The Cold Room (12 page)

She asked gently, “Ma'am, do you have any contact information for Tyrone?”

“He hangs out at the minimart on the corner of Claiborne and Lafayette. Should be there now, lest someones around here already done tipped him off. That girl just through here, she work for him, too. Best be quick if you want to see to him. She's got a mouth on her like a motorboat.”

The woman made the guttural noise again. Taylor understood it was a mirthless laugh. She got quiet, then seemed to shrink in on herself, drawing into the collar of her stained dressing gown like a turtle.

Taylor nodded to Father Victor, then thanked Mrs. Johnson. McKenzie was standing by the front door, phone to his ear. She gestured to him to follow her, left the dank space and went into the fresh air. The breeze was tinged with the cloyingly sweet scent of marijuana smoke. She didn't care at the moment. She just wanted to get out. She felt dirty.

She got in the Caprice, McKenzie slid in beside her. She keyed the radio, asked dispatch to put her through to Gerald Sayers, head of the Specialized Investigative Unit. Gerald's people handled the drugs and prostitution in Nashville, plus all the other vice-related activities. He was a good man, not afraid to do whatever it took to get the job done. She trusted him.

Within five minutes, Sayers was back to her. He called on her cell. She put it on speaker so McKenzie could hear.

“Gerald. How are you?”

“Good to hear from you, Taylor. You holding up?” The show of support she was getting from her fellow officers was so heartening. No one agreed with the actions taken against her.

“I am. Listen, my new partner's here, too, Renn McKenzie. We've got a question for you. You know a pimp named Tyrone Hill, out of the J. C. Napier homes?”

“Oh, yeah. Dealer, pimp. Informant if the price is right. Got his greasy paws in a few different pies. Took over some of Terrence Norton's territory after Lincoln popped him last month. Word is Terrence is calling the shots from the inside. Why do you ask about Tyrone? What's he done now? I hope it's a jailable offense.”

“One of his girls ended up dead yesterday.”

“OD or hit?”

“Neither. Looks like she was held for a while, starved, then left in a stranger's house, nailed to a column.”

“Oh, the Love Hill murder. Heard that one was pretty weird. It doesn't sound like Tyrone. He'd be more likely to smack her upside the head a few times. I don't think he's graduated to rub-outs yet. I can have one of my undercovers snoop a bit, see if he's out there braggin' he did it. These idiots love to take credit for their work.”

“That would be great. My vic's name is Allegra Johnson. We just did the notification to her grandmother. She said Tyrone hangs at the corner of Claiborne and Lafayette.”

“Yeah, that's his little fiefdom. I'll send one of my boys over there, see what's shakin'. Call you later?”

“That'd be great, Gerald. Thank you.”

He clicked off. McKenzie looked at her.

“This is breaking, you think?”

“I don't know. Have you met Captain Sayers yet?”

McKenzie shook his head.

“When you meet him, you'll see. Gerald knows his clientele. We need to go run down a few other leads.”

“Of course.”

Father Victor tapped on her window. She put it down.

“We're taking care of Miss Ethel. I've got social services setting up a call schedule, and I'll make sure that we get some folks to come in and get her straightened out. It's unconscionable to let an old woman like that live on her own.”

“Thanks, Father. I knew you'd find a way to help. I appreciate you coming with us today.”

He nodded, murmured a prayer over her, then went back to his car and drove off, slowly. Taylor could see him looking left and right, saddened by the area. She felt the same way.

She turned the car engine over, slid away from the curve, following the chaplain's path.

“So talk to me, McKenzie. Tell me what you think's happening here.”

“Honestly? I don't think a pimp who hangs out at a
minimart has the wherewithal to transport a body across town, tie her to a post and stick a knife through her chest, if that's what you're asking.”

He slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses. He looked so much like a cop that she wondered if it was purposeful, whether he practiced the move in the mirror before work.

“Better be careful, we might start calling you Miami Vice.”

“Why? I transferred in from Orlando.”

She bit back a laugh, refocused on his words. “Never mind. Before your time. I agree with you about Tyrone. But I'd rather hear from Gerald before I make that decision. What else?”

“I think Allegra Johnson was an easy target. Someone relatively transient, with a sketchy background and a difficult life. Someone no one would miss if she was gone for a few weeks. I think whoever killed her watched her, knew about her, knew she would be easy pickings.”

“Not bad. Lure her with drugs, or a sex act for money. Tyrone might know who she went off with, if he's really her pimp.” She sighed. “I did a ViCAP search earlier trying to see if this case matches one from Manchester a few years back. If my hunch is right, we'll need to take a trip down there tomorrow. Will you join me?”

“Absolutely. What else do you want me to do?”

“If you were running the case, what would you do next?”

