After what seemed like hours, Stover called for the bill, belched loudly without covering his mouth and announced, “We need women.”

The idea was repugnant to him. Women were not for defiling oneself, they were for the glory of the knife. Glory be. Glorious. Glory glory glorious.

Perhaps he’d had one beer too many.

But this presented his best chance of escape. So he acquiesced, and followed Stover into the night. The street outside the restaurant was hopping, busy with tourists and revelers even on a Monday. Downtown Nashville was a twenty-four/seven world, and they slipped into the throngs without causing a second glance. Because he fit right in. He always fit in now.

Taylor arrived at the crime scene ten minutes after Marcus’s call. The site was just down the street from the CJC; she could have walked it if she wasn’t in too much of a hurry. But tonight she was. Containment would be key. The Occupy Nashville protestors had been causing an uproar downtown for two weeks now. Bills were being passed to stop their ability to gather freely, face-offs between the protestors and other groups had turned the mood on the steps sour, and even the people of Nashville who agreed with their agenda were beginning to turn against them.

The real beneficiaries of their protest were the homeless who spent their time hanging out in the little park on Capitol Boulevard, burrowed in between the downtown Library and Legislative Plaza. Strangely enough, the hippies and the homeless looked remarkably alike, so do-gooders answering the call of the protesters by traveling downtown to bring food and blankets didn’t necessarily know the difference. The homeless weren’t stupid, they took full advantage of the situation. They were being fed, clothed, and warmed daily, sharing smokes and tents with the protestors. Taylor didn’t think that was such a bad thing, but she did wish the folks who’d rallied to the call would think to provide this kind of succor to those less fortunate on a more regular basis. If Twitter could take down a despot, surely it could help keep Nashville’s homeless clothed and fed.

But that wasn’t her problem right now. She needed to contain a huge local story before it got blown into a political mess.

She was an experienced detective, fourteen years on the job with Metro, so she knew better than to jump to conclusions, but if Go-Go was with the protesters, and had been stabbed, chances were she’d been murdered by one of her fellow demonstrators. And that news was going to go national.

As she parked, she took in the scene, one she’d been privy to too many times. Sixth Avenue was blockaded between Church and Charlotte, blue and white lights flashing crazily upon the concrete buildings, reflecting off the black glass of the Tennessee Performing Arts Center. Thankfully TPAC didn’t have anything tonight, the building’s lobby was dark and gloomy. She could see the focus of attention midway up the street, just below the steps to the Plaza.

“Lieutenant!”

Tim Davis, the head of Metro’s Crime Scene unit, waved to Taylor. She waved back and headed his way, watching the crowd as she walked down Sixth. The area had been cordoned off, that’s what Marcus had seen driving home, but a large crowd of people had gathered on either side of the crime scene. Yellow tape headed them off, but frightened eyes peered down from the Plaza, and across from TPAC a small horde of people had formed, staring curiously up the street in hopes of seeing something tawdry.

Tim was overseeing the evidence gathering. She was glad to see him on duty. Tim was meticulous, and if there was evidence to find, he’d make sure it was bagged and tagged.

“Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Marcus told you it was Go-Go?”

“Yeah. Damn shame. What’s the evidence tell us?”

“Single stab wound to the chest. I’ve been collecting everything around, but the ground’s littered with crap from the protesters. Messy bunch of people.” His nose wrinkled in disapproval. Tim liked things straight and clean. It’s what made him so good at spotting objects that were out of place.

“We’ve got cameras here, don’t we?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a call into TPAC, their security footage will give us the best chance of seeing what happened.”

“Good. Let me know if you find anything else. Is that Keri working the body?”

“Yeah. Sure do miss Sam.”

“You and me both, my friend.” Sam was Dr. Samantha Owens, Taylor’s best friend and the former head of Forensic Medical, the lead medical examiner for the Mid-State of Tennessee. She’d recently moved to Washington, D.C., and Taylor missed her dreadfully. She understood. God knew she understood. If she’d been faced with the kind of loss Sam experienced, she’d have run away too. But she couldn’t help missing her like hell.

“Have you heard from her?”

“I did, a couple of days ago. She’s doing well. Found a place she likes.”

“Good. Next time you talk to her, give her my best. I’m going to start running some of the evidence we collected. I’ll shout if we get anything that looks relevant.”

Taylor glanced at her watch – 5:15 p.m. The chief would be down here soon, she needed to hurry up and get him some info he could use for a presser. The chief did so love to be on air, and if they timed it right, he could make the 6:00 news.

Keri McGee was on her knees next to the body. Taylor joined her.

“Yo,” Keri said.

“Yo back. What do you have for me?”

“A whole lot of nothing. No trauma to the body, outside of the stab wound, of course. I’m about finished here, actually. She’s only been dead for a little while, no more than an hour. She was found quickly. Was she living on the streets?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Newspaper in her shoes and socks. They do that for warmth. And she hasn’t bathed in a while. Not that that’s any real indication, a bunch of these folks have been camping down here for days.”

Taylor took her own inventory of Go-Go. That the girl hadn’t bathed recently was quite evident. She looked like she’d been living rough: her skin was brown with dirt, she had no jewelry on, no watch, just a small red thread tied around her right wrist. From her matted hair to her grubby clothes, Go-Go was downright filthy. She didn’t look much like the other protesters, who despite their attempts to blend in still glowed with health.

“I want to talk to whoever found her.”

“Over there,” Keri said, pointing at a young man who was hovering nearby. “I’m about ready to take her back to the morgue. Fox will autopsy her in the morning, along with everyone else we loaded up on today.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

Taylor took her turn with the kid who’d found the body next. He couldn’t be a day over twenty, with a snippet of a beard, dark hair and dark eyes, shoulders hunched into a hooded The North Face fleece. Taylor appreciated the irony. The kid was protesting capitalism wearing a two hundred fifty dollar jacket. His face was streaked with tears.

“Hey there. I’m Lieutenant Jackson, homicide. What’s your name?”

“Derek Rucka.”

“How do you know Go-Go?”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“Really? You’re dating? She doesn’t seem to be in very good shape for a girl with a man.”

He looked down. “She was my girlfriend. We broke up a few weeks ago. She took off, and I hadn’t seen her until today. I was down here with the gang and I saw her smoking on the steps. We chatted.”

“About what?”

“Her coming home. She, well, if you know her name, you know her history. Go-Go is bipolar. She’s been doing really well, too, working for her dad. That’s where we met. My mom is on dialysis. But she stopped taking her meds about a month ago, and things went downhill pretty quickly.”

“So you were out here trying to save her?”

He shook his head miserably. “No. Not at all. I didn’t know she was out here. I certainly didn’t know she was on the streets. I’d have come looking sooner.”