The Cold Room

by J. T. Ellison

  “Nothing much yet, sir. We’re only a day in. But we have some things we want to look at.”

  “God, don’t call me sir. It makes me feel old.”

  “Okay. Listen, we need to talk to you about something we’ve found. Do you know a man named Arnold Fay?”

  Bangor paled. “Why do you ask?” he choked out.

  “So you do know him,” she said.

  Bangor nodded and wrapped his hand around his throat. “Arnold and I haven’t spoken in a very long time.”

  There was something in his voice, his gestures, which made her immediately suspicious.

  “Are you sure?”

  Bangor took a long drink of his whiskey, emptying the glass, then went to his bar and refilled the lowball from a crystal decanter. He came back to the living room and sat on the couch, a decisive look on his face.

  “Yes. I’m sure we haven’t spoken for at least five years.”

  “We found his fingerprint on the Picasso monograph that was on the table.”

  Bangor visibly deflated.

  “I haven’t told you the whole truth.”

  Taylor crossed her arms, waiting.

  “The break-in I mentioned? I know who it was.”

  “Arnold Fay, I presume?” she asked.

  “Yes. He stole as much money as he could, but left the Picasso monograph as a…present.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Bangor sighed deeply. “Arnold was my partner. The one I told Detective McKenzie died of AIDS. I wish that were the case. He’s dead to me in my heart, anyway. It’s just much easier to tell people he died than admit the truth. That he…I can’t even bring myself to say it.”

  “Molested your neighbor’s boy,” she finished for him.

  “Christopher. Yes. We’d already ended our relationship when he started up with Chris. I just didn’t have the heart to kick him out. I wasn’t here half the time, anyway. But when all this happened—he claimed they were having an affair. Like a thirteen-year-old boy is capable of making a decision that momentous. I knew in my heart there was no way it was consensual. Honestly, it’s a period I’d rather forget. He left the book to say he was sorry for taking the money. I didn’t have the heart to throw it away.”

  “I’ve found something,” Baldwin said. He brought a book to her, another Picasso monograph.

  Bangor smiled. “Picasso is my favorite,” he said, simply.

  She set the cup down, pulled a latex glove out of her pocket, slipped it on her right hand, and turned the Picasso catalogue raisonné to face her. Tim had joined them now—all three men watched her expectantly as she flipped the book over and opened the back cover.

  Another missing page. Just a few millimeters of hard-edged paper nestled deep within the book’s binding. The cut was barely perceptible. It must have been done with a razor, maybe an X-Acto knife. The edge was neat and clean. Unless you were looking for it, you’d never guess that a page was missing.

  “It’s a better calling card than a postcard, I’ll tell you that,” Baldwin said.

  “Do you think that the killer might have removed the pages from these two books? Why?”

  “That’s an excellent question, Mr. Bangor. Do you have any more of these?”

  “I do.” He went to the bookshelf, pulled down two more large books. “I have four Picasso monographs in my collection. These are early ones that I bought years ago. The one you’re holding, Detective, I bought in New York two years ago. It was the catalogue raisonné for the latest Picasso exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. The one my friend left me is the fourth, and it’s also relatively new.”

  She flipped through the books. Every page was intact.

  “So two of your four Picasso books have been defaced. We need to figure out what was so important on those two pages.”

  She went to the bookshelf, took down another monograph, this time of Whistler. She brought it to the table, turned to the back. This book was intact, and she saw what was probably missing from the Picasso book. A copyright page—with the names of the designers, the printing, where it was printed. All things she could use to move the investigation forward. The mood in the room changed from curiosity to intensity in a fraction of a second.

  Was this the work of their killer? And what was he trying to say?

  “This is a different signature than what I’ve seen before,” Baldwin said.

  “It’s a mistake,” Tim said, a rare smile lighting up his normally somber features.

  Baldwin nodded in agreement. “If it is the killer, it’s a miscalculation. There’s something he wants to obscure on those pages. Something vitally important that he didn’t want us to see.”

