14

by J. T. Ellison

  “No, I insist.” He disappeared, and Taylor looked at Sam, exasperated. All she wanted to do was drink a couple of beers, get the next two days over with, wrap up the cases and go to Europe. She was running out of patience with the whole scenario.

  Sam just smiled and excused herself to go to the Ladies’.

  Jerry returned with two beers and a sly look on his face. Taylor took a bottle of Miller Lite from him, then sat back, eyebrows raised. He obviously had something to get off his mind.

  She was right.

  Jerry leaned close while he handed Taylor her beer. “See that guy that just came in? Don’t look, but I think he was here the other night.”

  “Really? My goodness, a repeat customer. In this neck of the woods. Imagine the odds.”

  “No, you don’t get it. I mean he was here the night that little girl went missing.”

  Taylor nearly dropped her bottle.

  “What are you talking about? Which girl?”

  “The little black-haired reporter. Jane. I think the paper said her last name was Macias. I don’t remember if the guy was in then, but I absolutely remember that he was here the night Jane disappeared.”

  “What about the last victim, Giselle St. Claire? Was she in here, too?”

  “Couldn’t say. I don’t remember what she looks like. Jane, I remember. She was a sweet kid. That’s not good, is it?” His face fell.

  “Uh, Jerry? Did you tell anyone this?”

  “Well, no. But I’m telling you now. Isn’t that enough? I just put it all together. I didn’t see him again, so I didn’t really think too much about it. And I don’t know if I want to get too involved, you know what I mean?”

  He rolled up a sleeve and Taylor saw the ink, the homemade prison tattoos that covered his forearm. Yes, she understood entirely.

  “Okay, Jerry. This is great. Thanks so much. Go back behind the bar now. My friend is coming back. We’ll take it from here.”

  “She a cop, your friend? ’Cause I got a…bat, behind the counter.”

  “The medical examiner, actually. But there’s a gaggle of good police next door, and we’re going to get their attention and have a chat with this guy. Okay? Now, go on back to the bar, you’re starting to look suspicious. And don’t worry.”

  He went, and she sat back in her chair, looking at the man Jerry had pointed out.

  He was at least six foot four, with brushed blond hair cut high and tight, as if he were military. She couldn’t see his face full on, just in profile. He sat comfortably, hands loose between his knees, not quite leaning on his forearms. He was strung tight, but not ready to snap. The door to the bar opened and a woman walked through. Taylor watched his body language, saw him open himself. It was almost imperceptible. The woman ignored him, walked right past and went to the bar. She plopped onto a stool, ordered a drink, lit up a cigarette.

  The man glanced over his shoulder at the bar, and Taylor felt the waves of anger roll off him. The intensity of the emotion nearly took her breath away; it was overtly negative. Taylor was certain if Baldwin had been in the room, he would have felt it, too.

  She felt her breath begin to quicken. The palpable animosity, the powerful frame, the casual yet hip sprung attitude… She glanced at Jerry, who was talking to the woman at the bar and stealing looks at the man.

  Sam entered Taylor’s pinpoint field of vision. She was walking right at the man, a casual, hip-swaying, “I’m having a good time” motion to her gait. The man reached out a hand and grabbed her wrist as she walked by. Taylor was up out of her seat before Sam’s mouth fell open in surprise.

  Three good strides would get her there, and she’d taken two when she heard Sam giggle, roll her eyes, then pull away from the man and head toward her.

  “Going potty?” she asked. Taylor just nodded and kept moving. She needed to see this guy head-on.

  She made it to the bathroom door, ducked inside, counted to five, then came out, wiping her hands as if she’d just gone in to wash them. He was gone. She took in the entire bar, realized he was nowhere to be seen. His beer bottle wasn’t on the table, either. She walked to Jerry, whispered to him, “Where?”

  Jerry shook his head. “I didn’t see him get up.”

  Taylor went to Sam. “The guy who grabbed your wrist. Did you see him leave?”

  “Yeah. He winked at me as he went out the door. He got up the second you walked past. Why?”

