“Anything is possible, but that’s not a realistic scenario. Killers like this rarely stop. There is often an escalation in violence over time, and most will kill until they’re caught or incapacitated in some way. It’s more likely that the man responsible for the Snow White murders is dead or in jail for another crime. We don’t want to cause a panic here.”
“Isn’t it true, Lieutenant, that all of these new murders have something in common? Weren’t all of the victims found to have high blood-alcohol levels indicating that they may have been drinking heavily just prior to their abduction and murder?”
“Yes, the victims had elevated BALs. That’s as much information as I’m able to divulge for you at this point.”
We’ll leave the roofies out of it.
“Okay, Lieutenant. Do you have any warnings for the women of Nashville tonight?”
“Just the usual commonsense precautions, Kimberley. Women in the Nashville area should always be alert and not put themselves in compromising situations. Don’t accept drinks from people you don’t know, always watch the bartender make your drink and don’t leave your drink unattended. Don’t leave with a stranger. Always keep your doors and windows locked, your car doors locked. Be aware of your surroundings at all times, and if you see or hear anything suspicious, call 911. We’d much rather come check things out and see that all is well than get to a scene too late.”
“That’s great advice, Lieutenant. Let me ask you one more question. How does this make you feel, personally, that a serial killer is on the prowl in your city, picking beautiful young women as prey? What do you do to sleep well at night, knowing a monster like that is out there?”
I don’t.
“Kimberley, we are all very concerned about the emergence of this killer. Nashville Metro has many very talented and dedicated officers who are on this case, working diligently to capture this murderer before he strikes again. We want to calm the fears of the people of Nashville, not raise hysteria. Again, if you have a concern, please, call 911 or the hotline. Do you have that number up on the screen?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, we do. I do have one more question. Your father, Winthrop Jackson IV, went missing from his yacht nearly two months ago. We understand that the federal government has been involved in the manhunt. Have you had any new information on his case?”
Taylor felt her blood pressure rise. Just couldn’t help herself, could she?
“No, Kimberley.” She clamped her lips together and crossed her arms. There was a brief moment of dead air, then the anchor spoke quickly.
“Thank you for your time, Lieutenant, and good luck catching this horrendous monster. Next, we’ll talk with a forensic scientist about the clues found in the case and what it means to the old investigation of the Snow White Killer.”
The disembodied voice came again. “Sorry. I told her to stay away from your dad. Nice job. You have a good night.”
There was a snap in her ear and the blinding lights were extinguished.
“And, we’re out. That was a great job, Lieutenant Jackson.” The tech from Channel 17 was smiling at her in admiration. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and he made Taylor feel old. The interview had gone as well as could be expected. The producer was decent, at least. Too bad they’d ignored her wishes and asked about Win, but thankfully they took no for an answer. A serial killer was much more fun than a two-month-old missing-persons report.
She nodded at the boy. “Thank you.”
“Do you want a tape? I can get you a tape.”
“Sure, that would be great.” The boy scampered off and Taylor stood, shaking the feeling back into her left leg. Like seeing the interview again would help.
Four vicious murders in two months, all black-haired, pale-faced girls wearing bright red Chanel lipstick. Snow Whites.
They needed to catch this guy, and fast.
*
John Baldwin stood with his arms crossed and one long leg propped against the wall behind him. He’d been avidly ignoring the receptionist for a good fifteen minutes; she’d been staring at him like he was a tasty dessert since he’d entered the building. He’d become entirely oblivious to all but the most blatant attempts to get his attention since Taylor had entered his life. He had eyes only for her, much to the chagrin of most of the females he came into contact with. Six foot four and sleekly muscled, his wavy black hair and Lucite-green eyes drew many admiring glances. Enough that women like the receptionist made him uncomfortable.
