Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snarled at her.

  Instead of speaking, Taylor just stopped, casually opened her purse and showed him her gun. The man smiled. His bottom teeth were shaped like pegs and stained brown. She repressed a shudder.

  “Oh-ho, aren’t you a little tigress. Keeping a concealed weapon, are you? I’ve got some friends who I’m sure would like to know about that. You should probably give me the gun, little lady, you wouldn’t want to hurt yourself.” He started to reach for the weapon. Taylor snapped the purse closed, grabbed the man’s hand and twisted, hard. He was forced to spin away from her and she used that momentum to get him moving back toward the door.

  “Hey!” he said, loud enough to get the attention of a passing waiter, who looked on in shock as Taylor maneuvered the boor right back out into the hallway.

  She tossed him up against the wall face-first. He landed with a thud, grunting, then turned on her. She had her badge in her hand. His eyes bulged at the gold shield.

  “Listen,” he started, but she cut him off.

  “No, you listen to me. I don’t have the first clue who you think I am, but let me introduce myself. I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, homicide. Now who the hell are you?”

  His little pig eyes got smaller. “Tony Gorman.”

  “And why did you call me Tawny?”

  She could see him calculating. “It’s your hair,” he said finally. She knew immediately that he was lying. She hissed in his ear.

  “You’re a liar, Mr. Gorman. Tell you what. Why don’t you just slink out of here and I won’t arrest you for assaulting an officer. And maybe you’ll think twice the next time you decide to lay your hands on a woman. Some of us bite.”

  She heard him call her a bitch under his breath as he walked away. Fat bastard. She rubbed her arm. She was going to have bruises just the size of Gorman’s meaty fingers. Some men just didn’t get it.

  Taylor went back into the room, feeling like all eyes were on her. The salad was being served. She sat next to Sam, who gave her a look of concern, but she shook her head. “Later,” she mouthed.

  She ate, and made polite conversation with the couple to her left, and drank a fine glass of Bordeaux. She clapped the hardest at the end of Sam’s speech, and was more than relieved to see the evening draw to a close. Her feet hurt. She just wanted to get out of her clothes and into the bed.

  She told Sam what happened on the way home. By the time they’d arrived at the house, Taylor was laughing about it and Sam had graced her with a new nickname, Miss Tawny T. She drove off with a wave and Taylor bolted the door behind her. She went into the kitchen, turned on the alarm system and dumped her shoes with a clatter on the hardwood. She’d retrieve them tomorrow. It was eleven-thirty. Too late to bother Baldwin, he was on Eastern time and probably already asleep. She envied his ability to drop off as soon as his head hit the pillow. She poured a glass of Chianti and went upstairs to the office.

  She booted up the computer and walked to her bedroom to change. She shed the dress and accoutrements like a chrysalis, feeling better the instant she was naked. She walked back to the computer, set the wine on a coaster and started Googling Tawny.

  What’s in a name? Tawny seemed to be a favorite pseudonym for porn stars and wannabe actresses. The Tawny Frogmouth was a bird, a family pet rabbit named Tawny had its own Web site, lots of flora and fauna that got the tawny designation, even a port. Nothing that looked like her, though. She tried Tawny Nashville, got a few live sex operators and a Greek restaurant, but still nothing with ties to her life. Obviously it was a case of mistaken identity.

  But Taylor was uncharacteristically unnerved. She’d seen the look in Tony Gorman’s eyes, the twist of lust in his features. This was a man who’d thought of sex when he saw her, and that made her more uncomfortable than anything she’d felt in some time. If she’d been weaker, or another woman entirely, the situation would have gone a different way.

  She erased Tawny from the browser and plugged in the name Tony Gorman. Too many hits to count. She tried variations—Anthony Gorman, Tony Gorman Nashville, Anthony Gorman Tennessee, but the results were just too numerous. She was damned tired, and figured she’d have better luck using the police channels to track the bastard.

