14. J.T. Ellison

to make some crack about how cute she looked with that utility belt around her waist, and wouldn’t she like a new tool for her belt. Instead, he’d considered her gravely for a moment, then asked what her impressions were.

      She always felt he should have gotten the lieutenant’s position before she did, but knew he didn’t want it. Bureaucracy and making nice with the brass wasn’t his idea of a good time. He was happy to let her draw the heat.

      The homicide offices were overly warm; an appropriated space heater propped against the far wall was stuck on high. The television that hung from the corner ceiling was on, blaring Stormtracker weather updates from Channel 5. The combination made the room loud and toasty to the point of stifling. Taylor crossed the few feet to her office and opened the door to a draft of relatively cool air. She set her gloves on her desk. The little room was cramped, a television tuned to a different channel blared from the filing cabinet. One of the boys had been watching Oprah. She flipped back to the weather alert.

      A sorry-looking fern sat next to the television. Taylor glanced around, spied a bottle of water that had a few sips left. Tipping it into the plant, she watched the soil absorb the water in a frantic attempt at sustaining life. She wasn’t much with plants, felt sorry for the fern. There was another bottle of water on the desk, unopened, so Taylor took it and emptied it into the plant. It was gone as quickly as she could pour it. Terrible. She’d be an awful mother; she couldn’t even keep a plant watered.

      Where the hell did that thought come from? She threw the empty bottle in the trash, the plastic-on-plastic thud appeasing her sudden penchant for violence. She shook her head, muttered sorry to the fern.

      A cough made her jump. Fitz was standing in the door, staring at his boss with a baleful eye.

      “Let me guess. You’re sad for the plant.” His voice was thickened by years of former cigarette smoke. The deep grumble was comforting.

      “Well, it is alive. Sort of.”

      “And you think it has feelings? Or that it understands English?”

      She raised an eyebrow and looked Fitz over. His face was weathered and lined, tan even in the early days of winter. Blue eyes dark as blueberries usually held a twinkle, an unspoken joke or gibe. He was twenty years her senior and starting to look his age. Taylor attributed that to the weight loss—he’d dropped at least thirty pounds in the past few months—a concerted effort to slim down paying off in wrinkles. Still barrel-chested and stubborn, Fitz glared at her, obviously irritated.

      “My, you’re in a mood this morning. Who peed in your cornflakes?”

      “You did. Why didn’t you call me about the lipstick and the damn oil?”

      Taylor spied the cause of Fitz’s sudden consternation over his shoulder. Baldwin tried to look innocent but failed miserably.

      “Oh, I see. Fitz, I wasn’t holding out on you. I was more, trying to keep my stomach in control, okay? I just wanted to get here first. Since you’ve heard all about it, tell me what you think.”

      Baldwin joined Fitz in the doorway and blocked her in. Fitz shifted, trying to look intimidating.

      “I think this is one sick fuck and you’d be better off leaving him to us and going off to get married without this on your conscience.”

      She didn’t smile. “Oh, Fitz, that’s sweet of you to say, but it’s not going to happen. Now, Baldwin, why don’t you stop sending emissaries, and let’s try to catch this guy before the wedding. How’s that for a plan?”

      “Taylor—”

      She held up one hand. The look on her face brooked no more arguments, and the men stepped aside, allowing her to step out of the cramped space.

      Marcus Wade was waiting for her, a soft suede jacket thrown over his arms. He’d excelled during their last case and had been promoted to detective second grade; the new jacket was a reward to himself for the pay raise. He looked eager as a puppy this morning, a nice counterpoint to the now-rancorous environment. The air of excitement around him was palpable. Taylor knew he had something for her.

      “Whatcha got?”

      A broad smile crossed his features. “An ID on the latest Snow White. Her name’s Giselle St. Claire.”

       Six

      Taylor put both thumbs up and punched her hands skyward, a victory sign. “Yes! Good job, Marcus. Let’s go to the war room, get it all plugged in. Giselle St. Claire. Why does that sound familiar?”

      As she said it, it hit her. She groaned, long and loud.

      “Oh, shit. Marcus, you better get Price on the phone. He’s gonna want to know this.”

      “Who is she? Why don’t I recognize the name?”

      “Just go get Price for me. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

      He stepped away, and she turned to Baldwin. “Do you know who this is?”

      “Isn’t she the kid of someone big?”

      “You could say that. Remy St. Claire. It’s her daughter. That’s what’s been bugging me, the girl looks an awful lot like a dark Remy. Damn it, she can’t be more than, what.” Taylor calculated. Man, she was getting old. “I think Giselle was about fifteen. She looks older. Oh, fuck. This is not good. Remy and the press are going to be on us like white on rice. Damn, damn, damn, damn!”

      Remy St. Claire. Taylor didn’t know what to make of her. She was an actress, but didn’t find much lead work anymore. Instead, she did the rounds relentlessly, reveling in her roles as a “character actor.” She was a constant on the talk-show circuit. Her gadfly antics made her a perfect target for the gossip instigators. She’d left Nashville years before, made it in Hollywood for a while, then fluttered away. Married three times to two different men, she’d had a child by one of them. Taylor couldn’t remember which. A little girl named Giselle, with dark, flowing hair.

      When little Giselle grew up a bit, the paparazzi constantly buzzing around her caused her mother endless headaches. Remy wasn’t happy with that overattention, and sent her only child to live with her parents, away from the glare of Hollywood. Giselle’s grandparents immediately enrolled her in her mother’s alma mater in Nashville, Father Ryan. They assumed the first-class Catholic school would be good for their beloved granddaughter, used the abundant love to compensate for her mother’s recurring absences.

      At Father Ryan, Remy and Taylor had been friends, albeit briefly. They weren’t enemies, just didn’t hang in the same crowds. The woman was a drama queen, a scene stealer, an attention getter. When she found out her only child had been murdered on her old classmate’s watch, there would be hell to pay.

      Taylor leaned against the wall and damned herself for not listening to the advice of her old buddy Fitz, walking out of this place and spending the next three days fretting over Chinese gobans and monogrammed bath towels. Despite a declaration that they didn’t want gifts, wedding presents were piling up. And all those unwritten thank-you notes just made her think of her mother. Kitty wasn’t available for the wedding, thank God. Though if she knew Remy St. Claire’s daughter had been murdered, she’d be back from Gstaad in a heartbeat. A brush with a minor celebrity would stoke Kitty for a few weeks, though she’d look down her nose and pretend it meant nothing. God, her mother was such a bitch.

      Baldwin leaned against the wall next to her, toying with the curled-up end of her ponytail.

      “Evanson called. The official requests have been approved. My team at the field office is available to you at any time. How do you want to handle this, Taylor?”

      She appreciated his show of respect. Baldwin could have asked to step in at any time but had held off, allowing the locals to work the case with his peripheral involvement until now. The FBI’s active support would shift the dynamics, but they could use the help. “Let’s see what Price has to say.”

      Marcus