Taylor was struck by the present tense. Giselle’s death hadn’t truly sunk into her mother’s mind yet. She heard the sound of a lighter being struck, then Remy breathed out heavily. She’d just lit a cigarette.
“That’s the other thing. She may have been young but she wasn’t at all gullible. She had a radar for people, not that it mattered. She could find the best in a grunged-out junkie and the worst in Miss America. That’s just the way she was.”
“If you’re still at the M.E.’s office, you’d best put that cigarette out. Sam will have your head.”
Taylor heard a shuffling noise. Remy coughed once, deep. “Taylor, remember that time when we were kids, we snuck Mrs. Mize’s cigarettes out of the pack, went up into the woods behind your parents’ house and smoked? What were we, ten, eleven, then?”
Taylor laughed despite herself. Mrs. Mize was her parents’ housekeeper, a mother, nanny, cleaner, polisher and all-around straight arrow. She’d spent more time raising Taylor than her own parents.
“Eleven. She beat me blue when she found out. You lifted the Crest from her bath so we could wash our mouths out, but you forgot to put it back. She knew she’d just bought a new tube, got suspicious, started counting her smokes. Jeez, she was pissed off.”
“She told my parents. They were furious.”
Taylor thought about that for a moment. Her own parents had been informed of the incident. Taylor had been grounded, of course, told not to play with the St. Claire girl anymore, but it was Mrs. Mize who’d beat her silly, then loved and hugged her because she hated that she was the one doing the disciplining instead of Kitty and Win. She clucked, and brought hot chocolate and nuzzled Taylor, telling her an old Norwegian folktale that evening.
“Where is Mrs. Mize these days?”
“She passed on last year. Sweet old thing, she went in her sleep. A true martyr, putting up with my family all those years, I’ll tell you that.” Taylor laughed softly, mind fuzzed with the memory of something good and happy. Then she shook her head and brought her focus back to the woman on the other end of the phone.
“Remy, I’d love to keep on reminiscing, but I have work to do. Is there anything else you can tell me about Giselle, about who she’s friends with, people outside the family that might have known her well?”
There was silence, and Taylor realized that no, Remy wouldn’t know these intimate details about her daughter. That would be about as likely as Kitty having any clue why Taylor was sneaking smokes with the St. Claire girl. Taylor’s heart broke, just a little bit, in a place she wasn’t aware had any more room for jagged tears.
“Okay, Remy. Thanks for calling. I’m so sorry about this, I really am. Sam will have everything else you might need. We’ll let you know what we find out.”
“I trust you to find out who killed my baby, Taylor. I’m glad you’re the one who’s going to catch her killer. I know that son of a bitch doesn’t stand a chance against you.”
She hung up, leaving Taylor with a strange, crazy sense of pride coupled with sorrow and longing for what they all used to be. For who they all used to be.
*
Taylor sat with her head in her hands for a long moment after the phone call. She felt like the wind was gone from her lungs. What had her life become? Investigating the rapes and murders of her childhood friends’ kids? Something was dreadfully wrong with that, she knew it deep in her soul.
Soft knocks on the door made her raise her head.
“Hi, babe. Everything okay?”
Taylor stared at her handsome fiancé. The clear, sea-green eyes, the laconic smile, the black hair peppered with gray. The broad shoulders, the way he towered above her. Safety. That’s what she felt every time she gazed upon him. And that was terribly dangerous. She knew it. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit; hell, she slept with a gun by her pillow. And a night-light. And dreamed of strong arms that pushed away the monsters and the nightmares. She’d found him, this savior of hers.
“Yeah. Just a little tired. What are you up to?”
“I came for a glimpse of the great Remy St. Claire.” He grinned and she smiled back.
“You want her autograph? I’m sure I could wrangle that one up for you. She’s over at Sam’s. We can catch her if you want.”
He laughed. “No, thanks.”
“What, you don’t have the hots for a shallow, plastic bimbo?”
