Judas Kiss (7 page)

“Lieutenant, I hardly think—” He stopped, the implication of Taylor's question hitting him. “You think I did this.”

“I'm just trying to get a feeling for your life, Mr. Wolff. I'm not implying anything. Tell me about your finances. You mentioned that you drive instead of fly because it was cheaper. Is your business having problems?”

He became very still. “Lieutenant, what happened here? What happened to my wife? No one will tell me.”

The raw emotion tugged at Taylor's center. She caught Fitz's eye. Either this guy was one hell of an actor, or he genuinely didn't know the manner in which his wife had died.

“Mr. Wolff,” Taylor tried again. “Do you and your wife fight?”

He met her eyes, his gaze direct and unflinching, deep pools of pain. “Of course we fight. We're not perfect. We have tiffs, like every other married couple in the world. If you're asking if I killed my wife, the answer is no.”

Taylor assessed him for a moment longer. Well, it was always worth judging the reaction to reality. She decided to take a chance. Something about Wolff's demeanor made her believe him. A quick glance at Fitz confirmed her decision was sound.

“We don't have a lot to go on right now, Mr. Wolff. Evidence is being collected, the investigation is underway. What I
can
tell you is your sister-in-law came to pick Corinne up for tennis this morning. Your wife was found in your bedroom, severely beaten. Your daughter seems unharmed.”

“And the baby?”

His voice cracked and tears spilled down his cheeks, silent silver tracks. The voice of a man condemned, a man who knew the answer to his question but forced himself to ask it anyway.

“Your son didn't survive the assault, Mr. Wolff. Your wife had been deceased for some time when she was discovered. I'm very sorry.”

Wolff hiccupped, then stood and bolted. Taylor heard him vomiting in the guest bath, then water running to cover the noises.

Fitz had sat silent throughout the exchange. “You think we need to bring him downtown?” he asked quietly.

The water was still running in the bathroom. Taylor shook her head, but answered him under her breath. “I think he's got enough on his plate right now. That was an awfully visceral reaction for someone who knew what was coming. He may be pulling one over on us, but I'm inclined to think he may be telling the truth. Either he's quite the criminal mastermind—arranging to be out of town, hiring someone to kill his wife—or he doesn't know what happened. Let's give him the night with his daughter, and question him again in the morning. We've got a lot of background to go through, need to see what their finances are like, sift through all the evidence Tim collected. I say we write things up and call it a night.”

“I agree. I'll get him over to the Harrises' so he can see his daughter.”

“Sounds good. I'm going to go into the office, make up the murder book, check in with the captain. I'll see you there.”

The toilet flushed and the water stopped running. Wolff came back into the room, his eyes bloodshot, looking chagrined. “I'm sorry for losing control like that.”

“It's okay. We understand. I think it's time to wrap things up for today. Your wife's body will be autopsied in the morning, and we'd like to talk to you some more. But for now, we're going to get you with Hayden and your family.”

As they left, Taylor couldn't help but look back at the Wolffs' house. What had happened? Was this a home invasion gone bad? It didn't look like anything had been tampered with or stolen. No, this felt personal, and Todd was the obvious choice.

There was something about him. So far he'd shown nothing but the appropriate responses. But Taylor couldn't help but think about Corinne's family, and her father, insistent that Todd was somehow culpable for the murder.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd been lied to.

T
aylor took her time driving downtown, thinking about the afternoon. The murder weapon stashed in the closet, Todd Wolff's seemingly genuine hysteria. It was much too early to dismiss him as a suspect. Violence on this level, in the victim's home, so often was a result of a domestic squabble gone wrong. And there had been plenty of husbands who had duped even the best investigators. Mark Hacking came to mind. He'd gone on television, cried and begged, pleading for justice for his pregnant wife, when in actuality, he'd shot her, dumped her body in a Dumpster, replaced their mattress and nearly got away with the whole crime. Scott Peterson was another classic example. It was a sad statistic—the number one cause of death for pregnant mothers was domestic homicide.

But if he'd done it, he was a cold-blooded bastard. Murder your wife, your unborn child, and leave your daughter trailing around the house alone for days? Jesus. That took some balls. Or desperation.

It was ten after six and Taylor was topping Nine Mile Hill. She'd made the short trip into Bellevue and gone through the McDonald's drive-through before heading back downtown. The whole day had been lost at the Wolff crime scene and she hadn't stopped to have anything to eat. She munched a chicken sandwich as she drove, feeling virtuous for skipping the fries.

Nine Mile Hill, so creatively named because it was exactly nine miles from the heart of downtown Nashville, the Cumberland River, afforded Taylor a lovely panoramic view of the city. The sun was setting behind her, catching the reflection off the Lifeway warehouse. The skyscrapers and the Capitol building that made up Nashville's skyline were bathed in a rosy copper reflective glow, shimmering like an urban mirage. Taylor had lived in Nashville her entire life, but had never seen this vision. It was gorgeous and filled her, making her feel whole and drowsy. She was tempted to pull over and watch until it disappeared, but the sun did the trick for her, shifting slightly in its evening zenith. The mirage faded, and the downtown Taylor knew reappeared.

