Judas Kiss Page 10

  “I feel a draft coming from the wall.” He started running his hands along the tapestry. Taylor was struck by a thought.

  “Pull the tapestry aside, I think there’s something here. Manchini’s house, next door? She had a door on this part of the living room wall, must be a basement.”

  Fitz wrestled the heavy cloth away from the wall. “Bingo.” The draft was coming from the hole where the doorknob should have been. That made sense; in order for the tapestry to lie flat against the wall the Wolffs had to remove the knob. Instead of struggling to get behind the heavy tapestry, Taylor and Fitz lifted it gently from the wall and laid it on the leather chair. The door opened inward, revealing a set of stairs that led to darkness. Sure enough, a basement.

  “Did anyone pick up on this yesterday?” Taylor asked.

  “Not that I know of.” He went down the first three steps, then charged back up, swiping at his face.

  “Argh!”

  “What?”

  “Spiderweb.”

  Taylor laughed so hard she had to lean back against the wall to keep herself from tumbling down the stairs. The spiderweb in question was swinging merrily to and fro as Fitz sputtered and scratched at his head. She nearly bit her lip in two trying to stop the giggles.

  “It’s not a spiderweb, you old fool, it’s the pull for the light.” She reached around him and tugged on the string. The naked hundred-watt bulb came on with a snap, blinding both of them for a moment.

  Blinking as her eyes adjusted, Taylor stared down the stairs, the light illuminating only the immediate stairwell. Fitz was grumbling behind her. She un-latched the snap on her holster, slipped her Glock out of the creaking leather. Holding it at her side, she started down. There was a landing, and she stopped, cautious, sticking the gun and her head around the corner at the same time, just in case. She saw nothing to alarm her, and returned the weapon to its holster as she went down the remaining steps. There was a light switch at the base of the stairs. Taylor flipped on the overhead fluorescent.

  It was a standard basement: cement floor, unfinished walls on three sides, one painted, as if the owners had contemplated finishing the room and wanted to see what it would look like. The barest whiff of stale air indicated a minor mold problem; the floor was cluttered with stacks of cardboard boxes, bicycles, sleds. All the material that wouldn’t fit nicely in the garage was placed haphazardly down here. It was just a storage space, probably only four hundred square feet: twenty feet deep and twenty long. Certainly nothing exciting.

  She returned the weapon to its holster. They did a pass through, looking behind boxes, but Taylor didn’t see anything out of place.

  “Let’s get Tim back out here to go through all of this, okay? Just in case.”

  “Will do.” He froze, then spoke, dramatically sotto voce. “You hear that?”

  She stopped moving and listened. Yes, she did hear something. Footsteps. There was someone in the house with them.

  There was no hesitation. Her weapon was drawn and pointing up the stairs before she took another breath. Fitz had his gun palmed too. Using hand signals, Taylor indicated that she was going to go up the stairs and he was to follow.

  The steps creaked as Taylor tread on them, and the footsteps above stopped abruptly at the noise.

  “Shit,” she whispered. The element of surprise was gone. She got to the top of the stairs in a heartbeat. Leading with her gun, her eyes swept the living room. No immediate threats. Fitz was bumping up against her back. She nodded at him, then took three quick steps out into the room and turned left, into the foyer. Fitz went right, into the kitchen. Nothing, nothing, nothing. They met again in the dining room, and Taylor pointed at the ceiling with her Glock. They listened carefully. There they were again, the footsteps. Whoever had invaded the house was upstairs.

  Standing at the base of the staircase, Taylor was just taking the first step when a shadow crossed the hallway. Holding her breath, she aimed her weapon at the banister. Step one, step two, step three, no one in her sights yet, step four, step five, there, the shadow was getting closer, closer, step six…

  “Police, don’t move! Hold it right there,” she shouted.

  The shadow jumped and screamed. Taylor’s finger tightened on the trigger, and she took one more step.

  “Lieutenant, don’t shoot!” the silhouette yelled, and Taylor, recognizing the voice, eased the pressure off the trigger, just a fraction. A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs, hands up.

