The Cold Room (6 page)

W
ith a whopping three hours of sleep under her belt, Taylor rose at seven so she could get a run in before she had to go to work. Baldwin had bought a treadmill for their bonus room so he could run off his excess stress, and she'd found it helped her, too. She was dreading today. She could only pray that the troll she'd met last night wasn't really going to be her new lieutenant.

After a quick three miles, she showered, put her wet hair in a ponytail, dressed in a new pair of dark denim jeans and a black cashmere T-shirt, then jammed her feet into her favorite pair of Tony Lama cowboy boots. Elm would probably be one of those sticklers for the dress code, but damn if she was going to wear slacks and pumps to work. She figured as long as her badge and weapon were visible, it was quite apparent that she was dressed for the job.

Downstairs, she grabbed a Diet Coke and shrugged into a black leather car coat. Summer was nearly here, but it was still getting chilly in the mornings. Weird weather. She backed out of the driveway, debating. Should she go to the office to face the music with Elm, or should she go
to Gass Street, to Sam, and witness the autopsy of their victim from last night?

Her cell phone rang. Speak of the devil. Punching the talk button, she smiled as she greeted her best friend.

“Howza,” Sam said, and Taylor burst out laughing. It was code from their high school days at Father Ryan.
Howza
was one of their ways of letting the other know they'd gotten in trouble with the nuns. Neither one could remember where and how it started, but it stuck.

“Who are you in trouble with?” Taylor asked.

“Me, in trouble? I hear it's you who's in hot water.”

Taylor groaned. “What did you hear?”

“That you told off the new guy.”

“And where, pray tell, did you hear that?”

“Your new dick is in my lobby.”

“Just Renn?”

This time Sam laughed. “Just so. He's here to witness the post. He was worried that you were getting reamed by the new guy, and that's why you're late.”

“I'm not late.”

“No, you're not. He's early. He was waiting for me when I got here, and
I
was early. You need to give him some saltpeter or something, get him calmed down.”

“Doesn't that affect his Johnson?”

“Probably wouldn't hurt that either. I think he's got the hots for you.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Great. Thanks for the warning. I'll head into the office before I come to you.”

“By the way, you may want to avoid the paper. It seems your new boss gave the reporter a lot of detail from the scene. You may want to talk to him.”

“I tried that last night. He wasn't listening.”

“Try harder. See you in a bit.”

Sam hung up before Taylor could reply. Damn. It was face-the-music time.

Traffic was unbearably light. Just her luck. She was downtown, pulling into the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center before the clock turned 8:30 a.m.

The CJC was one of those never-changing entities in her life. In one way, shape or form, she'd been here at least five times a week for the past four years. And for the previous nine, she'd been filtering in and out, bringing suspects in for booking or questioning, meeting with superiors, taking exams…. Thirteen years of her life, this had been her home base. Stocky gray cement with a red-and-brown brick facade, the close smell of the Cumberland River, the back stairs with an industrial ashtray littered with cigarette butts, all served to make her feel a familiar sense of calm.

It was the inside of the building that had undergone the dramatic transformation.

The new chief had systematically decimated everything the Metro Nashville Police Department stood for, accomplished, and created during the thirteen years she'd been a cop.

The changes had begun subtly—a command shift here, a group moved there, and Taylor hadn't worried about it too much. A new chief would certainly have new plans. And then he started replacing the upper levels of management with his own people.

He followed with a Machiavellian administrative swoop, moving many of the criminal investigative detectives into the six separate city precincts. By splitting up seasoned teams and bringing in new people, the homicide close rate of eighty-six percent dropped to a measly forty-one. Decentralization of the homicide teams had been only one of the huge shifts in the past few years. Buyouts and early retirements cut a swath through the experi
enced ranks of the detective division—all of the Criminal Investigative Division groups had been affected.

