The Cold Room (13 page)

“I'd like to see him try,” Marcus said. “We could have some real fun. The Love Hill thing? Vic was Allegra Johnson, right?”

“That's her. You know her?”

“Busted her a few times when I was coming up in patrol. Pro, solicitation and drugs, mostly.”

“Well, some creep got her, and good. I've been partnered with a new detective—”

“Renn McKenzie,” Lincoln said. “He's okay, once you get past the shyness.”

“No kidding. Boy blushes constantly. You think he's sound?”

“Yeah. Just shy. He's smart once you get him past the preliminaries. He knows some about computers, too.”

“I wish I'd known that, I'd have made him do the ViCAP search for me.”

Their appetizers arrived and they placed a dinner order. Taylor glanced at her watch—6:45. She ordered a plate of combination satays and jasmine rice for Baldwin; he'd be there by the time the food came out.

Marcus brought them back on topic. “So you think the Pretender is keeping tabs on us?”

“It sure looks that way. Unless it was just a coincidence that he and Fitz were on the same island at the same time. He may be testing the waters to see how many of us know what he looks like. But I'd really like to know what he's up to. Parks took a ride out to Fitz's house, said nothing looked out of place. I was wondering if the Pretender had broken in and gotten the itinerary. I guess that's still possible, but it seems like one hell of a lot of effort to go to.”

Lincoln sat straighter. “I think he's just trying to intimidate us. I
want
him to come after me. I'll fuck the boy up.”

Baldwin walked through the door. Taylor caught his eye and he joined the table, kissing her lightly as he sat.

“Gentlemen,” he said, shaking hands with both of them across the table.

Taylor filled him in on her day, told him about Fitz. He was concerned; she could see the grooves between his eyebrows deepen, even while he smiled. They spent the rest of the meal catching up, skipping the shop talk in favor of gossip and rumors.

Taylor declined a second caipirinha. She knew from experience that one was her limit—the Cachaca rum was too potent. She was tired. It was good to see the boys, even better to have a civilized meal with Baldwin, but she'd had an exceptionally long day.

They finally split at 9:00 p.m., with plans to meet again for lunch in the next few days and promises to
watch each other's backs. The valet brought Taylor's truck and a black Suburban that Baldwin was driving.

“You didn't bring your Beemer?” she asked him, stifling a yawn.

“Well, no. I've got to pick up the lead on the II Macellaio case from the London Met, a Detective Inspector Highsmythe, at the airport. His flight arrives late tonight. He requested an emergency consultation, and since I'm not in Quantico I suggested he come here. Besides, I'd like him to have a look at this case, if you wouldn't mind.”

“I don't mind. You still have to go back to Quantico?”

“Yes. Now that we've got the DNA and know the London and Florence killings were done by the same man, we need to coordinate. I've got to help him out. We'll take this case with us and I'll have my team plug it into our system, see what shakes out. I'm still struck by change in M.O.s, but it's eerily similar to his earlier crimes. What kind of forensics do you have?”

“Not nearly enough. Lubricant. Fishing line. A fingerprint that matches a sex offender we've already got locked up, and a missing page from the Picasso monograph. Some shoe prints. Nothing definitive, I'm still running it all down. Tim's at Bangor's right now, looking for more information.”

“You want to head up there, see if he's got anything?”

It was tempting. “No, I probably shouldn't. I had a drink at dinner. The last thing I need is for someone to tattle to my new boss that they smelled liquor on my breath. ‘Alkie detective horns in on case, news at ten.' No, that's okay. Tim will call if he finds anything.”

Baldwin was tossing the keys from hand to hand.

“What?” she asked.

Baldwin reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of spearmint Trident. “Here, have some gum. Let's go up
there. I'd like to take another look around. I'll follow you, okay?”

“All right. If you say so.”

Taylor popped a piece in her mouth and climbed in her truck. Damn, but this day was never going to end.

I
t only took them a few minutes to reach Bangor's house. Taylor parked the truck on the street, Baldwin pulled the Suburban in close behind her. They walked hand-in-hand to the porch. The door swung open just as they hit the first step.

Hugh Bangor's smile was welcoming. He was holding a lowball with about two fingers of amber liquid.

