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this pose. She’d used it too many times in the past for him to fall for it. It made her look like a predator, not a sex kitten.
“Baldwin,” she began, her voice husky. He knew that trick, too.
He held up a hand. “Charlotte, why are you still here?
You’ve delivered your presentation. There’s nothing we have at the field office that you don’t have back in Quan
tico. I don’t see you putting forth any resolutions to this case.” He nodded at the cell phone, still clutched in her hand. “Obviously Quantico is calling you home. Why aren’t you gone already?”
She glanced at the phone, then smiled. “That wasn’t who you think, and I’ll get on a plane when I’m good and ready, Baldwin. I have some business to conclude here with the field office, if you don’t mind.”
“Who do you need to conclude your business with, Charlotte? The field office or me?”
“Ooh, Dr. Baldwin. Always the insightful man. Con
ceited, too. What in the world makes you think any of this has to do with you?”
“It’s your MO, Charlotte. I’ve been there with you, remember? I know what you’re up to, and it won’t work. You need to leave, now. I don’t want to have anything more to do with you.”
She turned and looked out the window, the lights flick
ering across her face. “There was a time, John Baldwin, you wanted everything to do with me. Have you told your darling bride that?”
“Do not call me that. And yes, Charlotte, Taylor is fully aware that we’ve been intimate. And she couldn’t care less. You don’t threaten her, not in the least.”
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“I don’t?” She turned slowly, edging her way toward Baldwin. He stood in the middle of the room, shaking his head as he watched her approach. An overgrown feral cat caught in a housecat’s body, that was Charlotte on the prowl. She’d just as soon tear out your throat as curl up in your lap.
“Leave it alone. You mean nothing to me. Now, tell me what I can do to get you out of my hair? Permanently, preferably.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, you are the poor, put-upon man, aren’t you? Can’t take a little bit of teasing. I thought you’d at least be civil, for old times’
sake.”
She was within two feet now, stalking him with her eyes, her arms loose at her side. He stood his ground, damned if he was going to back down from her.
“Listen, I need to go. What is it you so desperately needed to see me about?”
The faint scent of gardenias wheeled into his senses, and he cursed his body as it responded, albeit briefly, to the aroma. There was a time when things were good between them, and those were the moments the flowery scent reminded him of. She was there, against him now, her hips brushing his gently, her face tipped up, those lips full and inviting. He leaned in for half a second, then stepped back.
“No. Stop right now. I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to happen.”
“Ah, shucks, Mr. Profiler. You’re just so big and hard.”
She started to reach for his crotch, but he caught her hand, twisted her arm hard so she was forced to turn away from him to keep it in the socket. He shoved once, and she sprawled away, stumbling into the chair.
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“Bastard,” she hissed.
There, that was more like it. Seductress though she may be, the operative word with Charlotte was always evil.
“You ever come near me or Taylor again, you will regret it, Charlotte. Mark my words.” The tone of his voice sur
prised even him, and Charlotte flinched back as if she’d been hit when he spoke.
He left the room, left her behind, her eyes round with disbelief. The threat was real, and they both knew it. He didn’t care.
The door slammed and Charlotte took a moment to recover. A shadow came from the bathroom.
“Don’t worry, dear. I’ll murder him for the way he just treated you. Though I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed. I would have enjoyed watching you fuck him. He’s quite a…large man. He’d be hard to take down without a fight.”
He flexed his hands, opening the palms wide, then curling his fingers in slowly, one by one.
“Shut the fuck up.” She whirled away, went to the window again and stared into the night.
Twenty-One
Nashville, Te
Thursday, December 18
9:30 p.m.
Taylor finished up her paperwork, showered and changed at the station. Knowing she could put it off no more, she took the 4Ru
Lots and lots of murder, coupled with a few she’d like to commit herself. She watched an upscale pro dip around the corner of the building with a john on her heels. Ten bucks he didn’t know he would be rolled by the girl’s pimp for a couple hundred once they’d done the deed. She debated going after them, then decided to skip it. For tonight, she wouldn’t be a cop. She’d just be a girl who was about to get married, out on the town for a fun night with her friends.
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How in the world had she been talked into this?
The music spilled from the doors. She recognized one of her favorite bands, Garbage. Shirley Manson wanted to know “Why do you love me?” and Taylor laughed to herself. How apropos for a bachelor/bachelorette party. She crossed the parking lot and ducked inside the club, the music pounding and thumping, the lights flashing. A scent tickled her nose, sweet, with an overlay of patchouli, like a sex-drenched head shop. Girls dressed in seethrough negligees with paste-on nipples and G-strings wandered past her, looking her up and down apprecia
tively. The black-floored stage was covered with a trio of girls, a threesome act—one blonde, one brunette, one redhead. They writhed and twisted around each other, and Taylor couldn’t help but stop and watch for a moment. The obvious choreography that had gone into the dance was impressive. Not being entranced like the men sitting in a semicircle in front of the stage, Taylor was able to see past the nudity, see the work the girls put into their perfor
mance. They were all young, probably thought that this road was temporary.
Taylor had seen it too many times before—the girls who worked the clubs were favorites among the rank and file at Metro. They were safe, protected to an extent, until they crossed swords with the wrong guy. Then they’d end up like those Spanish girls from the massage parlor this afternoon, or like Saraya Gonzalez, murdered in cold blood.
Taylor didn’t see Sam, so she took a table in the back. She reveled in the few minutes of alone time, the first she’d had all day. She ordered a beer from the scantily clad waitress, demurred the invitation to be escorted to a private 202
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room in the back for a special lap dance and sat back, tuning out, not really seeing anything happening in front of her.
Nagging at the back of her mind was the story of sexual slavery the Spanish girl had told her. Saraya Gonzalez. The name was pretty, but that face, while delicate and attractive, had been so vacant. Taylor mentally plugged into that conversation, determined to figure out the link between the girl shot at the hospital and the obvious Snow White victims this afternoon. She had one thin, tenuous thread to go by. The massage parlors. Saraya Gonzalez had been trapped in a life of servitude at a massage parlor. The girls killed this afternoon worked in a massage parlor. Taylor had a hunch that if she could tie the two together, she might get a solution. Though the chasm was deep between the two cases, Taylor had been a cop long enough to know you never dismiss a coincidence.