The Cold Room (20 page)

She shook Gerald's hand, left him to deal with his informant's weapons issue.

She turned to McKenzie. “Time for you to split. Go talk to Bangor. I'll wrap things up here. We'll start fresh in the morning.”

“Sure you don't need me?”

“I'm sure.”

“See you then. Don't stay too late. We're on the right track. We'll find him.”

Taylor watched him go, hoping sending him like a lamb to the slaughter was the right thing to do, then went back to the homicide offices. Elm was standing in the door to his office, staring at her.

“Evelyn?” he said.

Taylor was thrust back in time, to a vision of her grandfather looking blankly at her mother, Kitty, calling her by her grandmother's name. All of the pieces slammed into place.

She went to Elm. “No, sir, I'm Taylor Jackson.”

He shook his head for a moment as if to clear the cobwebs, then said, “Of course you are. No need to reintroduce yourself every time we see each other. Don't forget to leave me a summary of your day. That is all.”

He went in the office and closed the door. Taylor sighed heavily. She went to her desk and called her union rep, a fantastically nice guy named Percy Jennings. She left him a message to call her on the cell. This needed to be dealt with, and fast.

Percy called her back almost immediately.

“What's up, Goddess? Your case is going great, we should have you reinstated in no time. Just need to get the Oompa out of there.”

“Cool. That's good news. We have a different problem. Hold on a sec while I get somewhere more private.”

She stepped out into the hall, past the conference room to the Ladies' bathroom. She opened the door, and the motion sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the tiled darkness. Good, no one here. She locked it behind her just in case.

“Okay, Percy, sorry about that. We have a situation with Lieutenant Elm.”

“Tell me about it. He's a nitpicker, you have no idea the complaints we're getting about him. Totally inconsistent, forgetting people's names. The guy's completely erratic.”

“I think I know why. He just called me Evelyn, then snapped back to reality. Half an hour ago he charged into an interrogation insisting we were talking to a murderer from New Orleans. I've seen this behavior before. My grandfather had Alzheimer's, an absolutely wicked, nasty case. I think Elm's got it, too. It explains why he's so bad in the evenings, too. A lot of Alzheimer's patients get worse as the day goes on. Elm's much easier to deal with in the morning. Nearly pleasant, comparatively. That's how my granddaddy was, lucid in the morning, growing more and more confused in the late afternoon and evening.”

“Jeez, that sucks. He still alive?”

“No, he passed a while ago. Elm isn't young, but he's got some good years left in him. His mind will go, but his body will take a much slower trip.”

“Okay. I'll go talk to the people in charge, let them know.”

“Keep it quiet, Percy. It's a humiliating disease. He may think something's wrong, but I doubt he's been diagnosed yet. It's going to be a touchy situation, at best.”

“All right, Taylor, will do. Thanks for letting me know. Go catch some bad guys.”

They clicked off. She went to the mirror, splashed
some cold water on her face. Remembering her grandfather was always hard. He'd suffered, and there was nothing anyone could do to ease his mind. She'd never known him well; Kitty hadn't been close to her parents. Strange, she never realized that she and her mother had that in common.

She forced thoughts of family from her mind. She couldn't afford to be sidetracked, not now.

When she went back into the offices, Elm's door was open and his light off. He'd gone for the day. Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. Now that she suspected the truth, she wouldn't be able to look at him without pity, and a man like that would sense her emotions, even if he didn't understand them. Better that he was gone.

On her desk was a piece of paper with Rowena's spidery handwriting. “Fax is in your top drawer,” it said.

She'd nearly forgotten. The information she'd been waiting for all day.

She opened her desk drawer greedily. It was a two-page fax—a cover sheet from Taschen Books Manhattan, then a copyright page. Editor, Designer, Production Manager, Library of Congress information. Okay. One of the three names had to be what she was looking for.

She wrote them all down, then called Baldwin.

“We have some names,” she said. “The puzzle is starting to come together.”

“Excellent. Would you like to meet Memphis and me for a drink before we leave? We're at Ruth's Chris.”

