14

by J. T. Ellison

  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 fireworks 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 information 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. Richardson 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.

  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. Introductions 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-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 apartment 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 description 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?”

  Richardson had the audacity to look crestfallen for a brief moment, then brightened as if he realized how ludicrous that was. “Of course, of course. I understand completely. 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.

  “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 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 l
ips and rang the bell.

  The door to his study opened, and a man in his midthirties 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 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, unspeaking. A faint shiver ran through her body on a continuous 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 emptiness. 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 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 headquarters. 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 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 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 intimidate, 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 presentation, 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?”

  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 old-school, hard-nose type. Wants to bring down administrations 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.

  “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 definitely 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 boyfriend was over. Did she usually leave when he stopped by?”