The Cold Room (27 page)

G
avin was lost. The maze of streets was overwhelming, the flocks of people pushing their way in every direction, the sneaker-clad tourists frantically following tour guides who held identifying flowers or flags over their heads so their temporary wards could follow along and not get lost in the crowd. He heard snatches of many languages: Italian, English, German, French, Spanish, Russian. Tommaso hadn't prepared him for the shuffle, the mess. He never envisioned Florence this way. Gavin felt a little panicky. He hated crowds.

The taxi had dropped him at the Duomo, per Tommaso's instructions. Up to this point, the directions had been easy to follow. Land in Rome, take the Pendolino train to Florence, the Santa Maria Novella station. Tommaso had been very clear on that point. “Not Rifredi, Gavin. The ticket will be reserved for you. S.M.N. is a ten-minute walk from the Duomo, but it will be easier for you to take a taxi.”

He had followed the instructions to the letter, and everything was going smoothly until now. From the Duomo—the overwhelmingly large and beautiful neo-
gothic façade with its white, pink and green marble panels stood gloriously in front of him. Gavin couldn't help but stop and crane his neck to look at it all, he'd never seen anything so stunning.

He was supposed to walk south, through the Piazza della Repubblica, then take his first right. Tommaso lived on a tiny side street just off the piazza, Via Montebello. It sounded so easy on the phone, but now Gavin wondered why he couldn't have taken a taxi directly to Tommaso's house. It would have been less confusing.

This is why he didn't travel—armchaired his desires and dreams. Gavin had gotten off-kilter, turned the wrong way somehow, and was surrounded by statues. He stopped, awestruck, by Michelangelo's
David
. It was so huge. He knew it wasn't the original, just a reproduction, but my God. All of the statues, the bronze sculptures, the fountain, were heartbreakingly beautiful. It was all just so Italian.

He found a shadowed corner of the piazza, fumbled in his pocket for the map he'd picked up as he exited the train station. A few minutes of searching and he found where he was, Piazza della Signoria. He regrouped. He needed to go back west, then turn south.

He started on his way. As he crossed the Via Porto Rosso, a man grabbed his arm.

“Tommaso,
bastardi! Che cosa è accaduto ai vostri capelli? Mi dovete i soldi! Dove sono i miei soldi?
” He smiled broadly, clapping Gavin on the back and speaking in rapid-fire Italian. Gavin could tell it was good-natured teasing, but he didn't understand a word the man was saying. He could only focus on one thing. This stranger had called him Tommaso.

The man continued to prattle on, oblivious to the fact Gavin wasn't answering. He walked him along, hand on
his arm, and finally left him with a brisk slap on the back. “
Ciao, ciao. A demani, ciao!
”

Gavin was standing alone in an alleyway. He didn't have any idea where he was, what was going to happen to him. He'd just worked himself into a state when he noticed the address he was standing in front of.

Tommaso's house.

The man thought he was Tommaso. He obviously knew Tommaso, knew him well enough to know where he lived. He was beside himself. He didn't know whether to knock, or ring the bell.

In the end, he didn't have to. Tommaso must have been watching for him, because within moments of his advantageous arrival on his brother's doorstep, Tommaso opened the wooden door.

The dislocation he felt was immediate and overwhelming. It was like looking in a mirror. Tommaso was struck as well; Gavin saw his jaw drop slightly. Then he was enveloped in a bear hug that took his breath away, pulled inside a fragrant hallway. The door shut behind him, casting shadows in the foyer. He smelled rosemary, and wood and the harsh scent of Clorox.

The scents were familiar and alien. He shook his head, trying to assimilate. That's when he caught the fragrant undertone. His heart scudded a happy beat.

Tommaso grasped his hand, looked into their replica eyes.

“I've been waiting for this moment for so long. Come in, little brother.”

T
aylor managed to rest on the Alitalia flight. Memphis was a few rows back, had walked past as she got settled with one of those cocksure grins on his face. At least they weren't seated together.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this exhausted. Baldwin had curled next to her right after takeoff and lost himself in sleep. She followed soon after, woke just as they began the descent into Florence.

