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Praise for J.T. Ellison’s TAYLOR JACKSON NOVELS
‘Scintillating … Suspenseful … Startling …’
Publishers Weekly
‘Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.’
John Connolly, New York Times bestselling author
‘J.T. Ellison’s debut novel rocks.’
Allison Brennann, New York Times bestselling author of Fear No Evil
‘Creepy thrills from start to finish’
James O. Born, author of Burn Zone
‘Fast-paced and creepily believable … gritty, grisly
and a great read’
M.J. Rose, internationally bestselling author of The Reincarnationist
‘A turbo-charged thrill ride of a debut’
Julia Spencer-Fleming, Edgar Award finalist and author of All Mortal Flesh
‘Fans of Sandford, Cornwell and Reichs
will relish every page.’
J.A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini
About the Author
J.T. ELLISON is a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. She writes the Taylor Jackson series and her short stories have been widely published. She is a weekly columnist at Murderati.com and is a founding member of Killer Year. Visit her website, JTEllison.com for more information.
Other novels in the Taylor Jackson series
ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS
14
JUDAS KISS
THE COLD ROOM
THE IMMORTALS
SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH
WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE
The
Cold
Room
J.T.
Ellison
For Scott and Linda.
You took a chance, and I’ll be forever grateful.
And, as always, for Randy.
‘Understanding does not cure evil,
but it is a definite help, inasmuch as
one can cope with a comprehensible darkness.’
—Carl Jung
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS FOR
THE COLD ROOM
It takes a village to write a book, and The Cold Room was possibly the most difficult, research-intensive novel I’ve ever written. I owe a debt of thanks and gratitude to the following:
First, the Team:
Scott Miller—my wonderful agent, friend and partner, who never ceases to make me laugh.
Linda McFall—my editor, my friend, my sanity. Without you, these books would be mere shadows of the stories I want to tell.
Stephanie Sun and MacKenzie Fraser-Bub—assistants extraordinaire, whose energy and enthusiasm are always appreciated.
Adam Wilson—my right hand, and sometimes left hand too. I couldn’t do it without you.
Marianna Ricciuto—publicist to the stars and unflagging cheerleader.
Christine Lowman—for dealing with my finicky ways.
Kim Dettwiller—indie publicist and Nashville girl. You rock!
The rest of the MIR A team: Donna Hayes, Alex Osusek, Loriana Sacilotto, Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Michelle Renaud, Adrienne Macintosh, Megan Lorius, Nick Ursino, Tracey Langmuire, Kathy Lodge, Emily Ohanjanians, Margaret Marbury, Diane Moggy and the artists Tara Kelly and Gigi Lau.
Second, the Research, the heart and soul of this novel:
Sean Chercover, for giving me the access point.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation, for being so incredibly open and generous with time and expertise, especially: Angela Bell, Office of Public Affairs, Federal Bureau of Investigation
Special Agent Ann Todd, Office of Public Affairs, FBI Laboratory
Supervisory Special Agent Kenneth Gross, Chief Division Counsel, Critical Incident Response Group, FBI Supervisory Special Agent Mark Hilts, Unit Chief, BAU,
CIRG, FBI
Dr Vince Tranchida, Deputy Chief Medical Examiner, Manhattan
Dr Michael Tabor, Chief Forensic Odontologist for the State of Tennessee
Detective David Achord, Metro Nashville Police Department
Elizabeth Fox, Metro Nashville Police Department (Ret)
Shirley Holley, Manchester Public Library, Manchester, Tennessee
Assistant Chief Bob Bellamy, Manchester Police
Captain Frank Watkins, Coffee County Sheriff’s Office
James Tillman, for sharing his Uncle Welton Keif’s term for identical twins, “Born Partners.”
John Elliot, former Interpol Agent, who steered me in the right directions.
Sharon Owen, for the fishing expertise.
Christine Kling, for the boating expertise.
And the Personal:
Zoë Sharp, whose debt can never be fully repaid, for bringing Memphis to life, all the Britishisms (and an amusing and lengthy discourse on the correct term for erections).
The Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Del Tinsley, JB Thompson, Janet McKeown, Peggy Peden, Cecelia Tichi, RaiLynn Wood—for everything.
A special thanks to JB, who read, and read, and read this book for me, and my other mother, Del Tinsley, who always cheers me up and cheers me on.
Joan Huston, first reader and friend.
Tasha Alexander and Laura Benedict, for always knowing the right thing to say.
