The Cold Room

Eleven

Back in the Caprice, Taylor accessed her voice mail. The department secretary had left her a message-Hugh Bangor, the owner of the house on Love Circle, was on his way back to Nashville on a red-eye from Los Angeles. He would be met at the plane and waiting back at the CJC within an hour. The message was left forty-five minutes earlier, which meant Bangor was already there, or close to it.

Damn. She was hungry. It was past noon. She speed-dialed McKenzie and told him to grab the sandwiches and bring them back to the homicide offices.

Flexibility. One of the most important components to being a cop. You needed to be willing to strike when the iron was hot. Self-deprivation was second nature.

She made it downtown in ten minutes flat. The supercharged engine had obligingly launched itself down the street; the drive left her feeling a little frisky. Despite the fact that Elm might be in the office, she felt good. It was always helpful to have information, to know what you were dealing with. She’d drawn a psycho, someone who’d most likely starved a woman to death, someone who may have a number of murders under his belt, but at least they had something to go on.

Allegra Johnson’s presentation fascinated her. What could she have been lying on that made her back and legs look like a spotted cow? Taylor ran through some of the possibilities then discarded them immediately. Who knew? They’d have to find the primary crime scene, then they’d have a chance at figuring out that piece of the puzzle.

She made her way to the homicide offices and stopped at her desk. A Post-it was stuck to her phone-Bangor, Inter. 1. She grabbed the note and balled it up. Her desk phone rang, but she ignored it. Her mind was already getting into the interview with Bangor.

She stopped at the whiteboard, erased her earlier status and marked that she was in the conference room. This level of accountability was going to drive her mad.

The walk to the interrogation room was short. She stopped at the soda machine and grabbed two Diet Cokes. Her cell rang, and she juggled the cans trying to get it out of her pocket. She didn’t recognize the caller ID, but answered anyway.

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.”

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.

Within twenty minutes, she hit Send. The questionnaire was forty pages long, but she didn’t have a lot to go on, would update the file as more information came in. She filled out the forms as completely as she could, using her notes when necessary. She included the photos she’d forwarded to her work address. Having the crime-scene pictures would help with the analysis.

She asked for three separate searches. One, for art thefts in the metro Nashville area. Two, for any murders that might have an artistic component to them, with music or paintings or sculpture. And third, for murders in which the victims were starved to death. They’d process while she and McKenzie took Bangor back to his house.

That was the trick with ViCAP. You needed to give it parameters to search within, but keep them focused enough that it wouldn’t be a wild-goose chase. She wished it would spit back answers, but instead it looked at trends, which she’d need to interpret.

But just in case something fantastically close to their murder popped out…She left a note for Rowena Wright, the department administrator, that she was expecting the results back on a ViCAP search. Rowena was a jovial black woman who’d been a cop before Taylor was born, blazing a trail that Taylor was honored to follow. Rowena had started in admin, then became a patrol officer, a training officer, passed the sergeant’s exam and nearly made detective before a mild heart attack forced her to step out of the field. There weren’t a lot of people that Taylor trusted around headquarters these days, but Rowena was one of them.

When she made it back to the interrogation room, McKenzie was passing Hugh Bangor a hand wipe. He turned to greet Taylor with a big smile.

“Mr. Bangor was happy to give us his fingerprints and a DNA swab for comparison.”

“That’s good. Excuse us for a moment?”

Bangor smiled. He knew the score. She stepped out in the hall with McKenzie. “What did you find on Allegra Johnson?”

“Nothing much. There’s an address listed on one of her arrests, down in one of the projects. I cross-checked it, and it’s also listed as the address for three other people with arrest records. Either she was in with a bad crowd, or they’re using the address as a fake.”

“Okay. We’ll do this thing with Bangor, then head down there. Father Victor is available to go, just in case?”

“Yes. He said to call him whenever you were ready, he’d meet us there. He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is. You haven’t met him yet?”

“No. Never had cause.”