  Taylor lowered her weapon. “Christ almighty, Page, what the hell are you doing, trying to get yourself killed? I almost shot you!”

  Fitz was laughing, the eerie tension forcing emotion to the surface. He and Taylor slumped together on the stairs, guns at their sides. Julia Page, the assistant district attorney, stood at the balcony, her arms now crossed on her chest, chin-length curly chestnut hair sticking out in every direction as if it had been frightened and was trying to get away.

  “What the hell are you doing creeping around here with your guns drawn?” Page demanded.

  “What the hell are you doing here without calling me first?” Taylor snapped back.

  “I did call you. Left you a message and everything. Said I was coming over to meet you. God, Taylor.”

  Page came down the stairs, ashen. Taylor whirled and went into the kitchen. Her hands were quivering, and she jammed them into the front pockets of her jeans in an effort to hide the fact. Page and Fitz both followed a moment later, but Taylor could tell Fitz had said something to Page. She was bristling, her hair looked like she’d stuck a finger in a socket. Page’s hair was a dead giveaway to her every emotion. The sight made Taylor want to laugh, and the effort it took to hold the bubbling mirth down helped her regain her composure.

  “That was a close one, Page. You should have called out when you came in.”

  This time Page looked at the ground, chagrined. “I know. Sorry. I didn’t see either of you and just assumed you’d gone around back or something. I thought I’d get a look, form an impression without bothering you. Sorry,” she repeated.

  “It’s okay. But now you know why we ask for nonessential personnel to get clearance before they enter a scene. Didn’t the patrol outside tell you to announce yourself?”

  The pointed chin raised an inch. “I’m not exactly nonessential, Taylor.”

  “Yeah, but you almost got forcibly made redundant, so next time….” Her hands had stopped shaking, the adrenaline coursing through her system ushered back to its home.

  Page nodded. “Okay, okay. I just wanted to see the place. I didn’t talk to the officer outside, I waved at him and he waved back. How is the investigation coming?”

  “We don’t have much to go on yet. We’re supposed to be meeting with the husband at two.”

  “Well, it’s one forty-five now, you’d best get going if you want to make it.”

  Taylor looked at her watch and cursed. “Yeah, we’d better go. We can talk after, okay? Meet me in my office at three or so. Will that work?”

  Page nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

  The three exited the house. Fitz slapped a new label on the door. He peeled off from the two women and made his way to the patrol, and Taylor knew the young man was going to get a tongue blistering. He should never have let the A.D.A. in the premises without alerting the two officers inside. It was sloppy work. While the situation never got entirely out of hand, it had been close. That was a story that would have made the national news—A.D.A. shot by lead investigator of case. Taylor shook her head at the mere thought. Besides, she liked A.D.A. Page. Would have hated like hell to kill her.

  Todd Wolff was waiting for Fitz and Taylor in the lobby of the CJC, alone. This cheered Taylor to no end. No lawyer meant they’d be freer with their questions. She had to give Wolff credit, it was a good trick. Show up without a lawyer, make yourself look innocent. After some essential paperwork, they’d gotten him signed in and made comfortable in a blue interrogation room simply furnished with a tabl
e and four chairs, two on either side of the table. Sodas all around, video and audio rolling, Fitz led him through the particulars.

  “You know you have the right to legal representation, don’t you Mr. Wolff?” Fitz scratched at his ear with a pen, doing his damnedest to look disarming.

  “I didn’t think I was under arrest,” Wolff said.

  “You’re not. We’re just talking. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it. You know how that works. So, if we’re all good, tell me your full name, please.”

  “Theodore Amadeus Wolff. Todd for short.”

  “Your date of birth?”

  “August 4, 1979.”

  “Place of birth?”

  “Clarksville, Tennessee.”

  “Social?”

  “413-00-8897.”

  “Address?”

  “4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court, Nashville, 37205.”

  Taylor nodded at Fitz, and he leaned back in his chair, gesturing for her to go ahead.

  “Okay, Todd. Thanks for that. Let’s get started, shall we? You have everything you need?”

  “I do. Let’s get this over with. I want to get back to my daughter.”

