14

Eleven

Nashville, Tennessee Wednesday, December 17 8:30 a.m.

T aylor pulled off Highway 70 into the parking lot of the Belle Meade Galleria, a strip of high-end stores in the heart of Belle Meade. Luck was with her-she found a spot near the door of the restaurant. Le Peep was a neighborhood favorite, an eclectic breakfast and lunch place that attracted many of the denizens of the local community. Even on a freezing Wednesday morning, the place was nearly full. Taylor spotted Frank Richardson sitting at a table in the rear of the restaurant, happily munching on eggs and toast and plowing through a liter of hot coffee.

She joined him, shrugging out of her shearling jacket. The waitress came by and she asked for a Diet Coke, toast and fruit. The late night, coupled with no sleep and a gnawing in her stomach, meant she’d be better off without the jarring caffeine rush of coffee and a full breakfast. No more iron-clad stomach for her. As she’d gotten into her thirties, she’d been keeping all her stress in her gut. It was just easier to avoid the causes that made things worse.

Frank Richardson hadn’t missed a beat, continuing his forceful eating frenzy as she got settled. He dipped his toast into a sunny-side-up egg, practically groaning with pleasure.

Taylor watched him chew and swallow with gusto, entranced by the shine of grease on his lower lip. The sight made her already unsettled stomach turn, and she looked away briefly. He wiped his mouth and gave a tiny, delicate belch.

“The Europeans just don’t know how to do eggs, you know? They try their damnedest to make ’em like you want, but there’s just something missing. Maybe American chickens lay better eggs than the French. I don’t know.”

“Well, my fiance and I are supposed to go to Europe soon, so I’ll keep that in mind, do some testing myself. See if the Italians are better at eggs than the French.”

Richardson looked at her left hand wryly. “You’re getting married and heading to Italy for your honeymoon?”

Taylor nodded, and he gave her a genuine smile. “Lucky girl. When?”

“Supposed to go on Sunday. At this rate, I don’t think we’re going to be able to pull it off.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Missed my eldest daughter’s birth when Martin Luther King got hit. Had to leave right from the hospital, my wife having contractions every two minutes but breathing fire down my neck to go, to get the story. She’s a mighty fine woman, to send me off for my career when I should’ve been there, helpin’ her.”

“She sounds amazing. You got the story, of course.” Taylor knew he had, of course he had. He’d won numerous journalism awards for his coverage of the civil rights leader’s assassination.

“I did at that.” His blue eyes twinkled, and Taylor couldn’t help but smile. Robust and full of life, that’s how she would describe Frank Richardson.

Her food arrived and she nibbled at the toast, followed it up with some grapes and cantaloupe. Even in winter, there were summer’s touches all around, and she longed for a warm breeze.

Richardson finished mopping up one last bit of egg with his toast, shoveled two bites of biscuit in his mouth, then pushed his plate away.

“Okay,” he mumbled, a few bits of dough spraying onto the table. “You ready to do this?”

Taylor pushed her plate back, as well. “Yes.”

She followed him, silently offering a ten to cover her part of the meal, but he shooed it away, paid at the counter in the front of the restaurant. They walked into the milky sunlight, not needing to shade their eyes.

“I’ll see you there,” Taylor said, and Richardson nodded. Good humor was gone. They were preparing to delve into the Snow White murders, feel the slippery, viscous blood, bear witness to the knife wounds, taste the scent of carnage on the backs of their tongues.

Frank Richardson had masterfully documented the reign of terror the Snow White Killer induced, and going through his old files would bring those ten murders to life in a way the dry tomes of the police reports and murder books couldn’t, wouldn’t. Richardson was the writer, not the homicide team. His words were stronger than pictures.

Taylor started up the 4Runner, suddenly weary. She could have done this herself, or assigned one of the homicide team to do it. But something in her wanted the company, the close quarters of another soul who understood. Journalists and cops, the best of friends, the worst of enemies.

Plus, Baldwin was bringing the illustrious Charlotte Douglas to the homicide offices at some point this morning, and Taylor really wasn’t in the mood for it, not right now. She’d never met Charlotte, but knew plenty of women who fit the bill. A viper, that’s what Baldwin had called her. If it were the truth, there’d be plenty of fireworks to deal with at lunchtime, thank you very much.

On the phone with Richardson the previous evening, Taylor had suggested they just go to the library, pull the information up on LexisNexis. That’s what she would have done, that or hit the microfiche machine. But Richardson had offered to take her directly to the source. To use the paper’s morgue would assure them a thorough look through all of the files, all the stories that had gone into print. Richardson had slyly pointed out that the newspaper also had copies of his complete stories, the prepublication drafts that had been edited down for space and public consumption.