Murderati—you know why.
Rosemary Harris, for bidding on a character name at auction and presenting me with Patrol Officer Paula Simari, and her canine companion, Max.
Charlaine Harris, for bidding on a name in another auction and appears here and forevermore as Special Agent Charlaine Shultz, FBI Profiler.
Elyse Schein and Paula Bernstein, for sharing their incredible journey in the book Identical Strangers.
Evanescence, whose songs more than inspired; they got me through this very difficult subject matter.
All the libraries and bookstores who have shown such unflagging support, especially Murder by the Book in Houston, Davis Kidd in Nashville, Sherlock’s Books in Lebanon, Poisoned Pen Press in Phoenix, the Seattle Mystery Bookshop in … you guessed it, Seattle, and the great staffs at Borders and Barnes & Noble who hand-sell me all over the country.
My incredible parents and brothers and nephews and niece, for constantly believing in me. I love you all. More.
My rock, my love, my Randy, who just plain gets it. Without you, none of this would matter.
And to the people of Nashville. Thank you for allowing me the honour of writing about our great city, for opening the doors and for giving me such great background to work with. Your support honours me. I’ve taken some liberties in this novel for the purpose of poetic licence. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations, especially about the inner workings of Metro Nashville, are mine, and mine alone.
Wednesday
One
Gavin Adler jumped when a small chime sounded on his computer. He looked at the clock in surprise; it was already 6:00 p.m. During the winter months, darkness descended and reminded him to close up shop, but the daylight savings time change necessitated an alarm clock to let him know when it was time to leave. Otherwise, he’d get lost in his computer and never find his way home.
He rose from his chair, stretched, turned off the computer and reached for his messenger bag. What a day. What a long and glorious day.
He took his garbage with him; his lunch leavings. There was no reason to have leftover banana peels in his trash can overnight. He shut off the lights, locked the door, dropped the plastic Publix bag into the Dupster, and began the two-block walk to his parking spot. His white Prius was one of the few cars left in the lot.
Gavin listened to his iPod on the way out of downtown. Traffic was testy, as always, so he waited patiently, crawling through West End, then took the exit for I-40 and headed, slowly, toward Memphis. The congestion cleared right past White Bridge, and he sailed the rest of the way. The drive took twenty-two minutes, he clocked it. Not too bad.
He left the highway at McCrory Lane and went to his gym. The YMCA lot was full, as always. He checked in, changed clothes in the locker room, ran for forty-five minutes, worked on the elliptical for twenty, did one hundred inverted crunches and shadow boxed for ten minutes. Then he toweled himself off. He retrieved the messenger bag, left his sneakers in the locker, slipped his feet back into the fluorescent orange rubber Crocs he’d been wearing all day. He left his gym clothes on—they would go straight into the wash.
He went across the street to Publix, bought a single chicken cordon bleu and a package of instant mashed potatoes, a tube of hearty buttermilk biscuits, fresh bananas and cat food. He took his groceries, went to his car, and drove away into the night. He hadn’t seen a soul. His mind was engaged with what waited for him at home.
Dark. Lonely. Empty.
Gavin pulled into the rambler-style house at 8:30 p.m. His cat, a Burmese gray named Art, met him at the door, loudly protesting his empty bowl. He spooned wet food into the cat’s dish as a special treat before he did anything else. No reason for Art to be miserable. The cat ate with his tail high in the air, purring and growling softly.
He hit play on his stereo, and the strains of Dvořák spilled through his living room. He stood for a moment, letting the music wash over him, his right arm moving in concert with the bass. The music filled him, made him complete, and whole. Art came and stood beside him, winding his tail around Gavin’s leg. He smiled at the interruption, bent and scratched the cat behind the ears. Art arched his back in pleasure.
Evening’s ritual complete, Gavin turned on the oven, sprinkled olive oil in a glass dish and put the chicken in to bake. It would take forty-five minutes to cook.
He showered, checked his work e-mail on his iPhone, then ate. He took his time; the chicken was especially good this evening. He sipped an icy Corona Light with a lime stuck in the neck.
He washed up. 10:00 p.m. now. He gave himself permission. He’d been a very good boy.
The padlock on the door to the basement was shiny with promise and lubricant. He inserted the key, twisting his wrist to keep it from jangling. He took the lock with him, holding it gingerly so he didn’t get oil on his clothes. Oil was nearly impossible to get out. He made sure Art wasn’t around; he didn’t like the cat to get into the basement. He saw him sitting on the kitchen table, looking mournfully at the empty spot where Gavin’s plate had rested.
