J.T. Ellison

by The Cold Room (v5) (epub)

  She turned her attention to the ViCAP pages.

  The first search string had showed up several art thefts in Davidson, Williamson and Wilson counties, but nothing that seemed linked with their case. She discarded that report for the moment and moved on to the next.

  The second search yielded some promising results. She’d set the parameters to gather anything that might be remotely related to art, sculpture and classical music, and the case she remembered from Manchester, Tennessee was on the list, as well as three others. Her heart skipped a beat. There might be a pattern here. She set the pages aside and went to the third search, the one with cause of death as starvation.

  There were several cases that matched this description—mostly attributed to elder-abuse cases from various long-term care facilities. But on the fourth entry, she felt the excitement begin to build. It was a case from Chattanooga, one year earlier. She laid the two ViCAP searches side by side. The Chattanooga case had several elements that were comparable to the Manchester case—music playing at the scene and the victim profile, a thin black female. The Chattanooga COD was starvation, while the Manchester victim was drowned, but there was enough there for Taylor to feel they may be related.

  Now she had three cases with exceptional similarities. One in Nashville, one in Chattanooga and one in Manchester. Jesus.

  She kept going through the files, looking for anything of note, something out of place. In the end, she had a total of six cases that she thought were worth looking into, all scattered across the state of Tennessee. She knew in her gut several of them wouldn’t pan out, but the facts made chills run down her spine. Three were most likely linked. And the related cases would wreak havoc on Baldwin’s theory that II Macellaio had just come to the United States. Unless he was flying back and forth…oh, this was crazy. She decided to approach the cases with no preconceived notions. Let the evidence and the investigation tell her where to head.

  She called the case officers for the six cases she’d pulled and requested their files. She was met with polite enthusiasm—free assistance was always wanted, especially if it would clear a case. Two were solved; she put those aside. The Manchester case was being run by the Coffee County Sheriff’s office.

  Sheriff Steve Simmons was more than happy to have her help, even suggested she take a trip down to look at the case materials in person. She told him she was hoping he’d say that, she’d be happy to come, would be bringing McKenzie along. It would only take an hour to drive down to Manchester. She scheduled an appointment with him for the morning. He confirmed some of the details before he signed off—yes, the victim was black, yes, there was classical music playing at the scene, no, there were no suspects. Taylor felt the excitement rise in her chest. Leads were all good things.

  Tim Davis entered the homicide offices, stuck his head around the wall that led to her desk. She waved him in.

  “Hey, Tim. What do you have for me?”

  He sat in a rolling chair to the left of her, at the desk of one of the B-shift detectives. “The palm print matches the exemplars from the home owner. But we got a hit off one of the prints we lifted from the Picasso monograph—to a sex offender we’ve got locked up.”

  “Locked up?” she asked.

  “Yep. He’s in Riverbend, doing three to five for child rape.”

  “Hmm. How long has he been in?”

  “A little over eight months.”

  “So no chance the print was left last night.”

  “Nope.”

  “Bangor mentioned a break-in a year ago.”

  “That’s within the realm of possibility. It was a little smudged, I had to fume it because it was so old, but there were enough points to match easily.”

  “So we have what could be a year-old fingerprint. What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Arnold Fay.”

  “Looks like we need to have another chat with Mr. Bangor. See if he knows this Arnold Fay character. What else?”

  “There’s a lot of random DNA, but that’s more than likely the home owner’s. It’ll take a while to sort out. The knife was clean, so was the fishing line. Thirty-test, manufactured by Berkley, a brand called FireLine Crystal. I’ve requested all records of orders for the past three months, but it’s sold in every sporting shop in Middle Tennessee, so that probably won’t help us. We plastered four different shoe impressions. The ones closest to the house are from an Asics-brand running shoe and a pair of Timberland climbing boots. Find me a suspect, I’ll be able to able to match his shoes, at least.”

  Taylor thought about that for a minute. How many footprints might have been disturbed by the team responding to the murder? She pushed that away. What was done was done.

  Tim was playing with a piece of paper. “There was something else. The Picasso monograph? There was a page missing from the back of the book.”

  “Missing. What do you mean?”

  “I brought it, I’d like to show you. It may have nothing to do with this at all, but it seemed strange.” He put the large book on her desk, then slit the seal on the evidence bag. Taylor could see the smudged fingerprint that he’d been talking about. Tim flipped the book open.

  “See this, right here? It looks to me like a page was cut out of the back.”

  Taylor ran her finger along the sharp edge of the thick, glossy paper. It had been cut, close to the spine. If they hadn’t collected the book, if Tim wasn’t as careful and meticulous, they’d easily have missed it.

  “What was here?” she asked. “What was on this page?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Taylor fingered the edge of the paper again. She flipped through the book to see if she could tell what the mysterious missing page might hold, but couldn’t come to any conclusions. Tim sat quietly at her side, letting her think.

  Bangor’s house was loaded with books, the built-in bookshelves crawling with tomes on every conceivable subject. And he had more coffee-table books. Was this an anomaly specific to this book, or something he did to all of his titles? Or was it something their killer had done? She smiled at Tim.

  “Great catch, man.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know what it means, but it struck me as odd.”

