LITMIR.BIZ

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and started killing again. She was still uncomfortable with the nature of the media’s interest in the case, how easily they dragged her and the department through the mud. There was constant second-guessing and now, with the benefit of hindsight, Monday morning quarterbacking galore. Two months later, Taylor lay in bed at night, watching replay after replay of the case on cable news, wondering if the interest would ever truly end. The national news outlets had camped along the streets of downtown Nashville like hippie jam bands, partying over the leftovers of each family’s grief. The slightest whiff of resolution and they’d be back at it.

      The earlier trouble, well, she didn’t like to think about that.

      The thoughts came quickly, whipping through her mind like a breeze. Snow White. His apprentice, the self-proclaimed Pretender, a man with no name and no compunction when it came to killing. Still out there, lurking in the deepest recesses. Which brought her to Baldwin.

      Baldwin would have firsthand access to anything new on the still very open case. He’d promised to look into the Bureau’s files while he was in Quantico.

      If she were being honest with herself, she hoped he would find something fresh, something concrete. Something more than the ephemeral, hair bristling on the back of the neck feelings Taylor had. Feelings were all well and good. She trusted herself, trusted her instincts. Every once in a while, her skin tingled and she felt eyes on her back. She assumed the Pretender was keeping tabs on their investigation into his whereabouts, and sometimes followed her. She could almost sense him when he was near. He set her radar off, though she’d never gotten a real look at him.

      They needed concrete evidence. Needed to know the name of the murderer who masqueraded in other killers’ emotional garments. They had nothing.

      Headlights flashed and she came back, surprised to see she was already at the Criminal Justice Center. Car coma, that’s what Baldwin called it. It happened too often; she’d be lost in thought and realize she’d driven to her destination without seeing the path. Too distracted. She needed to be more on her game. The time off had only intensified the need for her to get her head back to Nashville, and on keeping herself safe.

      She parked and crossed the lot, taking the back stairs two at a time. She swiped her key card along the access box at the back entrance to the building. The door dumped her into the hallway just outside the Homicide offices. The second shift had already arrived; a noisy buzz emanated from the homicide office.

      The hall was blocked by a young patrol officer from the first shift who was bent in half, butt sticking up in the air, her flashlight swinging precariously close to her head as she dug green-colored photocopied paper out of a box. She straightened, shuffled the pages of announcements, meeting schedules, calendars—the normal office detritus. It only took her a few moments to rearrange the corkboard, posting new job listings and notices. When she was satisfied, she stood back and looked to make sure everything was set to rights, then slid the Plexiglas closed and locked it with a miniature key. She noticed Taylor, mumbled “Sorry,” and shoved the box out of the way. As Taylor passed her, she went on to the next glass slot, the one with the latest WANTED posters. She unlocked the casing, reached in her little box and pulled out several posters, arranging them in order of priority. The highest priority was an infamous cold case that appeared to have gotten a lead.

      The Cold Case team. Taylor didn’t envy their jobs a bit. She couldn’t imagine working full-time with the lost, spending all her time living other people’s pain and agony. Taylor was convinced that in order to heal, a victim’s family just needed to know what actually happened. For those who were missing, who were dead with no killer captured, no answers, the waiting was unbearable. Nashville had plenty of cases that fit this précis, and six or seven that were actively being worked.

      With a brief wave at two of the B shift detectives, she went into her office and shut the door behind her.

      Absolutely astounding. Looking at the top of the wooden desk, Taylor couldn’t help but think of a tornado’s aftermath. When she’d left the night before, everything was in its place, the in-box and out-box were empty, and the desktop was completely clear. Now, it was overflowing. She spied at least four incident reports from the Wolff crime scene, a couple of red actionable items from upstairs, an empty threeing binder some kind soul had thought to provide, knowing she’d be collecting all the information for its innards, creating a new murder book labeled Wolff. Several multicolored sticky notes, a full call sheet, a brief scattering of pens and pencils. A shaft of moonlight peeked through the open blinds, illuminating a white sheet of basketball brackets with a hot pink postie reminding her to make her picks before Thursday at noon or else she wouldn’t be able to participate in the yearly NCAA pool. Away for a day and the desk bloomed like forsythia, one moment barren and empty, the next full of unruly flowers. With a sigh, she slipped around to her seat and started organizing. She couldn’t work in chaos, never had been able to tolerate a mess in her proximity.

      Her voice-mail light was blinking. She played the messages. The only one of interest was from Lincoln Ross. Oh, thank goodness. It was good to hear his voice.

      She never realized how much she missed being around her team until they weren’t there. She’d missed them all while she and Baldwin were away, and returned to the news that Lincoln Ross had been tapped for an assignment. A “Special Assignment.” That’s all she’d been told. She could guess what cases might be important enough to put a homicide detective on a full-time assignment, had made a few attempts to get information from her captain, Mitchell Price. He’d only smiled and nodded with each guess, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing which supposition was correct.

      Setting a sheaf of paper aside, she flipped open her cell phone and dialed the number. Lincoln answered on the first ring, his deep, honeyed voice tinged with irony.

      “Thank God it’s you, LT. I have a problem,” Lincoln said.

      “Talk to me. I miss you, by the way. Are you ever coming off this project?”

      “I hope so. I think things are about to break. This stupid confidential informant got me in a world of hurt, and I had to push back. That’s part of the problem.”

      “What happened?”

      She heard the deep, readying breath. “I had to partake.” He spat the words out as if saying them would ease a bad taste in his mouth.

      “Oh, Lincoln. You know that’s not—”

      The despair in his voice broke her heart. “Shit, LT, I know. Trust me, it was drilled into me a thousand times before I got involved in this case. I didn’t have a choice. This is getting dicey. I didn’t know what else to do.”

      “What was it?”

      “What else. Crack. Messed me up good, too, even though I barely had a hit. God, LT. It was terrible. You don’t think they’ll fire me?”

      Taylor laughed. “No, I don’t. My God, Linc, you’re one of the finest officers we employ. If you said there was no other choice, I believe you, and so will Price. He’ll go to the mat for you. How’d you get yourself stuck?”

      “The CI has been meeting me at a skeevy hotel, bringing me the information. Some of his cronies followed him to the meet. There was nothing we could do without blowing the whole thing. Thank God they didn’t recognize me, that would have ended it all right there, with me on the floor in a puddle of blood. No, they were all fucked-up and wanted to party some more. I’ve been feeding the CI drugs to sell to them. They insisted on trying the merchandise. I said no, the head dog said yes. Stuck a revolver in my face. I didn’t think I had much of a choice after that. I faked it best I could, but I still had to blow something out, you know?”

      It was the bane of undercover work, especially when the target of the investigation was into the drug scene. Balancing being a cop and not blowing your cover was difficult at best. Lincoln wasn’t undercover though, and she didn’t want to upset him further by telling him that it was likely disciplinary action would be taken against him. A suspension without pay, probably. That could wait until he was back with her.

      “You need to be careful, my friend. Write the whole thing up and

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