Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

“No, I don’t think.” Taylor returned the stare, her gray eyes steely. “Jury tampering and witness intimidation I can buy. But not Judge Hamilton. And I think you’d be wise to stay away from that train of thought. ADAs have gone down for much less.”

  Page stood up, huffing. “What are you saying, Taylor? That you’ll report me for having doubts about why one of our most notorious criminals manages to walk out of court every damn time we arrest him, despite hard-core evidence?”

  “Sit down. You know I’m not saying that. Jesus, Page, I think you’d know me better than that by now.”

  Page was still puffed up, spoiling for a fight. “I’m coming to you because I trust you, Taylor. If there’s anyone in this town that I can believe in to see that this gets made right, it’s you. You’re not exactly the squeamish kind, you know?”

  Taylor dropped Page’s gaze, rolling her neck to relieve the tension. Not squeamish. Page was right about that. Taylor had killed, and more than once. She’d fought her way out of bad situations before, with force when necessary, and had the scars to prove it. She wasn’t a violent woman by any means. No screaming fights, no broken glass, no beatings by a man. Yet the edge of mayhem lurked in the recesses of her mind, waiting. What female in any kind of law enforcement didn’t have some inkling of brutality bred in her? She fingered her neck and said softly, “Julia, sit down. Let’s talk.”

  The fight went out of the ADA and she sat back down, suddenly looking like a vulnerable law student seeking quarter for a perceived transgression. She fiddled with a curl over her ear, and Taylor realized how young she really was. It was easy to forget how young they both were. Seeing death and destruction every day, living in the world of crime, made them older than their years.

  “I think we’d do right to look at the jury and witness angles, rather than at Judge Hamilton. Terrence has a much better shot at intimidating the people of the community who come into contact with him or his thugs than he does a criminal-court judge.” Page started to say something, but Taylor held up a hand. “Now, I didn’t say I wouldn’t look into Hamilton. I just think it’s much more likely that Terrence is screwing with the people he has ready access to, that’s all.”

  Mollified, Page nodded.

  Taylor continued. “Okay then, here’s what I’ll do. You trust Pete Fitzgerald, right? My sergeant?”

  “Of course I do. Fitz helped make this case against Terrence. From what I hear, he has some kind of relationship going with Terrence. A mutual-distrust society. I have no worries about him.”

  “Then I’ll assign Fitz to you. I’ll make sure he’s up to speed on the situation, and send him over this afternoon. You guys come up with a plan for investigating this. And that’s all, Page. I don’t want to hear anything more from you about Hamilton. I’ll handle that side by myself. We can’t have you getting fired, now, can we?”

  Taylor stood, indicating the conversation was over. Page stood as well, looked up at Taylor and raised an eyebrow. “I’m out on a limb here, Taylor. Don’t let me drop.” She reached for the doorknob and flung open the door. A flash of fresh air infiltrated the office. As Taylor watched the ADA’s retreating back, she reveled in the air, trying to use it to wash herself clean. A baby and a corrupt judicial system. What more could she ask for?

  There was only one thing for her to do. She placed a call to Sam, asking her to meet for dinner. Taylor needed a friend right now.

  *

  Taylor stepped from the CJC offices absently, lost in her own problems. If she’d just taken a moment, taken one quick glance out the door before she stepped into the dusky night, her life might have been a little easier. Instead, she was hit with a vicious onslaught.

  “Lieutenant Jackson,” a shrill voice cried out. Taylor’s head snapped up. A news crew from the local CBS affiliate had taken up residence in the CJC parking lot, looking to ambush her as she left the building. They’d succeeded.

  “Lieutenant, we’d like a comment from you on the Rainman case. Is it true that your suspect raped and beat Detective Betsy Garrison of the Sex Crimes Unit?”

  Taylor was caught completely off guard. She paused, mind scrambling. Shit fire on a hell brick. How did they find out? She gathered herself, standing tall.

  “Is it true, Lieutenant?”