He saw the door to the studio open, watched as a kid rigged up with what looked like electrical wire escorted Taylor to the lobby. Sound tech, Baldwin thought to himself. As a profiler for the FBI, and as a well-regarded forensic psychiatrist, he was a veteran of television interviews. Media coverage like this was inevitable. This case was eating all of them alive.
Word had even come down from Quantico that he was to follow the Snow White case, intervening when necessary. He didn’t want to step on Taylor’s toes. He let her work through her theories, guiding only when necessary. That happened less often these days. His expertise was rubbing off on her. She didn’t need his help just yet. She would, but he’d rather she come to that conclusion herself.
Taylor elbowed her way through the glass door. She absently gathered her long hair into a fist, slipped a stolen rubber band off her wrist and captured the blond mass in a ponytail. The young technician stepped aside to let her through the door, gazing adoringly at her like a puppy, telling her his name was Sean and if she ever needed anything, anytime, he was the guy to call. He was fawning and the tips of Taylor’s ears were pink.
When she saw Baldwin, the blush extended down into her cheeks, flushing her with a healthy glow. Utterly charming. Beauty, brains and guts. He’d hit the trifecta when he met and fell in love with this stunning woman.
Sean the tech spied Baldwin. A furrow creased his young brow. Not quite a man, yet he still understood the implication. He gave a half grin to Baldwin, a “Hey, you can’t blame me for trying” and professionally shook Taylor’s hand, winking as he left her in Baldwin’s company. He greeted her with a smile.
“Went well, I thought.”
“As good as could be expected, I suppose.”
“You okay? About your dad, I mean.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” She gave him a look that plainly said no, she wasn’t okay about it, but wasn’t willing to make a big deal. He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed, then held the door for her.
They exited the building, walking toward the parking lot. Baldwin sensed the shiver that ran up Taylor’s spine, knew it wasn’t from the snowy night. The Channel 17 studios were nestled in behind the Ted Rhodes Municipal Golf Course, the northwest corner of downtown Nashville. It was dark and remote; a feeling of dread washed over them both. He knew what she was thinking.
Four girls dead on her watch. The nation paying close attention. And a ruthless killer who was having too good a time toying with her detectives. This wasn’t a happy Christmas.
They reached his BMW, and he dropped his arm to her waist. Punched the automatic unlock on his key chain. Opened her door. Leaned in as she sat down on the smooth gray leather, ran his hand along her cheek.
“We’re gonna get him. I swear, we’re gonna get him.”
“I know,” she replied. “I know.”
CHAPTER THREE
Nashville, Tennessee
Monday, December 15
11:00 p.m.
Baldwin dropped her off at the office so she could gather her truck and tie up the day’s loose ends. She yawned as she snapped on the lights. The murder book was on her desk, all the files neatly arrayed with tabs for crime-scene photos, evidence, logs and reports from the various officers who’d participated in the scene. It had taken three hours in the freezing cold, with snow falling and hampering their efforts, to clear the scene at the Bicentennial Mall last night. They weren’t taking any chances. Every ounce of physical evidence had been collected, tagged and bagged.
A quick check of her e-mail and in-box showed nothing that couldn’t wait until the morning. She debated for a moment. Read through the case files now, or go home and get some sleep. The thought of a warm bed, a warm body lying next to her, was too compelling. Taylor grabbed the murder book and headed out.
The drive home was eerie. The night air crackled with an icy breeze. Snow billowed from the sky; she felt like she was driving through clouds. There were few cars out and about, and the lack of traffic made Taylor lonely. She hadn’t had time to clear her head since the Snow White case had popped. Two months of dead girls, anticipation, setbacks, false leads. The thrill of the hunt.
The thought sobered her. The girl they’d placed in a body bag last night and carted away to be cut open didn’t enjoy the thrill of being hunted.