  Taylor closed the Web browser, leaned back in her desk chair. Thought about the quick glimpse into Tony Gorman’s soul. She had been familiar with the concept of desire from a relatively tender age. Her parents, for all their failings, had treated her as an adult from the time she could be expected to make a few of her own decisions, and as a result she’d ended up being rather precocious.

  When her body developed, her gangly height and tomboy attitude turning into a lush ripeness at age fifteen or so, she’d found herself the recipient of plenty of unwanted attention. Most came from older men; boys her own age had no idea what to do with her. She’d gone from being a favorite colt to a sleek thoroughbred in the span of weeks, and was somewhat shunned among her male playmates, who had always treated her as just another one of the boys. She’d felt that was unfair and from then on stuck to dating boys older than her.

  She’d lost her virginity to a friend of her father’s in a torrid affair when she was seventeen. She was head over heels in lust with the man, a classics professor at Vanderbilt. Dr. James Morley was sexy and urbane and taught her many things about life and love. The relationship was the final nail in the coffin for Morley’s crumbling marriage, but he’d remained friends with both Taylor and his wife. He had a fatal heart attack a few years later, and Taylor had grieved for him.

  Over the subsequent years she’d had a few short-term affairs, lovers her age who were frightened by her intensity, older men who wanted to protect her, to keep her. She had a knack for getting involved with men she could never love but who loved her, and that had forced a few nasty breakups.

  Baldwin was the first man she’d ever truly loved, loved in a way she’d thought she was incapable of. The giving and receiving of hearts was something she had always scoffed at. It was wonderful and scary at the same time. But if she were honest with herself, Baldwin had some of the same characteristics as her first lover—the cosmopolitan attitude, the intelligence, the striking looks. But Baldwin was different in all the good ways; he was an honest man. No need to worry about infidelity; he’d never tried to hide anything from her. No late-night cruising through his e-mail or wallet would be necessary, she’d simply ask and he would always answer.

  And maybe, deep down, knowing he’d always be truthful was the most important part of her feelings, the reason she’d been able to give herself fully to him.

  Taylor shook off her emotions, shut off the computer. As the light sputtered out on the screen with a snap, she bade farewell to the ghosts lingering in the room with her. She finished her wine and turned off the light.

  Her bed was warm and soft, and she felt sleep tug at her immediately, probably as a result of all the alcohol. Groaning, she got up and took two Advil, sucked down five Dixie cups of water, hoping to alleviate what she assumed would be a killer headache in the morning. She didn’t get hangovers from wine anymore, but could be struck with a migraine if she didn’t prepare her body for the process.

  She climbed back in the bed, this time nearly boneless. Images from the evening spun through her head, the ugly twist to the strange man’s mouth, the whirling waiters, the pouty-lipped social mavens with their identical face-lifts and overinjected foreheads. She was asleep within moments.

  The ringing phone woke her. It was still dark. Somewhere in her consciousness, she palmed the Glock from under Baldwin’s pillow as she answered the phone.

  “What?”

  There was nothing. A deep silence filled the room, static and bottomless. She wondered if she were dreaming. Then she heard the breathing.

  She slammed the receiver down. It rang again immediately. The backlit caller ID said UNKNOWN NAME UNKNOWN NUMBER in a ghostly green. Of course. She answered it anyway, this time more awak
e.

  “What.” It wasn’t a question.

  This time a man’s laugh filled her ear. It wasn’t Tony Gorman, that much she knew. This was a different tone altogether. And then he was gone.

  Taylor continued to grip the phone for another minute, listening to the soft bonging of the dead line. She set the phone back on the cradle carefully and sat up, slipping a pillow behind her back. She wouldn’t turn on the light—if the caller was anywhere near, he’d see that and know he’d rattled her. There would be no more sleep tonight. She caressed the Glock, comfortable in the knowledge that she was safe enough. She’d just like to know who was trying to spook her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sometimes Baldwin just wanted to kiss the bureaucracy he worked for.

  Not that he was a fan of all the measures put in place since 9-11, but the upside was when the FBI, or the CIA, needed to find someone, they could.

