The Cold Room (26 page)

T
he table ordered a round, and Wills Appleby suggested Memphis try the lager. Memphis had drunk beer at university, one of those things you do to fit in with the boys, but he'd never truly enjoyed it. He didn't have the heart to mention he'd much rather have a nice glass of cabernet.

The waitress brought their drinks and he took a sip of the lager. There was a surprise. He had to admit, it wasn't too bad. His cell rang, and he saw it was Pen calling. He put the phone to his ear, had just greeted her when Taylor Jackson walked into the room. His breath caught in his throat.

She was smiling, shaking hands, her full lips moving as she moved about the table greeting the team. She shook his in acknowledgment, and then she was gone, being introduced to that infernally tall Kevin Salt, who Memphis liked despite the fact that he had to look up at him. He had to look up to Baldwin, as well. But he and Taylor were exactly eye to eye. He couldn't help but think what that would mean if they were horizontal.

“Memphis? Memphis!”

“Oh, Pen, sorry. Sorry. Got distracted for a moment.”

“A bit of skirt wandered by, no doubt.”

“You could say that. So, where were we?”

Pen had been feverishly tracing down the latest London movements of the man called Tommaso. He listened to her rant with half an ear—so far no one could recall renting to the artist; they were combing the hotels for his name. There were inquiries being made at the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the Saatchi, the Tate Modern, the Tate Britain, anywhere the man might have been working. The witness had fallen through. It would take a little bit of time, she was saying. Just a bit more time.

“Okay then, Pen. Call me when you have something.”

He hung up, turned back to his lager and his soup. To the woman who took his breath away.

The females on the team were greeting the Nashville interloper with good grace. The power had shifted in the room—the boss's woman was there, and she was a force to be reckoned with. Both Charlaine Shultz and Pietra Dunmore were being deferential. Wills Appleby greeted her like an old friend, kisses on both cheeks—of course they'd know one another. Memphis had picked up on the closeness between Baldwin and Wills; they were two peas in a pod. Great minds, drawn together, with a long history. He had chums like that. Too bad they weren't here, maybe he wouldn't feel so fucking out of place.

He scooped a chunk of cheese from his soup. Everyone settled back into their seats, and the conversation became hushed. Now, if he could just turn off his senses, they'd all be better off.

 

Taylor ordered a Leatherhead Lager and a well-done filet. Memphis was stealing glances at her, as if determining if he'd stepped over the line in Nashville.

She shook it off. Stare away, poncy boy. If she didn't
reciprocate, he'd get bored by her soon enough. Though the thought of him flirting with someone else made a bloom of heat tear through her chest. She took in the restaurant's decor to distract herself. The floor was covered in a tartan plaid carpet, the rooms stocked to the gills with every imaginable piece of Marine and law enforcement memorabilia. The walls were covered in military items, the ceiling a swath of donated shoulder patches from every conceivable police agency. The restaurant was named the Globe and Laurel instead of the Marine traditional Globe and Anchor to symbolize the inclusion of the entire international brotherhood of Marines. She liked that. She also realized that the only women in the whole restaurant, outside of a waitress, were at her table. Interesting.

Baldwin pushed his salad plate away. “Taylor, when we're done here, Kevin's going to take the laptop, see what he can find.”

“I'll take it now, if that's okay,” Salt said.

“Of course.” She handed it to him. “Password is DOLLS, all uppercase.”

He went to work immediately, balancing the laptop on his knees, tapping the keyboard at a frenetic pace.

“Taylor, why don't you run through what you found for the rest of the team?” Baldwin was smiling at her. Encouraging.

“Of course.” She wasn't prepared, didn't have any kind of presentation to give. She just laid out her actions, covering everything from the initial murder at Hugh Bangor's house to the victims from Radnor Lake, Manchester and Chattanooga, then went on to Gavin Adler's home in Nashville. How they put together clue after clue to find their killer. They listened, rapt, until she finished.

“Word is Kendra Kelley will live. That's the last that I know.”

Charlaine shook her head. “Wow. That's a hell of an investigation in such a short period of time. Kudos, Detective.”

Taylor nodded her thanks. “We don't have them yet.”

“I've got something, though,” Kevin interjected. “The message board was accessed through a number of different servers. It's going to take me some more time to back trace exactly where—this guy isn't stupid. He's covering his tracks, sending packets through multiple servers. But they all originated in central Italy. There's also another member of the private message board, call sign Necro. I've tracked him to someplace in the Caribbean. He doesn't talk to IlMorte69, who is Tommaso, only to Gavin Adler. His screen name is hot4cold, by the way. Classy guy. Any idea who Necro might be?”

