The Cold Room (22 page)

I
t was late, past 2:00 in the morning, when Baldwin heard a knock on the door, looked up to see Memphis standing in his office. They'd arrived in Quantico at midnight, and Baldwin had arranged for a room for Memphis in one of the dorms.

“You should be sleeping,” he said. “We have a long day ahead of us.”

“I could say the same of you. I was sleeping, but my body clock thinks it's morning, so here I am. I don't suppose you have any real tea, by any chance? Maybe a drop of something stronger?”

Baldwin scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I do. I'll go get it, and then I'll fill you in on what we've got.”

Baldwin took the hallway down to the row of cubicles that housed his team. He was technically the unit chief, though he transitioned between the Nashville Field Office and the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. There were three Behavioral Analysis Units in the Behavioral Science Unit—Unit One—Terrorism and Threat Assessments, Unit Two—Crimes Against Adults and Unit Three—Crimes Against Children. He managed BAU Two—had
been the unit chief for four years. He had his fingers in BAU One as well, though his involvement was tertiary and very, very quiet. Terrorism was the number-one priority of the Bureau, had been since the evolution of their purpose after 9/11. It played well for him—in his other persona, Baldwin profiled assassins for the CIA in a covert operation known as the Angelmakers. That part of his life had been thankfully lacking in necessary endeavors lately.

He had forewarned his BAU team that they'd be needed to help finalize the profile for the Metropolitan police. He'd chosen two excellent lead profilers for this assignment—Charlaine Shultz, a former Little Rock homicide detective with a boisterous laugh and a deadly acumen for murder, and Dr. Wills Appleby, a psychiatrist turned profiler Baldwin did his residency with. They'd met the first day of classes at Johns Hopkins, spent four years grinding through med school together, then a completely grueling psychiatric residency.

When they'd finished up, Baldwin had gone on to George Washington University to get his law degree, thinking he'd be a medical ethicist. Instead, he met Garrett Woods. Garrett recognized the potential in him immediately, potential Baldwin didn't know existed. He snatched him up for the FBI, and Baldwin hadn't looked back. He was a Supervisory Special Agent now, and Garrett was running all of the Behavioral Science Unit.

Baldwin recruited Wills in turn. Outside of a few people from Hampden-Sydney, where he did his undergrad, Wills was his oldest friend.

Not all his profilers had doctorates or medical degrees. He'd found early on that instinct can't be taught—some people have it, and some don't. Appleby was one of the few psychiatrists who were also profilers; most of his staff
were former police officers. It was easier to teach the psychological components of profiling than it was to train instinct. Practical investigative experience, how to read a crime scene, that instinctive ability to assimilate a violent crime, none of those things could be taught. All of his recruits went through an extensive, intensive training program. Very few washed out—he'd gotten very good at picking who would mesh with this type of work.

Except for one. He'd made a massive, colossal blunder when he'd hired a woman named Charlotte Douglas.

He had unconsciously stopped at the office that used to belong to her. Charlotte had deceived them all. She'd passed every psychological test the FBI had, had risen to the position of Deputy Chief of BAU Two. And all the while, she'd been utilizing the tools available at the FBI—specifically CODIS and ViCAP—to track down killers she was interested in, for her.

Whispers had been circulating that Charlotte's computer contained material that could be used to blackmail certain agents into submission. The investigation was ongoing. Good riddance, Baldwin thought, then felt immediate sorrow, as he often did when Charlotte came to mind. She'd been dangerous to him on many, many levels.

He'd love to know what her little files held about him. Ex-lover, definitely, he was sure she'd probably documented every minute of his time with her, though it was a short-lived relationship. But what other secrets did Charlotte harbor? A brilliant woman, her encryption codes had proved nearly impossible to crack. They'd only tapped into a third of what she had stored on her computer. It was as if she was a codex from an earlier era, when codes were unbreakable because they were written in dead languages no one could possibly decipher. Charlotte's mind was an undiscovered country.

He shook himself, pulling out of the reverie, realized one of his teammates, Dr. Pietra Dunmore, was staring at him. He caught her eyes, silky brown and deep-set, and recognized that she'd known exactly what he was thinking about. She just nodded, too polite to call him out. She'd worked closely with Charlotte, too.

“You should be in bed.”

“Ha,” Pietra said. She gave him a rueful smile. “Boss, I got the DNA sample profiles from Taylor Jackson, checked in CODIS. The murder in Chattanooga was a match. I don't know why it didn't show up when we ran the search on the DNA from London and Florence—I've sent the issue to the database team for them to work out.”

Baldwin sighed. “Might have been one Charlotte dug her fingers into, rerouted to her private database,” he said.

“That's probably a pretty safe assumption. We'll get it figured out. But II Macellaio is definitely responsible for at least one of the four Nashville murders. There's another DNA chain running, from the case yesterday, but I won't have that until tomorrow.”

Baldwin was torn between groaning and throwing his fist in the air in glee. It was expected, but this definitely threw a monkey wrench into the profile. Memphis's assumption about II Macellaio being biracial was quite prescient. It was the only decent explanation for why he was killing both black and white women.

