Sweet Dreams Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  Catey nodded. Taylor stepped aside with Officer Wills.

  “Do their stories match?”

  “Yeah, to a tee. They’re really shook up. Do you want to talk to him, or can I move ‘em now?"

  Taylor felt the headache deepen. She rubbed her forehead. “Go ahead, get them out of here. Better if the cameras don’t get a shot of their faces. Thanks, Wills. You did a good job here this morning. Can you leave a copy of your report on my desk as soon as you get it done? And gather up everyone else’s too?”

  “Sure thing, LT. I’ll bring them up ASAP.”

  Looking around, she corralled Fitz and told him to get back to the squad as soon as he could get away. The boys from the ME’s team had bagged the body and were rolling the stretcher toward their plain white van. Though most people wouldn’t give a medical examiner’s vehicle a second glance, the van’s circumspect attempt at discretion didn’t fool the media, who followed every movement with their cameras, even running after the van as it pulled away. With some good B-roll filler on tape, they turned for another source. Taylor was fifty feet away, walking with her head down, ostensibly looking to avoid the muck left behind by the ducks and geese. The yells started.

  “Lieutenant!” screamed Channel 5.

  The NBC affiliate chimed in. “Who is the victim? What was cause of death?”

  Their onslaught beat in time with the throbbing in Taylor’s head. It wasn’t unusual for her to make statements at a crime scene; normally she was fine with the cameras. Taylor had striking good looks that she worked to her advantage when necessary. Huge gray eyes, the right slightly darker than the left, shifted between clear smoke and stormy steel, depending on her mood. Lips just a touch too full encased orthodontically enhanced straight white teeth, and a slightly crooked nose gave her countenance a vaguely asymmetrical aspect. She was nearly six feet, blonde and rangy, with a deep voice, husky and cracked.

  This particular morning though, with dark colored smudges under her eyes, a hasty ponytail, and a nasty headache, she looked slightly less than ethereal.

  “No comment, guys. I’m sure we’ll have something to say later on.”

  “C’mon, Taylor. You need to let us know so we can make the noon report.” A flaxen-haired beauty from Channel 2, her rectangular tortoise glasses sliding down her well-done nose job, stuck a mic in her face. “Just give us something,” she pleaded.

  Lee Mayfield of The Tennessean gave Taylor an inquiring smile. Taylor shook her head; she’d be damned if she gave the paper’s crime reporter a damn thing. Besides, the woman would spin it her own way and distort the facts anyway. Let her do it on her own.

  “You have to give us something to go on, Lieutenant,” the latest talking head from Channel 17 admonished.

  Taylor whipped around, her limited patience worn through. Spotlights glowed in her eyes, blinding her for a moment. Blinking back into focus, she said, “I said we’ll have something for you later. Now quit lurking around my crime scenes. You’re making my teams’ work difficult.”

  Taylor turned her back on them, hurried across the small parking lot in front of Lake Watauga, jumped into her unmarked squad car. Wow, she’d let them get to her. Not very professional. It seemed every little thing got to her these days. Oh well, it would give them something fun to work on for their precious stories. “Lead Investigator Loses Temper.”

  “Jerks,” she said vehemently, rubbing her temples. She watched the press milling around their trucks, each trying to find a spin on her blatant and sarcastic remarks.

  One by one, she saw the cameras start to point at the sky. A banner day for Nashville’s reporters. A murder and an eclipse, all tied up in one tidy little package for them. The noon broadcasts were really going to be chock full of fun.

  She pulled to the east entrance of the park, noticing the Park Police weren’t letting anyone in, on foot or by car. At least they were making themselves useful.

  She stopped at a light and briefly closed her eyes. The body of the dead girl was stark against her eyelids. Taylor couldn’t help but think of the terror she must have felt as her life was stripped away and wasn’t surprised to feel the anger come. It had been like that lately.

  Over the years, she’d learned how to detach herself from crime scenes. She had to; it kept her sane. After a time, she’d grown relatively numb to the atrocities she saw. Lately, though, her armor was showing cracks.

