Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Read online

  She thought of Win then, and sobered.

  “I’m trying to shut Win down, Sam. He keeps mailing, keeps calling. I don’t want anything to do with him. He’s poison, and I need to get him out of my life. What if Baldwin and I have children one day? Can you imagine ole jailbird gramps telling stories at Christmas dinner? He’ll either corrupt them or embarrass them.”

  “You’re thinking of having kids?”

  “Focus, woman. We’re talking about my dad.”

  “You’d make a great mother.”

  Taylor stared hard at her best friend. “Why do you say that?”

  “Please. You’re totally the nurturing type. You just don’t know it yet. You’ll be like a bear with its cub, or a tiger. Nothing, and no one, will harm a hair on your kid’s head. Trust me, you’ll take to it like a seal to water. When might this magnificent event take place, anyway?”

  “You mean my immaculate conception?”

  Sam laughed. “Baldwin’s still in Quantico, I take it.”

  “Yes. He gets back tonight. That’s why I wanted to meet downtown. I’m going to head to the airport from dinner.”

  “You miss him when he’s gone, don’t you?” Sam smiled at her, a grin of understanding. Taylor had never needed a man to feel complete, but when she’d gotten involved with John Baldwin, she suddenly felt every moment without him keenly. She’d never felt that way about a man before. When she shared her feelings, Sam had patiently explained that was what love was about.

  Taylor’s cell phone rang, a discreet buzz in her front right pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

  “Crap.”

  “Dispatch?”

  “Yeah. Give me a sec.” So much for a quiet dinner with friends before a loving reunion with Baldwin. She glanced at her watch. His plane would be landing soon. No help for it. Dispatch calling her cell meant only one thing. Someone was dead. She put the phone to her ear.

  “Detective Jackson, this is Dispatch. We need you at 1400 Love Circle. We have a 10–64, homicide, at 1400 Love Circle. Be advised, possible 10–51, repeat, 10–51. They’re waiting for you. Thank you.”

  “I’m not on today, Dispatch. Give it to someone else.”

  “Apologies, Detective, but they’re asking for you specifically.”

  Taylor sighed. I’m your beck-and-call girl.

  “10–4, Dispatch. On my way.”

  A dead body, a possible stabbing. A lovely way to cap off her day.

  “You have to go?” Sam asked.

  “Yep. Aren’t you coming? I’m sure you’ll be getting the call, too.”

  Sam raised her glass. “Unlike you, my dear, I am still captain of my own ship. I’m off duty tonight. The medical examiner’s office can live without me on this one. Give my love to the valet on the way out, he’s adorable.”

  Only Sam could get away with teasing her about her demotion. Only Sam.

  “Jeez, thanks,” Taylor said, but she smiled. Getting busted back to Detective had been frustrating and embarrassing, the sidelong glances and whispers disconcerting. But she was determined to make the best of it. Karma was a bitch, and the ones who’d wronged her would get their comeuppance in the end. Especially if she won the lawsuit her union rep had filed.

  The food arrived just as Taylor stood to leave. She looked wistfully at the perfectly breaded chicken. Sam saw her eyeing it.

  “I’ll have it made into a to-go package and drop it in your fridge on my way home.”

  Taylor bent to kiss Sam on the cheek. “You’re the best. Thanks.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just remember you owe me an uninterrupted dinner. Now, go on with you. You’re practically quivering.”

  *

  Taylor retrieved her car, made all the lights through West End and finally got caught by a yellow in front of Maggiano’s. The next intersection was her turnoff, and it flashed to red just as she rolled onto the white line.

  To her left, Love Circle wound sinuously around the top of a windy hill in the middle of West End. It held too many memories for her.

  She slipped her sunglasses off; she didn’t need them. She’d gotten in the habit of putting them on the second she was out of doors lately, especially walking to and from her office. It allowed her to avoid meeting the pitying gazes she’d been receiving.

