There was static, and then a loud clanging. The scream of a bird rent the air. She had just enough time to think seagull before the phone went dead.
Damn it. She leaned back against the wall, stared down at the tiny screen of the cell phone, chills skittering through her body. What, the Pretender had her cell phone number, too? She bit her lip. When was this going to end?
The phone rang again, and she jumped. When she answered, she didn’t say anything, just listened. The same noises, loud clanging, followed by a deep voice cursing, one that she readily recognized. Not the Pretender. Oh, thank God.
“Fitz? Is that you?”
Pete Fitzgerald, her former number two, was yelling, the background noise nearly drowning out his deep baritone. He was off with his girlfriend, sailing around the Caribbean islands while he decided whether to take the enforced retirement Delores Norris had arranged, or join the lawsuit and get his old job back. Sailing, for God’s sake. That’s what love did to you. It took a perfectly normal cop and put him on a forty-two footer with a rum drink and a bikini-clad cohort. Taylor couldn’t begin to imagine that scene. Honestly, she didn’t want to.
“Taylor?”
“I’m here. Is everything okay?” She was yelling, too, as if that would help him hear her.
“Yeah, think so. Just saw something strange, thought I should tell you about it. How’s the fed?”
“Baldwin’s fine. Working in town for the moment. What did you see?”
There was more squawking, another series of shrill sounds from the gulls. Fitz’s voice was breaking up, the connection getting worse. She plugged her left ear, dropping the Coke cans with a clatter.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you. Where the hell are you, anyway?”
“…Ados.”
“Barbados? Nice work if you can get it. It’s good to hear from you.”
The signal cleared at last, and Fitz came through like a foghorn.
“Yeah. It’s beautiful down here. Listen, just wanted to give you a heads up. There was a guy following us. Gave me the creeps. Tall, tan, super-short jarhead bristle cut. Sound familiar?”
“Quit yelling. Yes, it does. The Pretender looks like that.”
“I know. I saw the composite you and Owens put together.” Fitz was forever calling Sam Loughley by her maiden name. Fitz wasn’t a big fan of change. “This guy was pretty much a dead ringer.”
Taylor went back into the homicide office, leaving the cokes abandoned on the floor. A small frisson of panic started moving through her body. “Tell me everything. I can, well, I don’t know what I can do, but…just tell me what you saw.”
“That’s it, little girl. Don’t have any more for you. Susie and I are docked in port, waiting on a part. Last stop was St. Lucia, last week. Didn’t see him there, so this might just be a coincidence.”
Coincidence. Like she believed that.
“So he followed you around in port?”
“No. He followed Susie. She was looking for some sort of conch to make for dinner, was coming out of a shop. I was watching from the boat, through binoculars. He walked right up to her, bumped into her, apologized, helped her pick up her stuff. Then he looked right at me, and I swear to God the sumbitch smiled. I woulda shot his sorry ass, but he was too far away. Then he strolled around a corner and disappeared. I got Susie back on the boat, but we’ve got a broken raw water pump, are waitin’ for a new impeller, which means we’re stuck here until the damn thing clears customs. Had to ship it down from Fort Lauderdale.”
“Huh? Fitz, you know I’m not a boat person.”
“We got no juice ’cause we can’t cool the engine. We can’t sail until it’s fixed—we got no GPS, no depth finder, none of that. We’re anchored in the harbor, so we’re safe enough, and I’m watching for him. No one can get to us without pulling up next to the boat. I left word with the local constabulary, but they can’t do anything. We’re safe, no worries. He’s probably already long gone. But I just wanted you to know.”
Safe. Like that word could ever be applied to the same sentence as the Pretender.
“You need to check in with me, let me know what’s happening. Now you have me worried, old man. When are you due back?”
“Next week. I’ll let you know if I see anything else. I gotta go, the connection’s for shit on this crappy cell phone. And it’s costing me four bucks a minute. Be good. And don’tcha worry. I can take care of myself.” There was a loud click, and her ear filled with static. She turned her phone off, slapped the cover shut.
