Judas Kiss (11 page)

“What's this?” Fitz asked. He was standing next to a short cognac-colored smooth leather chair, which sat beneath a hanging tapestry at least seven feet in length depicting a leaping unicorn being speared by a group of men. He fingered the cloth.

Taylor joined him. “It's a reproduction of one of the Unicorn Tapestries.
The Unicorn Leaps the Stream,
I think.”

“Are you sure it's not the real deal? It's pretty heavy.”

“No, it's just a nice reproduction. If I remember, the originals are in The Cloisters, part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. They're French, fifteenth century or so, made for Louis XII, I think. They probably bought this at the Met's Museum bookstore, or out of the catalogue. Why, what's the matter?”

Instead of speaking, Fitz's mouth quirked up in a tiny half smile and his blue eyes twinkled in amusement, then he turned back to his task. He sometimes gave her that face, half-proud, half-bemused, looking right through her in that odd way that made her pull at her ponytail with self-conscious embarrassment. It wasn't her fault that her parents had dragged her to every museum known to mankind and she remembered this shit.

“I feel a draft coming from the wall.” He started running his hands along the tapestry. Taylor was struck by a thought.

“Pull the tapestry aside, I think there's something here. Manchini's house, next door? She had a door on this part of the living room wall, must be a basement.”

Fitz wrestled the heavy cloth away from the wall. “Bingo.” The draft was coming from the hole where the doorknob should have been. That made sense; in order for the tapestry to lie flat against the wall the Wolffs had to remove the knob. Instead of struggling to get behind the heavy tapestry, Taylor and Fitz lifted it gently from the wall and laid it on the leather chair. The door opened inward, revealing a set of stairs that led to darkness. Sure enough, a basement.

“Did anyone pick up on this yesterday?” Taylor asked.

“Not that I know of.” He went down the first three steps, then charged back up, swiping at his face.

“Argh!”

“What?”

“Spiderweb.”

Taylor laughed so hard she had to lean back against the wall to keep herself from tumbling down the stairs. The spiderweb in question was swinging merrily to and fro as Fitz sputtered and scratched at his head. She nearly bit her lip in two trying to stop the giggles.

“It's not a spiderweb, you old fool, it's the pull for the light.” She reached around him and tugged on the string. The naked hundred-watt bulb came on with a snap, blinding both of them for a moment.

Blinking as her eyes adjusted, Taylor stared down the stairs, the light illuminating only the immediate stairwell. Fitz was grumbling behind her. She un-latched the snap on her holster, slipped her Glock out of the creaking leather. Holding it at her side, she started down. There was a landing, and she stopped, cautious, sticking the gun and her head around the corner at the same time, just in case. She saw nothing to alarm her, and returned the weapon to its holster as she went down the remaining steps. There was a light switch at the base of the stairs. Taylor flipped on the overhead fluorescent.

It was a standard basement: cement floor, unfinished walls on three sides, one painted, as if the owners had contemplated finishing the room and wanted to see what it would look like. The barest whiff of stale air indicated a minor mold problem; the floor was cluttered with stacks of cardboard boxes, bicycles, sleds. All the material that wouldn't fit nicely in the garage was placed haphazardly down here. It was just a storage space, probably only four hundred square feet: twenty feet deep and twenty long. Certainly nothing exciting.

She returned the weapon to its holster. They did a pass through, looking behind boxes, but Taylor didn't see anything out of place.

“Let's get Tim back out here to go through all of this, okay? Just in case.”

“Will do.” He froze, then spoke, dramatically sotto voce. “You hear that?”

She stopped moving and listened. Yes, she did hear something. Footsteps. There was someone in the house with them.

There was no hesitation. Her weapon was drawn and pointing up the stairs before she took another breath. Fitz had his gun palmed too. Using hand signals, Taylor indicated that she was going to go up the stairs and he was to follow.

The steps creaked as Taylor tread on them, and the footsteps above stopped abruptly at the noise.

“Shit,” she whispered. The element of surprise was gone. She got to the top of the stairs in a heartbeat. Leading with her gun, her eyes swept the living room. No immediate threats. Fitz was bumping up against her back. She nodded at him, then took three quick steps out into the room and turned left, into the foyer. Fitz went right, into the kitchen. Nothing, nothing, nothing. They met again in the dining room, and Taylor pointed at the ceiling with her Glock. They listened carefully. There they were again, the footsteps. Whoever had invaded the house was upstairs.

Standing at the base of the staircase, Taylor was just taking the first step when a shadow crossed the hallway. Holding her breath, she aimed her weapon at the banister. Step one, step two, step three, no one in her sights yet, step four, step five, there, the shadow was getting closer, closer, step six…

“Police, don't move! Hold it right there,” she shouted.

The shadow jumped and screamed. Taylor's finger tightened on the trigger, and she took one more step.

“Lieutenant, don't shoot!” the silhouette yelled, and Taylor, recognizing the voice, eased the pressure off the trigger, just a fraction. A young woman appeared at the top of the stairs, hands up.

Taylor lowered her weapon. “Christ almighty, Page, what the hell are you doing, trying to get yourself killed? I almost shot you!”

Fitz was laughing, the eerie tension forcing emotion to the surface. He and Taylor slumped together on the stairs, guns at their sides. Julia Page, the assistant district attorney, stood at the balcony, her arms now crossed on her chest, chin-length curly chestnut hair sticking out in every direction as if it had been frightened and was trying to get away.

“What the hell are you doing creeping around here with your guns drawn?” Page demanded.

“What the hell are you doing here without calling me first?” Taylor snapped back.

“I did call you. Left you a message and everything. Said I was coming over to meet you. God, Taylor.”