“Sure, why not. I'll be there shortly.”

She shut down her computer, then drove up West End to the restaurant. A valet greeted her and took her keys. She fluffed her hair in the reflective glass entrance, then entered the steak house.

Baldwin spotted her first and hailed her with a wave.
She joined the men at the table, asked for a glass of Seghesio Zinfandel, one of her and Baldwin's newest discoveries.

Memphis was drinking scotch, she could smell the peaty, musty scent. She'd always hated whiskies of all sorts; they tasted like wood chips. Baldwin was drinking a draft Sam Adams.

“We've got a plane at ten. I decided to go back to Quantico tonight, get moving on this new information right away. I want to get everything plugged into the profile so I can get it to you tomorrow,” Baldwin said. “As a matter of fact, I need to call and confirm our reservation. Did you eat?”

“I did. We ordered in Thai.”

“Okay then. By the way, Memphis made the astute observation earlier that he thinks we're dealing with someone who's biracial.”

She smiled at him, then checked herself. “Damn. Here you are, beating me to the punch. I interviewed a pimp tonight who said both of my current victims got in a white Prius, together, mind you, with what he termed an
Oreo
.”

“That's a rather derogatory term for it.”

“Well, he wasn't a very nice guy. So that fits.”

“So the wit confirms that he took two at once?” Baldwin asked.

“Looks that way.”

“Anything else new?” Memphis asked.

“No, that's it. I wish I had more.”

“But it's progress, my dear. Progress. I'll be back in a minute. You and Memphis play nice.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Why did it feel like everyone was ganging up on her today?

Baldwin slid out of the booth. Memphis immediately shifted to the left so he could look Taylor straight on.

“So. Come here often?” he asked.

“Highsmythe—”

“Oh, do call me Memphis. Please. I'm just kidding. I like to needle.”

“I noticed.” She relaxed fractionally. She knew Sam was wrong, she hadn't been flirting. If she had been, there'd be no mistaking it. She smiled at him again, this time without worrying about who might think what.

“Fine. Memphis. I hope you're finding Nashville to your liking. I'm sorry it's been so crazy, but with any luck, today's murder will bring us all a step closer to catching this man.”

“That's a lovely speech. Maybe we should get you in one of Shakespeare's creations. Let's see…we'd need a strong woman, one who doesn't like to be pushed around or told what to do. Viola, maybe. No, I have it. Portia. Without a doubt.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of the wine. It was perfect, spicy and bold.

He leaned closer. “Tell me, why did you become a copper? Did you lose your baby brother? A little abuse in your background?” He smiled a wicked, lazy grin at her and she bit her lip trying not to smile back. “You can tell me. I can keep a secret.” He licked his lips, slow and suggestive. Jesus, if Baldwin saw that he'd be off his head.

“Highsmythe, you've got to knock this off.”

“What?” he asked, all kinds of innocent. Baldwin came back to the table, and Taylor swore she felt a hand on her knee before Memphis slid back into the seat, crossing his arms on his chest.

“All set,” Baldwin said. “What's happening here? Did you guys go over the names?”

“No. Memphis would like to know why I became a cop.”

“Oh. That's easy. Her dad.”

“Baldwin.”

He looked at her in surprise. “What? It is, isn't it?” He leaned over toward Memphis conspiratorially. “Taylor's dad isn't the most upright character, if you know what I mean.”

“Baldwin!”

“Is that where you got the scar?” Memphis asked.

Taylor's hand went to her throat. “My God, no. My father may be a crook, but he never laid a hand on me. This was courtesy of a suspect. Baldwin saved my life. It was our first case together.”

Memphis leaned back in his chair. “Isn't that romantic? Well, then, you shouldn't be so fussed about it. My father used to say, ‘The average man bristles if you say his father was dishonest, but he brags a little if his great-grandfather was a pirate.' Time will remember your father fondly, I'm sure.”

Taylor shot him a look. “Is this some sort of British quote, like the upper-class secret handshake?”