  Taylor sat back on the sofa, stripped off the glove. Tim took the second monograph into evidence. She took a sip of the chai, then asked Bangor, “No chance you have another copy stashed away, is there?”

  “Nope. Sorry. I only brought the one home from New York.”

  “We’re going to have to take it with us, test it for trace. See if we can’t find some prints or something.”

  “What do you think might be so significant on the copyright page, Detective?”

  Taylor smiled at Baldwin, they shared a moment of hope. She turned to Bangor.

  “Copyright pages have names. Maybe our boy’s is on it.”

  Fifteen

  Taylor couldn’t help feeling excited. Breaks were always a good thing.

  “Mr. Bangor, do you have a phone book?”

  “Of course. Let me get it.”

  “Calling the bookstores?” Baldwin asked.

  “Oh, yeah. They should still be open, it’s only 9:30 p.m. With any luck, one of the downtown stores will have it in stock. Fingers crossed.”

  She took out her notepad and transcribed the title of the book. Bangor brought her the yellow pages, and she flipped open to the Bs.

  “Bookstores, bookstores…okay. Borders on West End and Davis-Kidd in Green Hills are the closest. Mr. Bangor, would you like to take the first pick?”

  “Call Davis-Kidd. They have a great art section. And please, call me Hugh.”

  “Okay, Hugh. Davis-Kidd it is.”

  She dialed the number, got a recording. She hung up and dialed it again. This time, a gruff voice greeted her.

  She told him what she was looking for. He put her on hold for a few minutes, then came back and said yes, they did have one copy. Would she like him to reserve it?

  She said yes, gave him her name and hung up.

  “Shall we?” she said to Baldwin.

  Bangor saw them to the door.

  “Detective, may I ask a favor?” he said.

  “You can ask anything. Whether I can grant it is another story.”

  “Do you have to tell Detective McKenzie about Arnold?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to, yes. Why?”

  Bangor’s face fell. “Oh. That’s too bad. I didn’t want to tarnish my image with him. He seems like a very nice young man.”

  It was almost 10:00 p.m. before they got to Davis-Kidd. They got stopped at all the red lights; the signals on Hillsboro Road weren’t sequenced properly, an issue Metro Public Works was continually revamping. Taylor was half a second from pulling out her flasher when the light at Woodmont finally turned green. They entered the Green Hills Mall, found parking spots in the first row, right in front of Davis-Kidd. At this time of night, most of the patrons of the mall had gone home. It was pleasantly deserted.

  They hustled to the door just as an employee started to throw the bolt. He shook his head, so she badged him, resting her shield against the glass. That got his attention. He opened the door and allowed them in.

  “I’m Detective Jackson. I called about a couple of Picasso monographs? The Complete Works of Pablo Picasso and Picasso, the Early Years.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Follow me. I’ve got the Complete Works at the desk. Didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  He stepped around the counter. Taylor and Baldwin waited. And waited.
The clerk finally popped his head back up and handed over a thick book. Taylor took it greedily, and felt her excitement fade just as quickly.

  “Damn. This isn’t the same one. Same title, but not the same book.”

  “Oh,” the clerk said. “Sorry. That’s the only one we’ve got. Do you know the publisher of the one you’re looking for? I can try to order it for you.”

  “I only know what it looks like. There is a second title, too.” She handed him her notebook. “Can you pull up anything that has these titles and let us look at the covers?”

  The boy glanced at his watch. “Yeah. We need to be quick, though. I need to close up and go get my daughter from the sitter. Wife’s out of town on business. You understand.”

  He motioned them behind the counter, plugged the title into the store’s database.

  Amazing. There were at least twenty catalogue raisonnés with matching titles. But halfway down the page, she saw the right ones.

  “There,” Baldwin said just as she pointed to the screen.

  The clerk clicked on the cover. “Oh. Bad news. They’re both out of print. Have been for about a year.”