  The scent of cigar smoke wafted to her nose. She looked around, didn’t see anyone smoking a cigar. The bar was empty. Taylor had her cell phone out, speed-dialed Baldwin’s number. She gave Sam a wry smile.

  “Whatever you do, don’t wash your hands. Something was very wrong with that man. You may have just touched our killer.”

  Twenty-Two

  Charlotte Douglas schemed as the Lear jet left the terminal building. As far as John Baldwin knew, it was flying her away from Nashville.

  The sheer audacity of Baldwin, to push her away with so little regard for her feelings. Who was he to say what she was to do with her life? He’d decided she should leave Nashville. He’d decided she would no longer be of use in capturing the Snow White Killer. He’d pushed her away like she was a whore. Well, she wouldn’t be treated like that, not by him, not by anyone.

  He’d had a field agent escort her to the plane. Five minutes after her friend had left, an earnest young man with jutting ears and a solemn smile knocked on her door. After identifying himself as an agent with the Nashville field office, he’d taken her suitcases and practically thrown her out of the hotel room.

  She wouldn’t stand for this kind of treatment. Who did these people think they were? They had no idea who they were dealing with.

  She left the terminal in a cab and made her way back downtown. Checking back into the same hotel, she dropped her bags in the room and placed a phone call. She was lonely. She decided to go to the house for the evening instead of hanging at the hotel. A night in her old room, a meal with her father, a thrill with her lover—all would serve to get her back on track. She would come back to the hotel tomorrow, maintain the slim veneer of legitimacy she’d worked hard to conceive.

  They weren’t finished. She would have her vengeance.

  Twenty-Three

  Taylor and Baldwin sat close together, re-creating the past half hour. It was entirely possible that the man who’d been in Control this night, as well as the other nights, wasn’t their killer at all. But Taylor had felt something so malevolent, so horrid, emanating from him in that one brief moment that she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  A crime-scene tech had arrived quietly. If this was the haunt of their killer, they didn’t want to draw too much attention to the fact that they were closing in. The tech had gone over Sam’s arm carefully but got nothing. The man had paid for his beer with three one-dollar bills, all of which were confiscated for processing, but the odds of them actually finding some kind of DNA or prints that would be both usable and admissible in court were slim to none.

  Jerry the bartender had proved worth his weight in gold. He’d positively identified each of the four women killed by the Snow White copycat. All four of them had been in the bar at one time or another. Finally, they had their staging area. Taylor hoped like hell she’d just caught a glimpse of their killer.

  A police artist had been working with Sam and Jerry to create a composite, but the end result was too generic. It could be anyone. Their mystery man had nothing exceptional about him except a bad haircut, at least that either Jerry or Sam could recall.

  Taylor was furious with herself. She had felt it, the malice that radiated off the man. She’d played the situation wrong. Maybe he’d seen her badge and gun and it scared him away. Maybe she was just imaging the whole thing, and the man she’d seen was just another patron. She was wound so tight, it wasn’t so far-fetched.

  She was standing by the bar, aggravated as all get out, tempted to topple a pile of Amstel Lights, when the crime-scene tech shouted for her.

  �
��Lieutenant? I’ve got something here.”

  She went to the woman, a short, overweight brunette named Ricki with a sweet smile and an even sweeter disposition.

  “Hey, Ricki, what do you have?”

  She held up a mass of plastic. “Straws. All tied in knots.”

  Taylor slipped on a latex glove and took the mass from Ricki. She flashed back to an image of the man, his hands loose between his knees. He might have been tying the straws then.

  “This is perfect. Perfect. Thanks, Ricki. Bag this for me, okay? That’s going to be an important piece, so be careful with it, okay?”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  “Hold up. What do you have there?” Baldwin came up to her, put an arm around her shoulders. Taylor smiled.

  “Show him, Ricki.”

  Baldwin looked closely at the clear plastic bag, now closed with red evidence tape. “Intricate.”

  “You could say that. If they match up to the knots in the ropes we have in the lab, we might have something. Ricki, can you test them for trace, too? We’re looking for some more of that creamy substance found on the previous victims.