Inside the door, the stairs led to blackness. He flipped a switch and light flooded the stairwell. He slipped the end of the lock in the inside latch, then clicked it home. No sense taking chances.
She was asleep. He was quiet, so he wouldn’t wake her. He just wanted to look, anyway.
The Plexiglas cage was the shape of a coffin with a long clear divider down the length—creating two perfectly sized compartments—with small drainage holes in the bottom and air holes along the top. It stood on a reinforced platform he had built himself. The concrete floor had a drain; all he needed to do was sluice water across the opening and presto, clean. He ran the water for a few minutes, clearing out the debris, then looked back to his love.
Her lips were cracking, the hair shedding. She’d been without food and water for a week now, and she was spending more and more time asleep. Her lethargy was anticipated. He looked forward to the moment when her agonies were at an end. He had no real desire to torture her. He just needed her heart to stop. Then, he could have her.
He licked his lips and felt embarrassed by his erection.
He breathed in the scent of her, reveling in the musky sweetness of her dying flesh, then went to the desk in the corner of the basement. No spiders and dust and basement rot for Gavin. The place was clean. Pristine.
The computer, a Mac Air he’d indulged in as a late Christmas present to himself, sprang to life. A few taps of the keyboard, the wireless system engaged and he was online. Before he had a chance to scroll through his bookmarks, his iChat chimed. The user’s screen name was IlMorte69. He and Gavin were very good friends. Gavin responded, his own screen name, hot4cold, popping up in red ten-point Arial.
My dollhouse is nearly complete, Hot. Howz urs?
Hey, Morte. Mine’s on its last legs as well. I’m here checking. Your trip go well?
My friend, I can’t tell you. Such a wonderful time. But it’s good to be home.
New dolls?
One. Luscious. Easy pickings. Like taking a rat from a cellar.
Gavin cringed. Sometimes Morte got to be a little much. But what could you do? It was hard for Gavin to talk to people, the online world was his oyster, his outlet. He had other friends who weren’t quite as crude as Morte. Speaking of which … he glanced at the listing of contacts and saw Necro90 was online as well. He sent him a quick hello, then went back to his chat with Morte.
When do you think you’ll be ready?
Morte came back almost immediately.
Within two days. Did you do it like we discussed? You were more careful with the disposal than with the snatch, weren’t you?
Gavin bristled a tiny bit, then relaxed. Morte was right to chide him. After all, he had made a mistake. He’d quickly learned that following Morte’s every instruction was important. Very, very important.
Yes. It was perfect. I’ll send you a photo.
He uploaded the shots, breath quickening in remembrance. So beautiful. Within moments, Morte responded.
My God. That is perfect. Lovely. You’ve become quite an artist.
Thank you.
Gavin blushed. Receiving compliments gracefully wasn’t one of his strongest attributes. He glanced over his shoulder, knew he needed to wrap this up.
Morte, I’ve gotta run. Long day today.
I’ll bet. You be good. Don’t forget, two days and counting. I’ll expect pictures!
Bye.
A picture flooded his screen—Morte had sent him a gift. Gavin studied the photo; his ears burned. Oh, Morte was amazingly good with a camera. So much better than he was.
Morte’s doll had no animation, no movement. Her eyes were shut. Gavin turned his chair around so he could stare at his own dollhouse, his own doll, lying in the darkness. Alone. He’d need to find her another friend soon. If only Morte’s girl was a sister. He didn’t have a taste for white meat.
Another chime—this time it was Necro responding. He asked how Gavin was doing, if there’d been any news in the community. Gavin replied with a negative—he’d heard nothing. Of course, his ear wasn’t to the floor like Morte—Morte was the architect of their online world. Gavin had found his friends deep in a sleepy sex message board, and was so thrilled to have them. They made his life bearable.
He chatted for a few minutes with Necro, read a rambling account of a perfect specimen Necro had sighted on some white-sand Caribbean beach, then logged out. He stared at the photo he’d downloaded from Morte. He was overwhelmingly turned on, and no longer able to contain himself. With a last glance at his doll, he went up the stairs, unlocked the door, locked the basement behind him and returned to his life. It was time for another shower, then bed. He had a very busy day ahead of him. A very busy few days. The plan was in motion.
