14 - J. T. Ellison [102]
“Baldwin,” Taylor began, but the group from the precinct wafted through the door, cutting off her statement. They joined them, settling in, good-natured, spirits high.
Callahan sat next to Taylor. As Frank started in anew, this time with “Luck Be a Lady,” Callahan leaned in conspiratorially.
“Just a heads-up, the owner’s obsessed. Sinatra’s the only thing you’ll hear in here tonight. Or any night. It’s the law.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. You can go look at the jukebox, it’s only got selections from Old Blue Eyes. After a while you won’t even notice.”
Taylor took a gulp of her beer, rolled her eyes good-naturedly at Baldwin.
They ordered crisp steak sandwiches, which came smothered in peppers and onions and mozzarella cheese. The smell reminded her too much of the afternoon’s escapades; Taylor had to send hers back and have a new one made. Her roaring appetite was gone, the food tasted liked dust, but she managed to get it in her stomach.
Despite the fact that there wasn’t a body, the 108th detectives were jubilant when she described the scene, the killing. They recognized her description of the man who called himself Dusty. The knowledge of his past transgressions didn’t make his death any easier.
Apparently Dusty, known to the police as Dustin Mosko, had been a regular with the sex-crimes unit. Rape, abuse, torture. How a man with his record could possibly be out of jail was astounding, but that was the system for you. Have him serve his time, let him back out onto the street, and pump him full of drugs that would ostensibly satiate his cravings. It was nuts, and apparently no one would be missing Mr. Dusty.
The other goon Taylor had come in contact with was assumed to be a man called Atlas. A natural-born killer with the size to see his threats to fruition, he was a prolific assassin.
Both men worked for a shadowy man the Long Island City police knew as L’Uomo; killed in his name. The Man. Of course, they had another name for him. Edward Delglisi. A first-class underworld kingpin. The same name Frank Richardson had dug out of Burt Mars’s records before he ended up dead.
Running through all the Nashville–New York connections had cemented the clue. Burt Mars was a known commodity to the New York police. The word on their radar was Mars worked for Delglisi, which helped confirm the trail of information Richardson had started before his murder. When Taylor relayed that news, Eldridge had gotten on the phone, ordered Burt Mars brought in for a chat.
No one had ever seen Delglisi. That in and of itself made Taylor’s events of the past few days of high interest to the New York cops. Though she hadn’t seen his face, she’d become intimately acquainted with his voice. The long, hard tones would stick in her mind for many years to come, she was sure of that, as would that piercing blue stare.
Something about the whole setup still didn’t feel right to Taylor. She didn’t know anyone named Edward Delglisi. Didn’t remember that name in connection to her family, to Nashville, or anything else she could think of. But he certainly knew her.
The answers were there; Taylor could feel them lurking in the deepest recesses of her mind. She was just too exhausted to think things through clearly.
She decided to put it aside for now. To enjoy her freedom. There was plenty of time to figure everything else out. She didn’t even want to start thinking about what she’d missed back in Nashville. Weddings were meant to be rescheduled, right?
It was a sign, she was sure of that. Though there was no way she was going to bring that one up with Baldwin anytime soon.
Thirty-Eight
New York, New York
Monday, December 22
10:58 p.m.
Checking into a hotel in the city was a no-brainer. Neither Taylor nor Baldwin wanted to accept the kindness of the detectives from the