All the Pretty Girls

Thirty-Three

Taylor was sitting in front of Whitney’s laptop computer, looking through the e-mail that had been piling up in the two days since Whitney’s accident. She was distracted, worrying. Baldwin’s case was completely out of control, but hopefully, these notes would be the key. She had to search through at least two hundred e-mails, some boring, some interesting, most completely irrelevant. She continued to scan and soon found the original six messages with the love poems. She sent the messages to the printer so Baldwin would have a hard copy.

She reached to close the laptop and saw that there was another e-mail from the same address that had been sending the poems. She’d missed one in her distracted state. This one was marked “Unread,” which meant it had come in after Taylor and Quinn had left Whitney’s house.

She opened the e-mail and saw another poem. She sent it to the printer. Knowing now that these were possibly copies of notes that had been left at the scene of the murders was very disconcerting. And Baldwin had not given her enough information about them for her to deduce anything. She decided it would be best to send the e-mails to Baldwin’s e-mail address and let him look at them firsthand.

She started forwarding the messages and decided to send them to her home computer, as well. Ah hell, why not just take the whole computer with her? She could get out of there now, being in Whitney’s house made her uncomfortable. It made more sense to do that anyway. God forbid, if Whitney continued to get these messages, they wouldn’t have to come over to her house every time they wanted to check something out.

She looked for and found the case for the slim laptop, and unplugged the components and packed them into the carrying case. She rummaged through the desk and found a manila file folder. She slipped the printed copies into the folder, pausing briefly to read the latest installment, the one that had been sent after Whitney had died.

Mark but this Flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.

Taylor recognized that one. John Donne, a poem known as “The Flea.” Easy enough, it had been a hit in high school. The whole sucking business had every guy in her English class beet red when their teacher, a comely young woman, had read the poem aloud. Well, Baldwin said the poems are some of the classics. Now they just needed to figure out what they meant to Whitney and the man who was sending them to her. Taylor pulled her cell phone out of its holster and dialed Baldwin’s number. She got his voice mail and left a message for him to call her as soon as he got the call. That was the best she could do for now. She carried the laptop out to her truck, then went back in to make sure she hadn’t left anything. Satisfied that she wouldn’t need to make another return trip, she left, locking the door behind her and placing the key under the mat, just as it had been that first day when she and Quinn had come over.

“I need to let Quinn know I’m taking the laptop,” she thought out loud. A neighbor walking her fluffy white lapdog gave her a funny look. Taylor just smiled and waved, then climbed into the truck, started it up and put it into gear. She’d call Quinn later, after she and Baldwin had gotten a chance to go over what was on the e-mails.

Baldwin was wending his way through East Tennessee, enjoying the view and drive as much as he could, considering the situation he found himself in. Six girls dead and he didn’t have a suspect. Hopefully all that would change once he got to Nashville and talked to the CEO of Health Partners. Maybe when he heard from Taylor with the poems from Whitney Connolly’s computer. His sixth sense was telling him that the two were related, he just needed to sit down and find out what that relationship was.

He’d left Asheville early, and had made good time. He was passing through Crossville on Interstate 40 when his cell phone rang. He was only an hour out of Nashville but he’d lost service a few times from the mountains to here, so he pulled over to the side of the road, happy to have a cell. When he looked at the display, he saw that it was Taylor calling.

“Hi, honey, how are-”

“Baldwin, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you?”

“I’m on 40 outside of Crossville. I rented a car and decided to head on back to Nashville for a couple of things. I’ll be back in an hour if traffic holds. Why, what happened?”

“I went to Whitney Connolly’s to get the e-mails. There was another e-mail, one that came in yesterday or this morning, after Quinn and I had left her house. If the e-mails and poems correlate to your poems, we may have trouble.”

Baldwin gritted his teeth. Damn. It was very possible that another girl had been taken from Asheville, and no one had reported it. “What was the poem?”

“I actually recognized it, it’s a few lines from ‘The Flea.’ John Donne. You know that one?”

“Actually, yes, I used to use it on girls all the time. Okay, I need you to do something for me. Do you have the poems in front of you right now?”

“Yeah, I just brought the whole laptop with me. In case there are other e-mails that come in from this address, I thought it would be best if we had the computer in front of us.”

“Okay, I’m going to start driving again. Bear with me a second. If I lose the cell I’ll call you right back.” He started the engine and pulled out onto the highway. “Okay, I want you to read what each e-mail says, starting with the earliest one.”

He could hear Taylor flipping through pages. The poems were going to match, he already knew that. He was starting to feel it, that connection that things were about to break all over the place. Taylor came back on the phone.

“The first one is dated a month ago. The content reads,

“A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angelic light.

“Uh-oh. There’s a postscript here I didn’t see before. This is the first time I’ve read them on paper, I didn’t see it on the screen. ‘This was at the crime scene.’” She paused. “Baldwin, she knew. She knew and she didn’t come to us. Stupid reporter.”

Baldwin’s heart started pounding. “That’s the same as the note found in Susan Palmer’s bag, without the postscript, of course,” he said quietly.

“All right, the next one came in two weeks ago. Here goes…

“A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food For transient sorrows, simple wiles Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

“Here’s the P.S. ‘This one was from LA.’”

“That’s Jeanette Lernier’s. Shit. This guy was sending Whitney Connolly the same poems that he was leaving at each kidnapping scene. That second P.S. makes it sound like she hadn’t figured it out, that he was giving her more to go on. Taylor, honey, you are the greatest. Please keep going.”

“The next is from Sunday, right after we found Jessica.

“A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By his dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

“The P.S. says ‘Do you get it yet?’”

Baldwin was getting excited. “That’s the poem they found with Jessica’s things. Right on, Taylor, thank God you were there to find these. What’s next?”

Taylor read him the next e-mail.

“How can those terrified vague fingers push, The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? How can anybody, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

“‘P.S. From your backyard.’”

“That’s Shauna Davidson, no doubt about it. What else?”

“The next one reads,

“Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?”

Taylor stopped for a moment. “Marni Fischer?”

“Yeah, that’s right. No P.S.?”

“No, this one is just the poem. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know. Either he felt he’d made his point or he got into a rush. What else do you have there?”

“The next one’s dated two days ago. It goes:

“She half enclosed me with her arms She pressed me with a weak embrace; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. ’Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart.”

Taylor could hear what sounded like paper being brushed against the phone. She envisioned Baldwin raking his hand through his hair.

“That’s what we found at the motel room where Christina Dale was killed. But you said ‘The Flea’ came in last night?”

“I have to pull it up and double-check the time stamp, but it came in sometime after Quinn and I left Whitney’s house yesterday evening. I take it you didn’t have any missing persons reports when you left Asheville?”

“No, we didn’t. But if this follows the pattern, he has taken another girl. Dammit, this guy’s on overdrive. I better get the word to Grimes, but we can’t be absolutely sure he struck in Asheville. Of course, he could have taken someone that no one’s missed yet. Listen, I’ve got a meeting as soon as I get into town. I’ve got to talk to the CEO of the company that owns some of the hospitals where three of the girls were employed. It’s called Health Partners, he’s going to go over some of the-”

“What did you say?”

“I’m meeting with the CEO of Health Partners,” he said, and he could hear Taylor’s breath quicken. She spoke softly.

“Baldwin, Quinn Buckley’s husband works for Health Partners. He’s a big time VP. There has to be a connection there, that’s got to be what Whitney Connolly found out. You don’t think…”

“He’s a vice president, you say? I bet he does some traveling. Let’s get together before I go over there. Can you meet me at your office? I’ll be there in less than thirty minutes.”

“Hurry, Baldwin.”