14

Eight

Nashville, Tennessee Tuesday, December 16 8:00 p.m.

T aylor nestled Martin Kimball’s boxes in back of the 4Runner and closed the door with a slam. She’d gone through the files briefly after she and Fitz returned to the office, but quickly realized that a physical search through the evidence still in storage was necessary. The paperwork and the murder books had been moved into their conference room, but the actual material evidence had to be kept in the warehouse-checking out the individual pieces was too much of a hassle. Fitz had volunteered to go, and she’d accepted his offer. He promised to call and she decided to head home.

She turned the heat on and tried to ignore the strains of Christmas carols spilling out of her speakers. As soon as her hands warmed up, she turned off the radio, but “Silent Night” had wormed its way into her mind, and she repeated the words absently in a nonreligious mantra as she drove out of downtown.

“Silent night. Holy night. All is calm, all is bright.” Yeah, she wished.

The fact that they might be missing information gnawed at her. That information could be nothing or everything.

Knowing Baldwin would be hungry, she stopped at City Limits, a great New York-style deli close to home, and bought chicken Caesar salads and warm, freshly baked baguettes.

Once she got home, she opened a nice sangiovese, a simple inexpensive bottle they drank all the time, wondered briefly where Baldwin was, stashed the salads in the fridge and took the files and her wine to the living room. She opened the first box, set the lid on the floor and breathed in the scent she’d been nostalgic about earlier. Pipe smoke and dust. Why the aroma made her smile, she wasn’t quite sure.

She riffed through each file. Nothing new there. It was filled with the typical cold-case material-the murder book, which was really multiple binders, ten of them, one for each murder; folders of photos; copies of the evidence sheets. She went through those with care, searching for a mention of the signet ring. She found it, on murder number ten, Ellie Walpole. It was just as Kimball had said. In his neat handwriting, a detailed description of a gold signet ring.

She cross-referenced it with her file. The page was not there. It didn’t mean anything-something like that could go missing easily. One piece of paper among five thousand. It had happened before.

After an exceptionally close reading of the autopsy reports, she found references to the bald patches on the back of the women’s heads. It hadn’t been deemed very important.

Taylor knew it was probably Snow White’s souvenir. Many killers take a token with them-a license, panties, something symbolic to treasure, to remind them of their kills. To help them relive the actual crime.

There hadn’t been anything reported missing from Snow White’s victims. But a lock of hair from each kill would make a grand prize indeed.

Taylor stood, impatient, circling the couch with the wineglass in her hand, pacing, thinking. She glanced at her watch, wondering when Fitz would call. The evidence warehouse could be a time/space vortex if one wasn’t careful. Looking for something as small as a signet ring might be completely unfeasible. If the ring was actually gone, not simply misplaced, then they had a problem.

She looked out the front window, took a lap around the downstairs, poured another glass of wine, then sat back on the couch. She continued going through the files, matching hers to the originals. There were a few other pieces missing, but for the most part, it was all there. The one thing that was in Kimball’s files that wasn’t in the main files was his notes. Sheet after sheet filled with his neat hand, speculation, ideas, drawings and doodles. Every ounce of paper that he’d generated over the course of eight years was included. Taylor read through them. She admired his thoroughness but found nothing else of note. All the rest was consistent with the files she had.

The phone rang, and she jumped up to answer it.

Fitz grumbled in her ear. “I’m covered in dust. There’s no ring.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive. There’s no ring in any of these boxes. Trust me, I went through one hundred and forty-three of them.”

“That’s what I was worried about. The page that would show it isn’t in the official files, either. Damn it, Fitz, why?”

“Little girl, it may be something as simple as one of the evidence jockeys took a shine to it, and figured after all these years, why let such a pretty thing go to waste. It’s happened before, you know that.”

“Why do I get the feeling that isn’t the case? This ring has something that can lead us back to the killer, I can just feel it.”

She heard the garage door go up. “Hey, Baldwin’s home. Let’s talk about this in the morning, okay? Fitz, thank you for doing that. I appreciate you spending your evening in dust.”

“Yeah, you owe me a beer. Tell the fed I said hi.”

“See you.” She hung up the phone, went to meet Baldwin in the kitchen. He was shrugging out of his shoulder holster, balancing a Starbucks cup and his briefcase in one hand and a bundle of roses in the other. He jumped when she entered the room.

“Hey, turn your back. I’ve got something you aren’t supposed to see yet.”

“I already saw them. You got me flowers? Aren’t you the sweetest man alive?”

“Oh, trust me, I’m sweeter.” He handed her the roses, white and red, intertwined with brick-colored gerbera daisies. She took them with her left, used her right to help him unhook from the leather harness.

“Special occasion?”

“Do I need a special occasion to bring flowers to my almost wife?”

“No, of course not.” She dropped the holster on the counter and buried her nose in the flowers. “Mmm, they smell great. I better get them in some water. Where’d you find gerberas this time of year?”

“A man must protect his secrets.”

She rolled her eyes at him, eliciting a laugh. It was all so comfortable, it didn’t feel right. She got the flowers into water, set them thoughtfully on the kitchen table. Baldwin watched her; she felt his eyes on the back of her neck. Jesus, what was wrong with her?

“How was your day?”

“Other than the fact that we’re missing a piece of evidence from the Snow White case? The old cases, I should say.”

“What kind of evidence?” He opened the refrigerator. “Oh, good, you got dinner.”

“Like I’d let you starve.”

They bustled around the kitchen, getting their salads on plates, buttering bread, pouring wine, and Taylor told Baldwin about her afternoon. He listened with sympathy until she asked about his day. They sat on the floor in the living room, their plates on the coffee table, their backs propped with pillows, and talked while they ate.