  Giving the Parthenon one last glance, she realized the vibe surrounding the scene was making her uncomfortable. Like she’d missed the message the killer was trying to send.

  She turned left onto West End Avenue and registered the slow burn that had started. “I’m gonna catch you, you son of a bitch. You just wait. I’m coming.”

  Four

  The sky darkened. The moon moved before the sun, blotting out the sunlight in momentary increments until the world became a shadowy place, darkness scarring the light.

  He gazed at the miracle, oblivious to the scene in front of him and the frenzy he had created

  He murmured at the sky, “…And the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood.”

  Then it began to pass, and the man felt his heart stir once more.

  No one noticed him.

  Five

  Taylor followed the streets back to headquarters, swinging down Church Street to Hooters, turning left on Second, circling the courthouse, and finally finding a space on Third by the back door of the Criminal Justice Center. She frowned at the attempt to modernize the architecture of the building. Someone had gotten the idea that they could take a squat, brown brick square and fancy it up with a courtyard full of benches and a rounded portico over the main doors. A nice idea, but the bevy of criminals scurrying in and out of the doors of the CJC ruined the effect.

  Adding to the atmosphere was the close smell of river water, which made Taylor wrinkle her nose in disgust. The water level of the Cumberland was low, and the fecund reek only added to the depression of the area.

  Taylor went up the flight of concrete stairs leading to the side door entrance, stepping carefully around the overflowing bucket of cigarette butts in the corner of the landing. Swiping her card to gain access, she pulled open the door and made the short walk to the Homicide office. Her team was already assembling, putting together the necessities to start the murder investigation.

  “Are y’all up to speed?” There were nods all around.

  “Okay. I’m gonna check in with Price.”

  Taylor hadn’t missed a stride as she crossed the room. Though the door was uncharacteristically closed, she walked into the captain’s office without knocking.

  Captain Mitchell Price was a small, generally happy man in his early fifties, smoothly bald, with an impressive mustache he took great care to groom. As the head of the Criminal Investigative Divisions, he oversaw Homicide, Vice and all the other investigative departments. Price was on his phone when Taylor barged in, but quickly placed his finger over his mouth and hit the speaker on his phone. He motioned to the door and ran his hand over his shiny scalp, pushing away a few stray strands of faded red hair. Taylor closed the door behind her and took a seat across from his desk. He hit the speaker button, rolling his eyes.

  “Damn it, Price. When are you going to have some answers for me?” Mayor Meredith Robbins was yelling loud enough that even with the door closed, Taylor knew the rest of the squad could hear her strident voice. “When are your people going to get their asses in gear? A girl shows up dead in the middle of Centennial Park, which is going to be closed for God knows how long while your little boys and girls wander around, and we’ve got the Arts and Crafts fair this weekend. There are trucks full of crap ready to get in there and unload. And I’m the one who has to smooth out all the granola-filled feathers. It’s too late to cancel this thing now. There’s going to be hell to pay if you can’t get the park open immediately. And all you can tell me is ‘you’re working on it?’ I want some answers, and I want them now!”

&nbs
p; Taylor mouthed the word bitch to Price, then turned away smiling. Meredith Robbins was a thorn in the department’s side. The woman was a self-serving, nasty politician whose only concern was making herself look good, the citizens of Nashville be damned. How she got elected in the first place was still a mystery to Taylor.

  Turning back to Price, she twirled her finger around and raised an eyebrow. He smiled and nodded, interrupting the tirade.

  “Um, Meredith, we’re working things as fast as we can. I’m sure we’ll have some answers for you very soon. And the sooner we can get off this call, the sooner I can get the details from Lieutenant Jackson.”

  “Fine. Get back to me the moment you have some new information. And get the damn park opened back up. If the vendors start canceling because of this, I will hold you personally responsible.”

  Price sighed loudly for effect and said, “If anything, Mayor, I’d assume the curiosity factor is going to draw people to the park, not drive them away.” The comment hit its mark, and she backed down a bit.

