The ringing of the phone made him jump. Finally. He answered with a brusque “Yes?” He listened, then ended the call.

An unhurried smile spread across his face, the first of the night. It was time. Time to start again, to resurface. A new face, a new body, a new soul. With a last glance out the window, he snubbed out the cigar, closed up the humidor and braved the shadows. Moving resolutely toward the door, he disappeared into the gloom. 14

13

* * *

The phone was ringing. Somewhere in the recesses of her brain, she recognized the sound, knew she’d have to answer. But damn it, she was having a really nice dream. Without opening her eyes, Taylor Jackson reached across the warm body next to her, positioned the receiver next to her ear and grunted, “Hello?”

“Taylor, this is your mother.”

Taylor cracked an eyelid, tried to focus one eye on the glowing clock face—2:48 a.m.

“Who’s dead?”

“Goodness, Taylor, you don’t have to be so gruff.”

“Mother, it’s the middle of the night. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? Because you have some kind of bad news. So if you could just spit it out so I can go back to sleep, I’d appreciate it.”

“Fine. It’s your father. He’s gone missing. From THE

SHIVER. ”

A rush of emotion filled her, and she sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Win Jackson. Winthrop Thomas Stewart Jackson IV, to be exact. Her illustrious father, gone missing? Taylor let the lump settle in her throat, blinked back the uncharacteristic tears that came to the surface.

Her father. Her chest tightened. Oh, man, she didn’t even want to think what this might mean. Missing. That equals dead when you’re gone from a boat in the high seas, doesn’t it?

Father. Amazing how that one word could trigger an avalanche of bitterness. She heard the rumors fly through her head like migrating birds. Daddy got his little girl a place in the academy. Daddy bought his little girl a 14

J.T. Ellison

transfer out of uniform into Homicide. Daddy gave themayor a major campaign contribution and bought hislittle girl the lieutenant’s title. Good ole Win Jackson. Corporate raider, investment banker, lawyer, politician. An all-around crook, wrapped up with a hearty laugh into a deceptively handsome package. Win was a Nashville legend. A legend Taylor tried to stay as far away from as possible.

Sitting on the edge of her bed in the darkened bedroom, the thought of him evoked a rich scent, some expensive cologne he’d gotten in London and insisted on importing every year for Christmas.

She heard her mother shouting in her ear.

“Taylor? Taylor, are you there?”

“Yes, Mother, I’m here. What was he doing out on THE SHIVER anyway? I didn’t think he was sailing anymore.”

“Well, you know your father.”

No, I don’t.

“He decided to take the yacht to St. Bart’s. St. Kitts. Saint, oh, who knows. One of those Caribbean islands. I’m sure he had some little slut with him, sailed off into the sunset. And now it seems he may have gone overboard.”

There was no emotion in Kitty Jackson’s voice. Devoid of emotion, of love, of feelings. Taylor wondered some

times if her mother’s heart had ceased to beat.

“Have the Coast Guard been called in?”

“Taylor, you’re the law enforcement…person. I cer

tainly don’t know the answer to that. Besides, I’m leaving the country. I’m wintering in Gstaad.”

“Huh?”

“Skiing. October through January. Don’t you remem

14

15

ber? I sent you the itinerary. I won’t have time to deal with this and get packed.”

The petulant tone made razor cuts up Taylor’s spine. Kitty’s first concern had always been Kitty. For Christ’s sake, her husband was missing. It was possible he had gone overboard, was dead…but that was Kitty for you. Always ready with a self-absorbed tale of woe.

“Thank you for letting me know, Mother. I’ll look into it. Have a lovely vacation, won’t you? Goodbye.”

Taylor clicked off the phone before her mother could respond.

Jesus, Win. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?

Taylor started to roll back into place, determined to get at least another hour of sleep, when the phone rang again. Now what? She looked at the caller ID, recognized the number. Answered in a more professional tone than she’d used with her mother.

“Taylor Jackson.”

“Got a dead girl you need to come see.”

“I’ll be right there.”

One

Two months later

Nashville, Tennessee

Sunday, December 14

7:00 p.m.

A vermilion puddle reflected off the halogen lamps. It was frosting over, lightening as it inched toward the freezing point. Little bits of black hair floated under the hardening surface, veining the blood. As it froze, it pulsed once, twice, like the death of a heart. Life’s blood, indeed. The woman was naked, purple with bruises. She was sprawled on her right side, facing back toward the hill leading up to the Capitol. Long, jet-black hair flowed around her like a muddy stream. Her face was white, paler than a ghost; her lips were painted crimson. She looked like a fairy-tale princess locked in a glass coffin. But a poisoned apple hadn’t propelled this girl to her final resting place, surrounded by love and remorse. Instead, she had been thrown away on the marble pedestal, dis

carded like so much trash. Her naked body arched around 14

17

the center pole. The smaller flags circled her protectively, snapping with every gust of wind. Her left leg sprawled wildly, blocking one of the recessed lights tastefully high

lighting the scene.

On closer inspection, a gaping knife wound was clearly visible, slashing merrily across the woman’s neck. In the darkness, it smirked and shone deep burgundy, nearly black in places, with bright hunks of cartilage and bone showing through the wound.

Taylor arched an eyebrow at the mess. Oh, the joys of being the homicide lieutenant. She shivered in the gloaming, pulled her arms tight to her sides and rocked slightly. She was dressed for the weather—a thigh-length shearling jacket over a cream cable-knit sweater and jeans, mittens and a scarf, but the cold seeped in through minus

cule cracks, making her own blood sluggish. The air smelled of snow, sharp and bitter. The temperature had been hovering well below the freezing mark for several days, and the atmosphere was dense, portending a storm for Nashville. Winter’s coming this week, people said. Taylor scuffed a cowboy boot in the frozen grass. Waiting. She was tired of waiting. It seemed she spent her whole life in some form of suspension, glancing at her watch, knowing it would only take a few minutes, a few hours, a few days for something or another, for someone. The M.E. would be on the scene soon. All she had to do was wait.

It was too chilly to stand still any longer. Taylor stretched her arms to the sky, felt a kink release below her right shoulder blade. Too tense, and the freezing tempera

ture didn’t help. She wandered into the night, happy to let the stench of death leave her sinuses, only to draw back 18

J.T. Ellison

in pain as the reek was replaced by mind-searing cold. Her eyes teared. Giving a brief glance back over her shoulder, she paced the granite wall bordering the amphitheater. Distanced a bit, she turned, taking in the entire scene. She had to admit, Nashville’s Bicentennial Mall was a lovely setting for murder. Opened in 1996 to celebrate the 200th anniversary of Tennessee’s statehood, it had never reached the pinnacle of success the city leaders had hoped for. It was still a charming walking mall, a favorite for outdoor lunches and the odd midday jogger. A very quiet area at night, too. The only crowd that had gathered to mark this murder was a multitude of blue-and-white patrol cars, still flashing at attention. That would change as soon as the media got wind of the scene. And the condition of the victim. Most likely, this was victim number four.