Friend, mentor, father figure, Fitz was all these things and more to Taylor. Hitting him would be as close a blow as hitting Baldwin. The Pretender knew that. He was stalking her through her friends.
Rage bubbled into her mind, blackening the edges. One more instance of her life catapulting out of her control.
How had he known where Fitz was going to be? He was obviously keeping tabs on more than just Taylor. And how could he be cognizant of a murder in Nashville while in Barbados?
An itinerary. She went back to her desk, took out her directory. Bob Parks was one of her favorite patrol officers, and a good friend of Fitz’s. She called his cell, and he answered with what she could tell was his trademark grin.
“Loot! How the hell are ya?”
“Wishing I was still a Loot, Parks. I need a favor.”
She gave him the instructions, thanked him and hung up. Parks could hit Fitz’s house, see if anything had been disturbed, while she did her interview with Bangor.
She stared out the window for a long minute, then made two more calls. She got voice mail for both Lincoln Ross and Marcus Wade, left messages asking them to meet her after work. If the Pretender wanted to start playing games, they needed to be wary as well. She called Baldwin too, left him a voice mail. Jesus, where was everyone? She had a brief, horrifying moment imagining that they were all gone, disappeared, then shook it off. That was silly. She didn’t have to worry about them.
McKenzie appeared in the doorway to the homicide offices.
“Um, Jackson? Are you coming? I’ve got food in the conference room, and Bangor is getting antsy. I’ve talked to the chaplain, he can meet us after 3:00 to do a notification. I’m still tracking down the vic’s address.”
She looked at McKenzie, wondered how much warning she should give him. Later, she decided.
Food. Suspect. Food. Suspect. She sighed.
“I’m coming,” she said, abandoning her troubles at her desk.
Hugh Bangor wasn’t anything like Taylor was expecting. And here she’d been telling McKenzie not to make assumptions.
His presence filled the interrogation room with energy. He was in his early to mid-forties, small, dapper and prematurely gray. He jumped to his feet and greeted her with a warm handshake. She was immediately at ease with the man, a dangerous sign. Complacence could get her in serious trouble. But his smile was friendly, his face affable, and she’d spent her whole life reading people. Nothing set off her alarm bells, so she returned the handshake cordially and gestured to the chair for him to sit.
She rattled off the date and time, stated that she and Detective Renn McKenzie were in the room, and what they were there for so the session would be duly documented. She felt a bit like Sam at one of her autopsies.
“Mr. Bangor, I’m Detective Taylor Jackson,” she started.
Bangor interrupted. “I know. I’ve lived in Nashville all my life. We’ve never met, but I’ve always been a fan.”
She bristled, went on the defensive, looked for the hidden innuendo behind his words. Was he joking with her? Had he seen the tapes? Seen her in flagrante delicto all over the evening news?
Bangor sat a little straighter in his chair. “This is being taped, correct? Let me just say, for the record, that I think your treatment has been deplorable, and the chief of police should be indicted for his incredible mismanagement of our police force. You don’t deserve to be back at detective. I thought your demotion was petty and ridiculous.”
Oh, she liked this guy. Immensely.
But she restrained her smile. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
Bangor settled back in his chair with a satisfied nod. “Just so you know where I stand, ma’am.”
“Can you tell me a bit about yourself, Mr. Bangor?”
“I’m a screenwriter. Actually, I’ve become more of a script doctor these days.”
“What’s a script doctor?” McKenzie asked.
“Just what it sounds like, Detective. I take scripts that have potential but aren’t ready to shoot and make them sing. Not to brag on myself, but there it is.”
“What took you to California? A script?”
“Yes. I’ve been working on a piece for a friend, needed to give it a walk-through with the writers. I left last Monday, wasn’t planning to return until this Friday. What exactly happened at my house, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“What have you heard?” Taylor asked.
He raised an eyebrow. “Miss Carol, my neighbor, told me that a young girl was murdered in my home. I’m just sick about it. I don’t know who did it, and I assure you, I can’t imagine why someone would break into my house and leave a dead girl behind.”
