Her detectives were gone for the day. Paperwork had been completed; cases were being worked to her satisfaction. She’d stuck around just in case — the B shift detectives would be here shortly and she could hand off the department to her new sergeant, Bob Parks. He was a good match for the position, had the respect of her team, who’d worked with him for years. Parks had no illusions about moving up the ladder; he was content to be her sergeant until his twenty was up in two years and he retired. His son, Brent, was on the force now too. Taylor suspected Parks had opted to get off the streets to give his son some room. Classy guy.

Her desk phone rang, cutting through the quiet, and she shifted in the window, suddenly filled with premonition.

“Lieutenant Jackson.”

It was Marcus Wade, one of her detectives.

“Hey Loot. We’ve got a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind that comes with the chief of police attached.”

“I thought you went home.”

“I was heading that way, but saw a cordon by Legislative Plaza where the protesters have been camped. Looked like something we might be called in on. I was right.”

Taylor took a seat, opened her notebook. “What’s going on?”

“They found one of the Occupy Nashville folks dead, right at the steps to the War Memorial Auditorium. Stab wound to the chest. Nice and neat, too.”

Taylor groaned.

“It gets better.”

“What?”

“The victim? It’s Go-Go Dunham.”

“Oh, son of a bitch.”

“Yep. You wanna head on down here?”

“I’ll be there in ten. Who all’s there?”

“A shit load of protesters right now. Someone got in touch with her Dad, so he’s on his way. I called you first. I know you’re gonna want to tell the chief.”

“Oh, Marcus, you’re just too kind.”

“You know it,” he said, and clicked off.

Normally Taylor’s captain, Joan Huston, would be handling the chief, but she was out on paid leave – her first grandchild had just been born, and she’d taken some time to go be with her daughter.

Taylor hung up the phone and grabbed her leather jacket from the peg behind her door. She shrugged into the well-worn coat, retied her hair in a ponytail, grabbed her radio and set off. She took the stairs to the chief’s office two at a time.

Virginia “Go-Go” Dunham was the twenty-two year old daughter of Joe Dunham, the founder of one of the biggest healthcare companies in Nashville. His latest headline-grabbing venture was building environmentally friendly dialysis centers, ones designed to be both pleasing to the patients and capture major tax breaks from the government. The trend had caught on — his designs had been patented and utilized to build similar centers across the country. Dunham was a pillar of the community, a regular at all the major charitable events, a contributor to the mayor’s election fund, and an all-around connected guy. His one and only daughter, Virginia, known as Go-Go, had felt living up to her dad’s squeaky-clean image too much trouble, and as a difficult youngster quickly mired herself in the social drug scene. She’d earned her moniker at fourteen, when she’d been busted dancing at Déjà Vu. This was before the new ordinance forbade touching the dancers, and nubile, blond, busty Go-Go had taken full advantage of the situation. She was pulling down three grand a night, and putting the vast majority of that right back up her nose.

Several stints in rehab and a few busts later, she was supposed to have cleaned up her act. No longer a regular fixture on the nightclub scene, she’d gone back to school, earned a degree and taken a job working for her dad.

If she was still straight, how in the world had she managed to get herself dead?

Lights were on in the chief’s office. This wasn’t going to go over well. He was a close, personal friend of the victim’s father. As close and personal as anyone could be when they’re involved in political endeavors together. Dunham and the mayor were fishing buddies; she knew the chief tagged along on occasion.

The offices were empty and quiet, the admin gone home for the day. Taylor was about to knock on the chief’s closed door when he called out, “I hear you lurking out there, Lieutenant. Come in.”

She followed his instruction.

Chief DeMike was a veteran of the force, promoted to the head spot from within, and a welcome change from the previous incarnation, a man as corrupt as the day was long. DeMike’s hair was white, his face ruddy, with cheeks and jowls that would swing in a stiff breeze. He looked a bit like an overweight Bassett hound masquerading as Santa Claus in dress blues. But he was good police, and had always been fair with her.

“You’re here about the Dunham girl?”

“You already know?”

DeMike pulled a cigar out of his humidor and started playing with it. “Sugar, I know everything in this town.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry.” He snipped off the end of the cigar, then rammed it into the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t smoke it in here, not that he hadn’t before, but Taylor knew it was a comfort gesture.

“Joe’s been notified. We need to head down to the scene. He’s going to meet us there. He’s expecting a full show, so you should be prepared.”

“I am. Not a problem. But tell me, who made the call to Mr. Dunham? Seems a bit quick to me.”

“Already investigating, Lieutenant? Good. I like that. He told me one of her friends called him. Apparently, she’s been camping out down there with the protesters.”

He stood, the bulk of his weight tossing his chair backward against the windowsill with a crash.

“I thought she’d been walking the straight and narrow of late.”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. Head on down there and find out. I’ll arrive with due pomp and circumstance in a few.”

Taylor nodded gravely, trying not to smile. “Yes, sir.”

When the first siren lit up the night, he was four blocks away, at Rippy’s on Broadway, sipping a Yuengling, a pulled pork sandwich smothered in sweet and tangy BBQ sauce and corn cakes with butter on order, waiting for Stover to show. The wail made pride blossom in his chest. It had gone gloriously. She’d never seen him coming. As he predicted, she’d shuffled off after about an hour toward the port-a-potties, and when she’d drawn near, he’d straightened his spine, let the knife slide into his hand, and stepped from the bushes. He’d become so adept at his trade that the contact he’d had with her was, on the surface, just an incidental bump. As he’d said, “Excuse me,” he’d slid the knife right up under her breastbone directly into her heart. A clean cut, in and out, no twisting or sawing. Precision. Perfection.

He was half a block down the street before she hit the sidewalk.

He was so good at this. Granted, practice does make perfect, and he’d had quite a bit of practice.

He allowed himself a smile. He’d managed to salvage a very annoying day, and give himself something wonderful to think about tonight. Something to chase away the annoyance of having to play charades with Stover tonight.

Stupid bastard. Who was more successful in their chosen fields?

Now JR, stop worrying about that. Think about what you just did, how you’re sitting right under their noses, having a nice little Southern dinner. Think about the edge of the blade, colored rust with the girl’s blood, sitting in your pocket. Think about the way the tip fed into her flesh, and her eyes caught yours, and she knew it was you who was ending her life. These are appropriate thoughts. You can’t look back to the bad things. Just stay focused on the here and now.

Stover arrived with a bellow.

JR played his part, accepting the rough handshake, making small talk, eating, drinking, pretending, all the while sustaining himself with thoughts of his light-eyed beauty, lying on the sidewalk, her heart giving one last gush of blood to her body.