Nashville, Tennessee
Thursday, December 18
9:00 a.m.

“I gotta make.” The little boy was muttering, plucking at the front of his ski pants. “Mama, I gotta make.”

“Jeffie, where in the world did you hear that phrase?” Tami Gaylord looked in amusement at her three-year-old son. He was at that stage, picking up every word that floated past his tender ears.

“Don no. Gotta go, Mama, gotta make.”

A sledding outing had been the perfect respite for Jeffie’s boundless energies. But the reality of nature would strike at the most inopportune moments. The young mother looked around the park. They were on the opposite end from the bathrooms, and a three-year-old with a full bladder wasn’t going to survive a five-hundred-yard walk in the snow back to the restrooms. She looked around—no one was close. He was a boy, after all. They could step into the short brush, strip off his snowsuit, point and shoot. She knew his father had been teaching him to write his name in the snow the other night. She’d caught them at it, on the far side of the garage, and scolded while she laughed. Men. She was blessed.

“Come here, sweetie. We’ll go right here behind these bushes. Remember what Daddy taught you the other night?”

“I write my name?” Jeffie started stripping out of the snowsuit, and Tami laughed, reaching over to help her precocious son. When he was unbundled, they stepped into the screen of bushes, shielded from the rest of the park. Tami played with the branch of a pine tree while Jeffie started peeing, singing a happy, tuneless song, spelling his name in the snow just like his daddy taught him.

“Big J. Little E. Little F—Aaaah! Mooommmyyy!”

Startled by her son’s scream, Tami flew to his side. “What, baby, what’s wrong?” Jesus, did he get bitten? Was there an animal lurking in these woods?

Jeffie was pointing, a look of horror contorting his rounded features. Tami followed the boy’s finger, straining to see into the gap where her son was pointing and shouting.

“What the hell?” There was a lump in the bushes. It twitched and moved, and both Tami and Jeffie jumped and screamed.

A tired voice rose from the snow-covered surface. “Por favor. Please. Help. Me.”

 

The ambulance lights made kaleidoscopes on the crystalline snow blanketing Edwin Warner Park. The icy surface refracted the spinning light, blinding Taylor every third second. She watched the flash spill over the back of the ambulance, watched the dark-haired girl wince every time the light struck her eyes.

She approached the EMS team, who were hovering over the girl. She knew one of the men, a strawberry-blonde named Mike Bunch. He was bandaging the girl’s scraped knee tenderly.

She tapped him on the shoulder. “Mike.”

He jumped, then smiled at her. “LT,” he said. “What can I do you for?”

“Mind if I turn off your rack? They’re bugging me.”

“Girl, you can do anything you want to my rack.” Bunch’s mustache twitched. She rolled her eyes at him, went to the driver’s side and cut the switch.

She came back to the open ambulance doors, heard a whispered, “Gracias.”

“De nada,” Taylor said. Bunch looked at her in surprise; she just shrugged and looked away.

Twenty minutes ago, Taylor thought she had another victim of the Snow White Killer. The call was nonspecific, a young woman with black hair had been found in the park. She’d rushed to Edwin Warner, lights and sirens blaring, electric nerves tingling in her spine. She just knew they’d found Jane Macias. All things being equal, it was a logical assumption. No one had bothered to inform her that this body was talking. With a Spanish accent.

Taylor stood with her arms crossed, waiting for Bunch to clear out. He aimed a few more questions at the girl in piss-poor Spanish—“Are you hurt anywhere else? Can I bring you some water?”—then he shoved off the ground with a nod at Taylor, his blue eyes clouded with concern for his patient. The girl was all hers, for the time being. Taylor held up a hand—give me five minutes—and he walked away to join a group of officers smoking cigarettes. The odor was especially pungent against the cool air; Taylor didn’t know if the smell made her crave a smoke or feel nauseous.

She turned to her victim. Victim of what, she didn’t know. The girl’s raven hair was dirty, her ribs poked through the skin like a malnourished greyhound’s. Her black eyes were clouded, dirty with pain, sorrow and knowledge. She jumped at every sound—the ice creaking against the tree branches, the chattering of a squirrel, the low rumble of men’s voices in the background, cars passing slowly on the street forty yards away, their drivers desperate for a chance sighting to explain the commotion. Taylor approached her as she’d done when she was a child and her parents had bought her a skittish colt, hand out in supplication. The girl finally looked up and met Taylor’s eyes for the briefest moment, then looked away as if she’d been struck. Damaged, this one. Deeply.

The story the girl told, bundled in the blankets of strangers, broke Taylor’s heart to the core. This girl was a victim—not of the Snow White Killer, but of base, despicable men. She was a victim of lust, and greed, and the bad things that make good men go astray. A slave.

