Judas Kiss. J.T. Ellison
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Peter Fitzgerald, her second in command, greeted her brusquely. “I know it’s your day off, but you need to come in. We’ve got a murder that’s going to have fleas.”
“Who?”
“Some sweet little mother out in Hillwood. I’m hearing words like Laci and Peterson.”
Taylor shuffled her fingers through a notepad that sat next to the phone, ready for an urgent message. No, thank you. I’m not in the mood for a murder. I think I’ll pass. But she couldn’t. She was the homicide lieutenant, and if her team needed her, that meant she would show.
“Fine. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be on the road.”
“The fed gone yet?”
“He’s finishing packing.”
“Well, go kiss his pretty little face goodbye and get your ass down here. We need you.”
She hung up and the phone rang again. The plumbers. They greeted her warmly. Of course they would, she’d be sending their children through college if this was more than a simple leak. They said their technician would be out in an hour. She told them where she’d hide a key, then ran up the stairs. Baldwin was zipping his suitcase.
“You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Good, come on. I’ll drop you off. I have to go in.”
“Who died?”
Ah, the bliss of living with a fellow law enforcement officer. He just got it.
“Fitz says it’s a young mother. It must be catching on fire for him to drag me in on my day off.” She pulled a black sweater over her gray T-shirt and went into the offending bathroom. She brushed out her hair and gathered it into a ponytail, frowned at the toilet, where she assumed the leak had generated, then went to her closet and grabbed a pair of boots. Hitching up the legs of her jeans, she slipped into the Tony Lamas without sitting down and jumped up once, landing softly to set her heels and drop the pant legs. Ready.
Baldwin was standing in the doorway to the master, watching with a bemused smile on his face. “Thirty seconds flat. Not bad. You look stunning.”
Taylor rolled her eyes at him. “Let’s go, lover boy. The sooner you get to Quantico, the sooner you can come home.”
Three
Taylor met Fitz in the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center. Clouds scudded across the graying sky. Despite the beauty of spring in Nashville, the weather was wholly schizophrenic. Sunny one minute, stormy the next. She took off her sunglasses and slipped one temple into her sweater collar.
“Yo,” Fitz called, pointing to a white Chevy Impala, his official department issued ride. “I gotta run back to the office for a second. Want a drink?”
Taylor nodded her head and started for the car. She took the passenger’s side, pushing the seat back to accommodate her long legs. Fitz disappeared into the bowels of the CJC and returned a few minutes later with two Diet Cokes. He slid into the driver’s seat, handed over the soda. She cracked the lid and sipped, then put the can between her thighs.
The sun popped out for a brief second, enough to blind her, so she put on her new Ray-Bans, a purchase she made in the duty-free in Milan’s Malpensa airport. They were wide and black and made her feel glamorous, a tiny homage to her new European sentiments. Traveling in a foreign country with a native speaker of the language had the tendency to make you feel more. She’d been on several trips overseas before, but had never experienced them the way she’d experienced the three weeks touring Italy with Baldwin.
She was having trouble acclimating. She missed the slow easiness of Italian life—the languid drives, the frequent stops for food and wine, the symmetrical beauty of the olive groves and vineyards and cypress-lined drives, the feeling that she was very, very young. And if she were being absolutely truthful, it had been damn nice to have three whole weeks without a single dead body.
The clouds smothered the burgeoning sunlight again, but she left the glasses on. Annoying, that’s what these transitional months were. She wanted it to be one or the other, warm or cold, sunny or cloudy.
Fitz pulled out of the parking lot.
“How ya doing?” he asked.
“I have a leak in my bathroom,” she pouted.
“I told you not to buy a new house. If you’d gotten one constructed like they should be, something solid, like those great old Victorians in East Nashville, you wouldn’t be having these problems.”
“No, Fitz, I’d just have termites and gang-bangers. No thanks. Gentrification just isn’t my thing.”
“Spoiled.”
“Not. We just wanted something…airy.”
Fitz laughed. “Airy my ass. You wanted something big enough for that damn pool table and a passel of kids.”
Taylor turned to him, suspicious. “What in the world makes you say that?”
He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked. It made his face look crooked, like Popeye full of ruddy wrinkles. “You don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Want to have a pack of brats with the fed.” He said it so calmly she went on immediate alert.
“Where are you hearing this stuff? I’ve never said anything about having a baby. We can’t even manage to get married, so I’m hardly gunning for offspring. I don’t know if that’s something I ever want to do.” She looked out the window, watched the edge of downtown Nashville slip away like a veil was lifted. Brick and cement became foliage. They were on West End, heading out to Hillwood. A bucolic drive through the suburbs. Was that prompting Fitz’s question?
“Okay, girlie, I’m convinced. But I’m hearing this crime scene might be a bit off-putting. If you were fixing to get yourself knocked up, I might encourage you to skip this one, look the other way.”
“Jesus Christ, Fitz, tell me what’s at the scene.”
“Parks is there. Hey, there’s a picture in the visor. Grab that, wouldja?”
Good, Taylor thought. Bob Parks was as level-headed a patrol officer as Metro employed. If there was something wild at a crime scene, he would know how to tamp it down so the press couldn’t get too insane. She unfolded the sun visor, expecting a crime scene photo. Instead, a picture of a boat dropped into her lap. She turned it around so it faced up. It was pretty, white with tall sails, sliding through impossibly blue water.
“Yes…?”
“Parks said it was a little gruesome out there, that’s all.”
“No, I mean, what’s with the boat?”
“Thinking of buying it.”
Taylor looked at the photo again. It was…well, it was a boat. That’s as far as she went with sailing. Not her forte.
“When are you planning to drive this boat?”
“Jeez, LT. It’s called sailing. And it’s for when I retire.”
Fitz clamped his mouth shut. Taylor recognized the action—he was finished talking about it. He’d warned her about the scene and lobbed a bombshell about the future; that was as far as he was willing to go. Great.
An ambulance whipped past them, coming from the opposite direction. Going to St. Thomas, she thought. She mentally crossed herself, as she did every time she heard a siren. After thirteen years on the force, five of them in Homicide, she wasn’t so jaded that she still couldn’t have some compassion for the strangers in this world who might need a little looking over.
She toyed with her new engagement ring. The post-engagement pre-marriage ring, actually. When he’d first proposed, Baldwin had given her a stunning