14

“We’ve been through all of her files. It looks like she wrote a sophisticated program that filtered both obscenely violent crimes and the accompanying DNA to a private site for her perusal. When she found something she liked, she’d assign herself the case.”

“That’s how she found the copycat?”

“Yes. The DNA should have matched with the Califor

nia files when the Denver cops put it into the system. Instead, the information was sent directly to Charlotte. She’d been watching this maniac’s spree across the country. We don’t know the extent of her relationship with him, only that she was obviously in contact. Whether she was just another one of his victims or was a part of his plan, I guess we won’t know until we catch him.”

“Why did she choose to reveal the information about the multiple murders when she did?”

“She had no choice. She was playing a very dangerous game. The IT department confirmed that she called last week to see if they had accidentally discovered her Trojan horse. They hadn’t. They had rolled out an upgrade, rekeyed the entire system. The new database didn’t have Charlotte’s special codes, so the real information made it through to the proper cha

Baldwin felt sick. “How could she do that? And how 14

355

in the hell did she pass the psych profiles and get into the Bureau in the first place? She was always very enthusias

tic about deviant behavior, but I never saw any signs that she could have gone this far over the edge.”

“I can’t tell you that, Baldwin. Believe me, we’re looking for the answers here. We’ve launched a major internal investigation. Oversight of the department has been in Stuart Evanson’s hands. I hate to say it, but he may have to go. He’s the one that brought her to her current position as deputy chief. As I recall, you pointed out that she wasn’t fit for that position when you transferred. You and I are fine. Evanson probably isn’t.”

“That will be a loss.” They shared a moment of sarcas

tic happiness. “As long as you’re insulated, that’s what’s important to me. Evanson’s a prick.”

The industrial-grade clock on Taylor’s wall clicked loudly, a

Charlotte Douglas. He’d known the woman was poison.

Shaking his head, pushing away his own feelings of betrayal, he gathered his coat. It was time to seek Taylor out, run through the afternoon’s bombshells with her. Forty-Five

The library was a bust. Taylor combed through the records, but didn’t find the face of the man she remem

bered from her parents’ party. Frustrated, she took a drive in the cold, hard winter air, trying to clear her head. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself at the apartment buildings where Frank Richardson was killed. Oh, who was she kidding? She knew exactly what she was doing. Paying penance to the dead. Would anyone feel that for Charlotte? Was there a soul who would watch for her, pray for her, remember her fondly?

She climbed the stairs to the apartment and saw the door was cracked. She drew her weapon and slipped to the wall, left shoulder flat against the doorjamb. She listened hard, then put the gun away. The cleaners were here. A horrific job they had, too. Following behind crime and avarice, cleaning up the messes made when a life ends, a heart ceases to beat, by choice or by violence. They were the lost ones, the u

tures who stealthily eradicated the signs of death. Taylor looked into the apartment. She recognized the cleaner, a stout lady name Stella, who smoked like a 14

357

chimney. She claimed the constant cloud of cigarette smoke kept the stench of death from her nostrils. Taylor smelled it on her, the unmistakable scent of burnt tobacco, and was hit with a mouth-salivating craving for a smoke. Shaking her head to literally make it go away, she stepped into the room and greeted Stella.

“Hey, LT.” Stella sounded like a truck driver on a bender, but Taylor knew she was a sweet, God-fearing woman who sacrificed her own happiness to help families maintain some sense of closure after their loved one’s death. She stopped scrubbing.

“What are you doing out here? I thought this scene was cleared for me.”

“Oh, it is, Stella, don’t worry. I was just here to say, well, I guess I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Knew the vic, eh?” Stella leaned back from the blood pool she was removing from the apartment’s carpet. “I could use a smoke, anyway. Want to join me?”

“I wish. No, I think I’ll just stay here for a minute.”

“Suit yourself.” She stood, knees popping, and sauntered past Taylor, a sour look on her face. But she squeezed Taylor’s arm in passing, and Taylor knew it was a show of support.

Alone now, she took in the scene. Frank Richardson’s blood was black and shiny, several days old and forever interred into the grain of this room. All the scrubbing and cleaning, the replacement carpet and linoleum floors, the fresh paint, none of that would truly erase the imprint of the man’s soul, brutally taken from this space. A certain dislocation of the very air would stay in this room forever. Taylor said a prayer for the man, and apologized out loud. Knowing there was nothing left to do, she turned to 358

J.T. Ellison

leave. As she walked to the door, she spied a file folder, sitting apart from Stella’s cleaning supplies.

“Stella, is this yours?”

Stella was on the landing and shouted back to her. “Is what mine?”

“The manila folder. Is that yours?”

“Naw, I found it when I cleaned out the air intake for the air conditioner. There was some blood on the screen and it was inside when I took it off.” She appeared in the doorway. “You wa

Taylor was already standing over the folder. She bent down and used a pen to open the file. She knew before she started reading what she had. Frank Richardson’s notes. The file he was trying to get to her the day he died. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Taylor picked up the file.

“Why are you gri

“Because, Miss Stella, this is the missing piece of the puzzle. Thank you so much for finding it.” Taylor nearly gave the woman a hug, but Stella held up her hands.

“Yeah, I know.You don’t want to be touching me, child, I smell bad. I’m getting back to work.”

Taylor went directly to the car and called in to the office. Marcus answered the phone.

“Hey, tell me something. Did you guys ever track down Frank Richardson’s last movements?”

“Sort of. We found his car in the parking lot of the apartment building. His cell phone was in the center console, had a voice mail from someone who didn’t identify himself but requested Frank meet him at the apart

ment. So he went there of his own accord.”

“Well, that makes sense, then. I just found the file he 14

359

was trying to get to us. He must have gone to the apart

ment before the meet, stashed the information for safety’s sake. Smart guy. He must have known there was some

thing big in these files. Thanks, Marcus. I’ll see you in a bit.”

It was all coming together. Now, if she could just find Snow White’s identity. It was curled in the corner of her mind like a snake waiting to strike.

Forty Six

Jane Macias started awake. She was cold. A crack in the wall next to where she laid her head was letting in frigid air from outdoors. Her father would never stand for such slovenliness. A man’s home was his castle, especially when that was an unembellished statement. There was a respon