  She fingered the bump at the top of her nose, just underneath where the bridge of her sunglasses sat. She’d broken her nose for the first time on Love Hill when she was fourteen, playing football with some boys who’d come to the isolated park at the top of the hill to smoke and shoot the breeze. Her mother had cringed when she saw the break the following morning at breakfast, dragged her to a plastic-surgeon friend immediately. He’d realigned the cartilage, clucking all the while, and bandaged her nose in a stupid white brace that she’d discarded the moment her mother left her alone. The hairline fracture never healed properly, giving her the tiny bump that made her profile imperfect.

  The second time, it had been broken for her. Damn David Martin, her dead ex-partner, had roughed her up after breaking into her house. She’d been forced into violence that night, had shot him during the attack.

  The car behind her beeped, and Taylor realized she’d been sitting at the left-turn arrow through a full cycle of lights. It was green again. Good grief. Lost in thought. That’s what the hill did to her.

  She turned left on Orleans, took a quick right on Acklen, then an immediate left onto Love Circle. It was a steep, narrow road, difficult to traverse. The architecture was eclectic, ranging from bungalows from the 1920s to contemporary villas built as recently as five years ago. Many of the houses had no drives; the owners usually left their cars on the street. She wound her way up, surprised by the changes. A huge, postmodern glass house perched at the top of the hill, lit up like Christmas. She remembered there was some flak about it; built by a country-music star, something about a landing pad on the roof. She drove past, admiring the architecture.

  At the top of the rise, she stopped for a moment, glanced out the window to the vivid skyline. The sky was deeply dark to the east, with no moon to light the road. The dazzling lights of Nashville beckoned. No wonder the isolated park at the peak was still a favorite teen hangout. There was something about the name, of course. It was rather romantic to head up the hill at sunset to watch the lights of Nashville blink on, one by one, a fiery mass of luminosity cascading through the city.

  Being reared in the protected Nashville enclaves of Forest Hills and Belle Meade, Taylor sometimes needed to move outside her parents’ carefully executed social construct to find a little fun. Her honey-blond hair and mismatched gray eyes always drew attention, whether she wanted it or not. Coupled with her height, already nearly six feet tall at thirteen, she’d commanded the attention of her peers, friends and foes alike. It wasn’t a stretch that she’d get into a little mischief here and there.

  She’d been a regular on the hill for a summer; with Sam Owens—now Dr. Sam Loughley, Nashville’s lead medical examiner—at her side. They’d gotten into the genteel trouble that was expected from well-bred teenagers: smoking stolen Gauloises, sipping nasty-tasting cheap whiskey, hanging out with boys who shaved their hair into Mohawks and talked big about anarchy and guitar riffs. It didn’t last. Their constant posturing quickly bored her.

  It made Taylor sad to think back to her youth; the things they called “trouble” back then were increasingly tame by today’s standards. Here she was, newly turned thirty-six, and already feeling old when faced with teenagers.

  She’d abandoned the Circle when she was fifteen, didn’t return until her eighteenth birthday. A nostalgic drive with her first real lover, the professor. He’d driven her up there in his Jeep and parked, hands roaming across her body. They’d nearly driven over the edge when her knee knocked the gearshift into Second. He’d taken her to his place that night for the very first time, deflowered her with skill and care.

  She smiled, as she normally did when a memory of James Morley first crossed her min
d. The thought led to her father, a close friend of Morley’s, and the smile fled.

  She needed to mail the letter. Win Jackson was only eight hours away, and he’d be out in a matter of months, having cut several deals to assure him an early release. His missives came with alarming regularity, each begging for forgiveness. His dealings with a shadowy crime boss in New York were behind him. He was going to be on the straight and narrow path from here on out.

  She wondered how many times she’d heard that before. Money laundering wasn’t the worst he could have been charged with, but it was the charge that stuck. Well, there was time before she’d have to deal with Win in person. Not as much as she’d like, but enough.

