ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS BOOK 1 (26 page)

“Hi, honey, how are—”

“Baldwin, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you?”

“I’m on 40 outside of Crossville. I rented a car and decided to head on back to Nashville for a couple of things. I’ll be back in an hour if traffic holds. Why, what happened?”

“I went to Whitney Connolly’s to get the e-mails. There was another e-mail, one that came in yesterday or this morning, after Quinn and I had left her house. If the e-mails and poems correlate to your poems, we may have trouble.”

Baldwin gritted his teeth. Damn. It was very possible that another girl had been taken from Asheville, and no one had reported it. “What was the poem?”

“I actually recognized it, it’s a few lines from ‘The Flea.’ John Donne. You know that one?”

“Actually, yes, I used to use it on girls all the time. Okay, I need you to do something for me. Do you have the poems in front of you right now?”

“Yeah, I just brought the whole laptop with me. In case there are other e-mails that come in from this address, I thought it would be best if we had the computer in front of us.”

“Okay, I’m going to start driving again. Bear with me a second. If I lose the cell I’ll call you right back.” He started the engine and pulled out onto the highway.

“Okay, I want you to read what each e-mail says, starting with the earliest one.”

He could hear Taylor flipping through pages. The poems were going to match, he already knew that. He was starting to feel it, that connection that things were about to break all over the place. Taylor came back on the phone.

“The first one is dated a month ago. The content reads,

“A perfect woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angelic light.

“Uh-oh. There’s a postscript here I didn’t see before. This is the first time I’ve read them on paper, I didn’t see it on the screen. ‘This was at the crime scene.’” She paused. “Baldwin, she knew. She knew and she didn’t come to us. Stupid reporter.”

Baldwin’s heart started pounding. “That’s the same as the note found in Susan Palmer’s bag, without the postscript, of course,” he said quietly.

“All right, the next one came in two weeks ago. Here goes…

“A creature not too bright or good

For human nature’s daily food

For transient sorrows, simple wiles
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

“Here’s the P.S. ‘This one was from LA.’”

“That’s Jeanette Lernier’s. Shit. This guy was sending Whitney Connolly the same poems that he was leaving at each kidnapping scene. That second P.S. makes it sound like she hadn’t figured it out, that he was giving her more to go on. Taylor, honey, you are the greatest. Please keep going.”

“The next is from Sunday, right after we found Jessica.

“A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By his dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

“The P.S. says ‘Do you get it yet?’”

Baldwin was getting excited. “That’s the poem they found with Jessica’s things. Right on, Taylor, thank God you were there to find these. What’s next?”

Taylor read him the next e-mail.

“How can those terrified vague fingers push,
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

How can anybody, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

“‘P.S. From your backyard.’”

“That’s Shauna Davidson, no doubt about it. What else?”

“The next one reads,

“Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?”

Taylor stopped for a moment. “Marni Fischer?”

“Yeah, that’s right. No P.S.?”

“No, this one is just the poem. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know. Either he felt he’d made his point or he got into a rush. What else do you have there?”

“The next one’s dated two days ago. It goes:

“She half enclosed me with her arms
She pressed me with a weak embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

’Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful art,

That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.”

Taylor could hear what sounded like paper being brushed against the phone. She envisioned Baldwin raking his hand through his hair.

“That’s what we found at the motel room where Christina Dale was killed. But you said ‘The Flea’ came in last night?”

“I have to pull it up and double-check the time stamp, but it came in sometime after Quinn and I left Whitney’s house yesterday evening. I take it you didn’t have any missing persons reports when you left Asheville?”

“No, we didn’t. But if this follows the pattern, he has taken another girl. Dammit, this guy’s on overdrive. I better get the word to Grimes, but we can’t be absolutely sure he struck in Asheville. Of course, he could have taken someone that no one’s missed yet. Listen, I’ve got a meeting as soon as I get into town. I’ve got to talk to the CEO of the company that owns some of the hospitals where three of the girls were employed. It’s called Health Partners, he’s going to go over some of the—”

“What did you say?”

“I’m meeting with the CEO of Health Partners,” he said, and he could hear Taylor’s breath quicken. She spoke softly.

“Baldwin, Quinn Buckley’s husband works for Health Partners. He’s a big time VP. There has to be a connection there, that’s got to be what Whitney Connolly found out. You don’t think…”

“He’s a vice president, you say? I bet he does some traveling. Let’s get together before I go over there. Can you meet me at your office? I’ll be there in less than thirty minutes.”

“Hurry, Baldwin.”

He flashed by the car with the FBI agent in it. How funny was that? Here the man was looking all over the Southeast for him, yet if he had looked to his left, just for that one moment, he would have seen the grinning visage of the man he was trying to find. Such a pity really, they just didn’t have a clue what he was up to. He’d been watching the tall man from the FBI. He’d seen him stand quietly over Christina’s body, seething, wondering. He wouldn’t need to wonder much more. It was nearly time.

He wrinkled his nose. The smell in the car was getting worse. He was going to have to give his car a bath. Clean out the trunk, too, that was for sure, get some fresh ice for the cooler. It was a good thing that he had tinted windows, the look on his face must have been enough to cause some stares. There was always the bag on the floorboards in the back seat. A relatively nondescript leather bag, it was the contents that would get the tongues wagging.

The man smiled. This was going too well. He only had one more to go, then it was time for his triumphant return to watch the fireworks from the safety of his own home. He just hoped she was getting the picture at last. He knew how smart she was. This would make everything right.
Thirty-Five

Taylor sat at her desk, tapping her fingers on the bleached wood. Where the hell was Baldwin? She had caught his excitement over the phone and had been trying to go through the case herself. She was lacking the details, and the frustration mounted. She wanted to be out there chasing the killer rather than sitting in her office. She knew she’d helped, but damn, it would be great to be out there, gun in hand, stalking the stalker. Lincoln and Marcus came into Taylor’s office, interrupting her fantasy of shooting the bastard between the eyes. She started and smiled at them. For at least an hour, she’d forgotten all about Betsy Garrison and the Rainman case. She tried to play it off.