Perched warily on a stretcher in the back of the ambulance, her face lowered, her voice soft, the poor thing told a horror story so quietly Taylor strained to hear her speak. Her English was broken but passable. The words left her mouth like vapor heat rising in the cold—soft and timorous.

“I come from Guatemala. My name is Saraya Gonzalez. I work in kitchen at hotel with my sister. One day, man comes to kitchen, says you look very good, take my sister away. I run after her, but he knock me to the ground. I cry for very long time.

“A year pass. I no hear from my sister. No one hear from her. Then the man came back. He see me in kitchen, says you grow up, you perfect now. I was twelve. He take me from kitchen. At first, he kind, nice to me. He feed me, give me drink and nice soft bed to sleep. I don’t need to do work, no more working in kitchen.

“I guess is only natural he want me. Many men want me, but my sister keep them away from me. Once she gone, I have men like bees, swarming me for my honey. I have no choice. When man decide to have sex with me, he takes me to the back bedroom. There is a camera. He does what he likes, doesn’t care if it hurts. After, he give money.

“I feel great shame. But what am I to do? I cannot go police, they deport me. I have no man to watch out for me, no sister anymore. I at their mercy.

“He starts by bringing other men, older men who like little girl. They ask for ‘massage.’ They do all the things that he do to me, force me to spread my legs, my ass, my mouth for their pleasure. I do it, not because I want to, but because I know the sooner they finish, the sooner they go.

“There are cameras in the room. I find the video camera in the closet. They make video, too, sell video of me having sex with strange men.”

Taylor had snapped to attention at that.

“Are you sure? There are videotapes and still pictures?”

The girl nodded. “Yes, I sure. I see them making video, then mailing envelopes. There is computer in spare bedroom, that is the man’s office.”

“What is his name?”

“Oh, no. I no tell. I no want to get dead.”

“Saraya, how’d you end up in the park?”

At that, panic had replaced fear in the girl’s eyes. “I run away. I figure it better to be dead.”

Funny, Taylor thought to herself as she drove back toward headquarters. She hadn’t doubted the girl’s story for a second. Was she so immune to death and destruction, to the very evil living in people’s souls, that she was programmed to believe a victim? She knew that wasn’t the case, she had a bullshit detector a mile wide. People claim to be victims for myriad reasons. Taylor was pretty good at determining who was lying and who was telling the truth. She’d been duped before, but not often.

Saraya Gonzalez was not a Snow White victim. The reality gave her pause. She’d been so caught up in the Snow White case that many of her other cases had been temporarily shelved. They needed to solve these fucking murders so she could go back to her job. There were people in the city who needed her help. Give me your poor, your weak, your downtrodden. I’ll fight for them. That’s what she was, what she longed to be. That was the very thing her father would never understand.

There it was, that damn scent in her nose. Why couldn’t Win Jackson just leave her alone? She tried to shake off the memories, but her primordial olfactory senses defied her and made her doubts rise to the surface as if she was a little girl, vulnerable and weak, unable to win her father’s love. She hadn’t talked to him for three years, since right before she made lieutenant. They always fought—Taylor had little respect for Win’s desire to take shortcuts to the top, and the knowledge that his daughter was a cop rankled him to no end. But the last conversation had been particularly virulent, and Taylor was through. She’d told him to take her trust fund and screw himself.

She knew he wasn’t dead. That much she could feel. As divorced as she’d become from her family, from her father, she still had the presence of mind to know that he was out there. She’d be able to feel if he weren’t. Wouldn’t she?

At least she didn’t have to worry about asking him to walk her down the aisle.

She dragged her thoughts away from her past and anchored them firmly in the present. She had another mystery on her hands. At least this one was definitely alive.

Taylor shuddered. Hearing Saraya’s story, her tiny, accented voice uttering atrocities so frail, so tortured, Taylor didn’t doubt her veracity for an instant. She wondered whether it would have been better to die than be so horribly abused, understood the girl’s desperate attempt at flight. She was too weak to make it very far, the massage parlor must be within a day’s walk. But Saraya had clammed up, refusing to answer any more questions. Taylor had signaled to Bunch to transport her to the hospital. A warm, safe bed and some nourishment might loosen her tongue. She hoped.

As she neared the CJC, the traffic got heavier. Taylor felt it, palpable in the air. Something was happening. She crawled along, finally turning the corner onto third. News vans lined the street. Satellites were set up, there were people milling about, walking through the street blocking the entrance to the CJC parking lot.

Taylor resisted the urge to take out her weapon and shoot it into the air to clear a path. Instead, she took a flasher from beneath her seat, put down the window of the unmarked and held it out in her hand. She flipped the switch and hit her horn. The noise and the glowing red globe got their attention. The sea parted and she pulled into the parking lot of the CJC, double-parking alongside the Channel 4 news van. She should have them ticketed for blocking the entrance.