  She turned to Baldwin, excitement making her heart pound. “Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Those knots are so different, so unique.”

  “That they are. I can imagine a killer this precise using the knots as a tool, a pastime. Something so intricate takes practice.”

  “Well, he was pissed when that chick came in and blew right past him. The guy that sat here is used to being admired, used to being fussed over. If it was the copycat, I’d bet we’re going to have another murder, and soon. How much lead time do you think he needs now?”

  Baldwin looked at her, eyebrow raised. “We might make a profiler out of you yet. If he’s running on a certain timetable, we won’t know until we catch him. But if he’s just on a spree, he could take another, kill the one he’s got, whatever. He’s not thinking clearly, he’s upset. This doesn’t match up to the original profile of this killer being a meticulous planner. He’s already killed two today, three this week. If he’s not sated now, he never will be. He’s completely broken Snow White’s pattern. He’s working on his own now. He won’t just stop. We’re going to have to catch him or kill him.”

  Taylor remembered the man’s silhouette, the tense way he took up space, and shuddered. “I’ll be happy to make that happen.”

  They stayed at the bar for another hour, trying to act normal as the CS techs surreptitiously combed through the place. It was late, and Taylor was tired. When Baldwin offered to drive her home, she didn’t resist.

  She let him tuck her into bed, accepted a kiss on the forehead, like a child just finished with a bedtime story.

  As he was leaving the room, his hand on the light switch, she called to him, “I’m supposed to do some things tomorrow. Girl things. Sam things.”

  “Wedding things?”

  The quick bloom of panic in her chest when the word wedding was spoken made her feel stupid. This was silly. She could go toe to toe with killers, yet she was afraid to stand up in front of a crowd? Decision made, game, set, match.

  “Yes. Wedding things.”

  “So we’re on?”

  “Come here.” He did as she asked, came back to the bed. She sat up, slid the covers down to her waist, and pulled him to her, hugging him hard.

  “We’re on.”

  Twenty-Four

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Friday, December 19

  8:00 a.m.

  Taylor got up early, grabbed a latte and fought the melting snow and ice down to the spa where she was supposed to meet Sam. Even after three days, the roads were anything but clear, but they were passable if you knew what you were doing. Taylor did, and apparently so did the Vietnamese woman who owned the salon. Taylor parked in the lot, one of four cars. The snow was due to start again later in the morning, the temperature was going to drop, making the roads treacherous.

  All of this just felt so wrong—she should be at work, should be combing through files, doing everything in her power to stop two killers, one old, one new. Yet here she was, sitting in front of a spa, looking forward to getting a massage, to spending some time away from the cases. The guilt of wanting to be disengaged from it all was bitter in the back of her mouth.

  She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. What was she supposed to do? Last night she’d committed not to cancel the wedding, then sealed that promise. Baldwin was right. She wasn’t the only cop on the force. They could, would catch the killer. If she were around when it happened, fantastic. If not, the crew would have her never-ending thanks.

  Cases don’t resolve themselves in a week. She kept that mantra running through her head as she redid her ponytail, turned off the truck and went into the spa.

  It was 8:00 a.m., and she yawned. She could have slept in, skipped the whole spa day. But Sam would have killed her. “You haven’t had your nails done in months, Taylor,” she’d say. “Lighten up and enjoy yourself for once.” She took a sip of her latte, hoping the caffeine would kick in soon and help her wake up. She was exhausted. Maybe Sam was right, a day of pampering couldn’t be all bad.

  She checked in with a young Vietnamese girl, then took a seat, fiddled with a brochure on micro dermabrasion. It looked like it hurt.

  Thirty hours from now, she would be a married woman. Looking at the sheet of paper in front of her, she laughed. She’d been doodling while she waited for her appointment to start, and she felt like a teenager when she saw the initials intertwined within a heart that she’d unconsciously drawn. TEJ + JWB = TLA. True Love Always. Oh, God.