  Taylor searched the young girl’s face, trying to place her.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Edith Conrad, Channel Five News. It’s my first day,” she added proudly. “Is it true then? Detective Garrison is the latest victim of the notorious serial rapist, the Rainman? The same serial rapist that has been terrorizing Nashville’s women has gone so far as to assault a member of Nashville law enforcement.”

  “You can stop proselytizing, Edith. I have no comment on the Rainman investigation. It is an ongoing investigation conducted by the Metro Nashville Sex Crimes Unit. We don’t comment on ongoing investigations. Since it’s your first day, I’ll let that transgression pass.” She strode past the camera, purposely staring at a point five feet to the left.

  “Lieutenant,” the girl called out to her back. “I’ll be broadcasting the information on the ten o’clock newscast. I just want to be sure I have the background correct.”

  Taylor ignored her, continued walking across the parking lot.

  “Lieutenant, it’s also come to our attention that there is DNA evidence in the case. Are you sure you don’t want to comment?”

  Taylor swung around. “Where did you get that information?”

  Edith smiled coyly. “A well-placed source. Are you willing to confirm or deny the information? Because we both know I’m right on the money with this one.”

  Taylor stared at her briefly. The girl was petite, blond and thrilled with herself. Taylor did the only thing she knew to do.

  “No comment.” She crossed the street in a hurry, heard the girl’s delighted voice behind her. “Did you get that?’ she asked her photographer. “Please tell me you got all of that.”

  “Fuck,” Taylor spat. She reached her truck, climbed in, and drove off before she opened her cell phone. She speed dialed Mitchell Price’s number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Price, it’s Taylor. We have a problem. Channel Five has the Garrison rape.”

  The string of expletives would have done any sailor proud. When Price finally calmed down, Taylor relayed the entire incident with the reporter.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “I don’t want you to do anything,” he replied. “I’ll get on the horn, see how we can spin it. Dammit, Taylor, you were supposed to keep this quiet.”

  “C’mon, Cap, I have. Only Marcus and Lincoln have the information. The leak came from somewhere else. The hospital, maybe, or the lab. It was a long shot that we were going to be able to keep this quiet.”

  “The press isn’t supposed to give the names of rape victims on air or in print without their prior authorization. So hopefully they won’t name Betsy personally. If they do, we’ll light them up like a Christmas tree.”

  “It’s the kid’s first day, so I can’t give you an estimate on the amount of integrity she has. But you’d best find a way to quash the story.”

  “We won’t be able to quash it entirely, but I’ll make sure they don’t use her name. Dammit!”

  “Sorry, Cap. All I can tell you is it didn’t come from me or mine. Good luck with it.”

  “Not a word about it, Lieutenant. Hear me? Make sure there’s nothing but a ‘no comment’ coming out of our side of the building.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She hung up, desolate. Nothing was going her way today.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Taylor rolled into the parking lot at her favorite watering hole lost in thought. She shoved the worries about Betsy Garrison and the leak from her mind for the moment. There was nothing she could do if the press had the information. Better to let Price deal with it. She had enough worries of her own. Her conversation with ADA Page was fresh in her mind, and
she had taken the drive from downtown to Bellevue to think it through. Unfortunately, she had no answers.

  She was greeted warmly as she entered the bar. It was smoky and dark but situated in a large, almost cavernous space. Big-screen plasma televisions were positioned over the bar, affording sports fans multiple views and coverage of all their favorite pastimes. Regulars nursed whiskey in the corners of the huge U-shaped bar, pushing quarters into the gambling trivia machines as if they’d get some money back. A few college-age coeds giggled at a table, throwing glances over their shoulders to see who was watching them. Ads for the latest beer hung from banners and were backlit with neon lights. It was a happy place.

  Before Taylor was fully seated on her favorite high-legged chair, a chilled glass of Guinness appeared in front of her. She’d taken a liking to Baldwin’s beloved beverage, and had ordered it so many times that the bartenders didn’t bother to ask what she wanted. She gazed at it longingly. She had the presence of mind to know that she shouldn’t drink, but the release she would get from numbing herself begged her for a ride. She rationalized; she’d had at least three beers last night. If she hadn’t talked to her doctor today, hadn’t gotten the news, she would have had at least three more tonight. Perhaps she could just pretend that this wasn’t happening and have it anyway. It sounded like a good idea. The glass almost magically appeared at her lips and she gulped greedily, as if she hadn’t had liquids in weeks. The second pint went down smoother than the first.