Taylor met Baldwin's eyes. “It couldn't be.”

“I wouldn't put it past him.”

Memphis sat forward in his chair. “Do you mind sharing with the rest of the class?”

Baldwin nodded imperceptibly. Taylor said, “Last month, we had a run-in with a copycat killer in Nashville. He calls himself the Pretender, and he got away. One of my detectives, Peter Fitzgerald, phoned me from Barbados, said he thought he'd seen him down there. If he's been communicating with Gavin Adler, it's entirely possible that he's Necro.”

“Which means we have more murders to look for, if he's really copycatting Adler,” Baldwin added.

“Do you have any idea where they might have met?” Memphis asked.

She shook her head. “Seriously, I've had this information for a few hours at best. We don't know if it's him. It's all speculation at this point.”

Pietra chimed in. “Detective, the DNA samples you sent up all match. I assume there will be more coming from today's scene, and I'm still waiting for the sequencing to finish on the samples from Leslie Horne. But it all looks good so far.”

Salt unfolded himself, holding the laptop to his chest as if it was gold. “Okay. I'll keep working on it. See if I can't track the IP address closer to its origins. Will you excuse me? Charlaine, I need your help, too. We'll grab our meals to go.” He loped away from the table. Charlaine excused herself and followed.

The rest of the meal arrived, the steak perfectly done, and they ate with gusto. But there was a sense of urgency not caused by hunger—they were all ready to get back to work.

“Okay,” Baldwin said. “Wills, now that we know Tommaso and Gavin are working together, what do you think our next moves should be?”

Memphis jumped in. “We need to find out why the Adler boy was adopted, see what his real name is. Look for the parents. If we can find that, we might have a shot at the real name of our Tommaso.”

“That's a good plan,” Wills said.

“But adoption records…that will take weeks to sort through.” Taylor was getting jumpy. “I think we need to get ourselves over there and track them down on foot.”

Baldwin nodded. “I don't disagree. The carabinieri's on that, right now. But Memphis is right, our first step needs to be finding the adoption records. We need real names.”

Memphis finished his steak and went to work on his beer, watching Taylor openly. He set down his empty pint glass and flicked a lazy hand through his hair. “Then let's go back to your offices. I think I know just the place to start.”

T
homas Fielding, also known as Tommaso, also known as IlMorte69, licked his lips.

This moment had been in the works for years. As he bustled around his flat, dusting his paintings, picking up items he'd collected over time, examining them, putting them down, his heart was racing. His brother. His baby brother. Granted, only by two minutes. But his baby brother was going to be here at any moment. Tommaso couldn't wait.

He'd lived in Italy nearly all his life. His parents, his adoptive parents, were both in the military. His dad was an airplane mechanic, his mother a medic. They were wonderful parents. When his father had been transferred to Aviano Air Base in western Italy, above Venice, his mother had been very excited. They brought Thomas to Italy, enrolled him in a local school so he could learn the language, and embraced the Italian version of his name, Tommaso. Dad was a brilliant part of the 31st Fighter Wing, keeping the planes in repair, and Mom spent her days in the hospital. Which meant that after school, Tommaso would be dropped off at the E.R. entrance and
would wend his way through the hospital corridors to find his mother.

He didn't see his first dead body in the hospital morgue. It was his second. His first dead body was his biological mother.

But he didn't want to think about that now.

He and his brother's paths were destined to cross. This was sooner than he anticipated, but that was fine.
Va bene.

Gavin was going to be here any minute. Gavino. His little brother. In Italian, he was the White Hawk. Tommaso couldn't wait. Couldn't
wait
to see him.

T
he four of them rode back to Quantico in silence. After about ten minutes, the driver stopped at a guard station. The car was checked, their credentials verified, then they were cleared. The parade grounds looked vaguely familiar, though Taylor knew she was probably ascribing a mental picture from a variety of movies and pictures and Baldwin's many descriptions.

The car stopped in front of a low office building, about four stories high.

“I thought you labored underground,” she said.

“You watch too much TV. We haven't been underground for several years. They've uncaged us.”

Wills and Memphis walked ahead, giving Baldwin a moment to squeeze her hand. He leaned in close. “We're gonna get them. I am so impressed with all you've done. We wouldn't be half as close to catching them without all your work,” he whispered.

“Thank you. I'm just ready to catch them.”

Within five minutes they were settled back in the conference room. Taylor didn't have time to assimilate much,
but that didn't matter. Baldwin could give her the tour once they had the case solved.