He was proud of himself. He only checked the doll’s breathing three times during the night.
Two
Taylor Jackson was happy to spy an empty parking spot halfway up Thirty-second Avenue. Luck was on her side tonight. Parking in Nashville was extremely hit-or-miss, especially in West End. The valet smiled hopefully as she turned in front of Tin Angel, but she couldn’t leave a state vehicle with a kid who didn’t look old enough to have a driver’s license, not without getting into all kinds of trouble. She drove past him, paralleled smoothly and walked the slight hill back down to the restaurant’s entrance. She was looking forward to the evening, a girls’ night with her best friend Sam and colleague Paula Simari. No homicides. No crime scenes. Just a low-key meal, some wine, some chicken schnitzel. A night off.
She was early, her friends hadn’t arrived yet. She followed the hostess to a table for four right by the bricked fireplace. The logs were stacked tightly and burning slow, putting out a pleasant low, smoky heat. Even though the weather was warming, it was still nippy in the early mornings and late evenings.
She ordered a bottle of Coppola Merlot, accepted a menu, then lost herself in thought. The envelope she’d addressed before she left for dinner was burning a hole in her pocket. She took it out and stared at the lettering, wishing she didn’t recognize the handwriting. Wishing she didn’t have to address letters to federal penitentiaries, even if they were the chinos and golf-shirt variety.
Winthrop Jackson, IV
FCI MORGANTOWN
FEDERAL CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION
P.O. BOX 1000
MORGANTOWN, WV 26507
The edges of the envelope were getting frayed. She needed to decide if she was going to mail this letter or not.
She traced the outline of the address, her mind still screaming against the reality. Her father, in prison. And she’d been the one who put him there. Glancing to make sure no one was looking, she slid the single handwritten page from its nest.
Dear Win,
I am sorry. I know you understand I was just doing my job. I had no choice. I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to contact me. I find our relationship impossible to handle, and I want to get on with my life. Mom is still in Europe, but she has her cell phone. She can send you the money you need.
For what it’s worth, I do forgive you. I know you couldn’t help yourself. You never have.
Taylor
“Whatcha reading? You look upset.”
Taylor started. Sam took the seat across from her, dropped her Birkin bag on the floor under the table and stretched her fingers, the joints popping slightly. She grimaced.
“Holding a scalpel all day does that to you. What’s that?”
Taylor shook the page lightly. “A letter to Win.”
“Really? I thought you’d sworn off dear old dad. Did you order some wine?”
“I did. It should be here any minute. Where’s Paula?”
“She got called to a case. Sends her apologies. She’ll catch us next week. It’s just us chickens tonight.”
Sam settled back into the chair, the firelight glinted red off her dark hair. Taylor still wasn’t used to the blunt-cut bangs that swooped across Sam’s forehead. She’d cropped her tresses into a sophisticated bob, what she called her mom do. Taylor thought she looked less like a mom and more like Betty Page with that cut, but who was she to comment?
“What are you staring at?”
“Sorry. The hair. It’s so different. Takes me a minute.”
“You have no idea how easy it is. Though I do miss long hair. Simon does too.”
“I thought about cutting mine. When I mentioned it, Baldwin had a fit.”
The wine arrived and they placed their orders. They clinked their glasses together, and Sam said, “Up to it, down to it.”
Taylor laughed. They’d started that toast in eighth grade. Up to it, down to it, damn the man who can’t do it…. The rest of the toast was a crude allusion to their future lovers’ skill, though they had no idea what it meant at the time. In high school Taylor had embarrassed herself at one of her parents’ many dinner parties by leading a toast with it. When the men roared and the women blushed, her mother, Kitty, had taken her aside and explained why that wasn’t an appropriate thing for a young lady of breeding to say. She wouldn’t tell her why, though, and Taylor and Sam puzzled over it for days. Now, as a woman, she understood, and always laughed at the memory of her disgrace.
She thought of Win then, and sobered.
“I’m trying to shut Win down, Sam. He keeps mailing, keeps calling. I don’t want anything to do with him. He’s poison, and I need to get him out of my life. What if Baldwin and I have children one day? Can you imagine ole jailbird gramps telling stories at Christmas dinner? He’ll either corrupt them or embarrass them.”
“You’re thinking of having kids?”
“Focus, woman. We’re talking about my dad.”
“You’d make a great mother.”
Taylor stared hard at her best friend. “Why do you say that?”
