“Yeah. Go get Sam or someone. I don’t like spiders.”
“I’ve noticed. It’s in the sink?”
She nodded. “Dropped right down out of the damn sky, landed on the plate I was taking out of the cabinet. I threw the plate at the sink. Christ, would you quit dilly-dallying and kill the damn thing?”
He held up his hands, the newspaper crackling in his left. “Okay, okay. In the sink, you say?”
“You’re going to need something bigger than that flimsy piece of newspaper. I’m not kidding, it’s a freakin’ monster.”
Baldwin sidled to the sink and looked in. “Damn!”
“Told you!”
Among the broken shards of a white dinner plate was the largest spider Baldwin had seen outside the Caribbean. They had banana spiders there the size of your hand, but this thing was running a close second. The body of the spider was the size of a small plum, the legs thick and hairy.
“I think you stunned it. It’s not moving. You realize this is some entomologist’s wet dream, right here. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Just mush the stupid thing. Then clean out the sink, I don’t want to see any trace of it. Jesus, I hate spiders.”
Deciding his love wasn’t wrong about the newspaper, he went to the back door and picked up a size eleven tennis shoe. “This oughta do it.” He smashed the shoe into the sink, crushing the beast, and the remainder of the plate. “Eugh, that’s gross. Okay, it’s definitely dead.”
He turned back to Taylor, who was still frozen in the corner. He was overwhelmed. Seeing her scared, vulnerable was just too much for him. He spoke before he could stop to think. “Baby, I want to be around to kill all your spiders. Forever. Starting right now. Will you-”
The phone rang, startling them both. Taylor was staring at Baldwin, but the words dried up in his throat. The moment was gone.
Finally breaking their gaze, he smiled and went to the other room, still carrying the remains of the very dead spider on his shoe.
Taylor only half heard Baldwin talking as she left the kitchen, working her way toward the back of the house. She pulled her 9mm out of its holster and ran it along the palm of her hand, as if she could pick up her gun and solve the ills of the world. There, that was better. She was still tough. Still ready to take on the world. Amazing that in the course of a few days she’d felt so out of control, enough that a spider rattled her to the point of no return. She imagined that must be what Baldwin felt, chasing after a phantom. What was he saying, there in the kitchen? From a man to a woman, the words Will you can only go a few ways, especially following the word forever. Interesting.
She stepped into the office, secured her weapon in the gun safe, which she always left unlocked; there was no one to keep the guns from, other than her and Baldwin. She heard phones simultaneously hang up and stuck her head out into the living room.
“What’s going on?”
Baldwin collapsed in a ball on the sofa. “Are you fully recovered from your trauma?” he teased.
“Yes. I’ll have the exterminator out here first thing. They must have forgotten a spot last time.” Baldwin was avoiding her eyes, trying not to smile. “Yeah, yeah, so I have them come spray once a month. I don’t like bugs. And we’ll have to order something in for dinner, ’cause I’m not going back in there until that mess is cleaned up. Now, what’s going on?”
He ran his hands through his hair. “To start with, Grimes committed suicide.”
“Are you joking?”
“No. He’s been riding the edge on this case. Missing the poems really made him topple. Garrett was looking into the leak for me. Turns out Grimes’s oldest son is a news producer in New York. That’s how the media’s been so on top of the game all along. Grimes was giving everything to his son. I should have seen this coming. I did see it coming. I left him behind in North Carolina because he was becoming a liability to the case, and it must have caught up with him. I feel terrible about it.”
“I bet you do. But you know you can’t blame yourself, Baldwin. This is a big case. He should have pulled himself from it.”
“He tried. I told him it was okay, to ride it out. My fault. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. I’ll talk to his family, try to help, but…” His voice trailed off. There were so many other avenues he could have taken with Grimes. This one would stay with him for a while.
“Anyway, before he did it he ID’d the girl they found in Louisville as Noelle Pazia, from Asheville. The preliminary autopsy showed she died of an acute asthma attack. I’m betting he took her and she died along the way, before he had a chance to kill her. If that tracks, he would be furious that he couldn’t kill her himself and would search for a suitable replacement immediately. I think he found one, we have a new girl missing. Ivy Clark from Louisville. The SAIC in Louisville just called me to let me know they’ve found a poem in Ivy Clark’s car. So it’s been a bit of an afternoon.”
“Any word on Jake Buckley?”
“I interviewed his boss. Complete dickhead. Claims there’s no way Buckley could have possibly been involved. He was totally uncooperative. But the secretary or receptionist or whatever she was, snuck his itinerary to me.”
“Let me guess. Mr. Buckley has been through Huntsville, Baton Rouge, Jackson, Nashville, Noble, Roanoke and Asheville during his travels.”
He looked at her, amazed. She smiled.
“I talked to Quinn Buckley for a moment. Told her we wanted Jake’s opinion on the case since the victims had a connection to Health Partners. There’s more. He is supposed to be in Louisville, and expected to make his way back to Nashville today or tomorrow. Quinn told me he doesn’t keep to the schedule sometimes. I don’t know, Baldwin, you need to go have a sit-down with this guy, and do it quick. I think Quinn’s probably going to kill him. She’s been trying to get in touch with him to let him know about Whitney, and she hasn’t been able to nail him down. That sounds about right, doesn’t it? He doesn’t know that Whitney’s dead. I think this may be your guy.”
“By any chance did Quinn give you his vehicle?”
“Of course. Big shock, he’s driving a BMW 740iL, silver, with Vanderbilt plates. Here’s the number.” She handed a slip of paper to Baldwin. “Shall I have a Be on the Lookout put out for our friend?”
“Do it, Taylor. And mark the BOLO armed and dangerous. He may have Ivy Clark in the car with him. You saw the new e-mail on Whitney’s laptop? It’s the rest of the stanza from ‘The Flea.’” He recited from memory:
“Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead; Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two; And this, alas! is more than we would do.
“I don’t know what the symbolism means to him. That’s the biggest problem, poetry, especially this type of romantic eighteenth-century work, is totally subjective. I can think ‘The Flea’ is about making love while another man may think it’s about smashing an insect. You know how that is. So I don’t even want to try to get into his psyche based on his poems of choice. But I promise you this, he wants Whitney to have these messages. I just wonder if the story was meant to be Whitney.”
Taylor ran her hand along the back of Baldwin’s neck. “Let me call in the BOLO. You need to try and relax for a few minutes.”
“Maybe you could help me with that?”
“Maybe I can.”
Forty
Taylor was lying on a warm, sunny beach, her long legs spread in front of her on a plastic chaise lounge. She
