Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  She knew who he was, of course. This bent, misshapen thing was Snow White.

  He’d come to her once, alone and sweating. She heard his labored progress up the stairs, listened with every nerve taut when he reached her door, panting heavily. He’d been too winded to hurt her, though the gleam in his eyes told her that was his intention. He’d taken off her blindfold. She saw the insane desire light up his face from within, like a flashlight was being held just below the surface of his papery skin. He’d stared, then licked his lips. Traced the line of her cheekbone with a bent finger. Her imagination ran wild, as if the touch of his finger had left some sort of filth on her face that she’d never get off. Then as abruptly as he’d appeared, he was gone. She wept for the first time that night.

  A sound brought her back, and she heard steps, creeping toward her. This wasn’t the young one, she was certain of that. His tread was unmistakable, heavy and purposeful. No, this was someone lighter, who was coming slowly. She had a half-hysterical moment imagining a giant spider crawling across the room to wrap her in its silken web and drain her of life slowly, but shook the thought off. These were human footsteps. Despite the blindfold whispering against her skin, she squeezed her eyes shut, afraid.

  A hand touched her face. She couldn’t help herself, she cringed. But she didn’t cry out.

  The hand was joined by another and ten fingers roamed across her face languorously. She felt no malice in the touch, just a gentle curiosity. Just as slowly, the hands were withdrawn.

  “You are beautiful,” a soft voice whispered in her ear.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He was working on her bonds now. The owner of the voice shrugged slightly, a movement so eloquent that Jane felt it, a dismissive gesture born of repetition. “Nobody. I am no one.”

  Jane’s hands were free now, and he’d moved on to her feet. She stretched her arms hard above her head, rejoicing in the movement. Pulling her arms down, she started to pull off the blindfold.

  “Don’t. Pleassse.”

  The longing in the voice caught her, and she stopped. She realized that this man was no threat; the whisper of a lisp made her feel both comforted and a little creeped out. Didn’t movie psychopaths have lisps? She started inching away and sensed the man stiffen. She quit moving, let him work on the knots around her ankles. After many interminable minutes, she felt the rope free, and her legs were no longer glued together. He took her hand and helped her stand, massaging the blood back into her legs.

  “Can you ssstand?”

  Jane tested each leg. Pins and needles, but functioning. “Yes.”

  “Keep your hand on my ssshoulder. I’m going to get you to the door. Then you can take off the blindfold.”

  “Who are you?” Jane repeated. “Do you have a name, at least?”

  “I have many, but none will mean anything to you.”

  Jane heard a snick, then tapping. He’s blind, she realized with astonishment. The thought made her giggle. The blind leading the blind. This was crazy. Her hands went to the blindfold again, but he stopped.

  “Please. It will be quick. I promise. There are many passages through the house.”

  The tone of his voice made her stop, and she said, “Okay.” And meant it.

  After a few long minutes of shuffling along, they went down two flights of stairs. Jane could smell bread. A kitchen? Before she could think, her hand was on a doorknob.

  “Thiss will take you through the gardensss. Walk sssouth for one hundred paces, then turn to your right. You’ll be in the garden of the house next door. Please, just get a ride from someone, and don’t look back.” The door started to close, and Jane whipped off the blindfold and looked over her shoulder. All she saw as the door closed quietly behind her was a face that looked like an old candle, melted from continual use. She was glad she hadn’t gotten a full look.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Tuesday, December 23

  7:30 p.m.

  The apprentice stormed through the hallways of the manse, looking in every room in the upstairs corridor. The girl was gone.

  He entered Snow White’s library in a fury, not noticing that they weren’t alone. Joshua sat in the corner by the fireplace, the flute in his lap, sightlessly serene.

  “Where is she? Where is the girl?” he screamed.

  Snow White sat in his chair, a fire lit, warming his crippled legs. He rubbed the cream into his hands, massaging the pain away as best he could. He hated the scent of the balm; it crept into his wasted flesh, wouldn’t ever wash away. But the pain subsided fractionally when he used enough of it.

  “She’s in her room.”

  “No, she isn’t. She’s gone.”

  Snow White struggled to his feet. “She was there when you left with Charlotte.”

  “Well, she’s gone now, old man. Kind of fitting, really. So’s your bitch of a daughter. I had no choice, really I didn’t. But it was so much fun. She died screaming, like a child.”

  “Noooo!” Joshua’s strangled cry sounded from the far side of the room. “You didn’t kill her. Tell me you didn’t kill her. I let Jane go. Ssshe was sssweet and kind and didn’t deserve thisss. You didn’t hurt Charlotte. Tell me you didn’t hurt Charlotte.”

  Troy turned and snarled. “She died slowly, little brother. Know that.”

  Joshua sobbed and ran from the room. Snow White looked at Troy with pain in his eyes. “What have you done?”

  The apprentice shrugged. “She was in the way. She was going to turn us in. I had to silence her.”

  “Did you? Did you really? Or were you just taking matters into your own hands again? So help me God…” Snow White lurched at the man he’d trained, but the younger man was too nimble. He danced away easily.

