The Cold Room (2 page)

T
aylor Jackson was happy to spy an empty parking spot halfway up Thirty-second Avenue. Luck was on her side tonight. Parking in Nashville was extremely hit-or-miss, especially in West End. The valet smiled hopefully as she turned in front of Tin Angel, but she couldn't leave a state vehicle with a kid who didn't look old enough to have a driver's license, not without getting into all kinds of trouble. She drove past him, paralleled smoothly and walked the slight hill back down to the restaurant's entrance. She was looking forward to the evening, a girls' night with her best friend Sam and colleague Paula Simari. No homicides. No crime scenes. Just a low-key meal, some wine, some chicken schnitzel. A night off.

She was early, her friends hadn't arrived yet. She followed the hostess to a table for four right by the bricked fireplace. The logs were stacked tightly and burning slow, putting out a pleasant low, smoky heat. Even though the weather was warming, it was still nippy in the early mornings and late evenings.

She ordered a bottle of Coppola Merlot, accepted a
menu, then lost herself in thought. The envelope she'd addressed before she left for dinner was burning a hole in her pocket. She took it out and stared at the lettering, wishing she didn't recognize the handwriting. Wishing she didn't have to address letters to federal penitentiaries, even if they were the chinos and golf-shirt variety.

 

Winthrop Jackson, IV
FCI MORGANTOWN
FEDERAL CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION
P.O. BOX 1000
MORGANTOWN, WV 26507

 

The edges of the envelope were getting frayed. She needed to decide if she was going to mail this letter or not.

She traced the outline of the address, her mind still screaming against the reality. Her father, in prison. And she'd been the one who put him there. Glancing to make sure no one was looking, she slid the single handwritten page from its nest.

“Whatcha reading? You look upset.”

Taylor started. Sam took the seat across from her, dropped her Birkin bag on the floor under the table and stretched her fingers, the joints popping slightly. She grimaced.

“Holding a scalpel all day does that to you. What's that?”

Taylor shook the page lightly. “A letter to Win.”

“Really? I thought you'd sworn off dear old dad. Did you order some wine?”

“I did. It should be here any minute. Where's Paula?”

“She got called to a case. Sends her apologies. She'll catch us next week. It's just us chickens tonight.”

Sam settled back into the chair, the firelight glinted red off her dark hair. Taylor still wasn't used to the blunt-cut bangs that swooped across Sam's forehead. She'd cropped her tresses into a sophisticated bob, what she called her mom do. Taylor thought she looked less like a mom and more like Betty Page with that cut, but who was she to comment?

“What are you staring at?”

“Sorry. The hair. It's so different. Takes me a minute.”

“You have no idea how easy it is. Though I do miss long hair. Simon does too.”

“I thought about cutting mine. When I mentioned it, Baldwin had a fit.”

The wine arrived and they placed their orders. They clinked their glasses together, and Sam said, “Up to it, down to it.”

Taylor laughed. They'd started that toast in eighth grade.
Up to it, down to it, damn the man who can't do it
…. The rest of the toast was a crude allusion to their future lovers' skill, though they had no idea what it meant at the time. In high school Taylor had embarrassed herself at one of her parents' many dinner parties by leading a
toast with it. When the men roared and the women blushed, her mother, Kitty, had taken her aside and explained why that wasn't an appropriate thing for a young lady of breeding to say. She wouldn't tell her why, though, and Taylor and Sam puzzled over it for days. Now, as a woman, she understood, and always laughed at the memory of her disgrace.

She thought of Win then, and sobered.

“I'm trying to shut Win down, Sam. He keeps mailing, keeps calling. I don't want anything to do with him. He's poison, and I need to get him out of my life. What if Baldwin and I have children one day? Can you imagine ole jailbird gramps telling stories at Christmas dinner? He'll either corrupt them or embarrass them.”

“You're thinking of having kids?”

“Focus, woman. We're talking about my dad.”

“You'd make a great mother.”

Taylor stared hard at her best friend. “Why do you say that?”

