Judas Kiss

J.T. Ellison

wife had been deceased for some time when she was discovered. I’m very sorry.”

Wolff hiccupped, then stood and bolted. Taylor heard him vomiting in the guest bath, then water ru

Fitz had sat silent throughout the exchange. “You think we need to bring him downtown?” he asked quietly.

The water was still ru

“I agree. I’ll get him over to the Harrises’ so he can see his daughter.”

“Sounds good. I’m going to go into the office, make up the murder book, check in with the captain. I’ll see you there.”

The toilet flushed and the water stopped ru

“It’s okay. We understand. I think it’s time to wrap things up for today. Your wife’s body will be autopsied Judas Kiss

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in the morning, and we’d like to talk to you some more. But for now, we’re going to get you with Hayden and your family.”

As they left, Taylor couldn’t help but look back at the Wolffs’ house. What had happened? Was this a home invasion gone bad? It didn’t look like anything had been tampered with or stolen. No, this felt personal, and Todd was the obvious choice. There was something about him. So far he’d shown nothing but the appropriate responses. But Taylor couldn’t help but think about Cori

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been lied to. Seven

Taylor took her time driving downtown, thinking about the afternoon. The murder weapon stashed in the closet, Todd Wolff’s seemingly genuine hysteria. It was much too early to dismiss him as a suspect. Violence on this level, in the victim’s home, so often was a result of a domestic squabble gone wrong. And there had been plenty of husbands who had duped even the best investigators. Mark Hacking came to mind. He’d gone on television, cried and begged, pleading for justice for his pregnant wife, when in actuality, he’d shot her, dumped her body in a Dumpster, replaced their mattress and nearly got away with the whole crime. Scott Peterson was another classic example. It was a sad statistic—the number one cause of death for pregnant mothers was domestic homicide.

But if he’d done it, he was a cold-blooded bastard. Murder your wife, your unborn child, and leave your daughter trailing around the house alone for days?

Jesus. That took some balls. Or desperation. It was ten after six and Taylor was topping Nine Judas Kiss

79

Mile Hill. She’d made the short trip into Bellevue and gone through the McDonald’s drive-through before heading back downtown. The whole day had been lost at the Wolff crime scene and she hadn’t stopped to have anything to eat. She munched a chicken sandwich as she drove, feeling virtuous for skipping the fries. Nine Mile Hill, so creatively named because it was exactly nine miles from the heart of downtown Nashville, the Cumberland River, afforded Taylor a lovely panoramic view of the city. The sun was setting behind her, catching the reflection off the Lifeway warehouse. The skyscrapers and the Capitol building that made up Nashville’s skyline were bathed in a rosy copper reflective glow, shimmering like an urban mirage. Taylor had lived in Nashville her entire life, but had never seen this vision. It was gorgeous and filled her, making her feel whole and drowsy. She was tempted to pull over and watch until it disappeared, but the sun did the trick for her, shifting slightly in its evening zenith. The mirage faded, and the downtown Taylor knew reappeared. The little things were becoming so important. She’d always had a knack for finding beauty in the most unlikely places. When it came to her unbidden, it felt like a blessing.

As she drove through Belle Meade, she thought about Cori

J.T. Ellison

could breed controversy. She didn’t need the national news outlets breathing down her neck. She’d had enough of that on her last big case.

Gossip, rumor, i

She’d only had serious media trouble twice in the past, once several years earlier, the second only a month prior. The Snow White Killer, long dormant in Nashville, had risen like a phoenix and started killing again. She was still uncomfortable with the nature of the media’s interest in the case, how easily they dragged her and the department through the mud. There was constant secondguessing and now, with the benefit of hindsight, Monday morning quarterbacking galore. Two months later, Taylor lay in bed at night, watching replay after replay of the case on cable news, wondering if the interest would ever truly end. The national news outlets had camped along the streets of downtown Nashville like hippie jam bands, partying over the leftovers of each family’s grief. The slightest whiff of resolution and they’d be back at it. The earlier trouble, well, she didn’t like to think about that.

The thoughts came quickly, whipping through her mind like a breeze. Snow White. His apprentice, the self-proclaimed Pretender, a man with no name and no compunction when it came to killing. Still out there, lurking in the deepest recesses. Which brought her to Baldwin.

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Baldwin would have firsthand access to anything new on the still very open case. He’d promised to look into the Bureau’s files while he was in Quantico. If she were being honest with herself, she hoped he would find something fresh, something concrete. Something more than the ephemeral, hair bristling on the back of the neck feelings Taylor had. Feelings were all well and good. She trusted herself, trusted her instincts. Every once in a while, her skin tingled and she felt eyes on her back. She assumed the Pretender was keeping tabs on their investigation into his whereabouts, and sometimes followed her. She could almost sense him when he was near. He set her radar off, though she’d never gotten a real look at him. They needed concrete evidence. Needed to know the name of the murderer who masqueraded in other killers’ emotional garments. They had nothing. Headlights flashed and she came back, surprised to see she was already at the Criminal Justice Center. Car coma, that’s what Baldwin called it. It happened too often; she’d be lost in thought and realize she’d driven to her destination without seeing the path. Too distracted. She needed to be more on her game. The time off had only intensified the need for her to get her head back to Nashville, and on keeping herself safe. She parked and crossed the lot, taking the back stairs two at a time. She swiped her key card along the access box at the back entrance to the building. The door dumped her into the hallway just outside the Homicide offices. The second shift had already arrived; a noisy buzz emanated from the homicide office.

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