“Where were you last night? I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Bangor, but can people corroborate your whereabouts?”
He gestured to a black leather briefcase that sat at his feet. “May I?”
“By all means.”
Bangor rooted in the briefcase for a moment, then brought out a green folder. “This is my travel folder, where I keep all of my receipts. I’ve been on my friend’s dime, and I get a nice per diem, which means I need to keep track of the records for my income tax. I keep everything.”
He handed the folder to Taylor. She opened it and flipped through, speaking aloud to catalog the contents for the record. Bangor wasn’t kidding; he was perfectly covered.
“Restaurant receipts, coded by date, people attending the meal, valet stubs, car-service receipts, all dated for the period in which Mr. Bangor states he was away from home. Wish I could be this organized.” She set the folder on the table. “I’m sure you understand that we’ll still have to check these items out.”
“Of course. I’ve alerted my business manager, and my lawyer, that you’ll be contacting them. I’ve included their phone numbers in that folder. You can keep it, I’ve got copies. Anal-retentive, that’s me.” He laughed, and she fought the urge to laugh with him. Disarming, and charming as Mr. Bangor was, he was still a suspect.
“Thank you for making it easy for us, Mr. Bangor. Tell me, how does a Hollywood screen doctor find himself living in Nashville instead of Hollywood?”
“Who could leave? I’m a native. Born and bred. I’ve been in and out of the house on Love Hill since I was a baby. It was my grandparents’, they built it when they moved to Nashville. My parents moved in after my grandparents passed, and they left it to me when they retired ten years ago to Florida. I renovated and made it my own.”
“And the Picasso reproduction? Did you inherit that too?”
Bangor’s eyebrows went higher, and Taylor noticed the fine shape of them, arching above his brown eyes. His nails were cleaned and buffed, his skin firm and tanned. The haircut was expensive, the clothes very fine. He was a well-kept man. Either the parents had been well-off, or he was good at his doctoring.
“Desmoiselles D’Avignon? Did the…person who invaded my home take it?”
“Not exactly,” Taylor said. “It is a beautifully done piece.”
“It is at that. You have a good eye. There’s a great story behind it. The painting was done by a starving art student who made a great deal of money copying the works of the masters for a very well-heeled New York clientele. People who want the world to think they hold the original. This particular painting was part of a collection owned by the late George Wilson.”
“The philanthropist? I thought he left everything to his dogs.”
Bangor smiled. “Everything but the art collection. He had some beautiful genuine pieces, a Chagall I coveted but couldn’t afford, and some wonderful copies, including the Picasso. They auctioned off the collection, and I bought the Picasso. That was fifteen years ago. I adore art, as I’m sure you noticed. I started collecting when I was in my twenties, bought a small line drawing with my very first screenplay paycheck. Granted, it wasn’t much, but my interests grew from there. I have some originals of my own now. But the Picasso is my finest reproduction piece.”
“How much would you pay for an imitation?” Taylor asked.
“I paid $10,000 for my Desmoiselles.”
“Ten grand for a fake? Wow.”
“It’s a lot of money, I know, but considering the quality and the backstory, I felt it was worth more. This is more common than you know. It’s not black market, but it comes close. There are a number of pieces that make it all the way to auction, provenance intact, that are fakes. It takes a true master to know the difference. That’s why Sotheby’s and Christie’s are who they are.”
McKenzie was scratching notes in his reporter’s notebook. “So where’s the original?”
Bangor smiled at him. “The Museum of Modern Art in New York. It toured through here in an exhibit a while back, but it’s a part of their permanent collection.”
“Who would know about the Picasso, Mr. Bangor?” Taylor asked.
“That it’s a reproduction? Anyone with any knowledge of art would know that, it’s a terribly famous painting.”
“I meant that you have it in the first place.”
