14

Twenty-One

Nashville, Tennessee Thursday, December 18 9:30 p.m.

T aylor finished up her paperwork, showered and changed at the station. Knowing she could put it off no more, she took the 4Runner up Church Street, ignoring a call on the scanner about a drug shooting down in the Lischey Avenue projects. Not her problem, not tonight. B-shift homicide could grab that one. But she pulled into the parking lot of VIBE with murder on her mind.

Lots and lots of murder, coupled with a few she’d like to commit herself. She watched an upscale pro dip around the corner of the building with a john on her heels. Ten bucks he didn’t know he would be rolled by the girl’s pimp for a couple hundred once they’d done the deed. She debated going after them, then decided to skip it. For tonight, she wouldn’t be a cop. She’d just be a girl who was about to get married, out on the town for a fun night with her friends.

How in the world had she been talked into this?

The music spilled from the doors. She recognized one of her favorite bands, Garbage. Shirley Manson wanted to know “Why do you love me?” and Taylor laughed to herself. How apropos for a bachelor/bachelorette party.

She crossed the parking lot and ducked inside the club, the music pounding and thumping, the lights flashing. A scent tickled her nose, sweet, with an overlay of patchouli, like a sex-drenched head shop. Girls dressed in see-through negligees with paste-on nipples and G-strings wandered past her, looking her up and down appreciatively. The black-floored stage was covered with a trio of girls, a threesome act-one blonde, one brunette, one redhead. They writhed and twisted around each other, and Taylor couldn’t help but stop and watch for a moment. The obvious choreography that had gone into the dance was impressive. Not being entranced like the men sitting in a semicircle in front of the stage, Taylor was able to see past the nudity, see the work the girls put into their performance. They were all young, probably thought that this road was temporary.

Taylor had seen it too many times before-the girls who worked the clubs were favorites among the rank and file at Metro. They were safe, protected to an extent, until they crossed swords with the wrong guy. Then they’d end up like those Spanish girls from the massage parlor this afternoon, or like Saraya Gonzalez, murdered in cold blood.

Taylor didn’t see Sam, so she took a table in the back. She reveled in the few minutes of alone time, the first she’d had all day. She ordered a beer from the scantily clad waitress, demurred the invitation to be escorted to a private room in the back for a special lap dance and sat back, tuning out, not really seeing anything happening in front of her.

Nagging at the back of her mind was the story of sexual slavery the Spanish girl had told her. Saraya Gonzalez. The name was pretty, but that face, while delicate and attractive, had been so vacant. Taylor mentally plugged into that conversation, determined to figure out the link between the girl shot at the hospital and the obvious Snow White victims this afternoon. She had one thin, tenuous thread to go by. The massage parlors. Saraya Gonzalez had been trapped in a life of servitude at a massage parlor. The girls killed this afternoon worked in a massage parlor. Taylor had a hunch that if she could tie the two together, she might get a solution. Though the chasm was deep between the two cases, Taylor had been a cop long enough to know you never dismiss a coincidence.

“What is his name?” Taylor had asked Saraya.

“Oh, no. I no tell. I no want to get dead.” Poor girl’s eyes were dead already, it wouldn’t take much to finish her off. The bullets at the hospital had been overkill.

“Taylor!”

She jumped, looked up to see Sam and her husband, Simon, standing over her.

“You were so far gone, girl, where were you?”

“Sorry, Sam. Hey, Simon. How’s it going?” Taylor scooted her chair around to make room.

Simon mumbled a reply. A good Catholic boy, he was desperately uncomfortable to be in the strip club with Sam. He’d settle down once she left, Taylor was sure of that. They’d gone to high school and college together; Taylor knew his reticence was simply respect for his wife.

Sam took a seat, ordered two more beers, glanced appreciatively around at the nakedness, the girls writhing on the stage pole and nodded. “Yep, this should do the trick. Get the man so fired up I’ll be getting lucky all night.”

Simon went a deep burgundy. “God, Sam, could you just leave now?”

Sam nuzzled up to Simon and chucked him under the chin. “Just you wait, sexy man. You’ll get rewarded, trust me.” She kissed him; he turned a deeper shade of beet-red. Sam turned back to Taylor with a grin a mile wide.

“Jesus, Sam. You’re a sick puppy, you know that?”

“Speaking of puppies…”

She pointed at the door, where Marcus, Fitz and Lincoln were standing. It seemed the basic premise of the club. A person came through the door, stood, took it all in, then decided what they wanted-a seat up close, a drink at the bar, a lap dance or a private room. The three men were swarmed in an instant. Captain Price followed them through the door a moment later. Extricating themselves, they spotted Taylor and Sam and wound their way to the table, pulling up chairs and getting settled.

“LT, where’s Baldwin?” Fitz asked, leaning in close so he could be heard-the music had bumped up a notch. The bar was filling, the evening getting into full swing.

Taylor looked at the door, and Baldwin walked through it. Her heart filled at the sight of him, at the way he found her eyes, didn’t look at the other women, just made his way across the room to her, planted a kiss on her lips, then took the proffered chair next to her.

“Long night?” she asked. Her look asked something entirely different- did you get rid of her?

“You could say that.” He squeezed her hand, an unmistakable I hope so.

She gave him a smile, then stood. “Sam, let’s leave these boys alone so they can misbehave.” She dropped forty dollars in Baldwin’s lap. “Have a lap dance on me, sugar.” She blew him a kiss to the hoots and hollers from her coworkers, then walked to the door with her back ramrod straight.

“That’s some woman you’ve got there, Baldwin. Don’t fuck it up.” Sam gave Simon a quick peck on the forehead, then left them, as well.

Fitz stood, signaling to a group of women in various states of dishabille nearby. “Okay, Mr. FBI man. It’s time for you to experience a last night of bachelorhood, Nashville-style.”

