The Cold Room

Twenty-Five

Forensic Medical’s parking lot was nearly empty-only Sam’s BMW 330ci convertible was parked in its arranged spot. The sun was setting, the post-storm sky fired with billowing pink-and-red clouds. Taylor and McKenzie made their way to the front doors.

McKenzie was riffing. “Our second autopsy in two days. I was hoping that homicide had a few less homicides in it and more assaults.”

“McKenzie, I think there might be hope for you yet.” She swiped her passcard and the door unlocked. “It’s not always like this. Homicide is usually quiet, boring and staid, loads of paperwork and trial follow-ups. These kinds of spree killings are rare.”

They entered the lobby, dark and quiet. It was rather sinister with the lights off, the ghosts of sentient beings flowing around in the gloom.

“When you were lieutenant, didn’t you handle some of that? Didn’t the murder rates drop while you were running things?”

That was the first time he’d openly alluded to her demotion.

“Yes, I did. Before we were decentralized, when we had the Murder Squad, our close rate was eighty-three, eighty-four percent. Now, with all this infighting and backstabbing, the chief not being at all in touch with the troops, things are deteriorating. I think the bad guys know we aren’t as stable as we used to be. They can get away with more, and the chief calling on the communities to police themselves is a joke. Ah, well. What can you do, McKenzie?”

“I heard a rumor that you’re fighting to be reinstated as lieutenant.”

They were at the doors to the autopsy suite. She stopped, turned to him. She weighed her answer carefully. She didn’t trust McKenzie, not completely. Even after today’s revelations. She wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t a plant, someone Delores Norris, Elm and the chief hadn’t assigned to keep tabs on her, looking for more ammunition. He seemed like a regular guy, another young homicide detective eager to learn, to move up in the ranks. But she’d been burned before. Hell, look at the David Martin situation. And she’d slept with him.

“McKenzie, I can’t discuss the situation with you. No offense, but my lawyer and my union rep want me to keep my mouth shut.”

“You think I’m just a tool for the chief, don’t you?”

His face fell, a sad, puppy-dog look crowding his features. She felt bad for him, but she couldn’t take the chance. The kid could be a damn good actor. She made a mental note to check when she’d gotten so cynical, then said, “McKenzie, seriously, I don’t know what to make of you. You seem like a decent, willing cop. I’d like to think that you and I can foster a solid working relationship. But right now, all I can afford to do is cover my ass. Surely you understand that.”

He straightened, his lips thinning more as he appraised her. “I do. But know this. I’ve learned more from you in two days than I have in five years on the force. I think you’re amazing. You know I don’t mean that in a sexual way. I mean that as the highest compliment I can give. You are being railroaded, and I’d like to do everything I can to help you get your command back. Because I tell you, Jackson, I’d work for you any day.”

The speech floored her. She took the compliment gracefully, nodded her thanks. She didn’t trust her voice. She was overwhelmed with emotion, but tried her best to turn it off. She wanted her command back, too, damn it. The sheer unfairness of how her superiors were treating her could easily boil into a black rage if she wasn’t careful.

Sam was wrong. McKenzie didn’t have the hots for her. He respected her. She liked that much better.

They split up, went to the separate locker rooms to put scrubs over their street clothes, then met in the antechamber to the autopsy suite.

“Ready?” she asked.

McKenzie nodded. She swung open the door to Forensic Medical’s inner sanctum.

Sam stood over the body of an incredibly skinny black girl, a scalpel in hand. She was well into the autopsy. She looked up, saw Taylor and McKenzie and spoke quickly, with no preamble.

“Finally. I’m almost done here. Sorry I couldn’t wait, but you didn’t need to see the preliminaries anyway.”

“Sorry. We’ve had a long day. Baldwin and the inspector from the Met are on their way.”

“The more the merrier. You think you’ve had a long day? Tell me about it. Do I have to wait?”

“No, go ahead,” Baldwin said. He and Memphis entered the room, and Taylor felt odd. Seeing them together, so intent on the case, and on her-both men were smiling at her. She ignored Memphis, went to Baldwin. Grazed his lips with hers. He squeezed her arm, glanced at Memphis. Mine, it said. She’s mine, mate. Lay off. Taylor couldn’t help but smile. She liked the jealous side of him. It was cute.

Sam was tapping her scalpel against her palm. “Ready? Okay, cause of death was starvation, she was dead before she went into the lake. No signs of water in her lungs. She’s got those funky spots on her back, too. One big difference. Her eyes were glued open, probably with some sort of cyanoacrylate adhesive. I’m running exactly what kind through the LCMS, could be Super Glue, or Vetbond. I’ve documented everything we’ve done so far, it’s on the table over there.”

“So she couldn’t look away,” Taylor said softly.

“And he could watch her die,” Memphis added.

