what he’d found?”
Greenleaf finally found his voice. He held tightly to his assistant’s arm. “No, Lieutenant, he didn’t. Oh, my. Oh, poor Frank. He didn’t deserve to go like that, in violence. He always wanted to die in his sleep when he was one hundred and eight. That was the age he’d picked. Felt like he’d have lived a full life if he could make it. Oh, no. His wife?”
“The chaplain is over there, I’m sure. Steve, I’m sorry. I need to get on that computer.”
She could tell they were terribly upset by her insensitivity, but they rolled with her, getting her into the room Frank had been using. Greenleaf finally excused himself, face still white with shock. He said he needed to go prepare an obituary worthy of Frank’s contribution to the paper, and society in general.
She sat down at the computer, wishing she had Lincoln with her. He was the brilliant computer mind; she’d always relied on him. But she wasn’t a slouch herself.
She’d been working for an hour and coming up dry when a small noise made her look up. Daphne Beauchamp stood in the doorway.
“I heard what happened. You look frustrated.”
Taylor glanced at her watch. Rehearsal was in less than two hours. Still, it was awfully late for the young archivist to be at work. She greeted her, gestured to a chair.
“Why are you here so late?”
“No offense, Lieutenant, but that’s kind of a stupid question.”
Taylor looked at her closely; there were deep black circles under her eyes. The girl wasn’t sleeping.
“Afraid to go home?”
Daphne nodded. “Hell, yes. I’d be an idiot not to be, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s completely understandable. This is a safe place. If you’re happier here, stay here.”
Taylor continued scrolling through the computer screen. Daphne stood and looked over her shoulder.
“Can I help you?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to find the information Frank Richardson was looking at. He came to my office, said he had something for me to see but didn’t leave anything for me. There was nothing found with his body, and so far, we haven’t recovered anything from his house or his car. Which tells me if Frank had his notes on his person, the shooter took the information with him.”
Daphne flinched at the word shooter, but straightened her glasses and nodded. “So you need to find what he thought was so important.”
“Right. I’ve been going through the files, and I haven’t hit on anything that stands out to me. Would you like to give it a try?”
“Why not? Here, shove over.” Daphne took a chair and set it next to Taylor’s. “Show me where you’ve been.”
Taylor started running through the memory cache of the computer, showing Daphne the steps she’d taken.
They worked comfortably for ten minutes before Daphne spoke again.
“You think she’s dead?”
It took Taylor a moment to process. “Who, Jane?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I wish I could tell you no, but she might be.”
“Thank you for being honest with me, at least. Skip came over last night all in a dither. He’s crazy about her, but he made a move on me. Men are idiots.”
“Sometimes they are, Daphne. Sometimes they are.”
The girl was staring at the computer. She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled. “Oh, and so am I. Hold up a second. Move. Move move move.”
Taylor stood and took a few steps away.
“Why did I not think of this earlier?” Daphne scooted her chair closer. She mumbled and grumbled to herself for a second, then a list of files filled the page. “Got it!”
“What do you have?”
“I should have thought of it sooner. This computer has a dedicated printer. I’ve just resent every document that was printed off of this for the past two days. Somewhere in there, we might find an answer.”
The rehearsal dinner was complete, and Baldwin and Taylor were back at the house, looking over the files Daphne had pulled. She’d hit the mother lode. Frank had apparently printed out more than one hundred pages of information, everything from property records to crime statistics. When Taylor left, a stack of papers in her hands, Daphne had looked so forlorn that Taylor had invited her to the rehearsal dinner. The girl had been chatting with Marcus when they cut out. From the look on both their faces, the Titans’ football player might just be a thing of the past. Taylor felt like a damn cupid.
The rehearsal had gone as well as could be expected. Their priest, Father Francis, was a kind, white-haired man who’d come out of retirement to see Taylor married off. He’d christened her, given her first communion, counseled her when her father went to jail-it was only fitting that he see her into the arms of marriage, as well. He and Baldwin got along, Taylor knew they’d been meeting for golf dates earlier in the fall when the weather was holding up. At the time she’d found it amusing-her fiance and the priest playing golf. Now it just freaked her out. Father Francis had played golf with her father for years. He was part of a regular foursome with Win Jackson, Burt Mars and another member who’d passed away years before. Taylor resisted the urge to cross-examine him as he instructed her and Baldwin in their vows.
They hadn’t planned a formal dinner for after, just called in to an Italian restaurant nearby the church called Finezza, told them they’d be bringing in nine people. Ten, if you included their newest member, Daphne. They ordered pizza and drank wine out of water tumblers, enjoying themselves, nice and low-key.
There were many toasts to the couple’s happiness. Taylor lifted her glass again and again, wondering what the phrase meant. Happiness was a state of mind, sometimes elusive, oftentimes immeasurable. She was happy tonight, in her way. Content, even. But was she the right gauge for the implications of the emotion? She imagined there were people, women getting married, who were simply happy to have a house, a nice ring and a long train to their dress.
Taylor wasn’t about that. She wanted to see a week without a dead body, for starters. That would make her happy. She’d like to have Frank Richardson’s killer in her sights. Yeah, that would make her happy. She’d like to have the Snow White Killer and his accomplice on their knees in front of her, hands cuffed, a fresh clip loaded into her Glock…panic swarmed her chest. These weren’t the right thoughts for a soon-to-be-married bride to be having. She should be dreaming of sugar and spice and everything nice.
Maybe she was a little drunk.
Baldwin saw the way the night was headed, took charge of getting his bride home. She drank a Diet Coke in the truck and felt better. The snow had stopped; the white layers looked like wedding cake. She giggled at the image, and Baldwin laughed with her.
They got home, changed, and tried to find something to do outside of their bedroom. Taylor was too keyed- up to sleep, so she challenged Baldwin to several games of eight ball, then collapsed, wired but exhausted, on their living-room couch.
“What’s wrong?”
“I want to figure out why Frank Richardson was killed. And I had to bite my tongue so I didn’t interrogate Father Francis.”
“Was that why you were acting so weird? I was starting to think you were getting cold feet again.”
“You’re assuming I ever warmed them up.”
“Taylor-”
“I’m kidding. Stop already. No, I’m thinking about Frank, and Burt Mars, and I can’t help myself, honey, I need to go over these files.”
Baldwin sighed good-naturedly. “What can I do to help?”
Two hours later, Taylor felt confident she knew what was going on.
“Burt Mars was a very bad boy.”
Baldwin was stretched out on the couch in the living room. Taylor sat on the floor, the printed papers from