  “Might be nothing, might be everything. I’ll tell you what. The scene has a ton more books just like it. What do you think about going back out there and pawing through a few of them, see if you can find any torn pages?”

  “I’m already on my way. I’ve called the home owner, a Mr. Bangor? He seems very nice, said for me to come on. He said he’d start looking, too. Maybe we’ll find something.”

  “Tim, you’re the greatest. Call me as soon as you know, okay?”

  He left a packet of information for her and took off.

  She retrieved her voice mail—Lincoln and Marcus would meet her at Rumba at 6:00 p.m. She glanced at her watch. She could just make it. Baldwin would be joining them by 7:00 p.m. He was finishing a project.

  She called Sam and left her a message about the evidence found so far. She told her about Tyrone Hill and Allegra Johnson’s business relationship, and about the fingerprint match to Arnold Fay, just in case that would be relevant later on. Nothing to get excited over yet, but each piece would play an important role. Besides, Sam was a spitfire about the details. She wanted to be kept in the loop about everything, no matter how minute, because you never knew how it related to the autopsy. Taylor understood that desire. She felt the same way.

  Elm’s door was open, but no one was inside. Good. She’d typed up two brief lines to sum up her day—Autopsy & Notification on Love Circle victim, Allegra Johnson; Interview with home owner, Love Circle, Hugh Bangor—and left them on his desk.

  That would just have to do.

  The drive up West End was quick. She pulled into Rumba, a fusion satay grill, dreaming about a caipirinha. It was one of her favorite restaurants in town—Cuban, South American, African, Caribbean, Malaysian and Indian influences all met, mixed and got a little tipsy on the world-class rums. She v
aleted the truck, went into the cool, dark restaurant.

  The boys were already there. She felt the grin spread across her face. Man, she missed them. It had only been five weeks since their dislocation, but it felt like much more.

  Marcus Wade nearly knocked her off her feet with his hug. His brown hair was too long, kept falling in his eyes. When he released her, Lincoln Ross did the same, openly wrinkling his Versace suit. He was still sporting the shaved head and close black goatee. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he looked dangerous. Just seeing his gap-toothed grin made her happy. She stepped back from them, a bemused smile on her face.

  “That was quite a reception. You two look great.”

  Lincoln shook his head. “You have no idea how much we miss working with you. It sucks out here in the precincts.”

  Marcus nodded. “South isn’t exactly where I thought my career was going, you know? Estoy aprendiendo hablar español.”

  “And butchering it. Good grief, Wade, where the hell did you get that accent? Speedy Gonzales? You’re learning some bueno Spanish there, my friend.” Lincoln jostled Marcus, who just shook his head.

  “Whatever. You come down and try it, wiseass.”

  Smack in the heart of the South district was little Mexico. Crimes there often went unsolved because the residents were afraid to talk to the police. Most of them were illegals, though with Nashville’s lax stance on deportation, getting caught didn’t necessarily mean getting sent home.

  The hostess, a pretty co-ed with a lip ring and spiky blond hair, held up three fingers, questioning.

  Taylor said, “Four of us. One’s still coming.” The girl led them to a table in the back of the restaurant. The table was at an angle, so none of them had their backs to the entrance. It was one of the reasons they chose to eat here.

  They slid into place, Taylor alone on one side, Lincoln and Marcus on the other. They placed their drink orders and asked for cheese-stuffed naan and flatbreads, then waited for the waiter to leave. He deposited waters for them, then gracefully disappeared.

  “So how’s your new boss?” Lincoln asked.

  “Terrible,” Taylor answered quietly. “He’s a mess. Administrative, all the way. A total jerk, too. He leaked one of the details we were trying to hold back about the murder last night. With any luck, he’ll blow himself up without any help from me. Either of you talk to Price lately?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Me, neither. All I know is the case for our reinstatement is coming along. Not to skip the niceties, boys, but here’s why I wanted to meet. Fitz called me this afternoon.”

  “How is he? Ever coming back?” Lincoln sounded melancholy. She knew her boys weren’t at all happy with the way things had shaken out. They’d been working as a cohesive unit for three years, each relying on the other’s strengths. They were a team. To think about that symbiotic relationship in the past tense hurt everyone.

  Taylor patted Lincoln’s hand. “He says he is. But he’s in Barbados now, stuck in the water without some sort of pump thingie. He thinks he saw the Pretender on shore. Said he ran into Susie—literally, knocked her down—then took off.”

  They both raised eyebrows. Lincoln asked, “What the hell would the Pretender be doing in Barbados? Is he following Fitz?”

  “That I don’t know. I can’t understand the point of that. And it’s not definite. It could be just a fluke, someone who just looks like him.”

  Marcus looked her straight in the eye. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  She weighed her words carefully. “He reached out to me, too, left me a message on my home voice mail. Let me know he wasn’t to blame for the murder I caught last night.”

  They both went on alert. “He called you?” Lincoln asked, incredulous.

  “Yeah. Baldwin’s already chasing it down.”

  “Do you have a unit on you?”

  “No. And I want to keep it that way. I can take care of myself. It’s y’all I’m worried about.”

  “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.

  Fourteen

  It 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.