“Please. You're totally the nurturing type. You just don't know it yet. You'll be like a bear with its cub, or a tiger. Nothing, and no one, will harm a hair on your kid's head. Trust me, you'll take to it like a seal to water. When might this magnificent event take place, anyway?”

“You mean my immaculate conception?”

Sam laughed. “Baldwin's still in Quantico, I take it.”

“Yes. He gets back tonight. That's why I wanted to meet downtown. I'm going to head to the airport from dinner.”

“You miss him when he's gone, don't you?” Sam smiled at her, a grin of understanding. Taylor had never needed a man to feel complete, but when she'd gotten involved with John Baldwin, she suddenly felt every moment without him keenly. She'd never felt that way
about a man before. When she shared her feelings, Sam had patiently explained that was what love was about.

Taylor's cell phone rang, a discreet buzz in her front right pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

“Crap.”

“Dispatch?”

“Yeah. Give me a sec.” So much for a quiet dinner with friends before a loving reunion with Baldwin. She glanced at her watch. His plane would be landing soon. No help for it. Dispatch calling her cell meant only one thing. Someone was dead. She put the phone to her ear.

“Detective Jackson, this is Dispatch. We need you at 1400 Love Circle. We have a 10–64, homicide, at 1400 Love Circle. Be advised, possible 10–51, repeat, 10–51. They're waiting for you. Thank you.”

“I'm not on today, Dispatch. Give it to someone else.”

“Apologies, Detective, but they're asking for you specifically.”

Taylor sighed.
I'm your beck-and-call girl.

“10–4, Dispatch. On my way.”

A dead body, a possible stabbing. A lovely way to cap off her day.

“You have to go?” Sam asked.

“Yep. Aren't you coming? I'm sure you'll be getting the call, too.”

Sam raised her glass. “Unlike you, my dear, I am still captain of my own ship. I'm off duty tonight. The medical examiner's office can live without me on this one. Give my love to the valet on the way out, he's adorable.”

Only Sam could get away with teasing her about her demotion. Only Sam.

“Jeez, thanks,” Taylor said, but she smiled. Getting busted back to Detective had been frustrating and embarrassing, the sidelong glances and whispers disconcerting.
But she was determined to make the best of it. Karma was a bitch, and the ones who'd wronged her would get their comeuppance in the end. Especially if she won the lawsuit her union rep had filed.

The food arrived just as Taylor stood to leave. She looked wistfully at the perfectly breaded chicken. Sam saw her eyeing it.

“I'll have it made into a to-go package and drop it in your fridge on my way home.”

Taylor bent to kiss Sam on the cheek. “You're the best. Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just remember you owe me an uninterrupted dinner. Now, go on with you. You're practically quivering.”

 

Taylor retrieved her car, made all the lights through West End and finally got caught by a yellow in front of Maggiano's. The next intersection was her turnoff, and it flashed to red just as she rolled onto the white line.

To her left, Love Circle wound sinuously around the top of a windy hill in the middle of West End. It held too many memories for her.

She slipped her sunglasses off; she didn't need them. She'd gotten in the habit of putting them on the second she was out of doors lately, especially walking to and from her office. It allowed her to avoid meeting the pitying gazes she'd been receiving.

She fingered the bump at the top of her nose, just underneath where the bridge of her sunglasses sat. She'd broken her nose for the first time on Love Hill when she was fourteen, playing football with some boys who'd come to the isolated park at the top of the hill to smoke and shoot the breeze. Her mother had cringed when she saw the break the following morning at breakfast,
dragged her to a plastic-surgeon friend immediately. He'd realigned the cartilage, clucking all the while, and bandaged her nose in a stupid white brace that she'd discarded the moment her mother left her alone. The hairline fracture never healed properly, giving her the tiny bump that made her profile imperfect.

The second time, it had been broken for her. Damn David Martin, her dead ex-partner, had roughed her up after breaking into her house. She'd been forced into violence that night, had shot him during the attack.

The car behind her beeped, and Taylor realized she'd been sitting at the left-turn arrow through a full cycle of lights. It was green again. Good grief. Lost in thought. That's what the hill did to her.

