14 - J. T. Ellison [34]
“Of course. It’s not like I expected you to come to our marriage bed a virgin.”
She got up, picked up her plate and went into the kitchen. Baldwin followed.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Taylor set her dish down on the counter, carefully considering that question. Of course she was okay. My God, they were adults. It wasn’t like Baldwin was her first. But leaning against the counter, watching him watch her, it struck her how little she really knew about him. He was a complicated man, layer upon layer of self-containment. They’d just never delved too deeply into “Who have you fucked?”
She pushed away from the granite, gave him a half smile. “I’m fine. It’s funny, actually. I never saw myself as the jealous type.”
“I like it. Makes me feel wanted.” Baldwin put a hand lightly on her chest and pushed her back to the ledge. He nuzzled in close, insinuating his legs between hers. She reacted, slipping back onto the counter, wrapping her legs around his lean hips and accepting his kiss.
“It’s late,” she murmured when they came up for air.
“So it is.” He picked her up, walked her backward into the living room, set her on the couch and followed her body down. “So it is.”
It was nearly midnight when the phone rang, jarring them out of a cramped sleep on the couch. Taylor fumbled the phone to her ear.
“Taylor Jackson? This is Frank Richardson. Late of the Tennessean.”
“I don’t have any comment…. Oh, wait. You’re the reporter from the old Snow White cases. Sorry. I didn’t think you were back until tomorrow.”
“I’m not, really. I had a layover scheduled in New York so I could visit a friend, but he’s come down with the flu and I’m stuck at JFK. It’s 7:00 a.m. my body time—I’ve been in France for the past few weeks. Am I calling too late?”
It’s never too late for murder, she thought.
“No, no. Just give me a moment, okay?”
She set the phone down, disentangled herself from Baldwin, who sleepily opened his eyes and happily closed them when she shook her head, telling him he wasn’t needed immediately. More and more, the late-night phone calls were strictly for Taylor’s benefit.
She slipped her sweater on, dragged the afghan off the back of the couch. It trailed behind her like a security blanket as she moved into the kitchen with the phone. She sat at the table, pulled the afghan around her legs. It had grown chilly; the fire in the hearth was nearly out.
“Sorry, Mr. Richardson. Caught me off guard.”
“No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Didn’t know you cop types ever slept.”
“Yeah, we’re regular vampires.”
He laughed. “Seriously, I figured you’d want to talk to me as soon as you could. I can’t believe this has come up again. And call me Frank.”
“You and me both, Frank.” She reached over the back of her chair and pulled a yellow notepad from the phone desk, set it on the table in front of her. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.
“I’m ready. Shoot.”
She racked the balls, taking shot after shot, trying to sort through the hour’s worth of information Frank Richardson had given her.
He’d known about the signet ring.
He’d known about the hunks of hair ripped from the victims’ heads.
He had theories about the killer, about why he’d stopped, that were incredibly sound, very credible.
He had his own speculations about who the killer might be. Most were similar in scope to the theories postulated by the homicide team. They ranged from a teacher at one of the girls’ schools to a sexual predator who’d been killed in jail. All had been explored and ruled out.
But it was a word he’d used, an offhand remark, that kept coming back to Taylor. The moment she heard the term, she knew she wouldn’t sleep again that night. Frank wasn’t even talking about the case, he was recounting a moment in Caprese, the hometown of the painter and sculptor Michelangelo Buonarroti. Frank and his wife were touring the tightly winding streets