Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

“So, tell me. Do you know what case Lincoln is on?”

  Fitz dunked a tortilla chip in the spicy salsa and crunched before answering. “No, but I can guess. While you and the fed were off gallivantin’, he had several calls with that confidential informant he’d been wrangling, the kid working as a deejay?”

  Taylor nodded that she remembered, and Fitz continued. “Well, the CI started talking big that he would be willing to distribute drugs through the club. He needed a dealer. Lincoln was the behind-the-scenes guy for a week, and then he dropped off the radar. I think Vice decided to keep him on it. Linc’s a smart kid. He can land on his feet. But couple all that information, and I’d assume it’s something to do with our good friend Terrence Norton.”

  Taylor groaned. Terrence Norton had been a fly in the department’s ointment for years. A hoodlum, a generic neighborhood thug, he’d risen through the ranks of the underbelly of Nashville with meteoric speed. Drugs, shootings, assaults—the kid had a rap sheet fourteen pages long but skin like Teflon. None of the charges would stick. With each hung jury, each dismissed case, Terrence grew stronger. He was the main conduit of heroin and cocaine into Nashville, running the drugs up I-24 from Atlanta. But Terrence reported to someone, wasn’t high enough to be running the operation himself.

  Taylor desperately wanted to see him nailed and out of her hair. She’d thought the chance was there—two months earlier, the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation had taken over a case of possible jury tampering. The final report had been on top of Taylor’s files when she returned from Italy, finding no apparent wrongdoing. The TBI had happily dumped Terrence squarely back in the locals’ lap, but kept the task force open, just in case something broke.

  Terrence had been relatively quiet in the time since she’d been back, hadn’t killed anyone that they knew of.

  A thought hit her. “It can’t be Terrence. He’d recognize Lincoln, wouldn’t he?”

  “Well, he kept that cue-ball look after you left, and grew a beard.” Fitz laughed. “Scruffy, moth-eaten curly shit, too. He looks like a hood, not at all like his usual dapper self. And Terrence only dealt directly with you and me. So he’ll fit in okay. Besides, until his little foray onto the wild side, he was only working with the CI. Terrence wouldn’t have ever seen him.”

  “I worry about him. I’d never forgive myself if we lost him. He gave me the sense things would be breaking soon, so hopefully we’ll have him back.”

  “Amen to that, sister.”

  Taylor pushed away her plate, let the companionable silence build. She hated to drag everyone into her paranoia, but she knew she needed her back watched.

  “Someone’s watching me.”

  Fitz met her eyes, didn’t blink, or shake his head, or pat her on the arm. She appreciated that. He knew her well enough to know if she felt she was being watched, she was.

  “Think it’s Snow White’s apprentice? Sorry, the Pretender?” He made little quote marks with his fingers. “Why would he call himself a pretender, anyway? Seems derogatory to me.”

  “I think he’s shooting for something like a pretender to the throne. Someone who should rightfully rule, but circumstance has taken their monarchy. A self-anointed king of serial killers. No one said he wasn’t cocky.” She took a drink of her tea and shifted in her chair, glancing around as she settled back in.

  “No, I don’t think it’s him. I don’t know why, but this feels different. Wrong, somehow. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I can feel it, you know? Like electricity. It’s so strange. Ah, hell. I’m just getting spooky. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Now who’s kidding who?”

  She smiled. “I know. It will be fine. I’m aware of it, so that’s nine-tenths of the solution right there. So. You want to go to the Wolffs’ house with me? Do a run-through before the interview?”

  “Why not. I don’t have anything better to do. Let’s go.”

  *

  The Hillwood neighborhood that the Wolffs lived in was quiet on this Tuesday. Much less frantic than the day before. The crime scene tape was still strung across the Wolffs’ driveway, a patrol officer was sitting quietly in his cruiser in front of the mailbox to discourage any thrill-seekers from coming by and messing with the scene.

  Until the scene was officially released, they needed someone to keep guard. Taylor hoped that would happen today, there was no sense in wasting resources that could be used elsewhere.

