There were groans and shuffling. Marcus stopped typing and logged off his computer. Lincoln made a slow circuit around the room while Fitz flicked his lighter ever closer to his emergency cigarette. Taylor shifted her boots off her desk but didn’t get up. She stiffened as she saw Baldwin step back in, windblown and remorseful.
Price had seen Taylor slam back into the squad room, noticed her body language change when Baldwin came in. He gave her a surreptitious glance, thinking she might have had time to cool down from whatever had pissed her off so badly. No, she was still simmering, nearly giving off smoke from the fires lit inside her. He sighed. He needed his best detective back, all the way. He didn’t have time for a turf war.
He walked to her desk, eyebrows raised.
“Everything okay there, sugar?”
She gave him a small smile. “Right as rain.”
“Ha-ha.” He looked at her closely, started to speak, then decided to leave it alone. She was a big girl. He didn’t need to fight any battles for her.
Taylor watched Price’s receding back. He was hollow eyed, tired, and obviously just as shocked as his detectives that another Vandy student had disappeared. She felt a pang of remorse. He was a good man; she admired him. She resolved to pull it together, yet again. Mitchell Price was one person she never wanted to disappoint.
Price called, “Okay, everyone, screw fifteen. Let’s go ahead and chat about our next moves now. We can do it right here. We have a case to solve. Let’s try to get it in before the storm really hits.”
As if to answer him, the lights went out, plunging them into darkness.
“The generators are going to come on, right?” Marcus’s voice had a little waver in it, the perfect tension releaser. The group fell back on the tried and true: Take it out on someone else.
Fitz called, “Hey, Marcus, you afraid of the dark?”
“No, you big, old, fat fool, I’m just asking if we have generators for this shithole.”
Price started to laugh but covered it with a cough. But Taylor didn’t hold back. Her giggling was infectious. They were all roaring with laughter when the tornado sirens went off.
Taylor grabbed a Maglite from her desk drawer. Suddenly sober, she instructed, “Everyone to the basement.” They all got up to follow her out.
*
Baldwin felt bad. He hadn’t meant to fight with Taylor, just to help somehow. She’d reached out to him when he was at his lowest point. He wanted to give something back. He’d rushed in without taking the time to figure out if Taylor would accept any overtures from him. He was a complete stranger, shoving his way into her case and into her life. No wonder she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. He felt the despair creeping up his spine but shoved it away. He couldn’t fold this easily, not yet. He needed—well, he didn’t know what he needed, but it was something he knew only Taylor Jackson could give him.
He caught up to her on the steps. “Are those the new tornado sirens going off?”
“Yep. After that one hit downtown a few years ago, they put ’em in. This is the first time I’ve heard them go off downtown, though. Kinda wild, you know?”
Her voice had lost its earlier edge. She had extended the olive branch. He accepted it with open arms.
“It is. I hope this is a false alarm.”
They set up shop in the basement, taking cover from the malicious winds tearing at the building. Taylor’s voice rang out clear and sharp.
“Might as well have that status meeting now. Here’s where we stand. Jill Gates is a junior at Vanderbilt. She’s from Huntsville, Alabama; a blonde, like Shelby and Jordan. Her parents reported her missing this morning. They say they haven’t spoken with her in four days. Four days, people. He could have snatched her up before he killed Shelby.”
“Shelby had been missing for how long before she was found?” Baldwin asked.
Taylor flashed the light at him. “Three days, as far as we know. Her roommate Vicki last saw her Friday night. We found her body Monday morning. If MP had taken the report Saturday instead of assuming it was a college kid doing their thing over the weekend, we might have been able to save her.”
The bitterness in Taylor’s voice broke his heart. He knew why she’d attacked him now. She was blaming herself for this whole mess. And he finally realized how he could help: Solve this damn case, and give her some peace of mind.
“Let’s try to establish a time line here. When does Sam think Jordan was killed?”
Taylor looked to her second. “Fitz?”
“Let me see that flashlight.” He shuffled some papers and pulled out the autopsy report on Jordan Blake. “Sam estimates she wasn’t in the water more than five days or so.” He thought for a moment, counting on his fingers. “With that time frame, she could have been killed on Wednesday or Thursday, then dumped into the river.”
Marcus reached over and flipped the page. “So he kills Jordan on Wednesday night or Thursday morning, then immediately grabs Shelby?”