had truly reappeared after a twenty-year hiatus; the entire city was in a panic. And he was the cause of it. Just as he was in the past. Granted, his hands were gnarled with arthritis; he may never have the strength again to wield the knife at the throats of innocents, but his protégé was so good at sharing the most intimate moments of the kill that he almost didn’t have to be there. Of course, watching, holding, painfully touching their tender flesh made it so much the better. The old feelings rumbled through his belly, taking root in his aching loins. He was too crippled to pleasure himself anymore. He licked his lips and rang the bell. The door to his study opened, and a man in his midthir

ties stuck his head through the door.

“Yesh, Father?”

He looked at his spawn, the watery blue eyes, the weak chin. That boy was going to be the death of him.

“Come in here, and stop that lisping!” he roared. Obediently, the son made his way into the room, coming to stand at the foot of his father’s chair. Snow White gazed upon his progeny, his stomach curdling. The boy was a freak—wide, pouting lips, the bottom thick as a finger, so loose as to look like red rubber. His chin tucked neatly into his neck, sloped from bottom lip to clavicle with almost no indentation or marking indicating there was a jawline to prop up his face. His eyes were slanted down and the irises cloudy. He’d been sightless since the age of three, couldn’t see the wreck his own father had become.

“Yess, Father,” he said again, calmly. A long sibilance 14

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replaced the lisp, the boy’s best attempt to work within the confines of his deformity. He stood tall, his shoulders back, ready to accept whatever his father could give—be it love or hate.

Snow White was both sickened and proud. It had taken years of work for the child to lose that lisp, though if he hurried his speech it came back with a vengeance. His mood softened when he saw the boy try. He noticed a silver object in his hand and the emotions mixed again.

“You’ve been practicing again, I see.” That fucking flute. Fit so perfectly under that fleshy lip, replacing the chin that wasn’t there with silver.

“Yess, ssir. I wass hoping to try out thiss year.”

“You know you can’t do that. You’ll have to content yourself to playing for the cardinals in the backyard. The symphony doesn’t take blind musicians.”

“Beethoven wass deaf. They let him work.”

“Now, now, don’t sulk. Take your flute and go. Send along Marcia, tell her I’m ready.” He dismissed him with a wave of the hand, something the boy couldn’t see but could sense. He left the room, leaving Snow White alone with his thoughts.

Thirteen

Taylor headed to the Criminal Justice Center and brought the Tennessean archivist with her. She’d succumbed to shock, and sat woodenly in the truck next to Taylor, un

speaking. A faint shiver ran through her body on a continu

ous loop, starting at her head, making its way to her toes and starting over again. Taylor knew it wasn’t from the cold.

“Daphne,” she said softly, not wanting to startle the girl. Luminous brown eyes turned to Taylor, full of empti

ness. As her head turned, the nonglare-treated lenses of her glasses briefly purpled as the light from the snow glanced off them.

“Daphne,” Taylor repeated. “It’s going to be okay. Just stay with me, all right?”

“It’s my fault,” the girl muttered.

“What do you mean, it’s your fault?”

“Jane was mad. My boyfriend was over on a ‘school night.’” She made little quote signs with her fingers.

“So she left?”

They were getting close to the CJC, but Taylor wanted a few more minutes alone with Daphne. She continued 14

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straight on Broadway, taking the long way through the strip, turning on Second Avenue to worm their way up through the clubs and nightspots. Despite the detour, they’d nearly reached the CJC when Daphne spoke again.

“She left. Grabbed one of my books off the shelf and took off in a huff. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry. I should have called the police when she didn’t come home. I just figured she was pissed off, decided to stay over at Skip’s or something.”

Taylor’s radar went off. “Skip?”

Daphne rolled her eyes and waved her hand in the air simultaneously. “He’s this guy who’s been mooning around after her since she moved to town. She went on a couple of dates with him back in the summer, but they’re just friends. He bugs her.”

“Do you know how to get a hold of him, Daphne?”

She turned sharply, staring at Taylor. “You think Skip did this?”

“I want to talk to him, that’s all. Hopefully, there’s nothing wrong. Your roommate just spent the night elsewhere. But if you have a way I can contact him, that would be very helpful.”

Daphne bent her head, tears dripping off her sharp chin.

“Jane has his number in her cell phone. I don’t know it.”

“Okay. That’s okay. Don’t cry. We’ll figure it out.”

Taylor pulled into a parking spot in the lot behind head

quarters. They got out of the truck. Taylor marched the girl around the side of the building, up the back stairwell and through the door. It was stiflingly warm in the hallway, and barely better in the homicide offices.

Taylor got the weepy Daphne seated in her office, then made a quick run to the Ladies’. After splashing her face 128

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with water and brushing out her hair, she felt a little more human. She realized she hadn’t thought of the wedding for hours, and smiled.

