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tention.
“Great. I’ll be back in a flash.”
Jane watched as Troy went to Jerry, held up two fingers and turned back, leaning against the bar in a casual “I don’t 112
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notice the three drunk and half-naked women crawling around on the bar next to me.” He smiled at her, but the three women glommed onto him immediately, and Jane shook her head. It might take a few minutes for Troy to get her beer back to her.
Jane tried to smile back, but her head was getting foggy. Man, how many beers did she have? She remembered the two, but her head felt like she was bombed. Wow, her equi
librium was gone. A little voice inside her said get up and walk it off, but her body wasn’t cooperating. She felt something clawlike and hard, a hand under her arm, saw a vague outline of a face, and realized the older guy had come to her rescue.
“Thanks, I’ve got it,” she tried to say, but the words came out garbled, nonsensical.
There was a brief moment when she realized that this was no good, that she needed to yell out to Troy. He was big and strong and could fight off this creepy man with the wispy hair, help her break free, but the moment was lost and she swam away into the ether, feeling nothing. Ten
Quantico, Virginia
Wednesday, December 17
8:00 a.m.
Charlotte Douglas stretched, arms over her head, her breasts pulling against the thin silk of her blouse. Three interns walking by her office lingered in the hallway, watching the show. She knew it, arched her back a little more and tossed out a high-pitched sigh. One of the interns groaned aloud, and his friends hustled him away. Charlotte relaxed and giggled. Boys. So easy to manipulate. They’d be hanging around for days, willing to do anything she might need. It helped to have gophers, especially hand
some dark-haired ru
She’d called Baldwin’s office, had a brief, nasty tête
à-tête with him. He dumped her into the lap of his acting director, who in turn touched base with the Nashville homicide office and set up an appointment with the head of Metro’s Criminal Investigative Division, Captain 114
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Mitchell Price. Everything was in place. She knew the Snow White Killer inside and out. And she knew she could catch him. It was just a matter of timing. Charlotte had hung up the phone with a smile on her face and made another brief call. Within five minutes, Pietra Dunmore was standing in her doorway. There was nothing about forensics that Pietra didn’t know. She’d written or coauthored at least six books on the subject, lending her expertise to universities and training seminars all over the country. She was the preemi
nent forensic scientist on the BSU staff, and didn’t care who knew it. The diminutive Pietra stood only five feet tall, but was a giant in all other respects. Charlotte had a level of admiration for the woman, and knew that because Pietra was black, they would rarely be competing for the same pool of men. Pietra didn’t do white guys, and Char
lotte didn’t go black. Simple.
“What can I do for you, Charlotte?”
“We’re heading down South.”
“For what?”
“I need you to present some findings on the Snow White Killer case. I’ve e-mailed you the details.”
Despite Charlotte’s dramatic presentation, Pietra wasn’t rattled. “Old or new?”
Charlotte had given the woman a broad smile. “Both. We have some fascinating new information to share.”
Now Pietra stood in her doorway, her briefcase in her hand. It was time to go. Time to make her mark. Time. Eleven
Nashville, Te
Wednesday, December 17
8:30 a.m.
Taylor pulled off Highway 70 into the parking lot of the Belle Meade Galleria, a strip of high-end stores in the heart of Belle Meade. Luck was with her—she found a spot near the door of the restaurant. Le Peep was a neigh
borhood favorite, an eclectic breakfast and lunch place that attracted many of the denizens of the local community. Even on a freezing Wednesday morning, the place was nearly full. Taylor spotted Frank Richardson sitting at a table in the rear of the restaurant, happily munching on eggs and toast and plowing through a liter of hot coffee. She joined him, shrugging out of her shearling jacket. The waitress came by and she asked for a Diet Coke, toast and fruit. The late night, coupled with no sleep and a gnawing in her stomach, meant she’d be better off without the jarring caffeine rush of coffee and a full breakfast. No more iron-clad stomach for her. As she’d gotten into her 116
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thirties, she’d been keeping all her stress in her gut. It was just easier to avoid the causes that made things worse. Frank Richardson hadn’t missed a beat, continuing his forceful eating frenzy as she got settled. He dipped his toast into a su
Taylor watched him chew and swallow with gusto, en
tranced by the shine of grease on his lower lip. The sight made her already unsettled stomach turn, and she looked away briefly. He wiped his mouth and gave a tiny, delicate belch.
“The Europeans just don’t know how to do eggs, you know? They try their damnedest to make ’em like you want, but there’s just something missing. Maybe American chickens lay better eggs than the French. I don’t know.”
“Well, my fiancé and I are supposed to go to Europe soon, so I’ll keep that in mind, do some testing myself. See if the Italians are better at eggs than the French.”
Richardson looked at her left hand wryly. “You’re getting married and heading to Italy for your honey
moon?”
Taylor nodded, and he gave her a genuine smile.
“Lucky girl. When?”
“Supposed to go on Sunday. At this rate, I don’t think we’re going to be able to pull it off.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Missed my eldest daughter’s birth when Martin Luther King got hit. Had to leave right from the hospital, my wife having contractions every two minutes but breathing fire down my neck to go, to get the story. She’s a mighty fine woman, to send me off for my career when I should’ve been there, helpin’ her.”
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“She sounds amazing. You got the story, of course.”
Taylor knew he had, of course he had. He’d won numerous journalism awards for his coverage of the civil rights leader’s assassination.
“I did at that.” His blue eyes twinkled, and Taylor couldn’t help but smile. Robust and full of life, that’s how she would describe Frank Richardson.
Her food arrived and she nibbled at the toast, followed it up with some grapes and cantaloupe. Even in winter, there were summer’s touches all around, and she longed for a warm breeze.
Richardson finished mopping up one last bit of egg with his toast, shoveled two bites of biscuit in his mouth, then pushed his plate away.
“Okay,” he mumbled, a few bits of dough spraying onto the table. “You ready to do this?”
Taylor pushed her plate back, as well. “Yes.”
She followed him, silently offering a ten to cover her part of the meal, but he shooed it away, paid at the counter in the front of the restaurant. They walked into the milky sunlight, not needing to shade their eyes.
“I’ll see you there,” Taylor said, and Richardson nod
ded. Good humor was gone. They were preparing to delve into the Snow White murders, feel the slippery, viscous blood, bear witness to the knife wounds, taste the scent of carnage on the backs of their tongues.
Frank Richardson had masterfully documented the reign of terror the Snow White Killer induced, and going through his old files would bring those ten murders to life in a way the dry tomes of the police reports and murder books couldn’t, wouldn’t. Richardson was the writer, not the homicide team. His words were stronger than pictures. 118