Judas Kiss (25 page)

“Sexual promiscuity?”

Ricard gave a ghost of a smile. “Very good, Lieutenant. You're catching on. Monogamous sexual promiscuity, another example of how distasteful anything indiscriminant could be to a child like this.”

“But that child would grow into an adult. I take it that she wouldn't grow out of it?”

“Some do. Some don't. Some follow their art, some, when separated from the one item that controls their identity, decline rapidly. They shrivel up, and ultimately end up institutionalized or dead. But that is only extreme cases. Most go on to lead productive, if not happy, lives.”

“Would there need to be a catalyst? Something that would send a person like this over the edge, make them do things they otherwise wouldn't?”

“Yes, I believe you could say that. A life-changing event.” Ricard spoke pointedly, and Taylor began to understand.

“Was this pregnancy unwanted?” she asked.

Ricard nodded, but said, “I couldn't say one way or the other about that. Corinne was a very regimented, controlled person.”

So, that was the problem. She had gotten pregnant and wasn't thrilled about it. That was strange, for a young mother who was seemingly happy.

“Would an unplanned pregnancy be difficult for a woman who has to have control over everything? To the point that it would spark a pathological issue?”

“Nicely deduced, Lieutenant. In some extreme cases, an individual would have difficulty relinquishing control over their body in order to carry a baby. The individual might feel that the fetus is a foreign being and experience moments of hatred so profound that the only comfortable resolution is termination. Or, the individual may seek counseling to better handle the claustrophobic tendencies they are experiencing. High-level anxiety, overwhelming desire to escape, to effect a separation, yes, those things would need to be dealt with using extensive cognitive therapy, regression, relaxation and biofeedback.”

“Was Corinne having these problems? Claustrophobia about her pregnancy?”

“Now, Lieutenant, you're treading too close to our hypothetical line again.”

“All right. What about medication?”

“Well, in the case of a pregnancy, the client would certainly be encouraged not to use medicinal means to handle the situation.”

“But Corinne chose the medicinal route. Why?”

Ricard glanced at the clock. “Oh my, Lieutenant, I'm afraid we need to wrap things up here.” She stood.

“One last question.” Taylor got to her feet too. “Would Corinne Wolff have been a danger to herself?”

Ricard straightened her glasses and pulled her tunic down so it lay tight across her hips. “She may have been. But I think it highly unlikely that she wielded the murder weapon and beat herself to death.”

T
aylor left the doctor's office, head spinning, full of ideas and theories. A better picture was emerging of Corinne Wolff. Taylor knew that the best way to solve a murder was to know the victim. Chances were the murderer was someone in the victim's sphere. The deeply personal nature of the beating, the accessibility to the house, all pointed to a killer bent on revenge and punishment. Ergo, someone Corinne knew. If Taylor could get to know Corinne intimately, she would find the person who killed her. It may have been Todd—the evidence against him was certainly damning—but it could have been someone else.

Since she didn't have anything better to do, she decided to go ahead with her illicit day. She wondered if Julianne Harris would accept a phone call from her? Michelle Harris had obviously checkmarked the box that said Taylor wasn't on their side, but if the mom hadn't shut her out yet…She pulled out her notepad and flipped back to the first few pages. Yes, there was the number for the Harris house. She dialed it, fingers crossed on her knee. Julianne Harris answered on the second ring.

“Do you have news about my daughter?” she said without preamble.

“Mrs. Harris, thank you for taking my call. I appreciate—”

“I don't want to talk about what's been happening to you, Lieutenant. What do you need?”

Short and snappy. Taylor knew she was only going to have one shot at this. “Mrs. Harris, were you aware that Corinne was taking medication for anxiety?”

There was silence, then Mrs. Harris sighed deeply. “Yes,” she said.

“Do you know why she was so…anxious?” Taylor asked.

There was silence again. “Let me ask that a different way,” Taylor said. Mrs. Harris interrupted.

“No, Lieutenant, you don't need to do that. Yes, she was anxious. She was having panic attacks about the baby. She wouldn't tell me why, but I had my suspicions.”

“Which were?”

“I don't want to defame my daughter, Lieutenant. I think it would be best if we stopped now.”

“Was Corinne having an affair, Mrs. Harris?”

Mrs. Harris gave an anguished whimper. “Oh, God. How did you find out?”

I guessed, Taylor thought. “Who was she involved with?”

“That I don't know. I don't even know for sure that she was having an affair. She was acting so strangely before she died. Erratic. Obsessed. I've only seen her like that one other time, over a boy she had a crush on in high school. They dated briefly, very briefly, and when he broke up with her, she collapsed. Sank into a deep depression, began writing letters to the boy, begging him to take her back. It was a phase, we snapped her out of it after a few weeks. Lately, though, she's had that air about her. A mother always knows when something's wrong with her daughter, Lieutenant. I don't know any more than that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Harris. You've been a huge help.”