  Taylor bit back the surge of frustration. “Any idea where we can get either of them? We need a page from it. Like, yesterday.”

  He read for a minute. “Says here the publisher is a specialty art press in New York. Pretty well-known and well-respected outfit. I bet they did the catalogues as a part of an exhibit. You might try contacting them directly, or calling the museums up there.” He glanced at his watch again. They took the hint.

  Taylor wrote down the name and address of the publisher. Bangor had bought one of the monographs in New York, so that fit. Unfortunately, it was just after 11:00 p.m. Eastern time. There was no chance of anyone answering the phones. And it was past 10:00 p.m. local time, which meant Borders, and all the rest of the Nashville bookstores, were now closed. Choices. Rouse managers and comb through their stock for a book long out of print in the off chance that they had it? Or get some much-needed rest and start fresh in the morning? Rest won, though she couldn’t contain her disappointment.

  “This isn’t defeat,” Baldwin said, sensing her mood. It was a rare talent of his, divining her thoughts. She wished she was as adept at reading his emotions. That would come, in time.

  She leaned against her truck. “I thought we had it. So damn close.”

  “Well, there’s no rush. A subject like this isn’t going to pop off with another body so soon. He takes his time. Plans. Executes. Nothing rushed. Unfortunately, it takes time to get his victims to the perfect tipping point. And he thinks he’s not making any mistakes. It was pure damn luck that we found the page cut out of the book like that. You should give Tim Davis a raise.”

  “No kidding. Something that subtle, we might have taken weeks, months to uncover. Good thing Bangor was involved with a criminal, we might not have connected things so quickly. This was quite fortuitous. Go get this Detective Highsmythe and drop him at his hotel. I’ll head home and do a search, see where else the book might be.”

  He kissed her lightly. “Okay then. I’ll meet you back at the house.”

  Baldwin scanned the scraggly line of passengers feeding their way out of the bowels of the airport until he saw the only option—the one who looked like a cop. The man was shorter than him, blond, solid and tight, and carried himself well. He stepped forward to greet him.

  “You must be Highsmythe.”

  He looked tired, and didn’t smile. “That I am. You’re John Baldwin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good to meet you, John.”

  “Call me Baldwin. Everybody does.”

  “Righto, Baldwin it is. Do call me Memphis.”

  “Do you have bags?”

  Highsmythe pointed to his carry-on. “This is all I have.”

  “Great.” Baldwin started walking toward the exit, Highsmythe followed. “I’ve got a reservation for you at the Loews Vanderbilt. I think you’ll find it meets your needs. I know you must be tired, so I’ll drop you off and we can start fresh in the morning.”

  They chatted a bit as Baldwin drove them into downtown, then pulled up to the entrance of the hotel. He escorted Highsmythe in to make sure all was well. As it turned out, the hotel had made a mistake on the itinerary. Because it was after midnight, the room was booked for the next day, not for this evening. They were hosting a convention and had no extra rooms, even when Baldwin flashed his FBI badge. The manager came over and offered to walk them to another hotel, upgrading on their dime, but Baldwin could tell Highsmythe was dead on his feet.

  “How about I put you up at my place, and we’ll get you checked in tomorrow morning?”

  Highsmythe nodded gratefully. “That’s fine with me. Thank you.”

  They went back to the turnaround and climbed into the Suburban. Highsmythe leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. Baldwin dialed Taylor’s cell but she didn’t answer.

  He clicked off and drove them into the night, through West End and into the sleepy suburbs. He hoped Taylor was still awake so he could warn her they had a guest.

  Sixteen

  Gavin was beside himself with excitement. He’d arrived home to find the best possible news.

  It was time.