“Please. You’re totally the nurturing type. You just don’t know it yet. You’ll be like a bear with its cub, or a tiger. Nothing, and no one, will harm a hair on your kid’s head. Trust me, you’ll take to it like a seal to water. When might this magnificent event take place, anyway?”
“You mean my immaculate conception?”
Sam laughed. “Baldwin’s still in Quantico, I take it.”
“Yes. He gets back tonight. That’s why I wanted to meet downtown. I’m going to head to the airport from dinner.”
“You miss him when he’s gone, don’t you?” Sam smiled at her, a grin of understanding. Taylor had never needed a man to feel complete, but when she’d gotten involved with John Baldwin, she suddenly felt every moment without him keenly. She’d never felt that way about a man before. When she shared her feelings, Sam had patiently explained that was what love was about.
Taylor’s cell phone rang, a discreet buzz in her front right pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
“Crap.”
“Dispatch?”
“Yeah. Give me a sec.” So much for a quiet dinner with friends before a loving reunion with Baldwin. She glanced at her watch. His plane would be landing soon. No help for it. Dispatch calling her cell meant only one thing. Someone was dead. She put the phone to her ear.
“Detective Jackson, this is Dispatch. We need you at 1400 Love Circle. We have a 10-64, homicide, at 1400 Love Circle. Be advised, possible 10-51, repeat, 10-51. They’re waiting for you. Thank you.”
“I’m not on today, Dispatch. Give it to someone else.”
“Apologies, Detective, but they’re asking for you specifically.”
Taylor sighed. I’m your beck-and-call girl.
“10-4, Dispatch. On my way.”
A dead body, a possible stabbing. A lovely way to cap off her day.
“You have to go?” Sam asked.
“Yep. Aren’t you coming? I’m sure you’ll be getting the call, too.”
Sam raised her glass. “Unlike you, my dear, I am still captain of my own ship. I’m off duty tonight. The medical examiner’s office can live without me on this one. Give my love to the valet on the way out, he’s adorable.”
Only Sam could get away with teasing her about her demotion. Only Sam.
“Jeez, thanks,” Taylor said, but she smiled. Getting busted back to Detective had been frustrating and embarrassing, the sidelong glances and whispers disconcerting. But she was determined to make the best of it. Karma was a bitch, and the ones who’d wronged her would get their comeuppance in the end. Especially if she won the lawsuit her union rep had filed.
The food arrived just as Taylor stood to leave. She looked wistfully at the perfectly breaded chicken. Sam saw her eyeing it.
“I’ll have it made into a to-go package and drop it in your fridge on my way home.”
Taylor bent to kiss Sam on the cheek. “You’re the best. Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just remember you owe me an uninterrupted dinner. Now, go on with you. You’re practically quivering.”
Taylor retrieved her car, made all the lights through West End and finally got caught by a yellow in front of Maggiano’s. The next intersection was her turnoff, and it flashed to red just as she rolled onto the white line.
To her left, Love Circle wound sinuously around the top of a windy hill in the middle of West End. It held too many memories for her.
She slipped her sunglasses off; she didn’t need them. She’d gotten in the habit of putting them on the second she was out of doors lately, especially walking to and from her office. It allowed her to avoid meeting the pitying gazes she’d been receiving.
She fingered the bump at the top of her nose, just underneath where the bridge of her sunglasses sat. She’d broken her nose for the first time on Love Hill when she was fourteen, playing football with some boys who’d come to the isolated park at the top of the hill to smoke and shoot the breeze. Her mother had cringed when she saw the break the following morning at breakfast, dragged her to a plastic-surgeon friend immediately. He’d realigned the cartilage, clucking all the while, and bandaged her nose in a stupid white brace that she’d discarded the moment her mother left her alone. The hairline fracture never healed properly, giving her the tiny bump that made her profile imperfect.
The second time, it had been broken for her. Damn David Martin, her dead ex-partner, had roughed her up after breaking into her house. She’d been forced into violence that night, had shot him during the attack.
The car behind her beeped, and Taylor realized she’d been sitting at the left-turn arrow through a full cycle of lights. It was green again. Good grief. Lost in thought. That’s what the hill did to her.
