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“You had one of those lightbulb moments when you were talking to Darnell,” I said. “What gives?”
“I want to take a closer look at the employees at the Purple Pig,” Jack said. “It seems like a ripe hunting ground for someone with those kinds of sniper skills. Maybe Kirby’s frequent visits had more to do someone else than they had to do with David Sowers and the gang.”
“It’s getting late,” I said. “Who else do you want to talk to?”
“I’d like to pay another visit to Jasmine Taylor,” Jack said. “She seemed to work the closest with Sowers. And it was obvious from the last time we talked to her that she knows things she doesn’t want anyone else to know. Maybe she’s close by. Look her up in the computer and if she’s on the way we’ll stop in.”
I angled his computer toward me and typed in Jasmine Taylor’s name. “You’d be surprised how many Jasmine Taylors there are in the county.”
“Narrow it down by age and race,” he said.
“Right, got it,” I said. “She’s got a Bloody Mary address. Actually, she lives in the building next to Kateryna. Convenient.”
Jack snorted and did a U-turn in the street to head back toward the Towne Square where we’d just come from.
The building next to Kateryna’s was slightly different in style—federal-style row houses—each one painted in a bright color. Each building had a private door and stoop that faced the street and a black iron plate with the house number to the right of the door. Jasmine Taylor lived in the third row house.
There was parking directly in front of her yellow townhome, and her porch lights were on. The street was quiet—the whole downtown was quiet—probably due to everyone being scared to venture out. It was a different experience knowing someone could be lying in wait with a rifle in their hands.
Planters flanked both sides of her doors, but the flowers had died and weeds sprouted haphazardly. The welcome mat was plain and there was no wreath on the red door, only a simple knocker. All in all, it felt like a home whose homeowner was too busy to tend to it.
I jolted at the sight of the old Victorian turn doorbell. I’d grown up with a similar one, and I’d always hated the sound. Jack turned the key and what sounded like a cat getting its tail stepped on echoed from inside the house.
The front door opened and Jasmine Taylor stood in the crack, blocking our view to the inside of the house.
“I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “Twice. I’ve got nothing more to add.”
She started to close her door, but Jack wedged his foot in the space. She glanced around us up and down the street and I saw the fear in her eyes. She didn’t want anyone to see her talking to the police.
“Just a few follow-up questions. We’ve got two people dead, so we have to keep tracking down leads.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll give you five minutes. After that you’ll need to talk to my attorney. Come inside.”
She led us into the foyer and no farther. It was painted a soft yellow with white trim and there was a bench and shelves against the wall with a briefcase, a pair of sneakers and an umbrella lying on the bench. I stepped onto a woven multicolor rug that reminded me of my grandmother, and there was a narrow white staircase that led to a darkened floor above.
“An attorney with an attorney,” Jack said. “I’ve never met an attorney who didn’t want to represent themselves. Is there anything you need an attorney for?”
“Coming here and insulting me isn’t going to get you the information you want,” she said.
“I’m not too worried about that,” Jack said. “I’m not here to make friends. You’ve committed professional suicide working for David Sowers. As long as he was alive everyone associated with him could keep his dirty little secrets quiet. But now that he’s dead you’re seeing your name on the national news. That’s got to suck.”
“I haven’t heard a question yet,” she said. “Three minutes left.”
“The thing about electronics is they can never be completely wiped,” Jack said. “There’s always a residue that’s left. The hard part of this case is finding out who wanted to kill Sowers. And Bobby Pickering. It seems they were both tied up with the trafficking.”
She flinched and Jack pressed harder.
“Yeah, you know all about that, don’t you?” Jack asked. “You watched him bring these young girls back. You knew every time he left on a trip what he was going to do. Yet you continued to work for him. Maybe you liked it. We’re already digging into your financials. I can’t wait to see what we’re going to find there.”
“You can’t do that without a warrant,” she said, eyes narrowing.
“We have one,” Jack said, and handed her a folded piece of paper. “Your bank has already been served. They’re cooperative.”
“Time’s up,” she said, and walked back to the front door, but not before I could see the fear on her face.
We followed, but slowly. “You know,” Jack said. “William Kirby mentioned your name. He’s coming in to talk with us in the morning. Isn’t it funny how it’s always the low-level players that take the fall for the big guys?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Kirby mentioned my name?”
