Nashville, Tennessee
October 31
3:30 p.m.
Taylor Jackson stood at attention, arms behind her back,
her
dress blues itching her wrists. She was feeling more than
a
bit embarrassed. She'd asked for this to be done without
ceremony, just a simple here you go, you're back in our
good
graces, but the chief was having nothing of it. He'd
insisted she not only receive her lieutenant's badge
again,
but be decorated as well, in a very public ceremony. Her
union rep was thrilled, and at her direction, had dropped
the lawsuit she'd been forced to file against the
department
when they demoted her without cause. Taylor was pleased,
as
well. She'd been fighting to get reinstated, and she had
to
admit it was nice to put all of this behind her. But the
pomp and circumstance was a bit much.
It had been a long afternoon. Taylor felt like a show
pony,
was flushed with the overly exuberant praise of her
career,
her involvement in catching the Conductor, a serial
killer
who'd killed two women back-to-back, kidnapped a third
and
fled Nashville with Taylor hot on his heels. She'd
arrested
him in Italy, and the story had immediately caught
international headlines, because at the same time, she'd
been party to the capture of one of Italy's most
notorious
serial killers, Il Macellaio. In the world of sound bites
and news at your fingertips, taking two serial killers
into
custody had garnered so much attention that the chief had
been forced into action.
Not only was she being reinstated; Taylor had command of
the
murder squad again, and her team was being reassembled.
Detectives Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade were shipped back
up
from the South Sector, and after a long discussion with
the
chief, she'd even talked him into allowing Renn McKenzie
to
become part of the permanent team. She had her boys back.
Most of them.
Pete Fitzgerald had fallen off the face of the earth.
Taylor
had last talked to him when he was in Barbados, anchored
and
waiting for a new part for his boat's engine. He'd called
to
let her know he thought he'd seen their old nemesis, and
she
hadn't heard from him since. She was sick with worry,
convinced that Fitz had been taken by the Pretender, a
killer so obscene, so cruel that he invaded her dreams
and
consumed her waking moments. A killer Taylor hadn't
caught;
the one who'd quite literally gotten away.
Her concerns had been compounded just last week, when the
Coast Guard had picked up a distress signal off the coast
of
North Carolina. The GPS beacon matched the registered
number
for Fitz's boat. Despite countless days of searching,
nothing had been found. The Coast Guard had been forced
to
call off the search, and the police in North Carolina
couldn't get involved because there was no crime to be
investigated. She had a call in to the North Carolina
State
Bureau of Investigations, in the hope they would see
things
differently, but she hadn't heard anything yet.
Taylor tried to shake off the thought of Fitz, of his
body
broken and battered, of what the Pretender was doing to
him,
or had done. The guilt spilled through her blood, making
it
chilly. She'd issued a challenge to the Pretender, told
him
to come and get her. Instead, she was positive he'd taken
her friend, the man closest to her, aside from Baldwin.
Her
father figure. She had probably gotten Fitz killed, and
she
found that knowledge desperately hard to stomach.
She looked into the crowd, the sea of blue seated in
compact
rows before her. John Baldwin, her fiancé, sat in the
front,
grinning. His hair was too long again, the black waves
falling over his forehead and ears in a tumble. She
resisted
the urge to roll her eyes; that was sure to get on the
evening news, and she didn't want any more attention than
she already had. She touched her engagement ring instead,
twisting the channel-set diamonds around her finger.
Her team sat beside him: Lincoln Ross, hair grown out
just
enough to slip in some tiny dreadlocks; Marcus Wade,
brown-eyed and sweetly happy. He was getting serious with
his girlfriend, and Taylor had never seen him so content.
The new member of the team, Renn McKenzie, was at
Marcus's
left. Taylor saw McKenzie's partner, Hugh Bangor, a few
rows
back. They'd been very discreet—only Taylor and Baldwin
knew
they were an item.
Even her old boss Mitchell Price was there, smiling
benevolently at her. He'd been a casualty of the events
that
led to Taylor losing her badge in the first place, but
had
moved on. He was running a personal protection service
catering to country music stars, and had made it clear
that
anytime Taylor wanted to bail on Nashville Metro, she was
welcome to join him.
Fitz was the only one missing. She forced the lump in her
throat away.
The chief was pinning something to her uniform now. He
stood
back with a wide smile and started clapping. The audience
followed suit, and Taylor wished she could disappear.
This
was not what she wanted, this open, public enthusiasm on
her
behalf.
The chief gestured to the microphone. Taylor took a deep
breath and stepped to the podium.
