ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS BOOK 1 (4 page)

“Whitney Connolly is as tenacious as a pit bull. She’s one of the few reporters that seem to enjoy taking on some of the local crime stories, wants to see them through.” Baldwin spoke absently, giving credence to Taylor’s silent opinion. She glanced at him, he was lost in thought, staring at the television screen.

“I went to school with her.”

That caught his attention, and he turned to her. “A fellow debutante from Father Ryan?” he teased.

“Jesus, Baldwin. Yes, I suppose she must have been, she and her twin sister, Quinn. They were a year behind Sam and me. They would have been freshmen when you were a senior. I know you came into school late your senior year, but don’t you remember them?

That whole story…” She trailed off when Baldwin’s phone rang.

He answered it brusquely. “Yes…? Yes, I’ve heard…

No, I don’t… I will… I agree… Okay… Tomorrow then.” He hung up, then started pacing the living room.

“That was Garrett, making sure I’d heard about the missing girl. I’m officially being tasked full-time on this now, not just as a consultant. Figured that was going to happen.”

Taylor gave him her sweetest smile as her own phone rang. She was already up, gun strapped to her side, ready to go. “Welcome to my nightmare. Let’s go.”

* * *

Taylor pulled up to the yellow tape that was strung across the parking lot to the Davidson girl’s apartment building. She smiled as a young officer lifted the tape so she could drive through. Leaning out the window, she pointed to the car behind her.

“Let him through. He’s with me.” The officer nodded, and she watched in her rearview mirror as Baldwin maneuvered his car under the tape. She pulled up to the bevy of vehicles, turned the engine off and stepped into the night. Baldwin followed suit. She waited for him to join her, then they made their way through the maze of blue-and-white vehicles toward the building.

Fitz met them halfway up the stairs. He looked to be on his way down. Instead, he let them pass, then turned and followed them up, divulging information as they climbed.

“First officer on the scene knocked on the door, didn’t hear or see any movement from inside. No signs of forced entry. The landlord gave him a copy of the key, so he proceeded to open the door. It was locked from the inside, but only the push button, not the dead bolt. The officer went in, looked around. Things didn’t look out of place until he hit the bedroom. The bed’s unmade, biologicals all over it. Crime scene kids are about finished with it. We’ve done a canvas, too, no one remembers seeing her last night or today. Doesn’t look too good.”

They’d reached the door to the apartment and ducked under more crime scene tape. There were only a few people left in the room. Taylor nodded to them as she assessed the scene.

Shauna Davidson lived well. The apartment was tastefully decorated with a modern flair. A flat-panel television took up one wall, surrounded by high-end stereo equipment. A tan leather sofa dominated the room, buttery soft fawn suede cushions piled high. A good place to relax. There were adjacent chairs in dark brown suede, and a slate coffee table that drew all the colors together. Not a thing was out of place, as far as Taylor could tell. Magazines were lined up with precision on the corner of the coffee table. There were no errant drinking glasses or cans, no used newspapers. Good taste and a neat freak. Interesting for a young girl. To the right, Taylor could see a small kitchen and a short hallway that led off the living room. She followed the hall, seeing an unused guest room, an office and, finally, the master bedroom. Here, things were not so neat. The bed’s comforter was lying on the floor, the sheets a tangle at the foot of the bed. Blood soaked the mattress. Taylor looked to the crime scene tech standing deferentially to the left side of the bed, waiting for her.

“Do you have any Polaroids that show exactly how you found it?”

“Yes, ma’am. We tried to take the samples without disturbing the scene too much.”

“You’ve put things back in order then? Matches the Polaroids?”

“Yes, ma’am, this is pretty close to how we found it. We came in, saw the blood, backed out and started taking pictures. Then we took all the samples. It’s not as much as it looks, and the biologicals were desiccated. Been there for at least a day. Dusted the bed and side table for prints, came up with a few. We’ll get it all into the system, let you know. Soon as you’re ready we’ll finish bagging and cart it out.”

Taylor nodded her thanks and the young man left the room. She turned to Baldwin and Fitz. “Well?” she asked.

Baldwin took in the room, the blood. Taylor could see the signs of recognition on his face. She waited him out. He crept around the room, making notes, taking a few of his own pictures.

Taylor watched Fitz out of the corner of her eye, he was getting impatient. She was, too. “Baldwin, talk to us. What’s up here?”