  “What did you expect, old man? That I’d let her live? That I’d let any of you continue on? You were wrong. You were so very wrong.”

  Grabbing a poker from the fire, he advanced on Snow White. Before he could take four steps, his body jerked. His mouth opened, but the roar of the gun drowned out his scream.

  Joshua reentered the room, a pistol wavering in his hand. He squeezed the trigger again, but Troy saw it coming and ducked, rolling away from the fireplace, away from Snow White. He made it to the door before Joshua’s empty eyes found him again, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.

  Joshua went to the door and bolted it, locking him and his father in the library. He went to Snow White, who had crumpled, stricken, in his chair. He was keening, a low mourning for his daughter. His son joined him, held him while he cried, and they wept for Charlotte’s soul.

  *

  Taylor went back to the CJC and found the offices nearly empty. Most people had taken the entire week off for their Christmas vacation. She had a moment’s displacement, knowing all that had transpired that prevented her from leaving on her own Christmas vacation, but pushed it away. There would be time for that later.

  She’d called Captain Price on her way into the office and told him about the recovered file folder. She hadn’t gone through it in detail, but at first glance it contained all the information they’d been speculating about regarding Burt Mars and Edward Delglisi. Her next call was to Baldwin, a request to meet her and go through the information. With any luck, the key to sinking Delglisi’s ship would be in these papers. Whatever Richardson had discovered had gotten him killed. She was ready to see what that might be, regardless of her own involvement. Baldwin had extracted a promise from her to wait until he got there to go through the file. The suspense was killing her.

  She was toying with the edge of the folder when Baldwin came into her office with two cups. The steaming latte was a welcome treat; she didn’t realize how chilled she was until she wrapped her hands around the warm cardboard. She thanked him and sipped gingerly.

  “So, can we look now?”

  “I want to talk to you about a couple of things first.”
<
br />   “What?”

  “I had a conversation with a friend of Lincoln’s, an…official with the South American and Mexican governments.”

  “The spy. Lincoln told me he helped with the chauffeur.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say that he’s a spy. I think he’s more of a facilitator.”

  “Okay. I won’t even ask how he came to be friends with our Lincoln, then.”

  “There’s nothing sordid. Lincoln doesn’t know the extent of this man’s reach. Anyway, he’s had Delglisi on his radar for a while.”

  “The South American connection.”

  “Right. Well, they want him. And they’re willing to do just about anything to get him. There’s just one little problem.”

  “Win.”

  Baldwin looked at her. “You peeked into the file, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t. I can only imagine that’s what it must be, because you’re treating me like a five-year-old. My father is a criminal, Baldwin. I can take it. So spill.”

  “Okay. Mars was the bank, but your dad is Delglisi’s bagman. He’s the one moving the money. The authorities were closing in on him two months ago. He went overboard from THE SHIVER, but left a cool four million on board when he bailed. So not only are the South Americans and the Mexicans looking for him, he cost Delglisi a lot of money.”

  “That’s why Delglisi thinks he can trade on Win’s life. Win’s a dead man regardless. There’s no way we can keep this quiet.”

  “Taylor, there is a way.”

  She set her latte on the desk and looked Baldwin straight in the eye. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. I’ve been talking to Garrett this afternoon. He can arrange for the Marshall Service to take him into protective custody. Your dad will have to testify against Delglisi, but they can keep him safe.”

  Taylor leaned back in her chair, staring up at the watermarked ceiling tile that she’d inherited with the office. Official requests to replace the moldy brown splotch had been effectively ignored. She focused on the mark while her mind whirled. Was she willing to allow her father that kind of judicial forgiveness? She had never been able to muster her own absolution for him. Now the law would do something her heart would never allow, and her mind would fight. She didn’t think she could stand by and watch him glide yet again. But at the same time, the greater good would be served. Shit. Typical Win, ruining her thought process by simply existing.

  “You’re right. But here’s a question for you. If Win is as big a part of this as we think, what now? He gets to go scot-free?”

  “No, that’s not really how the witness protection system works. At this level, they’ll give him immunity to testify against Delglisi and his cronies. They’ll relocate him, probably out of the country, give him a new face, a new name, anything he needs to effectively disappear. It’s a lot more dangerous than romantic, I’ll give you that.”

  “I can’t help it, Baldwin. It’s just not right. Besides, it’s all a moot point. He won’t do it. He won’t. He’ll go to jail before he rats Delglisi out. You don’t know my dad, Baldwin. He had a chance, way back at the beginning, to get off on the bribery charges. All he had to do was testify against Galloway. But he wouldn’t do it. He’s too stubborn. He’s got just enough of the gentleman in him that he feels obligated to stand by his criminal associates. He won’t testify.”

  “We’ll make him, Taylor. The trick is to get Win here. We need to make the deal with him and take down Delglisi.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s look at these files first, see what Richardson came up with.”

  “Okay. Time out on mystery and intrigue for a few moments. You read, I’ll look over your shoulder.”

  “I hate it when you lurk.”

  “Fine. You read, I’ll just sit here and take in your beauty.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “I’ll pass you the pages.” She opened the file. “Okay, Frank. Show me what was so important that it cost you your life.”