Taylor let the horror of that sink in for a minute, then let the emotion turn itself to anger. Man, she wanted to catch this bastard.

“How long was she in the water?” Baldwin asked.

“Not too long. Less than five hours. She was never submerged, I think she got caught on a branch or something and it kept her afloat. She does have track marks, mostly up her left arm.”

Taylor thought about that for a minute. “Is she a habitual user?”

“The injection sites are relatively new. She doesn’t have any scarring between her toes, the webbing of her fingers, inside her thighs, all places I’d expect to see them if she’d been at it for a while. And the trajectory of the needle is off, too. She’s new to it.”

“Was she injecting herself?” Memphis asked. Sam gave him a harried look. Four investigators crowding the autopsy suite, peppering her with questions was starting to get on her nerves.

“Possibly. Probably. But let me finish this rundown, because I have good news for you. We might be able to get DNA. I found skin under her nails. Just a tiny bit, but it might be enough to run a DNA profile. I can nail the bastard if he’s in the system or you have another sample to compare it to.”

“We’ve got samples to compare galore. Speaking of which…” Taylor filled her in on the story from Manchester and Chattanooga.

McKenzie held up the evidence bags from Marie Bender’s house. “We’ve got more DNA for you guys. Will you handle this, or should we call Tim?”

Sam shook her head. “Better call Tim. I’m the only one left here today and I have to go get the twins. I’m getting ready to slide her in the fridge, then skedaddle. Tim’s got some stuff for you anyway. I think he was trying to run everything down before he touched base.”

McKenzie nodded, and Taylor forced her focus back to the body. “Sam, I also need to get into the records for an autopsy you did three years ago.”

“That would be archived. Kris can pull it tomorrow. Why, did I do something wrong?”

“As if. No, the case relates to ours here. Manchester, a drowning. Young black girl, music playing at the scene. It’s eerily familiar, and we’ve got samples to run now.”

“You say I did the post?”

“That’s what the sheriff said. Simmons, Coffee County. Nice guy. Seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t remember it offhand, but if I read the report it would probably come back to me. You know how many of these I do in a year.”

“Too many.”

“You said it, sister. Back to our lake girl. We identified the flowers she was holding-”

“Daisies, poppies and pansies.” Memphis was a few feet away, fingering the posy in its stainless-steel resting place.

“Yes, that’s right. She had a necklace of violets, too, just like the painting.”

“What painting?” Taylor asked.

“It’s Millais,” Memphis said. He turned to Taylor with a big grin on his face.

Sam smiled through her face shield. “That’s right. It’s John Everett Millais’s Ophelia. I had one of my techs do a little research.”

“How did you know that?” Taylor asked Memphis.

“Oh, the Tate Britain in London has the original. I live not far away, in Chelsea.”

“That’s convenient,” Baldwin said. Taylor heard the note of surprise in his voice. She started to wonder exactly what the rivalry was between the two men-was it desire for her, or an intellectual duel to solve the cases? Now that was an interesting thought. She was definitely getting a vibe from Memphis. And she had to admit he was growing on her. He wasn’t at all what she expected after their awkward meeting this morning. He seemed quite competent, and no doubt he was charming.

She realized she’d been watching him and abruptly turned away.

Sam started straightening her tray. “You haven’t talked to Tim this afternoon at all, have you?”

Taylor shook her head. “No. We’ve been in Manchester digging up old dirt all afternoon.”

“He found a postcard of the painting in the grass near the bank of the lake. It was a dead ringer for the scene.”

“A postcard of the painting? Oh, wow.” She looked at Baldwin.

“That’s II Macellaio’s signature. Well, at least we have that out of the way. Looks like this is the same guy. Jesus. A trans-Atlantic serial killer.” He shook his head, then excused himself. Taylor saw him flip open his cell phone. She assumed he was calling his team at Quantico to warn them.

Taylor turned to McKenzie. “Would you mind calling Tim and setting up a meeting? See if he’s available now? And make a note to follow up with Kris tomorrow to pull the autopsy record for LaTara Bender.”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

Sam had abandoned her scalpel and was suturing the Y-incision on the victim’s chest.

“Show us her back,” Taylor said.

Baldwin and Memphis stepped closer. Sam clipped the thread on a knot, then rolled the girl’s body toward her, exposing the naked skin of the victim’s back. There it was, evenly spaced circles, all along her shoulders, the lower part of her back, her buttocks and her legs. There was one spot just above her tailbone that didn’t have the marks. Taylor looked at it for a moment, thought about the physics of someone lying on their back.

“Someone this thin, there would be a gap above her butt, below her lower back, where the body wouldn’t come in contact with whatever she’d been lying on. That’s why there’s a space in the circles.”

“Look at her arm,” Sam said.