  It was late. A glance at his watch showed two in the morning. He wondered if Taylor was asleep, or playing pool. This was her witching hour, the time she was most likely to start awake and begin thinking. That woman thought too much. He toyed with the idea of calling, but didn’t want to risk it.

  He decided on a cup of coffee instead.

  The lights were still burning through the outbuilding where he and Garrett had quietly set up shop. Garrett was on the phone in the office next door with yet another international agency, getting cooperation from all sides in the hunt for their killer.

  The short hallway opened into a galley-style kitchen. Two fresh pots of coffee were already made, and he poured himself a cup, sipping it as he went back to his desk.

  Baldwin vowed that he would find Aiden, sooner rather than later. The hunter had become the hunted, and Baldwin was the master. Though his eyes were crossing at the multitudes of miniature lines of data, he felt like he was getting closer. Instinct dictated that Aiden would follow a somewhat set pattern for his trip to the United States. The trick was simply figuring out the start point for his journey. Italy, Germany, and England had already been ruled out. All the South American countries were off the initial lists as well—if Aiden had been in Europe as recently as a month ago, it was possible he’d been called to another continent for a hit they weren’t aware of, but unlikely. He wouldn’t blend in as well as he did in the European nations, didn’t work in that region very often.

  Aiden was a rare beast. On the OA radar for six years now, he’d started life as an intense loner who traveled the world on the heels of his diplomat father. At some point they had a massive falling-out, so Aiden rebelled and went into the service. He’d done well in the Army, qualifying as a sniper, but something went south. After only three years on his tour of duty, he was discharged for conduct unbecoming.

  Aiden disappeared for a while, then emerged as a freelance assassin. Some of his more unsavory ex-Army buddies got him into the game. He became an assassin of stature, one that could be counted on for a clean hit at long range. Very valuable. But Aiden got bored. He began contracting for the more personal hits. He was used by nasty characters who wanted to send a message when they assassinated someone. And Aiden’s silver garrote was unmistakable.

  Yet the professional assassination game still wasn’t enough for him. Aiden liked to go off the reservation. The OA monitored him as best they could, using eyes and ears to let them know when he skipped off plan.

  Baldwin knew all this, knew how dangerous Aiden was. Knew that he must be traced, at all cost, or innocent people would die.

  Baldwin had compiled a list of known aliases and sent it to the International Air Transport Association. The IATA in turn kindly filtered all of those names through their eTARS database, the names coursing through the Aviation Management Systems Departure Control System, or eDCS, popping up matches that met Baldwin’s parameters. Typical of the overcomplicated governmental structure, it was a fancy way to say they were combing the passenger manifests.

  Coffee half finished, Baldwin went back to stacks of pages, scanning the names, departure flights, dates, numbers in the party. He was looking for a man traveling alone, buying one-way tickets, or tickets with extended return dates. This was Aiden’s usual standard operating procedure. Baldwin was a fan of Occam’s Razor, figured all things being equal, starting with the most obvious answer was generally the best approach.

  It was 4:00 a.m. when he finally saw it. He flipped open the file of the eighth report and the name practically jumped off the page.

  “Gotcha,” he whispered.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Taylor stretched. She’d fallen asleep despite her intent to stay awake for the remainder of the night. The malice from the previous evening was lost in the warm sunlight streaming through her shades, and she wondered briefly if she’d dreamed the whole thing. But no, the Glock was still in her hand.

  The television came on, the morning news blaring. She tuned it out, rolled around in the sheets for a few moments, having her usual morning debate. Get up or play hooky. The former always won, unfortunately.

  Groaning, she secured the weapon and pulled on a pair of yoga pants. She thought about washing her face, and made five steps toward the bathroom but drew up short when she heard the now familiar words.

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  “I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”

  Michelle Harris’s tear-stricken voice drifted from Taylor’s television. She sat back on the bed and listened to the rest of the tape, following with the visual on the television screen, the lines scrolling slowly.