“Hi, guys. Good timing. Did you catch me a rapist?”

“Would that it was so easy to woo me, lady, simply drop a bad man in her lap and call him rapist.” Lincoln gave her a smile through his pidgin Shakespearean answer.

“I take it that’s a no?”

“It’s a no. The print you lifted belonged to Brian Post. So that was a dead end. Marcus and I have been going through all the personnel files from the area, looking for a cop who lives in the general vicinity that would go to those stores and that gym. We also asked around about the gym, and there are a few guys that go there. Problem is, none of them match the description of the cop that the latest victim is giving. And we talked to Betsy, and she can tell us for sure that it isn’t any of these guys. She’s familiar enough with them that she really didn’t think they were worth looking at any further.”

Taylor nodded to the chairs in front of her desk, indicating that they should sit. They did and she leaned back in her own chair.

“Marcus, what do you think? Do you think it’s a cop?”

“No, I don’t. At least not one of Metro’s. Now, it’s possible that she got the uniform or the car wrong, that it belongs to a Williamson County cop or something like that. We don’t have the right to go into their files as of yet. We did go through the victim’s background a little bit. She has a collar for resisting arrest and a DUI. I’m just wondering if she’s fingering the cop that arrested her during her DUI, whether consciously or subconsciously. She has a restraining order filed against a guy named Edward Hunt. Thought we’d have a chat with him, as well. See if maybe he’s been hanging around. Maybe she’s just seeing things. Rape’s traumatic enough. Anyway, it would be nice to get the DNA back from the TBI, but I suppose that’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

“Well, sounds like you have a plan, then. Go bug the TBI, see if they can help. I’m going to be working with Baldwin for the rest of the day, but I’ll have my phone if you need me.”

They both looked at her but shrugged. It was her prerogative if she wanted to work off the reservation for an afternoon. They went on their way and Taylor opened Whitney Connolly’s laptop, clicking on the button that took her into the dead woman’s e-mail. There was nothing new, so Taylor got out of the program and started trolling through files until one caught her eye. Whitney had a file marked “Notes” that was dated the day she died. It had last been accessed that very morning.

Taylor opened the folder and saw a jumble of remarks and annotations. Whitney took notes on the computer in modified shorthand that would make more sense to a teenager text messaging her best friend. It was garbled and words were shortened, but she saw the six poems in their entirety with the postscripts, and the letter Q appeared several times. There were a few QJB entries, which she assumed stood for Quinn and Jake Buckley. But the rest was too garbled for her to make sense of. She knew some journalists took notes in a proprietary way so no one could steal their work, and it was obvious that Whitney was one of them.

She closed that file and started going through others. They were almost all in her peculiar shorthand. Better to wait and let Baldwin or one of Whitney’s workmates figure it out.

Just as she thought of him, Baldwin appeared in her doorway as if she’d conjured him up from the dark recesses of her mind. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him. Taylor got out from behind the desk and gestured for him to come in and close the door. He did, and she put her arms around him, drawing him into a hug. Baldwin gave Taylor a deep kiss, one that she returned almost gratefully. He could sense that something was off, something had been off for a few days now, but he thought he knew her well enough to know that she’d talk to him about it when she was ready. In the meantime, he needed to find out if there was another victim out there.

Taylor broke off the kiss and gave him a smile, running her hand along the back of his neck in a way that made him want to forget all about the case and take her right there on the table. But she stopped, smiled a knowing smile, then reached down and turned the laptop so it faced the guest seat. She pushed slightly on his chest and he flopped into the chair, and she pushed the laptop across the desk so he could have easy access to it.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, then became all business. “This is Whitney Connolly’s e-mail?”

“Yes, it is. I have been through the e-mails and tried to go through her notes file, but she uses some crazy sort of typing shorthand and I can’t make heads or tails out of it. What I do know for sure is that Quinn Buckley’s husband is the vice president of Health Partners, you said three victims worked at hospitals that were owned by Health Partners, and Whitney is receiving e-mails of poems from the crime scenes. Since you said no one knew about the notes, that means the killer has singled her out to make contact with. I haven’t put in a request to have her car checked for sabotage, it seemed like she had a legitimate accident. But I can have them start an investigation into it if you want me to.

“Plus, I think we need to do a little history on Jake Buckley’s traveling schedule, don’t you?”

Baldwin was popping his fingers across the keyboard on the laptop. He bit his lip, thinking.

“So the last e-mail came in after Whitney’s accident, right?”

“Yes, it did. You can look at the time stamp, but it was definitely after she was dead. Why, Baldwin, what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that the killer doesn’t know that Whitney is dead. Which means he’s not here in Nashville, because I assume there was a lot of coverage on Whitney’s accident over the past few days.”

“It’s been a lot of feel-good stuff. Her history, her credentials, her journalistic life, that kind of stuff. Nothing about her and Quinn’s kidnapping. Just very sweet, respectful stories. You would think that she was everyone in town’s best friend. But yes, there has been a lot of it.”

“And I bet none of it went national, huh?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure. We can call the network and ask. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. I talked to Garrett on my way in. The geographical profile has Nashville as one of three central staging points—it’s less than a day’s drive from each crime scene. If the GP is accurate, and the killer is from Nashville and doesn’t know that Whitney’s dead, that would explain why he’s still sending her e-mails. What we need to do is start getting a back-trace on this e-mail address, and I need to get over to Health Partners and talk to Louis Sherwood. Have you talked to Quinn yet?”