“With you sitting here, wearing my ring, ready to marry me? Hardly. I’m just passing along a message.”
“Mmm-hmm. What’s the message?”
“The girl found in the park wants to leave. She’s fighting with the hospital, trying to sign out against medical advice. They called over, told Marcus. I told him I’d tell you.”
“Saraya?” Taylor rubbed a thumb against her right temple. A gnawing pain had started earlier and was growing. She ran her hand through her hair, opened her desk drawer, took out her Advil, popped three, then stood up.
“All right. Where’s the drama queen this morning?”
“Charlotte? She’s at the field office, getting slaughtered by the media for missing the DNA connection between the national cases. They’re dancing on her head, trying to get her to admit that she made a mistake. Maybe she did. I don’t know. She’s going to be tied up with them for a while, which would be why I’m here. I figure while she’s being jerked around by the press, we could go solve this case.”
“Aren’t you sweet. She is such a lovely girl. I hope the wolves enjoy her.” Taylor smiled at him. “But before we go Snow Whiting, I need to hear what my beating victim is so frantic about.”
*
The ride to Baptist Hospital was quiet. Baldwin drove, Taylor rested her head against the cool window and wished for summer. Truth be told, she didn’t really want winter to end. She loved the cool, crisp weather, the gray skies, the warm fires and soft clothes. But if it were summer, this would all go away. She’d be done with this case, the wedding would be over, they could go to the beach and lie in the sun, baking brown as bunnies and reading trashy novels. Make love after a few too many rum drinks; lie in a hammock under the stars, the sultry sea air lulling them into a false sense of hope. That was her one issue with winter. Not the cold, but the bleak despondence of the short days and long nights.
They parked and entered the hospital through the emergency room. Taylor shuddered briefly as a woman on a gurney was rushed past. She’d been there once, and didn’t want to go back. She fingered her neck, a habit she’d broken along with her cigarettes. The scar was there, still in sharp relief across her throat. A suspect’s last gasp. She’d wear his desperation forever. She’d just gotten used to it. There was something about nearly losing your life—you either let it haunt you or you accepted that it had happened and moved on. She’d chosen the latter. She was perfectly content to be the one doing the killing, thank you very much, not being the one who someone had tried to kill. Being that kind of victim just didn’t work for her.
As though he read her thoughts, Baldwin slipped a hand into the back pocket of her jeans and gave her right buttock a squeeze. She tried to ignore him, but it tickled, and she laughed.
“You’ve been lost in thought. Anything you want to share?”
“Naw. You know me, I hate hospitals. Where’s our girl?”
“Four. Here, we can take this elevator.” The doors were already open, so they slipped inside and hit the button for the fourth floor.
Baldwin leaned against the metal walls, an eyebrow raised. Taylor watched him, chewing lightly on her bottom lip. Outside of work talk, she was being much too quiet these days, knew he could sense something was wrong. She spun her engagement ring around her finger twice, decided to take a chance.
“Okay. Here goes. I’m a little freaked out about the wedding.”
Baldwin snickered good-naturedly. “A little? I’d vote for a lot. I’d actually go so far as to throw out the idea that you don’t want to marry me after all.”
The hurt in his voice was more than she
could bear. She reached over, ran a hand along his jaw, brushed back the forelock of hair that hung across his forehead.
“Baby, you couldn’t be further from wrong. That’s not it at all. God, how do I explain this? It’s not the concept of marriage in general that’s got me freaked. Especially marriage to you. You know that you’re the only person on the face of the earth I would even consider marrying, much less buy a dress for and book a church.”
“You booked a church? And you got a dress?”
His mock excitement made her laugh. “Oh, stop it. You aren’t funny. I’m trying to be serious.”
The shadow had left his face. “By all means, continue.”