A long dark seam ran up the length of her right arm. The left was clear.

“Just the opposite of Allegra. That is too bizarre,” Taylor said. She looked at it closer, mentally conjuring Allegra’s similar lividity. “Same storage area, perhaps?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Makes sense,” Memphis said. “But none of my victims had anything like this.”

“Nor mine,” Baldwin added. “This is unique to the American crimes. Taylor, was there anything in the previous two murders that had a description of these marks?”

“No. It’s only been the two most recent murders.”

“So he’s changed up how he’s storing them,” Memphis said.

“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?” Taylor said, smiling at him in admiration.

“I’ve had some…practice,” he replied.

McKenzie joined them at the table, pointed at the victim. “Good news. We have an identification at least. Leslie Horne. Twenty-two. Tim found prints in the system, she’s been busted for prostitution. He said to meet him back at the CJC, he’ll take the evidence from Manchester into custody and enter everything into the system.”

The five of them stood silently, bearing witness to the girl who now had an identity, a name, a life lost.

“I think she knew Allegra Johnson,” McKenzie said.

“Why do you say that?” Taylor asked.

“Because her address in the system? It’s the same as Allegra’s.”

As they were filing out, Sam stopped Taylor.

“Hey, stick around for a minute.”

Taylor stopped, said, “Y’all go on. I’ll catch up with you in a second.”

When the room was empty, Taylor asked, “What’s up?”

Sam was fiddling with a scalpel. Taylor saw something unexpected in her eyes. Anger.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam asked, her tone heated.

“What do you mean? I’m working the case. We’ve had a lot of new information today and I-”

“I meant with the Brit. What are you doing?”

Taylor frowned. “What are you talking about, Sam?”

“You were flirting with him.”

Taylor glared at her best friend. “I was not.”

Sam tossed her scalpel onto the tray with a clatter.

“You most certainly were. In front of your fiancé and your newest detective, I might add.”

“Oh, please. That’s not true, and you know it.”

Sam came around the autopsy table, stood eye to eye with Taylor.

“Do I? I’ve seen that look on your face before, Taylor. You’re interested in him.”

Her chest felt tight, and she measured her words carefully. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. He’s interesting, but I’m not interested. See the difference?”

Sam shook her head.

“You need to be careful, Taylor. He’s obviously interested in you. He can barely take his eyes off of you. And you were practically preening.”

“Watch yourself, Sam. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? You forget who you’re talking to, Taylor. I know every look you have. I’ve nursed you through every crush since we were little girls. You find Memphis attractive, and he feels the same about you.”

“You’re hardly being fair. I just met the man. I don’t know the first thing about him.”

“Ah, but you’d like to.”

“Sam!” She’d only raised her voice to Sam a handful of times in the time they’d known each other. She felt her temper stealing away from her control, and bit her lip hard to contain it. They stared each other down for a few moments, then Sam shrugged.

“You’re a big girl, Taylor. Just remember what happened the last time you found someone you worked with attractive.”

Sam turned away, and Taylor stared at the back of her best friend’s head. A moment later, she whirled away and stomped from the autopsy suite. She couldn’t believe Sam would lob such an insult. This was nothing like the situation with David Martin.

McKenzie was waiting for her in the vestibule after she dumped her scrubs.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said, curt and dismissive. “Let’s go.”

It was nearly 8:30 p.m. when Taylor and McKenzie finished with Tim. Baldwin and Memphis had gone back to the hotel to play with the profile. She couldn’t help herself; she was glad they were both gone. She had replayed the afternoon at least fifty times, and still didn’t see that she’d done anything wrong. She most certainly had not been flirting with Memphis, and she was utterly annoyed with Sam for insinuating that she was.

She shook it off and focused on the information she was gathering. There’d be plenty of time to deal with this later.

While they were at the autopsy, the files had arrived from Chattanooga. The perfect distraction. Taylor went through them laboriously then handed them over to McKenzie for processing. Tim had inputted the DNA signature from Leslie Horne’s autopsy into their system and taken all the samples from Manchester, put them in the system as well. If there was a match to be had, he’d find it. He copied Pietra Dunmore at Quantico on everything he was doing.

Taylor was torn. Even she didn’t relish the idea of going back into the Napier Homes after dark-anything and everyone was fair game to be shot. Without a full contingent of cops at her side, she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of rolling up into the hood to question them about Leslie Horne.

So she did one better. She called Gerald Sayers at home, asked him if he could get a few of his folks to rouse Tyrone Hill.

Gerald cursed a few times for good measure, but agreed to have Tyrone brought into the CJC to have a quick chat. He’d be there in an hour. 9:00 p.m., and that would be perfect. She’d like to wrap as much of this up today as she could.

She didn’t relish the idea of running into Elm in the Homicide offices either, but she had to take the chance. She needed to get some of this stuff written out.

