Judas Kiss (5 page)

Corinne Wolff was barefoot, her legs drawn to her chest. She was half on her side and half on her stomach, facing them. Her chocolate-colored eyes were open but unseeing, the irises like gummy coffee. Her brown hair was matted with blood from an obvious gash across her forehead. Her jaw was broken, misaligned along the lower half of her face, jutting obscenely toward the ceiling. The body was crooked too; her arms stretched out as if she tried to break a fall then changed her mind. She was dressed in panties and a sports bra, a pink cashmere blanket draped over her midsection. A thick pool of blood approximately two feet in length and a foot wide surrounded her head and her torso, and a small plush toy was tucked into the crook of her arm. Footprints led around the body, away from the body, back to the body. Along Corinne's side, the blood had been disturbed.

Taylor and Sam stepped closer. “Oh, man,” Sam whispered. “That poor thing.”

“Corinne or Hayden?”

“Both.”

Taylor wasn't sure what bothered her more, the teddy bear tucked into Corinne's arms, the blanket draped across her seminakedness, or the plush, stuffed Gund My Doctor kit that sat by her head. Her daughter, unable to understand what was happening, had tried to help. She'd managed to get a large pretend Band-Aid stuck to the top of her mother's hand. Hayden had tried to fix her. And then she'd lain down next to her mother, covering herself in blood.

They got the necessary pictures and videotape, then Sam set to work. She pulled back the blanket and saw the pregnancy.

“Oh, jeez. I hate this.” She felt the body. “She's cold and malleable. The blood pool has soaked into the carpet and is tacky to the touch. I won't know an exact time of death until I run the temp during autopsy, but this should give you a time frame to start looking at. Rigor is completely gone. Livor mortis is set, the discoloration consistent with a body lying in one position since death. She's been dead at least thirty-six hours. I'd say she was killed right here, fell in this position and didn't move. How far along is she, do you know? This looks like a four, maybe five-month bump.”

“I don't know. Parks said she was pregnant, but he didn't say when she was due. Thirty-six hours minimum? God, that little girl was here in this house with her dead mother all that time. Poor baby.”

Sam continued her examination. “With a mother who'd been violently bludgeoned to death. Blunt force trauma to the extremities, the head. Her jaw is certainly broken, she's missing some teeth.” Sam was finishing her initial assessment, making notes in a small black reporter's notebook. “This is a mess, T.”

“Tell me about it. I don't see any weapon conveniently lying around, do you?”

“No. And this is too much damage to just have been someone's fists. Tim, you hear that? You need to keep an eye out for a weapon.”

“Yes, Dr. Loughley.”

“Okay, folks. Let's rock and roll.” Sam and Tim continued their duties, with Keri filming everything for posterity. Taylor went to the window. The cream-colored roman shades, covered with blood spatter, were at half-mast. She glanced out at the street below. The neighbors were still grouped on the opposite lawn, talking quietly amongst themselves. She didn't see anything out of place, no one who stood out as having a more than neighborly fascination with the goings-on.

Sam stood, leaning over the body, then turned to Taylor. “It's going to be a long day. I need to run out to the van for a couple things. Are you ready for some air?”

“Yeah.”

With a last glance at the victim, Taylor led the way out of the master and down the stairs.

When they got back to the front door, Taylor asked the question that had been burning in her mind from the moment she laid eyes on the body of Corinne Wolff.

“Just where is this husband?”

T
he Harris family had taken refuge with the Wolffs' next-door neighbor.

Fitz nodded to her as she came in. There were five people in the room, sitting, staring, crying. Father Ross, the department chaplain, was holding a woman who looked to be in her early fifties, with reddish hair. The woman was sobbing, nestled into the chaplain's shoulder. The mother. The room was deadly quiet outside of the woman's choked tears.

A dark-haired young woman met Taylor's eye. A mixture of revulsion and longing crossed the woman's face, quickly replaced by a hardness, an implacable blankness. Taylor had seen that look before. People hated to see her; she was the harbinger of death. But she held the answers, the clues, the reason. They needed her. Taylor guessed the woman was twenty-eight, maybe thirty. She could see the resemblance to the victim.

There was something else on this woman's face, but Taylor pushed it away.

She was this woman's polar opposite—where Taylor was tall, honey-blond, gray-eyed, full-lipped and broad-shouldered, this woman was five foot three or four, dark and quite athletic. Her body hummed with health and well-being; her face wasn't exactly pretty, but what men who were being kind would call interesting. She gave Taylor another look, and this time the meaning was inescapable.

Taylor was unsettled. She never enjoyed being the object of another woman's attention. This woman wasn't exactly hitting on her, but she'd made her interest known. Lovely. What was up with that?

“I'm Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, Metro homicide. I'm so sorry for your loss, ma'am.”

The dark-haired woman didn't smile, but stuck out her hand.

“I'm Michelle Harris. Corinne is my sister.”

Taylor was surprised when the woman spoke; the voice was deep and husky, that sexy, cracked sound that men always flocked to. They sounded alike.

