Judas Kiss (27 page)

“Well, if she died Saturday morning and we pulled motile but nondiscernible sperm at the post Tuesday morning…it'll be hard to prove an exact time, but I'm guessing she had sex with someone superlate Friday night or right before she died on Saturday morning.”

“And Todd Wolff left early Friday.”

“Ask Baldwin about the pregnancy psychosis,” Sam said.

“I need to run it down for him first—I haven't talked about the case with him yet. He was in Virginia until yesterday.” A current ran through the room as if they'd hit a fuse box. Aiden. God, she'd forgotten he was out there. She didn't elaborate, and neither did Baldwin. Sam picked up on the uncomfortable silence, but was wise enough not to ask.

Taylor turned to Baldwin. “Let me give you a quick précis of the case. Corinne Wolff, twenty-six, seven months pregnant with a son, her second child. Husband allegedly out of town. She was found Monday morning, beaten to death with a tennis racquet in her bedroom. She'd been dead two days.” She looked at Sam, and saw the shadows in her eyes. The Wolff crime scene still bothered both of them. Taylor continued.

“Dead two days with her eighteen-month-old daughter wandering around the house, tracking blood everywhere. The husband left Friday, didn't talk to her all weekend. Temp shows she was killed early Saturday morning.

“Second round of look-sees into the house uncovers a sex basement where the Wolffs were making amateur porn. The reports I've gotten indicate that Corinne was a relative latecomer to participating, she'd always run the cameras. I just found out the girls on the video are underage, part of a pretty twisted secret society that's running through the private schools around town.

“Corinne had high levels of lorazepam in her system, and now the news comes that she had viable semen in her. Wolff left her blood on his truck and in the basement, so we arrested him. Her sister is on the news screaming about our idiocy in investigating the case. Thanks to Miss Sam here, DNA is being run as we speak.”

Sam took a bow from her chair.

“I interviewed Corinne's OB and her psychologist, and had a chat with her mother. The mom thinks she was having an affair, the docs claim she was having a hard time with the pregnancy, was suffering from a sort of claustrophobia about having the baby inside her. It was so bad that they needed to prescribe benzos to keep her calmed down. It's an incongruity in the case. By all accounts, this woman was a health nut. She was seven months pregnant and still competing in her local tennis tournaments. The house was filled with all-natural foods and cleaning products. The basement, on the other hand, was this crazy sex den, full of camera equipment and sex toys. Corinne was leading two lives, no question about it.”

“Do you think her husband committed the murder?” Baldwin asked.

“It seems like the most logical place to turn. At least in the beginning. Now there are all these complicating factors. He got back from his trip a little too quick for my taste, and he's been awfully nonchalant about things so far. Now that we can charge him with a couple of additional sex crimes, I'm thinking that might loosen his tongue. He insists he didn't kill his wife, but there's some pretty decent evidence to the contrary.”

“The baby isn't his,” Baldwin said.

Taylor looked at him. “What?”

“The baby. It wasn't her husband's. I'd bet anything that she was pregnant by someone else. That explains the erratic behavior, the sudden dependence on psychotropic medications, the psychosis-based claustrophobia. It all fits. And if I'm right, her husband might have caught her, either in the act with her lover or just after, and killed her in a fit of fury. Pretty classic scenario, actually.”

Taylor smiled. “That's exactly where we've been going with our theories. When I interviewed Corinne's psychiatrist, she mentioned that Corinne may have had a lover. For all I know, we might have two bodies. Wolff might have caught her in the act with another man, beat her, killed the lover, then transported his body somewhere. It would explain Corinne's blood in his truck, that's for sure.”

Baldwin was nodding his agreement. “You're on to something, Taylor. Did the crime scene techs find more than one type of blood?”

Taylor looked at Sam. “The DNA won't be back on that immediately, I assume?”

Sam shook her head. “Only threw in the autopsy slides, not the evidence collected at the scene. Sorry.”

Taylor shrugged. “So no idea. I've been out of the case for over twenty-four hours. Fitz might have solved it already.”

“You'd have heard,” Sam said kindly. Taylor shot her a dirty look.