When they were settled and Taylor was a few bites into her salad, Baldwin answered her question.

“Well, it was interesting, I’ll say that. Tomorrow might be a little crazy.”

She just raised an eyebrow. As if anything could be crazier in this case, in their lives.

“Charlotte Douglas is coming to town.”

“And she would be…?”

“FBI Special Agent Charlotte Douglas. She’s a profiler. Deputy chief of the unit.”

“Well, that’s not unexpected. Are you going to be able to run interference?”

“She’s coming to see you, actually. And bringing one of her forensics team. They have the DNA results.”

Taylor let her fork rest in the romaine, shaking her head at that statement.

“Why the hell haven’t they called and given us the information? Or faxed the report over, at the very least. What’s the big deal? It’s either Snow White or it’s someone else.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s the problem with Charlotte. She’s a bit of a…how do I put this nicely? She’s a drama queen. She wants to swoop in and break the case. She wouldn’t give me the information, either. I told her how unprofessional she was being, but she told me to go to hell.”

“Why am I getting the feeling that there’s more to this?”

“Because you’re a very astute, brilliant, beautiful woman who’s made the incredibly intelligent choice to marry me on Saturday.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

Baldwin shifted. Taylor leaned away from him, plunged her fork into a piece of chicken and fed it into her mouth, watching him struggle with an answer as she chewed.

“So you slept with her. When?”

Baldwin tried for a chagrined smile. “Long before you, I’ll tell you that. Taylor, you have to understand, she means nothing to me. It was a thing, a heat-of-the-moment kind of situation. She’s a viper. A true bitch. I hate her, if that makes you feel better.”

“Why do I get the sense that Miss Charlotte doesn’t hate you?”

“Fair enough. There may be some tension with this. I’m sorry. She’s a piece of work, and the minute you meet her, you’ll understand why I’m with you and not with her. Will you trust me on that?”

“Of course. It’s not like I expected you to come to our marriage bed a virgin.”

She got up, picked up her plate and went into the kitchen. Baldwin followed.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Taylor set her dish down on the counter, carefully considering that question. Of course she was okay. My God, they were adults. It wasn’t like Baldwin was her first. But leaning against the counter, watching him watch her, it struck her how little she really knew about him. He was a complicated man, layer upon layer of self-containment. They’d just never delved too deeply into “Who have you fucked?”

She pushed away from the granite, gave him a half smile. “I’m fine. It’s funny, actually. I never saw myself as the jealous type.”

“I like it. Makes me feel wanted.” Baldwin put a hand lightly on her chest and pushed her back to the ledge. He nuzzled in close, insinuating his legs between hers. She reacted, slipping back onto the counter, wrapping her legs around his lean hips and accepting his kiss.

“It’s late,” she murmured when they came up for air.

“So it is.” He picked her up, walked her backward into the living room, set her on the couch and followed her body down. “So it is.”

It was nearly midnight when the phone rang, jarring them out of a cramped sleep on the couch. Taylor fumbled the phone to her ear.

“Taylor Jackson? This is Frank Richardson. Late of the Tennessean. ”

“I don’t have any comment… Oh, wait. You’re the reporter from the old Snow White cases. Sorry. I didn’t think you were back until tomorrow.”

“I’m not, really. I had a layover scheduled in New York so I could visit a friend, but he’s come down with the flu and I’m stuck at JFK. It’s 7:00 a.m. my body time-I’ve been in France for the past few weeks. Am I calling too late?”

It’s never too late for murder, she thought.

“No, no. Just give me a moment, okay?”

She set the phone down, disentangled herself from Baldwin, who sleepily opened his eyes and happily closed them when she shook her head, telling him he wasn’t needed immediately. More and more, the late-night phone calls were strictly for Taylor’s benefit.

She slipped her sweater on, dragged the afghan off the back of the couch. It trailed behind her like a security blanket as she moved into the kitchen with the phone. She sat at the table, pulled the afghan around her legs. It had grown chilly; the fire in the hearth was nearly out.

“Sorry, Mr. Richardson. Caught me off guard.”

“No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Didn’t know you cop types ever slept.”

“Yeah, we’re regular vampires.”

He laughed. “Seriously, I figured you’d want to talk to me as soon as you could. I can’t believe this has come up again. And call me Frank.”

“You and me both, Frank.” She reached over the back of her chair and pulled a yellow notepad from the phone desk, set it on the table in front of her. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.

“I’m ready. Shoot.”

She racked the balls, taking shot after shot, trying to sort through the hour’s worth of information Frank Richardson had given her.

He’d known about the signet ring.

He’d known about the hunks of hair ripped from the victims’ heads.

He had theories about the killer, about why he’d stopped, that were incredibly sound, very credible.

He had his own speculations about who the killer might be. Most were similar in scope to the theories postulated by the homicide team. They ranged from a teacher at one of the girls’ schools to a sexual predator who’d been killed in jail. All had been explored and ruled out.

But it was a word he’d used, an offhand remark, that kept coming back to Taylor. The moment she heard the term, she knew she wouldn’t sleep again that night. Frank wasn’t even talking about the case, he was recounting a moment in Caprese, the hometown of the painter and sculptor Michelangelo Buonarroti. Frank and his wife were touring the tightly winding streets and their guide spoke of a Florentine painter named Domenico Ghirlandaio, who worked with the young Michelangelo before he turned to sculpture and the eventual patronage of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Michelangelo went on to greatness, but, for a time, he was a novice, learning the ropes, his natural talent shaped by the great men around him.

He was an apprentice.