“Would you say that your brother-in-law was capable of hurting your sister?”

Derek’s eyes were huge. He was young, but not young enough to miss the inference. “Jeez, I just can’t imagine him killing her. I guess anything’s possible, though.”

That’s what she needed to hear. “Derek, thank you. If you remember anything else, please let me know.” She gave him a card. He took it and went back inside.

She and Fitz had just started to compare notes when Taylor’s cell phone rang. She took it off her hip and looked at the number. Tim Davis.

She answered the phone. “What’s up?”

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65

Tim sounded as excited as she’d ever heard him.

“You need to get back over here. I think I found the murder weapon.”

Six

Taylor was in Corinne Wolff’s lovely walk-in closet, listening to Tim Davis. The scent of cedar was tickling her nose.

“So I was just doing a cursory look-through, and saw a little bit of blood on the corner of the drawer. When I opened it, there it was, lying in the clothes. It was covered up, but you could see the outline plain as day. Blood soaked into the scarf covering it. Guess whoever stashed it didn’t expect us to look there.”

Tim recreated his actions, pulling open a drawer labeled SCARVES. Nestled into the multicolored silk was a tennis racquet. It was bent and dented, and had visible blood and matter coated along the edges. Taylor thought about the wounds on Corinne’s body. Sam would have to confirm it at autopsy, but she thought that a tennis racquet could do the damage she’d seen. Wielded with enough force, anything could be a weapon. She asked anyway. Tim had seen it all.

“Think this could do that much damage?”

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“Sure. It’s nice and strong. Head’s just like a ripe melon. You hit it hard enough, it’ll split open. And you know how head wounds bleed. She had a ton of gashes, that’s where all the blood came from. Enough that the poor little girl was able to cover herself in it and track it around. Someone was pretty hacked off at this woman.”

“No kidding.” Taylor looked back into the room, at the stain where Corinne Wolff had lain on her carpet, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Not the way she’d like to go. She turned back to Tim.

“Great job, man. This is going to help tremendously. Get it photographed and see if there’s any prints. Wouldn’t that be nice—we’d be able to wrap this thing up today.”

“I’ll give it a good going over, Lieutenant. I love it when the criminal’s dumb enough to leave the evidence behind.”

“No kidding. This seems to be a weapon of convenience. Her gym bag was on the bed, the racquet must have been right there. I’m wondering if he got interrupted, stashed the tennis racquet in a hurry to get out of here.”

“Could be. Or he didn’t think we’d look in here. You know how people are. They don’t realize we actually have brains.”

“Truer words were never spoken, my friend. Let me know if you find anything else.”

Taylor was happy to have so many pieces falling into place. Half her job was done—they had a victim, a weapon, and eyewitness testimony that dissent had crept into the Wolff household.

Now they just needed the husband.

68

J.T. Ellison

* * *

A dark SUV pulled into the street on Jocelyn Hollow Court and stopped just short of the crime scene tape strung across the Wolffs’ driveway. Taylor heard the neighbors buzzing as she walked out of the house, heard the snap, snap of cameras taking pictures. The media had arrived earlier and were reporting from a safe distance. But their long lenses could see quite a bit. And this was grade A, prime time footage. The husband had arrived.

Taylor watched Todd Wolff get out of the Lincoln Navigator, his body quivering with trepidation. He left the door open, the key in the ignition, the V-8 engine rumbling like a purring lion as it idled. He walked around to the passenger side, his steps heavy. His shoulders were bent, his nose red and swollen from crying. He stared at his house as if he’d never seen the place before. It had been six hours since he’d been told his wife and unborn son were dead.

Fitz sidled up beside her. “Wolff must have driven like a bat out of hell to get here so soon. I didn’t think he’d be in before six at the earliest.”

He handed Taylor a bottle of water, which she accepted gratefully. She twisted the top and drank deep, washing the taste of murder out of her mouth. She put the cap back on and spoke under her breath.

“He certainly looks distraught.”

“That’s an understatement. Dude looks like shit.”

Wolff was still staring at his house, and now took a few faltering steps toward the front porch. Taylor went to him quickly, getting a hand on the man’s forearm. He stopped and turned, looking at her with wide, blank eyes.

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“Who are you?” he asked in a monotone.

“I’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, homicide. This is Sergeant Pete Fitzgerald. Why don’t we chat for a minute, Mr. Wolff.”

She steered him back toward his truck. He strained against her, pulling away.

“No, I want to go in. I want to see Corinne. I want to see Hayden.”

“Mr. Wolff, your wife isn’t here. She’s been transported to the medical examiner’s office. Why don’t you come here and sit down for a second.”

Taylor looked up and saw that several of the neighbors had come back to attention, grouping across the street, and the newsies had their cameras trained on the grieving husband. Damn.

She looked around for a moment. They needed privacy, and she didn’t want to parade him into his house until the crime scene people were through.

“Actually, let’s go next door and talk, okay?”

“To Mrs. Manchini’s? She doesn’t like me.” But he tucked his head and changed direction, heading straight to his neighbor’s house without additional complaint. Taylor followed after a quick glance over her shoulder at Fitz, who was standing next to Wolff’s truck, casually looking through the open driver’s side door at the interior. He shook his head and Taylor continued toward the Manchini house. He hadn’t seen anything out of place. Yet.

The Harris family had been excused from the scene at three-thirty. They had left directions to the Harrises’

house in Sylvan Park, phone numbers and cell numbers where they could be reached. They’d taken Hayden Wolff with them. Taylor saw no reason to make a fuss 70

J.T. Ellison

over that, it wasn’t as if they were going to steal the child, after all.

Wolff stopped short at the edge of his lawn, head swiveling, breath suddenly coming in little pants.

“Where’s Hayden? Where’s my daughter?” He started back toward his house. Taylor grabbed his arm again.

“Whoa there, Mr. Wolff. Your daughter is still with your in-laws. Her grandparents. She’s just fine, was a little tired and hungry, but she’s safe. You don’t need to worry about her.”

“I want to see her. I want to see her right now. I want to see my daughter!” His voice rose in pitch until the last word came out in a wail. Taylor heard shutters clicking as Wolff dropped to his knees in the grass between the two houses, sobbing. The video cameras rolled, gathering the scene. It was heartbreaking, and would make for a very exciting five o’clock news hour. Taylor stepped to his side, squatting down to get face-to-face with him. Damn it, she didn’t want to be on the news doing this.

“Mr. Wolff,” she said as kindly as she could muster.

“You need to get up and come with me now, sir. Let me get you situated next door and we can chat. The sooner we can do that, the sooner I can get you reunited with Hayden.”

“My son,” the man screamed. “My son is dead and you’re holding my daughter. This isn’t right. This isn’t fair!”