“Sir, is there a problem?”

Great, he managed to get someone that wasn’t impressed by the credentials and cop voice. “No, ma’am, not a problem, but I would like to find out more about your employees. Could you give me some information?”

“Yes, I can, but why does the FBI want to know about us? Are we under investigation for something? I think I’d better let you talk to Louis Sherwood. He’s the 258

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CEO, so you should be able to get everything you need from him. Please hold.” The Muzak started up again, this time with The Scorpions’ “Rock You Like A Hurricane.” Baldwin gave out a little laugh. Whoever decided hard rock made melodious calming music was crazy.

It seemed as though he had been on hold for an hour, but it was probably more like five minutes when a voice came back on the line. “I’m Louis Sherwood. Is there something I can help you with, Agent Baldwin?”

“Yes, sir. I’d like to get some information about your traveling executives. I’m in the middle of an investigation and your company’s name has come up in relation to the case. Would you be willing to give me some information?”

Sherwood didn’t hesitate. “This is about the Southern Strangler, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s the case I’m working on. You are familiar with it?” Silly question, he knew, anyone who owned a TV, lived next door to someone who owned a TV, drove a car with a radio, walked, slept or ate knew about the cases. The virtues of modern media.

“I am familiar with it, and I’m glad you’ve contacted me. I understand that three of the victims worked for our company in one capacity or another. I think that merits a sit-down discussion, don’t you?”

Baldwin was pleased, anything that would shed light on any aspect of the case was important. “Absolutely, sir. When would you be available?”

“I’m free anytime for you. Are you here in town?”

“No, sir, I’m in North Carolina, but I was planning on coming back to Nashville today, if nothing keeps me here.” Yeah, like another girl getting snatched. All the Pretty Girls

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“Back to Nashville? Do you have some interests here in town already?”

“Oh, sorry, I actually live in Nashville. I work out of the field office, handle national cases as needs be. I can be back in Nashville by late afternoon. Will you be available then?”

“I will be waiting for you. Do you need directions?”

Baldwin took down the information and thanked Sherwood. It felt good to do a little old-fashioned detective work rather than stand over dead girls. Now he needed to get the information about the poems from Taylor, and it was time to head back home. He figured he might as well rent a car and drive back instead of flying. Grimes was going to be here in Asheville for the time being anyway, finishing up with Christina Dale’s autopsy and the other aspects of the investigation. Baldwin needed some time to think, and the four-hour drive to Nashville was the perfect opportunity. He called Grimes and told him what he was planning on doing, and told him about the meeting with Louis Sherwood. Grimes thought that sounded great and asked for Baldwin to keep him filled in. Baldwin didn’t mention the poems on Whitney Connolly’s e-mail. He figured it would be better to have some kind of confirmation on them before he threw that little wrinkle into the mix. They hung up and Baldwin called down to the front desk of the hotel and asked for them to secure a rental car for him. They told him it would be quicker for him to get it himself, the rental-car agency was on the same block, just on the opposite side of the building. He agreed and checked out of the room. Within ten minutes he had a car and was on his way home.

Thirty-Three

Taylor was sitting in front of Whitney’s laptop computer, looking through the e-mail that had been piling up in the two days since Whitney’s accident. She was distracted, worrying. Baldwin’s case was completely out of control, but hopefully, these notes would be the key. She had to search through at least two hundred e-mails, some boring, some interesting, most completely irrelevant. She continued to scan and soon found the original six messages with the love poems. She sent the messages to the printer so Baldwin would have a hard copy.

She reached to close the laptop and saw that there was another e-mail from the same address that had been sending the poems. She’d missed one in her distracted state. This one was marked “Unread,” which meant it had come in after Taylor and Quinn had left Whitney’s house. She opened the e-mail and saw another poem. She sent it to the printer. Knowing now that these were possibly copies of notes that had been left at the scene All the Pretty Girls

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of the murders was very disconcerting. And Baldwin had not given her enough information about them for her to deduce anything. She decided it would be best to send the e-mails to Baldwin’s e-mail address and let him look at them firsthand.

She started forwarding the messages and decided to send them to her home computer, as well. Ah hell, why not just take the whole computer with her? She could get out of there now, being in Whitney’s house made her uncomfortable. It made more sense to do that anyway. God forbid, if Whitney continued to get these messages, they wouldn’t have to come over to her house every time they wanted to check something out.

She looked for and found the case for the slim laptop, and unplugged the components and packed them into the carrying case. She rummaged through the desk and found a manila file folder. She slipped the printed copies into the folder, pausing briefly to read the latest installment, the one that had been sent after Whitney had died.

Mark but this Flea, and mark in this,How little that which thou deniest me is;It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee,And in this flea our two bloods mingled be. Taylor recognized that one. John Donne, a poem known as “The Flea.” Easy enough, it had been a hit in high school. The whole sucking business had every guy in her English class beet red when their teacher, a comely young woman, had read the poem aloud. Well, Baldwin said the poems are some of the classics. Now they just 262

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needed to figure out what they meant to Whitney and the man who was sending them to her. Taylor pulled her cell phone out of its holster and dialed Baldwin’s number. She got his voice mail and left a message for him to call her as soon as he got the call. That was the best she could do for now. She carried the laptop out to her truck, then went back in to make sure she hadn’t left anything. Satisfied that she wouldn’t need to make another return trip, she left, locking the door behind her and placing the key under the mat, just as it had been that first day when she and Quinn had come over.

“I need to let Quinn know I’m taking the laptop,” she thought out loud. A neighbor walking her fluffy white lapdog gave her a funny look. Taylor just smiled and waved, then climbed into the truck, started it up and put it into gear. She’d call Quinn later, after she and Baldwin had gotten a chance to go over what was on the e-mails.

Baldwin was wending his way through East Tennessee, enjoying the view and drive as much as he could, considering the situation he found himself in. Six girls dead and he didn’t have a suspect. Hopefully all that would change once he got to Nashville and talked to the CEO of Health Partners. Maybe when he heard from Taylor with the poems from Whitney Connolly’s computer. His sixth sense was telling him that the two were related, he just needed to sit down and find out what that relationship was. He’d left Asheville early, and had made good time. He was passing through Crossville on Interstate 40

when his cell phone rang. He was only an hour out of Nashville but he’d lost service a few times from the All the Pretty Girls