  Taylor pulled in behind the cruiser. The officer left his vehicle as she and Fitz climbed out of the Impala. Official business, they needed to have department vehicles on the scene. Taylor had never been fond of the Impalas, but what could you do? Couldn’t exactly ask the new chief to assign Porsches to the troops. The Chevy had some get-up-and-go at least, could haul ass if needed, unlike the Mercury she’d been forced to drive as a junior grade detective. She always felt so conspicuous in the white sedans, figured it was from too many years driving an SUV in a town where bigger was always considered better and a GMC Suburban was de rigeur for any class.

  Fitz had started talking regional barbeque contests with the patrol, so Taylor took the opportunity to examine the Wolffs’ house. On the face, it was no different than yesterday—a handsome two-story tan brick colonial with a narrow white picket front porch, blue shutters, four curtained windows symmetrically set on either side of the front door, up and down. A chimney rose from the left side, the great room’s fireplace.

  Taylor had noticed that both the Wolffs and Mrs. Manchini had converted to gas fireplaces. It was difficult to find newer homes in Nashville with the traditional wood-burning style, and Taylor had warned Baldwin that no way, no how was she going to go with gas. Pretty, convenient, easy, yes, they were all of those, but Taylor liked the real deal—the smell of smoky maple or popping oak hardwood, the action of piling in the kindling, stuffing the paper, stacking the wood. She’d much rather spend some time and effort to have a fire than stare at glowing coals and fake flames.

  A closer look at the house revealed the slightest difference in the color of the brick between the top and bottom of the house. It would only show in the most perfect of light. Well, that made sense. This section of town, with its stunning one-and two-acre lots and trees, had undergone its own renaissance. The allure of having a little land was popular in Davidson County. Most of the original homes in the development were like Mrs. Manchini’s one-story rambler, tiny in comparison with new houses recently built.

  An army of architects had moved through Hillwood in the recent years, helping new and old residents add on. Some people took the carport or garage, made it into a living room, built a new portico, cut in some skylights and were thrilled with a simple renovation. Others, with more grandiose plans in mind, put entire second stories on their homes. That’s what had happened with the Wolff house. Now that she knew what to look for, she could see the lines well. It was a beautiful job, but Taylor could see the bones of the rambler beneath its stately new persona.

  Those extensive renovations would have been as expensive as buying a brand-new home, but the schools, the land, and the country club nearby were excellent enticements for a young family like the Wolffs. She had wondered why they didn’t live in one of his developments, but decided that perhaps it was the same reason she and Baldwin had opted out. No trees and no privacy. The houses Wolff’s company built were stunning, but the lots were close together and the land had been cleared entirely, which meant every tree was newly planted by a landscape designer. Regardless of size, they didn’t have the stately beauty of the real deal. This neighborhood, on the other hand, had a homey, genuine feel. And much more privacy.

  She signaled to Fitz, who broke away from the patrol officer and met her in the driveway.

  “You ready to go in?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Junior over there was all excited about the Memphis Bake, but he had it confused with the Huntsville Social Club. Got him straightened out.”

  “Very generous of you. I assume you feel he wo
uldn’t be any competition?”

  “That kid? Ha! He wouldn’t know pepper from paprika. Doesn’t have a chance against old Pops here.” He tapped his chest. “Pops has got it going on, I’ll tell you for true. I’ve found the most subtle nutmeg, comes from this little back alley store in Bombay, doesn’t taste like anything out there. They won’t know what hit them.”

  Fitz was a world-class amateur barbeque enthusiast, winning all the regional competitions with his amazing rubs and slow-cooked Boston butts. He traveled to various contests most weekends, racking up the awards and bringing lunch for them all every Monday.

  “You put nutmeg in your barbeque? Isn’t that illegal?”

  Now it was Fitz’s turn to laugh. “Only in Texas, darlin’. Only in Texas.”

  He took off for the house, Taylor following him closely. The seal was intact on the front door. Fitz slit it open with a pocketknife and they went in.