“Okay. I’m nervous about the wedding part. Having to stand up in front of all those people—I’m just not a fan of being the center of attention. What if we—”
The elevator interrupted her, and the doors slid open before they could go any further. She was going to suggest that they just elope, run off somewhere instead of dealing with the whole church mess. But the look on his face told her that this was the way he wanted to do it. She decided to save the conversation for later. She’d agreed to the hoopla, and had to deal with her fears. But she reserved the right to act squirrelly up until the moment she set foot in that damn church on Saturday.
She winked at him, then strolled out of the elevator as if she hadn’t been talking about the most important moment of her life.
The nurses’ station was unmanned, which was odd. Taylor felt her chest tighten. Something was wrong. Stealing glances, she saw the hallways were deserted, the silence pervasive. Her lips thinned as she strained to hear something. She looked at Baldwin, noticed he’d put his hand on his weapon. She realized she’d already instinctively followed suit and they took a few tentative steps forward, getting a sense for what was happening. There was almost complete silence, the absence of sound deafening. Unheard of in a busy downtown hospital.
Taylor motioned to Baldwin to go right, then took two steps closer to the nurses’ station. Her primordial senses kicked in; she smelled the blood before she saw it. She stuck her head over the counter and saw the slumped form, a nurse with gray hair and blue scrubs. The woman was on her back, as if she’d slid to the floor and pleaded with her assailant before he shot her in the forehead. The shot was a little off center, a messy wound that came in at an angle and certainly killed the poor woman immediately.
She pulled her head back, sheltered from possible incoming shots behind the station wall. What the hell was going on? She risked another glance, as if she needed to confirm the gunshot.
Baldwin was crouched next to her, pale. His weapon was steady in his hand, pointing down the empty hallway. They needed to proceed carefully.
Taylor realized it wasn’t quiet at all. Bells were going off, people were crying out. Bedlam had ensued in the fraction of a second that they had taken to assess the scene.
A door slam made Taylor jump. She exploded, running down the hallway toward the noise, Baldwin on her heels. She passed a group of people shouting and pointing, went straight for the stairwell. She heard Baldwin behind her, yelling, “She’s gone, she’s gone,” and she hit the stairwell door at a run, slamming the door open with the flat of her hand.
She drew down on the figure retreating below her.
“Police, don’t move. Stop!” she screamed, and the figure halted for a fraction of a second, but only long enough to catch her eye before he darted through the door on level two and disappeared.
“Fuck!” Taylor yelled, throwing a long leg over the railing and dropping a floor. Her boots hit with a bang and she almost lost her balance, then she was down one more flight and out the same door.
He’d chosen well, the shooter. Level two was the surgery floor, and this particular entrance was to the Radiograph and Endoscopy Center. No one was there—it was dead quiet, the silence real this time. Taylor listened, ears straining for footsteps or door slams, but heard nothing. Either this son of a bitch was a fast motherfucker, or he’d snuck into one of the rooms.
She wasn’t stupid; she wasn’t going to search without backup. She stepped back against the wall and pulled out her cell phone just as Baldwin appeared on the other side of the door. She could see his wild eyes through the wired glass. She pulled open the door, shaking her head.
“I don’t know which way he went. I was just calling you.” She spoke quietly. Baldwin leaned in to hear her.
He whispered back. “I called it in. I don’t like this. Not one bit. There’s a doctor in her room who was coldcocked. He’s unconscious but alive. Fitz and Marcus are on their way with a butt load of uniforms. They’ll cover the entrances. Let’s take it slow, start down this hallway on the left.”
“Think this might have been the man she works for? The way she told it, she’s important to her boss. What in the hell is going on?”
He shrugged. “Either she’s valuable as a pro, or she knows too much.”
“Yeah. You go left, I’ll go right. We’re covered below. He’s gone, I don’t think he’s still here. Just don’t think I was quick enough.”
That’s when she realized that her ankle was killing her. She must have twisted it when she jumped over the railing. Superwoman, she was not.
“Okay. Go slow, be careful.”
They parted, heading down opposite paths. It didn’t take long.
Baldwin sent out a long, low whistle. Taylor backtracked until she found him standing over a body.
