“Speaking of Charlotte?”

That brought him back to the conversation. He warily answered, “Yes?”

Sparrow bit her lip, then dropped his gaze and shook her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing, boss. Never mind.” She walked out ahead of him, and Baldwin felt all the breath go from his body. They knew. They probably all knew. Son of a bitch.

And that little bit of uncertainty from Sparrow was all he needed to help him make his decision. He knew what he had to do. He must put the team first. They were in his charge in more ways than one.

Twenty-Seven

Nashville

7:00 p.m.

The hospital corridor was too bright, glaring and overly white to Taylor’s tired eyes. She was heading to Brittany Carson’s room first, then planned to sit down with Juri Edvin. His surgery had gone well-he was out of Recovery. Ready to be grilled. She was going to have answers before she left this hospital, no matter what it took.

Vanderbilt University Medical Center was always busy, packed with people young and old, in varying degrees of sickness. She’d been here many times-visiting the psychiatric ward to interrogate suspects deemed too violent or too insane to be booked into the regular system; attending to vicious wounds in the emergency room; even riding along on LifeFlight from a scene once, a desperate and frenetic evening that ended in tragedy despite their best efforts. It always smelled the same, bitter and astringent, overlaid with the sickly sweet smell of premature rot that emanated from the most dire cases. She hated hospitals.

Visiting hours were specific and militant in the Intensive Care Unit, but her badge allowed her access. A nurse manning the station shook her head, hurriedly explained the girl wasn’t doing well, then went back to the multitudes of patients who could be helped.

Taylor took a deep breath, stepped through the doors. She wanted a chance to, well, do something. To say goodbye to a girl she’d never known. She stopped in front of Brittany Carson’s room in the ICU. A patrol was seated three feet away. She motioned to the badge on her belt; he nodded and went back to his Sports Illustrated.

She looked through the glass wall at the girl, dwarfed by the machines keeping her alive. Tubes snaked into her mouth, the ventilator helping her breathe hissing with purpose. It didn’t know its work was for naught-it reliably pumped, over and over and over, oxygenating the girl’s lungs, forcing air into dead, gray flesh.

A voice sounded in Taylor’s ear, sour and worn.

“She’s brain-dead.”

Taylor turned. Brittany Carson’s mother, Elissa, was still wearing her red blouse. Suspicious dark streaks leaked across her breast and shoulders. Her highlighted hair, crumpled from her constant worrying, lay flat against her small head. Her eyes were dry. There would be time for crying after.

“I’m sorry,” Taylor said.

“I’m sorry, too. She’s a delightful girl, the light of my life. Since her father left, it’s just been the two of us against the world. We’d had a conversation about this once. She read a story about a little girl who received a heart from a car-crash victim and declared on the spot that she wanted to be a donor.” She looked into the room, swiped a finger under her eyes, gave Taylor a bittersweet smile. “I’ve just signed the organ donation forms. If I have to lose her, at least a few others may find life through her sacrifice. God works in mysterious ways, as they say.”

“Yes, ma’am, He certainly does.” Taylor watched her trace a hand along the glass, caressing the shape of her daughter’s face in the air. “I’ll miss her so much.”

Taylor bit back unexpected tears. The horror of what Elissa Carson must be going through, the strength she showed, all humbled Taylor. She doubted she’d be as forgiving if it were her own daughter being forced to respirate, the beating heart inside withered and slow, limbs like broken sticks under the white sheets, all because of the whim of evil.

“When?” she asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Within the hour, they tell me. They’re making notifications to the various transplant teams. They have to keep her like this until they’re ready to start the harvest. Then we’ll turn the machines off and let her £0.”

Dear God. Taylor couldn’t stand this. She must find this killer, must give Brittany Carson justice. It was all she could do. She turned and embraced the woman, unsure of her own voice. Carson squeezed her hard around the waist, a silent sob shaking her, then stepped back, hand to her mouth.

“Find him,” she commanded, then fled down the hallway.

Taylor looked back at the dying girl, waxy in the harsh hospital lights.

“I will,” she whispered.

Juri Edvin was on the surgical floor. Taylor fought the fury that drove each step she took as she walked to his room. She tried to force the anger away-she had no proof. She needed hard evidence. But her gut was telling her Edvin had a role in Brittany’s demise, and damned if she was going to let him get away with it. Whether he’d given Brittany the drugs, carved the pentacle in her stomach or simply stood by, watching from a perch outside as she fought for breath, he’d been there as she struggled. Taylor knew that in her bones. She wanted to nail his scrawny ass to the wall.

A young doctor, brown-haired and obviously tired, was emerging from Edvin’s room, stethoscope draped like a stole across his shoulders, a chart in one hand and a beeper in the other. His nametag read S. Pearson.

He wasn’t watching his way and collided with Taylor. She grasped his arms to steady him.

‘Doctor, sorry. Lieutenant Jackson, Metro Homicide.”

The doctor gave her a casual glance. “He can’t talk to you. He’s just had a serious surgery. He’s sedated.” He started to walk away, she grasped his right arm tighter.

“Is he awake enough, Doctor? Because the girl he may have killed is being prepared for the transplant teams upstairs. I’d like to have a go at him, just in case. To! like to see some justice done, for Brittany Carson, and for the seven other children.”

Pearson stopped then, looked her in the eye. “I heard she wasn’t doing well. The decision’s been made, then?”

“Yes. I just talked with her mother.”

“Ah. Well, I can’t promise anything for you with Mr. Edvin. He’s had a trauma, and the medications are going to make him incoherent. But try if you like. Unfortunately, I’ll have to leave you. I’ve just been called back into surgery. Don’t push him too hard-I don’t need him going into shock.”

She released him, and he hustled away. She had the strangest sensation-people fleeing from her in these bright corridors, as if she were the cause of the agonies within. She shrugged it off, signaled to the patrol guarding Edvin’s room.

“Have you seen the parents?”

He flicked the edge of his magazine in annoyance-the interruptions were impeding his relaxation time. “They’re getting coffee. They asked to speak with whoever wanted to question their son before you talk to him. I guess you’re nominated.”

“Where are they?”

He pointed down the hall. A door labeled Family Room was on the left, just past the nurses’ station. She thanked him, went down the hall and entered the room. She saw a television, a couple of couches, numerous chairs and a refreshment table with coffee and tea in labeled urns, a small basket of peppermints. Two empty wrappers sat nearby, curled in on themselves.