The Cold Room

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.

The chai was creamy and spicy, perfectly warmed. She sat on the couch in the great room and complimented him.

“It’s Starbucks. I buy the boxes at Publix and make it myself with fresh organic milk. I’d go broke if I bought them every time I had the urge. So, what’s happening with the case?”

“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.”