Sam's intercom buzzed. Kris's disembodied voice filled the room.

“Dr. Loughley, the Chief of Police is looking for Lieutenant Jackson. Can I put him through to your line?”

Shooting Taylor an
I told you so
look, Sam said, “Sure thing.”

The phone beeped twice, then rang. Sam picked it up and handed Taylor the handset.

“Lieutenant Jackson,” she answered. She was greeted by the deep, heavily Southern voice of the chief. In a few short words, she had her life back. He'd even thrown in an apology. She hung up the phone with a smile, winked at Sam and turned to Baldwin.

“Let's go. I've got work to catch up on.”

T
aylor didn't expect a hero's welcome. She didn't want one. She just wanted to slip into the CJC and bust open the Wolff murder. And she wanted Aiden to disappear from their lives.

Instead, news vans lined the streets. Reporters jostled with cameramen looking for the best angle. The national news trucks were parked nose to tail along 2nd Avenue, their remote satellites like a string of herons, balanced on one leg and pushing their crests into the noonday sky.

“Well, at least we know you've got the sympathy of the people,” Baldwin said.

“Yeah, that's great. I want the media on my side. This is just going to piss Delores off more. And when the Oompa gets mad, she gets even. I'm sure she's in there plotting all the ways she can make my life miserable. I think we're going to have to circle around, sneak in through the parking lot next door.”

“No. I think you should walk the gauntlet.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. Walk through there like a queen, smile, wave, and say ‘no comment' in your most gracious Southern style. It's a nice PR move on your part.”

“I don't particularly want to be on the air anymore. And it will give Aiden a target. Surely you don't want that.”

“You've been maligned, and they want to make it right for you. Let them. He's not going to do anything in the middle of this crowd. Trust me.”

“The media wants to make it right for me? Are you high? They'd just as soon cut off my leg as paint me in a favorable light.”

But she parked in the gravel by the back door. The scrum grew, microphones growing out of the crowd like black mushrooms. They stepped from the car and she was blinded by the flashbulbs. For one insane moment, she thought of what a celebrity's life must be like, and decided that all this constant attention would suck.

She waved, smiled, ignored the shouted questions, and Baldwin held the door for her. The inside was pleasantly quiet. They followed the green arrows in the linoleum floor to the homicide office. Fitz, Marcus and Lincoln were all there. Hugs and claps on the back were exchanged, then Fitz pointed toward her office.

“The Oompa was here a few minutes ago. She wants you. Hurry up, wouldja? We've got loads to go over with you. Lincoln's about to blow this wide open.”

“Okay, okay.” With a smile, she ducked into her office. On her desk was a handwritten note on a Post-it, the writing surprisingly crabbed.

 

Please see me immediately. Captain Norris.

Taylor raised an eyebrow at Baldwin. “Let's go see what the wicked witch wants.”

 

Delores seemed taller in her chair and Taylor wondered if she was sitting on a phone book. She'd been talking for the past five minutes, but after she said they were discounting the allegations of witness intimidation, Taylor had tuned her out. There was nothing she could do to her now—Taylor had been cleared of the charge of murder publicly, privately and everywhere in between—but she was still droning on about professional responsibility and taking precautions in life, blah, blah, blah.

Taylor didn't start listening in earnest until she heard the word
shield,
then focused on the Oompa's ridiculously tiny hand. She took the gold with grace, but didn't feel complete until Norris had returned her Glock as well. Not that she'd been cruising around unarmed, but having that particular gun on her hip meant something to her.

She turned to go, but the Oompa cleared her throat viciously. Taylor looked down at her expectant face.

“Yes?”

“Don't you want to say something?”

Taylor was thrust back in time. Her mother had said that to her when she was a child, the tone readily recognized as a mild scold when she hadn't said thank you to a stranger showing a kindness. She would be damned first.

Taylor stared Norris down for a moment. Carelessly, she replied, “No,” and walked out of the office.

Baldwin was waiting in the hall, his face a question mark. She just tapped her waist, where she'd already secured her weapon and her shield. She didn't speak, just kept walking down to the stairwell. Once they were inside, Taylor started to laugh.