Despite the vociferous complaints by the rank and file, the realignments went on. The new chief publicly claimed that the crime rates were dropping dramatically, when in actuality there was simply some creative accounting going on. One of the new guidelines that upset Taylor was the new definitions for rape. An assault could no longer be called a rape unless there was penile penetration. Taylor knew a few women who'd gotten away by the skin of their teeth, had been forced to fellate an attacker, had been beaten and terrorized, but it was only categorized as a sexual assault.

It burned her to no end, these little petty political plays. Her force was being dismantled, slowly, but surely.

Her own world had suffered the most dramatically of all. Taylor's team was known as the murder squad. They worked out of the old offices, handled high-profile cases. To be on the murder squad, you had to be the cream of the crop. As the homicide lieutenant, Taylor had run it for three years. The loyalties of her men and women were unassailable, and they'd managed to get past the decentralization and keep on solving crimes, which was the only purpose they had.

But Captain Delores Norris was the new head of the Office of Professional Accountability, and hated Taylor with a passion. They'd gone head-to-head, and for now, Taylor had lost, and big. Her team had been split apart, reassigned to other sectors and her boss, Mitchell Price, fired. Price was fighting tooth and nail to get his job back, and the Fraternal Order of Police was backing him to the hilt. They just needed time to make the case and take Metro to court.

By breaking her away from Lincoln Ross and Marcus
Wade, trying to force her sergeant, Pete Fitzgerald, into early retirement, Delores Norris guaranteed herself a spot on Taylor's shit list. But getting Taylor demoted two spots, back to detective…Well, Taylor was fighting that with her union rep strong at her side. Totalitarianism had no place in this police force, and it would, eventually, be eradicated. All it would take would be a massive mistake on the chief's part, or a mayor with the balls and foresight to concede his city was being torn apart.

But for the meantime, if Taylor wanted to keep her job, she had to show up in her old office and play nice. And that's exactly what she planned to do.

She was about to swipe her pass card when the door swung open. A group of young Academy cadets clattered out and down the stairs, happy and joking. One solemnly stopped and held the door for her. Once the path was cleared, she smiled at the young man and entered the CJC.

She followed the blue arrows embedded in the linoleum floor to the Homicide offices. The halls were relatively quiet and she was inside the small room within moments.

Lieutenant Elm stood in the door to her—no, his—office. His arms were crossed, his bushy brown hair smoothed into place. He greeted her with a smile, which completely caught her off guard. She almost saw his third molars as the smile widened, a pink tongue nestled deep inside.

“Good morning, Detective,” he said. Pleasant, nonthreatening, disarming. Taylor wasn't falling for it. Her senses went on immediate alert.

“Good morning,” she said, stopping in front of him, arms behind her back, spine straight. She waited for the dressing-down, but it didn't come.

“Come into my office, if you will. I'd like to cover some ground with you.” He pivoted, and entered the tiny little space that used to be her office. She followed him,
sat in the chair next to the door. There was just enough room for her to stretch her legs out; the tip of her right boot touched the corner of the door. Elm sat behind the desk. The scarred wood was free of paper, the normal detritus that built up—pens, pencils, Post-it notes, referral sheets, call sheets—was all neatly stowed away.

Something drew her eyes to the ceiling. For as long as she could remember, by the window, there had been a ceiling panel with a large brown water stain on the corner. She'd asked the facilities manager to have it replaced countless times, and the requests had fallen on deaf ears. But this morning, the stain was gone, the panel replaced. She didn't know if that was a coincidence or whether Elm had actually managed in one brief morning to do what she'd struggled to accomplish for years. Coincidence, she decided. No other decent explanation.

“So, Detective. We didn't get off on the right foot yesterday. And that's a shame, because I see that you have an exemplary record and certainly are capable of taking orders from a superior.” He paused, looked around the room like he was speaking to an audience. His gaze finally settled back on her. “Such a shame that you've had so much trouble lately. I assume there aren't any more, ahem,
surprises
, in your closet?”

Taylor stared at him. “
Excuse
me?”