McKenzie was quiet. They were almost back to the CJC. She glided into the side lot and put the Caprice in Park. She shifted in the seat so she could face him. He was playing with his hands, practically wringing them in frustration.

“This may sound crazy, but I think I'd like to know more about Mr. Bangor. He might be a target. He's a homosexual, perhaps this was aimed at him, a hate crime.”

There was something odd in McKenzie's voice, a tone she wasn't familiar with. She looked at him sideways. Fury. His fists were balled, his brow creased. Those little actions set off her alarm bells. Was McKenzie closeted? Not that it mattered to her, but he'd mentioned a girlfriend. She tucked that away to be dealt with later.

“A message? I've thought about that, too. It seems a bit extreme, but he was broken into last year. He might be into something that we don't know about. Have you run him yet?”

“Yes. Nothing. Clean as a whistle. He's a law-abiding citizen, pays his parking tickets. His prints weren't in the system.”

“He could be clean, he could be good at hiding things. We'll see.”

Her cell rang. She recognized the caller ID, an internal number to the Criminal Justice Center. She answered it, hoping it was Gerald. It was. She put it on speaker.

“We talked to your boy.”

“That was quick.”

“Well, these runners are predictable, at least. Lets us monitor them easier, get them into the fold as confidential informants. My guy had a chat with him, said it was pretty apparent the news upset him. He might have actually cared about the girl.”

“That would be a first. How can you make someone you care about have sex with strangers for drug money?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I'll never pretend to understand these fools.” Gerald laughed. “Anyway, Tyrone said, and I quote, ‘Shorty was a fine-looking girl, ya know what I mean? Why would I be offin' her ass? She makes me money. Now I'm sad.' He seemed genuinely surprised to hear she was dead. My guy asked when he saw her last. He claims she split about three weeks ago.”

“That fits with the witnesses at her house. He didn't have any ideas where she split to?”

“Naw. He was more angry than anything. Thought maybe another pimp hooked her up. Here's the other thing. You say the murder was yesterday?”

“Thereabouts. Allegra was placed in the house between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.”

“My UC was with Tyrone most of the day yesterday. They were over at the minimart, doing a deal with some Mexicans who came through town. My interdiction boys and girls picked up the Mexis on their way out. So the timing might have been close.”

“Okay, Gerald. I'll strike him from my immediate list. Thanks so much for your help. You guys are miracle workers. Stay safe.” She hung up.

“So, McKenzie, we move Tyrone to the back burner for the moment. Let's go see what awaits us inside.”

I
t was past 5:00 p.m. Taylor sent McKenzie home, promised to call him if anything new broke. She was filling out her forms when a soft voice caught her attention.

“Miss Taylor? ViCAP results are back.”

Rowena Wright stood over Taylor, her bulk creating a shadow on the desk. Her gray hair was curled into a riot of miniature corkscrews. Taylor was reminded of a Gorgon, though Rowena was one of the most even-tempered creatures Taylor had ever come across. She was happy to do her work, go home to her family at the end of the day. She never complained, never called in sick. She'd received departmental awards for her attendance. Taylor thought the world of her.

“Thank you, Rowena. How's your husband?”

“He's just wonderful, Miss Taylor, thank you for asking. How's that fine man of yours? You ever going to marry that boy?”

Taylor fiddled with her engagement ring, the Asschercut channel-set diamonds nestled flat into their platinum home. “We're getting there, Rowena. I practically feel like we're married already.”

“He's a good man, Miss Taylor. Don't you go letting him slip away cause you've got the cold feet.” Rowena started to leave, but paused, like she had something more to say.

Taylor squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you for getting these for me. I appreciate it.”

Rowena just smiled and left the offices. She was tucked into a space next door—she handled all the Criminal Investigative Divisions administrative details. She literally knew where the bodies were buried, and knew when to look the other way.

Funny, people were always warning Taylor not to let Baldwin slip away. She found it curious—did they think she'd never find another man as good as him? Or that she'd never find another man, period? He was a good man, and she had no intention of trading him in.

She turned her attention to the ViCAP pages.

The first search string had showed up several art thefts in Davidson, Williamson and Wilson counties, but nothing that seemed linked with their case. She discarded that report for the moment and moved on to the next.

The second search yielded some promising results. She'd set the parameters to gather anything that might be remotely related to art, sculpture and classical music, and the case she remembered from Manchester, Tennessee was on the list, as well as three others. Her heart skipped a beat. There might be a pattern here. She set the pages aside and went to the third search, the one with cause of death as starvation.

