“No, I haven’t. God, what an idiot I am. Get her on the speakerphone for me, will you?”
“Sure, hang on just a second.” She heard shuffling, then a click. “Okay, LT, you’re on speaker with Colleen.”
“Lieutenant, what’s happening? Why can’t I take Flynn and go home?”
“I still think you’re in danger, Colleen. Just hang tight with Detective Ross and let us protect you, all right?”
“How long am I going to have to stay here? I have-”
“Colleen, please. I need to ask you something. Do you know anyone by the name Ewan Copeland?”
She heard Colleen’s sharp intake of breath. When she spoke, her tone was flat, emotionless. “Why are you asking me about him?”
Jesus.
“Colleen, how do you know him?”
“I can’t believe that you would lock me up here all night, then casually throw his name in my face. You’re a cruel, horrible woman. I can’t believe Tommy told me to trust you. You know exactly how I know him, or you wouldn’t be asking. No wonder you didn’t have the courage to do it face-to-face.”
“Whoa, that’s enough, Colleen.” Lincoln took her off the speaker. “LT, what in the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know, Lincoln. I have no idea.” She could hear Colleen, furious as a scalded cat, hissing in the background. “I hit a nerve, that’s for sure. Can you get her back on the phone?”
“Not going to happen, LT. She’s packing up her stuff.”
“Lincoln, whatever you do, don’t let her out of the building. Detain her if necessary. I’ll deal with the fallout later.”
She was on Gass now, coming up on Forensic Medical at speed. “I have to focus on Sam. See if you can get Colleen calmed down enough to tell you how she knows Ewan Copeland, okay?”
“I’ll do what I can. Keep me posted on Sam, okay?”
“I will. Thanks for everything, Lincoln.”
She clicked off the phone, a million thoughts running through her head. She should have asked Colleen about Ewan directly last night, she was just so damn tired, and wasn’t putting the pieces together properly. She thought Colleen had come across his path, she never in a million years expected her to actually know the name. Her first instinct was to call Baldwin, tell him where she was and what had just happened. She couldn’t bring herself to hear his voice, not now. Not after what she’d learned. She was trying, so damn hard, to tuck the hurt and frustration away. She just needed to lay eyes on Sam, then she could deal with the rest of her crumbling world.
She flipped her phone back open and dialed the 212 area code that led to Emily Callahan’s office phone. The call connected and Callahan’s voice floated through the ether.
“Taylor Jackson, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? Are you in New York?”
“Hey, Emily. No, not so lucky. I’m in Nashville, working a case.”
“Ah, this is a professional call. Gotcha. What can I do for you?”
That was what she loved about Callahan, the woman was a professional first and a friend second. She always felt like she could let her hair down with her. She’d always been a compassionate, intelligent shoulder for Taylor to lean on. Callahan had been promoted out of Long Island City and was working in Manhattan’s 6th Precinct Homicide now.
“Emily, no chance you caught a shooting in Washington Square Park the other night, did you?”
“The homosexual couple? No, it’s not my case, but I know the detective who landed it. Why?”
Taylor took a few minutes and filled Callahan in on the situation. Taylor heard her clicking, knew she was going through the case file to see what she could glean.
“Evidence says there was a couple of cigarettes close to the scene that were collected. If they have anything to do with the case there’s always the possibility of DNA. There was a note, too. That’s been kept kind of quiet up here. A Son of Sam copycat will send the masses into a panic, and that’s the last thing we need.”
“No kidding. What I’m trying to figure out is where he might have gone, assuming he left New York. You haven’t had any repeat performances, have you?”
“Not that I know of. The men who were killed were both married and having a very secret affair. If something similar pops, I’ll let you know as soon as I hear about it. You’re assuming he’s done a one-off and is headed toward Nashville now?”
“Entirely possible. We’re working with air right now.”
“Tell you what. I’ll personally have them send the results from the DNA run to the FBI. I assume Baldwin is on the case?”
“Actually no, but his team is. You’ve talked to Pietra Dunmore before, right?”
“Yeah, I remember her. Good girl. I’ll send it to her, with a rush.”
“God, Emily, what can I do to steal you away from New York’s finest?”
“Grow a few hundred skyscrapers. Looking at all that blue sky down there makes me nervous.”
They shared a laugh, and Callahan promised to keep looking into the situation.
Taylor hung up and turned on her blinker. Forensic Medical was on her left. It was time to get to the truth.
Thirty-Nine
P reston Pylant was having a very bad day. He’d stopped at McDonald’s- nasty screaming kiddies covered in ice cream; who gives their kids ice cream in the dead of winter? -and had been waylaid by a bunch of cops as he came out of the bathroom. They hadn’t even let him finish drying his hands. Maybe they liked that sort of thing, the filthy bastards. Liked the dirty hands, knowing what he’d just done in the bathroom. Now they had him in a small, cold room with paneling on the walls. Who used paneling in decoration anymore? The gays did, they loved their paneling.
The angel had an opinion, of course. He always did.
Shoot them, homey. Shoot them all. Tell them how you feel about being locked up in this pissant room. Good idea.
“You can’t tell me what to do. What do you think this is?” He was yelling, but he couldn’t help it. After an hour, they’d tied him down. He didn’t like to be tied down. The angel really didn’t like to be tied down. They’d done that once to them, in the hospital. The padded sleeves held him straight and flat, no amount of wriggling or fighting would loosen them. The angel would harp on him, all fucking day long: a little left there, homey, no, more to the right, you’re a stupid fucking idiot, homey.
He didn’t want to go back to the hospital. He wanted to go to jail. Death row. That was the goal here. Not the hospital. Anything but the hospital.
The angel was screaming, a long, low build that ended like nails on a chalkboard. He knew what that meant. He really needed to take his pill. Why wouldn’t they let him take his pill?
A cigarette. That would work. A cigarette always calmed him down.
The man in the stupid hat was talking again. It looked like a toboggan. He’d had a toboggan once. Used it to slide down the street in front of his house in Queens.
“Sir, you need to calm down. We have a long day ahead of us.”
“The dog made me do it.”
“I’m sure he did, Preston. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”
“It’s just a game.” The angel chimed in at volume, Just a game. Just a game. Just a game.
“ Shut up, angel. See, sir, you don’t understand. We’re the apprentices. You know, like that rich dude in New York. With the show. And the hair. He tells us who to kill and how to do it, and we follow his instructions.”
“Who is he?” the man asked. His name tag said Sergeant Green.
Preston laughed. Soylent Green. He’d been captured by Soylent Green! Angel, check this shit out.
“Who is the man who hired you, Preston?”
“Duh, it’s Troy. If you don’t know that, you’re really far behind.”
“Troy who, Preston?”
