The Cold Room

Forty-Three

Taylor and Baldwin walked into the carabinieri station to meet with Luigi Folarni at 8:00 a.m. local time. Memphis was with them, sulky and quiet. They’d shared breakfast at the hotel-salami and ham and crusty bread, cheeses and croissants with fresh jam, cappuccinos. Memphis had come to breakfast wearing his sunglasses; Taylor could smell the raw reek of day-old alcohol on his breath. She couldn’t judge, she’d used drink to get herself to sleep before. As they left the hotel for the carabinieri station she surreptitiously handed him a stick of gum. He accepted it with a weak smile.

Folarni greeted them like old friends, had more cappuccino brought.

“I have very good news,” he said, beaming. “We have made progress from last evening. We have an address to look at. The photographer’s residenza matches the billing address for the computer’s IP address. The photographs were on the news this morning. We had many, many phone calls about this case. The people of Florence want to help catch II Macellaio! There was a tassista, ah, how do you say?” He looked at Baldwin.

“Taxi driver,” Baldwin answered, leaning forward in his chair.

“Si. A taxi driver who recalls driving a man yesterday who fits the description of II Macellaio. And the computer address your people in Quantico sent to my experts is close to where the tassista dropped the man. We will go to the address, see if we can find them.”

“The photos have been circulating on television?” Memphis asked.

“And in the newspaper. We are very serious about catching these men, especially now that we know there is a second killer. We must keep the Florentine people safe.”

“They’ve probably made a run for it then. Bolted. If I saw my picture on the telly, that’s what I’d do.”

Luigi gave a thoroughly Italian shrug. “Perhaps. But it will do us no good to hide from these things. So, come. We will go to the address and see what we can see.”

The Via Montebello was crawling with police. Folarni wasn’t being subtle, he had broken out the carabinieri’s showiest pieces to ensure the Italian news saw that they, not the Florence Polizia, were responsible for capturing Il Macellaio and his twin brother.

Stern-faced shop owners stood in the street, smoking, arms crossed, watching the show. Sirens spun and echoed down the narrow cobblestone alleys behind them to ensure no escape.

With weapons drawn, the plainclothes carabinieri rushed the front door, splintering the thick wood with several well-placed kicks. It was quickly apparent that no one was inside the house.

But they had been close.

They talked to as many neighbors as they could find.

A woman across the via with a hooked nose and unkempt gray hair told Folarni that she saw the man who lived in the house leave in the middle of the night. But she was convinced it was a ghost, because there were two of them.

Upset to no end, Folarni sat heavily on the hood of his Alfa Romeo and lit a cigarette. Marlboro Red. It made Taylor wish she could join him.

The three of them conferred quietly, just out of Folarni’s earshot.

“Do you think this is the right place?” Taylor asked.

“It matches the address from the IP on the computer. So yes, I think so. Neighbors have confirmed that a man who looks like this lives here. Memphis was right, they were tipped off somehow.”

“Or Tommaso figured out that Gavin left too much evidence behind and was being proactive.”

Baldwin nodded at Taylor. “Or that. Gavin was certainly still learning, still evolving. It’s not that uncommon for new serial killers to make mistakes. Regardless, now we have to start from scratch. All the border crossings have been notified, and the airports and train stations. They won’t be able to get out of Italy.”

“Is this where II Macellaio has been doing his killing?” Memphis asked.

“Let’s go in and see.”

Folarni was happy to let them go upstairs with his forensic team. A quick search revealed good fingerprints, hairs, everything they would need to make a match to their previous items. But there was nothing to indicate this was the charnel house. It looked like a regular guy lived there, someone who had a passion for art. His walls were a testament to that-photographs, paintings, lithographs hung in every available space. There were no quiet little tuckaways, and the neighbors were obviously vigilant. But anything was possible. He’d had enough time to set things right in anticipation of their arrival.

It was nearly 10:00 a.m., and the brothers had several hours’ head start.

They reconvened in the kitchen. “So, what’s next?” Taylor asked.

Baldwin ran his fingers through his hair. “We need to get into the property records. If he’s not killing here, he’s killing somewhere more private. He needs someplace where he wouldn’t be interrupted, where he can keep the girls. We need to find his hole.”

“Agreed,” Memphis said.

They approached Folarni with their request. He decided without hesitation, got on his phone. In Italian so rapid Taylor couldn’t follow, he made several requests. Baldwin translated for them.

“He’s asking for the property rolls. They are looking for anything under the name Tommaso.”

“Tell them to widen the search. Have them try the name Thomas Fielding,” Taylor suggested.

Baldwin winked at her, spoke to Folarni. “Okay. They’ve plugged that name in, too.”

Fifteen minutes later, they still had nothing. The only address listed to Thomas Fielding was the one they were standing in front of.

“Might want to try one more name,” Memphis said.

“What?” Baldwin asked.

“Gary Fielding.”

“Tommaso’s father. Of course!”

And that insight was the key. Within five minutes they had an address in the hills of Florence, and were on their way.