She turned left on Orleans, took a quick right on Acklen, then an immediate left onto Love Circle. It was a steep, narrow road, difficult to traverse. The architecture was eclectic, ranging from bungalows from the 1920s to contemporary villas built as recently as five years ago. Many of the houses had no drives; the owners usually left their cars on the street. She wound her way up, surprised by the changes. A huge, postmodern glass house perched at the top of the hill, lit up like Christmas. She remembered there was some flak about it; built by a country-music star, something about a landing pad on the roof. She drove past, admiring the architecture.

At the top of the rise, she stopped for a moment, glanced out the window to the vivid skyline. The sky was deeply dark to the east, with no moon to light the road. The dazzling lights of Nashville beckoned. No wonder the isolated park at the peak was still a favorite teen hangout. There was something about the name, of course. It
was
rather romantic to head up the hill at sunset to
watch the lights of Nashville blink on, one by one, a fiery mass of luminosity cascading through the city.

Being reared in the protected Nashville enclaves of Forest Hills and Belle Meade, Taylor sometimes needed to move outside her parents' carefully executed social construct to find a little fun. Her honey-blond hair and mismatched gray eyes always drew attention, whether she wanted it or not. Coupled with her height, already nearly six feet tall at thirteen, she'd commanded the attention of her peers, friends and foes alike. It wasn't a stretch that she'd get into a little mischief here and there.

She'd been a regular on the hill for a summer; with Sam Owens—now Dr. Sam Loughley, Nashville's lead medical examiner—at her side. They'd gotten into the genteel trouble that was expected from well-bred teenagers: smoking stolen Gauloises, sipping nasty-tasting cheap whiskey, hanging out with boys who shaved their hair into Mohawks and talked big about anarchy and guitar riffs. It didn't last. Their constant posturing quickly bored her.

It made Taylor sad to think back to her youth; the things they called “trouble” back then were increasingly tame by today's standards. Here she was, newly turned thirty-six, and already feeling old when faced with teenagers.

She'd abandoned the Circle when she was fifteen, didn't return until her eighteenth birthday. A nostalgic drive with her first real lover, the professor. He'd driven her up there in his Jeep and parked, hands roaming across her body. They'd nearly driven over the edge when her knee knocked the gearshift into Second. He'd taken her to his place that night for the very first time, deflowered her with skill and care.

She smiled, as she normally did when a memory of James Morley first crossed her mind. The thought led to her father, a close friend of Morley's, and the smile fled.

She needed to mail the letter. Win Jackson was only eight hours away, and he'd be out in a matter of months, having cut several deals to assure him an early release. His missives came with alarming regularity, each begging for forgiveness. His dealings with a shadowy crime boss in New York were behind him. He was going to be on the straight and narrow path from here on out.

She wondered how many times she'd heard that before. Money laundering wasn't the worst he could have been charged with, but it was the charge that stuck. Well, there was time before she'd have to deal with Win in person. Not as much as she'd like, but enough.

She passed the apex of the hill and the crime scene beckoned to her. Blue-and-white lights flashed, guiding her in. Four patrol cars stood at attention next to a chain-link fence. The K-9 unit was parked at an angle. Taylor recognized Officer Paula Simari's German shepherd, Max, straining against the cracked window, searching for his master. Ah, so this was the crime scene that had kept her from dinner. It must be a doozy if they were calling in off-duty officers and detectives.

Taylor put her window down, cooed softly at the dog. “You're okay, baby. She'll be back in a minute.” Max stopped fretting and sat, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

She drove another twenty yards, down the back edge of the hill. All of the attention was focused on a two-story house set back fifty feet from the street. The house was an original Craftsman, built sometime in the 1930s, if she had to guess. The thick, pyramid-shaped columns and slanting roof were well-kept. The exterior was awash in false light; the shake shingles looked to be painted a soft, mossy green, the details slightly darker. The whole house blended perfectly into the surrounding woods. Four joint
dormer windows across the second story were square and forward, watching.