Taylor looked into the woman’s eyes. The whites were yellowed and bloodshot, the brown coagulated. Track marks cruised up and down her arms. Lacking hope, so many of these women sought refuge in drugs. It usually became so bad that they’d do just about anything to get their fix.
“I would have looked for her, if I’d known,” Taylor said.
“Yaw, sure. I believe that. Where Allegra be now?”
“At the medical examiner’s.” Taylor turned back to Allegra’s grandmother. “Once we’re finished, she can be released to you, ma’am.”
She looked confused. “To me? What would I do wit her?”
“Bury her, perhaps. Give her some peace. She deserves that much,” the chaplain said.
They both shook their heads. D’Andra spoke quietly. “Ah, hell, preacher man, we don’t have money for dat. You folks get her in the ground. She be your problem now.”
Taylor watched as she scooped up the baby, who was gnawing on its dirty fist, and walked out into the sparse backyard. Shoulders slumped, head down. Another generation oppressed by drugs and poverty. God, it was depressing out here in the projects.
McKenzie was busy scribbling in his notepad, actively avoiding the situation. Father Victor sat at the table, took one of the old woman’s hands in his. She grasped onto him like he was a tiny bit of flotsam in a wide ocean. Starved for a touch of kindness.
“Is there anyone we can call to come be with you?” Father Victor asked.
“No. There’s just me. I take care of myself. The girls come round, D’Andra and her momma, look after me some. One of the neighbors takes me to church and gets my groceries.”
“Do you mind if we look at Allegra’s room?” Taylor asked.
The old woman waved toward the hall off the kitchen. The apartment was a two-bedroom with a single bath at the end of the hall. Maybe eight hundred square feet, if they counted inside the cabinets and closets.
The tiny room to the right was the grandmother’s; it smelled of urine and sandalwood and dark things. The one on the left was smaller, but less fragrant. A black cloth, draped half on and half off the window, let little bits of sunlight stream into the room. A single, unmade bed was pushed into a corner; the pink-and-white striped sheets looked like they needed a wash. A wooden cross hung over the bed, and a yellowed photograph of a smiling young girl, maybe eight, with her arms wrapped around an older version of herself. The picture was definitely of the same woman at the medical examiner’s office. Taylor stared at it without removing it from the wall. The older woman must have been Allegra’s mother. They had the same nose, the same tilt to their eyes.
The picture and the cross were the only adornments on the gray walls. There was nothing superfluous in the cheap decor-a bed, a small wooden dresser with a scratched top, clothes on the floor. They moved systematically through the room, looking in drawers, under the bed, sifting through the small pile of clothes in the corner. Taylor found what might have started as a diary but had turned into a doodle pad. She set the journal on the desk.
“We need a crime-scene tech to go through here. See if there are any foreign prints or DNA that we can trace to her abductor,” Taylor said.
“I’ll make the call.”
The bathroom had the usual female accoutrements, cold cream and lotion, makeup, mascara, a crumpled box of yeast-infection treatment, all the things that would signal a young woman used it. There were two syringes in the makeup kit, a little spoon, and a crack pipe. Allegra’s tox screen would be interesting. She was definitely into narcotics. And she hadn’t taken them with her, which was a surprise. It told Taylor that Allegra wasn’t planning to be away from home for very long.
So how does a girl from the projects end up hung on a column in a house on Love Hill?
“Damn shame,” McKenzie whispered.
“No kidding,” Taylor said. “Get the crime lab on this and let’s get back to them.”
She walked down the short hallway into the kitchen. Father Victor was saying a prayer of solace over Mrs. Johnson.
“May Christ support us all the day long, till the shadows lengthen, and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over and our work is done. Then in His mercy may He give us a safe lodging, and holy rest and peace at the last. Amen.”
Taylor watched until he made the sign of the cross and stood before she addressed the woman again. She was almost afraid to speak. She didn’t want to invalidate the prayer, chase away whatever goodness might be hovering around the woman, if only for an instant. Then the old woman coughed-hard, sharp, barking catches-and the moment was gone.
She asked gently, “Ma’am, do you have any contact information for Tyrone?”
“He hangs out at the minimart on the corner of Claiborne and Lafayette. Should be there now, lest someones around here already done tipped him off. That girl just through here, she work for him, too. Best be quick if you want to see to him. She’s got a mouth on her like a motorboat.”
The woman made the guttural noise again. Taylor understood it was a mirthless laugh. She got quiet, then seemed to shrink in on herself, drawing into the collar of her stained dressing gown like a turtle.
Taylor nodded to Father Victor, then thanked Mrs. Johnson. McKenzie was standing by the front door, phone to his ear. She gestured to him to follow her, left the dank space and went into the fresh air. The breeze was tinged with the cloyingly sweet scent of marijuana smoke. She didn’t care at the moment. She just wanted to get out. She felt dirty.
She got in the Caprice, McKenzie slid in beside her. She keyed the radio, asked dispatch to put her through to Gerald Sayers, head of the Specialized Investigative Unit. Gerald’s people handled the drugs and prostitution in Nashville, plus all the other vice-related activities. He was a good man, not afraid to do whatever it took to get the job done. She trusted him.
Within five minutes, Sayers was back to her. He called on her cell. She put it on speaker so McKenzie could hear.
“Gerald. How are you?”
“Good to hear from you, Taylor. You holding up?” The show of support she was getting from her fellow officers was so heartening. No one agreed with the actions taken against her.
“I am. Listen, my new partner’s here, too, Renn McKenzie. We’ve got a question for you. You know a pimp named Tyrone Hill, out of the J. C. Napier homes?”
“Oh, yeah. Dealer, pimp. Informant if the price is right. Got his greasy paws in a few different pies. Took over some of Terrence Norton’s territory after Lincoln popped him last month. Word is Terrence is calling the shots from the inside. Why do you ask about Tyrone? What’s he done now? I hope it’s a jailable offense.”
“One of his girls ended up dead yesterday.”
“OD or hit?”
“Neither. Looks like she was held for a while, starved, then left in a stranger’s house, nailed to a column.”
“Oh, the Love Hill murder. Heard that one was pretty weird. It doesn’t sound like Tyrone. He’d be more likely to smack her upside the head a few times. I don’t think he’s graduated to rub-outs yet. I can have one of my undercovers snoop a bit, see if he’s out there braggin’ he did it. These idiots love to take credit for their work.”
“That would be great. My vic’s name is Allegra Johnson. We just did the notification to her grandmother. She said Tyrone hangs at the corner of Claiborne and Lafayette.”
“Yeah, that’s his little fiefdom. I’ll send one of my boys over there, see what’s shakin’. Call you later?”
“That’d be great, Gerald. Thank you.”
He clicked off. McKenzie looked at her.
“This is breaking, you think?”
“I don’t know. Have you met Captain Sayers yet?”
McKenzie shook his head.
“When you meet him, you’ll see. Gerald knows his clientele. We need to go run down a few other leads.”
“Of course.”
Father Victor tapped on her window. She put it down.
“We’re taking care of Miss Ethel. I’ve got social services setting up a call schedule, and I’ll make sure that we get some folks to come in and get her straightened out. It’s unconscionable to let an old woman like that live on her
