Page 21 of The Wolves Come at Night

“It’s such a shame,” Fox said, staring thoughtfully at the ravaged body of the young singer as his assistant stowed the plastic bag of organs inside her open body cavity and sewed the incision shut with three large looping stitches—two top, one bottom. “She’s a doll. I really loved the single she released.”

“What’s it called?”

Fox stared at Taylor in mock horror. “Seriously?”

“I’m more inclined to listen to The Police or Duran Duran. You know that.”

“Sacrilege,” he said, popping a stick of gum in his mouth. “You live in the country music capital of the world, and you know nothing about it. The single’s called ‘Breathing Your Air.’ It’s all over Spotify. Very pretty ballad, though I might have started in B flat. Her tone could have been better and the chorus would have ended up like this.” He sang a few bars in a surprisingly good alto, playing an impressive air guitar, finishing with the line “That’s what it’s all about, I just wanna breathe your air, baby.”

Taylor clapped. “All these years, and I had no idea. You never told me you were a singer.”

“Taylor,” he intoned with mock severity. “I live in Nashville. It’s a requirement to have a side gig in the industry. Like every waiter in LA is writing a script, everyone here is, or was, trying to get discovered.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to leave me for auditions…”

“Hey, I did my time with the stage crowd while I was at Meharry. Though I admit, med school was a bit too all-consuming to let me get any real breaks.”

Three tables down, there was a high-pitched whine, the skull saw doing its grisly business, and one of the lab attendants called out, “Head’s ready.”

“Duty calls,” Fox said. “I’ll send you that report.”

Outside, the air was shockingly clear of humidity, but not cold, the desired effect of the previous day’s front and storms. Taylor breathed deeply, ridding her lungs of the clinical, antiseptic scent of the morgue, and looked toward downtown. One full day in the field, a case closed, and now she had to go back to her stuffy, overdecorated office and do paperwork before the staff meeting. Ugh.

On impulse, she pulled out her phone and thumbed open her contacts. She pressed the name on the screen, calculating the time difference. Cocktail hour in France.

A male voice, heavily accented and slightly suspicious, answered with a simple “Oui?”

“Mr. Florian? This is Taylor Jackson.”

“Captain Jackson. A pleasure.”

“How did you know I was promoted?”

She could envision the dapper man shrugging a single shoulder. “If I did not pay attention to the people I value, I would not be much of a leader, no? Have you considered my offer?”

“I have. I…”

Shit. What was she doing? Florian saved her, though. This was one hell of an escape hatch.

“I happen to be in New York this week. Why don’t we get together, chérie? We can discuss things. You needn’t make any commitments to me over the phone. I sense you are still conflicted. I am very happy to give you as much space and information as you need.”

“I don’t know that I can come to New York. I have responsibilities here.”

“It is no matter. I will come to you. Shall we say lunch, tomorrow at noon? I do love the Oak Bar at the Hermitage Hotel. Their frites are remarkably good.”

“I didn’t know you knew Nashville.”

“One always studies one’s adversaries, and one’s potential recruits.”

Why was she not surprised to hear he’d been checking up on her?”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but they’ve closed the Oak Bar.”

He made a very French sound of indignation. “That is a shame. I will find us someplace else suitable. If you agree?”

“All right. Yes. That would be lovely. Thank you, Mr. Florian.”

“Thierry, please, chérie. If you come to work for me, you will be my equal, not my subordinate.”