The airport was terribly crowded; this was high tourist season for Italy. Florence,
Firenze
, was always a stop on every traveler's list. One of the big three—Rome, Venice and Florence, the city was the gateway to Tuscany, to the very representation of Italy that had entranced travelers for centuries.

They left the gate and were met by a striking man with deep brown eyes and gray hair combed back from a distinct widow's peak on his forehead. He was thick through the shoulders, about five foot eight, wearing a black silk suit. He spoke impeccable but heavily accented English. He zeroed in on them immediately. Taylor
assumed they weren't exactly inconspicuous, even in this sea of foreigners.

“
Buona sera
. Supervisory Special Agent Baldwin, Detective Jackson. I am Chief Inspector Luigi Folarni, head of the Macellaio task force. I will see you to your hotel. Is Detective Inspector Highsmythe with you?”

“Here I am,” Memphis said. He raised an eyebrow at Taylor. “Trying to ditch me?”

“No,” she said. “We would have waited. For a minute.”

“Sorry, but I needed to buzz the office. We've got confirmation on where our boy was staying. Looks like he sublet a flat in Battersea. Inspector Folarni, hello.”

“
Buona sera
, Detective. If you'll follow me, I will get you collected and to your hotel. I am sure you will want to rest after your long flight.”

Baldwin said, “Actually, we'd like to get started.”

“Ah, but that is not possible. Everyone you will need to work with has gone home for the evening.” He trotted along so quickly that Taylor had to stretch her stride to keep up. It looked like Folarni wanted to join his troops and head home. She was used to that—the Italians were wonderful workers, but when the day was over, it was time to decompress. It's what kept their stress levels so low. They could walk away, pick up an investigation the next day. Understandable. They'd been living with the specter of Il Macellaio far longer than she had.

Still, it drove her crazy. She wanted to get on their trail immediately. Baldwin, thankfully, read her mind.

“Chief Inspector,” Baldwin started, but Folarni interrupted.

“Ah,
per favore
, Folarni. All these titles get in the way, I think.”

“Folarni. Can we at least get briefed on where the investigation stands right now?”

Folarni sighed deeply. “I can take you back to my office for a brief time. We have not made very much progress since we spoke last night. II Macellaio has been preying on our streets for many years. Another evening will not make a difference. Wouldn't the lady like to freshen up?”

Taylor started to decline, but Baldwin squeezed her arm.

“Detective Jackson and Detective Highsmythe can see to our rooms. You can brief me.
Inoltre, parlo italiano. Andrà più velocemente questo senso
.”

“Show-off,” Memphis muttered under his breath. Taylor shot him a look.

Baldwin speaking Italian was easier than Folarni speaking English, especially when it came down to the little details. A broad smile crossed Folarni's face. “Ah.
Si. Io capisco. Perfecto. Va bene
.” Taylor had enough Italian to understand Folarni; he was very pleased by Baldwin's fluency.

They exited the building, Folarni and Baldwin speaking in rapid-fire Italian, Taylor and Memphis following behind. Folarni led them to a black four-door Alfa Romeo.

“Nice wheels,” Memphis said.

“Shh,” Taylor reproached him. They climbed in the backseat; Baldwin took the front.

The Amerigo Vespucci Aeroporto was only a few miles north of the center of Florence. They drove down the Viale Guidoni at breakneck speed. One thing Taylor had never gotten used to was the pace on the streets of Italy. It was like New York, with smaller vehicles and more shouting and gesturing.

They were soon in the heart of downtown Florence, and Folarni stopped in front of the hotel that Baldwin had arranged. He bustled out of the car, got Taylor's door, kissed her hand and bid her farewell. Baldwin and
Memphis grabbed the bags and loaded them inside the door for the porter.

Baldwin got back in the Alfa. He and Folarni roared off into the streets.

“Whew. Glad that's over. He drives like a maniac,” Memphis said. “Shall we check in? You can freshen up in my room instead of yours, if you'd like.”

