14. J.T. Ellison

you, sir. I’m not trying to get anywhere right now. I’m just bringing a significant anomaly to your attention.”

      “Which is?”

      “If you’d look at the file, sir, I believe it will make itself quite apparent.”

      Evanson gave her an unfathomable look and flipped open the file. Charlotte watched as his bushy eyebrows grew crampons and hiked into his hairline. Told you, she thought.

      “Is this certain?” Evanson asked. “Yes. The Nashville police don’t have this information.”

      Evanson was obviously in a seriously bad mood. He dismissed Charlotte without pretense, already had his hand on the phone. “Get on it, then. Report back to me as soon as you have more. Fill in the field teams immediately.”

      “Yes, sir. Will Dr….?” She stopped, certain of the answer. It wouldn’t do to look too anxious. Word had already come down that John Baldwin was helping the Nashville police work the Snow White killings, his field office running behind the scenes. In a peripheral way, he’d always had this case. She’d be required to work with him directly, exactly as she wanted.

      “Never mind, sir. I’ll get back to you on this.” Evanson grunted, he had already tuned her out. Charlotte turned and left the inner sanctum. Damn it all to hell, what was she thinking? It was that kind of carelessness that would get her hurt. Again.

      Back at her desk, she brought up the Nashville file.

      As Charlotte started to work, she had a deep, satisfying knowledge that she was about to be a very happy woman. Call it instinct, premonition, whatever. She hadn’t planned for things to go this way, but maybe it was for the best. This was big enough for her to capture the undivided attention of Dr. John Baldwin, all right. Pull him away from that little lioness he’d attached himself to.

      If she played her cards right, he would come back to her. She debated with herself for a few moments. Decided she would have to get there sooner or later. She dialed the 615 area code, tapped out the rest of the numbers and chewed lightly on her pen. Her moment had arrived.

       Eight

       Nashville, Tennessee Tuesday, December 16 8:00 p.m.

      Taylor nestled Martin Kimball’s boxes in back of the 4Runner and closed the door with a slam. She’d gone through the files briefly after she and Fitz returned to the office, but quickly realized that a physical search through the evidence still in storage was necessary. The paperwork and the murder books had been moved into their conference room, but the actual material evidence had to be kept in the warehouse—checking out the individual pieces was too much of a hassle. Fitz had volunteered to go, and she’d accepted his offer. He promised to call and she decided to head home.