Wendy written in crooked, childlike letters beneath the corporate logo. She wore a black golf visor with pinon buttons affixed to the sides. Her hair was skinned back from her face in a semblance of a ponytail, blond at the ends, the roots twisted and oily, nearly black. Her eyes were dull brown, the whites slightly red as if she hadn’t slept well or was indulging in some recreational drug.
“We’re looking for Henry Anderson.”
“Isn’t here.” She started to shut the door, but Taylor stuck the toe of her cowboy boot into the crack. She stifled a yelp as the door slammed onto her toe.
“We’d like to come in. Wendy? We’re with Metro homicide. We need to talk with Henry.”
The girl squinted at Taylor. Her teeth were showing, small and crooked, pointed inward as if they were recoiling in horror from the life their owner had chosen. Without a word, she walked away from the door.
Taylor glanced over her shoulder at Baldwin. His hand was resting on his weapon, Marcus had his holster unsnapped and his service Glock an inch out of the leather. They nodded. Taylor pushed the door open with the toe of her boot and let it swing away.
The inside of the house was stifling. A broken fan sat on a milk crate in front of a rump sprung couch, ashtrays and empty beer cans spilled over the edge of what Taylor assumed was a kitchen counter.
“Henry’s not here,” Wendy repeated, lighting a cigarette. She took a deep draw, blew the smoke out with a cough.
“Don’t you want to know why we want to speak with him?”
“Not my business. I rent from him. He don’t live here.”
Add slumlord to Anderson’s list of sins.
“Where does he live, Wendy?”
“Dunno.” She resumed smoking, standing warily five feet from Taylor. She held her left arm across her stomach. Taylor looked closer. The girl was slightly hunched over, and in the dim light, Taylor realized that standing was causing her pain. Coupled with the hunted, faraway look in the girl’s eyes, the remnants of a bruise fading from her check, Taylor was overcome with pity.
“Why don’t you sit down, Wendy. Tell us who hurt you.”
Something fired in the girl’s eyes, whether it was pride or fury, Taylor didn’t know.
“I’m fine,” she said carefully.
“You don’t look fine. Did you get kicked in the stomach?”
“None of your beeswax.” She stabbed out the cigarette, turned away.
The childish answer broke Taylor’s heart. There but for the grace of God go I. Then again, maybe not. Taylor had never understood the cycles of domestic violence. She’d seen the outcomes time and time again. The plays for control, the vicious fights that escalated to beatings, the beatings that got more and more severe until they sometimes resulted in death. How hard would it be to just walk away? These men who knew how to strike without leaving visible bruises, Taylor would like to round them up and shoot them all.
She caught Baldwin’s eye. He was the psychiatrist, let him try.
As Baldwin moved to talk to the girl, Marcus and Taylor took a lap around the house. Dirt-filled crevices, roaches, abandoned magazines without covers, pizza boxes. The bathroom hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, and a lone plastic stick sat on the cracked vanity. A pregnancy test. Too much time had passed for the results to still be visible, whether hours or days, Taylor didn’t know. There was no sign of Henry Anderson, no men’s toiletries, no clothes. It seemed Wendy had been telling the truth, Anderson didn’t live here. Not anymore.
They went back to the overheated living room. Wendy sat on the decrepit couch. She was crying quietly. Baldwin was perched on the milk crate next to her, holding her hand.
Baldwin spoke without taking his eyes off the girl.
“Anderson lives in East Nashville. He holds this house as an address for the police, rents it out. Wendy hasn’t seen him for weeks. I believe her,” he added. A fragile trust had obviously been forged between them. Baldwin handed her something. His card, Taylor assumed, and they bid the girl goodbye.
Out in the yard, Baldwin ran his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. Taylor saw a glint of silver deep in the black, a precursor to the more salt than pepper look he’d obviously have in a few years. He had a few strands starting in his temples already; this streak was new.
“I’ve got the address for Anderson. She mails him a money order biweekly to cover the rent. She just lost a baby. You were right, the boyfriend kicked her in the stomach a few days ago, she miscarried yesterday. Didn’t miss her shift at work though. She said she couldn’t afford to skip work. Poor girl.”
Marcus leaned against his car. “Are we going to go pick him up?”
“You betcha,” Taylor replied. “Let’s go.”
Judge Sophia Bottelli was less than pleased with Taylor.
“And why didn’t you know about this alternate address for this Anderson, Lieutenant?”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. This is a breaking case, moving quickly. We only discovered Anderson’s involvement less than twenty-four hours ago.” C’mon, lady, just initial the fucking amendment to the warrant and let’s be done with it. Quit busting my chops, time’s a-wasting. She couldn’t say that, of course, there’d be no surer way to a cell for contempt charges if she spoke aloud. You’re being bitchy to the bench, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But jeez, busting her balls wasn’t helping things.
“I trust that this is the last time I’ll be hearing from you about this warrant, Lieutenant. I’ll have it faxed with my signature. But no more. I expect to see results from you.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Your Honor.”
Actually, Taylor kind of liked Judge Bottelli. She was tough as nails, but so far had treated them fairly. She’d see what time brought. Obviously her fall from grace earlier in the week was still fresh on the minds of Nashville’s judicial branch. Damn it. She was going to be rebuilding herself for quite some time. The Oompa’s overreaction in stripping her of her badge would have lasting effects.
The fax machine spit out a single sheet of paper. “Got it,” Taylor yelled. No more time to feel sorry for herself. It was time to roll.
She hustled out to the homicide office. Marcus and Lincoln were in consultation, Baldwin standing behind them, leaning in with interest.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing yet,” Lincoln answered. “I’m working on something, but if it doesn’t pan out, I don’t want to waste your time. Go snatch up Anderson before he gets wind of your imminent arrival.” He nodded once at Baldwin, then left the room.
Taylor looked at Baldwin, who threw his hands up in the air. “I know nothing. Let’s go.”
The drive to East Nashville only took five minutes. As they turned onto Eighth Avenue North, the leafy street filled with restored Victorian homes, Taylor shook her head.
“You realize that he lives one block away from Betsy Lerner, our Lieutenant in Sex Crimes? He must be using a false name.”
Baldwin shook his head. “He isn’t. Marcus pulled the records while you were talking to the judge. The property rolls for this address have him listed as owner, but he had a cosigner on the loan, so that name is primary.”
“What’s the cosigner’s name?”
“Antonio Giormanni.”
Taylor expertly whipped the vehicle into a parallel spot that didn’t look large enough for their sedan, then slammed the car into park and turned in her seat.
“I am going to spit nails in about two seconds.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve met the son of a bitch. Though he uses the name Tony Gorman in public. Baldwin, I have been played. Royally played. Tony Gorman and Henry Anderson are buddies, and hoo-boy, I have been played to the fucking hilt.”
She banged her hands against the steering wheel. Marcus came to her door. She put the window down.
“Antonio Giormanni is listed as the co-owner of this house,” she said. “Does that name sound familiar?”
Marcus looked at her for a long moment, then smacked his hand against the roof of the car. “Tony Gorman?”
