J.T. Ellison

Taylor started up the 4Runner, suddenly weary. She could have done this herself, or assigned one of the homicide team to do it. But something in her wanted the company, the close quarters of another soul who under

stood. Journalists and cops, the best of friends, the worst of enemies.

Plus, Baldwin was bringing the illustrious Charlotte Douglas to the homicide offices at some point this morning, and Taylor really wasn’t in the mood for it, not right now. She’d never met Charlotte, but knew plenty of women who fit the bill. A viper, that’s what Baldwin had called her. If it were the truth, there’d be plenty of fire

works to deal with at lunchtime, thank you very much. On the phone with Richardson the previous evening, Taylor had suggested they just go to the library, pull the in

formation up on LexisNexis. That’s what she would have done, that or hit the microfiche machine. But Richardson had offered to take her directly to the source. To use the paper’s morgue would assure them a thorough look through all of the files, all the stories that had gone into print. Rich

ardson had slyly pointed out that the newspaper also had copies of his complete stories, the prepublication drafts that had been edited down for space and public consumption. Richardson had retired a few years back, an illustrious career behind him. Taylor figured he wanted to visit his old home away from home. All hail the conquering hero. She couldn’t deny the man that small joy. Actually, she understood. If she ever left Metro, she knew she’d no longer be complete.

The trip down West End wasn’t long enough, and before she realized it, they were pulling in to 1100

Broadway, home of the Tennessean.

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They took two spaces in the tiny parking lot in front of the building. They entered through the glass doors, Richardson all smiles, slapping the security guard on the back. Outside those doors, out on the street, Richardson was just another slightly overweight graybeard, finishing out his retired years in relative peace and quiet. Here, he was a rock star.

A brief call was made and three minutes later, the newly appointed managing editor of the newspaper rushed down from the third floor to say hello to his old friend. Intro

ductions were made, the editor looking Taylor up and down before carefully nodding and welcoming her to the paper. He knew there was friction between Taylor’s group and some of the crime reporters on the beat. When she didn’t raise the issue, he smiled. Time and place, and all that.

As they made their way to the newsroom, Taylor’s hand was shaken no less than forty times by people who’d heard Frank Richardson was in the building and wanted to say hello. It was only polite that they acknowledge their homicide lieutenant, as well, the woman who’d told the former lead crime reporter Lee Mayfield to go fuck herself on more than one occasion. The Tennessean staff hadn’t liked Lee any more than Taylor and the rest of Metro. Taylor’s cell phone rang and she hung back for a moment to answer it. Seeing the number, her heart filled with dread, goose bumps prickled along her arms. She flipped the phone open, held it to her ear.

“Morning, Lincoln. Everything okay?”

“Morning, LT. How’d you know?”

“Who is it?”

“No body or anything like that. There’s a missing

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persons report. Girl named Jane Macias.” Taylor cringed, thought about her earlier Janesicle Doe. Oh, the flippant moniker was coming to bite her in the ass.

“Fits the profile of these girls?”

“Yeah. Her boyfriend called it in, said she left her apart

ment last night and she’s been MIA ever since. He’s totally freaking out, says she’s got long black hair. I figured there’s no sense taking any chances, went ahead and started some of the paperwork.”

“Maybe, just maybe, it’s not him. And if it is, maybe we can beat him to the punch this time. I’ll be over there shortly. Thanks.”

She hung up, leaned back against the wall for a minute, caught her breath. Fast moves, this guy. She opened her phone again, made a quick call to Baldwin. His voice mail clicked on. She left a message for him to call her ASAP, or meet her at the homicide office as quickly as he could. No time to worry about lost or past loves. Lincoln wasn’t prone to hysterical fits; if he thought the descrip

tion of the missing girl matched that of their profile victim, she did. So they needed to move quickly.

She strode through the newsroom, made her way to the back of the offices. Richardson was there, chatting it up with one of the archival interns. She caught his eyes, signaled for him to step away. He did and turned to her, concern filling his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

Taylor pitched her voice low; the intern was craning her neck, trying to hear what was up. “One of my detectives just called. There’s been a missing-persons report, a girl who matches the victim description. I need to go, follow it up. Can we get together later, talk about all this?”

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Richardson had the audacity to look crestfallen for a brief moment, then brightened as if he realized how ludi

crous that was. “Of course, of course. I understand com

pletely. Is there anything I can do? Do you need someone from here to help?”

“No, I’m sure we can get it covered. But I need to head back to the homicide offices, see what I can find out. With any luck, it’s just some girl with black hair who didn’t come home last night.”

“Eooop!”

Taylor jumped at the sound, a cross between a hiccup and a deep breath. She looked over Richardson’s shoulder to see the archivist, standing with her hand over her mouth. The girl wore a starched white shirt, long black skirt, thick black wool stockings and loafers. Her hair was pulled back with a headband, and her glasses, a nifty modern frame, were askew on her nose. She was white as a sheet. They rushed to the girl’s side, ready to perform any services needed.

“What’s the matter? Are you choking? Is everything okay?”

Her eyes started to tear, and she dropped her hand to her side, looking alone in the world. She crumpled, leaned back heavily against her desk. “My roommate has black hair, and she didn’t come home last night. I mean, I never saw her after she left.”

Taylor stood straighter. “What’s your roommate’s name?”

“Jane. Jane Macias. She’s a reporter here, works right out there in the newsroom. Oh my God, is she dead? Oh my God! ” She started to fling her arms about, and Taylor grabbed her, held her still.

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“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down.” Taylor talked to her softly, almost under her breath. “Calm down. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

She caught Frank Richardson’s eye, and saw he was thinking the same thing she was.

But your friend might not.

Twelve

He took a long drag on the cigar, blowing the smoke in a blue puff directly at the ceiling. His doctors would heartily disapprove if they knew he was smoking again. He didn’t care. Life was too short. He spun the cigar in the cut-crystal ashtray, grateful for the hard edge, which made it easier to knock the burning ash off the tightly rolled tobacco leaf.

He flipped the paper open, overcome with emotion when he saw the headline.

Snow White Killer Resurfaces, Kills 4th

No Leads in Bicentennial Mall Murder

Oh, the beauty of it, the pure, exquisite joy. To see that name again, to know the fear that beat just below the surface of every heart that read those words. Snow White Killer. Oh, the boy was doing well, so very well. The article captured the frisson of fear that was sweeping through Nashville. The previous generation was talking of nothing else. The younger were fed by rumor and innuendo, the vivid fear of their parents making them 124