  “No more excuses. Get the park open. And tell that lieutenant of yours to be nicer to the media.” She hung up the phone with a bang, and Price slowly clicked off the speaker. He looked at the phone with distaste, and then raised a hairy red eyebrow at Taylor.

  “Well, that was fun. She is such a pain in the ass. Ignore her, I’ll deal with it. But tell me you have something for me.”

  Taylor took in a deep breath. “Sam thinks the scene was staged, and I have to agree. Sam’s going to get the girl’s prints over here ASAP. As soon as they show up, we’ll start looking for a match. That’s my number one priority. I want to give this girl a name. We need to find out where she’s from.”

  “What other thoughts did our intrepid ME have?”

  “There was plenty of semen for a sample, so I’m going to ask Sam to send it over to Private Match instead of TBI. I want to see if we can get a quick hit in CODIS.”

  “You don’t think it’s this yahoo’s first rodeo?”

  “I don’t. The whole thing felt off to me.”

  Price sat back in his chair. “How off?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to see more. The scene was staged.”

  “Great. Just what we need.”

  “Are you cool with me sending the DNA to Simon Loughley at Private Match? The tox screen will go to him automatically anyway. This way, he can handle the whole case.”

  Partly through Meredith Robbins’ actions over the past three years in office, the MNPD still didn’t have their own forensics lab. She had suggested that if the department wanted their own lab, they could cut employees to get the necessary budget requirements, and Metro had no intention of cutting their officers. So they were beholden to other official labs for results. They hated sending high-profile DNA to the FBI labs for comparison, because even with a push there could be a wait of a year or so. The TBI, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, was the next best bet, but they too could drag out the final results over several months. Their only choice for fast-track cases was private labs. It wasn’t standard operating procedure, but there were times and cases which necessitated a quick turnaround. Private Match had done work for them in the past. Taylor trusted them and trusted Sam’s abilities to finagle the work quickly. Plus, Simon Loughley had been a friend for many years. He could be counted on to do the work right.

  Price played with one end of his mustache. “No, I think we’ll be able to handle it. If this is going to be as high profile as you think, we can’t afford any bureaucratic funding roadblocks. You heard the Mayor. I’ll pin it on her if I can’t make it happen. Surefire way to get it through. This may be a great opportunity to hit her again with the new forensic lab proposal…”

  “Good idea. I’ll let you handle that,” Taylor said sarcastically. “Getting back to reality…Our witnesses aren’t going to be much help. They didn’t see another soul. We’re hoping that will change when they get a chance to calm down.” She gestured toward the ceiling. A huge, dark brown watermark in the corner caught her eye, distracting her for a moment. Her voice trailed off, then she addressed him again.

  “Price, there’s something else. There were some sweet smelling herbs scattered on the body. Sam’s sending samples to a buddy to get a quick ID, but this changes the complexion of this case. They have to be part of the staging, because I doubt some drunk wandered by and threw a posy on her.”

  “Herbs? What kind of herbs? What the hell is that about?”

  “I have no idea, but we’ll have to keep a tight rein on that little tidbit. It could be a signature, and we really don’t want it getting out.”

  “This place is leaking like a sieve, Taylor. You keep that deep, okay? Nobody hears about it outside of your detectives.” He leaned back in his chair. “So how do you want to run this? You’ve got a few open cases on your plate right now, but this should take priority.”

  “Yeah, we have several that are on the burner, and two very active. I can offload them on Fitz, let him run them, and if this pops, we can pull him back in. He can manage things out of here for me, if anything happens. Plus, I think it would be good to bring Marcus Wade in to back me up on this. He needs the experience.”

  “Works for me. Which cases do you want to give Fitz?”

  “The Lischey Avenue murder from last week. The one the paper picked up and ran with? Little Man Graft murdered Lashon Hall, Terrence Norton saw the whole thing, but he’s not talking. That one.”

