The Cold Room (5 page)

The odds that one of them was her suspect…well, she never assumed. She would wait for the results of the investigation, let the evidence be her guide.

She'd talked to the neighbor, Carol Parker, had gone at her hard to make sure nothing was missed. The woman sat on her couch, hefty thighs encased in brown knit firmly pressed together, feet flat on the floor, her round face white. She held the Siamese cat from next door, stroking the fur obsessively as she relayed her actions during the past few days house-sitting. No, she hadn't noticed any cars today, she'd been at work. No, she didn't realize anything was amiss until after she'd fed the cat and turned to leave. No, she couldn't remember if she'd heard
music, but the owner usually left some sort of noise playing, a television or a radio, for the cat, so she wouldn't have thought it strange. She thought she'd turned the alarm on when she left the previous day, but might have forgotten. No, she didn't remember touching anything but the front door and the cat's dish; she'd seen the body and run.

Taylor went through her every move, then gave up after twenty minutes. The woman didn't have anything that would be of use to them tonight. Maybe in the morning, when the shock of the evening wore off, she'd be able to recall anything that seemed out of place. She had given Taylor the name and cell phone number of the house's owner. His name was Hugh Bangor, and Taylor left him a voice mail asking him to call her as soon as he received the message. Parker said he was in Los Angeles, but didn't know where. If that were the case, it would certainly be tomorrow before he'd be able to come home.

He was in for quite a reception—Taylor planned to interrogate him extensively. Though the neighbor was adamant that Bangor was a great, stand-up guy, it's not every day that a dead body was arranged so artfully in your living room while you were conveniently out of town. He was certainly a suspect.

Taylor wandered through the house one last time, assimilating the scene. A fine black film covered all available surfaces. The house had been dusted for prints and many exemplars had been taken, including the magnificent palm print on the CD player. She'd love to get lucky, to get the prints into the system and get a match tomorrow. The victim had been printed as well, and her exemplars would be inputted into the statewide iAFIS database to look for a match. The integrated automatic fingerprint identification system was strong and quick, and could
give them an answer within minutes if a match was located.

Taylor walked to the glass coffee table. Nothing unusual—coasters, an oversize art book on Spain and a
catalogue raisonné
of Picasso's life work. She used the tip of her pen to spin the book around toward her. Baldwin had mentioned that postcards had been left at the Macellaio crime scenes, postcards of the painting the killer was imitating. Well, this monograph of Picasso's work wasn't a postcard, but it might be a good substitute. She bagged the book, just in case.

Despite the confusion when she first arrived, Taylor was comfortable that the scene had been managed, that they hadn't missed anything. She stopped in front of the now-ruined column, which looked like a freshly sawed mangrove root. She turned in a circle, then went to the door, closed it behind her, and sealed the scene.

Taylor walked out onto the porch. Simari had just left, Max sleeping peacefully in the back of the cruiser. Just Renn had packed it in, too, as had the rest of the crime-scene techs. All that was left was the occupied car of the patrol officer who would assure the scene wouldn't be disturbed overnight by kids or vandals, and a Channel Four press van. Taylor was annoyed at their presence. Couldn't they edit their package back at their little castle on Knob Hill? As if they'd heard her thoughts, the engine revved and the van slid away into the night.

And Baldwin, of course, sleeping peacefully in the front seat of the unmarked. Poor guy, he was tired enough to crash in her car. She needed to get him home.

It was a pleasant night. Morning. Whatever you called those dim predawn hours, the deepest part of the night. The woods were alive, crickets and cicadas competing for air time, the blackness of the night almost sultry. A calm
had settled over Love Circle. The chaos had been replaced by nature's serenity.

Taylor took a deep breath, felt some tranquility slink into her shoulders. It was the evidence they hadn't found that disturbed her. A knife through the heart should be a bloody mess. Taylor had talked briefly to Sam, who promised to handle the autopsy personally in the morning. Taylor wanted to witness, and wanted McKenzie to accompany her. He'd paled when she told him, but nodded stoically and promised to be there. This would be their first postmortem together, and Taylor wasn't sure what to expect from him.

Either way, it was time to go home. She stifled a yawn, waved to the patrol, and got into the car. Baldwin woke, smiled sleepily at her.

“Sorry it took so long,” she whispered, then leaned over and kissed him. He kissed her back, hungry, and it took all of her control not to throw her arms around him and slide into the backseat. She disengaged herself, laughing. It had been too long.

“Let's go home.”

“I think that sounds wonderful.” When he reached over and took her hand, she was struck by the full circle she'd come tonight. First love to true love on Love Hill. Not a bad life's work.

