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Greenleaf was dumbstruck. He stood at the door to the conference room, mouth agape. His administrative assis

tant came with a paper for him to sign. He told her the news and Taylor only cringed a little when his assistant burst into tears. Taylor felt the knot take hold in her neck. She didn’t have time to assuage grief right now. She needed to find out what, why and who had killed Frank Richardson.

“Steve,” she tried again gently. “I’m sorry. I know you were friends. And I hate to be callous, but I need your help. I need to get on the computer Frank was using yesterday. Please, Steve. This is important. Did Frank tell you what he’d found?”

Greenleaf finally found his voice. He held tightly to his assistant’s arm. “No, Lieutenant, he didn’t. Oh, my. Oh, poor Frank. He didn’t deserve to go like that, in violence. He always wanted to die in his sleep when he was one hundred and eight. That was the age he’d picked. Felt like he’d have lived a full life if he could make it. Oh, no. His wife?”

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“The chaplain is over there, I’m sure. Steve, I’m sorry. I need to get on that computer.”

She could tell they were terribly upset by her insensi

tivity, but they rolled with her, getting her into the room Frank had been using. Greenleaf finally excused himself, face still white with shock. He said he needed to go prepare an obituary worthy of Frank’s contribution to the paper, and society in general.

She sat down at the computer, wishing she had Lincoln with her. He was the brilliant computer mind; she’d always relied on him. But she wasn’t a slouch herself. She’d been working for an hour and coming up dry when a small noise made her look up. Daphne Beauchamp stood in the doorway.

“I heard what happened. You look frustrated.”

Taylor glanced at her watch. Rehearsal was in less than two hours. Still, it was awfully late for the young archi

vist to be at work. She greeted her, gestured to a chair.

“Why are you here so late?”

“No offense, Lieutenant, but that’s kind of a stupid question.”

Taylor looked at her closely; there were deep black circles under her eyes. The girl wasn’t sleeping.

“Afraid to go home?”

Daphne nodded. “Hell, yes. I’d be an idiot not to be, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s completely understandable. This is a safe place. If you’re happier here, stay here.”

Taylor continued scrolling through the computer screen. Daphne stood and looked over her shoulder.

“Can I help you?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to find the information Frank 232

J.T. Ellison

Richardson was looking at. He came to my office, said he had something for me to see but didn’t leave anything for me. There was nothing found with his body, and so far, we haven’t recovered anything from his house or his car. Which tells me if Frank had his notes on his person, the shooter took the information with him.”

Daphne flinched at the word shooter, but straightened her glasses and nodded. “So you need to find what he thought was so important.”

“Right. I’ve been going through the files, and I haven’t hit on anything that stands out to me. Would you like to give it a try?”

“Why not? Here, shove over.” Daphne took a chair and set it next to Taylor’s. “Show me where you’ve been.”

Taylor started ru

“You think she’s dead?”

It took Taylor a moment to process. “Who, Jane?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I wish I could tell you no, but she might be.”

“Thank you for being honest with me, at least. Skip came over last night all in a dither. He’s crazy about her, but he made a move on me. Men are idiots.”

“Sometimes they are, Daphne. Sometimes they are.”

The girl was staring at the computer. She pushed her glasses up her nose and smiled. “Oh, and so am I. Hold up a second. Move. Move move move.”

Taylor stood and took a few steps away.

“Why did I not think of this earlier?” Daphne scooted 14

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her chair closer. She mumbled and grumbled to herself for a second, then a list of files filled the page. “Got it!”

“What do you have?”

“I should have thought of it sooner. This computer has a dedicated printer. I’ve just resent every document that was printed off of this for the past two days. Somewhere in there, we might find an answer.”

The rehearsal di

formation, everything from property records to crime sta

tistics. When Taylor left, a stack of papers in her hands, Daphne had looked so forlorn that Taylor had invited her to the rehearsal di

The rehearsal had gone as well as could be expected. Their priest, Father Francis, was a kind, white-haired man who’d come out of retirement to see Taylor married off. He’d christened her, given her first communion, coun

seled her when her father went to jail—it was only fitting that he see her into the arms of marriage, as well. He and Baldwin got along, Taylor knew they’d been meeting for golf dates earlier in the fall when the weather was holding up. At the time she’d found it amusing—her fiancé and the priest playing golf. Now it just freaked her out. Father Francis had played golf with her father for years. He was part of a regular foursome with Win Jackson, Burt Mars and another member who’d passed away years before. 234

J.T. Ellison

Taylor resisted the urge to cross-examine him as he in

structed her and Baldwin in their vows.

They hadn’t pla

There were many toasts to the couple’s happiness. Taylor lifted her glass again and again, wondering what the phrase meant. Happiness was a state of mind, some

times elusive, oftentimes immeasurable. She was happy tonight, in her way. Content, even. But was she the right gauge for the implications of the emotion? She imagined there were people, women getting married, who were simply happy to have a house, a nice ring and a long train to their dress.

Taylor wasn’t about that. She wanted to see a week without a dead body, for starters. That would make her happy. She’d like to have Frank Richardson’s killer in her sights.Yeah, that would make her happy. She’d like to have the Snow White Killer and his accomplice on their knees in front of her, hands cuffed, a fresh clip loaded into her Glock…panic swarmed her chest. These weren’t the right thoughts for a soon-to-be-married bride to be having. She should be dreaming of sugar and spice and everything nice. Maybe she was a little drunk.

Baldwin saw the way the night was headed, took charge of getting his bride home. She drank a Diet Coke in the truck and felt better. The snow had stopped; the white layers looked like wedding cake. She giggled at the image, and Baldwin laughed with her.

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They got home, changed, and tried to find something to do outside of their bedroom. Taylor was too keyed-up to sleep, so she challenged Baldwin to several games of eight ball, then collapsed, wired but exhausted, on their living-room couch.