“Detectives. What can we do for you? Mr. Davis is already combing through my bookshelves. Come in, come in. Can I get you something to drink? Wine, tea, coffee? Maybe a little of Tennessee's finest?” He shook his glass, the ice cubes tinkling softly against each other. Gentleman Jack. The smell reminded her of her grandfather. If Bangor only had a pipe….

Taylor shook Bangor's hand and introduced Baldwin. “Mr. Bangor, this is Supervisory Special Agent Dr. John Baldwin, with the FBI. He's the Unit Chief in charge of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Bangor's eyes lit up when he looked at Baldwin. The two men shook hands. “My goodness. You should be an actor. You're stunning.”

Baldwin shook his head a little bit, confused, then realized that Bangor was actually admiring him sexually. He blushed deeply, and Taylor fell for him just a little bit more. As much as she enjoyed seeing his discomfiture, she threw him a rescue line.

“No whiskey for us tonight, Mr. Bangor. We'd like to take a look at some of your books, too, see if we can't help Tim out. You've got such an extensive collection, it will probably go faster with more eyes.”

“But of course. I've just made a pot of chai tea for the officer. If whiskey isn't on the menu, can I get some for you?”

They accepted the offer. Bangor's manner was so pleasant; as they chatted, Taylor realized he was someone she'd like to have as a friend. Too bad they had to meet under these circumstances.

The chai was creamy and spicy, perfectly warmed. She sat on the couch in the great room and complimented him.

“It's Starbucks. I buy the boxes at Publix and make it myself with fresh organic milk. I'd go broke if I bought them every time I had the urge. So, what's happening with the case?”

“Nothing much yet, sir. We're only a day in. But we have some things we want to look at.”

“God, don't call me sir. It makes me feel old.”

“Okay. Listen, we need to talk to you about something we've found. Do you know a man named Arnold Fay?”

Bangor paled. “Why do you ask?” he choked out.

“So you do know him,” she said.

Bangor nodded and wrapped his hand around his throat. “Arnold and I haven't spoken in a very long time.”

There was something in his voice, his gestures, which made her immediately suspicious.

“Are you sure?”

Bangor took a long drink of his whiskey, emptying the glass, then went to his bar and refilled the lowball from a crystal decanter. He came back to the living room and sat on the couch, a decisive look on his face.

“Yes. I'm sure we haven't spoken for at least five years.”

“We found his fingerprint on the Picasso monograph that was on the table.”

Bangor visibly deflated.

“I haven't told you the whole truth.”

Taylor crossed her arms, waiting.

“The break-in I mentioned? I know who it was.”

“Arnold Fay, I presume?” she asked.

“Yes. He stole as much money as he could, but left the Picasso monograph as a…present.”

“Why would he do that?”

Bangor sighed deeply. “Arnold was my partner. The one I told Detective McKenzie died of AIDS. I wish that were the case. He's dead to me in my heart, anyway. It's just much easier to tell people he died than admit the truth. That he…I can't even bring myself to say it.”

“Molested your neighbor's boy,” she finished for him.

“Christopher. Yes. We'd already ended our relationship when he started up with Chris. I just didn't have the heart to kick him out. I wasn't here half the time, anyway. But when all this happened—he claimed they were having an affair. Like a thirteen-year-old boy is capable of making a decision that momentous. I knew in my heart there was no way it was consensual. Honestly, it's a period I'd rather forget. He left the book to say he was sorry for taking the money. I didn't have the heart to throw it away.”

“I've found something,” Baldwin said. He brought a book to her, another Picasso monograph.

Bangor smiled. “Picasso is my favorite,” he said, simply.

She set the cup down, pulled a latex glove out of her
pocket, slipped it on her right hand, and turned the Picasso
catalogue raisonné
to face her. Tim had joined them now—all three men watched her expectantly as she flipped the book over and opened the back cover.

Another missing page. Just a few millimeters of hard-edged paper nestled deep within the book's binding. The cut was barely perceptible. It must have been done with a razor, maybe an X-Acto knife. The edge was neat and clean. Unless you were looking for it, you'd never guess that a page was missing.

“It's a better calling card than a postcard, I'll tell you that,” Baldwin said.

“Do you think that the killer might have removed the pages from these two books? Why?”