“So, Memphis. Where do we start?” Baldwin asked.

The Brit slid back in his chair, crossed his arms across his chest. “I studied anthropology at Oxford. We did all sorts of analysis about identical twins. I'll wager that if one was adopted, the other was as well. And I recall an article in one of my courses about an adoption agency that was being shut down for unscrupulous practices. One here in America, in New York. They were separating identical twins. Highly unethical.”

Baldwin felt a jolt of recognition. He remembered that; he'd had a case study in law school about the ethics of the situation.

“I know what you're talking about. I just can't remember—”

“Oh, I can. Louise Wise. My mother's name is Louisa, so it rather stuck with me.”

“Louise Wise Services. That's exactly it. Nicely done.”

Baldwin looked at the man in appreciation. That was the best suggestion he'd heard all day.

Wills said, “We have a birthday for one of them, Gavin Adler. September 14, 1980. If that's accurate, it could be the date to start looking at the New York adoption records. But this is such a long shot. Who knows if they were even born in New York? Who knows if that date is even right?”

“It's a shot, though,” Memphis said.

Baldwin stared the younger man in the eye. “Okay,” Baldwin said finally. “Let's go find them.”

 

They were set up, assembly line, she and Baldwin and Memphis and Wills. She was searching the live births, handing them off to Memphis, who cross-referenced the adoption records with the hospital records. Baldwin was
making calls to every name he could find in association with the now-defunct Louise Wise Services, and handing off possibles to Wills.

She'd been combing through online records for an hour, searching for births in New York between 1979 and 1981 with more than one living child. It was laborious, painstaking work. She had to do a new query for every set of male twins she came across. Every time she hit a multiple birth, she noted the record and gave it to Memphis.

Having to use the computer was a blessing and a curse. They could cross-reference more quickly, but Taylor's wrist was getting sore. Kevin Salt had set them up with access into the New York files. She didn't want to ask how.

It was hard to know if they were missing anything, either. Reading on the screen wasn't her forte. Give her hard copies any day.

It was close to 3:00 a.m. and they were making little progress. Baldwin stepped out to make some more coffee, Wills excused himself, as well.

The second the door closed behind them, Memphis said, “I think I may have something here.” Taylor could hear the excitement in his voice.

“What is it?” she asked.

Memphis leaned back in his chair, stretching. His shirt clung to his chest. Taylor forced herself to look away. She wondered about the timing—Baldwin walks out, Memphis finds something.

“Seriously, Memphis, what did you find? Time is crucial. Tick-tock.”

Memphis gave her a look. “You know, Jackson, you're like an Amazon.”

She eyed him suspiciously. If she had a dollar for every man who'd used that come-on line…“Yeah, well, I don't
think I'm gonna be cutting off my right breast so I can draw my gun faster, but thanks for the thought.”

He got up and crossed to her side of the conference table. She sat up straighter, involuntarily. He took the seat next to her, scooted the chair close. He nestled up to her, reached out to touch a strand of her hair. “I can see it perfectly. You'd carry a sword, a broadsword, and slay all the men in your path. Would you slay me, do you think?”

“Are you actually flirting with me?” she asked, half laughing, half…something. She pulled away from him. He was dangerous. Cute, funny, lovely accent, great ass, but none of that mattered to her. Memphis Highsmythe was a player, no question about it. And she'd gotten into serious trouble the last time she fell for a man who was looking for sex.

“What did you find?” she asked, trying to steer them back on course.

“I've found you.” He started to move closer, but she stood up, knocking the chair back in her hurry. She got three feet away and turned back to him. He looked confused. She shook her finger at him, feeling foolishly like a school marm.

“Stop that. Right now. I am not free. Nor do I want to be. I'm engaged to the man you've asked for help, for Christ's sake. We have work to do. I refuse to sit here and have you…whatever it is you think you're doing. Knock it off.
Capiche?
”

He had the good sense not to come closer. He eyed her warily, as if she might explode at any moment.

“You think I'm just after a quick bunk-up, don't you?”

“Bunk-up…oh, I see.” Damn British euphemisms. He was constantly renaming things in that superior, upper-crust accent. It made her want to scream. “Isn't it? Trust me, pal, I'm not the woman you want. There's plenty of
bait for you elsewhere. I'm sure you have a few eager Sloane Rangers waiting for you at home. But I'm off-limits. Don't forget it.” She was breathing heavily, infuriated for no good reason.
Jesus, Taylor. What's got you in such a fuss? All he did was hit on you. No harm, no foul. Right?