Michelle gestured to the tear-streaked woman standing with Father Ross. “This is my mother, Julianne Harris.” She went around the room in turn, naming her family.

“My father, Matthew Harris. My sister, Nicole Harris. Carla Manchini, Corinne's neighbor. We're waiting for my brother Derek, he'll be here shortly. Do you know who did this to my sister?”

“Not yet, unfortunately. We're early into this investigation, Ms. Harris.”

“It's Miss.”

Taylor cocked her head to the side for a brief instant, then replied, “Miss Harris. Sorry. Where's your sister's daughter?”

The smaller of the two sisters, Nicole, spoke, her voice stronger than she looked. “She's taking a nap in the back room. Poor thing was absolutely exhausted. Once the paramedics said she was fine, we gave her a bath, fed her and got her down. She seemed all right, physically.”

“Why, Lieutenant? Hayden didn't have anything to do with this.” Michelle Harris was sharp-tongued, challenging. Taylor forgave her, poor girl's sister was dead, but ignored her for a moment. She turned to the other sister.

“Nicole, right?” The girl nodded.

“You gave her clothes to the officer? We're going to need to process them as evidence.”

She nodded. “That crime technician officer was with us when we changed her. We did everything just how he told us to.”

“That's good. We appreciate your help. Sergeant Fitzgerald will help me gather your statements. Mrs. Manchini, I'd like to speak with you alone. Can we go into another room?”

“You don't want to talk to me first?” Michelle asked.

Taylor met Michelle Harris's eyes. They were as odd as Taylor's own, a blue so clear you would almost say they were transparent. Taylor's were gray as a cloudy sky, one slightly darker than the other.

“I want to speak with everyone who is here. I just need some information from Mrs. Manchini to start. Please, bear with me. I'm afraid it's going to be a long day. Mrs. Manchini?”

The woman stooped when she stood, unable to straighten all the way. She gestured to the hall, and Taylor followed her out of the room. She stopped walking when she heard the deep voice of Corinne's father speaking.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

Taylor edged back to the living room entrance, careful to stay out of sight. Eavesdropping. She could see into the room perfectly; there was a mirror on the opposite wall above a small writing desk that reflected their actions. Fitz had his back to her, was talking to Father Ross.

Michelle Harris turned and grabbed onto her father, the words pouring out of her like a spigot left on during a summer drought. “Oh, Daddy. I don't know if I am. I don't think I'll ever get the image of Corinne laying there on the floor all bloody, with Hayden next to her, out of my mind.”

“I know, honey. It must have been horrible.” He pulled her in close, and Michelle melted into his arms. Taylor felt a pang of jealousy. Michelle's father was her savior, her protector.

“Haven't you heard from Derek yet?”

“He's in that infernal lab class until noon. I'm going to head over to Vanderbilt now, be waiting for him when he leaves. I don't want him to hear this from an outsider. I'll bring him back here with me. Will you be okay for a little while?”

“I'll be fine, Daddy. Once I talk to the detective, I'll sit with Mom. You and Derek take your time. He's going to be a mess.”

“Yes, he is. Thank you for understanding. You always were my good girl. I love you, Shelly. Take care of Nikki too. She's not as strong as you and your mom.” He hugged her tight to his chest, and Taylor turned away. A grieving family. Why did that make her feel so empty?

 

Mrs. Manchini had led Taylor into her bedroom. Her chintz bedroom. Unlike the coolly decorated perfection of the Wolffs' house, everything here smacked of homemade kitsch.

The master was small, about half the size of the house next door. A four-poster bed with a canopy and frilly lace pillows took up much of the space. Cliché, Taylor thought, then mentally chided herself. The Manchini house did seem a caricature of itself, the woman who owned it a shadow of a real person, insubstantial. Carla Manchini could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty-five, with outdated wire glasses, thinning blond hair in a partially grown-out perm and slightly crooked teeth. Her parents must have decided that they weren't quite bad enough to invest the money into fixing. As a result, when she spoke, a snaggletooth incisor appeared on the right upper side, and her lips folded around it as if not sure what they were meant to do.

Taylor realized Carla had been talking and focused.

“I'm not sure what you want with me, Lieutenant. I didn't know them next door very well, no, I didn't. I mind my own business over here at Manchini's
casa,
yes, I do. I'm not a spy, don't go looking into my neighbors' backyards, I truly don't.”

Taylor looked at the woman, wondering why she was so adamant. She wouldn't meet Taylor's eye, just sat on her bed, her gaze flitting about as she twisted her hands together.

“Actually, ma'am, I'm just wondering if you've noticed anything funny over the past few days.”

The woman shook her head solemnly. “I surely didn't.”

“Nothing?”

Mrs. Manchini paused for a moment, shut her eyes, remembering. “The lights were on. Mrs. Wolff turns them off in the mornings, but they burned all weekend.”

“And that was unusual?”

“Yes.”