“You’ve never done a notification?” she asked, incredulous.

“No. Everyone always sends me off to do something while they handle the family. So if she has any, this will be my first.”

“How old are you, exactly, McKenzie?”

“I’ll be twenty-seven here in another month.”

Twenty-six, and already a detective. She’d thought he was older. They’d moved him along quickly. She wondered why.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

They retrieved Bangor from the interrogation room.

As they walked to the car, Bangor tried to make conversation. “Detective McKenzie here was just telling me he used to have a girlfriend who was quite a fine artist.”

“Um, yes, sir. I did.” He looked at Taylor apologetically, as if he’d been caught doing something very bad.

“What kind of artist was she, McKenzie?” Taylor asked, openly forgiving him so he’d relax. No harm done letting the man see a little compassion from her this morning.

“Oils, mostly, and some pastels. She was very good.”

They walked out into the parking lot, and Taylor realized she hadn’t signed out. Tough beans, Elm.

“Was very good?” Bangor asked, gently. Taylor had missed something. McKenzie looked like he might cry.

“Um, she’s dead. She killed herself. Today’s actually the anniversary.”

Oh. That was the same girl he was talking about this morning at the autopsy, Taylor figured. Poor kid. Never good to lose someone you loved.

Bangor obviously felt the same. He clapped McKenzie on the shoulder in sympathy.

“I lost my partner five years ago.” Bangor hesitated for a moment, then said, “AIDS.”

McKenzie just nodded, didn’t say anything. Taylor looked at Bangor again. She hadn’t picked up that he was gay. Polished, certainly, but he had no affectation, no femininity about him. That made life a little less complicated. This crime screamed hetero, man on woman violence. Bangor was most likely not their suspect. Taylor had already gotten that sense, but the biographical details helped solidify her conclusions.

The drive out West End to Love Hill was quick, with Bangor regaling them with stories of famous actors who were in fact gay despite all appearances.

When Taylor made the left onto Love Circle and wound her way up the hill, she was shocked. Last night, in the dark, it still held that romantic feel. In the harsh light of day, she could see how run-down the Hill had actually become. Trash littered the grassy banks of the park, some graffiti on the electric transformer box had been inexpertly painted over. A ragged chain-link fence was sagging in spots, bearing the kick marks of some drunken youth. It wasn’t the Hill she remembered, and she remarked on that to Bangor.

“Yes, it’s been hard to keep the vagrants out of the park at night. It’s so quiet, and there aren’t a lot of patrols through here. We force them out, they reappear. The kids who come up here aren’t the nicest element. Between them and the breakin, I’m glad for my security system.”

“We didn’t get any alarms from your system last night. Is it possible that you left it off when you left town?”

“No. I’m religious about setting the alarm. But it’s entirely possible that Miss Carol failed to turn it back on. She was taking care of Sebastian for me, and sometimes she forgets. It’s happened before.”

Taylor glanced at McKenzie. That matched the neighbor’s statement, at least. Convenient that the alarm was turned off. She wondered if the killer knew there would be a good chance of that, or if he’d come prepared to disengage the system. That would speak to an even higher level of intelligence than she’d previously thought. And a more personal connection to Hugh Bangor.

In the daylight, Bangor’s home was a sharp contrast to the surrounding grime. The lawn was neat and well-cared for, though trampled a bit by the multitudes of law enforcement who’d been tromping through it all night.

The crime-scene tape fluttered around the porch. Taylor unwound it from the support columns and let Bangor and McKenzie pass. Once inside, Bangor immediately tensed. Taylor watched his reaction with interest, wondered briefly whether they were going to have an issue. But Bangor merely shook his head, and turned to her with his eyebrow raised.

“I’m missing something rather dramatic, aren’t I? What happened to my post?”

Taylor looked at McKenzie. “Go ahead,” she said.

“The victim was pinned to the post with a knife. We had to take it with us to preserve the integrity of the wound tract.”

“My God. Who could do such a thing? You’ll replace it, won’t you?” Bangor asked.