Her phone rang and she saw Sam’s number. Flipping it open, she walked briskly across the parking lot, shouts ringing in her ears, her hand up in the universal “no comment” posture. Sam was talking loudly enough that Taylor heard her clearly over the din.

“Remy fucking St. Claire is in my lobby, about to hold a press conference,” Sam growled.

Taylor threw a glance back over her shoulder. “But all the news trucks are here.”

“Oh, trust me, no they aren’t. I’ve got patrol officers trying to keep the entrance to Gass Street clear. I assume she’s heading your way after she finishes here. If you hurry, you can get your TV on, see her in all her bony glory. She looks like hell.”

“Well, her daughter just died.”

“Aren’t you the gracious one. Call me later, okay? I need to get this under control. And stay off camera. Man, this hacks me off. Why that anemic bitch decided to have her press conference at my office is beyond me.”

Sam was gone, and Taylor shut her phone. To say Sam and Remy had never gotten along would be an understatement.

As she neared the door, the shouts of the media began to fade away. Each step up the back stairs dumped a load on her heart. This ruckus wasn’t for the poor, innocent girl they’d just pulled out of the bushes in Edwin Warner, nor for Giselle St. Claire or Jane Macias. It wasn’t about any of the victims.

No, this was for something much worse. A false prophet.

Inside the door, Taylor could hear the commotion before she saw it. The homicide team was crowded around the television set, watching. Taylor took up a position with them.

Remy St. Claire had been pretty when she left Nashville to strike it big in Hollywood. An elfin face, pale blond hair, long legs, a breathy, little-girl voice reminiscent of a packaged young Norma Jean. Hollywood made her gorgeous. They took her under their wing, brought her into the fold, and made Remy St. Claire a star. A shooting star.

The lip injections, cheekbone implants, breast implants, ear tuck, liposuction, rib removal, all of that was de rigueur. Standard operating procedure. Her voice coach had annihilated all traces of Tennessee from her vocal cords, eliciting a low, smoky Mae West tone from deep within Remy’s artificial chest. Her long, blond locks were color-treated now, four individual shades of honey blond, highlights so subtle, so perfectly uniform that it took four hours once a week to keep them maintained.

Her figure was emaciated to the point of starvation under a veneer of muscle obtained through stringent daily meetings with trainers—strength, Pilates and yoga. Only her breasts stood out tall; the rest of her body seemed to shrink in on itself, as if the internal organs were so starved that they took the skin for nutrition.

She was linked to a new, younger partner on the cover of the gossip rags at least once a month. For an actress who’d been the toast of Hollywood fourteen years ago, that was pretty damn good. The scandalmongers and cable shows would feast on this news item for days. Remy’s precious daughter, dead at the hands of a serial killer. Oh, the horror, the horror.

Somewhere along the way, Remy’s poor, murdered daughter would become an icon, a mythical creature, forgotten in life yet revered in death. For Giselle, being the violently murdered daughter of a celebrity didn’t mean she would be missed, it meant her mother would get into the news cycle. Movies would be made. Stories told. As it was, the news media had already pounced.

All of this ran through Taylor’s head as she watched Remy call on the FBI and the Nashville police to solve the murder. She offered a reward, guaranteeing that they would be inundated with tons of false leads and bogus phone calls. Great.

Taylor looked away from the TV and went into her office. The three-ring circus had officially begun.

When her phone rang, she snatched it up and identified herself without looking at the ID.

“Why, Taylor Jackson, who’d’ve known?” Fuck. Now Remy was calling her.

The accent was so overdone it was nearly unbearable. Someone somewhere had told Remy that if she were back in her home state, it would bode well for her to adopt her Southern while she was around the Nashvillians. A less-forgiving group of people would have called her for the phony she was. But in Nashville, they smile and nod and graciously pretend not to notice. If there was one thing a true Nashvillian couldn’t stand, it was a fake. The bitchiness could wait for the back rooms and dark salons, after the guilty miscreant was gone. Tongues would wag tonight after Remy St. Claire left town, that was for sure.

“Remy. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I just can’t believe it. I’ve just identified the body of my daughter. What in the world is happening, Taylor? Why was my baby killed?”

Remy’s voice wavered. Taylor imagined the china-blue saucer eyes filling with tears, a white handkerchief conveniently clutched at Remy’s throat.

“We’re doing everything we can to find that answer, Remy.”

“Is there anything I can do?” The accent was gone, leaving Remy with a hollowed-out voice devoid of any character or real emotion. She sounded for a brief instant like Kitty, but Taylor pushed the thought away.

“To start with, when’s the last time you talked to Giselle?”

“Well, I think it was sometime last week. She lives with her grandparents. You remember my parents, don’t you?”

