Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  There was one big difference between the previous copycat murders and the Snow White case. All of the other original killers had been caught and jailed. Two had been put to death.

  That term popped into Taylor’s head again, though she knew it wasn’t entirely applicable to all of the cases. An apprentice. A student of murder. And he’d saved his greatest imitation for a murderer who’d never been caught. A thought niggled at the back of her mind. If he was so intimately familiar with the Nashville murders, did he know the identity of Snow White? She made a note of the thought, wrote one more thing next to it. Signet ring.

  The ring had disappeared from the evidence files. If it showed up at a murder scene, that would be interesting.

  They’d spent the afternoon going through the files, trying to put the pieces together. The DNA matched all the scenes but didn’t match anything else in the system, which meant he hadn’t been arrested anytime in the past three years. His DNA would have been entered into the system automatically if he’d been taken into custody. It didn’t mean he hadn’t been picked up somewhere else, just that the technology was behind the game. He could have something sitting in the files waiting to be inputted in any number of states, Tennessee included, and he would be right there for the taking. Instead, they had precious little to go on.

  Taylor’s head was starting to swim. There was no sign of Jane Macias. If she had been taken, she would be victim number five. If the copycat followed the original Snow White’s pattern, there’d be five more to go.

  The additional eighteen murders being attributed to Nashville’s killer was too big to keep contained; the leaks began immediately. Mitchell Price and Dan Franklin were trying to handle the media, but sticking solely to the Snow White’s Nashville murders. They deflected question after question to the FBI, letting them answer just how this massive killing spree had gone unnoticed. Granted, some of the original murders had happened in the fifties, sixties and seventies, and while each city knew they’d been dealing with a kook, for some reason everyone, including the FBI, had missed it until Charlotte Douglas’s eyes got on the files. It was one of those proud days for law enforcement.

  Taylor started when the door to the conference room opened. She realized that she had drifted off to sleep, only for a moment, but still… She sat up, wiped a hand across her mouth and saw Baldwin staring at her.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “You need some sleep,” she replied. “How’s Charlotte?” She held up a hand. “Excuse me. Dr. Douglas.” Taylor drew out the syllables, mimicking Charlotte’s haughty lockjaw accent perfectly.

  Baldwin half smiled. “At the hotel, drinking cosmopolitans in the bar with a bevy of songwriters at her feet. Some band is staying there. She’s completely in her element.”

  Taylor thought for a moment. Who was playing this week? She knew it was someone big…. “Please tell me it’s not Aerosmith.”

  “Skinny guy, big mouth, funky scarf. That’s all I saw.”

  “Jesus. How in the name of God did you get hooked up with that woman?”

  Baldwin took a seat at the conference table, scratched at his forehead like he could erase the memory. “We were working a case. Late night, too much to drink—hell, you don’t want to hear this. It was over before it started. She scares me. Not a decent bone in her body.”

  “Well, she wasn’t shy about the fact that she’d enjoy your bone in her body anytime you’d see fit. Stay away from her.”

  Baldwin smiled. “Is that an order, Lieutenant?”

  Taylor got up and went to him, plopped down in his lap and put her arms around his neck. “Yeah. ’Cause you and I have a date in a couple of days, and I don’t want her fucking it up. Got it?”

  He nuzzled her hair. “Got it, sugar. Besides, you know you’re the only woman for me. I was lost that first day I saw you, sitting at your desk, up to your ears in reports and Diet Coke.”

  She had the image from that moment seared into her brain. “Well, I didn’t think you were too bad yourself.” She kissed him lightly, then sighed. “I don’t know how much more we can do here tonight. I’m tired and hungry and cranky. Want to cut out and grab something to eat?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They gathered their coats and shut the lights off to her office. Baldwin held her hand as they walked out to the parking lot, the bitter cold making her nose run.

  “What are you in the mood for?” he asked. “Barbecue? We could swing into Rippy’s.”

  The thought of fighting the crowds didn’t appeal to her. Rippy’s was legendary, on the corner of Broadway and Fifth, a regular honkytonk with a view of Nashville’s touristy party life and the best pulled pork in the city. It was a happy, crowded bar with live music and a devil-may-care attitude.

  “No, I want something more quiet. How about Radius 10?”

  “Oh, good choice. They changed the wine list last month. Let’s go see what they did with it.”

  Baldwin drove, and Taylor watched life pass her by outside the window. Even at this late hour, people jammed the streets. Second Avenue was populated with gangbangers and reckless high schoolers trying to get into the bars with fake IDs. The old staples were gone from the strip now. Her favorite late-night haunt, Mere Bulles, had pulled up stakes and moved to a much more serene location in Brentwood, twenty minutes south of town. Instead, pop and techno music blared into the night; all-hours clubs had forced Metro to maintain a presence. She was sad to see it so lost, so different from what she’d grown up with.

  Baldwin turned onto Broadway and they passed through Lower Broad, the country joints and honkytonks packed with strange faces striving to see one they recognized. The songwriters hung out here—people who couldn’t make their own records but wrote for the more famous musicians, the session players who did the music on spec for submissions, all crowded the bars of Lower Broad, plying their wares.

