LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      She was surprised to see the lawn and porch littered with milling people—a level of disorganization rarely in evidence at a Nashville crime scene. The crime-scene techs were setting up to take photos, video, collect evidence; two patrol officers were standing to one side, conversing in low tones. The command table had been set up on the porch. Uniforms and plainclothes techs were walking around the outside of the

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