She drove down the hill one-handed, listening to the dispatch crackle—“10–83, shots fired, repeat, 10–83, 490 Second Avenue, Club Twilight. Officers please respond.”

Shots fired on Second Avenue had practically become a daily standard. Let someone else worry about that. The B-shift homicide team was responsible for these overnight calls. She just needed to make it home. She was tired, no doubt, but her mind was whirling. The same word kept winding through like the loop of the Dvorák piece.

Another. Another. Another.

T
he house looked barren when she pulled into the driveway. She'd neglected to leave the front lights on—of course, she'd expected to be home hours ago. Baldwin had fallen asleep again on the drive; she hated to wake him, but didn't have any choice. She shook him lightly and he opened his eyes with a yawn.

“Sorry, babe. We're going to have to go in through the front, I don't have the garage door opener. I left it in my truck. I hate bringing the unmarked home.”

“Okay. Yeah,” he murmured.

They got themselves inside the house. She'd forgotten to turn the alarm on again, and Baldwin gave her a chastising look after he armed it.

It was past 3:00 a.m. Though Baldwin could sleep in, Taylor would have to be up in a few hours to start a fresh day. Her newly demoted status meant she had much less freedom in setting her own hours, the biggest chafe of all. She was expected to be in the office at 8:00 a.m. and work through to 3:00 p.m., but so far, she'd never had an actual 8:00–3:00 day.

Setting hours for a homicide detective was a moot
point. You catch a murder at 2:45 p.m., you're on until you've cleared the scene and the paperwork is done. As a lieutenant, she had the luxury of letting other people do the work and report their findings to her. That part of her career was temporarily on hold.

Baldwin wavered against her shoulder; he was asleep on his feet. She brushed a kiss against his lips and sent him up to bed.

Elm. How in the world had Mortimer managed to make lieutenant? He was going to be a difficult man to deal with, she could see that as plain as day. Cranky, nasty, like an ill-tempered yappy little dog. Insubordination. Yes, she probably should have bit back that last comment, but really, how big an idiot could you be? The officers on the metro police force received endless training. Hell, even the most amateur forensic enthusiast with a working knowledge of crime television and fiction would know not to make such freshman mistakes.

She dropped her weapon and badge on the counter, pulled her ponytail holder out, letting her hair cascade down her back. She opened the wine fridge, took out a bottle of Masciarelli Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. She poured a glass, put the bottle on the counter, grabbed a handful of grapes from the fruit bowl, nibbled a few and chased them with a healthy gulp of wine. The message light was flashing on the answering machine, four new messages. She hit play, then stood in front of it, left arm draped against the wall, her forehead on her forearm, the wineglass by her side, listening.

A political pollster. Delete.

A reminder that she had a dentist appointment next week. She left that one, just in case she forgot.

Baldwin, his deep voice filling the room. Just letting
her know he was in early, that he loved her, and planned to ravish her as soon as they got home. Fat chance of that.

She replayed it twice, a smile on her lips. She took a sip of wine and waited for the next one.

There was silence, then static. A chill moved up her spine, she stood straighter. Then a high-pitched voice, almost childlike. “Not. Me.”

The click that followed made her jump. Her heart began to race.

She set her wine down on the counter. The caller ID showed the last number who'd called as Unknown Name, Unknown Number. She hit star sixty-nine for an automatic redial, but a quick beeping told her that it wasn't going to work without the correct area code.

Damn. She played it back three times, each time feeling a fresh wave of chills whip through her body. Part of her wanted to blow it off, assume that it was just a wrong number. But her instincts were on fire. She'd never heard the voice before, but she knew exactly who that was, and what the message meant.

He called himself the Pretender. He'd been a disciple of a serial killer in Nashville known as Snow White. Snow White had been dealt with, but the Pretender had slipped through the net. Every once in a while, he reached out to her. As recently as last month he'd made his presence known in Nashville, taking care of a pesky threat to her security. In a decidedly gruesome fashion, at that. He'd left what Baldwin termed a “love note” anchored to the dead man's chest.

What a chance to take, calling her at home. The Pretender wasn't careless, that much she knew. There had been a trap on their line for the past couple of months, but it would take more than a three-second call to trace.

The message freaked her out on two levels. One, the
simple fact that he was still watching her made her toes curl. He was close enough to know about the murder scene tonight, and that was exceptionally unsettling.

Two, her instincts about this evening's murder were right on. The ritualistic posing, the secondary crime scene, all pointed to an organized offender who had done this before. And would most likely try to do it again.