  She wondered how long this was going to take, then mentally chastised herself. Day off, day off, day off. She kept repeating the words until Sam blew in the door. Wearing sweats and flip-flops, dragging a large Birkin bag that was stuffed with God knew what, she barked a brief hello in Vietnamese to the shop owner, then enfolded Taylor in a rib-cracking hug. Her nose was cold against Taylor’s cheek.

  “Morning, sugar! I am so frickin’ excited. Are you not just about to die? It’s tomorrow, finally. Seriously, T, you’re getting married tomorrow! I feel like we’ve been planning this for months.”

  “That would be because you’ve been planning this for months. My God, woman, aren’t you freezing? Flip-flops in a blizzard?” Taylor looked down at her own practically covered feet, ensconced in her worn pair of calf-high Uggs.

  “Taylor,” Sam admonished, ignoring the gibe. “C’mon, sweetie. This is going to be a simple, elegant wedding. Nothing fancy, no doves or horse-drawn carriages. It’s going to be exactly what you’ve always wanted. It’s very you.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes at her best friend. When they were growing up, back when they still had some semblance of innocence to them, they’d planned their weddings. They’d picked their fantasy grooms out of magazines, assembled frilly, doily-packed scrapbooks with all the appropriate wedding accoutrements. They giggled and dreamed and grew starry-eyed at the thought of true love.

  As she grew older, those fantasies left her. The whole idea of a fairy-tale wedding seemed a bit absurd, so frivolous. But she was committed now. No turning back. No white-sand beach at sunset or Elvis impersonator in Vegas. No, she’d agreed to the whole church thing. Full circle for her. She’d started out wanting that, decided it wasn’t for her, and was now reaping what she’d sown all those years ago.

  At least after last night, her cold feet were strictly from the weather.

  Sam was eyeing her patiently, waiting for some sign that all was well in Taylorville. With a wry smile, Taylor winked at her. Ah, who was she trying to kid? She was excited. Scared witless, but excited nonetheless.

  “Okay. You’re right. I can’t wait. I’m nervous as hell, too, so I hope you made my massage an extralong one. With hot stones and shit. I haven’t been relaxed in the two months since the Snow White started. Hey, did you—”

  Sam shook her head, interrupting. “Hell. No. We are not, I repeat, are not going to talk about w
ork today. This is your day to relax and get beautiful. You got me?”

  Taylor waved her hands in submission. “Fine. You don’t have to be so touchy. I was just wondering—”

  “Zip it. No wondering.” Sam eyed her for a moment, then shook her head. “You just have the bug, don’t you? Can’t stop thinking about this case for two seconds. To answer your question, no, I didn’t find the frankincense and myrrh on the massage-parlor victims. Now, you listen to me. That’s it. Moratorium on death and destruction for one day. Deal?”

  Taylor smiled at her best friend. “Fine. Deal. What did you do with the twins?”

  They were interrupted by a soft-spoken woman with arched cheekbones and blue-black straight hair. “Oh, Miss Sam, Miss Taylor. Pedicure first, ladies.”

  “Thank you, Mai.” The lady led them to a side room where soft music played.

  Taylor settled into a massage chair, dunking her feet in the warm water. Sam was seated to her right, happy to talk about her babies instead of dead bodies. Madeline and Matthew had come into the world only two months earlier, and were already the focus of everyone’s attention.

  “Simon has them. Bless his heart, he was thrilled at the thought of keeping them today. He’s so tickled by everything they do. Me, I love them to death, but I could use a nap. Twenty naps. I’m going to sleep through most of today as it is.”

  They passed the morning comfortably, chatting, doing the girlie things that would signal to the world that Taylor was getting married. French manicures, pedicures, facials. A lovely massage, a quick eyebrow and bikini wax, then they were ready to go. Five hours of pure, unadulterated primping. As they walked out into the freezing air, Taylor was amazed at how relaxed she felt.

  Taylor gave Sam a quick hug goodbye, then turned to her 4Runner. In the window’s reflection, a flash of black hair caught her eye. Raven hair, pale face, crimson lips. Just another customer entering the spa. But the image of Giselle St. Claire’s broken body popped into her mind, followed by the massage-parlor victims.