  Sam blew into the room like a thunderstorm, all heads turning as she wound her way through the bar. Taylor almost laughed. Sam was beautiful, dark hair sleeked into a high ponytail, pieces falling magically around her face as if planned by a master stylist. Even after a long day cutting up Nashville’s dead, she looked as fresh as if she’d just stepped from the shower. As she enveloped her best friend in a hug, Taylor smelled the blissful scent of baby powder. She almost choked on it.

  Sam looked her over, and Taylor saw realization dawn in her eyes. Taylor had gotten a good drunk on one or two times in the past, and she knew Sam could read the signs that she was headed that way like they were plastered in neon on her forehead. Good friend that she was, she just smiled.

  “What’s the emergency, sunshine? Hi, Kat.” She grinned at the bartender, a dusky-skinned half-Korean woman who looked almost Hawaiian. “Can I have some water? And get some for our friend here.” She turned to Taylor. “What’s wrong?” she asked bluntly, the smile gone.

  Taylor took a deep breath, at a loss. Sam’s belly had reached her first; she was barely three months along and already beginning to show. How she had managed to get pregnant on her honeymoon was usually a great source of amusement for Taylor. Now it was simply depressing.

  “I honestly don’t know where to begin. The Rainman case, you’re familiar with it?”

  “Yeah. Why’re you worrying about it, that’s Sex Crimes’s case, right?”

  “I’ve been helping with it. And it’s going to hit the news tonight. Another victim, and I’m afraid they’re going to name names. That’s all I’m going to say about it, okay?”

  Sam nodded. She was savvy to the inner workings of investigations.

  “Then there’s Julia Page, all in a dither about a case she lost today. Thinks there’s jury tampering, dropped that in my lap this afternoon. Not to mention all the crap Baldwin’s going through with the Southern Strangler. Do I need more to be upset about?”

  “Give me a break, Taylor. That’s all in a day’s work to you. Now, what’s really going on?”

  Taylor looked at her sharply. Typical, she couldn’t pull one over on Sam. Might as well get it off her chest. She took a deep breath. “I talked to the doctor today.”

  “Oh no, honey. Is your liver not showing the right levels?”

  Taylor barked a laugh, drinking deeply of her draught. “No, the liver’s just fine. There’s a whole new problem.” She tried to look Sam in the eye and failed. She knew Sam would understand. Taylor wasn’t ready for a child. She and Sam had talked about it many times in the past, especially once Sam herself had gotten pregnant. But the immediacy of having to share the news was pressing on her like an anvil. She decided she’d best be out with it before she chickened out.

  “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

  Sam didn’t miss a beat. “So you’re sitting here trying to get in your cups. Excellent way to manage the stress, Taylor.”

  Taylor started shaking her head back and forth, a pendulum of distress. “Noo, that’s not it at all. I’m…”

  “You’re at a complete loss. You’re not ready to have a baby. You haven’t told Baldwin because you don’t know how he’s going to react. You don’t know what to think, how to behave, what to do. That about sum it up?”

  Taylor gave her a dirty look. “Well, leprosy cases are on the rise, too. Besides, you’re supposed to be encouraging me here. Not—”

  “Not what? What do you want me to do? You’re a big girl. You can make decisions for yourself. Did you want me to toss the beer over the railing and lecture you? I’ll do it if you want. But I don’t think that’s why you wanted to talk to me. So get drunk and talk.”

  Taylor leaned back in her chair. Shit. That was the problem with good friends. They wouldn’t condemn, wouldn’t fly off the handle. She realized she was spoiling for a fight, much like Julia Page in her office earlier. As she fought back a snapping reply, she saw Sam motioning to Kat. A pack of fresh Camel Lights appeared at her elbow. Sam broke open the pack, pulled out a cigarette, held it out to Taylor and lit a match.