The burgers from Manchester seemed like ages ago. She called for Thai, ordered enough for the three of them to nosh before they dealt with Tyrone.

McKenzie was still working with Tim on finalizing the Manchester data, seemingly fascinated by the legwork. Tim was enjoying himself, too, explaining his techniques and the data collection methodology. She’d almost forgotten that this was McKenzie’s first real homicide investigation-he’d certainly come a long way in two days.

The impact hit her. They’d only been on this case for forty-eight hours. They were making spectacular progress. Momentum meant everything in a homicide investigation, and she could feel how close they were.

The food arrived and they inhaled it. When they were finished, Tim adjusted a few files, then announced that he was done, so they cut him loose and walked from the lab across the street to the CJC. There were dark shadows shifting in the parking lot, which made her remember Fitz’s call. The worry welled up inside her, then the quiet. She’d been so wrapped up in the case that she hadn’t tried calling. She did now, finding the return number in her cell phone history. There was no answer, so she left a message. She tried to sound upbeat, told Fitz they were working on a great case and for him to come back soon and help her out.

She clicked off and stowed the phone. She didn’t like the feeling she was having. Something was up, something wrong. She didn’t believe in coincidences. A man who looked just like the Pretender showing up where Fitz was stuck vacationing was too convenient by half-oh, God. She hadn’t thought about that. Fitz had said a part had broken on the boat. Could they have been sabotaged?

Just in case, she tried again. The phone rang and rang. There was no answer, and no voice mail. Nothing.

She swallowed back her worry. She had to trust that Fitz would be able to take care of himself. Maybe this was all a mistake. Or maybe the Pretender was sending her a message.

Which brought her back to the here and now. They still had too many unanswered questions. Why had Hugh Bangor been chosen? Why was his house defiled? Why had II Macellaio chosen him? A connection to his old lover? She needed to talk to Arnold Fay just in case. But there was another route she could explore, too.

She had a momentary qualm, then pushed it away. McKenzie was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

She entered the building and found McKenzie in the hall, grabbing them sodas.

“They’re ready for us,” he said.

“Great.” She accepted a Diet Coke. “Listen, I want you to do something for me. Spend a little time with Bangor. See if you can’t find out why he was targeted. It seems like a big chance to take, breaking into the man’s house. See if you can piece together what message II Macellaio was sending us.”

“You know, I was just thinking about that. There must be some connection between them, even if Bangor doesn’t realize it. I’m happy to talk to him some more. He seems like a good guy.” He looked away and she knew where this was going. McKenzie had caught Bangor’s eye, and the feeling was mutual. She decided to caution him again, and not just to assuage her own conscience.

“Listen, Bangor likes you. Just be aware that he may not be telling you the whole truth.”

“I’ll be on my guard. I’m pretty good at reading people.”

“Okay then. That’s your job for tonight. See what you can find out. Now, let’s go meet Mr. Hill.”

Gerald was in the homicide offices with a very unhappy-looking black man. He was a big boy, at least six foot three, heavily muscled, with creeping tattoos parading up his neck and down his arms. His shaved head was covered in a black silk doo-rag. He wore a dingy white wife beater tucked into a pair of low-slung Sean Jean black denim jeans, a massive crystal dollar-sign belt buckle holding the jeans in place, and white leather sneakers with no laces. He was nervous, sweating. Taylor raised an eyebrow at Gerald in question.

The vice commander just smiled.

“My boy here was carrying. He’s already done a stint in Riverbend, he’s on parole and knows better. I made it clear that if he tells you what you need to know, I might be persuaded to forget he was in violation. Just for tonight. He knows I catch his ass again and in he goes. Ain’t that right, Tyrone?”

The man mumbled something, and Gerald yanked at his arm.

“Yessir,” the man said again, clearer this time. Hell, Taylor didn’t even think man was right; he looked like a teenager. He was obviously intimidated. Good. That would do nothing but help them.

“Let’s go in the conference room. We’ll have more space.” And it would set Tyrone’s mind at ease a bit; she could tell he was jumpy as a cat on a hot roof. The threat of jail wasn’t always enough to get a confidential informant to speak.

Once the four of them were settled, Taylor sat back in her chair, trying to put him at ease. She adopted her most conciliatory tone.

“Tyrone, I do appreciate your being here. We want to capture the man who hurt Allegra. You might be able to help us. But first, can you tell me about a woman named Leslie Horne?”

Tyrone looked desperately uncomfortable and started to sputter. Before he said anything, Elm stormed in the room, shouting. They all jumped at the sudden intrusion.

“What are you doing? You can’t interrogate a murderer in here. He needs to be in chains!” He made a beeline for Tyrone.

Taylor stood, putting herself between her lieutenant and her informant.