“Of course.” The St. Claires were warm, loving people, and Taylor had always been stymied by how they’d produced such a selfish, wanting child.

“They’re supposed to be watching her. The last I heard, they were planning a ski trip to that godforsaken Gatlinburg. I’m guessing Giselle was bored to tears after being away from home, wanted to do something a little fun. She probably snuck out of the house, went downtown with a friend. You know how teenagers are, Taylor. They like to get into trouble.”

That caught Taylor’s attention. She made a mental note to talk to Baldwin. They hadn’t ascertained where the killer was getting his victims. The elevated blood-alcohol levels coupled with the Rohypnol pointed to a bar setting. But in a town the size of Nashville, with bars every third building, narrowing which establishment had been close to impossible. They’d been unable to determine an exact kidnapping spot up until now. But if Giselle had been picked up by a friend and taken someplace specific, they may have something to go on. Almost too much to hope for.

“Hey there, Remy. Don’t go assuming anything. We’ve talked to your parents extensively, and they’ve given us nothing to lead us to believe that she was sneaking out at night.”

The vision of the tiny gold ring in Giselle’s clitoris told the story instead. And with Remy as a mama, the odds of Giselle being a good little girl were slim to none.

“I know my girl, Taylor, despite what you may think. She was a wild child, always in trouble. She’s been drinking and smoking, doing drugs and God knows what else since she was twelve. Completely and utterly out of control. That’s why she’s here in Nashville, away from the Hollywood scene. There’s nothing anyone can tell her, either. She needs to experience things for herself. She’s always been like that, attracted to the very things that will hurt her. If you stood her in front of a stove and told her the top was hot and would burn her, she’d stick her tongue out at you and touch it, just to make sure you weren’t lying to her.”

Taylor was struck by the present tense. Giselle’s death hadn’t truly sunk into her mother’s mind yet. She heard the sound of a lighter being struck, then Remy breathed out heavily. She’d just lit a cigarette.

“That’s the other thing. She may have been young but she wasn’t at all gullible. She had a radar for people, not that it mattered. She could find the best in a grunged-out junkie and the worst in Miss America. That’s just the way she was.”

“If you’re still at the M.E.’s office, you’d best put that cigarette out. Sam will have your head.”

Taylor heard a shuffling noise. Remy coughed once, deep. “Taylor, remember that time when we were kids, we snuck Mrs. Mize’s cigarettes out of the pack, went up into the woods behind your parents’ house and smoked? What were we, ten, eleven, then?”

Taylor laughed despite herself. Mrs. Mize was her parents’ housekeeper, a mother, nanny, cleaner, polisher and all-around straight arrow. She’d spent more time raising Taylor than her own parents.

“Eleven. She beat me blue when she found out. You lifted the Crest from her bath so we could wash our mouths out, but you forgot to put it back. She knew she’d just bought a new tube, got suspicious, started counting her smokes. Jeez, she was pissed off.”

“She told my parents. They were furious.”

Taylor thought about that for a moment. Her own parents had been informed of the incident. Taylor had been grounded, of course, told not to play with the St. Claire girl anymore, but it was Mrs. Mize who’d beat her silly, then loved and hugged her because she hated that she was the one doing the disciplining instead of Kitty and Win. She clucked, and brought hot chocolate and nuzzled Taylor, telling her an old Norwegian folktale that evening.

“Where is Mrs. Mize these days?”

“She passed on last year. Sweet old thing, she went in her sleep. A true martyr, putting up with my family all those years, I’ll tell you that.” Taylor laughed softly, mind fuzzed with the memory of something good and happy. Then she shook her head and brought her focus back to the woman on the other end of the phone.

“Remy, I’d love to keep on reminiscing, but I have work to do. Is there anything else you can tell me about Giselle, about who she’s friends with, people outside the family that might have known her well?”

There was silence, and Taylor realized that no, Remy wouldn’t know these intimate details about her daughter. That would be about as likely as Kitty having any clue why Taylor was sneaking smokes with the St. Claire girl. Taylor’s heart broke, just a little bit, in a place she wasn’t aware had any more room for jagged tears.

“Okay, Remy. Thanks for calling. I’m so sorry about this, I really am. Sam will have everything else you might need. We’ll let you know what we find out.”

“I trust you to find out who killed my baby, Taylor. I’m glad you’re the one who’s going to catch her killer. I know that son of a bitch doesn’t stand a chance against you.”

She hung up, leaving Taylor with a strange, crazy sense of pride coupled with sorrow and longing for what they all used to be. For who they all used to be.

 

Taylor sat with her head in her hands for a long moment after the phone call. She felt like the wind was gone from her lungs. What had her life become? Investigating the rapes and murders of her childhood friends’ kids? Something was dreadfully wrong with that, she knew it deep in her soul.

