J.T. Ellison - Where All the Dead Lie

She smiled at Baldwin, and he grinned back at her.

“Go on. It’s noon now. I’ll be back to get you at two. Okay?”

She touched his hand briefly in acquiescence then got out of the car. Breathed deep lungfuls of chilly, snowy air. Tried to keep the skip out of her step as she crossed to the stairs, dug her pass card out of her back pocket. She swiped it and almost got teary at the noise of the door unlocking.

The hall smelled like Clorox. The floors had just been scrubbed, almost as if they’d been sanitized for her return.

The Homicide offices were full, her elite team-the murder squad-all in attendance. A full house meant no active calls, and a chance for everyone to catch up on their paperwork. They weren’t here for her. No one knew she was coming in today.

She hesitated for a moment in the doorway, but the room was so small that Renn McKenzie, the newest team member, and thus the one stuck sitting by the door, caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned toward her.

“LT!” he said, standing so quickly that his papers spilled to the floor. He was joyous, a huge smile on his face, and the general cry went up immediately. Before she could take a breath, she was being hugged and patted, passed around from person to person like a beach ball at a stadium. Marcus Wade was the first to grab her, then Lincoln Ross, then Renn. She was breathless and giddy; damn, it was good to see them all.

To be honest, she’d been avoiding everyone. She was their leader, and she wanted them to see the strong, confident Taylor they were used to. Taylor weak and mewling wasn’t helpful.

Despite her lack of voice, she was feeling better, could hide the headache behind the fog of Percocet, could smile without wincing. Her balance had improved to the point where the stupid cane wasn’t necessary anymore. Every day she could see the path back becoming shorter. She just wished it would hurry up and end already. Something in her knew that the sooner she got back amongst her people, the sooner she’d heal.

They were all talking at once at her, each finishing the other’s sentences, and she felt the most at ease she had in weeks. She made a mental note to send Dr. Benedict a bottle of eighteen-year-old single malt Scotch. He must have known this would be part of the deal, and what she needed as well.

“Heya, Lucky. We didn’t know you were coming in today,” Lincoln scolded. “You should have told us.”

Marcus set his fists on his hips, the left brushing against his Glock. “Yeah, we’d have prepared a little better. Have junior over there make a cake or something.”

Renn shot him a bird. “Hugh does all the baking in our house, and you know it.”

“Bake this,” Marcus said, making a completely obscene gesture with his tongue and cheek. They busted up laughing, and Lincoln hushed them.

“Good grief, y’all need to give it a rest.” He turned to Taylor, put his arm around her shoulder, guided her past the guffawing detectives. “They go at it like this all day. It’s exhausting.” But Lincoln had a wide smile on his face, the gap between his front teeth adding to the merriment. He’d cropped his hair again, the dreadlocks gone. He looked like a very serious Lenny Kravitz, his impeccable Armani dove-gray suit unwrinkled, his tie done in a perfect Windsor knot.

Taylor pointed at the suit; Lincoln was a clotheshorse in the worst way, spent all his spare change and most of his paychecks on the finest materials and cuts available. But the tie was an added touch that he didn’t usually worry about unless he had a date he was trying to impress. She had to admit, Lincoln done up in full kit, with his smooth cafe-au-lait skin and perfect profile, was a sight to behold. She’d always wanted to get him in a tux-she imagined that would be breathtaking.

“Court in an hour,” he said.

Ah. That explained it. Marcus and Renn, by contrast, were in jeans and sweaters, comfortable, prepared for the weather. Prepared for anything that might come their way. Her team was unflappable. She’d done everything in her power to make them that way.

She looked into her office, at the empty desk, just waiting for her to return, and decided to stay out in the bullpen. Not enough room in there anyway.

She sat on the edge of McKenzie’s desk and smiled at them. They toned down the jubilation and crowded around her.

“Have you been cleared to come back?” Marcus asked, just as Renn jumped in with “How’s the voice?”

She pointed at her throat and shook her head. She pulled out the notepad and wrote Willig on it, turned it around and showed them.

There was a collective groan, which completely made her day. Mandated visits with the department shrink were no fun.

She wrote Condition to return , which cheered them all up.

“Tell her what she wants to hear, and you’ll be back to us before you know it,” Marcus said.

She had every intention of doing just that, but not in the way Marcus was suggesting. There was no way, no way in hell, she was going to let anyone inside her head. Especially the shrink who she’d have to pass in the halls and say hello to in the coffee room every day.

The boys didn’t need to know that. She smiled and nodded, rolling her eyes for emphasis. They all laughed.

“That’s good, because we need you back. We’re up to our ears in work. We’re catching extras while Special Crimes deals with the Regretful Robber cases. They’re all kinds of tied up, have almost all their manpower looking for him.”

Over the past several weeks, there had been a spate of bank robberies in the Metro area, all very carefully orchestrated by someone who seemed to know exactly how to cover his tracks. He wore a mask, used stolen cars, and carried a mean .40 Glock 21 that he wasn’t afraid to use. A few weeks ago out in Hermitage, he’d shot a hole in the ceiling of a U.S. Bank when the teller took too long getting him his money.

But in a twist worthy of Robin Hood, he returned the stolen vehicles to their rightful owners in the dead of night, with a small cash bonus inside. Hence his name inside the CJC: the Regretful Robber. Thank God that hadn’t leaked to the press yet.

McKenzie chimed in. “Without you guiding the ship, things get a little crazy around here. We’ve got a new sergeant who’s a complete dick. Thinks he owns the world. He’s always pushing us off in the wrong direction.”

Lincoln chimed in, using a dopey voice. “‘This isn’t an assault, it’s a matter of record. Close the case.’ We’re gonna get creamed in the media if they ever find out. They’re trying to cook the numbers again, make it look like the assault rates have dropped. You should see what they’re doing in Sex Crimes. Driving us all crazy.”

Tell Huston

Lincoln nodded. “We did. She’s fighting it for us, but the chief made new guidelines again. Rumor has it he has a job offer. Supposedly, he’ll be gone by Christmas, which is going to make an even bigger mess. When someone from the outside starts looking at these figures, we’re all going to come under fire.”

He shook a sheaf of papers at her, and she shook her head.

I won’t let that happen.

Marcus sat back at his desk. “Wish Fitz would come back. Have you talked to him?”

She shook her head. She wanted Fitz back, too, though she didn’t see how either of them would manage to lead, between her lack of a voice and his lack of spirit. Fitz had lost too much, and Taylor didn’t know if he was going to recover. She’d tried going to see him, but they’d ended up sitting in silence until Fitz’s one good eye started to leak, and she knew that when he looked at her, all he could think about was the Pretender, and what he’d taken away from them all. She was waiting for him to reach out; pushing herself on the people whom she loved but who were not thrilled with her had gotten too hard. Between Fitz and Sam, the blame lay squarely at her feet, and right now, forgiveness was too much to ask of them. She understood that completely. She wasn’t ready to forgive herself, either.