Her boots made a clopping noise on the linoleum, a singsong beat that got stuck in her head, ca-chun, ca-chun. Snapping her fingers in time, she stepped into the homicide office and ran into a wall.

A female wall, to be exact. Taylor stumbled back in surprise. The doorway was blocked by a tall redheaded woman balanced with an arm slung across the opening, as if she knew whoever wanted into the room would have to get through her first.

The blow moved the redhead forward three or four inches. She whipped around with a sneer, then saw who was trying to get in the room. The sneer morphed into a semblance of a smile.

“You must be Taylor Jackson. I’m Dr. Charlotte Douglas, FBI.” Charlotte stuck out a hand and Taylor accepted it. They eyed each other coolly. Charlotte made no move to get out of Taylor’s way. Taylor dropped her hand and cleared her throat; Charlotte continued to appraise her frankly.

“Excuse me,” she said finally.

“Oh, sorry, silly me. Whatever was I thinking? I didn’t mean to be in your way, Lieutenant.” She didn’t move. There was the slightest bit of mockery in Charlotte’s tone, and Taylor narrowed her eyes in response. A deep voice grumbled past Charlotte’s body check.

“Knock it off, Charlotte.”

Charlotte’s eyes flashed and she stepped out of the doorway just far enough for Taylor to stride through, shooting daggers at Baldwin, who was sitting at the desk 14

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just outside her office. He jumped to his feet, reached to stop Taylor, but she was past him in an instant. At the threshold to her office, she stopped and turned.

“Miss Douglas, it’s—”

“Doctor.” The cold, imperious tone was meant to in

timidate, but all it did was annoy Taylor further.

“Fine. Dr. Douglas. I’ll be with you shortly. I’ve had a development that I need to tend to immediately. Please, make yourself at home.”

She turned to Baldwin. “Could I see you for a moment?”

She heard Charlotte giggle as Baldwin stepped into the office and shut the door behind them. Baldwin started to talk, but Taylor cut him off.

“I don’t have time for foreplay right now. I assume you just got here?”

“Two minutes ago, and it’s already been a long half hour since I picked her up. The sooner we can get her pre

sentation, the sooner we can get her out of town.” He ran a hand wearily through his hair, making the ends stand up like porcupine quills.

“Okay. We have a development.” There was a quiet whimper from Taylor’s chair, and she waved a hand at the girl. “This is Daphne Beauchamp. Her roommate, Jane Macias, has gone missing, and she fits our profile.”

Daphne had become a small, unkempt girl in the few moments that Taylor had known her. Sitting at Taylor’s desk, she exuded none of the edgy savoir faire she’d given off at the paper.

“Daphne, this is Dr. John Baldwin. He’s a profiler with the FBI. He’s working with us on the Snow White cases. I’d like him to hear a little about Jane. Could you share some of what you’ve already told me?”

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Daphne sat up a little straighter, visibly pulling herself together. “Sure, of course. I mean, I don’t know how much to tell. Jane’s a great girl. Really smart, going places, you know? She wants to be an investigative journalist, the oldschool, hard-nose type. Wants to bring down administra

tions and change the course of humanity.”

Taylor watched the girl speak. “Those are pretty tall orders. Does she have what it takes?”

“Yes, she does. She’s brilliant, can write like the wind. I’d…well, I admire her. She’s got what it takes to make something in this industry. Went to the J School at Columbia, that’s as good as it gets. Wrote for the paper there, had some freelance jobs for the Times…she’s a sharp cookie.” Daphne fiddled with a pencil she found on Taylor’s desk, tappity, tappity, tap.

“So why is she working here? If she was that talented, couldn’t she get hired onto one of the big papers?”

“No, no, that was her choice. She decided to take a year and get out of New York, see if it didn’t broaden her horizons. She chose Nashville because she’s got some god-awful crush on John Siegenthaler.” Tappity, tappity, tap.

“Siegenthaler Senior? Isn’t he a little old for her tastes?” Taylor reached over the desk and took the pencil. Daphne stared at her for a moment, then broke into the first smile Taylor had seen from the girl.

“No, no, not in a sexual way. His mind. She finds him intellectually stimulating, wanted to walk in his footsteps for a bit. Of course, the Tennessean isn’t the investigative powerhouse it used to be, we all know that.”

Taylor shot Baldwin a look, put the pencil back in its holder. He took the hint, continued with the questions. 14

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“Jane is from New York?”

“Yes. She’s such a city girl, too. Really kind of funny, the way she reacts to all the Southernisms around here. She’s got this nasally accent, not a hard, brassy one, just def

initely uptown. When she orders food she gets all kinds of looks.”

Ah, good, Taylor thought. Something like that would make her stand out, and someone might remember when they saw her last.

“Where would she have gone last night, Daphne? You said she wanted to get out of the house because your boy

friend was over. Did she usually leave when he stopped by?”