Page 81 of The Wolves Come at Night
“That happens on long-term cases like this,” Taylor said. “Families hold out a tiny bit of hope but know in their hearts when someone is gone. You get to give them actual peace of mind. It’s sad, but it’s a relief for them, too.”
“Yeah. That’s what I sensed. So the oldest case is from ten years ago, the victim’s name is Bailey Staubach. I spoke to her mother, down in Mississippi. Apparently, Bailey came to Nashville after a huge fight with her family. She thought she could make it big in the country music scene.”
Taylor set down her toast. “Go on.”
“That’s as far as I’ve gotten on her. But the most recent, the girl we pulled from the top? Similar story. Name’s Krista Bush. She’s from Arkansas, stopped calling home six months ago. Last they heard she had recorded a demo and was making the rounds on Music Row. Family’s broken, she doesn’t come from much, but they insisted she had a voice like an angel.”
“You have my attention,” Taylor said.
“Marcella Nieves, third down in the grave. Originally from Puerto Rico, came to Miami with her family in the early 2000s. She sang in clubs all over the South, got into drugs, and the habit ate her up. Went into rehab, got clean, and struck out for Nashville. Got a band together, played around the smaller venues and honky-tonks. When she went missing, the family pushed, hard, for our help. There’s a decent case file with a lot of legwork, but nothing ever came of it.
“Finally, the second one we pulled out.”
Taylor had chills racing up and down her arms. “Let me guess. Another singer?”
Renn tapped his nose. “Close. Backup. Sessions only. She was a guitarist by trade. Name is Cindy Hynds. She has a few credits on some albums, was working steadily before she disappeared. So yes. They were all in the industry.”
“Damn,” Taylor breathed. “There’s no way Justin Osborne was responsible for their deaths, is there?”
“We might could make a case for his involvement with Krista Bush. The other three? He would have been very young. I think we’re looking at someone older. Someone who came across all five of them. I think Georgia was the fifth victim of a serial killer who has been preying on Music Row for a decade. Justin was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He followed Georgia up that mountain, and argued with her, but he didn’t kill her. Someone else was there, someone who wanted Georgia dead.”
“So how does Justin get GSR on his hands?”
“The suicide was staged. You’ve always thought that. The notebook paper, the angle of the gunshot, the idea that he’d kill Georgia then go home and kill himself…your gut was right on. I think he ran. And the killer realized he’d been seen and had to get rid of him. The argument the Vandy girls heard? Was probably between Georgia and the killer.”
“It was personal,” Taylor said. “Whoever killed her knew her. This wasn’t a stranger.”
These revelations blew Angelie Delacroix’s theory out of the water. Joseph Game wasn’t responsible for Georgia and Justin’s deaths. It also felt so much more logical to Taylor. Carson stumbling onto the crime was a horrible coincidence. Nothing more.
A lucky one, too. If she hadn’t, they might never have found Georgia’s body, not to mention the rest of the women. Taylor kept that to herself but shared O’Roarke’s find at Osborne’s house. She called him while they all sat there.
“Taylor, I heard—”
“I know. It’s true. But let’s circle back to that. Were you able to track down the audio from that smart speaker?”
O’Roarke was clearly excited, his voice boomed through the line.
“I sure was. Waiting on one more warrant to come through, but I hit pay dirt. The company has gotten more cooperative when a serious crime is involved, and they honored the warrant quickly, though they only gave us a small window of time. You gotta hear this. Can you come by the task force offices? Is that allowed?”
“No. But I’ll get somewhere private. I’ve got some folks with me, they’ll want to hear, too. Call you back in twenty.”
They paid the check and jogged to Taylor’s 4-Runner, piling in. It was like old times, a car full of cops about to catch a big break on a case. For a moment, she second-guessed herself—you can’t leave them, you know your soul is here—but within five minutes they were in the elevator to her condo, and then inside the space. She tried not to look at the flowers on the coffee table. Why she hadn’t thrown them out, she didn’t know.
She called O’Roarke back, put him on the speaker. “OK. We’re ready. Go for it.”
“I can send you the whole thing, but I’ve got it cued up to the relevant moment.” There was background static, but the clarity was good enough to hear a conversation between two men. One sounded cruel, the other was sobbing.
Voice 1: “You’re an idiot. You always have been.”
* * *
Voice 2: “Why did you do that? Why? You didn’t need to kill her.”
* * *
Voice 1: “I most certainly did. You should have stayed away. This is all your fault.”
The report of the gunshot was loud enough that Taylor jumped.