  He was trembling, though the fire was lit in the potbellied stove that he kept in the basement for heating emergencies and seductions. The room was bathed in an orangey glow, the flickering flames dancing in the shadows. A small table was set with white linen and fine bone china. Candles in polished silver holders glistened, their light casting pools of yellow on the table. He’d opened a bottle of Silvio Nardi Brunello, poured it into a flat-bottomed crystal decanter to breathe. There was a box of chocolates on the table, divinely rich truffles he had imported especially for this evening. He had one of his favorite operas playing, Turandot.

  Gavin unsnapped the locks on the Plexiglas box. His love lay still. He was overcome for a moment, then gathered himself and lifted her body, setting her gently in the chair closest to the fire. The chair was high-backed; a quick loop of thirty-test line and she was upright. He set her hand on the chocolate, arranged her face in a smile. There, that was better. In the flickering light, the hollows of her cheekbones were like gorges, her mouth appropriately slack. Her eyes, deepest chocolate, like the truffles, watched him wherever he went in the room.

  He settled across from her and poured the wine. Raised his glass in a respectful toast, took a sip. He cleared his throat, and began singing an aria from Turandot, softly, under his breath. “Nessun Dorma,” Puccini’s fateful words about a lonely princess, silent in her cold room, waiting for the love of a worthy man. He was that worthy man. He had no ear for the tune, knew he couldn’t do it justice, but he whispered the phrases, and they flowed around her body, soft as a lover’s caress. He hoped she could hear him, wherever she was, hear him making love to her with sweet words.

  “…Ed il mio bacio scioglierà il silenzio che ti fa mia! Il nome suo nessun saprà e noi dovrem, ahime, morir.”

  He dropped to one knee and followed the words in English, whispering still, knowing she’d never fully comprehend in Italian. “On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines. And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine.”

  He untied her. She leaned on his shoulder in a deathly embrace, her hands dangling down his back, touching him, holding him, and he wept with joy. Scooping her up with both arms, he crossed to the fire. A soft feather mattress with silken sheets was warmed by the flames. He laid her carefully on the bed, arranged her hair to spill over the fluffy pillow. She gazed into his eyes. When he kissed her, and her mouth parted, he nearly lost his mind. So sweet.

  He took his time, making love to her gently, not wanting to hurt her. She accepted his embrace, never fighting, always willing. He took her again, and again, and again.

  The night passed much too quickly. At the dawn, light creeping in through the cracks under the doors, Gavin extricated himself from betw
een her legs, leaned up to give her a kiss. She wasn’t as stunning in the light.

  “It’s time to bathe, my love. Oh, why did you have to leave me so soon?”

  Friday

  Seventeen

  Taylor woke with the sun. She’d actually slept, at least six hours straight. Usually in the middle of a case she was up all hours, playing pool to try to calm her nerves. But when she’d gotten home last night, after twenty minutes on the computer confirming that no one in town had the Picasso books available, she climbed into the bed. Baldwin had joined her an hour later, mumbling something about the Met detective that she wasn’t awake enough to hear. She’d fallen back to sleep tangled around him like a piece of yarn.

  She gave an indolent stretch, then slipped out, trying not to jostle him. No sense in waking him just yet; he’d been out terribly late.

  She slipped down the stairs, turned off the alarm, went out the front door for the paper, then headed into the kitchen to start some coffee for Baldwin, tea for her. She flipped the paper over as she went, looked at the glaring headline.

  No Clues in the Hunt for the Conductor

  Great. Just what she needed; the media getting in the middle of her case, starting a panic among the citizens of Nashville. At least nothing about the posing or the link to Italy had gotten to the media yet. It would, but with any luck she could contain and control the information.

  “Good morning,” a deep voice called out.

  She screamed in surprise, the newspaper scattering all over the kitchen floor. There was a man sitting at her kitchen table, a strange man. She fumbled for her weapon but quickly realized she’d been caught at a disadvantage—she was wearing a tank top and a pair of Baldwin’s boxer shorts, the waistband folded down three times to fit. The man stood and took a step toward her. She calculated the distance to the block of knives sitting out on the granite countertop. He grinned and held out his hands.