  They turned at Union Station, swung by the Flying Saucer taproom, then turned left onto McGavock, stopping in front of the valet at Radius 10. Baldwin tossed him the keys and they retreated from the noise and craziness of the city into a cool, modern space with exposed beams and an L.A. aesthetic. A very nouveau-Nashville restaurant.

  Nashville had gotten schizophrenic over the past decades. The reputation as Little Atlanta was well deserved—while the country music scene still ran the show, there were many more avenues for pleasure. The stunning Schermerhorn Symphony Hall and the First Art Center drew a more refined crowd downtown, and esoteric restaurants and sophisticated bars had opened to provide succor to the cultivated set. Taylor liked these places; they were a retreat, a way to get away from her sometimes mundane world.

  They ate well—pan-seared grouper for Taylor, osso buco for Baldwin—and shared a bottle of Shiraz. Sated, they leaned back in the chairs and talked in low voices about the case.

  “I’m worried sick for Jane Macias.” Taylor toyed with her wineglass, the ruby liquid swirling gently in the bowl as she twisted the stem between her fingers. “I hate this, Baldwin. I don’t want to find her like we did the others. Did I tell you Giselle St. Claire’s grandparents called me today? They were so…sweet. Complimented Marcus’s interview of them, how we’re working the case. Here they are, overwhelmed with grief because their granddaughter is dead, and they are calling to provide support and let us know they’re praying for us. Don’t get that too often.”

  “Were you able to track Giselle’s last moves?”

  “It’s turning into a nightmare. Marcus has hit a dead end. Giselle and her grandparents were skiing in Gatlinburg. They had dinner, drove back to Nashville. They’d done a full day, were tired and went to bed as soon as they got home. Last time they saw Giselle, she was in their living room, reading a book. It wasn’t until they got up the next morning and went to get her for breakfast that they realized she was gone. We found her before they knew she was missing. Pattern is just the same as with the other girls. They disappear out of completely normal settings, no one misses them until i
t’s too late. At least maybe with Jane we’ve got a chance. If we just knew where to look.”

  “That’s always the issue, Taylor. Have you heard from Giselle’s mother yet?”

  “She’s doing a movie in Poland, can’t get back until tomorrow. With the media swarm, she’s going to make our lives difficult. God forbid someone get between a camera and Remy St. Claire. But we can handle her. There’s something else that’s bugging me. This damn signet ring. Why would that piece in particular be missing from the evidence room?”

  “It could just be lost. It’s been known to happen,” Baldwin said. He reached for the decanter, poured them each a splash more wine.

  “I know. But something about it is itching at me. You’re gonna think I’m crazy when I tell you this.”

  “Tell me what? Let me guess. Your dad had a signet ring.”

  She eyed him, unnerved. “How do you do that?”

  “Your dad had a signet ring? I was just guessing.”

  “No, it wasn’t him. I think he wore some sort of ring when I was little, but it was a class ring. He lost it, I remember that. He was furious. No, let me explain. Bear with me, okay?”

  “Okay.” Baldwin sat back in his chair.

  “I keep having this…vision, I guess you could call it. From when I was really little. We’d just moved into the big house—”

  “Taylor, that wasn’t a big house. That was a fucking palace.”

  “Oh, don’t exaggerate.”

  “Honey, you had a staff that lived in the house.”

  “They weren’t my staff.”

  “And I suppose you did a lot of your own chores, did your own laundry, washed dishes, that kind of stuff?”

  “You’re hardly being fair. It wasn’t like I asked for my parents’ lifestyle. You know that.”

  “I know, sweetie. I just like to tease. Face it, you were a regular princess.”

  “Yeah, the princess and the pea. Only the pea was Daddy, getting thrown in jail for bribing a judge or forgetting my birthday because he and Mom were off in Europe.”

  “At least you had parents.” Baldwin looked into his wineglass, and Taylor reached over and touched his hand.

  “I know. You’re right. Though sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to have been loved, then lose them, than be ignored.”

  “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, Taylor. When I lost my folks, well, it’s not something I would want to go through again. It’s impossible to understand when you’re young and you don’t have that structure anymore. One minute they’re there, the next they’re gone, and you’ll never see them again. It was rough.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “Anyway, we were talking about Versailles.”

  “Oh, shut up. It was a big house, okay? Happy now?”

  “Yes, dear. Tell me your vision.”

  She shut her eyes and tried to conjure up the scene. “It’s not really a vision as much as a memory. Every year my parents had a huge party for New Year’s. Themed, catered, the whole works. The year we moved into the house it was a costume ball. Kitty dressed as Marie Antoinette, I remember that perfectly, down to the wide-hipped dress and the towering crown of hair. It took four people to get her into the clothes. Just crazy. So anyway, I was spying on them from the top of the stairs. There was this little space that I could fit into, and I’d sit up there sometimes and watch the parties.”

  “Sound of Music.” Baldwin laughed.

  “What?” She opened her eyes; he was practically fizzing with mirth.

