14 - J. T. Ellison [18]
She raised an eyebrow and looked Fitz over. His face was weathered and lined, tan even in the early days of winter. Blue eyes dark as blueberries usually held a twinkle, an unspoken joke or gibe. He was twenty years her senior and starting to look his age. Taylor attributed that to the weight loss—he’d dropped at least thirty pounds in the past few months—a concerted effort to slim down paying off in wrinkles. Still barrel-chested and stubborn, Fitz glared at her, obviously irritated.
“My, you’re in a mood this morning. Who peed in your cornflakes?”
“You did. Why didn’t you call me about the lipstick and the damn oil?”
Taylor spied the cause of Fitz’s sudden consternation over his shoulder. Baldwin tried to look innocent but failed miserably.
“Oh, I see. Fitz, I wasn’t holding out on you. I was more, trying to keep my stomach in control, okay? I just wanted to get here first. Since you’ve heard all about it, tell me what you think.”
Baldwin joined Fitz in the doorway and blocked her in. Fitz shifted, trying to look intimidating.
“I think this is one sick fuck and you’d be better off leaving him to us and going off to get married without this on your conscience.”
She didn’t smile. “Oh, Fitz, that’s sweet of you to say, but it’s not going to happen. Now, Baldwin, why don’t you stop sending emissaries, and let’s try to catch this guy before the wedding. How’s that for a plan?”
“Taylor—”
She held up one hand. The look on her face brooked no more arguments, and the men stepped aside, allowing her to step out of the cramped space.
Marcus Wade was waiting for her, a soft suede jacket thrown over his arms. He’d excelled during their last case and had been promoted to detective second grade; the new jacket was a reward to himself for the pay raise. He looked eager as a puppy this morning, a nice counterpoint to the now-rancorous environment. The air of excitement around him was palpable. Taylor knew he had something for her.
“Whatcha got?”
A broad smile crossed his features. “An ID on the latest Snow White. Her name’s Giselle St. Claire.”
Six
Taylor put both thumbs up and punched her hands skyward, a victory sign. “Yes! Good job, Marcus. Let’s go to the war room, get it all plugged in. Giselle St. Claire. Why does that sound familiar?”
As she said it, it hit her. She groaned, long and loud.
“Oh, shit. Marcus, you better get Price on the phone. He’s gonna want to know this.”
“Who is she? Why don’t I recognize the name?”
“Just go get Price for me. I’ll tell you in a minute.”
He stepped away, and she turned to Baldwin. “Do you know who this is?”
“Isn’t she the kid of someone big?”
“You could say that. Remy St. Claire. It’s her daughter. That’s what’s been bugging me, the girl looks an awful lot like a dark Remy. Damn it, she can’t be more than, what…” Taylor calculated. Man, she was getting old. “I think Giselle was about fifteen. She looks older. Oh, fuck. This is not good. Remy and the press are going to be on us like white on rice. Damn, damn, damn, damn!”
Remy St. Claire. Taylor didn’t know what to make of her. She was an actress, but didn’t find much lead work anymore. Instead, she did the rounds relentlessly, reveling in her roles as a “character actor.” She was a constant on the talk-show circuit. Her gadfly antics made her a perfect target for the gossip instigators. She’d left Nashville years before, made it in Hollywood for a while, then fluttered away. Married three times to two different men, she’d had a child by one of them. Taylor couldn’t remember which. A little girl named Giselle, with dark, flowing hair.
When little Giselle grew up a bit, the paparazzi constantly buzzing around her caused her mother endless headaches. Remy wasn’t happy with that overattention, and sent her only child to live with her parents, away from the glare of Hollywood. Giselle’s grandparents immediately enrolled her in her mother’s alma mater in Nashville, Father Ryan. They assumed the first-class Catholic school would be good for their beloved granddaughter, used