The Cold Room (19 page)

“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.”