Perfect.
No one would miss her. And he could rid himself of this nagging fury that made him so damn antsy.
He closed the glove box and circled the block. There she sat, just waiting for him.
A sign.
A gift.
It had been a bad day. Jock gone-to-seed, flakily jovial, over-the-top trying to compensate for something Heath Stover, the fat ass he’d started med school with, had called, wanting to get together. JR had run into him last month in New Orleans, been forced into Hurricanes at Pat O’Briens, and had stupidly told Stover where he worked.
He shook his head, the scene replaying itself over and over and over. Stover bragging and braying at the top of his lungs about his hugely successful practice, his new BMW, his long-legged, big-busted bride, his offer of tenure at Tulane. The only thing that was off, Stover confided, was his piece on the side, who’d been pushing him to leave his wife.
In the moment, bolstered by alcohol, the camaraderie, the overwhelming need to fit in, to be accepted, to look as palatable to the real world as this fuck-up, sanity was cast aside. Arrogance overtook him, and he revealed his own career path, up the ladder at Bosco Blades, a salesman extraordinaire. No Willy Loman, though he perhaps looked and sounded a bit like the sad sack, but that was all a part of his act. He was better than that. Better than good. He was the best the company had: stock options, access to the corporate jet, the house in Aspen, all of it.
“As a matter of fact,” he’d told Stover, “I’m headlining a conference in Nashville next month. Talking about the new laser-guided scalpel we’ve developed. Hell of a thing.”
“Hell of a thing,” Stover had replied. He was counting on the fact that Stover was far too drunk to recall the name of the company, and he gave him a fake number to write down, and a bogus email.
But the stupid son of a bitch had remembered the company name, had called and wormed JR’s personal cell number out of his secretary, had himself put on the calendar, and in a couple of hours would be waiting at a restaurant several streets away for an instant replay of their night in the Big Easy.
If only Stover knew what had really happened that night. About the knife, and the silent scream, and the ease with which the flesh accepted his blade.
He needed someplace quiet, and calm to prepare himself for his night with a “friend.” He needed a drink, truth be told. Many drinks.
But the woman would do just as well. She would turn his frown upside down.
He parked a few blocks away, pulled a baseball cap low on his head and walked back to the spot. A marble and concrete sign said he was at Legislative Plaza. The War Memorial. The Capitol rose to his right, high against the blue sky, and the small crowd of protesters with their signs held high gathered on the stairs. He needed to be careful when he passed them, not to draw their attention.
He found the perfect spot halfway down the block, shielded from the friendly mob on the stairs, and from the street, with the trident maples as cover.
And then he watched. And waited. At some point, she would have to move, and then he would follow, and strike.
To hell with Heath Stover. He had a rendezvous ahead with someone much more enticing.
The homicide offices in Nashville’s Criminal Justice Center had been quiet all day. It was the first Monday off Daylight Savings time, and even though it was barely 5:00 p.m., the skies outside Lieutenant Taylor Jackson’s window were inky with darkness. The lights over the Jefferson Street bridge glowed, warm and homey, and she could just see the slice of river flowing north to Kentucky. It was a moonless night; the vapor lamps’ illuminations reflected against the black waters.
Her detectives were gone for the day. Paperwork had been completed; cases were being worked to her satisfaction. She’d stuck around just in case — the B shift detectives would be here shortly and she could hand off the department to her new sergeant, Bob Parks. He was a good match for the position, had the respect of her team, who’d worked with him for years. Parks had no illusions about moving up the ladder; he was content to be her sergeant until his twenty was up in two years and he retired. His son, Brent, was on the force now too. Taylor suspected Parks had opted to get off the streets to give his son some room. Classy guy.
Her desk phone rang, cutting through the quiet, and she shifted in the window, suddenly filled with premonition.
“Lieutenant Jackson.”
It was Marcus Wade, one of her detectives.
“Hey Loot. We’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind that comes with the chief of police attached.”
“I thought you went home.”
“I was heading that way, but saw a cordon by Legislative Plaza where the protesters have been camped. Looked like something we might be called in on. I was right.”