“Lieutenant, this isn’t a murderer. This is a confidential informant working with the Specialized Investigations unit.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me, young lady. I know Dominick Allen when I see him. He’s been wanted by the New Orleans police for ages. We must put him in chains! We can’t let him escape again.”

Taylor looked at Gerald, who was shaking his head. This was the second time Elm had spouted off about New Orleans. What the hell was going on? Elm was quivering with his need to get his handcuffs on Tyrone, kept lurching around her trying to get to him.

“Sir, this man isn’t from New Orleans. He’s from Nashville. He’s a confidential informant named Tyrone Hill. He’s not Dominick Allen.”

Elm stood for a moment, staring through his bulgy eyes at them, then a frown creased his forehead. He calmed, staring at Tyrone. He still looked suspicious, but nodded and left the room. Taylor didn’t know what to make of the interruption. Elm was looking more crackerjacks by the minute.

She turned back to Tyrone, who was staring at the floor. She settled back into her chair.

“I apologize for that. Tyrone, listen. You obviously know Leslie Horne. Talk to me about her. Tell me who her family is so I can talk to them.”

“That man crazy. I ain’t never been to New Orleans.”

“I know, Tyrone. Don’t worry about him. Tell me about Leslie.”

“I’m her family. She ain’t got no one else.”

“What about Allegra? Were they friends?”

He hesitated, chewing a large dry spot on his chapped lower lip. “Yes and no. They fought like bitches in the wild sometimes, those two, then braided each other’s hair and went shoe-shopping at Payless. Never could figure out what set them off, other than the usual competition.”

“So Leslie was one of your girls, too, is that it?”

“Mebbe.” He looked genuinely upset, so Taylor softened her tone.

“When was the last time you saw Leslie, Tyrone?”

She could tell he was calculating the answer. “Just tell me the truth, okay? I’d like to find out who killed them.”

“Ha. Like you’d actually worry about some brother who killed a coupla black girls.”

Taylor slapped her hand on the table. “Actually, I do care. I don’t give a crap what color you are, and that kind of bullshit is going to get you absolutely nowhere with me. A crime is a crime, and it’s high time for you to tell me what I need to know. Now that we have that clear, when was the last time you saw Leslie?”

Tyrone looked impressed. She imagined he was thinking how much he could charge for her. But he quit the posturing, answered the question.

“Three weeks.”

“And you didn’t report her missing?”

“She were with Allegra.”

Taylor resisted the urge to smack herself on the forehead. Of course Leslie was with Allegra. That’s how the timing was so perfect. He took two at once, dumped them one day apart. Who had died first? No way to know that until Sam determined the time of death through her tests, but they’d obviously died near the same time.

“They had a trick together?”

“Yeah. Some dude in one of them Pious cars pulled up to the curb asking for a date. He don’t look crazy or nothin’, so I let them go with him. Dat’s the last time I saw them.”

“What did he look like?” Taylor asked.

“Hell, I hardly noticed him. Meek. Brother, but a mutt. Medium build, light skin. That’s all I noticed. All I’m concerned about is the green, if you know what I mean.”

“Could you identify him if you saw him again?”

“Naw. Hell, he just drove up, flashed a wad of cash, asked for two. I didn’t pay him no attention. Though if he a killer and dat’s his car, not one he stole, he be one dumb bunny.”

Taylor laughed. “Tyrone, that’s something you and I can readily agree on. What do you mean when you call him a mutt?”

“Cross-breed. He were an Oreo. Dat’s the only think I really noticed about him.”

“Biracial?”

“Dat’s what you folks say. More po-litically correct dat way.”

Taylor’s mind was whirling. II Macellaio was attacking both white and black girls. Was it because he was both white and black?

“When you say a Pious car, what do you mean?”

“Ah, you know. One of dem stupid gas savers. Pious. Toyota.”

“A Prius?”

Tyrone laughed at her. “Dat’s what you white folks call dem.”

Great. Sarcasm always helped.

“Okay, so he was a light-skinned black man driving a Prius. What color was it?”

“White. And I wouldn’t be callin’ him a black man. He had too much honky in him for dat. Gotta have some pride in your roots, ya know?” He thumped his closed fist, knuckles in, against his heart three times.

Pride. Pride drove this man to be a pimp and drug dealer, to base desire and abuse. And he called an attempt to save gas pious. The irony was not lost on her.

“Anything else you can remember? Any bumper stickers, or maybe you wrote down the license plate so you could keep track of the girls?”

“Naw. No reason to keep track of them before now. They didn’t have anywhere to run off to. I give them everything they need.”

Except for safety. He’d given them everything they needed to be preyed upon by a serial killer. Given them to the killer himself. She didn’t feel the need to point that out to him.