  The scent of death was still strong, lingering in the bloody carpet, the walls. Taylor wondered if Todd would try to sell the place or go on living there. Though he hadn’t had the same shock as Michelle Harris, seeing Corinne in a pool of blood in their bedroom, there was no question a life had ended under this roof. Violence stayed, steeping in the walls, regardless of the abilities of the professional cleaners. They could clean the surface, but the malevolence could never be fully exorcised.

  They moved in a pattern similar to the prior morning, through the dining room into the kitchen, then into the tastefully decorated great room. Architectural Digest magazines were stacked with precision on the coffee table, three crystal clocks each told the same time, and a honeysuckle scented candle with one half inch of pristine white wick showing sat in a rose marble holder. The mantle over the fireplace held three espresso colored vases in various heights, each filled with a slightly different shade of cream silk orchid. The walls were done in faux Venetian plaster in an ecru tint. The furniture was soft chocolate leather. A forty-inch flat screen television was mounted on the wall across from the sofa. The Wolffs certainly appeared to be living the good life.

  And considering the fact that the Wolffs had an eighteen-month-old child, the only real evidence was the understated nursery, the baby gate and the baby-proofed cabinets. It was astounding, really. Taylor had seen homes like this before, knew people who just didn’t become gaga over their children, buying every plaything on the market, turning their formal living areas into romper rooms. Hell, she’d grown up in a home like that, and she’d turned out just fine. It was her parents who were royally fucked up. Not that she was lumping the Wolffs in with her parents, of course.

  “What’s this?” Fitz asked. He was standing next to a short cognac-colored smooth leather chair, which sat beneath a hanging tapestry at least seven feet in length depicting a leaping unicorn being speared by a group of men. He fingered the cloth.

  Taylor joined him. “It’s a reproduction of one of the Unicorn Tapestries. The Unicorn Leaps the Stream, I think.”

  “Are you sure it’s not the real deal? It’s pretty heavy.”

  “No, it’s just a nice reproduction. If I remember, the originals are in The Cloisters, part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. They’re French, fifteenth century or so, made for Louis XII, I think. They probably bought this at the Met’s Museum bookstore, or out of the catalogue. Why, what’s the matter?”

  Instead of speaking, Fitz’s mouth quirked up in a tiny half smile and his blue eyes twinkled in amusement, then he turned back to his task. He sometimes gave her that face, half-proud, half-bemused, looking right through her in that odd way that made her pull at her ponytail with self-conscious embarrassment. It wasn’t her fault that her parents had dragged her to every museum known to mankind and she remembered this shit.

  “I feel a draft coming from the wall.” He started running his hands along the tapestry. Taylor was struck by a thought.

  “Pull the tapestry aside, I think there’s something here. Manchini’s house, next door? She had a door on this part of the living room wall, must be a basement.”

  Fitz wrestled the heavy cloth away from the wall. “Bingo.” The draft was coming from the hole where the doorknob should have been. That made sense; in order for the tapestry to lie flat against the wall the Wolffs had to remove the knob. Instead of struggling to get behind the heavy tapestry, Taylor and Fitz lifted it gently from the wall and laid it on the leather chair. The door opened inward, revealing a set of stairs that led to darkness. Sure enough, a basement.

  “Did anyone pick up on this yesterday?” Taylor asked.

  “Not that I know of.” He went down the first three steps, then charged back up, swiping at his face.

  “Argh!”

  “What?”

  “Spiderweb.”

  Taylor laughed so hard she had to lean back against the wall to keep herself from tumbling down the stairs. The spiderweb in question was swinging merrily to and fro as Fitz sputtered and scratched at his head. She nearly bit her lip in two trying to stop the giggles.

  “It’s not a spiderweb, you old fool, it’s the pull for the light.” She reached around him and tugged on the string. The naked hundred-watt bulb came on with a snap, blinding both of them for a moment.

  Blinking as her eyes adjusted, Taylor stared down the stairs, the light illuminating only the immediate stairwell. Fitz was grumbling behind her. She un-latched the snap on her holster, slipped her Glock out of the creaking leather. Holding it at her side, she started down. There was a landing, and she stopped, cautious, sticking the gun and her head around the corner at the same time, just in case. She saw nothing to alarm her, and returned the weapon to its holster as she went down the remaining steps. There was a light switch at the base of the stairs. Taylor flipped on the overhead fluorescent.