There were several cases that matched this description—mostly attributed to elder-abuse cases from various long-term care facilities. But on the fourth entry, she felt the excitement begin to build. It was a case from Chattanooga, one year earlier. She laid the two ViCAP searches side by side. The Chattanooga case had several elements
that were comparable to the Manchester case—music playing at the scene and the victim profile, a thin black female. The Chattanooga COD was starvation, while the Manchester victim was drowned, but there was enough there for Taylor to feel they may be related.

Now she had three cases with exceptional similarities. One in Nashville, one in Chattanooga and one in Manchester. Jesus.

She kept going through the files, looking for anything of note, something out of place. In the end, she had a total of six cases that she thought were worth looking into, all scattered across the state of Tennessee. She knew in her gut several of them wouldn't pan out, but the facts made chills run down her spine. Three were most likely linked. And the related cases would wreak havoc on Baldwin's theory that II Macellaio had just come to the United States. Unless he was flying back and forth…oh, this was crazy. She decided to approach the cases with no preconceived notions. Let the evidence and the investigation tell her where to head.

She called the case officers for the six cases she'd pulled and requested their files. She was met with polite enthusiasm—free assistance was always wanted, especially if it would clear a case. Two were solved; she put those aside. The Manchester case was being run by the Coffee County Sheriff's office.

Sheriff Steve Simmons was more than happy to have her help, even suggested she take a trip down to look at the case materials in person. She told him she was hoping he'd say that, she'd be happy to come, would be bringing McKenzie along. It would only take an hour to drive down to Manchester. She scheduled an appointment with him for the morning. He confirmed some of the details before he signed off—yes, the victim was black, yes,
there was classical music playing at the scene, no, there were no suspects. Taylor felt the excitement rise in her chest. Leads were all good things.

Tim Davis entered the homicide offices, stuck his head around the wall that led to her desk. She waved him in.

“Hey, Tim. What do you have for me?”

He sat in a rolling chair to the left of her, at the desk of one of the B-shift detectives. “The palm print matches the exemplars from the home owner. But we got a hit off one of the prints we lifted from the Picasso monograph—to a sex offender we've got locked up.”

“Locked up?” she asked.

“Yep. He's in Riverbend, doing three to five for child rape.”

“Hmm. How long has he been in?”

“A little over eight months.”

“So no chance the print was left last night.”

“Nope.”

“Bangor mentioned a break-in a year ago.”

“That's within the realm of possibility. It was a little smudged, I had to fume it because it was so old, but there were enough points to match easily.”

“So we have what could be a year-old fingerprint. What's the guy's name?”

“Arnold Fay.”

“Looks like we need to have another chat with Mr. Bangor. See if he knows this Arnold Fay character. What else?”

“There's a lot of random DNA, but that's more than likely the home owner's. It'll take a while to sort out. The knife was clean, so was the fishing line. Thirty-test, manufactured by Berkley, a brand called FireLine Crystal. I've requested all records of orders for the past three months, but it's sold in every sporting shop in Middle
Tennessee, so that probably won't help us. We plastered four different shoe impressions. The ones closest to the house are from an Asics-brand running shoe and a pair of Timberland climbing boots. Find me a suspect, I'll be able to able to match his shoes, at least.”

Taylor thought about that for a minute. How many footprints might have been disturbed by the team responding to the murder? She pushed that away. What was done was done.

Tim was playing with a piece of paper. “There was something else. The Picasso monograph? There was a page missing from the back of the book.”

“Missing. What do you mean?”

“I brought it, I'd like to show you. It may have nothing to do with this at all, but it seemed strange.” He put the large book on her desk, then slit the seal on the evidence bag. Taylor could see the smudged fingerprint that he'd been talking about. Tim flipped the book open.

“See this, right here? It looks to me like a page was cut out of the back.”

Taylor ran her finger along the sharp edge of the thick, glossy paper. It
had
been cut, close to the spine. If they hadn't collected the book, if Tim wasn't as careful and meticulous, they'd easily have missed it.

“What was here?” she asked. “What was on this page?”

“I don't know.”

Taylor fingered the edge of the paper again. She flipped through the book to see if she could tell what the mysterious missing page might hold, but couldn't come to any conclusions. Tim sat quietly at her side, letting her think.

Bangor's house was loaded with books, the built-in bookshelves crawling with tomes on every conceivable subject. And he had more coffee-table books. Was this an anomaly specific to this book, or something he did to all
of his titles? Or was it something their killer had done? She smiled at Tim.

“Great catch, man.”

“Thanks. I don't know what it means, but it struck me as odd.”

“Might be nothing, might be everything. I'll tell you what. The scene has a ton more books just like it. What do you think about going back out there and pawing through a few of them, see if you can find any torn pages?”

“I'm already on my way. I've called the home owner, a Mr. Bangor? He seems very nice, said for me to come on. He said he'd start looking, too. Maybe we'll find something.”

