But Stover was his Achilles heel. He knew JR’s real name. The idiot had spied him in the hotel in New Orleans and remembered.

JR pulled up short at the door to the street. The women became secondary. That was a problem, but it wasn’t fatal. He knew what he needed to do. There was only one way to really fix this mess.

Stover had to die.

He felt a tingle of excitement go through his body.

Two in one day? In one city? Again? Dare he?

His mind answered in the affirmative, with a caveat.

Don’t use the knife.

JR waited for Stover to catch up to him, his mind racing. So many ways to die. Fall in front of a car, trip and hit your head on a light pole…

He thought about his drive around the city earlier and it hit him. The river was only a block away. There were three bridges, too, one of which was solely for pedestrians.

JR assessed the man beside him. He was drunk enough. He’d never be able to swim.

It wouldn’t have the satisfaction of the knife — nothing could top that — but this would solve one very large, loud, nagging problem.

He turned to his old friend.

“Come on, Heath. Let’s go for a walk.”

Stover fell into step beside him, yammering away. God, did the man ever shut his trap?

Well, JR, give him this. It is his last will and testament, after all.

It only took five minutes to mount the bridge and cross halfway to the highest point. He stopped to admire the view. They were standing over the murky river water, the lights of Nashville shining majestically in the darkness.

Time to say goodbye.

He didn’t mean to do it. He really didn’t. JR gave Stover a push, and the drunken fool began to struggle, and there was nothing to be done for it. The blade was in his hand before he even gave it a second thought. JR shoved the knife in quickly, then drew it out. The pain was enough to stop Stover’s cries. He didn’t move for a moment, looking vaguely surprised, then toppled over the edge of the bridge himself, with no effort whatsoever.

JR did something he’d only done once before, in another moment of extreme distress. He tossed the knife off the bridge after Stover’s body. It killed him to do it — my God, what a prize for his collection, a blade that took not one, but two lives, in a single day — but he’d been forced into impulsivity here in Nashville, and like any animal who knew it had just survived a close call, he needed to retreat to his bolt hole and lick his wounds.

He would call the conference organizers first thing in the morning and plead a bad case of food poisoning. In the meantime, he needed to cut his losses and get the hell out of Dodge.

Nashville had been a little too good to him.

Taylor spent Monday evening keeping the wheels in motion on Go-Go’s murder. She had a long sad chat with Joe Dunham, promised him she’d do everything in her power to bring Go-Go’s killer to justice as quickly as possible. It wasn’t an empty promise, she had several solid leads already. She was confident she’d have her man soon.

The interrogation of Derek Rucka gave her absolutely squat, outside of the fact that Go-Go had been known to suffer from a wee bit of kleptomania, and going off her meds exacerbated the syndrome. She was a pack rat, lifting anything she could get her hands on — wallets and phones mostly, but brushes, lipsticks, pens — anything that could be separated from its owner. According to Rucka, it was purely for fun; she took a perverse pleasure in getting away with it.

The kid’s story checked out, and a canvass of the protestors confirmed that he was on the other side of the memorial when Go-Go went down. Taylor cut him loose just after midnight. They’d also found all the wallet and cell phone owners save one. Gustafson. Everyone else checked out. Taylor had that niggling feeling in the back of her head that there was something to this guy. There was a certain arrogance in his eyes she'd seen before. Alone at her desk, she stared at his license photo for a few minutes, then ran him through the system. Clean. She found a phone number and called, but the phone just rang and rang and rang.

Instinct is vital for every homicide detective, and hers was on fire. She called the local precinct that serviced the area Gustafson lived in Virginia, but it was late, and they were busy working their own cases. Someone would get back to her tomorrow, supposedly. She knew well enough that she’d have to call back in the morning, made a note of it on her list.

She’d lock him down tomorrow. Frustrated, she headed home.

John Baldwin, her fiancé, an FBI profiler, was in Minnesota working a case, so Taylor had the house to herself. Sleep never came easy for her with or without Baldwin’s presence, but she’d grown accustomed to having him in her bed while she gazed at the ceiling, at the very least to warm her chilly feet. With both he and Sam gone, she was a bit lonely. But instead of wallowing in it, she grabbed a beer from the fridge, racked up a game of nine-ball and expertly shot the balls down one by one, until she finally began to weary around three. She slept a couple of fitful hours, then got up, showered and headed to Forensic Medical for Go-Go’s autopsy.

Taylor attended herself so the chief could have instant updates to share with his high-profile friends. It was an unremarkable event and only served to make her miss Sam more. Dr. Fox was a good M.E., quick and to the point, but he lacked that little bit extra, the sixth sense Sam seemed to have for making a murder come to life. The girl had been stabbed once, the knife most likely a seven to eight inch double bladed stiletto, sliding right past her ribs under her breastbone into her heart. THC showed on the tox screen; a more complete report would take weeks. Exsanguination was the official cause of death, and it was ruled a homicide.

Taylor felt sorry for Go-Go. She was obviously a very troubled girl, but one who didn’t deserve to die on the street at the wrong end of a blade.

It was still early when Fox finished the post. Taylor debated stopping at Waffle House and getting breakfast, but decided to go back to the office first, which ended up being a good call. The videos from TPAC were waiting on her, with a note from Tim – “Check out 3:47 p.m. Think we may have a shot of our guy. I’m in court, will be over as soon as I’m done.”

Taylor popped the disc into her laptop and hit play.

The footage was surprisingly clear, though in muted black and white. She dragged the bar to the spot Tim suggested and hit play. It took three replays to see it. Damn, Tim had a good eye. There was a flash of white in the bottom right edge of the screen, which Taylor figured must be the bill of a hat. Her theory was confirmed a moment later when a man walked through the full frame, wearing a white baseball cap. He stepped right into a bundle of rags that Taylor assumed must have been Go-Go, then disappeared out of the frames. Go-Go dropped to the ground, and that was it. A fraction of a second. And the bastard’s back to the camera the whole time.

Well, the tapes had at least narrowed her search down to the male species. That cut out fifty percent of the suspect pool.

She did some quick mental measuring, putting the guy against the stone wall that led to the auditorium and figured he wasn’t over six foot. That Gustafson fellow was about that height as well.

She played the tape several more times, but couldn’t find anything more. The idea that Go-Go had managed to pick the man’s pocket as he stabbed her looked incredibly remote. It was a blitz attack, fast, clean. Professional even. And if it was his wallet, he certainly didn’t attempt to retrieve it. He hit the girl, knocked her down and was gone in the blink of an eye. Maybe she was barking up the wrong tree here.

Her phone rang, interrupting her thoughts, and she glanced down to see the cell number of her new sergeant. She answered, “Jackson.”