The gash in the girl’s neck flooded Taylor’s mind and she nearly missed her exit off the highway. Without thinking, she hit her brakes hard, and the wet, sloppy snow declined to help. She had to manhandle the truck until the wheels caught again. She regained control and took the exit, her heart beating hard. The near miss woke her up. Adrenaline coursed through her body. Her mind refused to cooperate, to calm itself. The murder scene popped back into her head, and she went down the exact path she was trying to avoid—thinking about the case. She was so lost in thought that when she stopped, she realized she’d driven to her old house. The cabin.
Shaking her head, she laughed at her distraction. It was only natural—they’d moved just a few weeks ago, still had boxes in the cabin to be transferred to the new house. She groaned at the thought of dealing with more boxes, put the car into Reverse without getting out. The cabin didn’t look large enough to hold very much, but when push came to shove and Taylor had finally started packing, the accumulations of her life seemed to explode exponentially.
As she pulled away from her old life, the phone rang. She clicked the speakerphone on. Sam’s ebullient voice spilled from the speaker.
“It’s the same stuff.”
“Jesus, you’re there late. Why do you sound so happy? That means he’s definitely killed a fourth.”
“I’ve got enough to run it through LCMS. I’ll get an idea of what this is, finally.” Liquid chromatography mass spectrometry had failed them in the earlier cases. At least now they’d have an idea of what they were dealing with.
“That’s great, Sam. Don’t stay up too late.”
As she got back on the right road, the gaping wound in Janesicle’s neck wormed its way to the surface.
*
John Baldwin was relatively content. He’d closed his last case, his field office was under the control of a surrogate acting director. No orders to take over the Snow White case had come. He had nothing official to do but get married. His most pressing concern at the moment was Taylor.
A fire was roaring in the fireplace, and Taylor stood five feet from him, a cup of hot chocolate held tightly, trying to force the numbness away. She’d come home with her hands practically blue. He considered her profile as she looked out the window, a study in concentration. She was miles away. A rare southern blizzard surrounded them. Snow continued to plummet from the sky, piling onto the Japanese maple bushes in the front yard so rapidly that they bent like old men.
Despite the late hour, a disembodied male voice spoke, deep and languorous.
“Listen to the following statements. How would you respond? Buon giorno, signora. Lei parla l’inglese? Dove siamo? Come si dice ‘Piazza San Marco is here’ en italiano?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. It’s going too fast. Jeez, this is the easy stuff, too.” Taylor snapped the off button on the CD player remote, shaking her head and smiling.
“What’s wrong, cara?” he crooned, egging her on.
Taylor focused on her fiancé with narrowed eyes. “Vaffanculo,” she spat, then grinned at him. Baldwin guffawed in surprise.
“Where’d you learn that one?”
“You like? I’ve got more.”
She had that crazy sexy smile going, the one that held great promise. The mismatched gray eyes flashed. He played with her. “Now, Taylor, there’s no need for that kind of language. You’ll get yourself in trouble if you say that over there, anyway. How is it you have trouble with the most simple commands, yet you can curse like a sailor in perfect gutter Italian? No, don’t answer that,” he said, holding up a hand. Taylor’s lips had pursed, ready to spew out what he assumed was another charming epithet.
“Relax, sweetheart. You know more than you think you do. I’ve watched you go through these tapes for weeks. Trust me, we get over there, you’ll be fluent in days. I promise. You’re just distracted.”
He went to the stereo, turning the power off. He glanced around their living room—a spacious compilation of curved arches and exposed beams. Their new home was more like what he and Taylor had each grown up in, elegant and airy, whitewashed walls with simple accents. They both loved it the moment they saw it. The exterior was brick and stone, a Georgian colonial that bordered on federalist, a style so popular in this section of the South. They had much more room than furniture. The plan was to buy the accompanying furnishings and art on their trip. And stock their burgeoning wine cellar.
Over there. Italy. Italia. They had scheduled three weeks for a romantic honeymoon, and Taylor had been bound and determined to teach herself the language before they left. He loved to watch her learn, to see the phrases tumble from her lips.