“There's a secret handshake? I didn't know. Must be why I'm in the Met instead of loafing around the family estates.” He grinned at her, his blue eyes twinkling with delight. He enjoyed annoying her, she could see that as plain as day. Sam was wrong, so very, very wrong. She wasn't flirting with Memphis, but he was most definitely and without reservation flirting with her. But all the fun had gone out of it since Baldwin had brought up her father; sharing her personal embarrassment with a total stranger snapped her back to the real world.

Memphis toyed with his fork. “I don't know who said it, I just remember the quote. Surely not my father, it was something he read somewhere, I suppose. But it's fitting, don't you think?”

“What, now you're giving me advice?”

“Memphis's father is an earl, Taylor. You're getting
advice on the family dynamic from the Viscount Dulsie, so I'd listen if I were you.” Baldwin gave her a quirky, teasing smile. She sniffed.

“I see. Somewhere down the road, one of my invisible offspring will look back and think what Win has done is romantic, somehow? That stealing and lying and cheating and cavorting with serial killers is a good thing? I hardly think that will be the case. You don't know my father, Memphis. He is not a good man.”

“There must be something good about him. He produced a child who knows right from wrong.”

She looked down at her wineglass. It was something she'd always wondered—was her moral code, her ability to shut down her feelings of family and remorse for the way things could have been a direct cause of Win's actions? How could a man who had no regard for the law produce a child who lived by it?

She finished her wine. “Oh, look at the time. You boys are going to miss your plane if we don't hop to it. Detective Highsmythe, do you need to stop off before we go?”

“Back to proper names already, are we? As you like, Miss Jackson. Yes, I need to grab my bag from the concierge.”

He stood and gave her a mocking little bow. Without saying goodbye, he strode out of the restaurant into the darkened lobby of the hotel.

Baldwin peeled off some cash and left it on the table. They followed Memphis, then turned and exited onto the street. When Baldwin reached for her hand, she pulled it away.

“What's wrong?” Baldwin asked.

She stopped and stared him in the eye, vaguely noticing that the ambient light from the downtown illumination made them smolder. She was too upset to care about that right now. She spoke low, so no one would overhear.

“What are you guys, best friends now? Why did you tell him about my dad? You know how I feel about that. It's…personal. Private. Our private business.”

Baldwin recognized how distressed she was at last, apologized profusely. “I didn't think you'd care. You've never taken issue with it before.”

“This is different. He's a stranger. There's no reason to go telling him sordid details about my personal life.” Her family life was an embarrassment to her, no doubt, but most of Nashville was familiar with the more torrid stories. She knew she was overreacting, and didn't know why.

“Taylor, don't get huffy. I said I was sorry. No one holds you accountable for your dad's actions. Besides, Memphis is one of the good guys.” He stepped to the valet desk, handed over the ticket.

She pulled her hair up into a ponytail.
That's what you think
. Memphis was starting to get to her. She had no idea why she cared about him seeing her in the best possible light. Maybe Sam was right, maybe she was showing off for him. Add in that look of longing tucked deep into the recesses of his eyes…She sighed. Just when things were going so well, she suddenly had to contend with the advances of this posh boy.

And posh was just the word for him. Floppy blond hair, falling into his cornflower-blue eyes. Strong jaw, straight nose, decent teeth. That ridiculous accent, every word strung out from his tongue, pronounced. Good thing she didn't go for light-haired men—for the briefest of moments, she'd felt a ridiculous pull of attraction to his clean good looks. Baldwin had the Black Irish in him, that deep silky hair the color of night and those clear green eyes. Cat eyes. Baldwin was the better looking of the two, bigger and taller as well. Memphis looked more like a very well-kept greyhound.

What in the name of hell are you doing, Taylor?

Baldwin came back to her. He looked at her strangely, like he could read her mind. He could, sometimes. She prayed he hadn't glimpsed too deeply in that thought process.

“Where's Memphis?” he asked.

“I'm not his babysitter. How should I know?” Taylor said.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”