Five

Taylor was on overdrive, the new information spinning in her head. She called Baldwin the minute she hit the truck.

“Baldwin, I need you. The basic elements of this murder are different from the first three. And wait until you hear this. This one was special. She meant something to him. He rimmed her neck wound in lipstick. Like he did her lips. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. I mean, it’s already such a gory wound, I would never have noticed, but Sam did, and she swabbed it and looked under the microscope and there was lipstick mixed in with the blood. It was, it was…really. It’s like he dressed her up. And there was a lot of the creamy stuff on her face.

“Sam’s going to send out the full tox screen and finish the autopsy now. She’s already confirmed the high BAL

and the Roofies. She said she’d get back to me if anything major popped up. I can’t imagine what would be more major than this, I mean, it was—”

“Fascinating.”

“Not exactly the word I was going for. Sick, is more like it.”

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“But ‘sick’ is fascinating, Taylor. Talk to me about the neck wound. This is definitely the first time he’s done it?”

“As far as Sam can tell. She’s going back through all the wound swabs now, but she didn’t see anything like it before. Why would he do that?”

“Why, I can’t answer. It means something to him, I’m sure. We just have to figure out what that is. Are you headed to the office?”

“I am. I’ve got more for you.”

“More? What?”

“Sam ID’d the substance we found on their faces. Get this. Frankincense and myrrh. There’s more components in the matter, but she’ll have to do more testing to gather that. We’re assuming that they were being prepared, I guess.”

“Jesus. Listen, Taylor. I’m going to be at your office when you get there. I’ll call Stuart Evanson, the new head of the BSU. He requested that I take over the case last week. I told him I’d wait, see if it solved or you asked me in. We’ll officially offer every power we have to your chief, make it legit. That work for you?”

At the moment, Taylor could think of nothing better. She’d worked cases with Baldwin before. He respected her boundaries, treated her team with respect, won over her captain, Mitchell Price, with his “It’s your case”

attitude. She wanted him on the Snow White case fulltime. They needed the FBI resources, anyway.

“I’m cool. I’ll see you there.”

“Taylor?”

“Yeah, hon?”

“Thanks for last night.” His voice rumbled in her ear, and he hung up before the blush could spread to her ca

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pillaries. Damn the man already. She wasn’t in love; she was in heat. That’s what all this was about. Taylor navigated in four-wheel drive, forced to take her time to get downtown. The plows were working the streets again, the salt trucks followed dutifully. Abandoned cars littered the roadways; the tow trucks couldn’t get to them, so the plows were pushing large drifts against the driver’s

side doors that reached to the side mirrors. If the tempera

ture didn’t rise soon, it would take days to get them unburied.

She tried to drive carefully but was impatient with the roads. Aside from the plows, four-wheel drives were the only things moving. The hospitals had put out emergency calls for people who had trucks and SUVs to help staff get to work. It was surreal, an all-white landscape with little movement—the vehicles like desultory ants after an outsized picnic.

Swerving around a public works truck, she whipped off the highway past the Tennessee Titans stadium, LP Field, and crossed the bridge over to Third, where her offices within the Criminal Justice Center waited. She pulled into the parking lot too fast, skidding on the ice and nearly taking out a lamppost. Her pulse took a few beats to get back to normal. She hadn’t been paying at

tention. Again. That was all they needed, for her to wind up wrapped around a pole. She recognized a few other ve

hicles—Metro police didn’t get the day off when the city was snowed under.

Calmed, she got out of the truck, made her way care

fully across the street and up the stairs that led to the back door of the CJC. She passed the ubiquitous ashtray and felt virtuous—she’d finally managed to quit. It had been 54

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three months since her last puff. She fumbled in her pocket for a minute, trying to get a hand on the plastic pass card that would allow her into the building. Her gloved hand was too bulky to feel anything. Swearing under her breath, she took it off and delved deep into her pocket. Her bare fingers hit hard plastic. Triumphant, she swept the key card and stamped her way into the building. Some cruel individual was subjecting the third floor to a bastardized version of their child’s Christmas recital; strains of children’s wavering voices streamed from the fingerprint room, mixed with a heavy rap beat. The result

ing discordance made a headache take root behind Taylor’s right eye. Muddy puddles of water trailed four feet into the hallway where people hadn’t knocked the snow off their boots. Clumps had collected, melting on the cream-colored linoleum. After the fact, someone had used his head and spread a copy of the morning’s Tennessean on the floor. Glancing at the headline regaling the Snow White Killer’s latest victim, Taylor tapped her boots against the wall, dropping the excess snow on a picture of the Bicentennial Mall, then stepped around the puddles and followed the hallway toward the homicide office, leaving the wailing music behind her.

Lincoln Ross rounded the corner from the opposite di

rection. Tall, handsome, with three-inch dreadlocks, he gave her a gap-toothed smile that hit her deep.

“Yo, LT, what up?” He gave her five, up high, down low, and she laughed at him, cheered instantly by his enthu

siasm.

“And what’s up with you this morning? You’re aw

fully chipper.”

“Hey, you know, it’s a thang.”

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“Am I to infer that the ‘thang’ is of the female persua

sion?”

Lincoln grinned like a schoolboy. “Why, yes, I believe you could in-ferrr that if you’d like. Oh, sorry. I wasn’t supposed to dangle the sex carrot in front of your nose.”

She raised both hands and laughed. “Well, I’m not doing so good abstaining on my end, so don’t worry about it. What’s with the ghetto speak?”

Lincoln rolled his eyes, went back to his usual eluci

dated drawl. “I’ve been with my new C.I., the kid who’s ratting out Terrence Norton.”

“Oh, great. What’s Tu’shae up to now?”

“He’s hopping, actually. He scored a DJ gig in South Nashville. A lot of Terrence’s gang hang out there. We’ve got a good stakeout going with the TBI; they’re being very cooperative. But Tu’shae won’t talk to them, he’ll only talk to me. So I’m stuck ferrying all the information through to the TBI boys and girls.”

Damn the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. Why couldn’t they do their own work? Cooperative or not, she needed Lincoln for these new murder cases exclusively.

“Do you have anything we can use? I’d really like to get Terrence Norton out of our hair if we can.”

“Not yet. Tu’shae hinted that Terrence is controlling the drugs running through the club, but he’s got nothing to back that up.”

Administrative bullshit, that’s how Taylor saw the ongoing situation with the local gangster, Terrence Norton. He’d been plaguing her for three years, starting as a kid with a bad attitude and a minor rap sheet. As time passed, he got stronger, more jaded and in more trouble. They’d almost nailed him for jury tampering a few months back, 56

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and the TBI had to take over the case. Lincoln was doing a great job running backup from Metro’s side, and she told him so.