Taylor was already stomping her feet from the cold when Sam joined her in the street in front of the club.

“About damn time,” she grumbled, blowing warm air into her cupped hands. “What were you doing, giving him the lap dance?”

“More like some motherly advice. Got waylaid at the door by some chick. C’mon, let’s go in here, it’ll be warmer. And quieter. Am I getting old, or was it loud in there?”

“It’s loud. They design them to be so loud and flashy your conscience turns off-sensory overload. Makes men do things they normally wouldn’t.”

“Amen to that.”

Taylor glanced at her sharply but followed her into the small bar next door. Control was nearly empty, the music muted, the lights dim. Taylor felt her shoulders relax.

They ordered beers and took a table in the corner. Taylor took off her jacket, realized she’d forgotten to remove her weapon and holster. Her Glock was still tucked snugly against her right hip.

It wasn’t unheard of. She was much more comfortable with the weapon than without, though she usually went with a small revolver in an ankle holster when she was off duty and out on the town.

She saw the bartender making a beeline toward her, his face contorted in anger. He pulled up short when he saw her shield.

“Sorry, Officer.” He held up both hands, as if she were trying to rob him on the street and had yelled “Put ’em up!”

“Lieutenant. That’s okay. And put your hands down. I’m not arresting you.” She shrugged back into the jacket. No sense advertising.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. How about the next round on me?”

“No problem…” She left it open, and the man supplied his name.

“Jerry. I’m the bartender here.”

“I caught that. Thanks for understanding, Jerry. No need to buy a round.”

“No, I insist.” He disappeared, and Taylor looked at Sam, exasperated. All she wanted to do was drink a couple of beers, get the next two days over with, wrap up the cases and go to Europe. She was running out of patience with the whole scenario.

Sam just smiled and excused herself to go to the Ladies’.

Jerry returned with two beers and a sly look on his face. Taylor took a bottle of Miller Lite from him, then sat back, eyebrows raised. He obviously had something to get off his mind.

She was right.

Jerry leaned close while he handed Taylor her beer. “See that guy that just came in? Don’t look, but I think he was here the other night.”

“Really? My goodness, a repeat customer. In this neck of the woods. Imagine the odds.”

“No, you don’t get it. I mean he was here the night that little girl went missing.”

Taylor nearly dropped her bottle.

“What are you talking about? Which girl?”

“The little black-haired reporter. Jane. I think the paper said her last name was Macias. I don’t remember if the guy was in then, but I absolutely remember that he was here the night Jane disappeared.”

“What about the last victim, Giselle St. Claire? Was she in here, too?”

“Couldn’t say. I don’t remember what she looks like. Jane, I remember. She was a sweet kid. That’s not good, is it?” His face fell.

“Uh, Jerry? Did you tell anyone this?”

“Well, no. But I’m telling you now. Isn’t that enough? I just put it all together. I didn’t see him again, so I didn’t really think too much about it. And I don’t know if I want to get too involved, you know what I mean?”

He rolled up a sleeve and Taylor saw the ink, the homemade prison tattoos that covered his forearm. Yes, she understood entirely.

“Okay, Jerry. This is great. Thanks so much. Go back behind the bar now. My friend is coming back. We’ll take it from here.”

“She a cop, your friend? ’Cause I got a…bat, behind the counter.”

“The medical examiner, actually. But there’s a gaggle of good police next door, and we’re going to get their attention and have a chat with this guy. Okay? Now, go on back to the bar, you’re starting to look suspicious. And don’t worry.”

He went, and she sat back in her chair, looking at the man Jerry had pointed out.

He was at least six foot four, with brushed blond hair cut high and tight, as if he were military. She couldn’t see his face full on, just in profile. He sat comfortably, hands loose between his knees, not quite leaning on his forearms. He was strung tight, but not ready to snap. The door to the bar opened and a woman walked through. Taylor watched his body language, saw him open himself. It was almost imperceptible. The woman ignored him, walked right past and went to the bar. She plopped onto a stool, ordered a drink, lit up a cigarette.

The man glanced over his shoulder at the bar, and Taylor felt the waves of anger roll off him. The intensity of the emotion nearly took her breath away; it was overtly negative. Taylor was certain if Baldwin had been in the room, he would have felt it, too.

She felt her breath begin to quicken. The palpable animosity, the powerful frame, the casual yet hip sprung attitude… She glanced at Jerry, who was talking to the woman at the bar and stealing looks at the man.

Sam entered Taylor’s pinpoint field of vision. She was walking right at the man, a casual, hip-swaying, “I’m having a good time” motion to her gait. The man reached out a hand and grabbed her wrist as she walked by. Taylor was up out of her seat before Sam’s mouth fell open in surprise.

Three good strides would get her there, and she’d taken two when she heard Sam giggle, roll her eyes, then pull away from the man and head toward her.

“Going potty?” she asked. Taylor just nodded and kept moving. She needed to see this guy head-on.

She made it to the bathroom door, ducked inside, counted to five, then came out, wiping her hands as if she’d just gone in to wash them. He was gone. She took in the entire bar, realized he was nowhere to be seen. His beer bottle wasn’t on the table, either. She walked to Jerry, whispered to him, “Where?”

Jerry shook his head. “I didn’t see him get up.”

Taylor went to Sam. “The guy who grabbed your wrist. Did you see him leave?”

“Yeah. He winked at me as he went out the door. He got up the second you walked past. Why?”

The scent of cigar smoke wafted to her nose. She looked around, didn’t see anyone smoking a cigar. The bar was empty. Taylor had her cell phone out, speed-dialed Baldwin’s number. She gave Sam a wry smile.

“Whatever you do, don’t wash your hands. Something was very wrong with that man. You may have just touched our killer.”