  “You know, the movie? Sound of Music? The von Trapp children were presented, did their little song…‘So long, farewell—’”

  “Auf wiedersehen, good night. Yeah, I get it. Considering I was an only child, not so much.” She shook her head at his antics. “If you keep interrupting me, we’ll never get to it.” Her eyes fluttered closed, the memory taking her again.

  “I’d watch from the balcony. That night, I remember seeing my parents in the foyer with a group of people. The men were giving my father a hard time about the new place, and there’s something about one of them. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but every time I think about that signet ring, I see this image, the men talking and laughing, one of them coughing and putting up his hand, but that’s it. I can’t remember anything else.”

  “You think one of the men was wearing a signet ring?”

  She opened her eyes. “Well, maybe. That combined with what Martin Kimball said, that he always thought the killer was a client of Burt Mars’s because the note came off of Mars’s printer. Mars was my dad’s accountant.”

  “Was he crooked?”

  “Ouch.” What a legacy to have, a father who every time his name was mentioned, or a name was associated with his, the first thought was corruption.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Taylor let it slide. “I don’t know if he was crooked or not. But if he did work with my father, and the killer knew Mars well enough to get on his computer and write a note to the police, I can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a connection.”

  “Let me get this straight. You think your father might have known Snow White while he was active?” Baldwin had leaned forward, wine and joking forgotten.

  “See, I told you it was crazy. My dad was a lot of things, but I can’t imagine he’d stand by and let something like that happen. No, if he knew him, it was tangentially, not someone he was friends with on a daily basis.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “I’m not sure of anything in this case. I’d really like to find out what happened to that signet ring, though. It might answer a few questions. Whether or not it will help solve the case, I don’t know.”

  “Too bad your dad’s not around to ask.”

  Yes, too bad. Taylor gave Baldwin a weak grin and finished off her wine.

  “Excuse me.”

  It was the valet, with her keys. He handed them to Baldwin. “I’m leaving for the night. I pulled the car up—it’s right outside the door.”

  Taylor looked at her watch. It was nearly 2:00 a.m.

  “Oh, I am so sorry. We didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

  Baldwin pulled out his wallet and handed the young man a ten. He nodded his thanks and took off toward the kitchen, probably to snag some leftovers as additional payment for the evening.

  “We should go.” Baldwin stood and stretched.

  “Yeah. Let’s see if we can get some sleep, start fresh in the morning.”

  They bundled up, got in the truck and headed out of downtown, both lost in their thoughts.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The lights were driving her mad. After a productive evening in the bar, and a not-so-productive tryst back in a stranger’s hotel room, Charlotte had retired to her suite. Men. She was always amazed at their selfishness. How hard was it to make a woman come, for God’s sake? She’d picked poorly tonight; the fool was too drunk to care about getting her off. He’d passed out after his own release, and she’d stolen from the room like some kind of whore. If he’d left money on the dresser, it might have been a more redeemable situation.

  After treating herself to a moment in a warm tub, she crawled between the stiffly starched sheets and tried to get some rest. But the lights from downtown Nashville spilled in through the too-sheer curtains, keeping her awake.

  She got up and raided the minibar, sloshing some Scotch on the floor as she dumped three airplanesize bottles of Johnny Walker Red into a cut-crystal glass. Sipping the whiskey, she settled in the chair by the window. Might as well watch the world if she couldn’t sleep.

  Amazing, at two in the morning there was still life on the streets. The Nashville she remembered from her youth was a quiet, somnolent place after dark. At least in the areas she’d been allowed to traverse. Church, maybe a restaurant or two. In her Peter Pan collar and pressed skirt, Mary Janes and velvet headbands, always on the arm of the latest in a series of nannies, she didn’t get a good sense of the town on those few week
ends. Granted, she’d been sent away when she was still quite young.

  It wasn’t until she was older, had gotten junked out of boarding school and was back home on the prowl that she found the raucous city life, the after-hours clubs, the raves, the ecstasy-driven techno punk music throbbing through her veins. Hmm. A hit of X wasn’t such a bad idea. She got up and rummaged through her bag until she found a prescription bottle with Klonopin on the label. The little pills of X fit so well with the legal medication—same color and shape. Someone without a practiced eye would have to look closely to see the difference. She shook out a tab and swallowed it with the whiskey, enjoying the burn and near-immediate effects of the combination. That was better.

  The joys of traveling in a private jet meant she could bring her pharmaceutical stash with her and not worry about security. It was always such a pain to travel commercial; she had to be much more discreet than hiding a few pills in with her medication.

  She lay back on the bed, thinking about Baldwin. And that bitch, Taylor Jackson. How that country frump had captured the eye of a man like John Baldwin was beyond her. Baldwin’s strong arms, the thick, unruly black hair, those green eyes… Charlotte started regretting the hit of X. She should have known better; it always made her horny as hell.

  Well, tomorrow was another day. She finished the whiskey and lay down on her right side, facing away from the windows. Just as she began to drift off, her cell phone blared to life.

  She reached across to the night table and picked up the phone.

  A gruff voice greeted her. “Hi.”