Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1

by J. T. Ellison

  Taylor stood in the door, watched them leave. She crossed her arms and glared accusingly at Baldwin.

  “You knew,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “We could have called for help sooner,” she said.

  “We could have. But we know the truth now. If she didn’t think she was going to die, she wouldn’t have told us.”

  Wearily, Taylor called for a crime scene investigative team to come to the house. She didn’t want to take any chances.

  She felt like she was walking through mud. It was midnight when she and Baldwin got back into the car. The call came as they drove home. Michelle Harris had died at 11:56 p.m.

  SATURDAY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The media was having a field day with the planted camera story.

  National and local news reporters were fleshing out all the details of the past week’s events. The print and online journalists were digging up some extra salacious tidbits. It felt like the whole world was focused on Nashville.

  Taylor was wrapping up the report on her interview with Michelle Harris when she got a call. She was to report to the Office of Professional Accountability immediately. The Oompa wanted her.

  Taylor had no idea what the problem might be, and waited a good ten minutes before finally shutting off her light and wending her way to the third-floor offices of the OPA.

  Delores Norris’s door was open.

  “Come in,” she demanded. There was no pleasantry in her tone. Taylor entered the office for the third time in a week, wishing she were anywhere but here. God, she hated this woman.

  Delores looked like a very satisfied jackal, one who’d spent the previous day and night feasting on the deserted remains of an antelope. She launched in immediately, obviously thrilled.

  “We have a problem, Lieutenant.”

  Taylor started to sit, and Delores tsk’ed at her. Taylor raised an eyebrow and sat anyway, crossing her arms across her chest. The Oompa was still forced to look up at her, maliciousness sparking in her eyes. Power hungry bitch, Taylor thought.

  “And what problem would that be?”

  “I’ve been looking over the reports on the Harris suicide. According to the EMT report on Michelle Harris, there was a chance her life could have been saved. Instead, you and your boyfriend interrogated the suspect, allowed her to continue drinking. Is this true?”

  “Let me see. Yes, we interrogated her. It’s called solving a case. As for whether she would have died or not, only God can tell us that.”

  “So you’ve imbued yourself with the power of God now?”

  “Captain Norris, what do you want? I’m tired. The cases are closed. Satisfactorily to all involved, I must say.”

  “I have a choice to make, Lieutenant. Seeing as there is yet another complaint against you, I could suspend you pending the outcome of the investigation into your actions.”

  “You’re kidding me. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Eyes of the beholder, Lieutenant. Shall we review your past week? One of your detectives did drugs with a confidential informant, and you didn’t report it. You threatened a suspect with your weapon, a suspect that wasn’t being questioned in an official capacity. According to your peers, you worked on a murder investigation while you were on suspension, even going so far as to contact the mother of the murder victim. You’ve been playing extremely fast and loose with the rules. And that’s not how we work things here at Metro. Not with me.”

  Wow. The Oompa had been doing her homework. Lincoln must have done his debrief and admitted he’d checked in with her. How she’d found out about Taylor’s morning of interviews was beyond her. Oh, the cop who was guarding her must have talked. Or Mrs. Harris. Damn.

  “I understand how some of that might look. Detective Ross confided in me. In an ordinary circumstance, I would have gone directly to Captain Price, but Detective Ross was on assignment, and we had a breaking murder investigation. As far as the suspect I questioned, I could have arrested him for assaulting an officer. He tried to detain me the evening before. I was doing him a favor by not arresting him.”

  “But, Lieutenant, you don’t get to make the rules. That isn’t how you’ve been trained, now is it? There is only one option left to me at this point. I’ve already discussed it with the chief, and he agrees that this is the correct course of action. You have gone off the reservation one too many times, and we feel a full psychiatric evaluation and continued monitoring would be beneficial to your career at the present time.

  “And your team will have to report to different management while you’re under evaluation. We can’t have our team leaders on the brink, and it’s become obvious to all involved that you’re not capable of this level of leadership. Your team needs to be instilled with some discipline. They need to learn that they don’t get to take the law into their own hands. And you need to learn that you don’t rule this department.”

  Taylor let her emotions take control. She stood, forcing the chair back from the table with a rending screech. “You can’t do that! That is completely unfair. I’ve done nothing wrong. My team has done nothing wrong. You’re just pissed off that you can’t fire me.”

  The Oompa smiled. “That’s not true. I’m not upset with that outcome in the least. You’ll learn that you need to obey your superiors. And your superiors have learned their lessons as well. Captain Price is going to be taking early retirement.”

  Taylor flashed back to Price, grimly challenging Delores, defending Taylor. She borrowed his words. “You bitch!” she snarled. “I’ll fight you to the death on this one.”

  “Temper, temper, my dear. Wouldn’t want that to get into the daily reports, now would we?”

  “There are better ways to get at me, Delores. You don’t have to punish them.”