“Dear God, that woman's patronizing looks just get me every time. She really thinks she's the bee's knee.”

“You should still be careful around her. She's got a stinger.”

“Well, she can take that stinger and shove it up her ass. I know she's got it in for me, but I can't change who I am or how I work just to stay on her good side. I've dealt with women like her before. They are so all-fired busy trying to prove themselves that they lose the respect of everyone around them. She'll screw up. I'm just going to stay out of her way from now on.”

 

They had settled in to work, comfortable and secure, when the call came.

Taylor was in her office, the door open, getting briefed by Marcus on what he and Lincoln had uncovered about the Wolffs thus far. The films, the money, the double life. When she looked past Marcus, she could see Lincoln's leg jumping with nervous energy. He had Corinne Wolff's computer on his desk, Todd Wolff's laptop on the desk next to him. He was flying through the files, nodding, saying yes, yes aloud every couple of moments.

Fitz had been called out on a murder, but promised to get back as soon as possible to help. Marcus had just started going over the gas receipts that Wolff had been so shocked to hear they could easily trace when her outside line rang. Taylor answered the phone, was surprised to hear Fitz calling. He'd only been gone twenty minutes, couldn't have had time to do much at the crime scene.

“Hey, what's up?”

His voice was as grave as she'd ever heard it. “I need you.”

She didn't question why, just asked where he was.

“The Parthenon. Bring Baldwin. I've got something you both have to see. Someone's sending you a message.”

T
aylor and Baldwin were screaming up West End, a flashing, blaring siren latched to the roof of the car above the driver's side door. Baldwin was driving. It was too loud to talk, which suited Taylor fine. She knew what this was, why Fitz had called her, his normally boisterous voice filled with dread. Aiden. Aiden had killed. Fitz said someone was sending them a message. The moment she'd hung up the phone, Baldwin had looked at her, his eyes full of questions. He knew too.

“Might be a trap,” he said.

She shook her head. A message.

She let the memory of Aiden standing in her front lawn fill her. Scant moments after killing two men with his bare hands, he was so damned nonchalant, so…unfazed by what he'd just done. A sense of failure, of loss for the two men who'd answered her summons for help, died trying to protect her, crept down her spine. She'd been so wrapped up in her own troubles, she'd neglected to even find out their names.

The urban spread became Vanderbilt University, a sedate greenness signaled they had arrived. Taylor had always relished the dichotomy that was Nashville; there was something so joyous in downtown's diversity from block to block. Vandy was always a favorite destination. The hopes of the guileless college students, the ornate buildings teeming with knowledge. Before she could get reflective for her own lost years, Baldwin took a fast right into Centennial Park, narrowly missing the ubiquitous jogger panting down the sidewalk.

The grounds of the Parthenon were filled with squad cars. Blue lights shimmered in the midday sun. A knot of officers stood at the base of the Parthenon steps, looking highly out of place. During the day, this was a tourist destination as well as a favorite walking mall. People brought their dogs to run in the grass, ate picnics at the base of the gigantic oak trees, stared in wonder at the perfect replica of ancient Greek architecture and tribute.

The chill spread deeper into her body. Aside from the cops, Centennial Park was strangely empty. The sight of the Parthenon usually filled her with nostalgia; it was never a complete school year without a visit to one of the most recognizable landmarks in Nashville. She mentally reviewed the information that had been parceled to her on every field trip: built to impress travelers visiting Nashville for the 1897 Centennial and designed to reflect the city's reputation as the “Athens of the South,” the building was originally meant to be a temporary structure. The sophisticated citizens of Nashville left it standing and by 1931 it was rebuilt as a permanent monument. The massive bronze doors guarded the largest indoor sculpture in the Western world: a replica of Phidias's colossal statue of Athena, goddess of wisdom, warfare and the arts, sculpted by Nashville artisan Alan LeQuire. The Parthenon art museum was respected worldwide; Taylor had visited an exhibit only last month.

Now the columns held up a roof covered in friezes that seemed much too prescient. The structure stood lonely and bereft, defiled by unsanctioned death, the site of a modern day sacrifice. Taylor could barely force herself out of the car to meet Fitz, who walked quickly to the car when they pulled up.

