Judas Kiss by J.T. Ellison Page B

like a ripe melon. You hit it hard enough, it’ll split open. And you know how head wounds bleed. She had a ton of gashes, that’s where all the blood came from. Enough that the poor little girl was able to cover herself in it and track it around. Someone was pretty hacked off at this woman.”
    â€œNo kidding.” Taylor looked back into the room, at the stain where Corinne Wolff had lain on her carpet, bleeding from a dozen wounds. Not the way she’d like to go. She turned back to Tim.
    â€œGreat job, man. This is going to help tremendously. Get it photographed and see if there’s any prints. Wouldn’t that be nice—we’d be able to wrap this thing up today.”
    â€œI’ll give it a good going over, Lieutenant. I love it when the criminal’s dumb enough to leave the evidence behind.”
    â€œNo kidding. This seems to be a weapon of convenience. Her gym bag was on the bed, the racquet must have been right there. I’m wondering if he got interrupted, stashed the tennis racquet in a hurry to get out of here.”
    â€œCould be. Or he didn’t think we’d look in here. You know how people are. They don’t realize we actually have brains.”
    â€œTruer words were never spoken, my friend. Let me know if you find anything else.”
    Taylor was happy to have so many pieces falling into place. Half her job was done—they had a victim, a weapon, and eyewitness testimony that dissent had crept into the Wolff household.
    Now they just needed the husband.
    Â 
    A dark SUV pulled into the street on Jocelyn Hollow Court and stopped just short of the crime scene tape strung across the Wolffs’ driveway. Taylor heard the neighbors buzzing as she walked out of the house, heard the snap, snap of cameras taking pictures. The media had arrived earlier and were reporting from a safe distance. But their long lenses could see quite a bit. And this was grade A, prime time footage. The husband had arrived.
    Taylor watched Todd Wolff get out of the Lincoln Navigator, his body quivering with trepidation. He left the door open, the key in the ignition, the V-8 engine rumbling like a purring lion as it idled. He walked around to the passenger side, his steps heavy. His shoulders were bent, his nose red and swollen from crying. He stared at his house as if he’d never seen the place before. It had been six hours since he’d been told his wife and unborn son were dead.
    Fitz sidled up beside her. “Wolff must have driven like a bat out of hell to get here so soon. I didn’t think he’d be in before six at the earliest.”
    He handed Taylor a bottle of water, which she accepted gratefully. She twisted the top and drank deep, washing the taste of murder out of her mouth. She put the cap back on and spoke under her breath.
    â€œHe certainly looks distraught.”
    â€œThat’s an understatement. Dude looks like shit.”
    Wolff was still staring at his house, and now took a few faltering steps toward the front porch. Taylor went to him quickly, getting a hand on the man’s forearm. He stopped and turned, looking at her with wide, blank eyes.
    â€œWho are you?” he asked in a monotone.
    â€œI’m Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, homicide. This is Sergeant Pete Fitzgerald. Why don’t we chat for a minute, Mr. Wolff.”
    She steered him back toward his truck. He strained against her, pulling away.
    â€œNo, I want to go in. I want to see Corinne. I want to see Hayden.”
    â€œMr. Wolff, your wife isn’t here. She’s been transported to the medical examiner’s office. Why don’t you come here and sit down for a second.”
    Taylor looked up and saw that several of the neighbors had come back to attention, grouping across the street, and the newsies had their cameras trained on the grieving husband. Damn.
    She looked around for a moment. They needed privacy, and she didn’t want to parade him into his