Ah, another item for the timeline. Perfect.

“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Wolff?”

“Oh. Well, I can't rightly recall. Today's Monday, and Monday is my book club, yes, it is. I don't remember seeing Corinne today, and I usually see her in the back, watering her begonias. Such a pretty garden she has, yes, she does. Just put it in this past weekend. It's a little too early for those flowers, but what do I know? I did see her on Friday. Friday is my garden club, yes, it is.” Twist, twist, twist.

The repetition tic was starting to bother Taylor. The woman was going to sprain a wrist if she didn't lay off her hands. “Friday at what time, ma'am?”

“Oh, well, I couldn't be exact. Something around three-twenty in the afternoon, if I had to push myself to remember, but I wouldn't want to be misleading by not being one hundred percent right, no, I wouldn't.”

“You're doing just fine.”

The woman bobbed her head, a shy smile crossing her face at the compliment. Taylor got the feeling the woman didn't get many and softened her tone.

“What was Corinne doing at three-twenty, Mrs. Manchini?”

“Playing with little Hayden. Such a beautiful child, yes, she is.”

“Backyard, front yard?”

“Oh, yes, of course. They were in the side yard, actually. I believe Mrs. Wolff was putting down some wildflower mix, trying to pretty up the area where their trash cans go, yes, she was.”

Didn't keep an eye on her neighbors. Yeah, right. “Did you see anyone with her?”

“Other than Hayden? No, I didn't.”

“What about Mr. Wolff?”

This earned Taylor a direct, but fleeting, glance. She was rubbing her hands together now. The conversation was making her nervous. Nervous was always interesting.

“Oh, I don't know him very well. A handsome man, yes, he is, but not very open with the likes of me, no, he isn't.”

“Did they have any problems that you were aware of?”

“Why, no. No. None at all. They seemed to be very happy. Very content, yes, they were.”

“And you didn't see anyone else near the house. What about Saturday?”

“No, I didn't see anyone there Saturday, no, I didn't. I'd like to get back to my guests now, if I could?”

“Just a few more questions, Mrs. Manchini. Are you here in the house during the day?”

“Yes, yes, I am. I retired from the post office a ways back, yes, I did. I keep pretty much to myself nowadays, yes, I do. I read, and watch television, and go to my book club and do some gardening. I have lots of friends, yes, I do.”

“That's good, Mrs. Manchini. Do the Wolffs entertain often?”

“Well, of course. They're young and popular, they are indeed. But no more so than anyone else on this street. I've lived here for forty years, yes, I have, and I've seen neighbors come and go. Everyone seems very happy here, yes, they do.” She stopped wringing her hands, set them in her lap. The knuckles were red and gnarled. Combined with the wistful statement, her true age showed through. A lonely old woman, Mrs. Manchini.

“Okay, ma'am, let's get you back with the others. You're very kind to allow your house to be overrun like this. I'm sure the Harrises appreciate your help. I may want to talk to you again. Would that be okay?”

The woman lifted herself slowly off the bed, making the springs squeak in protest.

“Certainly, of course. Any time you need me, I'll be right here, yes, I will.”

Taylor followed the mousy Mrs. Manchini back to the great room. The scene hadn't changed much, except Michelle Harris now sat in a flowered chintz-covered armchair, holding a blond cherub in her arms. The little girl had china-blue eyes, a soft rosebud mouth, ivory skin with red apple cheeks. This must be Hayden. The child caught her eye, an unfathomable darkness shifting behind the cornflower depths. She spied Taylor's gun, fixated on it for a moment, then started to cry, burying her face in her aunt's shoulder.

 

Taylor and Michelle Harris sat at the kitchen table in Mrs. Manchini's house, afternoon sunlight streaming hard through the southerly facing windows. Michelle was handling herself as well as could be expected, considering Taylor was pumping her again about her traumatic morning.

The father of the victim had returned with the younger brother, who wasn't taking the news of his sister's murder well. Fitz had Derek Harris out on the back deck, talking with an avuncular tilt to his head. Taylor could see the two men over the top of Michelle Harris's shoulder, out the bay windows that were framed with a short, fringed chintz curtain. Taylor couldn't imagine looking at all the busy mishmashed floral patterns and colors day in and day out.

At least she'd identified the unknown scent in the Wolffs' house. It was the perfume Corinne's sister wore, a heady scent overlaid with iris and jasmine. Cloyingly sweet, and too heavily applied, as if Michelle had used soap, lotion and perfume all from the same line.

Nose twitching, she continued the interview. “Okay. Run me through it again. Start with the last time you talked to your sister.”

Michelle was pale, looking drained and torn. She kept glancing over her shoulder at her little brother, obviously wanting to comfort him.

“Michelle?” Taylor asked.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. You know how it is with siblings. Sometimes you want to protect them from hurting.”

“No, actually, I'm an only child. I wouldn't know. So please, run through it again. You and Corinne had a tennis date?” She sat back in the wooden chair, crossed her arms across her chest and waited patiently.