smile.
As they left the Criminal Justice Center, Taylor’s spirits lifted. The joshing, joking group of men behind her, Baldwin in step at her side, all served to remind her how lucky she was. Now, if she could only find Fitz and do away with the Pretender, life would be grand indeed.
They’d just passed Hooters when Taylor’s cell rang. She looked at the screen, saw it was dispatch. She held up a hand and stopped on the sidewalk to answer.
“Jackson,” she said.
“Lieutenant, we need your response at a 10-64J, possible homicide, 3800 Estes Road. Repeat, 10-64J.”
The J designator made a shiver go up her spine. J meant the victim was a juvenile. She hated working crimes with kids involved.
“Roger that, Dispatch. I’m on my way.” She slapped the phone shut. “Hey, guys, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go to this scene.” She pulled her wallet out of her jacket’s interior pocket and handed Lincoln two twenties. He shook his head.
“Hell, no, LT. You’re back on the job, so are we.”
“But you’re not on today. Go on ahead.”
“No way,” Marcus said. They lined up shoulder to shoulder, a wall of testosterone and insistence. She knew better than to fight. They were all just as happy as she was to be back together.
“I’ll drive,” McKenzie offered.
She smiled at them, then turned to Baldwin. “Well, aren’t you coming, too?”
“What, the Nashville police want the help of a profiler?” he teased, his green eyes flashing.
“Of course we do. Come on then, let’s go. We’ll have to take two cars.”
They drove up West End, McKenzie in the lead, Taylor and Baldwin following. Getting to Green Hills at this time of day was difficult at best, the traffic stop-and-start, so McKenzie was leading them through the back roads. Up West End, then left on Bowling, through the gloriously wooded neighborhoods, wide green lawns, large homes set far back from the main streets.
Many of the houses were decorated for Halloween, some professionally, with complete horror tableaus on their front yards: Black-and-orange twinkling lights and tombstones and full-size mummies—some crafted with the obvious hand of a child—fake spider webs and friendly ghosts. On the corner of Bowling and Woodmont there was a large inflatable headless horseman. It was starting to get dark, and there had been rain earlier in the day. Fog rose in wispy streams from the lawns. A few jack-o’-lanterns had been lit, their insides glowing with sinister comfort.
Once they turned left onto Estes, it only took a moment to reach the address. The first responders—firefighters and EMTs—had already left. Patrol cars littered the street, crime-scene tape was strung across the road. Blue-and-white lights flashed in the evening sky, reflecting off the brick houses. Farther down the street, moving away from the commotion, small groups had started floating from door to door; the youngest trick-or-treaters escorted by their parents before full dark set in. Even if it hadn’t been Halloween, it would have been an eerie scene.
Paula Simari was there, standing by her patrol car. Her canine partner, Max, was in the backseat, grinning a doggie smile at the activity. His services had not been needed tonight, it seemed.
The five of them approached and Paula held up her hands. “Whoa. No need to bring out all the big guns. Just one body up there.” She gestured over her shoulder at the second story of an expansive Georgian red brick house. “How’s it being back in charge, Lieutenant?”
“Very nice, Officer.” Taylor liked Simari. She was good people, always ready with a quip, but knew when to be serious. “Why don’t you brief us, then we’ll take a cruise through the scene.” She signed in to the crime-scene call sheet, then handed the pen to Baldwin. By the book, that was her new middle name.
“Sure. Body is that of a seventeen-year-old male Caucasian, name Jerrold King. His sister, Letha, came home from shopping with friends—they both go to Hillsboro but they had a half day today. It’s a teachers’ in-service afternoon. Said she went into his room to borrow a CD and found him naked on the bed. She called 911 and they responded, but he was deceased when they arrived.”
“Suicide?” Taylor asked.
“Not exactly,” Simari replied grimly. “Not unless he was into pain.”
“Pain?” Baldwin said, eyebrow raised.
Simari bit her lip. “I think you should see this for yourself. That’s why I had dispatch call you directly.”
Taylor looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. “Okay. Let’s go. Baldwin, you’re with me. Marcus, Lincoln, could you start chatting with the crowd?” She pointed to the driveway of the house next door, which was accumulating people, some dressed in costumes, some obviously just home from a day at the office. The suits outnumbered the costumes three to one. “See if anyone saw anything. McKenzie? Make sure the medical examiner is on the way. We need a death investigator and crime-scene techs.”
“Will do.”
She followed Simari up the elaborate steps of the house, through white Doric columns onto a wide brick porch. A trio of witches nestled in between two spider-webbed rocking chairs; dual arrays of orange chrysanthemums in black wrought-iron planters were parked on either side of the door, their blossoms bright and new.
Taylor took a second to wind her hair into a bun and secure it, slipped her hands into purple nitrile gloves. Baldwin followed suit—their hands suddenly all professional, no more the recipients of holy palmers’ kiss. They couldn’t afford to confuse the crime-scene techs with their own DNA, nor allow their personal relationship to affect the case. It had been difficult for Taylor at first, pretending she and Baldwin weren’t emotionally entwined. It was easier now. She was learning his detachment skills.
Simari was already gloved up, and let them in.
A teenager with rough skin and a jet-black bob sat at the foot of the stairs, white and shaking. She had black circles under her eyes and the faintest trace of dark lipstick in one corner of her mouth. Her lips were jammed together in a thin line; it seemed she knew if she opened her mouth the world would collapse.
“Lieutenant Jackson, this is Letha King. She found the body.”
Taylor bent at the waist to get to the girl’s level. “Letha. I’m so sorry for your loss. Are your parents on their way home?”
The girl didn’t meet her eye, just shook her head. Simari stepped in. “They’re out of town. We’re tracking them down now.”
Letha wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to hold herself together. Her nails were painted black, the polish wearing away. Taylor was tempted to reach out and touch her, to give a bit of warmth, of comfort, but refrained. She needed to see the body first, then she could worry about the living.
She stepped back onto the porch and whistled at McKenzie. He was on his cell phone, raised his eyebrows in question. She gestured for him to come to her. He nodded, said something briefly into the cell, then slapped it shut and bounded up the stairs. Taylor spoke quietly.
“I’ve got the victim’s sister in the house. Kid’s completely shattered. She needs to have someone with