Taylor nodded. “I’m sure we’ll be able to figure something out. Destruction of private property isn’t in our purview. We didn’t have a choice last night.”

“Fair enough.”

They moved to the back door, where Taylor showed him the cutout piece of glass.

Bangor tsked. “This is just so violating.”

Taylor touched his arm. “I know it’s hard. Just bear with us a little longer.”

They drifted toward the kitchen as they talked.

“Are you a fan of Dvořák?” she asked.

He cocked his head to the side. “Actually, not so much. I’m more of an Outlaws type-good old country music. Did you know that John Rich built that house down the street? He’s a very nice man. I’m not a big fan of his music, there’s a bit too much ego in it, but he’s been a good neighbor. Raised the property values, at least.”

“That always helps. Do you have any Dvořák CDs?”

“No.” Bangor sat heavily at his kitchen table. “Why?”

“There was a Dvořák CD in your wall system here, playing on a loop last night.”

“Now that’s one I know I had nothing to do with. I left it on Lightning 100. Sebastian likes alternative rock, I usually leave it on for him while I’m away. Maybe it’s his?”

“The cat?” McKenzie looked serious all of a sudden, but Taylor laughed.

“Now there’s a scenario I haven’t encountered in a murder investigation. The cat did it.”

McKenzie got the joke and joined the laughter, a little too strongly.

“Maybe the cat will solve it. Do you know where Sebastian is?” Bangor asked.

“Your neighbor took him to her house last night.”

“Too bad I’m not a cat whisperer. That would make life easy. He could tell me what he saw.” Bangor grew serious. “I’m sorry for that girl, whoever she is. Do you know her name?”

Taylor nodded at McKenzie, who replied, “It’s Allegra Johnson.”

Bangor shook his head. “I don’t know anyone of that name, though it’s beautiful. Maybe I’ll put her in a piece one of these days, as a memorial. My God. Did she die right here?”

He was staring at the invisible column as if he could imagine the scene from the previous night. Taylor was glad that he couldn’t; it wasn’t one she’d soon forget.

“No, sir. I don’t believe she did. Do me a favor and take a quick look around. If you don’t see anything else out of place, we’re going to get out of your hair.”

Bangor searched the house for five minutes, then returned to the kitchen shaking his head. “Nothing. It’s all here except for the book from my coffee table. Do you think I’m in any danger?”

Taylor shook her head. “We took the Picasso monograph for examination. I don’t think you’re in danger, but I can’t say one way or another. I’m reluctant to jump to the conclusion that someone was sending you a message, but that may be the case. I’d appreciate it if you did some sleuthing of your own, look into your e-mails and correspondence for the past few days, see if anyone made threatening gestures. Maybe someone involved in your screenwriting didn’t like what you had to say about their work?”

Bangor smiled. “I’m actually to the point where young screenwriters fight to have me play with their words. They are usually more sycophantic rather than threatened. But I’ll give it some thought.”

“Okay, then. I appreciate your cooperation. And I’d appreciate you keeping the information I gave you to yourself.”

“Can I go back to the coast?”

“Stick around for another day or so, while we check some things. We’ll be in touch.”

Bangor walked them out. “I’m going to go get Sebastian, bring him home. Thank you for being so cautious. I appreciate how difficult this must be.”

They shook hands. Taylor and McKenzie got into the vehicle. She watched Bangor knock on Carol Parker’s door and go inside, heard the loud meowing of the cat in the background. A happy homecoming for one member of the family, at least.

“He didn’t have anything to do with it, did he? He seems like a really nice guy.” McKenzie was fiddling with the crease in his slacks, running his thumb obsessively over the edge.

“Probably not, but that doesn’t mean someone wasn’t sending him a very clear message.”

“Made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”

“Why McKenzie, I never pegged you for a Godfather fan.”

She put the car in gear and drove. Someone was sending Hugh Bangor a message. And she needed to find out who it was before he tried again.