Soft knocks on the door made her raise her head.

“Hi, babe. Everything okay?”

Taylor stared at her handsome fiancé. The clear, sea-green eyes, the laconic smile, the black hair peppered with gray. The broad shoulders, the way he towered above her. Safety. That’s what she felt every time she gazed upon him. And that was terribly dangerous. She knew it. Vulnerability wasn’t her strong suit; hell, she slept with a gun by her pillow. And a night-light. And dreamed of strong arms that pushed away the monsters and the nightmares. She’d found him, this savior of hers.

“Yeah. Just a little tired. What are you up to?”

“I came for a glimpse of the great Remy St. Claire.” He grinned and she smiled back.

“You want her autograph? I’m sure I could wrangle that one up for you. She’s over at Sam’s. We can catch her if you want.”

He laughed. “No, thanks.”

“What, you don’t have the hots for a shallow, plastic bimbo?”

“With you sitting here, wearing my ring, ready to marry me? Hardly. I’m just passing along a message.”

“Mmm-hmm. What’s the message?”

“The girl found in the park wants to leave. She’s fighting with the hospital, trying to sign out against medical advice. They called over, told Marcus. I told him I’d tell you.”

“Saraya?” Taylor rubbed a thumb against her right temple. A gnawing pain had started earlier and was growing. She ran her hand through her hair, opened her desk drawer, took out her Advil, popped three, then stood up.

“All right. Where’s the drama queen this morning?”

“Charlotte? She’s at the field office, getting slaughtered by the media for missing the DNA connection between the national cases. They’re dancing on her head, trying to get her to admit that she made a mistake. Maybe she did. I don’t know. She’s going to be tied up with them for a while, which would be why I’m here. I figure while she’s being jerked around by the press, we could go solve this case.”

“Aren’t you sweet. She is such a lovely girl. I hope the wolves enjoy her.” Taylor smiled at him. “But before we go Snow Whiting, I need to hear what my beating victim is so frantic about.”

 

The ride to Baptist Hospital was quiet. Baldwin drove, Taylor rested her head against the cool window and wished for summer. Truth be told, she didn’t really want winter to end. She loved the cool, crisp weather, the gray skies, the warm fires and soft clothes. But if it were summer, this would all go away. She’d be done with this case, the wedding would be over, they could go to the beach and lie in the sun, baking brown as bunnies and reading trashy novels. Make love after a few too many rum drinks; lie in a hammock under the stars, the sultry sea air lulling them into a false sense of hope. That was her one issue with winter. Not the cold, but the bleak despondence of the short days and long nights.

They parked and entered the hospital through the emergency room. Taylor shuddered briefly as a woman on a gurney was rushed past. She’d been there once, and didn’t want to go back. She fingered her neck, a habit she’d broken along with her cigarettes. The scar was there, still in sharp relief across her throat. A suspect’s last gasp. She’d wear his desperation forever. She’d just gotten used to it. There was something about nearly losing your life—you either let it haunt you or you accepted that it had happened and moved on. She’d chosen the latter. She was perfectly content to be the one doing the killing, thank you very much, not being the one who someone had tried to kill. Being that kind of victim just didn’t work for her.

As though he read her thoughts, Baldwin slipped a hand into the back pocket of her jeans and gave her right buttock a squeeze. She tried to ignore him, but it tickled, and she laughed.

“You’ve been lost in thought. Anything you want to share?”

“Naw. You know me, I hate hospitals. Where’s our girl?”

“Four. Here, we can take this elevator.” The doors were already open, so they slipped inside and hit the button for the fourth floor.

Baldwin leaned against the metal walls, an eyebrow raised. Taylor watched him, chewing lightly on her bottom lip. Outside of work talk, she was being much too quiet these days, knew he could sense something was wrong. She spun her engagement ring around her finger twice, decided to take a chance.

“Okay. Here goes. I’m a little freaked out about the wedding.”

Baldwin snickered good-naturedly. “A little? I’d vote for a lot. I’d actually go so far as to throw out the idea that you don’t want to marry me after all.”

The hurt in his voice was more than she could bear. She reached over, ran a hand along his jaw, brushed back the forelock of hair that hung across his forehead.

“Baby, you couldn’t be further from wrong. That’s not it at all. God, how do I explain this? It’s not the concept of marriage in general that’s got me freaked. Especially marriage to you. You know that you’re the only person on the face of the earth I would even consider marrying, much less buy a dress for and book a church.”

“You booked a church? And you got a dress?”

His mock excitement made her laugh. “Oh, stop it. You aren’t funny. I’m trying to be serious.”

The shadow had left his face. “By all means, continue.”