  The Oompa shifted in her chair, her eyes narrowing, face tightening. “Oh, on the contrary. I think this is the finest way to get to you. I don’t believe you, Miss Jackson. I think you did kill David Martin. At least you set it up so you could have a favorable outcome. Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before you suborn and perjure yourself. Videotapes are easily manipulated, I believe you told me? You should be careful what you say, my dear. It can come back and bite you in the ass. If they can be manipulated one way, why not the other? Your story about Martin doesn’t ring true. And too many experts got involved. We’ll be taking the tapes to an independent analyst.”

  “I haven’t lied about any of this. Not once,” Taylor spit through clenched teeth. “You know that.”

  “Do I? Well, all I can say is time will tell. To top your stellar week off, a serial killer you allowed to escape has returned to town, has killed in your name. No, my dear. It’s high time for this department to make some changes. We need a full accounting of the actions of your homicide team over the past year. Lincoln Ross will move to the North sector. Marcus Wade will be in South. And Sergeant Fitzpatrick will be encouraged to take early retirement along with Mitchell Price.”

  Taylor felt the fury rise in her gut. This woman was past power-hungry, she was giddy in her joy at Taylor’s misfortune. Delores handed her the papers.

  “You can tell them. I’m sure it will sting less coming from you. You’ve taken such good care of them all this time. Maybe you’ll learn to keep your alley-cat tendencies out of their hair now so they can try to move on with their lives. You will report for your psychiatric evaluation Monday morning.”

  Taylor was mute. A million thoughts raced through her mind. The most prevalent was don’t get yourself fired. You can fight this. Her actions are unwarranted and possibly illegal. Just don’t get yourself fired.

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  Taylor dragged her eyes to the Oompa’s face. The bitch had the audacity to grin.

  “You will be bumped down. Two grades. You’re a detective again.” The Oompa leaned her stubby hands on the desk, leaned in toward Taylor, hissed, “You’re damn lucky I didn’t get you put back out on the street. Maybe if you
learned to think like a cop again you’d realize that we all have to follow the law.”

  Taylor felt her mouth open, knew if she left it open, she’d say something she’d never be able to take back. She didn’t know if this was for real, if Delores Norris had enough power to make these things happen. Back to being a detective? Bumped two grades? Holy shit. She snapped her teeth together with an audible click that make the Oompa smile wider. She knew the control it was taking Taylor not to mouth herself right out of a job, was hoping Taylor’s famous restraint would fail.

  No. Taylor refused to let this harridan win. She took the papers, turned and left the office.

  *

  “What are you going to do?”

  Baldwin was steaming mad, stalking their back deck as Taylor tried to sip a beer. The lightning bugs were putting on a show. The soft spring air glittered with humidity, the promise of a storm. The grass seemed greener in the gloaming, the bark of the trees black against the verdant lawn. A rabbit nibbled at the edges of tall grass, taking advantage of a spot where the lawn mower couldn’t quite reach.

  “You can’t let this happen. What are you going to do?” he asked again.

  Taylor shook her head. “My hands are tied. The team has been split up. Price was practically fired. Fitz is seriously considering the early retirement. I’m at a loss, Baldwin.” She stood up, went to the railing. Words were failing her. She was on the verge of tears. Frustration always brought her emotions to the surface, this moment was no different. She took a few deep breaths and tried to focus.

  She pointed at thin air. “Do you know this spider has been out here every night this week, trying to set up a home? He’s like a camper pitching his little tent to get out of a raging storm. He runs around the edges of the web, desperate to get it built, waits and waits and waits for a gnat or moth or lightning bug to fumble their way into the sticky edges. All that work, to sit and wait, hoping for a meal.”

  She took a broken branch from the tree, used it to break apart the web. The spider scuttled away. “All that work,” she repeated.

  Baldwin crossed to her, took the branch and laid it on the railing. He turned Taylor to face him, his voice soft. “Seriously, babe, what are you going to do?”

  Taylor looked into his emerald eyes and felt the despair build in the pit of her stomach. She turned away, looked out into the woods. Took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.

  “Baldwin, there’s only one thing I can do. I have to fight.”

  *

  ISBN-13: 9781488030338

  Judas Kiss

  Copyright © 2009 by J.T. Ellison

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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  Keep reading for a special preview of the sensational new psychological thriller

  by New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison

  LIE TO ME

  Available soon from MIRA Books.

  PROLOGUE

  In Which Introductions Are Made

  You aren’t going to like me very much. Oh, maybe in your weaker moments, you’ll feel sorry for me, and use those feelings of warmth and compassion and insightful understanding to excuse my actions. You’ll say to yourself, “Poor little girl. She couldn’t help herself.” Or, “Can you blame her? After all she’s been through?” Perhaps you’ll even think, “She was born to this. It is not her fault.”