“Okay, Tyrone, that’s a help. I appreciate your cooperation. Gerald, I’m done with him. Thanks for all your help.”

She shook Gerald’s hand, left him to deal with his informant’s weapons issue.

She turned to McKenzie. “Time for you to split. Go talk to Bangor. I’ll wrap things up here. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

“Sure you don’t need me?”

“I’m sure.”

“See you then. Don’t stay too late. We’re on the right track. We’ll find him.”

Taylor watched him go, hoping sending him like a lamb to the slaughter was the right thing to do, then went back to the homicide offices. Elm was standing in the door to his office, staring at her.

“Evelyn?” he said.

Taylor was thrust back in time, to a vision of her grandfather looking blankly at her mother, Kitty, calling her by her grandmother’s name. All of the pieces slammed into place.

She went to Elm. “No, sir, I’m Taylor Jackson.”

He shook his head for a moment as if to clear the cobwebs, then said, “Of course you are. No need to reintroduce yourself every time we see each other. Don’t forget to leave me a summary of your day. That is all.”

He went in the office and closed the door. Taylor sighed heavily. She went to her desk and called her union rep, a fantastically nice guy named Percy Jennings. She left him a message to call her on the cell. This needed to be dealt with, and fast.

Percy called her back almost immediately.

“What’s up, Goddess? Your case is going great, we should have you reinstated in no time. Just need to get the Oompa out of there.”

“Cool. That’s good news. We have a different problem. Hold on a sec while I get somewhere more private.”

She stepped out into the hall, past the conference room to the Ladies’ bathroom. She opened the door, and the motion sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the tiled darkness. Good, no one here. She locked it behind her just in case.

“Okay, Percy, sorry about that. We have a situation with Lieutenant Elm.”

“Tell me about it. He’s a nitpicker, you have no idea the complaints we’re getting about him. Totally inconsistent, forgetting people’s names. The guy’s completely erratic.”

“I think I know why. He just called me Evelyn, then snapped back to reality. Half an hour ago he charged into an interrogation insisting we were talking to a murderer from New Orleans. I’ve seen this behavior before. My grandfather had Alzheimer’s, an absolutely wicked, nasty case. I think Elm’s got it, too. It explains why he’s so bad in the evenings, too. A lot of Alzheimer’s patients get worse as the day goes on. Elm’s much easier to deal with in the morning. Nearly pleasant, comparatively. That’s how my granddaddy was, lucid in the morning, growing more and more confused in the late afternoon and evening.”

“Jeez, that sucks. He still alive?”

“No, he passed a while ago. Elm isn’t young, but he’s got some good years left in him. His mind will go, but his body will take a much slower trip.”

“Okay. I’ll go talk to the people in charge, let them know.”

“Keep it quiet, Percy. It’s a humiliating disease. He may think something’s wrong, but I doubt he’s been diagnosed yet. It’s going to be a touchy situation, at best.”

“All right, Taylor, will do. Thanks for letting me know. Go catch some bad guys.”

They clicked off. She went to the mirror, splashed some cold water on her face. Remembering her grandfather was always hard. He’d suffered, and there was nothing anyone could do to ease his mind. She’d never known him well; Kitty hadn’t been close to her parents. Strange, she never realized that she and her mother had that in common.

She forced thoughts of family from her mind. She couldn’t afford to be sidetracked, not now.

When she went back into the offices, Elm’s door was open and his light off. He’d gone for the day. Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. Now that she suspected the truth, she wouldn’t be able to look at him without pity, and a man like that would sense her emotions, even if he didn’t understand them. Better that he was gone.

On her desk was a piece of paper with Rowena’s spidery handwriting. “Fax is in your top drawer,” it said.

She’d nearly forgotten. The information she’d been waiting for all day.

She opened her desk drawer greedily. It was a two-page fax-a cover sheet from Taschen Books Manhattan, then a copyright page. Editor, Designer, Production Manager, Library of Congress information. Okay. One of the three names had to be what she was looking for.

She wrote them all down, then called Baldwin.

“We have some names,” she said. “The puzzle is starting to come together.”

“Excellent. Would you like to meet Memphis and me for a drink before we leave? We’re at Ruth’s Chris.”

“Sure, why not. I’ll be there shortly.”

She shut down her computer, then drove up West End to the restaurant. A valet greeted her and took her keys. She fluffed her hair in the reflective glass entrance, then entered the steak house.

Baldwin spotted her first and hailed her with a wave. She joined the men at the table, asked for a glass of Seghesio Zinfandel, one of her and Baldwin’s newest discoveries.

Memphis was drinking scotch, she could smell the peaty, musty scent. She’d always hated whiskies of all sorts; they tasted like wood chips. Baldwin was drinking a draft Sam Adams.