“God, Memphis, give it a rest.” The man was incorrigible, but she smiled at him, shaking her head.

Leave it to Baldwin to secure the best accommodations. He'd gotten them rooms on the Via de Tornabuoni, just off the Ponte Santa Trinita, one bridge down from the Ponte Vecchio. This was the fashion district, the most elegant street of shopping in all of Florence. Legendary names paraded up and down the storefronts along the via—Gucci, Ferragamo, Cartier, Bulgari, Versace, Yves St. Laurent—to name a few. Their hotel was actually nestled into the side of the Strozzi Palace. They were centrally located, and an easy walk to the carabinieri station. Taylor was familiar with the area—she and Baldwin had been here for their pseudo-honeymoon a few months prior.

She ditched Memphis at the front desk. She was tired, and hungry and tingling with anticipation. She tipped the porter when he dropped their bags in their room, washed her face, was ready to get started. It was smart of Baldwin to force the carabinieri chief to talk tonight. At least they'd have a sense of where the investigation stood. Baldwin's fluency had a tendency to open doors; the inspector had obviously been charmed by the prospect as well. Baldwin could speak Italian like a native. One of his many little talents. Taylor had just learned that he was more than conversational in thirteen languages.

She reset her watch to local time—the Tag Heuer dive
watch Baldwin had given her for her birthday last month had sophisticated time-zone features. She made the secondary time read Nashville so she wouldn't be rousing people in the middle of the night. Then she powered up her cell phone and checked in with McKenzie.

It was lunchtime in Nashville, but McKenzie answered the phone immediately.

“Hey! You're in safe?”

“Yes. Here's the hotel information in case you need to reach me.” She read off the numbers. “Where do we stand?”

“The media has made the connection between the Conductor and Il Macellaio, for starters.”

“Damn it.”

“Yeah. They're running with it everywhere. But we've been making progress. The tapes from Radnor Lake show Adler's Prius on the street alongside the west parking lot at 3:00 in the morning. He drove right past the barricade, and then is gone for about twenty minutes. He returns the same way, drives out again at 3:20, and that's it. They don't have any shots of the spot where Leslie Horne was put in the creek.”

“Still, the car is great evidence. Anything else?”

“I talked to the woman from the FBI, Pietra Dunmore? The DNA came back from Manchester. It matches all the rest that we've retrieved. Your idea about the carpet really was a stroke of brilliance, you know that?”

“I think it was his first murder. Adler's, that is. Did you show the six-pack to Hugh Bangor?”

“I did, and he picked Adler out immediately. He was the designer contracted to do the Frist catalog for the Italian Masters exhibit. You were right, he was involved in the local arts scene. Bangor says Adler's head is shaved now.”

“Did you confirm how he knows Adler?”

“Yeah, it was that big party Hugh had for everyone
involved in the exhibit a few weeks back, including the artists and designers setting up the show. Adler was part of the team for the exhibit, he got an invite and came. Considering the fact that Adler has a poster of the Picasso in his living room, I think he was probably inspired to leave Allegra at Bangor's house when he saw the painting. It's the only thing that makes sense. Hugh says they talked about the piece a bit, and hasn't had any other meaningful contact with him.”

Ah. That did make sense. She made a note to tell Baldwin about Adler's shaved head; it must be why the customs agents in Rome missed him. He didn't look like his picture anymore.

“Fabulous work. Can you get the pictures sent to Sheriff Simmons, see if he can show his brother and Marie Bender the photos?”

“I've already done that. I actually have a lot of great information for you. Adler's adopted family is from Manchester. They're dead now, the parents, but he went to high school at Central. Plus, Mrs. Bender said Adler is the one she remembered LaTara being friends with. There was something hinky about his parents, too. They died while he was in high school, right before his eighteenth birthday. Simmons told me it was a fluke accident—a carbon monoxide leak.”

“How convenient. Think he killed his parents?”

“It's a possibility. Regardless, there's the connection.”

She realized she hadn't thought of McKenzie as Just Renn in nearly two days. That boded well.

“That is great work, McKenzie. Thank you for handling all of this.”