He was carrying something.

She stepped from the vehicle and faced Fitz. “Who?” she asked.

She caught a glimpse of the photo he was carrying. It was a close-up shot of a naked torso, she could just see the outline of a collarbone above…

The temperature hadn't risen a degree, yet Taylor felt the sweat break out on her brow. She turned her attention to the gathering of police officers twenty feet away. She forced herself to walk slowly, to seem indifferent. Inside she was paralyzed with fear.

The body was naked, artfully arranged to lean against the top step, so a passerby paying little heed might not take notice, would think that it was simply a scantily clad person taking a brief rest.

Closer inspection showed a shock of brown hair, eyes open yet unseeing, glazed already covered with the slightest tint of white. A silver wire, the ends twisted elaborately, was buried deep in the dead man's neck. There was a flourish on the end of the wire that made Taylor think of leftovers dressed in tinfoil worked into the shape of a swan from a fancy restaurant her parents took her to when she was young. She fought back the bile rising in her throat.

Nailed to the naked, hairless chest of the killer she knew only as Aiden was a piece of paper. It was a scroll of parchment, aged and yellowed, a single trickle of crimson blood streaming down the paper. The handwriting was spidery, old-fashioned. As she read, she sucked in her breath in shock.

Fuck.

“How long has he been here?” she asked, impressed with the steadiness in her tone. She didn't dare look at Baldwin, could feel the thoughts churning in his head from three feet away. She didn't have to look at him. She knew he was stunned too.

“Not long,” Fitz replied. “The ME's office has sent a team, should be here shortly. First officer on the scene reported that he checked the wrist for a pulse, said he was still warm. He's been in the sun, but it couldn't have been much more than an hour ago. Jogger was going to run up and down the stairs a few times and saw him. Called it in immediately. I've talked to her.” He pointed at a squad car, where a young woman in running gear stood shaky and pale. “Didn't see anything. The park's quiet today, she says she saw nobody around.”

Baldwin had been silent up to this point, and Taylor looked at him. There was a bizarre mixture of revulsion and relief on his face. He answered her unspoken question.

“I don't know whether to be thrilled or horrified. Aiden was a terrible person, and I'm not upset that he's dead. But Christ. The Pretender.”

“Staying with the program, I see. Copycatting. You said Aiden killed with a silver garrote, right? Seems our serial killer has turned vigilante.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Maybe we should hire him out.”

The forced bravado was costing her. The mere thought of a killer she failed to catch being back in her town, killing in her name, for her honor, for God's sake, was terrifying.

Baldwin just nodded. The ME's van pulled up, Fitz spoke to her, his voice low.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Go deal with the ME.” The youngest ME on staff, Dr. Fox, jumped out, eyes bright. The word was leaking out. Sure enough, her cell rang, Sam's name popped up on the caller ID. Taylor took a few steps away and opened the phone.

“I heard. Is it true?”

“Yep. Seems our boy has resurfaced. Did quite a number on Aiden. Why aren't you here?”

“I was in a staff meeting with the board. Couldn't break away. Fox can handle the scene, can't he?”

“Don't know why not. It's a bit cut-and-dried. The nails in his chest are a first for me though.”

“Well, I haven't done a garroting in a while, so it should be fun. I'll make sure everything is handled well. Don't worry. I've got to run, we're going back into session. Watch your back, okay?”

“Will do. See you later.” She hung up, turned to Baldwin, who was on his phone too. Talking to Garrett, she guessed. Calling off her tail.

She went back to Aiden's body, the feeling of being watched making her shiver. Good grief. This had been one hell of a week. She was starting to get a complex; just how many serial killers could the city of Nashville have in one day?

Aiden's gummy gaze seemed to look directly into her soul. Fitz and Fox joined her.

“It's time to let them do their magic,” Fitz said. Taylor nodded. Fox was circling the body, making low clucking noises in his throat.

“Jeez,” he said. “This is going to be a fun one.”