He closed his notebook, slung his camera over his shoulder. “It all looks familiar. This is similar to what I’ve seen in the other girls’ apartments. The unmade bed, the blood. I think he charms them, gets them to invite him home and into their beds, then strangles them and cuts off their hands. Transports the body to wherever he’s picked next.” He shook his head. “Shauna Davidson. I don’t know where we’ll find her, but she makes number four. He’s speeding things up.”

Baldwin paced around the room. “See, there’s no sign of forced entry. That’s consistent with the other three girls. I think he picks them up somewhere, a bar, a library, who knows. They invite him back to their place. Maybe things get out of hand, maybe the sex starts out consensual, but just as quickly, they’re dead. There’s no real signs of a struggle. We haven’t found any drugs in their system. I think he must tie them up.” He circled to the head of the bed. “Hey, get your crime scene guys back in here.”

Fitz disappeared and came back with one of the crime scene techs. Baldwin motioned the man over and pointed to the headboard on the wrought-iron bed. “You missed something,” he accused.

The tech turned red, realizing he had missed something. A pale fiber was attached to the frame of the headboard. He quickly collected it, apologizing. As he left, Baldwin clapped him on the back.

“Probably from a rope. We found it at the other scenes, as well. That’s why there isn’t much sign of a struggle. That he would tie them up fits. See, this kind of killer is excited by the helplessness. Anger, excitement, pleasure, they all come from the same place for this guy. He has a thing for their hands, which I haven’t figured out yet. The fetishistic elements are all there, I don’t think he’s doing it to hide their identities. He’s highly organized, plans in advance. The fact that he parts with any of his trophies is interesting. It’s a clue, a trail of bread crumbs that he’s leaving for us. He wants to sensationalize the killings. Taking the bodies over state lines, the mutilations, all were calculated efforts to make these crimes heinous and splashy. A surefire recipe to get the FBI involved. He wants us to know him. To be sure that it’s him. He won’t deviate from this pattern, it’s become his signature. Now we just have to figure out who he is. VICAP doesn’t have a match to this MO in their system. Other than the forensics, we don’t have any other information to go on. Witness statements are thin to nonexistent. He’s a real ghost, which is part of his plan.” The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program would guide them to corresponding murders if the system had a match. Baldwin had been watching for a hit, a fruitless endeavor thus far. 

He stopped pacing, a gleam in his eyes. “It’s a challenge. He enjoys the fact that he has us stumped. We can’t predict where he’s headed next, it assures that we’re on our toes. Mark my words. He’s begging for us to try and find him.”

Whitney Connolly sat at her computer in her home office, tapping out e-mails to people around the country. It was her usual morning ritual. Regardless of the day, she got up from her lonely bed, ran to Starbucks for a latte, greeting people she knew and those she didn’t with a humbled smile, returned home and turned on the computer. She had a vast network that she communicated with, and the mails were sorted by priority. Friends came first, because that category had the fewest mails to go through. And since they were generally the kindest of the lot, she entered the next grouping with a sense of peace. The fans. They came in all colors, shapes and sizes. Female and male, young and old. Pleasant and not so pleasant. The messages were hard to escape; the network broadcasted all reporters’ e-mail addresses on the screen as they gave their reports and posted them next to their pictures on the station’s Web site so they’d be accessible to the viewing public. Whitney felt it was important to answer, thanking those who had enjoyed her work the night before, being courteous to those who hadn’t. Being the top reporter in the Nashville market had its upside, that was for sure. Inevitably she pissed some viewers off, and she felt a sense of responsibility to acknowledge their displeasure and attempt to set things straight. Community relations, and all that.

Today was a good morning though. She had forty fan mails and only five weren’t happy with her performance. She read the comments carefully, disregarding the wackos with a simple “I’m sorry you weren’t happy with the broadcast. I’ll make every effort to correct the problem.” She effusively thanked those that sent generous, loving comments and seriously answered questions from those who thought they knew better than she did about the world they lived in. That done, she took a long drink from her cooling latte and set to work on the next group. The important group. The one that really mattered. The tipsters.