  She passed the apex of the hill and the crime scene beckoned to her. Blue-and-white lights flashed, guiding her in. Four patrol cars stood at attention next to a chain-link fence. The K-9 unit was parked at an angle. Taylor recognized Officer Paula Simari’s German shepherd, Max, straining against the cracked window, searching for his master. Ah, so this was the crime scene that had kept her from dinner. It must be a doozy if they were calling in off-duty officers and detectives.

  Taylor put her window down, cooed softly at the dog. “You’re okay, baby. She’ll be back in a minute.” Max stopped fretting and sat, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

  She drove another twenty yards, down the back edge of the hill. All of the attention was focused on a two-story house set back fifty feet from the street. The house was an original Craftsman, built sometime in the 1930s, if she had to guess. The thick, pyramid-shaped columns and slanting roof were well-kept. The exterior was awash in false light; the shake shingles looked to be painted a soft, mossy green, the details slightly darker. The whole house blended perfectly into the surrounding woods. Four joint dormer windows across the second story were square and forward, watching.

  She was surprised to see the lawn and porch littered with milling people—a level of disorganization rarely in evidence at a Nashville crime scene. The crime-scene techs were setting up to take photos, video, collect evidence; two patrol officers were standing to one side, conversing in low tones. The command table had been set up on the porch. Uniforms and plainclothes techs were walking around the outside of the house. Neighbors had gathered, silently scrutinizing.

  She parked next to a crime-scene van. The side door was open, the contents spilling out as if the tech was in a hurry to get moving on the scene. Paula Simari was twenty feet away. She caught Taylor’s eye, angled her head with a jerk. Meet me inside, the look said. Taylor got out of the car, intrigued.

  “Detective!”

  A young man signaled her to join him on the lawn of the house. It was deep emerald in the false light, freshly mown; the tang of green onion and cut grass felt so familiar, so right. Normal and unthreatening, just another suburban evening.

  But it wasn’t. She shut the door to her car, trying to assimilate the scene. The man continued waving, gesticulating wildly as if she hadn’t seen him already.

  Her new partner. Renn McKenzie. Nice enough guy, but she wasn’t willing to get to know him. It was too damn soon. She was still in mourning, recovering from the demise of her team, her career. Her future.

  He galloped up to her, breathless. She nodded at him, willing some zen calm into him. “McKenzie.”

  “Just call me Renn, Taylor.”

  “Jackson is fine, McKenzie.”

  “I wish you’d just call me Renn.”

  Just Renn. “I’m not on today. I assume you had me called for a reason. Could you fill me in?”

  She saw the blush rise on his cheeks. Just Renn had been transferred in from the South sector. He and Marcus Wade, one of her former teammates, had essentially traded places. Captain Delores Norris, head of the Office of Professional Accountability, was the architect of the restructuring.

  She would kill to have Marcus by her side right now. Or her former sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald, or Lincoln Ross. But her entire team had been disassembled, and she felt the loss sorely. She was sure Just Renn was a fine detective, but he had his own rhythms, his own demeanor, an eagerness that belied the streaks of gray at his blond temples that was hard to get used to. He was gangly, all sharp edges, no real refinement to his walk or manners. Brown eyes, thin lips, three days of fuzzy golden razor stubble. A decent-looking man, if you liked the enthusiastic type. But he’d only been in plainclothes for about a month, which frightened her. Inexperience could blow an investigation; she was used to working with seasoned pros. Pros she had trained to work her way.

  To be truthful, a small part of her liked keeping him off balance. It gave her the sense that maybe this wasn’t forever.

  “Sure, yeah. Jackson. Such a harsh name. I assume you’re related?” He looked at her, his face turning blue, then white, then blue.

  “Related to…?”

  “Andrew Jackson, of course.”

  This boy obviously didn’t know his Southern history. There were no direct descendants of Old Hickory—though he’d raised eleven children, none were his own. There was a family connection though, through Jackson’s wife Rachel’s son…. She bit her lip, resisted the urge to scream. None of this had any bearing on her job.