  It was a standard basement: cement floor, unfinished walls on three sides, one painted, as if the owners had contemplated finishing the room and wanted to see what it would look like. The barest whiff of stale air indicated a minor mold problem; the floor was cluttered with stacks of cardboard boxes, bicycles, sleds. All the material that wouldn’t fit nicely in the garage was placed haphazardly down here. It was just a storage space, probably only four hundred square feet: twenty feet deep and twenty long. Certainly nothing exciting.

  She returned the weapon to its holster. They did a pass through, looking behind boxes, but Taylor didn’t see anything out of place.

  “Let’s get Tim back out here to go through all of this, okay? Just in case.”

  “Will do.” He froze, then spoke, dramatically sotto voce. “You hear that?”

  She stopped moving and listened. Yes, she did hear something. Footsteps. There was someone in the house with them.

  There was no hesitation. Her weapon was drawn and pointing up the stairs before she took another breath. Fitz had his gun palmed too. Using hand signals, Taylor indicated that she was going to go up the stairs and he was to follow.

  The steps creaked as Taylor tread on them, and the footsteps above stopped abruptly at the noise.

  “Shit,” she whispered. The element of surprise was gone. She got to the top of the stairs in a heartbeat. Leading with her gun, her eyes swept the living room. No immediate threats. Fitz was bumping up against her back. She nodded at him, then took three quick steps out into the room and turned left, into the foyer. Fitz went right, into the kitchen. Nothing, nothing, nothing. They met again in the dining room, and Taylor pointed at the ceiling with her Glock. They listened carefully. There they were again, the footsteps. Whoever had invaded the house was upstairs.

  Standing at the base of the staircase, Taylor was just taking the first step when a shadow crossed the hallway. Holding her breath, she aimed her weapon at the banister. Step one, step two, step three, no one in her sights yet, step four, step five, there, the shadow was getting closer, closer, step six…

  “Police, don’t move! Hold it right there,” she shouted.

  The shadow jumped and screamed. Taylor’s finger tight
ened on the trigger, and she took one more step.

  “Lieutenant, don’t shoot!” the silhouette yelled, and Taylor, recognizing the voice, eased the pressure off the trigger, just a fraction. A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs, hands up.

  Taylor lowered her weapon. “Christ almighty, Page, what the hell are you doing, trying to get yourself killed? I almost shot you!”

  Fitz was laughing, the eerie tension forcing emotion to the surface. He and Taylor slumped together on the stairs, guns at their sides. Julia Page, the assistant district attorney, stood at the balcony, her arms now crossed on her chest, chin-length curly chestnut hair sticking out in every direction as if it had been frightened and was trying to get away.

  “What the hell are you doing creeping around here with your guns drawn?” Page demanded.

  “What the hell are you doing here without calling me first?” Taylor snapped back.

  “I did call you. Left you a message and everything. Said I was coming over to meet you. God, Taylor.”

  Page came down the stairs, ashen. Taylor whirled and went into the kitchen. Her hands were quivering, and she jammed them into the front pockets of her jeans in an effort to hide the fact. Page and Fitz both followed a moment later, but Taylor could tell Fitz had said something to Page. She was bristling, her hair looked like she’d stuck a finger in a socket. Page’s hair was a dead giveaway to her every emotion. The sight made Taylor want to laugh, and the effort it took to hold the bubbling mirth down helped her regain her composure.

  “That was a close one, Page. You should have called out when you came in.”

  This time Page looked at the ground, chagrined. “I know. Sorry. I didn’t see either of you and just assumed you’d gone around back or something. I thought I’d get a look, form an impression without bothering you. Sorry,” she repeated.

  “It’s okay. But now you know why we ask for nonessential personnel to get clearance before they enter a scene. Didn’t the patrol outside tell you to announce yourself?”

  The pointed chin raised an inch. “I’m not exactly nonessential, Taylor.”