“Tim, you're the greatest. Call me as soon as you know, okay?”

He left a packet of information for her and took off.

She retrieved her voice mail—Lincoln and Marcus would meet her at Rumba at 6:00 p.m. She glanced at her watch. She could just make it. Baldwin would be joining them by 7:00 p.m. He was finishing a project.

She called Sam and left her a message about the evidence found so far. She told her about Tyrone Hill and Allegra Johnson's business relationship, and about the fingerprint match to Arnold Fay, just in case that would be relevant later on. Nothing to get excited over yet, but each piece would play an important role. Besides, Sam was a spitfire about the details. She wanted to be kept in the loop about everything, no matter how minute, because you never knew how it related to the autopsy. Taylor understood that desire. She felt the same way.

Elm's door was open, but no one was inside. Good. She'd typed up two brief lines to sum up her day—
Autopsy & Notification on Love Circle victim, Allegra
Johnson; Interview with home owner, Love Circle, Hugh Bangor—
and left them on his desk.

That would just have to do.

The drive up West End was quick. She pulled into Rumba, a fusion satay grill, dreaming about a caipirinha. It was one of her favorite restaurants in town—Cuban, South American, African, Caribbean, Malaysian and Indian influences all met, mixed and got a little tipsy on the world-class rums. She valeted the truck, went into the cool, dark restaurant.

The boys were already there. She felt the grin spread across her face. Man, she missed them. It had only been five weeks since their dislocation, but it felt like much more.

Marcus Wade nearly knocked her off her feet with his hug. His brown hair was too long, kept falling in his eyes. When he released her, Lincoln Ross did the same, openly wrinkling his Versace suit. He was still sporting the shaved head and close black goatee. If you didn't know him, you'd think he looked dangerous. Just seeing his gap-toothed grin made her happy. She stepped back from them, a bemused smile on her face.

“That was quite a reception. You two look great.”

Lincoln shook his head. “You have no idea how much we miss working with you. It sucks out here in the precincts.”

Marcus nodded. “South isn't exactly where I thought my career was going, you know?
Estoy aprendiendo hablar español.
”

“And butchering it. Good grief, Wade, where the hell did you get that accent? Speedy Gonzales? You're learning some
bueno
Spanish there, my friend.” Lincoln jostled Marcus, who just shook his head.

“Whatever. You come down and try it, wiseass.”

Smack in the heart of the South district was little Mexico.
Crimes there often went unsolved because the residents were afraid to talk to the police. Most of them were illegals, though with Nashville's lax stance on deportation, getting caught didn't necessarily mean getting sent home.

The hostess, a pretty co-ed with a lip ring and spiky blond hair, held up three fingers, questioning.

Taylor said, “Four of us. One's still coming.” The girl led them to a table in the back of the restaurant. The table was at an angle, so none of them had their backs to the entrance. It was one of the reasons they chose to eat here.

They slid into place, Taylor alone on one side, Lincoln and Marcus on the other. They placed their drink orders and asked for cheese-stuffed naan and flatbreads, then waited for the waiter to leave. He deposited waters for them, then gracefully disappeared.

“So how's your new boss?” Lincoln asked.

“Terrible,” Taylor answered quietly. “He's a mess. Administrative, all the way. A total jerk, too. He leaked one of the details we were trying to hold back about the murder last night. With any luck, he'll blow himself up without any help from me. Either of you talk to Price lately?”

They shook their heads.

“Me, neither. All I know is the case for our reinstatement is coming along. Not to skip the niceties, boys, but here's why I wanted to meet. Fitz called me this afternoon.”

“How is he? Ever coming back?” Lincoln sounded melancholy. She knew her boys weren't at all happy with the way things had shaken out. They'd been working as a cohesive unit for three years, each relying on the other's strengths. They were a team. To think about that symbiotic relationship in the past tense hurt everyone.

Taylor patted Lincoln's hand. “He says he is. But he's in Barbados now, stuck in the water without some sort of pump thingie. He thinks he saw the Pretender on shore.
Said he ran into Susie—literally, knocked her down—then took off.”

They both raised eyebrows. Lincoln asked, “What the hell would the Pretender be doing in Barbados? Is he following Fitz?”

“That I don't know. I can't understand the point of that. And it's not definite. It could be just a fluke, someone who just looks like him.”

Marcus looked her straight in the eye. “You don't believe that, do you?”

She weighed her words carefully. “He reached out to me, too, left me a message on my home voice mail. Let me know he wasn't to blame for the murder I caught last night.”

They both went on alert. “He called you?” Lincoln asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. Baldwin's already chasing it down.”

“Do you have a unit on you?”

“No. And I want to keep it that way. I can take care of myself. It's y'all I'm worried about.”