  “McKenzie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. We don’t know.” He didn’t make a move toward the house, just stood there.

  “Could we possibly go see the body?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Let’s go. She’s in the living room, or the great room, or whatever you call that big open space in the middle of the house. You can’t see her from the front door, the best view is from the kitchen. Not a lot of walls in the downstairs, it’s all open except for a few columns. She’s, well, I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  Now we’re talking.

  They reached the front steps. Taylor took them two at a time. Just Renn was right on her tail. It wasn’t her imagination; the command center had been set up on the porch of the house.

  “McKenzie? Why don’t you suggest they move the command back a bit? We usually don’t have all this activity so close to the scene. There’s a chance of contamination. Crime Scene 101, buddy.”

  He looked down at the deck of the porch, chastised. She felt bad for snapping at him, mentally promised herself to be more careful. He was just a kid, learning the ropes. She’d been there once.

  “It’s okay. We all make mistakes,” she said. It wasn’t okay, but the damage was already done. She’d sort it out later.

  Even with all the people worrying the scene, the interior of the house felt spacious. Teak floors, exposed beams, whitewashed walls, architectural and designer accoutrements. Elegant abstract paintings pranced along their neutral background to an exposed brick-and-stone fireplace.

  The mood of the scene bothered her. The lack of concern about the exterior scene, the milling about, the simple fact that she’d been called in all bespoke the worst. Something was happening, something more than a typical murder. She felt a lump form in her throat.

  Under the drone of voices, she heard music. Faint strains of a classical composition…what was that? She felt a buzz of recognition, reached into her mind for the name—Dvořák. That was it. Symphony #9. In E minor. Years of training, even more as a minor aficionado, and it had still taken her a moment. Funny how the mind worked. Her fingers unconsciously curled in on themselves, moving lightly in time with the notes. She’d played clarinet growing up, thrilled with her budding expertise when she was a child, mortified by the time she was a teenager looking for some fun up on Love Circle.

  Looking back, she was sorry she’d given it up. Playing in a symphony had been one of her childhood desires, supplanted by the allure of law enforcement after a brief brush with the law when she was a teenager. Now she could see how that would have been quite satisfying. It was a game she rarely played—if you weren’t a cop, what would you be? She’d never been in a position to have to think about not being a cop. Now that she felt the jeopardy
slipping in like cat’s feet on a fog, she’d started wondering again.

  Taylor concentrated on the music. The last strains of the allegro con fuoco were fading away, then the opening movement started. A loop of the New World Symphony, as the piece was more commonly referred to. Bold and aggressive, lyrical and stunning. She’d always liked it.

  She looked for the stereo, didn’t see one. The music was all around her; it must be on a house-wide speaker system. It was hard to drag her attention away. She caught the eye of one of the techs she knew, Tim Davis. At least he was on the scene—she could count on him to preserve as much evidence as possible.

  “Tim, can you cut the music?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. It’s on a built-in CD player. The controls are in the kitchen. I was waiting for you to hear it. The loop is driving us all mad. You know who it is?”

  “Dvořák. Symphony #9. Keep that quiet, will you? I want to be sure that detail isn’t leaked to the press. They’ll seize on it and start giving this guy a name.”

  She hadn’t even seen the body, and she was already assuming the worst. Not surprising; the whole tenor of the crime scene screamed “unusual.”

  “Where are they, anyway?”

  Tim glanced out the window. “Channel Five just pulled up. The others can’t be far behind.”

  She nodded to him and looked for Paula. She was standing in the open living room, looking toward the back door. The great room of the house was separated from the eat-in kitchen by three columns, which mimicked the pyramid-shaped support columns out front. There was a small knot of people surrounding the center column, a surreal grouping of cops and techs waiting on her. Three things hit her: she couldn’t see a body, the faces glancing her way were visibly disturbed, and there was a fetid whiff of decomposition in the air.