The Cold Room

Nineteen

Baldwin was in the lobby of the Loews Vanderbilt, finishing a call with Quantico and waiting for Memphis to get himself situated, when his other line rang. He saw it was Taylor but sent the call to voice mail-he needed to finish this meeting. He wrapped it up in five minutes and saw the message light blinking. He checked his voice mail, played the message. Felt the disbelief and excitement rise in his chest.

II Macellaio had struck again.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. Highsmythe, who’d appeared wearing jeans and a well-cut brown blazer, looked at him strangely.

“Sorry, not you,” Baldwin said.

“Bad news?” Highsmythe asked.

“In a way. In a way, good news. It looks like our boy has left us another victim. Hang on while I get the details. Have a seat, get a drink. I’ll be right with you.”

Highsmythe nodded and walked over to the restaurant, where he took a chair at the table and busied himself with his briefcase. Baldwin dialed Taylor’s number; she answered on the first ring.

“I’m at Radnor Lake. I’ve got another body,” she said. He could hear the exhilaration in her voice, knew something major had happened. “You need to get out here. Bring the Brit, he may be a help. I think I know what he’s doing this time, but I want you to see it. Tell me what you think.”

“Same guy?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay. We’ll be right there.”

He ended the call and put the BlackBerry back in his pocket. He ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing it to make his mind work better. Why had II Macellaio come to the United States? Why had his victims suddenly switched races? To throw them off the trail? Maybe he thought that no one in Nashville, Tennessee, would be bright enough to piece his earlier killings together with the new one. Well, he had another think coming. Baldwin was onto him.

Memphis was just about to go looking for the FBI agent when he spotted him on the way back to the table with a worried frown.

“Highsmythe, we have a conundrum. II Macellaio may have struck again. Why does this killer move from Italy to England and on to the United States? And why does he switch races when he crosses the pond?”

“Good questions, all.”

The waiter appeared, apologizing for the wait.

“Coffee, tea, water, soda, gents. What’s your poison?”

“I’m sorry, but we have to leave.” Baldwin tossed a five on the table.

“Certainly, sir,” the waiter said, pocketing the money.

Memphis stood and yawned widely, felt his ears crack. That was better. He hated to fly. He followed Baldwin’s swift steps out of the restaurant. “We’re going to the crime scene?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but Taylor felt we both needed to see this.”

“It’s not a problem.”

They walked through the lobby and retrieved the Suburban from the valet. Memphis didn’t know where they were headed. West, it seemed. He flipped the Suburban’s sun visor down and glanced in the mirror. Despite having a couple of hours of sleep and a chance to clean up, he was still looking rough. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his blond hair mussed, his cheeks and jaw covered in two days of golden stubble. He looked hard-ridden and put away wet. International travel did it to him every time. He slapped the visor back into place.

“Tired?” Baldwin asked.

“A bit. This case, you know. Been keeping me up all hours for weeks. Your bit of skirt is quite the woman, isn’t she?” Memphis asked.

Baldwin looked up in surprise, then smiled.

“Oh, Taylor? Yes, my fiancée, not my bit of skirt.”

“Must be awfully hard to work so far away. Woman like that, I’d want to keep my eye on. So tell me, is she a wine-and-roses kind of a girl, or is she a bit of a tigress between the sheets?”

“I live in Nashville full-time,” Baldwin said flatly. “And my personal life is none of your business.”

“Oh. Just so. My wife was the wine-and-roses type.” He took the hint. Mr. FBI didn’t like to talk about his private life. That was fine.

“Back to the case. Let’s talk about this development,” Baldwin was saying.

“Why do you live in Nashville and work in Virginia?” Memphis asked. He was needling, he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d known plenty of men like this. Reserved to the point of being standoffish, but Memphis could pry them open like an oyster with a few well-placed questions. The woman was off topic, but he’d yet to meet a man who didn’t like to talk about himself.

Baldwin looked over at him. “Why do you care?”

Hmm. That was a good question. Why was he fishing for information? Because you want to hear more about his woman, you fool. Get yourself together, get back in the case.

“Just getting to know you,” Memphis said. “Tell me about the developments.”

“I’m putting the finishing touches on the profile, but if this murder is connected we need to rethink a few things. The victim’s race has changed, which is an anomaly. And I didn’t expect him to strike again so soon.”

“Anomaly. Excellent. Something like that will help us run him to ground, right?”

“Perhaps.”

Memphis thought about it for a few minutes. “You said his new victims are Afro-Caribbean. Why would he change midstream?”

“That’s the question. A stressor, an event that’s driven him over the edge. Maybe a girlfriend broke up with him and now he’s transferring, which isn’t something he’s done in the past. I don’t know. He’s altered his methods as well, the murders in the States are much more like Florence. Showy. Planned. London feels more opportunistic. Couple that with the fact that he’s been killing black girls in the States for possibly four years, and we’ve found two kills that match his M.O. so far…there’s more to be understood. Remember, my profile won’t tell you who he is. It is just a guide for the type of person you need to be looking for.”

Ah, that was the way to get in with Dr. Baldwin. Shoptalk. He didn’t feel comfortable with the man. Not enough to share that he’d been offered a position with the FBI. Pen was going to kill him when she found out. And Memphis got the distinct impression that news wouldn’t go over so well here, either. He stuck to the case at hand.

“Maybe he’s a bit of both,” he said.

Baldwin’s forehead creased. “A bit of both. You mean organized and disorganized?”

“No. He’s killed black women and white women. He likes them both. Perhaps he’s a bit of white and a bit of black himself.”

That captured the tall man’s attention. He glanced over in appreciation, then said, “Nicely deduced. That’s one of the adjustments I’ve included in the new profile. I’m assuming he’s biracial. It explains how he could fit in with both types of women. We have no record of their disappearances being against their will. I think he charms them.”

“Or hires them. Some of the street girls we know will take money for just about anything. They allow themselves to be hurt.”

“Yes. That, too.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” Memphis said.

“We’ll have a look at this crime scene, see if we think it’s another II Macellaio victim. I’m planning on presenting the entire profile tomorrow in Quantico. Listen, we’ve got another ten minutes before we’ll be at the lake. Why don’t you fill me in on your side of things, and I can include my impressions. We can talk this through, see if you think it could be the same man. If your schedule permits, we’ll head up to Quantico first thing tomorrow morning instead of this afternoon-I’d like to stick around for a bit and see more about Taylor’s new case. Are you okay with that?”

Hmm. More chances to tête-a-tête with the blond goddess?

“Sounds lovely.”

He launched into a breakdown of the cases he’d been working.

He forced Evan’s doppelganger from his mind. Most of the way.