The little things were becoming so important. She'd always had a knack for finding beauty in the most unlikely places. When it came to her unbidden, it felt like a blessing.

As she drove through Belle Meade, she thought about Corinne Wolff. This murder was going to seize the attention of Nashville. Always fascinated by suburban crime, the city would rally around a dead mother-to-be. She made a mental note to talk to Dan Franklin, the department's spokesman, to work on some language that would be appropriately somber. If she didn't get a viable suspect right away, a story like this could breed controversy. She didn't need the national news outlets breathing down her neck. She'd had enough of that on her last big case.

Gossip, rumor, innuendo. A homicide detective's best friend was the undercurrent, the shifting of allegiances, the aspersions cast. It took a rare talent to sift through the lies, arrive at the truth. Taylor had always had a sense for accuracy. But when the media got involved, the deceptions became driven by ratings. A brave new world.

She'd only had serious media trouble twice in the past, once several years earlier, the second only a month prior. The Snow White Killer, long dormant in Nashville, had risen like a phoenix and started killing again. She was still uncomfortable with the nature of the media's interest in the case, how easily they dragged her and the department through the mud. There was constant second-guessing and now, with the benefit of hindsight, Monday morning quarterbacking galore. Two months later, Taylor lay in bed at night, watching replay after replay of the case on cable news, wondering if the interest would ever truly end. The national news outlets had camped along the streets of downtown Nashville like hippie jam bands, partying over the leftovers of each family's grief. The slightest whiff of resolution and they'd be back at it.

The earlier trouble, well, she didn't like to think about that.

The thoughts came quickly, whipping through her mind like a breeze. Snow White. His apprentice, the self-proclaimed Pretender, a man with no name and no compunction when it came to killing. Still out there, lurking in the deepest recesses. Which brought her to Baldwin.

Baldwin would have firsthand access to anything new on the still very open case. He'd promised to look into the Bureau's files while he was in Quantico.

If she were being honest with herself, she hoped he would find something fresh, something concrete. Something more than the ephemeral, hair bristling on the back of the neck feelings Taylor had. Feelings were all well and good. She trusted herself, trusted her instincts. Every once in a while, her skin tingled and she felt eyes on her back. She assumed the Pretender was keeping tabs on their investigation into his whereabouts, and sometimes followed her. She could almost sense him when he was near. He set her radar off, though she'd never gotten a real look at him.

They needed concrete evidence. Needed to know the name of the murderer who masqueraded in other killers' emotional garments. They had nothing.

Headlights flashed and she came back, surprised to see she was already at the Criminal Justice Center. Car coma, that's what Baldwin called it. It happened too often; she'd be lost in thought and realize she'd driven to her destination without seeing the path. Too distracted. She needed to be more on her game. The time off had only intensified the need for her to get her head back to Nashville, and on keeping herself safe.

She parked and crossed the lot, taking the back stairs two at a time. She swiped her key card along the access box at the back entrance to the building. The door dumped her into the hallway just outside the Homicide offices. The second shift had already arrived; a noisy buzz emanated from the homicide office.

The hall was blocked by a young patrol officer from the first shift who was bent in half, butt sticking up in the air, her flashlight swinging precariously close to her head as she dug green-colored photocopied paper out of a box. She straightened, shuffled the pages of announcements, meeting schedules, calendars—the normal office detritus. It only took her a few moments to rearrange the corkboard, posting new job listings and notices. When she was satisfied, she stood back and looked to make sure everything was set to rights, then slid the Plexiglas closed and locked it with a miniature key. She noticed Taylor, mumbled “Sorry,” and shoved the box out of the way. As Taylor passed her, she went on to the next glass slot, the one with the latest WANTED posters. She unlocked the casing, reached in her little box and pulled out several posters, arranging them in order of priority. The highest priority was an infamous cold case that appeared to have gotten a lead.

The Cold Case team. Taylor didn't envy their jobs a bit. She couldn't imagine working full-time with the lost, spending all her time living other people's pain and agony. Taylor was convinced that in order to heal, a victim's family just needed to know what actually happened. For those who were missing, who were dead with no killer captured, no answers, the waiting was unbearable. Nashville had plenty of cases that fit this précis, and six or seven that were actively being worked.

With a brief wave at two of the B shift detectives, she went into her office and shut the door behind her.

