14 - J. T. Ellison [117]
They pulled into the valet section, mindful of the doors to the lobby of the hotel. No sense in advertising too much. There were already four patrol cars in the drive-through. No one would question that something was happening, but if they could keep the Snow White aspects from the case for a bit, perhaps the media wouldn’t seize upon it and start the vicious cycle all over again. Wishful thinking.
The manager greeted them in the foyer, a wild-eyed young woman with short, spiky blond hair and a considerable waistline. Taylor eyed her, unable to ascertain whether she was pregnant or just heavy. As a hotel general manager, she was as professional as could be expected, considering a serial killer had struck in one of her guest suites. The woman spied Sam coming in with her gear and snapped her fingers at a bellman, who intercepted the M.E. and guided her away. The service elevator would accommodate the stretcher.
She spoke over her shoulder as they trooped toward the elevators.
“I’m Deborah Haver. We’re heading to the seventeenth floor. The maid found her. There’s been a Privacy Requested sign on the door for two days, but the couple that checked into the room next door called down and insisted they smelled something. They called the concierge, we came up and agreed. When we got the room open…well. You’ll see.”
They were in the elevator now, jetting upward into the Nashville sky.
“Who is the room registered to, Ms. Haver?” Taylor asked.
They reached the seventeenth floor and the doors slid open. She bustled out into the hallway and they followed.
“Oh, I have that information…right here…damn it.” The woman was flipping through a notepad, and pulled up short in front of a room whose door stood open. Taylor continued into the room, looking over her shoulder at the manager, who exclaimed “Got it!” just as Taylor saw the body.
They said the name at the same time, one in a normal tone of voice, the other hushed.
“Charlotte Douglas.”
“What?” Baldwin had been lagging back, talking on his cell, but he slammed it shut and stepped into the room. Taylor felt the invisible blow as it hit his body. He didn’t move, his facial expression didn’t alter, but it was there nonetheless.
“Oh, no” was all he managed before he went to her.
The smell of decomposition was strong. Taylor just didn’t want to look closely, not yet. She crossed the room, mindful of her steps, and went to the window. The view faced west, and the sun was setting. The clouds were stacked one upon the other like swirls of icing, piling up in the sky, reflected by the setting sun. They looked drenched in blood, stained crimson like the froth from a lung wound. Taylor knew it was simple refraction, the cold, clear nights often caused this unusual sight. Red skies at night, sailor’s delight. It should have been a red morning instead, so Charlotte could have been warned.
Jesus, she wouldn’t wish this on her worst enemy.
Bolstered at last, she turned and took in the gruesome scene. The back light from the setting sun tinged the room in pink, giving Charlotte’s body an almost lifelike glow. The grinning wound across her neck was black with oozed blood, her red-tipped lips were painted into a gruesome smile. Blood had run into her hair, turning the coppery red mass into a tangled claret river, with tendrils spreading across the white pillows, tributaries of fatal essence running away from her heart.
Her limbs were spread-eagle on the sheets, her legs spread wide, open in reception.
Taylor stopped looking at Charlotte and took in Baldwin, who was still standing over her. He hadn’t said a word, but he turned to her now, face grim, lips thinner than she’d ever seen them. He looked like a different man entirely. As soon as he spoke, the