Whitney had a vast network of people across the country who sent her information. She had been cultivating the group for years, adding legitimate and notso-legitimate contacts as she went. She had aspirations, big ones. She knew she was one story away from making it. Being a ranking reporter in Nashville was a pretty good gig. Her station had the highest rating in the market, consistently achieving higher market share than the other network affiliates. She handled the beat during the week, sat in the anchor’s chair on the weekend 10:00 p.m. newscast. But deep down, she felt she was better than even a full-time local anchor job. She’d been paying her dues for a while now, and at thirty-four, it was time she got picked up by one of the big dogs. She wanted New York. Not Atlanta, where they all looked the same and weren’t allowed to express their own opinions. No, New York was the place to be, and she was one big story away from being there. She had the looks, that was a given. Tall, leggy and blond, she had a perfect nose that hadn’t been surgically altered, full lips that had only seen a little work and a pair of flawless breasts that had cost her a fortune. Finely drawn eyebrows two shades darker than her hair arched over what she had been told were spectacular blue eyes. Yes, she had the looks all right. And the brains to go with them. Not to mention the ambition to get the job done. She just needed that one story on her reel that would blow them away.

As she scrolled through her mail, searching for the address that would make her a star, she allowed herself a brief respite by switching on the television to the very network she wanted to work for so badly. The News Alert flashed red across the screen, and Whitney felt her pulse quicken. She was a consummate newswoman after all. What would it be now? A bombing overseas? A trial decided? A politician caught with a dead girl or a live boy? Bad news makes good news for a reporter, regardless of the cost to the public. As the anchor’s concerned face filled the screen, she felt the warmth spread over her body. She leaned back in her supple leather chair and smiled. He had struck again.

Taylor woke early and flipped on the television. Despite Baldwin’s prediction that Shauna Davidson wouldn’t be found anywhere in the local area, a search had been organized. The early news was broadcasting the shot—a line of men and women in blue cargo pants and T-shirts, clutching long poles, moving purposefully through an open area adjacent to Shauna’s apartment complex. Comfortable that the investigation was proceeding appropriately, she showered, pulled on her jeans and boots, snapped on her holster and gun and set out for Jessica Porter’s autopsy.

She rolled along the highway, darting between speeding eighteen-wheelers, absently noting the beauty of the day. Entranced by the blue skies, she opened her window only to be assaulted by the oily fumes of the highway. She wrinkled her nose and shut the window, thinking back to the conversation she’d had with Baldwin before they’d gone to bed. He was adamant that the Southern Strangler was escalating, positive that the evidence in Shauna Davidson’s apartment would trace back to the other three murders. Baldwin had a bit of a sixth sense when it came to his cases, a trait that was highly appreciated and necessary in his line of work. Profiling was a bit like being a criminal yourself. He had a knack for understanding what was within the mind of the killers he hunted. It frightened Taylor sometimes, his intensity and single-mindedness, but he got results. She was hopeful that having him full-time on the case would mean a happy outcome for Shauna Davidson, but didn’t really believe it. There was too much blood in the girl’s bedroom. His little debutante. She snorted. She hated it when he called her that, and he knew it. He just loved to stick that pin in a little bit every once in a while. Hell, she would give anything for that part of her past to go away. It wouldn’t, though, no matter how hard she might try to pretend. Taylor came from a wealthy family, and had grown up in an affluent area of Nashville known as Forest Hills. She’d had all the little luxuries of a wellbred girl, including the debutante ball she’d reluctantly attended in order to be properly presented to Nashville society, New Year’s Eve after her eighteenth birthday. She wondered briefly if Shauna Davidson had been privy to such pointless goings-ons, and quickly dismissed the thought. It still made her laugh to remember the outright fury she’d caused her parents when she told them she was going to be a cop. Her parents felt she had a few socially acceptable options to choose from as a career. It was generally expected that college was the first destination, where she would meet her future husband who was headed to medical school or law school. Once they were established within his residency program or a junior partnership and were back settled in Nashville, she could devote herself to raising the children, being a leader in Junior League, and maybe open a little specialty shop or form a small charitable organization, of course only after the children were in school full-time. A second but not as popular option was to aspire to a profession of her own—medicine, law, marketing—finding a husband during the course of these actions and immediately starting the marriage/baby track. But Taylor was Taylor, and dismissed both options out of hand. She’d watched her mother’s life: lunches, teas, commitments to charity work that allowed her group of wealthy friends to continue living in their sorority days, never aging, never losing the shallowness that permeated their lives. Taylor knew that they did good work, that their charities made a difference on some level, but couldn’t stand the idea of doing it herself.