J.T. Ellison - Judas Kiss

Taylor assessed him for a moment longer. Well, it was always worth judging the reaction to reality. She decided to take a chance. Something about Wolff’s demeanor made her believe him. A quick glance at Fitz confirmed her decision was sound.

“We don’t have a lot to go on right now, Mr. Wolff. Evidence is being collected, the investigation is underway. What I can tell you is your sister-in-law came to pick Corinne up for tennis this morning. Your wife was found in your bedroom, severely beaten. Your daughter seems unharmed.”

“And the baby?”

His voice cracked and tears spilled down his cheeks, silent silver tracks. The voice of a man condemned, a man who knew the answer to his question but forced himself to ask it anyway.

“Your son didn’t survive the assault, Mr. Wolff. Your wife had been deceased for some time when she was discovered. I’m very sorry.”

Wolff hiccupped, then stood and bolted. Taylor heard him vomiting in the guest bath, then water running to cover the noises.

Fitz had sat silent throughout the exchange. “You think we need to bring him downtown?” he asked quietly.

The water was still running in the bathroom. Taylor shook her head, but answered him under her breath. “I think he’s got enough on his plate right now. That was an awfully visceral reaction for someone who knew what was coming. He may be pulling one over on us, but I’m inclined to think he may be telling the truth. Either he’s quite the criminal mastermind—arranging to be out of town, hiring someone to kill his wife—or he doesn’t know what happened. Let’s give him the night with his daughter, and question him again in the morning. We’ve got a lot of background to go through, need to see what their finances are like, sift through all the evidence Tim collected. I say we write things up and call it a night.”

“I agree. I’ll get him over to the Harrises’ so he can see his daughter.”

“Sounds good. I’m going to go into the office, make up the murder book, check in with the captain. I’ll see you there.”

The toilet flushed and the water stopped running. Wolff came back into the room, his eyes bloodshot, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry for losing control like that.”

“It’s okay. We understand. I think it’s time to wrap things up for today. Your wife’s body will be autopsied in the morning, and we’d like to talk to you some more. But for now, we’re going to get you with Hayden and your family.”

As they left, Taylor couldn’t help but look back at the Wolffs’ house. What had happened? Was this a home invasion gone bad? It didn’t look like anything had been tampered with or stolen. No, this felt personal, and Todd was the obvious choice.

There was something about him. So far he’d shown nothing but the appropriate responses. But Taylor couldn’t help but think about Corinne’s family, and her father, insistent that Todd was somehow culpable for the murder.

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been lied to.

Taylor took her time driving downtown, thinking about the afternoon. The murder weapon stashed in the closet, Todd Wolff’s seemingly genuine hysteria. It was much too early to dismiss him as a suspect. Violence on this level, in the victim’s home, so often was a result of a domestic squabble gone wrong. And there had been plenty of husbands who had duped even the best investigators. Mark Hacking came to mind. He’d gone on television, cried and begged, pleading for justice for his pregnant wife, when in actuality, he’d shot her, dumped her body in a Dumpster, replaced their mattress and nearly got away with the whole crime. Scott Peterson was another classic example. It was a sad statistic—the number one cause of death for pregnant mothers was domestic homicide.

But if he’d done it, he was a cold-blooded bastard. Murder your wife, your unborn child, and leave your daughter trailing around the house alone for days? Jesus. That took some balls. Or desperation.

It was ten after six and Taylor was topping Nine Mile Hill. She’d made the short trip into Bellevue and gone through the McDonald’s drive-through before heading back downtown. The whole day had been lost at the Wolff crime scene and she hadn’t stopped to have anything to eat. She munched a chicken sandwich as she drove, feeling virtuous for skipping the fries.

Nine Mile Hill, so creatively named because it was exactly nine miles from the heart of downtown Nashville, the Cumberland River, afforded Taylor a lovely panoramic view of the city. The sun was setting behind her, catching the reflection off the Lifeway warehouse. The skyscrapers and the Capitol building that made up Nashville’s skyline were bathed in a rosy copper reflective glow, shimmering like an urban mirage. Taylor had lived in Nashville her entire life, but had never seen this vision. It was gorgeous and filled her, making her feel whole and drowsy. She was tempted to pull over and watch until it disappeared, but the sun did the trick for her, shifting slightly in its evening zenith. The mirage faded, and the downtown Taylor knew reappeared.

The little things were becoming so important. She’d always had a knack for finding beauty in the most unlikely places. When it came to her unbidden, it felt like a blessing.

As she drove through Belle Meade, she thought about Corinne Wolff. This murder was going to seize the attention of Nashville. Always fascinated by suburban crime, the city would rally around a dead mother-to-be. She made a mental note to talk to Dan Franklin, the department’s spokesman, to work on some language that would be appropriately somber. If she didn’t get a viable suspect right away, a story like this could breed controversy. She didn’t need the national news outlets breathing down her neck. She’d had enough of that on her last big case.

Gossip, rumor, innuendo. A homicide detective’s best friend was the undercurrent, the shifting of allegiances, the aspersions cast. It took a rare talent to sift through the lies, arrive at the truth. Taylor had always had a sense for accuracy. But when the media got involved, the deceptions became driven by ratings. A brave new world.

She’d only had serious media trouble twice in the past, once several years earlier, the second only a month prior. The Snow White Killer, long dormant in Nashville, had risen like a phoenix and started killing again. She was still uncomfortable with the nature of the media’s interest in the case, how easily they dragged her and the department through the mud. There was constant second-guessing and now, with the benefit of hindsight, Monday morning quarterbacking galore. Two months later, Taylor lay in bed at night, watching replay after replay of the case on cable news, wondering if the interest would ever truly end. The national news outlets had camped along the streets of downtown Nashville like hippie jam bands, partying over the leftovers of each family’s grief. The slightest whiff of resolution and they’d be back at it.

The earlier trouble, well, she didn’t like to think about that.

The thoughts came quickly, whipping through her mind like a breeze. Snow White. His apprentice, the self-proclaimed Pretender, a man with no name and no compunction when it came to killing. Still out there, lurking in the deepest recesses. Which brought her to Baldwin.

Baldwin would have firsthand access to anything new on the still very open case. He’d promised to look into the Bureau’s files while he was in Quantico.

If she were being honest with herself, she hoped he would find something fresh, something concrete. Something more than the ephemeral, hair bristling on the back of the neck feelings Taylor had. Feelings were all well and good. She trusted herself, trusted her instincts. Every once in a while, her skin tingled and she felt eyes on her back. She assumed the Pretender was keeping tabs on their investigation into his whereabouts, and sometimes followed her. She could almost sense him when he was near. He set her radar off, though she’d never gotten a real look at him.