On closer inspection, she made out the small, quiet face of Saraya Gonzalez. Her blood pooled beneath her—that sharp bang. It wasn’t Taylor’s boots hitting the landing, it was the killer shooting this poor girl.
Taylor holstered her weapon and ran her fingers through her hair. This was turning into one of the worst weeks she’d ever known.
*
The emergency entrance bay to Baptist Hospital was crowded with police cruisers, overflowing into the street. The blue lights flashed up and down Twentieth Avenue; the area hummed with activity.
Taylor stood at the command post, watching. A manhunt was on for the shooter, though it seemed he’d gotten away from the area. A thorough search had revealed a wig, baseball cap and jacket in the municipal trash outside the emergency room exit. The video had been analyzed; the shooter had exited through the emergency room bay with the disguise intact, and hadn’t shed his fake identity until he was well out of range of the cameras. They had a height and approximate weight, but nothing else. Roadblocks had been set in a mile perimeter, but without knowing what they were looking for, they wouldn’t be much use. It was time to admit defeat on this event, and Taylor was furious—with herself, Baldwin, the shooter and any available person within forty feet.
Another two bodies for Sam: Saraya and the nurse at the head station. Bad timing for her; if she’d just been in another spot on the floor she might have lived. Jesus. Why hadn’t he just shot the girl and been done with it? Why had he tried to take her out of the hospital? Kidnap her, then murder her? Saraya mustn’t have been kidding when she spoke of her value to her employer. Damn. The only lead Taylor had into that world was gone.
Fitz was standing nearby, talking quietly into his cell phone. He hung up and looked over at Taylor. She knew something was wrong, the set of his chin was a dead giveaway. Someone else was dead.
She caught his eye, raised an eyebrow. He held up a finger in a wait-a-minute gesture, then finished the call. When he shut the phone, he ran a hand over his face, and Taylor saw how tired he was. Fitz wasn’t a spring chicken anymore; the stress of the week was showing on his haggard features. He came to her then, shaking his head.
“We’ve got a murder scene,” he said when he reached her. “Need to head over there. Want to join me?”
“Goddamn. How much more can we take today?” Taylor swept a hand at the chaos. “Is it Jane Macias?”
“Doesn’t look that way. It’s one of the massage parlors off Nolensville Road.”
Relief flowed through her ches
t. She just couldn’t stand the idea of failing one more girl.
“Massage parlor mania today. I thought we had all of them shut down?” They started walking to his car.
“Hey, wait up.” Baldwin came after them, jogging. “Where you headed?”
“Just got a call in for a murder at one of the supposedly closed massage parlors. This might tie back to Saraya. We need to head over there. This guy got away, there’s no question about that. Marcus is handling the search. He doesn’t need us.”
“Yeah, he’s got it under control. You’re right, this is all a bit useless. I can come with, if you want?”
“Why not? More the merrier,” Fitz grumbled.
They got into Fitz’s department-issued Cavalier and left the afternoon’s failure behind.
“Anything new on Snow White’s copycat?” Fitz asked as he negotiated the phalanx of blue strobe lights. “I figured that chick from Quantico would be all over us today. You know where she is?”
“I haven’t seen her today, thankfully. I’ve been avoiding my office like the plague,” Baldwin answered.
“Pity, that.” Taylor’s sarcasm wasn’t met with denial. Charlotte Douglas was going to be a problem, she could feel it in her bones. “We haven’t heard anything new on the Snow White case today. Been a little busy. Though Remy gave me some ideas on how to track Giselle’s movements. I’d like to talk to her grandparents, see if they can point us in the direction of any friends she might have who they don’t like. Remy insinuated that Giselle might have snuck out.”
Fitz had maneuvered them over the bridge, onto 65 South, and off the first ramp so they could travel the back roads to the massage parlor. He was never a fan of the freeway, and it drove Taylor crazy sometimes. But he was a demon on the side streets, and they pulled up in front of a small, well-kept house within minutes.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1 Page 73