“We’ve got a plane at ten. I decided to go back to Quantico tonight, get moving on this new information right away. I want to get everything plugged into the profile so I can get it to you tomorrow,” Baldwin said. “As a matter of fact, I need to call and confirm our reservation. Did you eat?”

“I did. We ordered in Thai.”

“Okay then. By the way, Memphis made the astute observation earlier that he thinks we’re dealing with someone who’s biracial.”

She smiled at him, then checked herself. “Damn. Here you are, beating me to the punch. I interviewed a pimp tonight who said both of my current victims got in a white Prius, together, mind you, with what he termed an Oreo.”

“That’s a rather derogatory term for it.”

“Well, he wasn’t a very nice guy. So that fits.”

“So the wit confirms that he took two at once?” Baldwin asked.

“Looks that way.”

“Anything else new?” Memphis asked.

“No, that’s it. I wish I had more.”

“But it’s progress, my dear. Progress. I’ll be back in a minute. You and Memphis play nice.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Why did it feel like everyone was ganging up on her today?

Baldwin slid out of the booth. Memphis immediately shifted to the left so he could look Taylor straight on.

“So. Come here often?” he asked.

“Highsmythe-”

“Oh, do call me Memphis. Please. I’m just kidding. I like to needle.”

“I noticed.” She relaxed fractionally. She knew Sam was wrong, she hadn’t been flirting. If she had been, there’d be no mistaking it. She smiled at him again, this time without worrying about who might think what.

“Fine. Memphis. I hope you’re finding Nashville to your liking. I’m sorry it’s been so crazy, but with any luck, today’s murder will bring us all a step closer to catching this man.”

“That’s a lovely speech. Maybe we should get you in one of Shakespeare’s creations. Let’s see…we’d need a strong woman, one who doesn’t like to be pushed around or told what to do. Viola, maybe. No, I have it. Portia. Without a doubt.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of the wine. It was perfect, spicy and bold.

He leaned closer. “Tell me, why did you become a copper? Did you lose your baby brother? A little abuse in your background?” He smiled a wicked, lazy grin at her and she bit her lip trying not to smile back. “You can tell me. I can keep a secret.” He licked his lips, slow and suggestive. Jesus, if Baldwin saw that he’d be off his head.

“Highsmythe, you’ve got to knock this off.”

“What?” he asked, all kinds of innocent. Baldwin came back to the table, and Taylor swore she felt a hand on her knee before Memphis slid back into the seat, crossing his arms on his chest.

“All set,” Baldwin said. “What’s happening here? Did you guys go over the names?”

“No. Memphis would like to know why I became a cop.”

“Oh. That’s easy. Her dad.”

“Baldwin.”

He looked at her in surprise. “What? It is, isn’t it?” He leaned over toward Memphis conspiratorially. “Taylor’s dad isn’t the most upright character, if you know what I mean.”

“Baldwin!”

“Is that where you got the scar?” Memphis asked.

Taylor’s hand went to her throat. “My God, no. My father may be a crook, but he never laid a hand on me. This was courtesy of a suspect. Baldwin saved my life. It was our first case together.”

Memphis leaned back in his chair. “Isn’t that romantic? Well, then, you shouldn’t be so fussed about it. My father used to say, ‘The average man bristles if you say his father was dishonest, but he brags a little if his great-grandfather was a pirate.’ Time will remember your father fondly, I’m sure.”

Taylor shot him a look. “Is this some sort of British quote, like the upper-class secret handshake?”

“There’s a secret handshake? I didn’t know. Must be why I’m in the Met instead of loafing around the family estates.” He grinned at her, his blue eyes twinkling with delight. He enjoyed annoying her, she could see that as plain as day. Sam was wrong, so very, very wrong. She wasn’t flirting with Memphis, but he was most definitely and without reservation flirting with her. But all the fun had gone out of it since Baldwin had brought up her father; sharing her personal embarrassment with a total stranger snapped her back to the real world.

Memphis toyed with his fork. “I don’t know who said it, I just remember the quote. Surely not my father, it was something he read somewhere, I suppose. But it’s fitting, don’t you think?”

“What, now you’re giving me advice?”

“Memphis’s father is an earl, Taylor. You’re getting advice on the family dynamic from the Viscount Dulsie, so I’d listen if I were you.” Baldwin gave her a quirky, teasing smile. She sniffed.

“I see. Somewhere down the road, one of my invisible offspring will look back and think what Win has done is romantic, somehow? That stealing and lying and cheating and cavorting with serial killers is a good thing? I hardly think that will be the case. You don’t know my father, Memphis. He is not a good man.”

“There must be something good about him. He produced a child who knows right from wrong.”

She looked down at her wineglass. It was something she’d always wondered-was her moral code, her ability to shut down her feelings of family and remorse for the way things could have been a direct cause of Win’s actions? How could a man who had no regard for the law produce a child who lived by it?

