Judas Kiss. J.T. Ellison
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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?”
Four
The 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