“Oh, I see. Well, any guest in my home for the past fifteen years, I suppose. It’s not exactly a secret. Detective, why the interest in the Picasso, may I ask? I heard that there was some damage done to the house, but I haven’t gotten the details. Was the painting desecrated?”
“In a way,” Taylor said, and Bangor sucked in his breath.
McKenzie jumped into the fray. “The painting is fine. The victim was posed like the women in the painting.” McKenzie started to speak again, but Taylor glared at him and he stopped. Jeez, give it all away, why don’t you?
“Posed?” Bangor asked.
Taylor waved his question away. “Right now, Mr. Bangor, we’d like to take you back to the house so you can show us if anything is missing or otherwise disturbed. We can go into the details there.”
Bangor sat forward in his chair and stroked his chin. “You know, about a year ago, I was broken into. The thieves were after cash, they trashed the house but didn’t give the art a second glance. Pity, really. Our criminals are so uneducated these days.”
“You reported it?”
“I surely did. There’s a report on file. I wonder if this might be the same people? Though a year later? Probably not. That was a silly thought.”
“No thoughts are silly, Mr. Bangor. Detective McKenzie will check that out. You never know. If you’d be so kind as to wait for me for a few moments, I have a few things to take care of, then we can run out to the house. Okay?”
“Certainly. Do what you need to do. Could I possibly have a drink while I wait? I’m a bit dehydrated from the plane.”
Shit, the cokes. She’d forgotten them in the hallway. “I’ll have something for you in a jiff. Coffee? Water? Coke?”
“A coke would be great. Diet, if you have it.”
Taylor nodded, then stood. “Detective Taylor Jackson, terminating interview number 2009–1397 with Mr. Hugh Bangor,” she said, then used the remote control to turn off the tape. She stepped out of the room, let McKenzie come out and shut the door before she addressed him.
“Be sure you give him the can, and save it. I want to print him, and get a DNA sample. Chances are he’s going to cooperate with that, but just in case. When you’re done, get moving on the family of the Johnson girl. And McKenzie? Don’t ever offer up details of a crime to a suspect without my okay again, okay?”
“Yes,” he mumbled. “I won’t do it again. I’ll just go get his coke.”
&nb
sp; She watched him walk off, shoulders hunched, and sighed. She didn’t think Bangor had anything to do with this, and knew McKenzie had followed her cues when he misspoke. No real harm done.
Too many things to do. Before she went any further, she needed to load a search into the ViCAP system. It was moments like this that she missed Lincoln Ross. He would have already taken the initiative, plugged in the information, added in parameters that Taylor herself wouldn’t think of, and have the results to her before she’d gone to autopsy.
McKenzie was green, and while she was technically his superior, he was just another detective, like her. It wasn’t like she could give him orders and leave him behind to work on things. He was her partner, needed to be coached and coddled, brought along on everything. Elm’s orders. Damn it.
She stepped into the conference room and retrieved her now-cold barbecue sandwich. She tossed the beans—they’d be gross unheated and she didn’t want to waste time getting to the microwave in their tiny, utilitarian office kitchen—but the pulled pork would be fine.
She took it with her and ate it in the hallway, leaning against the glass case that held the departmental bulletins. When she finished, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and stared at a Missing poster of a thirteen-year-old girl and her baby. The poster had a NOTES section at the bottom stating the girl’s arms were scarred from repetitive cutting. No kidding. Thirteen, with a two-month-old baby? Yeah, there was a good chance that child was completely screwed up, would do anything to get some positive attention. At least her family had filed an MP report; so many families didn’t. Which led her back to Allegra Johnson. Who was missing her?
She jotted down the thought in her notebook’s to-do list: Look through the missing-persons reports for the past two months.
The computer room was housed three doors down from interrogation room one. She unlocked the door, turned on the light, and took the computer out of sleep mode. They all had their personal computers on the desk, but fingerprint searches in iAFIS and requests to the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program had to run through a separate system that was tied to the state and federal databases. Antiquated systems out here in the field, but at least Lincoln had set these computers to go as quickly as was humanly allowed.
The Cold Room Page 9
