14 - J. T. Ellison [60]
“Hey, wait up.” Baldwin came after them, jogging. “Where you headed?”
“Just got a call in for a murder at one of the supposedly closed massage parlors. This might tie back to Saraya. We need to head over there. This guy got away, there’s no question about that. Marcus is handling the search. He doesn’t need us.”
“Yeah, he’s got it under control. You’re right, this is all a bit useless. I can come with, if you want?”
“Why not? More the merrier,” Fitz grumbled.
They got into Fitz’s department-issued Cavalier and left the afternoon’s failure behind.
“Anything new on Snow White’s copycat?” Fitz asked as he negotiated the phalanx of blue strobe lights. “I figured that chick from Quantico would be all over us today. You know where she is?”
“I haven’t seen her today, thankfully. I’ve been avoiding my office like the plague,” Baldwin answered.
“Pity, that.” Taylor’s sarcasm wasn’t met with denial. Charlotte Douglas was going to be a problem, she could feel it in her bones. “We haven’t heard anything new on the Snow White case today. Been a little busy. Though Remy gave me some ideas on how to track Giselle’s movements. I’d like to talk to her grandparents, see if they can point us in the direction of any friends she might have who they don’t like. Remy insinuated that Giselle might have snuck out.”
Fitz had maneuvered them over the bridge, onto 65 South, and off the first ramp so they could travel the back roads to the massage parlor. He was never a fan of the freeway, and it drove Taylor crazy sometimes. But he was a demon on the side streets, and they pulled up in front of a small, well-kept house within minutes.
“This is a massage parlor?”
“Apparently so. They can’t get away with a business front anymore, so they’ve moved into the private homes down here.”
The area was largely dominated by Spanish-speaking residents, with a few Kurds and indigent blacks thrown in for good measure. There were plenty of crack houses in the nearby streets, and a couple of Section 8 government housing projects a few blocks away. Homicide was busy enough in this area, and had to employ trained civilian translators to help solve the crimes. Many of the residents were illegals, and didn’t trust the police to do anything that could be construed as positive for the neighborhood.
They unloaded from the vehicle, checked in at the command post, signed the call sheet and got their party clothes—booties, gloves, all the protective accoutrements for a get-together with death.
An officer met them on the front lawn. Bob Parks was one of Taylor’s favorites, a happy yet serious man who doubled for the SWAT team. He had a luxuriant black mustache that looked like it had been oiled and groomed recently.
“Welcome, welcome,” Parks bellowed. “Nice of you to come and join us this afternoon. We have a lovely time planned for you—blood, gore and a few other unmentionables you’ll be thrilled to see.”
“Hey, Bob.” Taylor greeted him with a thump on the back. “How’s the kids?”
“Like Dilbert says, ’bout as happy as a bunch of barefoot squirrels in a tire store.”
Taylor snorted back a laugh.
“I’m telling you, LT, having teenagers will be the death of me. Hi, Dr. Baldwin.”
“Hey, Parks. Sorry to see you under these circumstances.”
Fitz bellied up to the younger man. “What am I, chopped liver?”
“Naw, Fitz, you’re just a pain in my ass. How come you haven’t retired yet? You’re too old to be messing with this shit.”
“Parks, you’re not that far behind me. Shut the hell up already. What do you have here?”
Parks turned back to the little house, shaking his head. “It’s not a pretty scene, I’ll warn you. Double homicide, two girls. Both look Spanish, which is fitting for this part of town, but they’re facedown, the M.E. hasn’t gotten here yet. We were waiting for her to declare before we moved them. Took the pics, and video is rolling.”
“Spanish. Let’s go take a look.” Taylor led them across the lawn to the front steps.
On the small porch the four geared up, covering their shoes with the booties, gloving