Having to use the computer was a blessing and a curse. They could cross-reference more quickly, but Taylor’s wrist was getting sore. Kevin Salt had set them up with access into the New York files. She didn’t want to ask how.
It was hard to know if they were missing anything, either. Reading on the screen wasn’t her forte. Give her hard copies any day.
It was close to 3:00 a.m. and they were making little progress. Baldwin stepped out to make some more coffee, Wills excused himself, as well.
The second the door closed behind them, Memphis said, “I think I may have something here.” Taylor could hear the excitement in his voice.
“What is it?” she asked.
Memphis leaned back in his chair, stretching. His shirt clung to his chest. Taylor forced herself to look away. She wondered about the timing—Baldwin walks out, Memphis finds something.
“Seriously, Memphis, what did you find? Time is crucial. Tick-tock.”
Memphis gave her a look. “You know, Jackson, you’re like an Amazon.”
She eyed him suspiciously. If she had a dollar for every man who’d used that come-on line…“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’m gonna be cutting off my right breast so I can draw my gun faster, but thanks for the thought.”
He got up and crossed to her side of the conference table. She sat up straighter, involuntarily. He took the seat next to her, scooted the chair close. He nestled up to her, reached out to touch a strand of her hair. “I can see it perfectly. You’d carry a sword, a broadsword, and slay all the men in your path. Would you slay me, do you think?”
“Are you actually flirting with me?” she asked, half laughing, half…something. She pulled away from him. He was dangerous. Cute, funny, lovely accent, great ass, but none of that mattered to her. Memphis Highsmythe was a player, no question about it. And she’d gotten into serious trouble the last time she fell for a man who was looking for sex.
“What did you find?” she asked, trying to steer them back on course.
“I’ve found you.” He started to move closer, but she stood up, knocking the chair back in her hurry. She got three feet away and turned back to him. He looked confused. She shook her finger at him, feeling foolishly like a school marm.
“Stop that. Right now. I am not free. Nor do I want to be. I’m engaged to the man you’ve asked for help, for Christ’s sake. We have work to do. I refuse to sit here and have you…whatever it is you think you’re doing. Knock it off. Capiche?”
He had the good sense not to come closer. He eyed her warily, as if she might explode at any moment.
“You think I’m just after a quick bunk-up, don’t you?”
“Bunk-up…oh, I see.” Damn British euphemisms. He was constantly renaming things in that superior, upper-crust accent. It made her want to scream. “Isn’t it? Trust me, pal, I’m not the woman you want. There’s plenty of bait for you elsewhere. I’m sure you have a few eager Sloane Rangers waiting for you at home. But I’m off-limits. Don’t forget it.” She was breathing heavily, infuriated for no good reason. Jesus, Taylor. What’s got you in such a fuss? All he did was hit on you. No harm, no foul. Right?
Memphis started to laugh. She was half tempted to join him, but his smug smile made her want to hit him. Or kiss him. Whoa, there, chickie. What in the hell are you thinking? She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, then stood straight as an arrow.
“How does a homicide detective from Nashville know what a Sloane Ranger is?” Memphis asked.
She eyed him suspiciously. “I went to a private school in Nashville. We had a transplant from London. She talked about them.”
“You know, you never answered my question. What, aside from big-bad-daddy issues, drives a graduate of a Nashville finishing school to the life of a detective? Like the power of carrying a gun, do you?”
“What’s a viscount doing in the Met?” she shot back.
“Oh, touché. We have more in common than you think. Both born with the proverbial silver spoon in our mouths.”
“That is entirely beside the point.” She softened for a moment. “You don’t know me, Memphis. You don’t know the first thing about me. I prefer to keep it that way. I have things to do. I’ll talk to you later.” She left him in the conference room, went to the Ladies’ room on the opposite side of the building from Baldwin’s office. Lord knows she didn’t want to run into him right now.
She locked the door behind her and went to the sink. She splashed some cold water on her face, then stood gripping the porcelain. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. Roused. And for what? For whom? Some guy she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. He looked at her like she was a steak. Damn anemic asshole.
So why did she respond to him? She’d felt it, that stirring, and she knew he’d picked up on it. Almost as if he could smell her attraction to him.
“Bah!” she yelled at the mirror. She was letting him get under her skin. Again. And it needed to stop.
When she got back to the conference room, all three men were leaning over the table looking at something. Baldwin turned to her when she entered. His face was a mask, but she could see the excitement in his eyes.
“Oh, good, you’re here. Memphis may have found them.”
Memphis was looking at her. She risked a glance, saw nothing threatening. He wasn’t stupid. Baldwin was around, so he’d gone back to neutral. She needed to keep him there. Good. Maybe now they could get some work done.
“Tell me,” she said.
Memphis straightened. “Assuming we’re correct in our assumptions that we’re dealing with Louise Wise Services, there’s a record of twin boys being born to a Lucinda Sheppard, 14 June, 1980, in Manhattan. She was married to a chap named Michael Rickards. She was Caucasian, he was of Afro-Carribean descent.”
“Well, that fits. Is there a reason why they put twin boys up for adoption?”
“The parents didn’t, actually. The boys were orphaned. Lucinda Sheppard killed her husband, then killed herself. She was a paranoid schizophrenic, had a psychotic breakdown.”
“Wills found the story in the papers. It was all over the news. The boys were alone in the apartment with the bodies for over twenty-four hours, lying in their crib in full view of the carnage.”
Taylor felt the roaring sense of recognition she often got when a killer’s motivation became clear.
“Those poor children,” she said, thinking those poor babies grew up to be lethal, deadly killers. All the sympathy she felt for them fled.
Wills rustled through some papers he’d printed out. “Okay, here’s the Louise Wise records on them. According to this report, no immediate family would take them because of the interracial relationship—in addition to their racial divide, Sheppard was Jewish. The boys went into the foster system, then were quickly picked up by Louise Wise. They had been placed by the time they were four months old.”
Baldwin was reading the page over Wills’s shoulder. “They were placed in separate homes. They were split up. Louise Wise was the preeminent Jewish adoption agency. They were doing groundbreaking adoptions in the seventies, placing not only Jewish kids, but American Indian and African-American children—Afro-Caribbean to you, Memphis—plus doing studies on the children of people with mental illnesses. The boys were separated, which was something only Louise Wise was doing at the time. The head psychiatrist at Louise Wise insisted asking a family to adopt twins was too much to ask. Nowadays, they’d be drawn and quartered for trying to separate twins, much less identicals, but back then, it was considered a great social experiment. I read about it in med school. It’s actually horrifying, what they did. But it fits with the profile.”
“So we know Gavin Adler is one of them. Who’s the other?” Taylor asked.
Memphis took the page from Wills. “Thomas Fielding. Here’s the fascinating part. The boys are half black and half white, right? Gavin was placed with a black family who moved to Tennessee. Thomas was placed with a white family, and withi
n a year of his adoption, they were transferred to Italy. His father was a mechanic at Aviano airbase, his mother was a doctor.”
“A doctor, huh? That’s interesting. So that’s how Thomas got to Italy. How do we know he stayed there?”
Wills was shaking his head. “If he’s still there, Kevin will find him. I’ll go let him know.”
Baldwin was clapping Memphis on the shoulder. “Great job. All of you. It’s time for some sleep. We leave in three hours for Italy.”
Sunday
Thirty-Eight
Gavin 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.”
Thirty-Nine
Taylor 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 cr
ossed 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.
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