  Of course it’s my fault. I chose this path. Yes, I feel as if I have no choice, that I’m driven to do it, that there are voices in my head that push me to the dark side.

  But I also know right from wrong. I know good from evil. I may be compelled to ruin the lives in front of me, but I could walk away if I wanted.

  Couldn’t I?

  Never mind that. Back to you.

  Truly, deep down, you are going to despise me. I am the rot that lives in the floorboards of your house. I am the spider that scuttles away when you shine light in my corner, ever watching, ever waiting. I am the shard of glass that slits the skin of your bare foot. I am all the bad things that happen to you.

  I steal things.

  I kill things.

  I leave a trail of destruction in my wake that is a sight to behold, wave after wave of hate that will overwhelm you until you sink to the bottom of my miserable little ocean, and once you’ve drowned I will feed on your flesh and turn your bones to dust.

  You’re mine now. You are powerless against me. So don’t bother fighting it.

  I hope you enjoy the show.

  WE FIND A BODY

  The body was in the woods off a meandering state road that led into a busy, charming historical downtown. It was completely obscured from view, deeply hidden, under several pine boughs and a thick layer of nature’s detritus. Synthetic clothing was melted to the flesh, making it difficult to tell the body’s race or gender at a glance. Closer investigation showed hair that was long and a curious shade: not blonde, not red, possibly chemically-treated. The left hand held evidence of rings, possibly a wedding set, and so the body was eventually determined as female.

  The shroud of melt and bough had not stopped the forever daisy-chain progression of decay. Instar maggots and adult flies delighted in their found treat. A genus party started soon after. Diptera and Coleoptera were evident three days in, paving the way for the coming colonization of Calliphoridae. Though the body was burned beyond ready recognition, the insects didn’t seem to mind; it was simply a barbecue feast to them.

  Outside of this natural progression, the body lay undisturbed for two days. Birds of prey flew in long, lazy circles overhead. Cars drove past less than fifty yards away, drivers unknowing, uncaring, that one of their own lay rotting nearby.

  Three Days Gone, a stray but severe thunderstorm knocked free several of the funereal branches, allowing the body to be exposed, pelted by hail breaking through the leafy canopy. The heavy rains wet the ground and allowed the body to sink deeper into the muck, where it canted on its side.

  Four Days Gone, the body was ravaged by a starving coyote, forty-two razor teeth shredding everything available.

  Five Days Gone, the body disarticulated, the fire and the heat and the wet and the insects and the coyote and the natural progression of things breaking it down quickly and without thought to the effects this would have on the loved ones. The idea of a non-intact body was sometimes more than people could take.

  Six Days Gone, they found her.

  ETHAN

  “Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds.”

  -George Santayana

  SOMETHING’S MISSING

  Franklin, Tennessee

  Now

  Ethan found the note ten minutes after he rolled out of bed that Tuesday, the Tuesday that would change everything. He came downstairs yawning, scratching his chest, to…nothing. Empty space, devoid of wife.

  Sutton always began her morning at the table with a bowl of cereal, a piece of fruit, and a cup of tea and read the paper, sco
ffing at the innumerable typos—the paper was going under, paying for decent copyediting was the least of their worries. A bowl full of cereal, a glass of milk and a spoon would be laid out for him, the sports page folded neatly by his seat. Always. Always.

  But this morning, there was no evidence Sutton had been in the kitchen. No newspaper, no bowl. No wife.

  He called for her. There was no answer. He searched through the house. Her bag was in her office, her cellphone, her laptop. Her license was stashed in her small wallet, all her credit cards present and accounted for, a twenty folded in half shoved behind them.

  She must have gone for a run.

  He felt a spark of pleasure at the thought. Sutton, once, had been a health nut. She’d run or walked or done yoga every day, something physical, something to keep her body moving and in shape. And what a shape—the woman was a knockout, willowy and lithe, strong legs and delicate ankles, tendons tight and gleaming like a thoroughbred. A body she sculpted to match his own, to fit with him.

  Ethan Montclair couldn’t have a dog for a wife, no. He needed someone he could trot out at cocktail parties who looked smashing in a little black dress. And not only looked good, but sounded good. He needed a partner on all levels—physical and intellectual. Maybe it was shallow of him, but he was a good looking man, drew a lot of attention, and not only did he want his wife to be stunning, he wanted her to be smart, too. And Sutton fit the bill.

  He knew they made a powerful, attractive couple. Looks and brains and success, so much success. That was their thing.

  After Dashiell, she’d bounced back into shape like the champion racehorse she was, though later, when their world collapsed, she’d become tired and bloated and swollen with medications and depression, and she no longer took any interest in being beautiful and fit.

  That she’d decided to start running again gave him hope. So much hope.

  Spirits lifted, he went back to the sunny, happy kitchen and got his own bowl, his own milk. Made a pot of tea, whistling. Went for the stevia—no sugar for the health-conscious Montclairs, no, never.