Absolutely astounding. Looking at the top of the wooden desk, Taylor couldn't help but think of a tornado's aftermath. When she'd left the night before, everything was in its place, the in-box and out-box were empty, and the desktop was completely clear. Now, it was overflowing. She spied at least four incident reports from the Wolff crime scene, a couple of red actionable items from upstairs, an empty threeing binder some kind soul had thought to provide, knowing she'd be collecting all the information for its innards, creating a new murder book labeled Wolff. Several multicolored sticky notes, a full call sheet, a brief scattering of pens and pencils. A shaft of moonlight peeked through the open blinds, illuminating a white sheet of basketball brackets with a hot pink postie reminding her to make her picks before Thursday at noon or else she wouldn't be able to participate in the yearly NCAA pool. Away for a day and the desk bloomed like forsythia, one moment barren and empty, the next full of unruly flowers. With a sigh, she slipped around to her seat and started organizing. She couldn't work in chaos, never had been able to tolerate a mess in her proximity.

Her voice-mail light was blinking. She played the messages. The only one of interest was from Lincoln Ross. Oh, thank goodness. It was good to hear his voice.

She never realized how much she missed being around her team until they weren't there. She'd missed them all while she and Baldwin were away, and returned to the news that Lincoln Ross had been tapped for an assignment. A “Special Assignment.” That's all she'd been told. She could guess what cases might be important enough to put a homicide detective on a full-time assignment, had made a few attempts to get information from her captain, Mitchell Price. He'd only smiled and nodded with each guess, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing which supposition was correct.

Setting a sheaf of paper aside, she flipped open her cell phone and dialed the number. Lincoln answered on the first ring, his deep, honeyed voice tinged with irony.

“Thank God it's you, LT. I have a problem,” Lincoln said.

“Talk to me. I miss you, by the way. Are you ever coming off this project?”

“I hope so. I think things are about to break. This stupid confidential informant got me in a world of hurt, and I had to push back. That's part of the problem.”

“What happened?”

She heard the deep, readying breath. “I had to partake.” He spat the words out as if saying them would ease a bad taste in his mouth.

“Oh, Lincoln. You know that's not—”

The despair in his voice broke her heart. “Shit, LT, I know. Trust me, it was drilled into me a thousand times before I got involved in this case. I didn't have a choice. This is getting dicey. I didn't know what else to do.”

“What was it?”

“What else. Crack. Messed me up good, too, even though I barely had a hit. God, LT. It was terrible. You don't think they'll fire me?”

Taylor laughed. “No, I don't. My God, Linc, you're one of the finest officers we employ. If you said there was no other choice, I believe you, and so will Price. He'll go to the mat for you. How'd you get yourself stuck?”

“The CI has been meeting me at a skeevy hotel, bringing me the information. Some of his cronies followed him to the meet. There was nothing we could do without blowing the whole thing. Thank God they didn't recognize me, that would have ended it all right there, with me on the floor in a puddle of blood. No, they were all fucked-up and wanted to party some more. I've been feeding the CI drugs to sell to them. They insisted on trying the merchandise. I said no, the head dog said yes. Stuck a revolver in my face. I didn't think I had much of a choice after that. I faked it best I could, but I still had to blow something out, you know?”

It was the bane of undercover work, especially when the target of the investigation was into the drug scene. Balancing being a cop and not blowing your cover was difficult at best. Lincoln wasn't undercover though, and she didn't want to upset him further by telling him that it
was
likely disciplinary action would be taken against him. A suspension without pay, probably. That could wait until he was back with her.

“You need to be careful, my friend. Write the whole thing up and we'll handle it together. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks. I gotta go. We've got a meet in twenty minutes. See ya.”

That just sucked. She hated that Lincoln had been forced into harm's way by someone else's stupidity.

There was another message, this one from Baldwin. Just checking in, he said. He sounded stressed. Well, she could identify with that. She called him back, but he didn't answer. She put her phone away and got to work. She had a suspect to catch.

 

The sun was setting on Quantico, Virginia.

Dr. John Baldwin stood. He'd been sitting in a chair that was too low to the ground for his long legs, and it screeched with the sudden movement.

“Damn it, I don't like lying to her.”

“I know that, Baldwin. I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't absolutely necessary, you know that.” Garrett Woods tried for affable, but Baldwin wasn't fooled. He'd known the man too long to trust such a conciliatory tone.

“You know karma is going to bite you in the ass for faking heart problems.”

Garrett smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. “I could have gone into a diabetic coma instead. Would that have been more realistic? I am diabetic, after all.”

“You should take better care of yourself regardless. But be warned, if we find out he's heading anywhere near Nashville, I am out of here. How in the world did you let him slip the net?”

“We're still figuring that out. And don't worry about your princess. She can take care of herself. Don't delude yourself there, my boy. She's managed quite well without you all this time. She's not some weak-kneed little kitten that needs your protection. You'll be back there soon enough. There's work to be done here first.”

Baldwin took a lap around the small room, stopping at the window that overlooked the parade grounds in front of the gate into the complex. Garrett had asked to meet him in an outbuilding, outside the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime offices, which housed both the Behavioral Science Unit and the Behavioral Analysis Units. It was a smart thing to do; that building was filled with perceptive people. This conversation didn't need an audience.