“That's an excellent question, Mr. Bangor. Do you have any more of these?”

“I do.” He went to the bookshelf, pulled down two more large books. “I have four Picasso monographs in my collection. These are early ones that I bought years ago. The one you're holding, Detective, I bought in New York two years ago. It was the
catalogue raisonné
for the latest Picasso exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. The one my friend left me is the fourth, and it's also relatively new.”

She flipped through the books. Every page was intact.

“So two of your four Picasso books have been defaced. We need to figure out what was so important on those two pages.”

She went to the bookshelf, took down another monograph, this time of Whistler. She brought it to the table, turned to the back. This book was intact, and she saw what was probably missing from the Picasso book. A copyright page—with the names of the designers, the printing, where it was printed. All things she could use to move the
investigation forward. The mood in the room changed from curiosity to intensity in a fraction of a second.

Was this the work of their killer? And what was he trying to say?

“This is a different signature than what I've seen before,” Baldwin said.

“It's a mistake,” Tim said, a rare smile lighting up his normally somber features.

Baldwin nodded in agreement. “If it
is
the killer, it's a miscalculation. There's something he wants to obscure on those pages. Something vitally important that he didn't want us to see.”

Taylor sat back on the sofa, stripped off the glove. Tim took the second monograph into evidence. She took a sip of the chai, then asked Bangor, “No chance you have another copy stashed away, is there?”

“Nope. Sorry. I only brought the one home from New York.”

“We're going to have to take it with us, test it for trace. See if we can't find some prints or something.”

“What do you think might be so significant on the copyright page, Detective?”

Taylor smiled at Baldwin, they shared a moment of hope. She turned to Bangor.

“Copyright pages have names. Maybe our boy's is on it.”

T
aylor couldn't help feeling excited. Breaks were always a good thing.

“Mr. Bangor, do you have a phone book?”

“Of course. Let me get it.”

“Calling the bookstores?” Baldwin asked.

“Oh, yeah. They should still be open, it's only 9:30 p.m. With any luck, one of the downtown stores will have it in stock. Fingers crossed.”

She took out her notepad and transcribed the title of the book. Bangor brought her the yellow pages, and she flipped open to the
B
s.

“Bookstores, bookstores…okay. Borders on West End and Davis-Kidd in Green Hills are the closest. Mr. Bangor, would you like to take the first pick?”

“Call Davis-Kidd. They have a great art section. And please, call me Hugh.”

“Okay, Hugh. Davis-Kidd it is.”

She dialed the number, got a recording. She hung up and dialed it again. This time, a gruff voice greeted her.

She told him what she was looking for. He put her on
hold for a few minutes, then came back and said yes, they did have one copy. Would she like him to reserve it?

She said yes, gave him her name and hung up.

“Shall we?” she said to Baldwin.

Bangor saw them to the door.

“Detective, may I ask a favor?” he said.

“You can ask anything. Whether I can grant it is another story.”

“Do you have to tell Detective McKenzie about Arnold?”

“I'm afraid I'll have to, yes. Why?”

Bangor's face fell. “Oh. That's too bad. I didn't want to tarnish my image with him. He seems like a very nice young man.”

It was almost 10:00 p.m. before they got to Davis-Kidd. They got stopped at all the red lights; the signals on Hillsboro Road weren't sequenced properly, an issue Metro Public Works was continually revamping. Taylor was half a second from pulling out her flasher when the light at Woodmont finally turned green. They entered the Green Hills Mall, found parking spots in the first row, right in front of Davis-Kidd. At this time of night, most of the patrons of the mall had gone home. It was pleasantly deserted.

They hustled to the door just as an employee started to throw the bolt. He shook his head, so she badged him, resting her shield against the glass. That got his attention. He opened the door and allowed them in.

“I'm Detective Jackson. I called about a couple of Picasso monographs?
The Complete Works of Pablo Picasso and Picasso, the Early Years.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Follow me. I've got the
Complete Works
at the desk. Didn't think you were going to make it.”

He stepped around the counter. Taylor and Baldwin waited. And waited. The clerk finally popped his head
back up and handed over a thick book. Taylor took it greedily, and felt her excitement fade just as quickly.

“Damn. This isn't the same one. Same title, but not the same book.”

