14 - J. T. Ellison [42]
“Daphne,” she said softly, not wanting to startle the girl.
Luminous brown eyes turned to Taylor, full of emptiness. As her head turned, the nonglare-treated lenses of her glasses briefly purpled as the light from the snow glanced off them.
“Daphne,” Taylor repeated. “It’s going to be okay. Just stay with me, all right?”
“It’s my fault,” the girl muttered.
“What do you mean, it’s your fault?”
“Jane was mad. My boyfriend was over on a ‘school night.’” She made little quote signs with her fingers.
“So she left?”
They were getting close to the CJC, but Taylor wanted a few more minutes alone with Daphne. She continued straight on Broadway, taking the long way through the strip, turning on Second Avenue to worm their way up through the clubs and nightspots. Despite the detour, they’d nearly reached the CJC when Daphne spoke again.
“She left. Grabbed one of my books off the shelf and took off in a huff. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry. I should have called the police when she didn’t come home. I just figured she was pissed off, decided to stay over at Skip’s or something.”
Taylor’s radar went off. “Skip?”
Daphne rolled her eyes and waved her hand in the air simultaneously. “He’s this guy who’s been mooning around after her since she moved to town. She went on a couple of dates with him back in the summer, but they’re just friends. He bugs her.”
“Do you know how to get a hold of him, Daphne?”
She turned sharply, staring at Taylor. “You think Skip did this?”
“I want to talk to him, that’s all. Hopefully, there’s nothing wrong. Your roommate just spent the night elsewhere. But if you have a way I can contact him, that would be very helpful.”
Daphne bent her head, tears dripping off her sharp chin. “Jane has his number in her cell phone. I don’t know it.”
“Okay. That’s okay. Don’t cry. We’ll figure it out.” Taylor pulled into a parking spot in the lot behind headquarters. They got out of the truck. Taylor marched the girl around the side of the building, up the back stairwell and through the door. It was stiflingly warm in the hallway, and barely better in the homicide offices.
Taylor got the weepy Daphne seated in her office, then made a quick run to the Ladies’. After splashing her face with water and brushing out her hair, she felt a little more human. She realized she hadn’t thought of the wedding for hours, and smiled.
Her boots made a clopping noise on the linoleum, a singsong beat that got stuck in her head, ca-chun, ca-chun. Snapping her fingers in time, she stepped into the homicide office and ran into a wall.
A female wall, to be exact. Taylor stumbled back in surprise. The doorway was blocked by a tall redheaded woman balanced with an arm slung across the opening, as if she knew whoever wanted into the room would have to get through her first.
The blow moved the redhead forward three or four inches. She whipped around with a sneer, then saw who was trying to get in the room. The sneer morphed into a semblance of a smile.
“You must be Taylor Jackson. I’m Dr. Charlotte Douglas, FBI.” Charlotte stuck out a hand and Taylor accepted it. They eyed each other coolly. Charlotte made no move to get out of Taylor’s way. Taylor dropped her hand and cleared her throat; Charlotte continued to appraise her frankly.
“Excuse me,” she said finally.
“Oh, sorry, silly me. Whatever was I thinking? I didn’t mean to be in your way, Lieutenant.” She didn’t move.
There was the slightest bit of mockery in Charlotte’s tone, and Taylor narrowed her eyes in response.
A deep voice grumbled past Charlotte’s body check. “Knock it off, Charlotte.”
Charlotte’s eyes flashed and she stepped out of the doorway just far enough for Taylor to stride through, shooting daggers at Baldwin, who was sitting at the desk just outside her office. He jumped to his feet, reached to stop Taylor, but she was past him in an instant. At the threshold to