Memphis started to laugh. She was half tempted to join him, but his smug smile made her want to hit him. Or kiss him.
Whoa, there, chickie. What in the hell are you thinking?
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, then stood straight as an arrow.

“How does a homicide detective from Nashville know what a Sloane Ranger is?” Memphis asked.

She eyed him suspiciously. “I went to a private school in Nashville. We had a transplant from London. She talked about them.”

“You know, you never answered my question. What, aside from big-bad-daddy issues, drives a graduate of a Nashville finishing school to the life of a detective? Like the power of carrying a gun, do you?”

“What's a viscount doing in the Met?” she shot back.

“Oh, touché. We have more in common than you think. Both born with the proverbial silver spoon in our mouths.”

“That is entirely beside the point.” She softened for a moment. “You don't know me, Memphis. You don't know the first thing about me. I prefer to keep it that way. I have things to do. I'll talk to you later.” She left him in the conference room, went to the Ladies' room on the opposite side of the building from Baldwin's office. Lord knows she didn't want to run into
him
right now.

She locked the door behind her and went to the sink. She splashed some cold water on her face, then stood gripping the porcelain. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. Roused. And
for what? For whom? Some guy she didn't know, didn't want to know. He looked at her like she was a steak. Damn anemic asshole.

So why did she respond to him? She'd felt it, that stirring, and she knew he'd picked up on it. Almost as if he could smell her attraction to him.

“Bah!” she yelled at the mirror. She was letting him get under her skin. Again. And it needed to stop.

When she got back to the conference room, all three men were leaning over the table looking at something. Baldwin turned to her when she entered. His face was a mask, but she could see the excitement in his eyes.

“Oh, good, you're here. Memphis may have found them.”

Memphis was looking at her. She risked a glance, saw nothing threatening. He wasn't stupid. Baldwin was around, so he'd gone back to neutral. She needed to keep him there. Good. Maybe now they could get some work done.

“Tell me,” she said.

Memphis straightened. “Assuming we're correct in our assumptions that we're dealing with Louise Wise Services, there's a record of twin boys being born to a Lucinda Sheppard, 14 June, 1980, in Manhattan. She was married to a chap named Michael Rickards. She was Caucasian, he was of Afro-Carribean descent.”

“Well, that fits. Is there a reason why they put twin boys up for adoption?”

“The parents didn't, actually. The boys were orphaned. Lucinda Sheppard killed her husband, then killed herself. She was a paranoid schizophrenic, had a psychotic breakdown.”

“Wills found the story in the papers. It was all over the news. The boys were alone in the apartment with the
bodies for over twenty-four hours, lying in their crib in full view of the carnage.”

Taylor felt the roaring sense of recognition she often got when a killer's motivation became clear.

“Those poor children,” she said, thinking those poor babies grew up to be lethal, deadly killers. All the sympathy she felt for them fled.

Wills rustled through some papers he'd printed out. “Okay, here's the Louise Wise records on them. According to this report, no immediate family would take them because of the interracial relationship—in addition to their racial divide, Sheppard was Jewish. The boys went into the foster system, then were quickly picked up by Louise Wise. They had been placed by the time they were four months old.”

Baldwin was reading the page over Wills's shoulder. “They were placed in separate homes. They were split up. Louise Wise was the preeminent Jewish adoption agency. They were doing groundbreaking adoptions in the seventies, placing not only Jewish kids, but American Indian and African-American children—Afro-Caribbean to you, Memphis—plus doing studies on the children of people with mental illnesses. The boys were separated, which was something only Louise Wise was doing at the time. The head psychiatrist at Louise Wise insisted asking a family to adopt twins was too much to ask. Nowadays, they'd be drawn and quartered for trying to separate twins, much less identicals, but back then, it was considered a great social experiment. I read about it in med school. It's actually horrifying, what they did. But it fits with the profile.”

“So we know Gavin Adler is one of them. Who's the other?” Taylor asked.

Memphis took the page from Wills. “Thomas Fielding.
Here's the fascinating part. The boys are half black and half white, right? Gavin was placed with a black family who moved to Tennessee. Thomas was placed with a white family, and within a year of his adoption, they were transferred to Italy. His father was a mechanic at Aviano airbase, his mother was a doctor.”

“A doctor, huh? That's interesting. So that's how Thomas got to Italy. How do we know he stayed there?”

Wills was shaking his head. “If he's still there, Kevin will find him. I'll go let him know.”

Baldwin was clapping Memphis on the shoulder. “Great job. All of you. It's time for some sleep. We leave in three hours for Italy.”