  Taylor tapped her pen on the table. “We heard you took Hayden to your parents. Where do they live, Todd?”

  “Clarksville.”

  “Any particular reason you didn’t leave her with your in-laws? They’re a bit closer. Wouldn’t it be more convenient for you?”

  “Do I have to answer that?”

  Taylor didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow. After a moment, Todd reached some kind of decision. “Okay. I’m not a fan of saying anything ugly about my in-laws, but I just felt my parents might be better equipped to deal with Hayden right now. The Harrises are great, and we get along fine, but Corinne was…special to them. The favorite. Hayden is the light of their lives. They’re mourning, and I didn’t want a constant reminder of what they’d lost running around their house. You know?”

  He looked so forlorn that Taylor believed him. She eased back in the chair, adopting a more casual stance. “That was a kind thought. Tell me about your wife, Todd.”

  Wolff nodded, gathering himself. When he finally spoke, it was with a quiet strength, as if some font of internal fortitude had opened a wellspring in his heart.

  “Corinne was, well, a force of nature. We met in college, and I fell hard immediately. We went to Vanderbilt, you know? She was a cheerleader, I was warming the bench with the basketball team. She was perfect, all bubbly and sweet, this crazy smile that just shot through me. Everybody loved her. She was the president of her sorority, captain of the tennis team, a straight-A student. We were together for a week when I told her I was going to marry her. She said yes.”

  He smiled to himself, eyes gone fuzzy at the memory. “We were sitting on the deck at San Antonio Taco Company, drinking too much beer and eating tacos, and I just leaned over and said ‘I’m going to marry you, you know.’ She smiled and said, ‘Well, when you ask, I’ll say yes.’ It was perfect. She’s, she was amazing. I can’t believe I’m never going to see her smile again.”

  Taylor gave him a moment to gather himself, watched him wrestle with the memories. He was a handsome man, jet black, wavy hair, eyes so brown they looked black, a wide, firm mouth. Ropy muscles in his forearms implied strength. Taylor could imagine any one of a thousand sorority girls who would say yes to marriage material like that.

  “So tell me how you got home from Savannah so quickly yesterday.”

  His head snapped back as if she’d struck him.

  “I…I told you. I broke every speeding law on the road.”

  “And managed to cut two hours off an eight-hour drive.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The silence hung heavy in its accusation. Todd didn’t speak, just set his lips and shook his head. Taylor came at him again.

  “Do you have a life insurance policy on Corinne?”

  Todd sniffed a few times. She could see the internal debate, the realization that he’d been careless, should have known better than to come without an attorney.

  “Todd, I asked you a question. Did you have a life insurance policy on your wife?”

  “Yes. Of course I did. We’ve got a child. We’ve got policies on both of us in case something happens.”

  “For how much?”

  He mumbled a number.

  “Say that again? I didn’t hear you.”

  “We each have policies worth three million dollars. I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer now.”

  “Did you murder your wife, Mr. Wolff?”

  He stood suddenly, the chair scooting back with a screech. “No, damn it. But you’re going to try and pin this on me, I can see it. And I don’t intend to be made a fool of, Lieutenant. I didn’t kill my wife. Am I under arrest?”

  The room was thick with tension. Taylor stared into Wolff’s black eyes and saw the first vestiges of fear forming. It just served to pique her interest.

  “No. You’re not. Yet.”

  Twelve

  Taylor was sifting through the afternoon’s events in triplicate when her phone rang. She recognized the number as Forensic Medical, Sam’s extension. She glanced at the wall clock. Five. Too early for toxicology reports. She answered on the second ring. There was no greeting, just Sam’s overt enthusiasm spilling out of the receiver’s speaker.

  “You are a lucky woman.”

  Taylor tipped her chair back and put her feet up on her desk, crossing them at the ankle. “Why would this be?”

  “Because you are going to go home, take a shower, put on something fabulous, and join me as my date for the evening.”

  “Oh, hell no. I’ve got a shitload of work to do, and I am definitely not in the mood.”