“You ME folks sure are sick. C'mon, LT, let's get you out of here.” Taylor let Fitz walk her back to her vehicle. “I'll take care of this. You go back and work the Wolff case. You don't need me for that, Lincoln and Marcus are handling things just fine. I'll meet up with you later.”

She nodded again, numbly, and got into the sedan. Baldwin snapped his phone shut and came around to the driver's side, sliding in beside her. He turned over the engine and Fitz carefully shut her door. She didn't know why she was letting everyone pamper her.
Snap to, girl.

Baldwin pulled away, eyes on the road. She could tell he wanted to talk. That was good, because she didn't.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“I gathered. You're practically humming.”

He cleared his throat, turned left onto West End. “There's more to the Aiden story than I told you.”

She waved her hand in a circle. “Tell.”

He signed deeply. “What I'm about to tell you is highly classified.”

“What, am I about to get assigned to
Mission: Impossible?
”

“Funny girl.” He pulled into an open parking space on the street and turned the car off.

“What's this?”

“I'm not kidding.” He took off his sunglasses, looked deep in her eyes. “I'm going to get in serious trouble for doing this. But I can't go on without you knowing the truth.”

Taylor's heart skipped a beat. A thousand thoughts ran through her mind, beginning and ending with staccato abruptness. She crossed her arms across her chest, better to shield her from whatever deluge was coming. “Can't go on without me knowing what?”

“It's about me. About what I do. My…past.”

“You've fathered a love child.”

“Damn it, Taylor, I'm serious.”

The outburst startled her, she jumped. He'd never spoken to her harshly.

“Jesus, don't bite my head off. It can't be that bad. Just tell me what's up.” She sat back against the door facing him, girding herself for the worst, though she couldn't imagine what that could possibly be.

“I do some work on the side. Profiling work.”

“That's it? That's the big confession? You're a profiler. Of course you're called in to consult—”

“For the CIA.”

That stopped her.

“You're telling me you're a spy?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “No. Not a spy. A consultant.”

“I didn't know the CIA did profiling.”

“They don't. That's where I come in. It's a covert group called OA. A task force. Operation: Angelmaker. We follow the bad guys who work overseas. Predict where they might hit, give the people who watch them ideas about how to follow their moves, things like that.”

“And this is classified? It doesn't sound like that big a deal to me.”

“It's the nature of who we're following that's sensitive. The killers we track…they don't get arrested.”

“Why not?”

She watched him struggle for an answer, and felt his intensity. The realization that he was worried that she would judge him for whatever role he played in this shadowy organization made her reach over and take his hand.

“Hey,” she said, the challenging tone gone. “You can tell me. It's okay.”

He smiled at her. “You may not think so when I finish. We let them go. We track their moves, predict where they will strike, hell, even send them assignments to satisfy their desire to kill. All in the name of national security. If we were to arrest them, it would have a lasting effect on whatever political shit is going down. These people do bad things for us, and for other governments. I try not to get too far into the details, I have a hard enough time with it already. It goes against everything that I am.”

Honesty. She knew she could always count on him to tell the truth, whether she wanted it or not. Better late than never, she supposed.

“I can see that. How in the world did you get involved?”

“Garrett. He runs our side of the program. He set me up with a cut-out agent that I've worked with for over ten years. Sometimes they ship me overseas to have me track these guys down. Multiple countries, all over the world. We've always had a standing deal, though. If one of them comes here, I'm alerted immediately.”

“This is how you got involved with Aiden?”

“Exactly. He's always had a hard-on for me, but I've never been vulnerable until now. Killing me wasn't what he wanted. He needed to take everything from me, like he thought I did to him.” He squeezed her hand. “At least, that's what I'm thinking. I told you we're assuming he saw us in Italy, the timing is right. He killed his tracker and hightailed it over here. Just so you know that Aiden was capable of anything to get what he wanted. That's why I had to go to Quantico, to try and track him down. If they'd told me the truth from the start, that he'd murdered the tracker in Florence, I would have never left your side. I've seen what he can do.”

“So have I.” The image of the dead security guards stood out in stark clarity as if they were right there in the car with them. She shook the thought off, then another crossed her mind.