equipped to deal with Hayden right now. The Harrises are great, and we get along fine, but Corinne was…special to them. The favorite. Hayden is the light of their lives. They’re mourning, and I didn’t want a constant reminder of what they’d lost running around their house. You know?”

He looked so forlorn that Taylor believed him. She eased back in the chair, adopting a more casual stance.

“That was a kind thought. Tell me about your wife, Todd.”

Wolff nodded, gathering himself. When he finally spoke, it was with a quiet strength, as if some font of internal fortitude had opened a wellspring in his heart.

“Corinne was, well, a force of nature. We met in college, and I fell hard immediately. We went to Vanderbilt, you know? She was a cheerleader, I was warming the bench with the basketball team. She was perfect, all bubbly and sweet, this crazy smile that just shot through me. Everybody loved her. She was the president of her sorority, captain of the tennis team, a straight-A student. We were together for a week when I told her I was going to marry her. She said yes.”

He smiled to himself, eyes gone fuzzy at the memory. “We were sitting on the deck at San Antonio Taco Company, drinking too much beer and eating tacos, and I just leaned over and said ‘I’m going to marry you, you know.’ She smiled and said, ‘Well, when you ask, I’ll say yes.’ It was perfect. She’s, she was amazing. I can’t believe I’m never going to see her smile again.”

Taylor gave him a moment to gather himself, watched him wrestle with the memories. He was a handsome man, jet black, wavy hair, eyes so brown Judas Kiss

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they looked black, a wide, firm mouth. Ropy muscles in his forearms implied strength. Taylor could imagine any one of a thousand sorority girls who would say yes to marriage material like that.

“So tell me how you got home from Savannah so quickly yesterday.”

His head snapped back as if she’d struck him.

“I…I told you. I broke every speeding law on the road.”

“And managed to cut two hours off an eight-hour drive.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The silence hung heavy in its accusation. Todd didn’t speak, just set his lips and shook his head. Taylor came at him again.

“Do you have a life insurance policy on Corinne?”

Todd sniffed a few times. She could see the internal debate, the realization that he’d been careless, should have known better than to come without an attorney.

“Todd, I asked you a question. Did you have a life insurance policy on your wife?”

“Yes. Of course I did. We’ve got a child. We’ve got policies on both of us in case something happens.”

“For how much?”

He mumbled a number.

“Say that again? I didn’t hear you.”

“We each have policies worth three million dollars. I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer now.”

“Did you murder your wife, Mr. Wolff?”

He stood suddenly, the chair scooting back with a screech. “No, damn it. But you’re going to try and pin this on me, I can see it. And I don’t intend to be made a 136

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fool of, Lieutenant. I didn’t kill my wife. Am I under arrest?”

The room was thick with tension. Taylor stared into Wolff’s black eyes and saw the first vestiges of fear forming. It just served to pique her interest.

“No. You’re not. Yet.”

Twelve

Taylor was sifting through the afternoon’s events in triplicate when her phone rang. She recognized the number as Forensic Medical, Sam’s extension. She glanced at the wall clock. Five. Too early for toxicology reports. She answered on the second ring. There was no greeting, just Sam’s overt enthusiasm spilling out of the receiver’s speaker.

“You are a lucky woman.”

Taylor tipped her chair back and put her feet up on her desk, crossing them at the ankle. “Why would this be?”

“Because you are going to go home, take a shower, put on something fabulous, and join me as my date for the evening.”

“Oh, hell no. I’ve got a shitload of work to do, and I am definitely not in the mood.”

“You don’t even know what it is and you’re turning it down?”

“Yes.”

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“Oh, Taylor, you’re a stick-in-the-mud. I insist you accompany me. I’ve lost my date for the evening, he is head over heels in love with some microbe growing in a petri dish in his office. I need an escort. It’s not acceptable for a young lady such as myself to be out on the town all by her lonesome. So get your shit together, go home and get yourself in something elegant.”

Taylor groaned. “Elegant? What, pray tell, are you planning to drag me to?”

“The American Cancer Society Dinner. I’m the keynote speaker.”

“No, Sam. Absolutely not,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at six forty-five. You should wear that red dress we got you in Barbados.”

“There’s no place for me to carry my weapon on that dress.”

“And that, my darling friend, is the point. I don’t think you’re going to have to shoot anyone at the Frist Center.”

“Famous last words. I remember the last time you told me I wouldn’t need a gun, I ended up being kidnapped.”

“Well, no one is going to do that tonight. I promise. Just some rubber chicken and a bunch of free champagne. You need a break. I bet you’ve been after the bad guys all day.”

“Of course I have. It’s my job.” But Sam had already hung up. Taylor rolled her eyes, put the phone back in the cradle, and dropped her feet to the floor. Choices. Sit at her desk, filling out paperwork, listening to the B-shift detectives fart and tell bad jokes while they waited for a case to break, or get dressed up Judas Kiss

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in something hideously uncomfortable and make nice all night. She really didn’t know which option would be worse.

Taylor eyed the red dress dubiously. She was already in a strapless bra, thigh-high sheer black hose and three-inch black pumps. Sam and Simon had brought the dress back from a Caribbean vacation, Sam gushing over the clingy style, declaring it would be gorgeous on her figure. Taylor had thanked her, but never tried it on. It was a postage stamp as far as she was concerned.

Well, bottoms up. She slipped the fabric over her head, surprised at how heavy it felt, considering how little of it there was. She shimmied until the dress stopped, hitched against her hips, and she tugged at the hem. Suddenly it was on, flowing, draping, hitting her curves in all the right places. She looked into her mirror. Holy shit. Sam was right. It was pretty. Delicate spaghetti straps, deep across the bust, showing off her décolletage to perfection, an empire waist that let the clingy fabric float around her knees. She was going to have to put on this getup for Baldwin, he’d enjoy it. She left her hair down, and it swished full and thick against the middle of her back. She put on a touch of eye shadow and mascara, and feeling risqué, painted her mouth with a deep crimson stain, then topped it with some Carmex. Done. A stranger in red. A horn beeped and she snapped off the light, rushed down the stairs, grabbing her purse and a wrap as she exited the front door. The small clutch was a concession she’d been required to make. She hated carrying a bag, dragging one around was counterintuitive to her 140

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lifestyle. Normally, as long as she had pockets for her Chapstick and a belt to attach her holster she was all set.

But there was no good place to stow a weapon in this outfit. She could have tied a blade in her garter, slipped a one-shot revolver into her cleavage, but they were too impractical. So she settled on a black satin evening clutch that was just big enough for a Taurus 941 .22 revolver with a nice, short two-inch barrel, one of the many “fun” guns she had in her safe. Her normal ankle weapon was a bit larger, a .22 Beretta that she kept inside her right cowboy boot in a custommade leather pouch, but the Beretta was just heavy enough to be a pain to carry in this purse. Sam whistled at her from the open top of her BMW, a construction worker catcall.