She finished her wine. “Oh, look at the time. You boys are going to miss your plane if we don’t hop to it. Detective Highsmythe, do you need to stop off before we go?”

“Back to proper names already, are we? As you like, Miss Jackson. Yes, I need to grab my bag from the concierge.”

He stood and gave her a mocking little bow. Without saying goodbye, he strode out of the restaurant into the darkened lobby of the hotel.

Baldwin peeled off some cash and left it on the table. They followed Memphis, then turned and exited onto the street. When Baldwin reached for her hand, she pulled it away.

“What’s wrong?” Baldwin asked.

She stopped and stared him in the eye, vaguely noticing that the ambient light from the downtown illumination made them smolder. She was too upset to care about that right now. She spoke low, so no one would overhear.

“What are you guys, best friends now? Why did you tell him about my dad? You know how I feel about that. It’s…personal. Private. Our private business.”

Baldwin recognized how distressed she was at last, apologized profusely. “I didn’t think you’d care. You’ve never taken issue with it before.”

“This is different. He’s a stranger. There’s no reason to go telling him sordid details about my personal life.” Her family life was an embarrassment to her, no doubt, but most of Nashville was familiar with the more torrid stories. She knew she was overreacting, and didn’t know why.

“Taylor, don’t get huffy. I said I was sorry. No one holds you accountable for your dad’s actions. Besides, Memphis is one of the good guys.” He stepped to the valet desk, handed over the ticket.

She pulled her hair up into a ponytail. That’s what you think. Memphis was starting to get to her. She had no idea why she cared about him seeing her in the best possible light. Maybe Sam was right, maybe she was showing off for him. Add in that look of longing tucked deep into the recesses of his eyes…She sighed. Just when things were going so well, she suddenly had to contend with the advances of this posh boy.

And posh was just the word for him. Floppy blond hair, falling into his cornflower-blue eyes. Strong jaw, straight nose, decent teeth. That ridiculous accent, every word strung out from his tongue, pronounced. Good thing she didn’t go for light-haired men-for the briefest of moments, she’d felt a ridiculous pull of attraction to his clean good looks. Baldwin had the Black Irish in him, that deep silky hair the color of night and those clear green eyes. Cat eyes. Baldwin was the better looking of the two, bigger and taller as well. Memphis looked more like a very well-kept greyhound.

What in the name of hell are you doing, Taylor?

Baldwin came back to her. He looked at her strangely, like he could read her mind. He could, sometimes. She prayed he hadn’t glimpsed too deeply in that thought process.

“Where’s Memphis?” he asked.

“I’m not his babysitter. How should I know?” Taylor said.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He was watching her curiously, and she felt like she’d been caught doing something wrong. That was crazy. She took a deep breath and blew it out, hard.

“Seriously, I’m fine. I’m just not all that hip to discussing my personal life with him. He’s…it’s nothing. I just don’t like thinking about Win, that’s all.”

“Okay. I promise not to bring him up again in public.” He leaned down and kissed her gently. She accepted the kiss, squeezed his hand in forgiveness.

Memphis appeared through the hotel doors, looking excited.

Baldwin looked at his watch, tapped the face. “Time to go.”

Memphis held up a hand. “My apologies. My DC called with some news. She thinks she’s found a witness to one of the Macellaio dumps.”

“That’s great news,” Baldwin said. “I asked the valet to grab us a cab, we can talk about it on the plane.”

“Where’s your car?” Taylor asked.

“At home. We’ve had a driver tonight.”

“Yes, quite fancy,” Memphis said.

The valet pulled up with Taylor’s 4Runner. “Oh. Well, do you want a ride? I need to go back to the office for a bit anyway.”

“You don’t mind?” Baldwin asked.

“Of course not. Hop in.”

It was cool downtown. A few cars traveled up and down West End, and a group of drunk Vanderbilt students huddled together on the corner, ready to cross the street onto campus and head back to their dorms. What she wouldn’t give to have their innocence, their naïveté. They couldn’t know what a mean world they lived in, unless they’d been personally touched by violence.

They talked about the hopeful ramifications of a possible witness as Taylor drove them to John C. Tune airport, trying to stifle the horrible memories it brought her. She’d been spirited out of town from that airport, unconscious, at the whim of a killer who manipulated her entire family. She forced herself to breathe, to move the tension out of her jaw and shoulders. She felt a hand along the back of her neck, deft fingers digging deep into the cords. She looked over to Baldwin with a smile of thanks, saw him working his BlackBerry. With both hands.

She bucked upright, jerked the brakes a bit and the hand disappeared.

“What’s wrong?” Baldwin asked.

“Nothing,” she said. Memphis’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. He was smiling. “Nothing at all.”