“Okay. I’m nervous about the wedding part. Having to stand up in front of all those people—I’m just not a fan of being the center of attention. What if we—”

The elevator interrupted her, and the doors slid open before they could go any further. She was going to suggest that they just elope, run off somewhere instead of dealing with the whole church mess. But the look on his face told her that this was the way he wanted to do it. She decided to save the conversation for later. She’d agreed to the hoopla, and had to deal with her fears. But she reserved the right to act squirrelly up until the moment she set foot in that damn church on Saturday.

She winked at him, then strolled out of the elevator as if she hadn’t been talking about the most important moment of her life.

The nurses’ station was unmanned, which was odd. Taylor felt her chest tighten. Something was wrong. Stealing glances, she saw the hallways were deserted, the silence pervasive. Her lips thinned as she strained to hear something. She looked at Baldwin, noticed he’d put his hand on his weapon. She realized she’d already instinctively followed suit and they took a few tentative steps forward, getting a sense for what was happening. There was almost complete silence, the absence of sound deafening. Unheard of in a busy downtown hospital.

Taylor motioned to Baldwin to go right, then took two steps closer to the nurses’ station. Her primordial senses kicked in; she smelled the blood before she saw it. She stuck her head over the counter and saw the slumped form, a nurse with gray hair and blue scrubs. The woman was on her back, as if she’d slid to the floor and pleaded with her assailant before he shot her in the forehead. The shot was a little off center, a messy wound that came in at an angle and certainly killed the poor woman immediately.

She pulled her head back, sheltered from possible incoming shots behind the station wall. What the hell was going on? She risked another glance, as if she needed to confirm the gunshot.

Baldwin was crouched next to her, pale. His weapon was steady in his hand, pointing down the empty hallway. They needed to proceed carefully.

Taylor realized it wasn’t quiet at all. Bells were going off, people were crying out. Bedlam had ensued in the fraction of a second that they had taken to assess the scene.

A door slam made Taylor jump. She exploded, running down the hallway toward the noise, Baldwin on her heels. She passed a group of people shouting and pointing, went straight for the stairwell. She heard Baldwin behind her, yelling, “She’s gone, she’s gone,” and she hit the stairwell door at a run, slamming the door open with the flat of her hand.

She drew down on the figure retreating below her.

“Police, don’t move. Stop!” she screamed, and the figure halted for a fraction of a second, but only long enough to catch her eye before he darted through the door on level two and disappeared.

“Fuck!” Taylor yelled, throwing a long leg over the railing and dropping a floor. Her boots hit with a bang and she almost lost her balance, then she was down one more flight and out the same door.

He’d chosen well, the shooter. Level two was the surgery floor, and this particular entrance was to the Radiograph and Endoscopy Center. No one was there—it was dead quiet, the silence real this time. Taylor listened, ears straining for footsteps or door slams, but heard nothing. Either this son of a bitch was a fast motherfucker, or he’d snuck into one of the rooms.

She wasn’t stupid; she wasn’t going to search without backup. She stepped back against the wall and pulled out her cell phone just as Baldwin appeared on the other side of the door. She could see his wild eyes through the wired glass. She pulled open the door, shaking her head.

“I don’t know which way he went. I was just calling you.” She spoke quietly. Baldwin leaned in to hear her.

He whispered back. “I called it in. I don’t like this. Not one bit. There’s a doctor in her room who was cold-cocked. He’s unconscious but alive. Fitz and Marcus are on their way with a butt load of uniforms. They’ll cover the entrances. Let’s take it slow, start down this hallway on the left.”

“Think this might have been the man she works for? The way she told it, she’s important to her boss. What in the hell is going on?”

He shrugged. “Either she’s valuable as a pro, or she knows too much.”

“Yeah. You go left, I’ll go right. We’re covered below. He’s gone, I don’t think he’s still here. Just don’t think I was quick enough.”

That’s when she realized that her ankle was killing her. She must have twisted it when she jumped over the railing. Superwoman, she was not.

“Okay. Go slow, be careful.”

They parted, heading down opposite paths. It didn’t take long.

Baldwin sent out a long, low whistle. Taylor backtracked until she found him standing over a body.

On closer inspection, she made out the small, quiet face of Saraya Gonzalez. Her blood pooled beneath her—that sharp bang. It wasn’t Taylor’s boots hitting the landing, it was the killer shooting this poor girl.

Taylor holstered her weapon and ran her fingers through her hair. This was turning into one of the worst weeks she’d ever known.

 

The emergency entrance bay to Baptist Hospital was crowded with police cruisers, overflowing into the street. The blue lights flashed up and down Twentieth Avenue; the area hummed with activity.