  Taylor shut her eyes and rubbed her knuckles against the closed lids. The media would make hay out of this as long as they didn’t have something more sensational to cover.

  Michelle Harris’s voice, sharp and immediate, made Taylor sit up. Live, or recently taped, the words were unfamiliar. This was a new interview.

  Taylor reached for the remote and turned up the volume.

  Michelle Harris was wearing a white button-down shirt that washed out what little color she had left in her face. Her cheekbones created dark hollows, her lips were bloodless, her hair lashed back in a ponytail so tight it seemed to pull the hairs from their roots. She looked like absolute hell.

  “Miss Harris, when was the last time you saw your sister?”

  “On Friday. We grabbed a Starbucks after tennis.”

  “And you never saw your sister alive again?” The anchor’s eyes were misty, she obviously felt every word’s impact.

  “Yes. The next time I saw Corinne, she was, she was…dead.” Michelle’s voice was breaking, rich with emotion, but her eyes remained dry.

  “And you,” the anchor began, but Michelle interrupted.

  “Whoever killed her needs to know that we won’t stop until he is caught. We will hunt you down, and kill you ourselves. You can’t do something like this and not get punished. I just can’t believe that someone could do this to my sister. It’s not fair.” Overcome with emotion, she began to cry. The anchor threw it to commercial.

  Taylor punched the power button with her thumb, and the television snapped off. Damn it. Just what they needed, Michelle Harris on national TV, playing the victim.

  Morning soured, she went downstairs, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She was famished, so she poured a bowl of cereal. Checked the milk, yes, still fresh enough—the organic stuff Baldwin had talked her into lasted at least a week longer than regular. Dropped a tea bag and some honey in a cup, splashed in a little milk, then filled it with boiling water from the in-sink tap. Stood at the kitchen sink, gazed out into the backyard. Spooned crunchy wheat biscuits into her mouth slowly, watching the woods, thinking.

  A huge rabbit was in the back, nibbling on the clover. Taylor could see another farther back into the thicket, on alert, watching over his mate as she foraged for breakfast. The knowledge that she’d soon be sharing mornings with baby bunnies made her smile. She watched the creature hop slowly forward, just a few inches at a time as i
t grazed. Then it stopped, ears alert, nose twitching.

  With a suddenness that made Taylor’s heart race, the rabbit fled, scared by something. A dog, most likely, Taylor could hear the faint echoes of barking bleeding through the air. She looked closer at the spot in the lawn vacated by the panicked rabbit. What was that?

  She set the bowl in the sink and made her way to the back door. Stepping out onto the deck, she heard the alarm buzz its warning tone. Shit. She’d forgotten to turn the damn thing off. She dashed back inside and punched in the code. It squawked and the series of lights turned green. Disarmed.

  She went back to the yard, bare feet cold as she picked through the still dew-wet grass. A lump of dark was thirty feet to her right, in line with the kitchen window.

  She drew closer, scenting the murk of decay, heard the buzzing of the flies. A furry pile, red and slick. She recognized the cottontail of a rabbit, the body skinned, turned inside out. Poor beast. There was a thin line of wire digging deep into the animal’s neck, the ends wrapped around each other like a twisty tie on a loaf of bread.

  She felt exposed, her T-shirt too thin, and she rubbed her arms up and down for warmth. She wasn’t an idiot, knew this was a message. The who wasn’t the important question, she assumed it was from her nocturnal stalker. Why she was being targeted, that’s what she wanted to know. Was this the work of the Pretender? He seemed too subtle for gross displays, but perhaps they’d misread him.

  She didn’t want to touch the carcass. She needed to secure it in some way, keep it intact and safe from the multitudes of predators that would surely come to scavenge. Preserve the integrity of the message so a tech could come collect it as evidence. She went around the side of the house. The lid from the trashcan wouldn’t work, it was too flat. There was an empty flowerpot, a good-sized one that held a dead hydrangea. Perfect. She dumped the flower and the dirt onto the ground, then went back to the dead rabbit, carefully placing the pot over the body. That should keep for an hour or so.