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 and their guide spoke of a Florentine painter named Domenico Ghirlandaio, who worked with the young Michelangelo before he turned to sculpture and the eventual patronage of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Michelangelo went on to greatness, but, for a time, he was a novice, learning the ropes, his natural talent shaped by the great men around him.
He was an apprentice.
Nine
Nashville, Tennessee
Tuesday, December 16
10:30 p.m.
“Can I get you another Corona, Jane?”
Jane Macias looked at the clear bottle, the lime shoved through the neck. Maybe another sip left. “Yes, please, Jerry.”
“Sure thing, kid.”
The bartender moved toward the cooler situated to his right, plunged his hand into the ice and pulled another beer free. He snapped the lid off and placed the bottle in front of Jane, then slipped a thinly cut lime wedge into the neck for her.
“Voilà.”
“Who knew you were so worldly, Jerry? Thanks.” She smiled warmly at the older man. He’d been nice to her, not prying, not hitting on her, just serving her beer and leaving her alone, which was what she wanted. Jane went back to her book. There was something horrifying about sitting alone in a bar reading, but she needed the break and the beer was half price tonight. Her roommate’s gargantuan linebacker boyfriend had come over—a benchwarmer for the Tennessee Titans, and Jane knew there would be no rest in their cramped apartment tonight. So she’d grabbed a novel off the bookshelf and headed down here, two blocks and a lifetime away from her normal haunts.
She’d been slipping into the bar next door to the VIBE strip club more and more often lately. Called Control, it was quiet, usually empty, and there was something homey in the atmosphere. Granted, next door the music throbbed and the lights flashed while not-so-beautiful women slid up and down the stage in five-inch Lucite platforms, but hey, it could be worse. She could be the one up on the stage. Instead, Jane sat in the semidarkness of the anonymous R-rated bar next door, feeling warm and fuzzy as she sipped cool beer and forced the noise from her mind. The clientele was good for the mental novel she was writing, anyway—she needed a fictional
“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 and their guide spoke of a Florentine painter named Domenico Ghirlandaio, who worked with the young Michelangelo before he turned to sculpture and the eventual patronage of Lorenzo de’ Medici. Michelangelo went on to greatness, but, for a time, he was a novice, learning the ropes, his natural talent shaped by the great men around him.
He was an apprentice.
Nine
Nashville, Tennessee
Tuesday, December 16
10:30 p.m.
“Can I get you another Corona, Jane?”
Jane Macias looked at the clear bottle, the lime shoved through the neck. Maybe another sip left. “Yes, please, Jerry.”
“Sure thing, kid.”
The bartender moved toward the cooler situated to his right, plunged his hand into the ice and pulled another beer free. He snapped the lid off and placed the bottle in front of Jane, then slipped a thinly cut lime wedge into the neck for her.
“Voilà.”
“Who knew you were so worldly, Jerry? Thanks.” She smiled warmly at the older man. He’d been nice to her, not prying, not hitting on her, just serving her beer and leaving her alone, which was what she wanted. Jane went back to her book. There was something horrifying about sitting alone in a bar reading, but she needed the break and the beer was half price tonight. Her roommate’s gargantuan linebacker boyfriend had come over—a benchwarmer for the Tennessee Titans, and Jane knew there would be no rest in their cramped apartment tonight. So she’d grabbed a novel off the bookshelf and headed down here, two blocks and a lifetime away from her normal haunts.
She’d been slipping into the bar next door to the VIBE strip club more and more often lately. Called Control, it was quiet, usually empty, and there was something homey in the atmosphere. Granted, next door the music throbbed and the lights flashed while not-so-beautiful women slid up and down the stage in five-inch Lucite platforms, but hey, it could be worse. She could be the one up on the stage. Instead, Jane sat in the semidarkness of the anonymous R-rated bar next door, feeling warm and fuzzy as she sipped cool beer and forced the noise from her mind. The clientele was good for the mental novel she was writing, anyway—she needed a fictional
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