Page 12 of The Wolves Come at Night
“No doubt. Bloom was overdoing it a bit, I think. I get not wanting to speak poorly of the dead, but no one’s perfect, especially a kid her age.”
Taylor caught the light at Demonbreun Street, a lucky move. The bridge traffic was thinning. Marcus had pulled up Georgia Wray’s website, hit Play on the latest single. The girl’s voice filled the truck—deep and smoky, a hint of southern, pure and clear on the high notes. Taylor got goose bumps when she hit a high C then took it up a notch without a hitch.
“She’s got some pipes,” Taylor said. “Auto-tuned?”
“Doesn’t sound manufactured. She was a looker, too. The whole package.”
The final notes of Georgia’s song bled away, and they drove a few blocks in appreciative but subdued silence. “Damn shame. Bloom seemed rather certain Justin was involved, especially after he saw the sketch.”
“Adamant is more like it.” Marcus turned off the song and slapped his notebook against his knee. “He really dislikes the kid.”
“Well, if he’s a murderer, I’m gonna dislike him too. That’s the place over there?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
She whipped the truck to the curb. The house Georgia Wray had gifted her ex in East Nashville was clearly being renovated: the company that was doing the work, OHB Designs, had a sign riding high above a sea of muddy sod, and a full construction dumpster stood by the garage. The workers themselves had been chased off by the rain; the lights were off inside, and the place looked deserted.
They ran to the front door, hands above their heads. Taylor was drenched in the few seconds it took to make it up the sidewalk. She shook off like a wet dog, then rapped on the door. Not fully latched, it swung open, helped along by a perfectly timed gust of wind. A dank scent wafted out of the darkness.
“Uh-oh,” Marcus said, hand on his weapon. Taylor unsnapped her holster and drew her Glock, held it down by her thigh. With her left hand, she called it in.
“Linc? We’re at the address, there’s a problem. Send those patrols stat. We’re making entry. I’ll leave you on speaker.”
She could hear him barking instructions, slid her phone into her breast pocket. She nodded at Marcus, who had a flashlight in his left hand, his nostrils pinched and white at the smell.
“Ready?”
He nodded, and they went in hard and fast—her high, him low, perfectly timed, like they’d done too many times to count.
A flash of lightning showed them the worst of it. Marcus hit the scene with his Maglite and they saw the rest. The body was faceup, but the face was gone. Blowflies bumbled drunkenly in the sudden light, disturbed from their feast.
“Shit,” Marcus said.
“Linc, we’ve got a body here, gunshot to the face. Better send everyone.” And to Marcus, “Let’s clear the house,” though it felt very clear and very empty. They moved through the space room by room. The fetid stink of the body coupled with the smell of fresh paint followed them. It was nauseating even to Taylor, who had an iron stomach.
Nobody was inside.
House cleared, they moved carefully back to the living room. The rain was lessening, and two patrols were standing in the doorway.
“House is clear,” she called to them. “Someone want to hit the lights?”
“Power’s out.” The patrol saw it was Taylor and straightened up. “Ma’am.”
“Gotcha. Can you give us a hand with your Mags, then?”
Three Maglites beamed down on the body. It was male, brown hair, but otherwise unrecognizable. The gunshot had been to the face, pulping the flesh and taking off part of the jaw; the bugs were happily doing the rest. Circle of life.
“Someone get me his wallet,” Taylor commanded.
She crossed her arms and ignored the pained looks, though almost laughed at the patrols’ quick game of Rock Paper Scissors. That’s how they’d always decided who was in charge of the unsavory things when she was coming up, too.
A small squelch and gag later, the younger of the two called out, “Got it. Name on the ID is Justin Osborne. Male Caucasian, DOB nine-fifteen-ninety-eight, five-nine, brown on blue. Address matches this residence.”
“Looks like our suspect managed to get himself dead, Marcus. Is there a weapon?”
He circled the body carefully. “Don’t see a weapon. There is something trapped below his shoulder…it’s a little mucky.”
He teased out a piece of paper with ragged edges, as if torn from a spiral notebook, the blotch of dark blood nearly obscuring the two words written on it.
