What do I do now? she wondered.
Then there was a hand on her elbow. She turned. A young, attractive Hispanic woman, dark-skinned, coal-black straight hair, stood next to her.
“Ms. Robinson?” she asked.
Taylor nodded blankly. “Yes?”
“Ms. Robinson, I’m Detective Maria Chavez of the Metro Nashville Police Department. You’ll have to come along with me now.”
“I will?” Taylor asked. “Why?”
“Because,” the young woman answered. “We have a few questions for you. I’m taking you into custody as a material witness.”
CHAPTER 35
Monday evening, Nashville
The room was cold, the fluorescent light above her harsh.
An immense framed mirror dominated the opposite wall, but Taylor assumed it was a one-way mirror and that they were watching her from the other side.
Just like TV, she thought. Now I know what it feels like …
The room smelled stale, with the faint scent of body odor and cigarettes lingering in the air. She sat in a metal chair that was bolted to the floor. She’d been there almost half an hour and no one had entered the room. She hadn’t been allowed to call anyone or talk to anyone.
Suddenly the metal door burst open, and a man in a gray suit walked in with a clipboard in his hand, followed by the young Hispanic woman and Agent Powell. She recognized the detective from the trial, but couldn’t remember his name.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Robinson,” the detective said. “As you can imagine, this is a somewhat delicate situation for us.”
Taylor watched as the detective slid into the chair across from her and slapped the clipboard down on the table. “Now, we’ve got a few questions for you, as I’m sure-”
Taylor cleared her throat loudly, then said: “And you are?”
The detective stopped. “What?”
“Your name?” Taylor demanded. “Who are you?”
The detective glared at her for a moment, then she could see him stuffing the anger away. “I’m Detective Gilley, ma’am. I’m the lead investigator in this case.”
“I see. Then tell me, Detective Gilley, am I under arrest?”
“No, ma’am, you’re not under arrest. Not yet anyway.”
“Not yet,” Taylor said. “Hmm, that means I might be before this is over. In that case, I want a lawyer.”
“Ms. Robinson, you’re only being questioned as a material witness. At this point, you’re not entitled to a lawyer.”
Taylor glared back at him. “Everyone is entitled to a lawyer.”
The woman, Detective Chavez, spoke up. “Ms. Robinson, we’re really just asking for your cooperation. Do you have any idea where Michael is? Right now, he’s an escaped fugitive who’s been convicted of a capital offense, and that’s a very dangerous place for him to be. Anything could happen right now, most of it bad.”
“Yeah,” Gilley said, “believe it or not, it’s in your boyfriend’s best interest to come in and let us take care of him.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Taylor said.
“According to our information, the two of you are engaged.”
“Your information is out-of-date, Detective Gilley,” Taylor said. “We used to be engaged. We’re not anymore. In fact, we were through.”
Gilley and Chavez looked at each other for a moment.
“When did this happen?” Chavez asked.
“At the moment during the trial when I became convinced he was guilty,” Taylor said. “At the point where I knew he’d done it.”
“But why did you stay?” Chavez asked. “You stayed for the rest of the trial, stayed in the same hotel …”
“But not in the same room,” Taylor snapped. “Never in the same room.”
“But why didn’t you leave?” Gilley asked.
Taylor looked up at Hank Powell as he stood next to the closed door across the room. Their eyes met for a few seconds as Gilley and Chavez looked around, confused.
“Because I asked her not to,” Powell said.
“What?” Gilley said. “Hank, you could’ve given us a heads-up on this, buddy.”
Powell stepped over to the table and looked down at Taylor, never taking his eyes off her. “She came to me about three weeks ago, after the DNA testimony convinced her Schiftmann was guilty. She was upset, distraught really. She was going to leave immediately. I asked her not to. I was afraid that would be enough to push him over the edge, to make him run.”
“Which he just did, goddamn it,” Gilley said, exasperated.
“Thank you, Agent Powell,” Taylor said softly.
Chavez turned back to her. “So you had no idea he was going to escape?”
“None, Detective. Part of what I agreed to do for Agent Powell was let you all know if I thought he was going to run.”
“And he never gave you any hint?” Gilley asked.
“Never.”
Chavez shook her head. “And you have no idea where he could be? What his plans are? Where he’s going?”
“No to all of those,” Taylor said. “He never even hinted to me that this was an option. If he had, I’d have called Agent Powell immediately.”
Powell sat on the edge of the table, his hip resting on the edge, and leaned over toward Taylor. “Where do you think he’ll go?”
Taylor rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “He may have some friends left in Cleveland, although with all this publicity, how anyone would actually help him is beyond me. And-oh my God-he’s still got the keys to my co-op.”
Taylor looked up, fear etched across her face. Powell held up a hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll have a team of officers watching your apartment and your office within the hour.”
“And I’m having all the locks changed as soon as I get home.”
Chavez smiled. “Yeah, good idea. But let me ask you, you think he might have been planning this all along? Or did he just get a sudden impulse?”
Taylor leaned back and studied the three officers for a moment. She took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then let it out slowly.
“Michael’s a lot of things,” Taylor said. “He’s sick, maybe he’s evil. I don’t know. But he’s not stupid. If I were placing bets, I’d say he had a plan in place weeks ago. He’s put everything he needs, including a lot of cash, in some safe place where he can get to it quick. And I’ll bet he already knows where he’s going, and I’ll bet he’s already on his way.”
“What kinds of resources has he got?” Chavez asked.
“How much money does he really have?”
Taylor bent her head and once again wearily rubbed her forehead. “Well, Detective Chavez, thanks to me, a lot.”
A cold, depressing sleet had been falling long enough to freeze on the sidewalks as Taylor and Agent Powell walked out the front doors of the Metro Nashville Criminal Justice Center. Taylor pulled her coat around her tightly. The wind had picked up, driving the icy mix into her face. Strangely, though, it felt good to her after the overheated stuffiness of the interview room where she’d been the past three hours.
As they walked down the steps, Taylor realized she felt strangely hungry, and took this as welcome evidence she was still alive.
“C’mon,” Powell said. “I’ll take you to your hotel.”
“I can take a cab,” Taylor said.
“This is Nashville, not Manhattan. You can’t just hold up a finger here and flag one down, especially on a lousy night like this. Besides, what if he’s still around? What if he’s hiding in the hotel, waiting for you?”
Taylor raised her face to the streetlights and let the frigid drizzle rake across her face. “Then he’d be a damn fool,”
she said.
“All the same, I’ve got a car. Let’s go.”
He took her elbow and guided her toward the street, then into the parking garage across from the police department.
Two rows down, a government-issued Ford Crown Victoria sat waiting. Powell held the door for her as she slid into the front seat.
“You’re at the Stouffer, right?” he asked.
Taylor turned to him. “Yes, but to tell you the truth, Agent Powell, I’m getting hungry. And I could use a drink. Maybe another of those Stoly martinis we had that night.”