  Price groaned and Taylor grinned. Anytime the news got involved in their cases, something was bound to go wrong.

  “Mayfield didn’t do us any favors, did she?”

  “No.

  “Little Man and Terrence Norton are getting to be frequent flyers with Metro.” He shook his head, frowning. “Think you can nail them for this one? I’m getting tired of their antics.”

  Taylor barked a laugh. “It’s not me, Price. I made a solid case two months ago on an assault charge against Terrence, and the jury acquitted him in forty-five minutes. Blame it on his peers, not me. Anyway, I haven’t been able to shake anyone loose on Lischey Avenue. There is a fourteen-year-old kid who witnessed the murder, but his mom has him in hiding and won’t let him make a statement. I begged and pleaded, but she said no way. I don’t blame her; these guys are absolutely ruthless. He’ll get himself killed if he talks.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “I want Fitz to work his magic on Terrence. See if he can scare anything out of him. Lashon was supposedly his best friend, so maybe Fitz can appeal to the kid’s conscience. If not, we don’t have enough to charge Little Man with this murder, but he is on probation. If Terrence will give it up, we can get him on a weapons charge at the very least. And then charge Terrence as an accessory. Like I said, it’s a mess.”

  “Let Fitz go to town. He’ll nail one of them on something, and the rest will topple like dominoes.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. I was gonna pull him in on this anyway.” She got quiet for a minute. “There is one that I wanted to handle myself, but I can turn it over if you want. Suicide last week, seventeen-year-old boy. There’s something way hinky about this one. Rescue gets the call that a kid committed suicide. They respond and find the boy shot in the bathroom, but he’d been dead for a few hours. The father made the 911 call. When the officers arrived, he told them he and the boy were sitting side by side on the bed in the father’s bedroom, having an argument. He claims the boy reached over him to the bedside table, pulled the father’s .44 out of the drawer, stood up, walked three feet to the bathroom door, put the gun to his right temple and pulled the trigger. Sort of an I’ll show you gesture.

  “When I got on scene, the father had hidden the gun in a basket across the hall from his room. His kid’s lying there in a mess of blood and brains, and he asked me if he could step out for a bite to eat. I almost shot him myself. I think the father shot the kid, set the whole scene up.”

  “Anything to back up your theory?”

  �
��Instinct. Plus the wound didn’t have any contact burns, but it was such a mess that we’re waiting for the autopsy to come back to get the trajectory. The father has a record of domestic assault, the mother disappeared three months ago. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s lying to us. I’d like to find the mother. May be more than one murder there.”

  “Are you comfortable handing it over to Fitz?”

  “Yeah, he can handle it fine. I just want the bastard nailed.” She stood, swiping her hands down her thighs to smooth out the invisible wrinkles in her jeans. “I’ll pull the files and brief Fitz. He’s already familiar with both of these cases.” She started for the door, but Price held up a hand.

  “Hey, sit back down for a minute. Julia Page called from the DA’s office. The Special Investigative Grand Jury has scheduled your testimony on the remaining charges of the Martin case. You’re on call to appear sometime Wednesday or Thursday, depending on how things are progressing. Julia is pleased with the state of things so far. She wanted me to let you know.”

  Taylor was astounded that Price could call it “The Martin Case” with such nonchalance. Four CID detectives, three in Vice and one in Homicide, had been complicit in one of the largest and most professionally run methamphetamine labs the state of Tennessee had ever seen, and in the death of a twelve-year-old girl. Not to mention Taylor’s own involvement in the case. She had uncovered the scheme. And ended it with a finality that was unmatched.

  Testifying in front of the special grand jury was no big deal, especially now she’d been cleared. She’d be asked detailed questions and she’d give detailed answers. It was David Martin who would haunt Taylor for the rest of her life. Detective David Martin. He wouldn’t be arrested, indicted, or even charged with running the scheme. Because he was dead, and Taylor had killed him. But that had been self-defense. The grand jury said so.

  She smiled at Price. “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Taylor, I think—”