Baldwin needed to know. After her run-in last month with the assassin the Pretender had so unceremoniously murdered, she didn't hesitate. She ran up the stairs and flung herself on the bed. He jumped up with a snort.

“I'm not entirely dead to the world, woman. I thought you'd never come to bed. Come here and let me—”

“He called.”

Baldwin stopped, his hand frozen on Taylor's thigh. “Huh?”

“Our boy. He called the house and let me know tonight's crime scene wasn't his.”

She didn't have to explain further. Baldwin knew that the Pretender was out there, waiting to strike, waiting for the perfect moment to catch them off guard. Every murder they worked, they were forced to stop and think about him. He preyed on their minds.

Baldwin's rage eliminated all traces of sleepiness, palpable and deadly. The more controlled his voice, the angrier he was. This was as tight as she'd ever heard him. “He called the house.”

She didn't know which scared her more, the constantly evolving relationship with a mass murderer, or the rigid fury in Baldwin's voice.

“Yes. At least, I assume it's him. He left a message. It said, ‘Not me.'”

She heard Baldwin breathe deeply, mastering his emotions. “Son of a bitch. Let me hear it.”

They made their way downstairs. “I wouldn't worry too much,” she said. “It wasn't what I'd term threatening. I imagine when he's ready to strike, he's going to have a blast setting the stage.”

“That's exactly what I'm afraid of. And you let me judge for myself. You need to stop downplaying this. He's dangerous.”

He sounded so possessive, so intense, that it felt like he had stopped her on the stairs and slipped his arms around her body. Amazing how even his voice made her feel protected. Not that she needed protecting, of course, but it was nice knowing she had a fallback position.

In the kitchen, Baldwin replayed the message several times, then made a call, to Quantico, she figured, to see what the trap showed. She took the wine and went into the living room, booted up the laptop, retrieved the cord for the camera, and uploaded the pictures from the Love Hill crime scene. Busy work. Something to take her mind off that voice, the crawling terror that pervaded her senses. Despite what Baldwin thought, she did take the Pretender seriously. She dreamt about him. She caught herself looking over her shoulder, wondering if he was watching her. She'd made some changes to her routine to try and throw him off, but if he was mailing her letters and calling her at home, none of that mattered. He knew where she was, all the time. He knew where she slept, where she was most vulnerable. She had the brief urge to suggest that they move, but it wouldn't matter. The Pretender was far too clever for his own good.

“Damn,” she whispered. She took a drink of the Masciarelli and willed her stomach to stay put. She needed a distraction, and the computer was ready. Baldwin had installed an e-mail program directly into her photo well. She selected the twenty or so pictures she'd taken and sent
them to her work e-mail address so they'd be there fresh for the picking in the morning.

When the files finished uploading, she opened the slide show and scrolled through them, slowly, recreating the sense of the scene in her mind. The music. Fishing line. The Picasso book. A very posed corpse.

Not. Me
.

She shook it off, forced the voice from her head. The crime-scene pictures were in vivid color, but they didn't capture the intensity she'd felt at the scene. This murderer was sending them a very clear message. If she could only decipher it before he felt compelled to tell them again.

Baldwin came and sat next to her, rubbing her leg through her jeans, then inserting his hand into the opening and running his warm fingers delicately up the back of her calf. It made her shiver.

“Now that you're awake…you mentioned the postcards left at the Macellaio crime scenes? I bagged a Picasso monograph that was on the coffee table. I'll ask the owner if it's his—it might have been left by the suspect.”

“That's a great thought.” He grew silent. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“For what?” she asked.

“I can't keep you safe from him.”

She sighed. “You do that every time you look at me, Baldwin. And don't you forget it.” She kissed him, and her heart pounded in a much more enticing way. He tugged at the button on her jeans, slipped her arms out of her shirt. She wrapped herself around him. It didn't take long. It had been a while for them, and they were both anxious to make the connection. There would be plenty of time for candles and music; right now, all she wanted was to feel Baldwin inside her, to remind her that she was alive. His beard made the insides of her thighs feel red
and burned, and she got carried away and raked his back with her nails. The depths of her passion for him never ceased to surprise her. She'd never felt so totally and completely in lust and in love at the same time.

Breath ragged, they clung together on the couch. Baldwin fell asleep in her arms, and she smiled into his dark hair. God, it was good to have him home.

She reached out a hand and managed to get her wine. Debated slipping upstairs into the pool room and having a game, think through the night's work. She'd have to get up in a few hours anyway. Almost reluctantly, she set the wine on the table and closed her eyes, let her breathing deepen and match Baldwin's. There would be plenty of time to deal with monsters in the morning.