empty rooms behind them. Since there was more snow predicted, she assumed people had taken off early. Taylor stared at the entrance, the back door she’d come through hundreds of times, realizing that this would be the last time she’d see it from this perspective. Swallowing the misgivings, she bounded up the stairs, swiped her card and took the hallway to her office. She didn’t run into a soul, confirming her earlier feeling. The building was practically empty. Except for the homicide offices.
She turned the corner and was greeted with a hail of shouts and cheers.
“Taylor, what the hell are you doing here?” Marcus scrambled out of a chair, making a place by the space heater for his boss to sit. Taylor took the chair gratefully, slipping off her gloves and rubbing her hands together in front of the heater, luxuriating in the billowing heat it dispensed. She noticed Marcus sidling across the room casually. He reached behind him, pulled the door to her office closed. Fitz tried to distract her.
“Yeah, LT, aren’t you supposed to be getting all beautified for the wedding?” Fitz was informal today, his hair an exceptional steely-gray, hunter’s plaid shirt untucked, his increasingly smaller paunch spilling over the tops of his jeans. He was unapologetic about his garb, just leaned further back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. “And what time’s the rehearsal again?”
He winked at Lincoln Ross, who had glanced up from his industrious work digging a rock out of the tread of his Timberland boots. Lincoln gave Taylor a smile, the small gap between his two front teeth the only mar on his otherwise handsome face. She smiled back at him, comforted by his tranquility.
“You guys are a regular riot. Why are you all dressed like you’re going camping?”
“Because you weren’t supposed to be in today and we were all planning on cutting out and going camping,” Fitz grinned at her.
“Really? Camping? In a snowstorm?”
“Is it snowing again?” Lincoln went to the window, frowning at the street below.
“It was starting up when I came in.” Taylor started to go into her office, but all three men moved toward her, saying no simultaneously. Fitz guided her to his desk and held out the chair for her.
“Any reason in particular I’m not allowed to go into my own office, boys?”
“Nope, no reason. As a matter of fact, you really should bundle up and head on home.” Marcus smiled at her, Lincoln nodded his agreement.
“But I need to wrap a few things up.”
Fitz shook his head. “No, you don’t. Just stop thinking about it, LT. You’re going to be gone for three weeks. The Fibbies are all over this like a fried june bug. You get married, go to Italy and have a wonderful start to your new life. We’ll get it covered. I promise.”
“Has anyone heard from the esteemed Charlotte Douglas since she returned to Quantico? And is there any word on Jane Macias? There’s a serial killer out there, in case y’all have forgotten. I want to help. I think I should postpone-”
Lincoln cut her off. “Oh, hell no, sister. Not a chance. You’re getting married tomorrow whether you like it or not. End of story. How d’you like my head?”
Taylor looked him over. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it immediately, chastised herself for being so self-absorbed. Lincoln had shaved his head bare, removing the curly dreadlocks he’d been sporting for the past few months. His skin was a shiny cafe au lait, glistening with conditioner. She got out of the warm chair, circled him a few times, contemplating. He’d looked like a sexy Rasta singer a la Lenny Kravitz with the dreads, but Taylor couldn’t place who he reminded her of shaved.
“Very slick, my friend. That tux is going to be stunning on you. You’ll be the most handsome bridesmaid in the whole world.” She bumped his shoulder lightly with her hip, opened her mouth to speak. He cut her off.
“Naw, don’t you go making any speeches now. We’re all good with the setup. Fitz walks you down the aisle, Marcus and I have equal standing as bridesmen, even though we’ll be on Baldwin’s side, and Sam’s the maid of honor.”
“Matron of honor,” Marcus chimed in. “A maid of honor is for someone who isn’t married yet.” He grinned, happy to have a chance to poke fun at his friend.
“Whatever, butthead. All that matters is our favorite lieutenant’s getting married.” Lincoln jumped out of the chair. He and Marcus started a chorus. The baritone and tenor filled the room.
“Here comes the bride, short, fat and wide…” They dissolved into giggles before they reached the third line.
Fitz and Taylor watched the two goof off, shaking their heads and laughing at their antics. Despite the specter of a serial killer in their midst, the homicide team was in understandably high spirits.
Taylor looked at Fitz. “Is there really a reason why I’m not allowed in my office?”
“There really is. Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Just a little something for your wedding night.”
She gave him a dirty look.
“Oh, stop it. We’re just wrapping presents. So why don’t you go home?”
She looked at him, deep in the eyes, and he sighed. “Okay. Okay. You can stay. But you still can’t go in your office.”
Moments like this, she wondered who was really in charge of the unit.
Lincoln’s phone rang, and he and Marcus stopped horsing around so he could answer it. He rolled his eyes and nodded, hanging up without a word.
“Body. Who wants to go?”
“Me,” Taylor stood. When they all started in griping at her, she shot them a look. “Lincoln’s primary. I’m just going along for the ride. It will be like I’m not even there. Let’s go.”
As they packed it up and left, Taylor’s emotions were mixed. Every time they got called out now, she expected to find the mutilated body of Jane Macias. Damn, she wanted to catch this guy before they blew the country.
Twenty-Five
Nashville, Tennessee Friday, December 19 3:00 p.m.
T o Taylor’s frustration, Lincoln talked about everything but the Snow White murders as they drove to West Nashville, looking for the address they’d been given. He refused to be engaged in speculation, insisted that she stop worrying about the case. Taylor sensed Fitz’s influence in Lincoln’s adamant state.
A follow-up call with more details had them on their way to an apartment complex on West End, to a shooting that looked like a possible suicide. It did not sound like a Snow White case, which meant Jane was still out there, somewhere. Dead or alive, Taylor didn’t know.
The address wasn’t matching up with the streets they were seeing. Taylor called in, got confirmation that the call had been off the mark. Instead, they took West End to West Meade, continued on Highway 70 over Nine Mile Hill and pulled into the parking lot of the Iroquois Apartments. They were well past West End and into Bellevue. Whoever made the dispatch call must have been new and from the east side of town-people often confused the areas west of Interstate 65. Nashvillians called it Old Hickory disease. The road appeared on all four quadrants of town. Though logic dictated you could get from one side of town to the other on the street, that was a fallacy. A confusing fallacy.
They were met by the somber white van belonging to the medical examiner’s office, a crime-scene tech and Bob Parks, who escorted them into a dingy apartment that smelled of latent fire damage, bacon grease and Clorox, an altogether terrible olfactory combination.
A bespectacled young man was standing over the body, a puddle of blood at his feet. He looked up, gave them a blank smile.
“Hi. Glad you’re here.”
“Hey, Dr. Fox.” Taylor nodded at the M.E., then stood back quietly and let Lincoln talk.
“Heard this was a possible suicide?” Lincoln walked around the pool of blood, taking it in from every angle.
The young M.E. shook his head. “No suicide on this one. Execution style. He was on his knees. Shooter put the gun to his head, pulled the trigger. See the stippling? It was right up against his temple, flat on the surface. The
