“Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it suck’d from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou Find’st not thyself nor me the weaker now. ’Tis true; then learn how false fears be; Just so much honour, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
“The rest of ‘The Flea.’ And there’s more. It says, ‘I AM FINISHED.’” He sat down in the chair, white faced. “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch!” He ran his hands through his hair, shoulders slumped.
Taylor went to him, speaking softly. “He’s still out there, Baldwin. I don’t care if he says he’s finished. He’s not. Someone like that will never just stop what he’s been doing. Never. We have to find him, Baldwin. We have to find him now.” She set a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed. He reached up and took her hand, grateful for her touch. He gathered himself as if a great decision had been made.
“Okay. Okay, let’s do it. This is just further confirmation that someone was setting up Jake Buckley. Someone who would know his schedule, his habits.” He was back on his feet and pacing the small room. “Where’s the information from Nathan Chase? I made a request for his visitors’ log. And we need Lincoln to do the back trace on the e-mail address. Maybe something will hit this time. We deserve a break.” He took a deep breath, composure regained, and picked up the phone. Taylor smiled at him and stepped out to see Lincoln.
She found him on the computer at his desk, trolling through some area of cyberspace that she wasn’t familiar with. He threw up his hands as she walked up, yelling, “Score!”
“Playing games on company time again, Lincoln?” He turned, his smile wide, eyes shining. “Not that kind of game. The more esoteric version. I had a link set up to Whitney Connolly’s address, put a worm in her system that would enable me to see where any message she received came from. I got him, Taylor. I know where your Yahoo guy sent his last e-mail.”
Forty-Eight
Taylor, Baldwin and Lincoln stood outside a coffee shop named Bongo Java, right off the campus of Belmont University. The shop was teeming with people, bohemian students, yuppies in suits, grunge rockers with tattoos and black fingernail polish. It was one of those places that transcended class, didn’t care what your background was or who you were trying to be. It served coffee, had a great Internet cafe and was one of the most popular places in town precisely because it was so ordinary.
They’d secured a quick warrant to smooth their path. As they entered, Taylor took a deep breath, savoring the rich scent of coffee. A latte wouldn’t go amiss right now.
They went to the counter and ordered drinks. Baldwin paid, winking. The Bureau would be buying today, a semicelebratory drink for getting on the correct path at last. Taylor and Lincoln withdrew their badges and asked to see the manager. The owner of the shop came out from the back room instead, ready to help Nashville’s finest with anything they might need.
While Lincoln talked, explaining what they needed, Taylor looked around. Notices about bands playing, apartments for rent, an upcoming writers’ night all crowded into a small but organized corkboard. The realization hit her that the Strangler had probably stood right where she was standing, and a chill crept down her spine. They were close, she could feel it. A visceral reaction to the presence of evil. He could be here at this very moment. She glanced around. That one, with the semi-Mohawk and pierced nostril. Her gaze slid away when the punk gave her the finger. Anarchy, baby. Or him, the mild-mannered-looking man sitting by himself with his briefcase open, staring out the window as if his world had just ended? Perhaps the owner himself, a potbellied man easing into his fifties, looking somber while he talked to Baldwin. Evil took many faces, many of them benign. It just wasn’t always apparent.
Lincoln was sitting at a computer docking station, fingers flying, running a program he’d written through the hard drive of the computer. He looked over at her and made an okay sign. He’d found the right computer, found the tracks of their killer in cyberspace.
But the fact that the message had been sent the night before meant that countless people could have used the computer since the Strangler had sat there, typing out his message. Prints weren’t an option. There was no other way to trace him. They’d found his last vessel of communication, but couldn’t do anything about it.
Taylor went back to the owner, interrupting his conversation with Baldwin. “Is there anyone in here that you recognize from last night?”
Baldwin nodded at her. “That’s what we were talking about. He doesn’t see anyone that was here last night other than their regulars. They had a poetry reading, an open-mike night, and there were about fifty people gathered around. He didn’t notice anyone unusual.”
“I did.” A small voice peeped up, right below Baldwin’s elbow. A pixie dressed in a long flowing peasant skirt and a vivid rainbow scarf practically had to raise her hand to get their attention. She was tiny, under five feet tall, and beautifully delicate. She gave them a winning smile when they looked down to see her.
“I mean, I saw someone in here last night, working on the computer, during the reading. I was people watching, you know? You get all kinds, they’re great fodder for work. I’m an artist,” she stated proudly. Taylor bit back a grin, the girl was so tiny, so garishly dressed that Taylor liked her immediately. She’d always admired people who could express themselves in such ways.
“Wow, what happened to you?” the girl asked Taylor. “You’re looking pretty beat up.” She eyed Taylor. “I don’t even know if I could mix the right colors to paint that bruise. Does it hurt?”
Taylor smiled. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, but thanks for asking. We need to know what you saw last night.”
“Yes, ma’am, what did you see?” Baldwin asked, hands clenched in anticipation.
Suddenly the center of attention, the girl stood a little straighter and cleared her throat. “There was a man on the computer last night. I took notice because he was just so damn handsome. I thought about going over and introducing myself, but as soon as I got up the courage, he logged off and left. I was bummed. You don’t often get to see such beauty in a man. I would have loved to have him sit for me.”
Taylor felt her heart quicken, just an extra beat per second. “What did he look like…what’s your name again?” she asked.
“I’m Isabella. I’m in here most every night. Days, too, sometimes. Depends on how the craft is going, if the Muse is with me or not.”
“So, Isabella, what did he look like?” Baldwin wanted to get things back on track.
“He was about six-four, almost as big as you. Muscled, too, he had on this black cashmere T-shirt that looked like it was painted on him. Saw every muscle, and he was cut, too. A regular Adonis. Black hair, wavy, kinda long. And these blue eyes. I’ve never seen such a shade of blue. I would have to mix my own colors to get it just right, it’s not something that comes from a box, you know?” She shook her head, eyebrows knitting. “Well, I’m being stupid, I sketched him.”
She opened a portfolio and riffled through a few pages. “Here, this is him. Amazing, isn’t he?”
Taylor took the page from her eagerly. She and Baldwin each held a corner, staring at the perfect jaw, the chiseled nose, full lips that made the face almost feminine. Taylor was taken aback; surely this angel couldn’t be their killer. Their eyes met and she realized Baldwin was thinking the same thing. He gave her a little nod.
“Isabella, may we hold on to this?” he asked.
The waif looked sad for an instant, then nodded. “Well, of course, of course you can have it. But is there any chance I could get it back once you’re finished with it? It was the best of the lot.” She blushed furiously. “I did a few,” she admitted.
Taylor reached out and shook the girl’s hand. “I promise we’ll get it back to you. You may not want it, but we’ll get it back.” She gave Isabella a card. “Thank you, Isabella. This is going to be a huge help.”
“Can I ask you what he did that has you so interested in him? I mean, was he sending bomb threats or something?” Her eyes went a little dreamy at the thought of a dangerous man in an eye-catching package.
Taylor shook her head. “Just do me a favor. If you see him again, run away. Then call me.”
They left her staring after them, trying to figure out what he could have possibly done that was so awful the