  “Here, why don’t you have a smoke while you’re at it. Get it all out of your system now, girl, because tomorrow things have to change. For now, just…shit.” The match had burnt down far enough to burn Sam’s finger. She tossed the pack of matches on the bar and stuck her finger in her mouth.

  Free ride. That’s exactly what Taylor had been praying Sam would give her. Sam was a doctor, she knew the risks. If she said it was okay, then it was. She lit the cigarette, drew in deeply and blew blue smoke into the air, mindful to direct the noxious stream away from Sam’s delicate state.

  Sam spoke more softly this time. “Sweetie, I know you’re so freaked out right now you can’t see straight. Let’s just ride this out. It’s going to be okay.”

  Taylor let the tears start to fall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Whitney was driving in a panic. She’d tried Quinn at home, on her cell phone, at the country club for the remainder of the day yesterday and well into this morning. There was no answer at home or on the cell, and the country club staff hadn’t seen her since Monday after she’d finished her morning workout on the tennis courts. Whitney had continued to hit Redial throughout the evening, finally getting desperate when she reached the answering machine at Quinn’s home for the eighth time this morning. She left a message, telling her sister she was on her way over and to wait for her if she came home. If she got the message, she was to call immediately. She left the same message on Quinn’s cell phone, realizing she was starting to sound slightly hysterical. She needed to get a grip on herself. She might be wrong. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that it was just a coincidence. But she needed to tell her sister face-to-face so they could work it out together. They may not have been close, but Whitney did love her, and would do anything to protect Quinn.

  The station had called, too, wanting her to come in and cover some new angle on the serial rapist that was breaking, but even that had to wait. Imagine, she was putting her own career on hold. She’d deal with that later. First, she had to see Quinn.

  She forced her brand-new BMW X5 through the meandering traffic on Highway 70. This stretch of road, over Nine Mile Hill from Bellevue into the West Meade area, always lagged. All the locals knew that a speed trap waited to catch drivers as they blew over the hill faster than the forty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit allowed. She weaved, and touched her brakes as she came through the yellow flashing lights in front of St. Henry’s, warning h
er to slow down to fifteen miles an hour so she wouldn’t run over any lingering schoolchildren. She slowed to sixty-five, then punched the gas as she passed through the intersection. She saw a crosswalk monitor shaking a fist in the air in her rearview mirror, but didn’t slow.

  The SUV gleamed in the sunlight, briefly blinding other drivers as it flashed past, narrowly missing bumpers and side mirrors. Horns blared, fingers were thrown, but Whitney ignored the danger she was putting herself and the other drivers in. The West Meade split at Highway 70 and Highway 100 was congested as usual, the awkward traffic pattern begging for an accident of mammoth proportions, but she caught all the lights. She found the short stretch of open road where Highway 70 briefly became the Memphis–Bristol Highway that indicated the wealth of the land had just increased tenfold. The sign for the Belle Meade Mansion flashed by in a blur of white and she realized she’d missed her turn onto Leake Avenue. No matter, she could get to Quinn’s house through the main entrance to Belle Meade. The railroad tracks flashed by on her left and suddenly she was on top of the entrance.

  She knew she was going too fast as she tried to take the right turn. She braked hard, and the X5 slid into a 90-degree turn onto Belle Meade Boulevard. As the Beemer tried to obey its master and turn on a dime, Whitney lost control. The SUV weaved precariously, flashing across the turning lane right into the two bronze Thoroughbreds that graced the entrance into the Belle Meade enclave.

  The life-sized metal horses bucked into the air and crashed onto the street behind her. The impact didn’t stop her SUV, which continued across the median into the oncoming traffic on the Boulevard. Drivers swerved to miss her, but one car stayed its course. Whitney’s BMW plowed into and over the Audi station wagon, crushing the car and its three occupants.

  In her panic, she’d neglected to fasten her seat belt. Without the restraint to hold her in place, the impact hurled Whitney through the windshield as if she were a missile. Her left foot caught in the wiper blade, and her broken, bloody body splayed on the shiny hood, mingling with the splat of a couple of lovebugs, all three joined forever in death.