Taylor stood at the command post, watching. A manhunt was on for the shooter, though it seemed he’d gotten away from the area. A thorough search had revealed a wig, baseball cap and jacket in the municipal trash outside the emergency room exit. The video had been analyzed; the shooter had exited through the emergency room bay with the disguise intact, and hadn’t shed his fake identity until he was well out of range of the cameras. They had a height and approximate weight, but nothing else. Roadblocks had been set in a mile perimeter, but without knowing what they were looking for, they wouldn’t be much use. It was time to admit defeat on this event, and Taylor was furious—with herself, Baldwin, the shooter and any available person within forty feet.

Another two bodies for Sam: Saraya and the nurse at the head station. Bad timing for her; if she’d just been in another spot on the floor she might have lived. Jesus. Why hadn’t he just shot the girl and been done with it? Why had he tried to take her out of the hospital? Kidnap her, then murder her? Saraya mustn’t have been kidding when she spoke of her value to her employer. Damn. The only lead Taylor had into that world was gone.

Fitz was standing nearby, talking quietly into his cell phone. He hung up and looked over at Taylor. She knew something was wrong, the set of his chin was a dead giveaway. Someone else was dead.

She caught his eye, raised an eyebrow. He held up a finger in a wait-a-minute gesture, then finished the call. When he shut the phone, he ran a hand over his face, and Taylor saw how tired he was. Fitz wasn’t a spring chicken anymore; the stress of the week was showing on his haggard features. He came to her then, shaking his head.

“We’ve got a murder scene,” he said when he reached her. “Need to head over there. Want to join me?”

“Goddamn. How much more can we take today?” Taylor swept a hand at the chaos. “Is it Jane Macias?”

“Doesn’t look that way. It’s one of the massage parlors off Nolensville Road.”

Relief flowed through her chest. She just couldn’t stand the idea of failing one more girl.

“Massage parlor mania today. I thought we had all of them shut down?” They started walking to his car.

“Hey, wait up.” Baldwin came after them, jogging. “Where you headed?”

“Just got a call in for a murder at one of the supposedly closed massage parlors. This might tie back to Saraya. We need to head over there. This guy got away, there’s no question about that. Marcus is handling the search. He doesn’t need us.”

“Yeah, he’s got it under control. You’re right, this is all a bit useless. I can come with, if you want?”

“Why not? More the merrier,” Fitz grumbled.

They got into Fitz’s department-issued Cavalier and left the afternoon’s failure behind.

“Anything new on Snow White’s copycat?” Fitz asked as he negotiated the phalanx of blue strobe lights. “I figured that chick from Quantico would be all over us today. You know where she is?”

“I haven’t seen her today, thankfully. I’ve been avoiding my office like the plague,” Baldwin answered.

“Pity, that.” Taylor’s sarcasm wasn’t met with denial. Charlotte Douglas was going to be a problem, she could feel it in her bones. “We haven’t heard anything new on the Snow White case today. Been a little busy. Though Remy gave me some ideas on how to track Giselle’s movements. I’d like to talk to her grandparents, see if they can point us in the direction of any friends she might have who they don’t like. Remy insinuated that Giselle might have snuck out.”

Fitz had maneuvered them over the bridge, onto 65 South, and off the first ramp so they could travel the back roads to the massage parlor. He was never a fan of the freeway, and it drove Taylor crazy sometimes. But he was a demon on the side streets, and they pulled up in front of a small, well-kept house within minutes.

“This is a massage parlor?”

“Apparently so. They can’t get away with a business front anymore, so they’ve moved into the private homes down here.”

The area was largely dominated by Spanish-speaking residents, with a few Kurds and indigent blacks thrown in for good measure. There were plenty of crack houses in the nearby streets, and a couple of Section 8 government housing projects a few blocks away. Homicide was busy enough in this area, and had to employ trained civilian translators to help solve the crimes. Many of the residents were illegals, and didn’t trust the police to do anything that could be construed as positive for the neighborhood.

They unloaded from the vehicle, checked in at the command post, signed the call sheet and got their party clothes—booties, gloves, all the protective accoutrements for a get-together with death.

An officer met them on the front lawn. Bob Parks was one of Taylor’s favorites, a happy yet serious man who doubled for the SWAT team. He had a luxuriant black mustache that looked like it had been oiled and groomed recently.

“Welcome, welcome,” Parks bellowed. “Nice of you to come and join us this afternoon. We have a lovely time planned for you—blood, gore and a few other unmentionables you’ll be thrilled to see.”

“Hey, Bob.” Taylor greeted him with a thump on the back. “How’s the kids?”

“Like Dilbert says, ’bout as happy as a bunch of barefoot squirrels in a tire store.”

Taylor snorted back a laugh.

“I’m telling you, LT, having teenagers will be the death of me. Hi, Dr. Baldwin.”

“Hey, Parks. Sorry to see you under these circumstances.”