They clicked off, and Taylor tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Todd Wolff changed his story about when he had sex with Corinne the last time. He initially said they hadn't had sex that week. An affair would explain the semen. The DNA wasn't back yet, that would confirm or destroy Wolff's claims. If Corinne was having an affair, who was her lover?

She made her notes, thought for a few minutes, then decided to keep pushing. Thalia Abbott was next on her list.

The bright morning sun created a glare off the midtown skyscrapers. Lost in thought, shielding her eyes, Taylor didn't see the dark-haired man watching her from across the street.

 

Back in the truck, Taylor pulled the piece of paper with Thalia Abbott's name and number on it from her wallet. She dialed the number, was pleased when a soft voice answered on the first ring.

Taylor introduced herself as a friend of Jasmine's. She didn't identify herself as a cop. It would serve two purposes: first, not chasing Thalia off; second, that bitch Delores Norris wouldn't be able to say she'd been false with a source. Thalia didn't ask what Taylor wanted, said she'd be happy to meet with her, and Taylor asked if now would be inconvenient. The girl agreed, asked Taylor to meet her at St. Ann's Catholic Church off Charlotte Pike in forty minutes. Taylor clicked off the phone. Plenty of time.

She put the 4Runner in gear. Taking advantage of a brief lull in traffic, she pulled a U-turn and headed back toward Vanderbilt. As she passed the stone entrance to the campus, her cell phone rang. Damn, this better not be the kid changing her mind. She glanced at the screen. Baldwin. Composing her voice, she turned down the radio, better to fake the quiet of home.

Prepared, she answered with a chipper, “Hey, babe.”

“Taylor, why aren't you at home?”

Man, that was quick. How did he find out? She debated. Lie, say she was at home, or cop to it? Knowing Baldwin, he had cause to believe she wasn't at home—either the guard had blabbed or she had silent, quiet followers. She opted for the latter, she'd laid it on pretty thick with the guard. Might as well stick to the truth.

“I couldn't stand to sit there and not do anything. You of all people should respect that.”

“And you of all people should understand how dangerous this situation is.” But she heard the resignation in his voice. He was only annoyed, not fully angry with her. He did know her, and the realization made her smile.

“I do. I assume you've got someone on my tail?”

“You weren't checking?”

“Like I said, I assumed.”

“Sloppy, Taylor. It could be Aiden, not a service detail.”

“If it were, you wouldn't be calling me, you'd be here brandishing your sword. I don't need protecting, babe.”

“You need it more than you realize. But that's neither here nor there. What exactly are you up to?”

“Ummm…following a lead.”

“I wish you'd let me handle the tapes. Sherry has gotten more information, we're ready to go after them.”

“That's great news. No, I'm following up on an interview related to the Corinne Wolff case.”

“Taylor, do I need to remind you—”

“No, you don't. I know. I have no badge. I have no authority. I will endanger the investigation if I get involved.” The bitterness in her tone surprised her. The anger at being suspended was closer to the surface than she'd like to admit. Damn the Oompa!

“Okay, okay. Listen, when we finish, do me a favor. I'm going to text message your detail and let them know you're aware of them and they don't have to hang back as much. Your job is to let them stay with you. From what I hear, you drive like a bat out of hell.”

 

Taylor drove up Murphy Road, turned north on 46th in front of McCabe golf course. She wended her way through Sylvan Park. Crossing over Colorado Avenue, she began mentally plotting the geographical location of all the states as she went by their street names. It was a game she and Sam had played as little girls riding from Belle Meade through Sylvan Park to get to Bobby's Dairy Dip on Charlotte Avenue. They tallied points—one for each state capital named, one for each neighboring state identified. Sam's parents were forced to take different routes each time so the girls could have new challenges. The winner got to choose their ice cream treat first.

Taylor remembered the intensity with which they played, the fervor, the laughter when they were wrong. The triumph of sometimes beating Sam, who at seven already possessed a weird, encyclopedic knowledge of useless trivia. It would be nice to go back to a time when the most important thing in her life was getting her ice cream first.

What the hell. She turned left onto Charlotte, past her goal of St. Ann's to the next block. She pulled into the Dairy Dip, open for business with a line at nine in the morning. There was never a bad time for a good juicy burger and some ice cream.