She turned left on Orleans, took a quick right on Acklen, then an immediate left onto Love Circle. It was a steep, narrow road, difficult to traverse. The architecture was eclectic, ranging from bungalows from the 1920s to contemporary villas built as recently as five years ago. Many of the houses had no drives; the owners usually left their cars on the street. She wound her way up, surprised by the changes. A huge, postmodern glass house perched at the top of the hill, lit up like Christmas. She remembered there was some flak about it; built by a country-music star, something about a landing pad on the roof. She drove past, admiring the architecture.
At the top of the rise, she stopped for a moment, glanced out the window to the vivid skyline. The sky was deeply dark to the east, with no moon to light the road. The dazzling lights of Nashville beckoned. No wonder the isolated park at the peak was still a favorite teen hangout. There was something about the name, of course. It was rather romantic to head up the hill at sunset to watch the lights of Nashville blink on, one by one, a fiery mass of luminosity cascading through the city.
Being reared in the protected Nashville enclaves of Forest Hills and Belle Meade, Taylor sometimes needed to move outside her parents’ carefully executed social construct to find a little fun. Her honey-blond hair and mismatched gray eyes always drew attention, whether she wanted it or not. Coupled with her height, already nearly six feet tall at thirteen, she’d commanded the attention of her peers, friends and foes alike. It wasn’t a stretch that she’d get into a little mischief here and there.
She’d been a regular on the hill for a summer; with Sam Owens—now Dr. Sam Loughley, Nashville’s lead medical examiner—at her side. They’d gotten into the genteel trouble that was expected from well-bred teenagers: smoking stolen Gauloises, sipping nasty-tasting cheap whiskey, hanging out with boys who shaved their hair into Mohawks and talked big about anarchy and guitar riffs. It didn’t last. Their constant posturing quickly bored her.
It made Taylor sad to think back to her youth; the things they called “trouble” back then were increasingly tame by today’s standards. Here she was, newly turned thirty-six, and already feeling old when faced with teenagers.
She’d abandoned the Circle when she was fifteen, didn’t return until her eighteenth birthday. A nostalgic drive with her first real lover, the professor. He’d driven her up there in his Jeep and parked, hands roaming across her body. They’d nearly driven over the edge when her knee knocked the gearshift into Second. He’d taken her to his place that night for the very first time, deflowered her with skill and care.
She smiled, as she normally did when a memory of James Morley first crossed her mind. The thought led to her father, a close friend of Morley’s, and the smile fled.
She needed to mail the letter. Win Jackson was only eight hours away, and he’d be out in a matter of months, having cut several deals to assure him an early release. His missives came with alarming regularity, each begging for forgiveness. His dealings with a shadowy crime boss in New York were behind him. He was going to be on the straight and narrow path from here on out.
She wondered how many times she’d heard that before. Money laundering wasn’t the worst he could have been charged with, but it was the charge that stuck. Well, there was time before she’d have to deal with Win in person. Not as much as she’d like, but enough.
She passed the apex of the hill and the crime scene beckoned to her. Blue-and-white lights flashed, guiding her in. Four patrol cars stood at attention next to a chain-link fence. The K-9 unit was parked at an angle. Taylor recognized Officer Paula Simari’s German shepherd, Max, straining against the cracked window, searching for his master. Ah, so this was the crime scene that had kept her from dinner. It must be a doozy if they were calling in off-duty officers and detectives.
Taylor put her window down, cooed softly at the dog. “You’re okay, baby. She’ll be back in a minute.” Max stopped fretting and sat, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
She drove another twenty yards, down the back edge of the hill. All of the attention was focused on a two-story house set back fifty feet from the street. The house was an original Craftsman, built sometime in the 1930s, if she had to guess. The thick, pyramid-shaped columns and slanting roof were well-kept. The exterior was awash in false light; the shake shingles looked to be painted a soft, mossy green, the details slightly darker. The whole house blended perfectly into the surrounding woods. Four joint dormer windows across the second story were square and forward, watching.
She was surprised to see the lawn and porch littered with milling people—a level of disorganization rarely in evidence at a Nashville crime scene. The crime-scene techs were setting up to take photos, video, collect evidence; two patrol officers were standing to one side, conversing in low tones. The command table had been set up on the porch. Uniforms and plainclothes techs were walking around the outside of the house. Neighbors had gathered, silently scrutinizing.
She parked next to a crime-scene van. The side door was open, the contents spilling out as if the tech was in a hurry to get moving on the scene. Paula Simari was twenty feet away. She caught Taylor’s eye, angled her head with a jerk. Meet me inside, the look said. Taylor got out of the car, intrigued.