  “You don’t even know what it is and you’re turning it down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Taylor, you’re a stick-in-the-mud. I insist you accompany me. I’ve lost my date for the evening, he is head over heels in love with some microbe growing in a petri dish in his office. I need an escort. It’s not acceptable for a young lady such as myself to be out on the town all by her lonesome. So get your shit together, go home and get yourself in something elegant.”

  Taylor groaned. “Elegant? What, pray tell, are you planning to drag me to?”

  “The American Cancer Society Dinner. I’m the keynote speaker.”

  “No, Sam. Absolutely not,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at six forty-five. You should wear that red dress we got you in Barbados.”

  “There’s no place for me to carry my weapon on that dress.”

  “And that, my darling friend, is the point. I don’t think you’re going to have to shoot anyone at the Frist Center.”

  “Famous last words. I remember the last time you told me I wouldn’t need a gun, I ended up being kidnapped.”

  “Well, no one is going to do that tonight. I promise. Just some rubber chicken and a bunch of free champagne. You need a break. I bet you’ve been after the bad guys all day.”

  “Of course I have. It’s my job.” But Sam had already hung up. Taylor rolled her eyes, put the phone back in the cradle, and dropped her feet to the floor.

  Choices. Sit at her desk, filling out paperwork, listening to the B-shift detectives fart and tell bad jokes while they waited for a case to break, or get dressed up in something hideously uncomfortable and make nice all night. She really didn’t know which option would be worse.

  Taylor eyed the red dress dubiously. She was already in a strapless bra, thigh-high sheer black hose and three-inch black pumps. Sam and Simon had brought the dress back from a Caribbean vacation, Sam gushing over the clingy style, declaring it would be gorgeous on her figure. Taylor had thanked her, but never tried it on. It was a postage stamp as far as she was concerned.

  Well, bottoms up. She slipped the fabric over her head, surprised at how heavy it felt, considerin
g how little of it there was. She shimmied until the dress stopped, hitched against her hips, and she tugged at the hem. Suddenly it was on, flowing, draping, hitting her curves in all the right places. She looked into her mirror. Holy shit. Sam was right. It was pretty. Delicate spaghetti straps, deep across the bust, showing off her décolletage to perfection, an empire waist that let the clingy fabric float around her knees. She was going to have to put on this getup for Baldwin, he’d enjoy it.

  She left her hair down, and it swished full and thick against the middle of her back. She put on a touch of eye shadow and mascara, and feeling risqué, painted her mouth with a deep crimson stain, then topped it with some Carmex. Done. A stranger in red.

  A horn beeped and she snapped off the light, rushed down the stairs, grabbing her purse and a wrap as she exited the front door. The small clutch was a concession she’d been required to make. She hated carrying a bag, dragging one around was counterintuitive to her lifestyle. Normally, as long as she had pockets for her Chapstick and a belt to attach her holster she was all set.

  But there was no good place to stow a weapon in this outfit. She could have tied a blade in her garter, slipped a one-shot revolver into her cleavage, but they were too impractical. So she settled on a black satin evening clutch that was just big enough for a Taurus 941 .22 revolver with a nice, short two-inch barrel, one of the many “fun” guns she had in her safe. Her normal ankle weapon was a bit larger, a .22 Beretta that she kept inside her right cowboy boot in a custom-made leather pouch, but the Beretta was just heavy enough to be a pain to carry in this purse.

  Sam whistled at her from the open top of her BMW, a construction worker catcall.

  Taylor flipped her the bird, then yelled, “Put the damn top up. It’s way too cold out here to be buzzing around like this.” She locked the door behind her and walked to the car, a tiny bit unsteady on the unfamiliar heels.

  Sam just smiled. “Fine, grump. I figured you’d like the fresh air.” The top whirred into place and snapped closed. “You look nice.”

  “So do you.” Sam was wearing a midnight-blue Grecian styled gown, strappy gladiator sandals on her feet, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, the bangs thick and stark across her forehead. As usual, she looked chic and together. Taylor pulled down the mirror as Sam put the car in gear and backed out of the drive, feeling a bit garish with the red lipstick.