Steven Womack - By Blood Written

Taylor watched as the detective slid into the chair across from her and slapped the clipboard down on the table. “Now, we’ve got a few questions for you, as I’m sure-”

Taylor cleared her throat loudly, then said: “And you are?”

The detective stopped. “What?”

“Your name?” Taylor demanded. “Who are you?”

The detective glared at her for a moment, then she could see him stuffing the anger away. “I’m Detective Gilley, ma’am. I’m the lead investigator in this case.”

“I see. Then tell me, Detective Gilley, am I under arrest?”

“No, ma’am, you’re not under arrest. Not yet anyway.”

“Not yet,” Taylor said. “Hmm, that means I might be before this is over. In that case, I want a lawyer.”

“Ms. Robinson, you’re only being questioned as a material witness. At this point, you’re not entitled to a lawyer.”

Taylor glared back at him. “ Everyone is entitled to a lawyer.”

The woman, Detective Chavez, spoke up. “Ms. Robinson, we’re really just asking for your cooperation. Do you have any idea where Michael is? Right now, he’s an escaped fugitive who’s been convicted of a capital offense, and that’s a very dangerous place for him to be. Anything could happen right now, most of it bad.”

“Yeah,” Gilley said, “believe it or not, it’s in your boyfriend’s best interest to come in and let us take care of him.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Taylor said.

“According to our information, the two of you are engaged.”

“Your information is out-of-date, Detective Gilley,” Taylor said. “We used to be engaged. We’re not anymore. In fact, we were through.”

Gilley and Chavez looked at each other for a moment.

“When did this happen?” Chavez asked.

“At the moment during the trial when I became convinced he was guilty,” Taylor said. “At the point where I knew he’d done it.”

“But why did you stay?” Chavez asked. “You stayed for the rest of the trial, stayed in the same hotel …”

“But not in the same room,” Taylor snapped. “Never in the same room.”

“But why didn’t you leave?” Gilley asked.

Taylor looked up at Hank Powell as he stood next to the closed door across the room. Their eyes met for a few seconds as Gilley and Chavez looked around, confused.

“Because I asked her not to,” Powell said.

“What?” Gilley said. “Hank, you could’ve given us a heads-up on this, buddy.”

Powell stepped over to the table and looked down at Taylor, never taking his eyes off her. “She came to me about three weeks ago, after the DNA testimony convinced her Schiftmann was guilty. She was upset, distraught really. She was going to leave immediately. I asked her not to. I was afraid that would be enough to push him over the edge, to make him run.”

“Which he just did, goddamn it,” Gilley said, exasperated.

“Thank you, Agent Powell,” Taylor said softly.

Chavez turned back to her. “So you had no idea he was going to escape?”

“None, Detective. Part of what I agreed to do for Agent Powell was let you all know if I thought he was going to run.”

“And he never gave you any hint?” Gilley asked.

“Never.”

Chavez shook her head. “And you have no idea where he could be? What his plans are? Where he’s going?”

“No to all of those,” Taylor said. “He never even hinted to me that this was an option. If he had, I’d have called Agent Powell immediately.”

Powell sat on the edge of the table, his hip resting on the edge, and leaned over toward Taylor. “Where do you think he’ll go?”

Taylor rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “He may have some friends left in Cleveland, although with all this publicity, how anyone would actually help him is beyond me. And-oh my God-he’s still got the keys to my co-op.”

Taylor looked up, fear etched across her face. Powell held up a hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll have a team of officers watching your apartment and your office within the hour.”

“And I’m having all the locks changed as soon as I get home.”

Chavez smiled. “Yeah, good idea. But let me ask you, you think he might have been planning this all along? Or did he just get a sudden impulse?”

Taylor leaned back and studied the three officers for a moment. She took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out slowly.

“Michael’s a lot of things,” Taylor said. “He’s sick, maybe he’s evil. I don’t know. But he’s not stupid. If I were placing bets, I’d say he had a plan in place weeks ago. He’s put everything he needs, including a lot of cash, in some safe place where he can get to it quick. And I’ll bet he already knows where he’s going, and I’ll bet he’s already on his way.”

“What kinds of resources has he got?” Chavez asked.

“How much money does he really have?”

Taylor bent her head and once again wearily rubbed her forehead. “Well, Detective Chavez, thanks to me, a lot.”

A cold, depressing sleet had been falling long enough to freeze on the sidewalks as Taylor and Agent Powell walked out the front doors of the Metro Nashville Criminal Justice Center. Taylor pulled her coat around her tightly. The wind had picked up, driving the icy mix into her face. Strangely, though, it felt good to her after the overheated stuffiness of the interview room where she’d been the past three hours.

As they walked down the steps, Taylor realized she felt strangely hungry, and took this as welcome evidence she was still alive.

“C’mon,” Powell said. “I’ll take you to your hotel.”

“I can take a cab,” Taylor said.

“This is Nashville, not Manhattan. You can’t just hold up a finger here and flag one down, especially on a lousy night like this. Besides, what if he’s still around? What if he’s hiding in the hotel, waiting for you?”

Taylor raised her face to the streetlights and let the frigid drizzle rake across her face. “Then he’d be a damn fool,”

she said.

“All the same, I’ve got a car. Let’s go.”

He took her elbow and guided her toward the street, then into the parking garage across from the police department.

Two rows down, a government-issued Ford Crown Victoria sat waiting. Powell held the door for her as she slid into the front seat.

“You’re at the Stouffer, right?” he asked.

Taylor turned to him. “Yes, but to tell you the truth, Agent Powell, I’m getting hungry. And I could use a drink. Maybe another of those Stoly martinis we had that night.”

Powell turned to her and smiled. “So are you saying you’d like some company?”

“You did say, didn’t you, that he might still be out there?”

“All right,” Powell said. “On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“It’s been a long day and my shift is over,” he said. “It’s not Agent Powell. It’s Hank.”

Taylor turned to him as he started the car. She had absolutely no idea why she had asked him to spend time with her. Maybe it was that he seemed kind, and right now, she could use some kindness. Maybe it was that she didn’t feel like being alone.

Maybe she was afraid.

“All right, Hank,” she said. “Call me Taylor. Glad to meet you.”

Thirty minutes later, the waitress set two vodka martinis-olives for him, pearl onions for her-on the table in front of them. They’d found a quiet table, beyond a row of potted palms, in a corner of the hotel restaurant that was out of view of the main lobby. They’d taken their coats off; he’d loosened his tie. It had been the longest day in a wearying series of the longest days she’d ever had.

The vodka felt delicious burning down her throat.