Richardson had retired a few years back, an illustrious career behind him. Taylor figured he wanted to visit his old home away from home. All hail the conquering hero. She couldn’t deny the man that small joy. Actually, she understood. If she ever left Metro, she knew she’d no longer be complete.

The trip down West End wasn’t long enough, and before she realized it, they were pulling in to 1100 Broadway, home of the Tennessean.

They took two spaces in the tiny parking lot in front of the building. They entered through the glass doors, Richardson all smiles, slapping the security guard on the back. Outside those doors, out on the street, Richardson was just another slightly overweight graybeard, finishing out his retired years in relative peace and quiet. Here, he was a rock star.

A brief call was made and three minutes later, the newly appointed managing editor of the newspaper rushed down from the third floor to say hello to his old friend. Introductions were made, the editor looking Taylor up and down before carefully nodding and welcoming her to the paper. He knew there was friction between Taylor’s group and some of the crime reporters on the beat. When she didn’t raise the issue, he smiled. Time and place, and all that.

As they made their way to the newsroom, Taylor’s hand was shaken no less than forty times by people who’d heard Frank Richardson was in the building and wanted to say hello. It was only polite that they acknowledge their homicide lieutenant, as well, the woman who’d told the former lead crime reporter Lee Mayfield to go fuck herself on more than one occasion. The Tennessean staff hadn’t liked Lee any more than Taylor and the rest of Metro.

Taylor’s cell phone rang and she hung back for a moment to answer it. Seeing the number, her heart filled with dread, goose bumps prickled along her arms. She flipped the phone open, held it to her ear.

“Morning, Lincoln. Everything okay?”

“Morning, LT. How’d you know?”

“Who is it?”

“No body or anything like that. There’s a missing-persons report. Girl named Jane Macias.” Taylor cringed, thought about her earlier Janesicle Doe. Oh, the flippant moniker was coming to bite her in the ass.

“Fits the profile of these girls?”

“Yeah. Her boyfriend called it in, said she left her apartment last night and she’s been MIA ever since. He’s totally freaking out, says she’s got long black hair. I figured there’s no sense taking any chances, went ahead and started some of the paperwork.”

“Maybe, just maybe, it’s not him. And if it is, maybe we can beat him to the punch this time. I’ll be over there shortly. Thanks.”

She hung up, leaned back against the wall for a minute, caught her breath. Fast moves, this guy. She opened her phone again, made a quick call to Baldwin. His voice mail clicked on. She left a message for him to call her ASAP, or meet her at the homicide office as quickly as he could. No time to worry about lost or past loves. Lincoln wasn’t prone to hysterical fits; if he thought the description of the missing girl matched that of their profile victim, she did. So they needed to move quickly.

She strode through the newsroom, made her way to the back of the offices. Richardson was there, chatting it up with one of the archival interns. She caught his eyes, signaled for him to step away. He did and turned to her, concern filling his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Taylor pitched her voice low; the intern was craning her neck, trying to hear what was up. “One of my detectives just called. There’s been a missing-persons report, a girl who matches the victim description. I need to go, follow it up. Can we get together later, talk about all this?”

Richardson had the audacity to look crestfallen for a brief moment, then brightened as if he realized how ludicrous that was. “Of course, of course. I understand completely. Is there anything I can do? Do you need someone from here to help?”

“No, I’m sure we can get it covered. But I need to head back to the homicide offices, see what I can find out. With any luck, it’s just some girl with black hair who didn’t come home last night.”

“Eooop!”

Taylor jumped at the sound, a cross between a hiccup and a deep breath. She looked over Richardson’s shoulder to see the archivist, standing with her hand over her mouth. The girl wore a starched white shirt, long black skirt, thick black wool stockings and loafers. Her hair was pulled back with a headband, and her glasses, a nifty modern frame, were askew on her nose. She was white as a sheet.

They rushed to the girl’s side, ready to perform any services needed.

“What’s the matter? Are you choking? Is everything okay?”

Her eyes started to tear, and she dropped her hand to her side, looking alone in the world. She crumpled, leaned back heavily against her desk. “My roommate has black hair, and she didn’t come home last night. I mean, I never saw her after she left.”

Taylor stood straighter. “What’s your roommate’s name?”

“Jane. Jane Macias. She’s a reporter here, works right out there in the newsroom. Oh my God, is she dead? Oh my God! ” She started to fling her arms about, and Taylor grabbed her, held her still.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down.” Taylor talked to her softly, almost under her breath. “Calm down. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

She caught Frank Richardson’s eye, and saw he was thinking the same thing she was.

But your friend might not.