  Black and white. Frank Richardson was a journalist. He had deep contacts, many people he could turn to if he needed a confirmation. He was old-school—two sources or he wouldn’t go to print. His diligence had won him the Pulitzer. And a seasoned journalist like Frank Richardson would have hit upon this immediately. The paperwork didn’t lie.

  Anthony Malik was indeed Edward Delglisi.

  There was more. Buried seven pages into the printouts, which were covered in scribbles, block capital letters and speculations, most of which they’d already figured out, there were three words. Two words, really, and a phone number.

  Sex. Video. 212-555-3457.

  She went back to the page and read it again, and again. She handed it to Baldwin. His eyes lit up.

  “Call the number. Put it on speaker.”

  She dialed, and they sat back. A prerecorded voice cut through the air. “You’ve reached the offices of New York State Attorney General Conrad Hawley. Our offices are now closed.”

  Taylor clicked the phone off. That was all they needed to hear. She and Baldwin shared a long look. The shit was about to hit the fan.

  She stood and stretched. “I’ve got to get out of here. Let’s walk.”

  He followed her out and they left the building, trudging up to Second Avenue until they came to the Hooters on the corner.

  “This’ll work,” she said, and they went in. “I’m hungry, anyway. Let’s get a couple of beers and burgers and talk this out.”

  They ordered and Taylor waited until she had a beer in her hand to talk again.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Frank wasn’t killed because he discovered Edward Delglisi is Anthony Malik. He was killed because he tracked the whole sordid business to a significant person, someone who could hurt and be hurt. Saraya Gonzalez told me she was filmed having sex with very important men. If all of this is true, if Frank’s theory is right, there might actually be a highly inflammatory videotape showing the attorney general of New York State having nonconsensual sex with an illegal immigrant named Saraya Gonzalez. That might be enough to kill a few people to get hold of. If Delglisi, sorry, Malik had that tape, and was holding it over the A.G.’s head—”

  “And someone else got their hands on it—”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  “One problem. Where would this mythical tape be?”

  “That’s the last piece of the puzzle. I think I might know. The massage parlor that the Snow White copycat hit. We seized a ton of pictures and video. I’m assuming that there’s going to be more than a few compromising shots among the evidence. If one of them was Conrad Hawley, I’d say we’ve discovered Malik’s ace in the hole.”

  “And now we know why he wanted you to turn your head. This is big, Taylor. Bigger than us. I’ve got to let Garrett know. He can work with the team of agents who have been tracking Malik, get them involved in this.”

  Their food arrived and she took a big bite of her burger instead of answering. Win Jackson’s voice ran through her head. Then Malik’s joined the fray. Before she could stop herself, she was back in the memory of the party. The image of the four men flashed in her mind. Some fog had cleared; she saw the light, the reflection, the men, gathered at the foot of the stairs, laughing, and the man coughing….

  Their names came to her in turn. Anthony Malik, Burt Mars, Win Jackson and the man with the signet ring… Fortnight.

  “That’s it!” she screamed. Eric Fortnight. How had it not come to her before now? No matter, that was Snow White’s real identity.

  “What, what?” Baldwin nearly upset his pint glass.

  “Eric Fortnight. That’s Snow White’s real name, Baldwin, I’m sure of it. Oh my God, it was right there in front of me all the time. The memory I keep having, of the New Year’s Eve party. Eric Fortnight was the man wearing the signet ring. His wife’s name was Carlotta. She was German or something, foreign. Very dramatic. I think she was actually some kind of countess or something. She was wea
ring my mother’s costume.”

  Taylor shut her eyes to better access her recall. “Carlotta Fortnight. She died. She died giving birth, I remember that now. My mother was horrified, that’s why I don’t have any siblings. Dad always wanted another kid. Kitty was having nothing of it. There were all kinds of rumors at the time. The child was sick, I think. I don’t know if it lived or not. I think they might have had another kid, too. But Carlotta definitely died. And Baldwin? She had long black hair and always, always wore bright red lipstick.”

  “Are you sure?” Baldwin asked, but Taylor was already out of her seat and tossing money onto the table.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Baldwin, I know where he lives.”

  *

  They ran the three blocks back to the homicide offices, both on their respective cell phones. Taylor was talking to Price, asking him to assemble the SWAT team, and Baldwin was talking to Garrett, apprising him of the new information Frank Richardson had uncovered. If they knew who Snow White was, it negated a large part of the role Win Jackson would need to play in their game to take down Anthony Malik. They needed to reset the strategy, make sure they could still trade the name for Win Jackson.

  The homicide offices were buzzing with life when they burst through the doors, out of breath and chilled. Price was there, Fitz had returned from the Renaissance, Lincoln and Marcus were standing by her office door. All four men were smiling.

  “We have a surprise for you.” Lincoln beamed.

  “Okay.” Taylor stopped. “Surprise me.”

  Marcus threw open the door, and Taylor looked in. There was a girl inside, dressed in blue police-issue sweats, her black hair pulled into an unruly ponytail.