The Cold Room

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.