Taylor returned to the 4Runner with a chocolate-dipped twist cone, sugar, not cake. She climbed in the truck, locked the doors, then licked and ruminated. Maybe she should have signaled that she was taking a break, offered to buy her detail ice cream. Then again…

When she was finished, she crumpled the paper napkin, thin even by fast-food standards, wiped her mouth and started the truck. She backtracked a couple of blocks to St. Ann's, swinging around behind the building. She parked with the nose of the truck pointing out to Charlotte, counted off a full minute to allow her shadows to get into place, then exited the vehicle.

Following the mounted signs, she walked toward the school. An eclectic Catholic church, St. Ann's ministered to the local community, holding mass in English, Spanish and Korean throughout the day. The school had a popular K-8 program for both parishioners and non-Catholic parents looking for a solid private parochial education for their children.

Taylor stopped, wondering for a moment. Thalia Abbott was seventeen at a minimum. She wasn't going to school here.

Taylor entered the sanctuary, the cool, incense-perfumed air greeting her. Unconsciously, she dipped her fingers into the small stone bowl of holy water by the door and crossed herself. She gazed at the altar, a peaceful warmth stealing through her. She always loved churches, though she rarely attended services anymore. It was funny, inside a sanctuary, she promised herself she would find a way to attend a service. Once outside, in the hard glare of reality, she never did.

“Are you Catholic?”

The voice surprised her and she jumped. A thin girl, late teens, with long, straight brown hair and deeply soulful brown eyes stood at her left elbow. She smiled, showing even white teeth. Her skin was creamy, unlined. Taylor had the feeling she'd seen the girl before, then just as quickly placed her. The girl looked like Noelle Pazia, a victim of the Southern Strangler she and Baldwin had caught the previous summer. Something about Noelle had always haunted her, and Taylor felt the goose bumps rise as she looked at the dead girl's younger mirror image.

“Lieutenant Jackson, I presume?”

“I, uh, how, um, yes.” Impressive elocution there, Taylor. She cleared her throat. “How did you know?”

“I saw the news,” Thalia said simply, nonjudgmental.

“Lovely.”

“I wouldn't worry about it. No one in their right mind will believe that you killed someone without reason. It's in your eyes. You're a guardian, not an avenger.”

Oddly pleased, Taylor smiled at the girl. “Some would disagree with you. You're Thalia Abbott, I presume?”

“And you aren't Catholic, I'd presume.”

“You're right. I was raised Episcopal. My dad was Catholic, though. How did you know?”

“You don't have that guilty look on your face. Though you crossed and blessed yourself, you walked right past the confessional without a second glance. Most nonpracticing Catholics couldn't do that.” She smiled, and Taylor felt herself smiling back. This was not what she'd expected from her morning. Grace from a seventeen-year-old ex-porn star.

“Let's walk,” Thalia said. She guided Taylor out of the sanctuary, into the sacristy. She held a cloth in her hands, Taylor realized she was dusting as they went.

“You're too old for school here.”

“Yes. I'm working as a sacristan. I keep things nice for the priests and nuns while I decide what to do with my life. I'm thinking of taking orders, becoming a novice in the fall. I've felt a…calling.”

There's a turnaround. Wow. Normally Taylor would encourage a young girl in Thalia's position to look for other ways to deal with life; becoming a nun, sectioning herself off from the world seemed quite dramatic. But something about Thalia Abbott made Taylor bite her tongue. This was a young girl who knew her own mind; to talk to her about her own choices would be tacky. Taylor decided to ease in.

“Thalia is such a pretty name. Is it Greek?”

The girl looked at her in surprise. “Very good, Lieutenant. My mother is from Athens. Thalia was the Muse of Comedy. She also worked part-time as one of the Graces—Thalia the Flowering. It's a nice history. I'd like to think that I inspired some creativity at some point in my life. I'd like to teach art, so perhaps it was prophetic of my mother.” They had moved through the nave of the church now, and Thalia pointed to a door.

Taylor followed her out into a small garden, fully enclosed by the surrounding buildings. A pebble path wound through small patches of grass. A few carved statues sat unobtrusively in the four corners, a stone bench sat next to a burbling fountain. They took a seat, Thalia with her back straight and the same beatific smile she'd had on for the past five minutes.

“This is my favorite place. It's easy to think here.”

A calm had stolen over Taylor, similar to the feeling she'd had inside the church. “I can understand why. Can you teach art if you're a nun?”

“Of course. Especially in our fast-paced world, where people don't take time to read. Art can play a huge role in communication, especially to the young. There are certainly centuries of religious works to study.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Thalia spoke again, her voiced tinged with sadness. “Jasmine called me. She told me to answer your questions. I don't know everything about the secret society, but I know some. I'll help in any way that I can.”