Elm waved her umbrage away. “You might have mentioned that the FBI agent who crashed my crime scene last night was your fiancé.”

“That has no bearing on my job. Dr. Baldwin is the leading expert in the field of criminal profiling, and has worked cases with Metro in the past. With great success, I might add.”

“Yes, I heard that. Don't get so defensive with me. I'm willing to let him help with this one, so long as he doesn't
get in my way. So let's just put last night behind us and start fresh, shall we?”

He stuck a hand out across the desk.

“Morty Elm. I'm from New Orleans, I worked with the chief down there and was very happy to come onboard when this unfortunate situation warranted your, well, let's just call it disciplining, shall we?”

Before she had a chance to speak, he continued.

“I'd like to establish a few ground rules. I like to be kept informed of everything my detectives are doing, so you'll report in regularly. I prefer to read your updates, so if you'd be kind enough to turn in a detailed sheet every evening of your day's accomplishments, that will make my life grand. I'd also like a full rundown of where you stand with each of your cases, and your plans for solving them.

“I run a tight ship, so I expect you to be at your desk by eight, and to adhere to the dress code. Jeans are not suitable for my detectives. You will sign in and sign out every time you leave the office. In addition, you will find a listing of what is appropriate and what is not on your desk. I spoke with Detective McKenzie this morning, he seems like a fine young man. You have considerably more experience than he, so I trust you'll be comfortable mentoring the detective, teaching him the ropes.”

“Of course.”

“Then we understand each other. No more surprises at crime scenes, Detective. That's all I have for you right now. I'll expect that status report by five. You may go.”

She struggled to reconcile the man with his words. Smiling and friendly this morning, making reasonable statements, yet still lobbing comments full of allusion. The shot across the bow regarding the videotapes was uncalled for. She could just imagine Elm and Delores
Norris in the Oompa's office, lights off, watching Taylor in all her glory with her dead ex-lover. She didn't know who to be more furious at—Norris, Elm, or David Martin, for putting her in the situation in the first place. If he weren't already dead, she'd like to strangle him.

Last month, after videotapes of Martin and Taylor having sex surfaced on a pay-as-you-go Web site that featured amateur, unwillingly taped pornography, she'd broken a few rules to solve the case. She was being summarily disciplined for her actions defending herself.

Elm's dictates were ridiculous. Written plans for solving her cases? It would take two weeks to write out her assumptions and thoughts on the forty or so open cases she'd caught over the past few weeks. And establishing the ground rules was one thing, but dismissing her without an update on the most current case? Sloppy. Just like she suspected, Elm wasn't there to be a cop. He was going to be an administrator. At least he wasn't fighting her about Baldwin.

She gathered herself. “You don't want—”

Elm shook his head vehemently.

“I
said
you may go. I have other duties to accomplish this morning.” He gave her a brief, feral smile and nodded at the door.

She stood, biting her lip, holding back the invectives she'd prefer to spew.

“Close the door on your way out, please,” he said.

She pulled the door shut a little harder than necessary and walked to her desk. There was a sheet on it, color coded, with starred items. The appropriateness list, she assumed. She balled it into a wad and tossed it into the trash unread.

She sat down hard, yanked her ponytail holder out, ran her hands through her hair, stopping for a moment to
massage her temples. Elm was certifiable. One thing at a time, she told herself. Focus. Focus on the case.

If she wanted her old job back, solving this case and showing his incompetence was paramount.

She put her hair back up, took a deep breath, then pulled out a reporter's notebook and started making herself a list. There were several items that needed to be accomplished today, and she wasn't going to let King Toad get in her way.

The list was straightforward. Need to talk to neighbor again, need to talk to home owner, need to revisit the case in Manchester, file the ViCAP updates, check iAFIS for a fingerprint match and check on that palm print, gather crime-scene reports from all of the patrol officers, create the murder book, report in to Page. As she wrote, her mind slowly shifted away from Elm and onto their unidentified victim.