Page came down the stairs, ashen. Taylor whirled and went into the kitchen. Her hands were quivering, and she jammed them into the front pockets of her jeans in an effort to hide the fact. Page and Fitz both followed a moment later, but Taylor could tell Fitz had said something to Page. She was bristling, her hair looked like she'd stuck a finger in a socket. Page's hair was a dead giveaway to her every emotion. The sight made Taylor want to laugh, and the effort it took to hold the bubbling mirth down helped her regain her composure.

“That was a close one, Page. You should have called out when you came in.”

This time Page looked at the ground, chagrined. “I know. Sorry. I didn't see either of you and just assumed you'd gone around back or something. I thought I'd get a look, form an impression without bothering you. Sorry,” she repeated.

“It's okay. But now you know why we ask for nonessential personnel to get clearance before they enter a scene. Didn't the patrol outside tell you to announce yourself?”

The pointed chin raised an inch. “I'm not exactly nonessential, Taylor.”

“Yeah, but you almost got forcibly made redundant, so next time….” Her hands had stopped shaking, the adrenaline coursing through her system ushered back to its home.

Page nodded. “Okay, okay. I just wanted to see the place. I didn't talk to the officer outside, I waved at him and he waved back. How is the investigation coming?”

“We don't have much to go on yet. We're supposed to be meeting with the husband at two.”

“Well, it's one forty-five now, you'd best get going if you want to make it.”

Taylor looked at her watch and cursed. “Yeah, we'd better go. We can talk after, okay? Meet me in my office at three or so. Will that work?”

Page nodded. “I'll see you then.”

The three exited the house. Fitz slapped a new label on the door. He peeled off from the two women and made his way to the patrol, and Taylor knew the young man was going to get a tongue blistering. He should never have let the A.D.A. in the premises without alerting the two officers inside. It was sloppy work. While the situation never got entirely out of hand, it had been close. That was a story that would have made the national news—A.D.A. shot by lead investigator of case. Taylor shook her head at the mere thought. Besides, she liked A.D.A. Page. Would have hated like hell to kill her.

 

Todd Wolff was waiting for Fitz and Taylor in the lobby of the CJC, alone. This cheered Taylor to no end. No lawyer meant they'd be freer with their questions. She had to give Wolff credit, it was a good trick. Show up without a lawyer, make yourself look innocent. After some essential paperwork, they'd gotten him signed in and made comfortable in a blue interrogation room simply furnished with a table and four chairs, two on either side of the table. Sodas all around, video and audio rolling, Fitz led him through the particulars.

“You know you have the right to legal representation, don't you Mr. Wolff?” Fitz scratched at his ear with a pen, doing his damnedest to look disarming.

“I didn't think I was under arrest,” Wolff said.

“You're not. We're just talking. But I'd be remiss if I didn't say it. You know how that works. So, if we're all good, tell me your full name, please.”

“Theodore Amadeus Wolff. Todd for short.”

“Your date of birth?”

“August 4, 1979.”

“Place of birth?”

“Clarksville, Tennessee.”

“Social?”

“413-00-8897.”

“Address?”

“4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court, Nashville, 37205.”

Taylor nodded at Fitz, and he leaned back in his chair, gesturing for her to go ahead.

“Okay, Todd. Thanks for that. Let's get started, shall we? You have everything you need?”

“I do. Let's get this over with. I want to get back to my daughter.”

Taylor tapped her pen on the table. “We heard you took Hayden to your parents. Where do they live, Todd?”

“Clarksville.”

“Any particular reason you didn't leave her with your in-laws? They're a bit closer. Wouldn't it be more convenient for you?”

“Do I have to answer that?”

Taylor didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow. After a moment, Todd reached some kind of decision. “Okay. I'm not a fan of saying anything ugly about my in-laws, but I just felt my parents might be better equipped to deal with Hayden right now. The Harrises are great, and we get along fine, but Corinne was…special to them. The favorite. Hayden is the light of their lives. They're mourning, and I didn't want a constant reminder of what they'd lost running around their house. You know?”

He looked so forlorn that Taylor believed him. She eased back in the chair, adopting a more casual stance. “That was a kind thought. Tell me about your wife, Todd.”

Wolff nodded, gathering himself. When he finally spoke, it was with a quiet strength, as if some font of internal fortitude had opened a wellspring in his heart.

“Corinne was, well, a force of nature. We met in college, and I fell hard immediately. We went to Vanderbilt, you know? She was a cheerleader, I was warming the bench with the basketball team. She was perfect, all bubbly and sweet, this crazy smile that just shot through me. Everybody loved her. She was the president of her sorority, captain of the tennis team, a straight-A student. We were together for a week when I told her I was going to marry her. She said yes.”

He smiled to himself, eyes gone fuzzy at the memory. “We were sitting on the deck at San Antonio Taco Company, drinking too much beer and eating tacos, and I just leaned over and said ‘I'm going to marry you, you know.' She smiled and said, ‘Well, when you ask, I'll say yes.' It was perfect. She's, she was amazing. I can't believe I'm never going to see her smile again.”

Taylor gave him a moment to gather himself, watched him wrestle with the memories. He was a handsome man, jet black, wavy hair, eyes so brown they looked black, a wide, firm mouth. Ropy muscles in his forearms implied strength. Taylor could imagine any one of a thousand sorority girls who would say yes to marriage material like that.

“So tell me how you got home from Savannah so quickly yesterday.”

His head snapped back as if she'd struck him.

“I…I told you. I broke every speeding law on the road.”

“And managed to cut two hours off an eight-hour drive.”

“That's right.”

“I don't believe you.”

The silence hung heavy in its accusation. Todd didn't speak, just set his lips and shook his head. Taylor came at him again.