“No problem. By the way, Tim also found a pair of Asics running shoes at Adler's house that match the plaster casts from Hugh's house. Mr. Bangor, I mean. And
I talked with the boy who used to live next door, Christopher Gallagher, the one Bangor's partner was convicted of raping? He was at a party in Houston the night we found Allegra Johnson's body. I talked with the restaurant owner who confirmed it. So he's clear. I talked to the head of Riverbend about Arnold Fay, and the consensus is he's on the straight and narrow, doing his time without complaint. I'm comfortable that that aspect of the case is just a coincidence. Bangor and I talked about it further, he said all three of them were completely devastated by the situation.”

“Okay then. Good work. This is a wrapping up in a nice little bow. Now we just need to catch them.”

 

It was almost 9:00 p.m., and Baldwin still hadn't called. Arranging for three additional law-enforcement agencies to be working on Italian soil wasn't going to be an easy task. Taylor was thankful he was dealing with it, and not her. But she was hungry, and restless.

All the restaurants had reopened after their afternoon respites; the cafés had refreshed their supplies of gelato and espresso. She could walk around, find something, or sit someplace. She knew a great little place close by where she could get an espresso and a bite, maybe a bit of wine.

She knew enough about Italy to know that the investigation would be shuttered until tomorrow, that no more work would be done on it after the meetings tonight. They would be able to eat dinner, get some rest, and start tracking the brothers in the morning.

She knocked on the door to Memphis's room. He answered, broke into a wide smile when he saw it was her.

“Signorina!”

“
Buona sera
, Memphis. I'm hungry. Do you want to get something to eat?”

“Yes. I'm famished. Airline food just isn't what it used to be. Shouldn't we wait for your chap?”

“He said he'd be in touch when he was finished. I don't know about you, but I can't wait. I need to eat something to hold me over. Besides, we'll just be around the corner. I know a place. Come on. It's not far.”

They exited the hotel, Memphis tagging along at her side like a happy Labrador. Taylor realized the sun was setting, the shadows lengthening. The summer days seemed to last forever here. She was struck by a thought. She reversed course, grabbed Memphis by the arm to turn him around.

“What?” he asked, but she just smiled.

“Follow me,” she said.

She led him down the block to the Ponte Santa Trinita. The bridge was guarded at all four corners by statues of the four seasons—Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. They didn't have to walk far. The sun was disappearing, flashing off the neighboring bridge, the world-famous Ponte Vecchio. The medieval bridge was one of Florence's easiest landmarks to navigate by, second only to the Duomo, and Taylor recalled its beauty at this particular time of night.

She wasn't disappointed. The view was postcard perfect—the sun's luminous glow turning to fire as it slid into the western horizon, the Arno sparkling and reflecting off the edifice of the Ponte Vecchio, the Vassari Corridor, which connected the Pitti Palace with the Palazzo Vecchio.

Memphis stood next to her and sighed. “Why, Miss Jackson. I'm touched. Our first shared sunset.”

She immediately regretted the gesture. Of course he'd misinterpret her intentions.

Not speaking, she swung away and headed back onto
the Via Tornabuoni. Memphis followed her. They passed the hotel, then turned right and walked through the Strozzi Palace courtyard and into an understated piazza. The aptly named Piazza degli Strozzi was more functional than ornamental, one of many little piazzas tucked away neatly on Florence's side streets. They were usually the best spots for homemade gelato, family-owned stores off the beaten path held treasures for anyone willing to look for them. But Taylor wanted something solid, some crostini or the like, so they got a table on the patio of Colle Bereto.

It was one of her favorite Italian-watching spots—the college students started flowing in around ten in the evening, pre- or post-movies at the theater around the corner, drinking cosmopolitans and martinis. There were plenty of tables now. They got a plate, some nuts and olives to nibble on, and a bottle of a fine Nero D'Avola Taylor remembered. A group of girls settled three tables over, shooting giggling glances at Memphis. She had to admit, lounging back in the chair, his sleeves rolled up, the brown skin of his wrists showing, he did look terribly handsome.