She called Baldwin back and they chatted for a few minutes. She told him about her day and he assured her that Garrett was just fine. After her fourth jaw-cracking yawn, Baldwin suggested she get some sleep. They hung up with promises to talk in the morning.
A dog barked once, sharp and deep, then howled. The sound gave her a chill, and she set the alarm before moving upstairs.
She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and was climbing in the bed when she heard the tape for the first time. Channel Five kindly replayed their ten o’clock newscast at midnight on their sister cable station. The anchor was intoning with horror, preparing the viewers with a warning that was sure to keep them riveted to their seats and the channel tuned in.
“We’re going to play the 911 tapes from the Corinne Wolff murder scene. We must warn you, the tape is disturbing, and not appropriate for young viewers.”
The screen went blank, then a blue background with a graphic of a white rotary telephone popped up, the headline reading 911 Call. The tape started rolling, static whispering at first, then clearer. The station provided a written transcript on the screen to accompany Michelle Harris’s words.
“911 Operator: Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?
Michelle Harris: I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God. [crying]
911 Operator: Can you repeat that, ma’am?
Michelle Harris: There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…HAYDEN?
911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?
Michelle Harris: HAYDEN, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?
911 Operator: Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?
Michelle Harris: Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…
911 Operator: Hayden is your sister?
Michelle Harris: Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.
Background noise: Mama hurt
911 Operator: Who is dead, ma’am?
Michelle Harris: My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s, she’s cold. [crying, indistinguishable noise]
911 Operator: We’re sending the police, ma’am.”
Taylor turned off the television. That pretty much guaranteed she wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while. She got out of the bed and went to the bonus room, knowing that a few games of eight ball would help settle her mind.
She snapped on the lamp, took the cover off the table and retrieved a Miller Lite from the small dorm refrigerator that stood unobtrusively in the alcove. She twisted off the top, sent the metal cap arcing toward the trashcan with a nice overhead, then cursed. She’d forgotten to bring home the brackets for the basketball pool. Oh well, she could manage that tomorrow.
She racked up the balls and started shooting, the rhythm of her game helping a quiet calm steal into her limbs. Bend, sight, the clicking smack of the cue hitting the ball, drop. Over and over again, until the table was clear. She racked the balls back up, did it again. The beer was empty now, so she got another, pausing to sip at intervals, focused on the task at hand. Trying to empty her mind.
Taylor got tired of being a stranger to deep, uninterrupted sleep, but at least it helped hone her skills on the felt. She could probably make some cash as a pool shark if she ever needed a career change.
Three-thirty now, and she finally started to feel the slight tug at her eyelids that presaged some REM time. She covered up the table, tossed the beer bottles in the trash, shut off the light and went back to her bedroom.
The sense that something wasn’t right struck her, and she went to the windows, lifted the edge of the blind and looked out onto the darkened street. The home-owners association had bylaws forbidding street lamps, which was one of the dumbest things Taylor had ever heard of. As a consequence, some of the homes on the street burned the front lights all night, the yellow pools of safety a warning to any who thought to enter, knowing that light was their best deterrent to crime. Not all the home owners felt the same.
With only three houses’ porch lights on tonight, and those farther up the street, the darkness was deep and penetrating. Taylor took in the shadowy brick structures, the trees waving long-boned fingers in the air. In a day or two, they’d be in full bud. Spring generally appeared overnight in Nashville. Taylor wondered if she stood and watched, would she see the coming of the equinox? Instead, there was nothing to observe, no one on the street lurking, staring up at the windows.
“Silly goose,” she said, her voice’s typical no nonsense tone a comfort.
She got into the bed and stared at the grotesque shadows cast about the room by the night-light’s reflection on the ceiling fan. Thought about Corinne Wolff, beaten, alone, unable to fend off her attacker. Rolling onto her side, she caressed the pillow facing her, where Baldwin’s chiseled features usually gave her a respite. The emptiness was palpable. Stretching her right arm out, she slid it under the pillow. Her fingers closed around the grip of her Glock. A shiver went through her, and she was finally dragged under.
The lights were doused at last. He wondered how she slept. On her side, or her back? On her stomach, vulnerable and unable to defend herself if surprised? Oh, if that were only the case. But no. He’d watched her walk, the long stride never hesitating, never compromising, and knew she slept on her side, a leg thrown over the man next to her. Confidence. She had that in spades. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to teach her humility. Bliss.
A nosy dog scented him and began baying. He moved deeper into the woods, away from the house, away from civilization. The time would come. He must simply be patient.
Tuesday
Nine
D espite the alarm going off in her ear for a full twenty minutes, Taylor couldn’t rouse herself. She finally reached a hand over and stifled the music, glancing with one eye at the clock face. Nearly seven-thirty. Damn it. She needed to be at Forensic Medical by eight to witness Corinne Wolff’s autopsy.
She threw back the tangle of covers and went into the bath, started the shower running and brushed her teeth. Fifteen minutes later she rolled out of the garage barefoot, Diet Coke clutched in her lap, jeans and T-shirt on, wet hair smoothed into a coiled bun. She had an awkward crick in her neck from sleeping at an odd angle that the shower hadn’t relieved. She could put her boots on when she got to Gass Street, slip into a sweater, too. It was chilly as hell this morning.
She’d made this trek too many times to count in her years as a detective. She felt a strange kind of kinship with her victims-the need to see what was inside, what made them tick. And Corinne Wolff was no exception. Taylor was interested to see the particulars of how she’d died, at the very least.
Interstate 40 was packed with early morning commuters, and an accident at the Charlotte Pike exit meant they were crawling slower than normal. The west side of town was blessed with less congestion, less traffic, and an easier commute than those people driving into Nashville from the east, south and north of town. But an accident could derail that immediately, bringing all the cars to a snail’s pace. Taylor sipped her Diet Coke, trying for patience. It didn’t look like traffic was going to get moving anytime soon, and she wasn’t in the mood to sit. Damn it, she was going to be late. Another ten minutes passed before the cars inched forward enough for her to hop off at Charlotte westbound. Feeling free, she made an illegal U-turn in front of the Cracker Barrel, sailed up to White Bridge and got on Briley Parkway.
The new section of road quickly gave way to the old four-lane highway, and she started making up time as she cruised past the defunct Tennessee State Prison, the site of Robert Redford’s film The Last Castle and an architectural dead ringer for Johnny Cash’s infamous Folsom State Prison. It had fallen into disrepair and was abandoned, left to the ghosts and rats. She tried not to think of her father, once a brief inmate of those twenty-