"Thank you all for being here today. I appreciate it more
than you know. But we really should be honoring the
entire
team who participated. I couldn't have done any of this
without the help of Detective Renn McKenzie, Supervisory
Special Agent John Baldwin, Detective James Highsmythe of
the London Metropolitan Police, and all the officers of
the
Metro Police who participated, in small ways and in
large,
on the case. The city of Nashville owes these men and
women
a debt of gratitude. Now, enough of the hoopla. Let's go
back to work."
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and they clapped
again.
Lincoln whistled, two fingers stuck in his mouth, and
this
time she did roll her eyes. Baldwin winked at her, his
clear
green gaze full of pride. With her back ramrod straight
and
her ears burning, she thanked the chief and the other
dignitaries, nodded at her new boss, Commander Joan
Huston,
and made her way off the dais. People began milling
about;
the language of the force rang in her ears like a
mother's
lullaby. She was back, and it felt damn good.
Baldwin met her, took her hand. "So how's the
Investigator
of the Year?"
She took a deep breath and blew it out noisily. "Don't
start," she said. "This is mortifying enough as it is."
He laughed and kissed her palm. A promise for later.
Lincoln and Marcus both hugged her, and McKenzie shook
her hand.
"Congratulations, LT!" Lincoln's gap-toothed smile felt
like
coming home, and she clapped him on the back. Price
joined
their group, shaking her hand gravely, his red handlebar
mustache neatly trimmed and waxed for the occasion.
"What's your first act as a newly restored lieutenant,
Loot?" Marcus asked.
"Buying y'all a beer. It is Halloween, after all. Let's
get
out of here. How about we head down to Mulligan's and
grab a
Guinness?"
"You're on," Marcus said.
She gestured to her stiffly starched uniform. "I just
need
to change."
"Us, too. Race you to the locker rooms."
Ten minutes later, once again in civilian clothes—jeans,
cowboy boots, a black cashmere turtleneck and gray
corduroy
blazer, left open—Taylor felt much more comfortable. She
snapped her holster onto her belt, then risked a glance
at
her shield. Her phantom limb. Losing it had just about
cost
her everything. She lovingly caressed the gold for the
briefest of moments, then attached it to her belt in
front
of her holster. Complete. Again. She slammed her locker
shut
and met the boys in the hall. She saw Baldwin's eyes
stray
to her waist and pretended she didn't see his satisfied
smile.
As they left the Criminal Justice Center, Taylor's
spirits
lifted. The joshing, joking group of men behind her,
Baldwin
in step at her side, all served to remind her how lucky
she
was. Now, if she could only find Fitz and do away with
the
Pretender, life would be grand indeed.
They'd just passed Hooters when Taylor's cell rang. She
looked at the screen, saw it was dispatch. She held up a
hand and stopped on the sidewalk to answer.
"Jackson," she said.
"Lieutenant, we need your response at a 10-64J, possible
homicide, 3800 Estes Road. Repeat, 10-64J."
The J designator made a shiver go up her spine. /meant
the
victim was a juvenile. She hated working crimes with kids
involved.
"Roger that, Dispatch. I'm on my way." She slapped the
phone
shut. "Hey, guys, I'm sorry. I've got to go to this
scene."
She pulled her wallet out of her jacket's interior pocket
and handed Lincoln two twenties. He shook his head.
"Hell, no, LT. You're back on the job, so are we."
"But you're not on today. Go on ahead."
"No way," Marcus said. They lined up shoulder to
shoulder, a
wall of testosterone and insistence. She knew better than
to
fight. They were all just as happy as she was to be back
together.
"I'll drive," McKenzie offered.
She smiled at them, then turned to Baldwin. "Well, aren't
you coming, too?"
"What, the Nashville police want the help of a profiler?"
he
teased, his green eyes flashing.
"Of course we do. Come on then, let's go. We'll have to
take
two cars."
They drove up West End, McKenzie in the lead, Taylor and
Baldwin following. Getting to Green Hills at this time of
day was difficult at best, the traffic stop-and-start, so
McKenzie was leading them through the back roads. Up West
End, then left on Bowling, through the gloriously wooded
neighborhoods, wide green lawns, large homes set far back
from the main streets.
Many of the houses were decorated for Halloween, some
professionally, with complete horror tableaus on their
front
yards: Black-and-orange twinkling lights and tombstones
and
full-size mummies—some crafted with the obvious hand of a
child—fake spider webs and friendly ghosts. On the corner
of
Bowling and Woodmont there was a large inflatable
headless
horseman. It was starting to get dark, and there had been
rain earlier in the day. Fog rose in wispy streams from
the
lawns. A few jack-o'-lanterns had been lit, their insides
glowing from within...