“Oh,” the clerk said. “Sorry. That's the only one we've got. Do you know the publisher of the one you're looking for? I can try to order it for you.”

“I only know what it looks like. There is a second title, too.” She handed him her notebook. “Can you pull up anything that has these titles and let us look at the covers?”

The boy glanced at his watch. “Yeah. We need to be quick, though. I need to close up and go get my daughter from the sitter. Wife's out of town on business. You understand.”

He motioned them behind the counter, plugged the title into the store's database.

Amazing. There were at least twenty
catalogue raisonnés
with matching titles. But halfway down the page, she saw the right ones.

“There,” Baldwin said just as she pointed to the screen.

The clerk clicked on the cover. “Oh. Bad news. They're both out of print. Have been for about a year.”

Taylor bit back the surge of frustration. “Any idea where we can get either of them? We need a page from it. Like, yesterday.”

He read for a minute. “Says here the publisher is a specialty art press in New York. Pretty well-known and well-respected outfit. I bet they did the
catalogues
as a part of an exhibit. You might try contacting them directly, or calling the museums up there.” He glanced at his watch again. They took the hint.

Taylor wrote down the name and address of the publisher. Bangor had bought one of the monographs in New York, so that fit. Unfortunately, it was just after 11:00
p.m. Eastern time. There was no chance of anyone answering the phones. And it was past 10:00 p.m. local time, which meant Borders, and all the rest of the Nashville bookstores, were now closed. Choices. Rouse managers and comb through their stock for a book long out of print in the off chance that they had it? Or get some much-needed rest and start fresh in the morning? Rest won, though she couldn't contain her disappointment.

“This isn't defeat,” Baldwin said, sensing her mood. It was a rare talent of his, divining her thoughts. She wished she was as adept at reading his emotions. That would come, in time.

She leaned against her truck. “I thought we had it. So damn close.”

“Well, there's no rush. A subject like this isn't going to pop off with another body so soon. He takes his time. Plans. Executes. Nothing rushed. Unfortunately, it takes time to get his victims to the perfect tipping point. And he thinks he's not making any mistakes. It was pure damn luck that we found the page cut out of the book like that. You should give Tim Davis a raise.”

“No kidding. Something that subtle, we might have taken weeks, months to uncover. Good thing Bangor was involved with a criminal, we might not have connected things so quickly. This was quite fortuitous. Go get this Detective Highsmythe and drop him at his hotel. I'll head home and do a search, see where else the book might be.”

He kissed her lightly. “Okay then. I'll meet you back at the house.”

 

Baldwin scanned the scraggly line of passengers feeding their way out of the bowels of the airport until he saw the only option—the one who looked like a cop. The
man was shorter than him, blond, solid and tight, and carried himself well. He stepped forward to greet him.

“You must be Highsmythe.”

He looked tired, and didn't smile. “That I am. You're John Baldwin?”

“Yes.”

“Good to meet you, John.”

“Call me Baldwin. Everybody does.”

“Righto, Baldwin it is. Do call me Memphis.”

“Do you have bags?”

Highsmythe pointed to his carry-on. “This is all I have.”

“Great.” Baldwin started walking toward the exit, Highsmythe followed. “I've got a reservation for you at the Loews Vanderbilt. I think you'll find it meets your needs. I know you must be tired, so I'll drop you off and we can start fresh in the morning.”

They chatted a bit as Baldwin drove them into downtown, then pulled up to the entrance of the hotel. He escorted Highsmythe in to make sure all was well. As it turned out, the hotel had made a mistake on the itinerary. Because it was after midnight, the room was booked for the next day, not for this evening. They were hosting a convention and had no extra rooms, even when Baldwin flashed his FBI badge. The manager came over and offered to walk them to another hotel, upgrading on their dime, but Baldwin could tell Highsmythe was dead on his feet.

“How about I put you up at my place, and we'll get you checked in tomorrow morning?”

Highsmythe nodded gratefully. “That's fine with me. Thank you.”

They went back to the turnaround and climbed into the Suburban. Highsmythe leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. Baldwin dialed Taylor's cell but she didn't answer.

He clicked off and drove them into the night, through West End and into the sleepy suburbs. He hoped Taylor was still awake so he could warn her they had a guest.