“Distracted. Why would you think that?” She turned back to the window and stared at the winter wonderland that comprised their new front yard, the cul-de-sac and the other houses in the neighborhood. The problem was, there were no defining characteristics between them all. Everything was white. Fifteen inches of white.
And a killer was out there, plotting his next murder. Damn. He watched her mood shift, playful to alert and serious.
“Four new murders, Baldwin. Sam’s call all but confirms it. Snow White is really back. Or is this a copycat? If he is, he’s a damn good mimic. And we look like a bunch of monkeys fucking a football.”
Baldwin slipped behind Taylor, putting his arms around her waist. He started whispering in her ear. “Siete il mio amore. Non posso attendere per spendere il resto della mia vita con voi. Avete la faccia di un angelo. Need me to translate?”
She spun in his arms, her breath hot on his cheek. Obviously she caught the gist of what he’d said. He gave her a wink. It never failed.
“You’re an easy woman, Taylor. Mutter a few words in a foreign language and here you are, rubbing up against me like a cat.” He brushed a kiss against her generous mouth, smiling as she bit his lip.
“I may be easy, Dr. Baldwin, but at least I’m not cheap.” She pulled away and punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Do you think they’ll have the street plowed by morning?”
Baldwin looked out the window. “We can hope.”
Taylor cracked her neck. Snow. Murder. The look in her gray eyes was blatant—if the roads weren’t clear by tomorrow, she would murder someone herself.
Baldwin slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her back to him. “We could…”
“No, we couldn’t. That was the deal. I want our wedding night to be special. You can hold out a little longer. All I asked is that we try to abstain for a week. A week wasn’t that much to ask.”
He smiled and pulled her close. “But we already…” He kissed her softly, tasting chocolate, but she fought to leave the circle of his arms. Breath ragged, she pushed him away, gave him a weak smile.
“Stop. Four more days. Okay? Let’s just make it through this week, and we’ll be horizontal before you know it. I just can’t think about anything but that poor girl right now.”
Baldwin adjusted his fly and gave her his most wicked smile. “Let me help you forget.”
*
Taylor lay in the bed, realizing she was sleeping with her eyes wide shut. It was an old trick she used, keeping her eyes closed as if asleep, but seeing everything behind the l
ids. Usually, it worked to allow her mind to process whatever kept her awake, yet she felt rested when she finally succumbed and got out of the bed. It wasn’t working.
She opened her eyes, taking in the dim light of the room. Baldwin was asleep on his left side, back to her, and she knew he was out by the soft whispery snores emanating from his pillow. Lucky bastard. Since they’d moved to the new house, he’d been sleeping like a baby. It might have been the bed—a king-size sleigh that afforded them much more room than they actually needed. They could each stretch out and not worry about banging into the other. She missed the old bed, but only briefly. Who was she kidding? She loved to luxuriate in the crisp sheets, to stretch her extremely long legs all the way to the end of the bed and still have several inches to spare.
She did just that, easing the tension in her shoulders with a bit of stretching, tensing and releasing. Maybe a game would take her mind off the case. No sense lying here staring at the ceiling.
The pool table was housed in the bonus room over their three-car garage. Taylor walked out of the master, slipping the door closed with a gentle click. A night-light showed her the path. She walked down the long, wide hallway past empty rooms. Rooms that should hold promise but mocked her with their very emptiness. Marriage. Babies. Yawning mouths of black-haired, red-lipped girls, all in a row.
Fuck it all. She jogged the last few steps down the hall until she reached the open space that housed the vast majority of her old life.
She flicked the lamp and the room filled with soft yellow light. Closing the door carefully behind her, she went to the pool table, whipped the cover off and bunched it into a ball. Tossing it on the couch, she went back to the table, racked the balls and took a moment to stretch again, two vertebrae in her neck unkinking with a pop. Better. Loosened up, she took the break, cracking ball after ball into their respective pockets.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1 Page 62