Fitz bellied up to the younger man. “What am I, chopped liver?”

“Naw, Fitz, you’re just a pain in my ass. How come you haven’t retired yet? You’re too old to be messing with this shit.”

“Parks, you’re not that far behind me. Shut the hell up already. What do you have here?”

Parks turned back to the little house, shaking his head. “It’s not a pretty scene, I’ll warn you. Double homicide, two girls. Both look Spanish, which is fitting for this part of town, but they’re facedown, the M.E. hasn’t gotten here yet. We were waiting for her to declare before we moved them. Took the pics, and video is rolling.”

“Spanish. Let’s go take a look.” Taylor led them across the lawn to the front steps.

On the small porch the four geared up, covering their shoes with the booties, gloving their hands. Taylor wound her ponytail into a bun to make sure there weren’t any loose strands that could fall off and compromise the scene. Fully geared, they made their way into the house, following the thinly taped guide route one of the officers had laid on the floor.

The inside of the house was dressed in a nearly sterile white. To the left of the entry foyer, white leather furniture with glass tables and lamps dominated a small living room, with white walls and white drapes. To the right, a kitchen with white marble floors and a white countertop completed the monochromatic decor. White Berber carpet led down a short hallway to three doors—Taylor could see a pristine bathroom at the end of the hall and assumed the two other doors led to bedrooms. She was right.

“Door number one,” Parks said, gesturing to the right. “And door number two.” He pointed left. “Take your pick, they’re nearly identical.”

Taylor chose the right side first. She stood in the doorway and looked into the room, running her Maglite over the dimness. She didn’t need the overhead to see the blood. Copious amounts of red, startling against the contiguous white theme, was very defining. From her vantage point at the doorway, she could see blood everywhere, cast off on the unmade bed and headboard, washed across the wall, soaking the carpet. In the middle of the bed, a dark-haired woman lay on her stomach, facedown on the sheets, which were nearly black. Exsanguination, her mind told her. The woman’s legs were akimbo, the left twisted under the right as if she’d fallen at an angle onto the mattress. Taylor couldn’t see her arms.

She switched places with Baldwin and Fitz, looking into the left-side room. The scene was virtually identical. A knot formed in her stomach. A double homicide, with both scenes indistinguishable at first glance. Fuck.

She heard talking, turned to see Sam striding toward her.

“Heard you had a bad day,” she said when she reached Taylor.

“Couldn’t be any worse than yours. You had Remy St. Claire fogging up your office. I’m just on my third and fourth bodies today and Baldwin’s former lover is in town with some kind of agenda.”

“A stellar day for us both. What do we have here?” Sam was dressed for the scene and obviously champing at the bit to get to work.

“Two dead, lots of blood, and a mess. I was hoping you could shed some light. They haven’t been turned, I want to see that. This feels a little too familiar, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay. Let me work. By the way, you know we’re supposed to go to dinner tonight. I might be running a little late.”

Taylor groaned. Yes, they were supposed to have dinner tonight, a joint bachelor/bachelorette evening. She’d forgotten.

“Yeah, well, I won’t die if we can’t do it.”

“Oh, come on, T. The boys are all excited. We’ll do dinner, then let them go to the VIBE. There’s a nice little bar next door, we’ll sit in there and drink. Unless you want to go to the strip club.”

“Baldwin’s excited to go to a strip club?” She looked over her shoulder; he was back out in the foyer of the house, talking on his cell phone. His brow was crinkled and she wondered who he was talking to.

“No, I think it’s more Simon is excited. He hasn’t gotten a chance to have a lot of male bonding since the babies came. We’ll let him and Baldwin, Fitz, Marcus and Lincoln watch the girlies dance and you and I will have a relaxing hour before they come back. I plan on getting ravished after that. So don’t spoil my fun, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. We’ll probably have to skip the dinner portion of our evening. What’s the name of the bar? I’ll just plan to meet you there later on. Between the shootings at Baptist and this double, I’m going to be up to my ears signing off on a shitload of paperwork tonight.”

Sam thought hard. “I think it’s called something like…Control, that’s it. Control.”

“Sounds like a gay bar, one of the ones up on Church Street.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t name it. And it’s not. Let’s get to it.” She went into the first room and did a thorough setup, taking her time. It was a good twenty minutes before she declared she was ready to flip the girl. With a little help from one of the crime-scene techs, the woman was rolled onto the sheet that would help them transfer the body into a body bag.

Taylor was chatting with Parks when she heard Sam’s sharp intake of breath.

“What, what is it? What’s the matter?” she asked.

“You better come look at this,” Sam answered.

Taylor came into the room. It only took a glance at the woman before Taylor realized what was happening. The breath left her body in a whoosh.

“Oh my God.”