“Starvation, strangulation and necrophilia. This one is a real piece of work.” Pietra looked pissed off—Baldwin could understand why. She was the perfect physical type for the U.S. killings—petite and black.

Baldwin scrubbed his hands through his hair, then said, “Okay. Let me work this into the official profile. I've been operating with that theory all along, just in case. Won't take me but half an hour.”

“I'm happy to help.”

“That's okay. Tomorrow's going to be a long day. Go grab some sleep.”

“Sure thing, boss.” She disappeared down the hall, he continued on his path to Garrett's office, thinking.

The killer had changed M.O.s definitively, working back and forth across the Atlantic. The Florence killings and the two latest Nashville killings were by far the most sophisticated; the London murders seemed more like crimes of opportunity. Il Macellaio lived in Florence, then, where he knew the lay of the land. Which meant he must also have a place in Tennessee. Someplace private. A room of his own.

The London murders were an exercise in convenience. Something took him there—a job, a woman, vacation. Il Macellaio's urges had gotten so strong, his desire to kill was overwhelming him. Even away from his home base, outside his comfort zone, he couldn't wait until he got back to Florence. Three months, that's how long the murders had been going on. Okay then, so for three months he'd been living in or regularly visiting London. So what made him come to Tennessee?

Baldwin was dawdling. He went to the end of the hall, to his boss's office. Garrett was in D.C. at the moment, but Baldwin knew he kept a bottle stashed in his desk. The head of the Behavioral Science Unit was a scotch man, too. He usually kept it in the bottom left drawer; yes, there it was. Dewar's White Label. He shook the bottle; plenty left for a nightcap.

He started back to his office. This case was eating at him. Maybe he was losing his touch. Losing his focus. He'd been fighting the realization that with Taylor in his life, he cared more, and less, about his job than ever before. Every minute he spent away from her was too
long. Perhaps his feelings were clouding his judgment. Perhaps he needed to reexamine his role at the BAU, his motivations, his goals. Assess whether he really wanted to stay in this job, or wanted to move back to Nashville full-time. Or try again to convince Taylor to join his team at Quantico, where he could keep an eye on her. The Pretender wasn't going to give up, or give in, until he saw them both destroyed. Could he live with himself if something were to happen to her? Of course not. It would be his final undoing.

He forced the thoughts aside. He'd revisit them once this case was over. II Macellaio was haunting him. He was missing something. Something important, that would lay out all the answers.

But what?

 

Memphis was skulking around Baldwin's office when he noticed the framed photograph on Baldwin's desk. It was of Taylor, an utterly lovely picture highlighting her glowing skin, honey-blond hair, gray eyes, pillowy lips. She was smiling without showing her teeth, a dreamy expression on her face. She'd been utterly unaware of the camera, that much was evident.

God, she looked so much like Evan.

Yes, the eyes were the wrong color, but that mouth, the teasing look. He could read Evan in the shadows of Taylor's face.

He missed her already. He wasn't sure what drew him to Taylor Jackson, her face, her intelligence. The fact that she was alive and Evan was dead? “Bugger,” he said softly.

Baldwin finally returned clutching a bottle of Dewar's and two cut-crystal lowballs. At least the man had good taste.

Baldwin put the glasses on his desk and poured them each three fingers.

“Drinking on the job?” Memphis asked.

“Might help us both sleep,” Baldwin answered.

“Perhaps it will,” he said, then clinked his glass against Baldwin's. “Perhaps it will.”

T
he Tennessean
headline made Taylor grit her teeth.

2nd Body Found
Is a Serial Killer Stalking Nashville's Streets?

She read the article, worried, but aside from the detail of the postcard at Radnor Lake, they didn't have the full story. No one had made the connection to the Italian murders yet.

She made a quick call to Dan Franklin, the department spokesman, and dumped the mess in his lap. For a brief instant, she was glad she was just the detective of record. Franklin and Elm would have to be out in front of the media getting lambasted—she could spend her time working the case.

She made a pot of tea, the morning sunlight streaming in her kitchen window. She felt good. She'd slept a couple of hours after her midnight drive through Nashville. She'd confirmed a few addresses, but really hadn't gotten anywhere. But today was a new day. There was a murderer to catch, and she intended to do it.

She needed to fill Baldwin in on the leak. He'd left a message at the house sometime in the wee hours while she was driving around, letting her know he'd gotten to Quantico. She felt bad for snapping at him last night. She'd been overreacting to Sam's warning and her own fool tendencies. She'd always been easily flattered. As soon as Baldwin delivered the profile, Memphis would go back to England and Baldwin would come back to Nashville, and they could catch this killer together. Without a third-party intrusion.

She held the phone between her ear and shoulder, the line ringing, once, twice, three times. Then Baldwin's gruff, sleep-strewn voice filled her. He sounded tense, but warmed immediately.

“Hi, babe. Did I wake you?”

“Hi back. No, I'm awake. Sort of.” He yawned.

“Sounds like you were up as late as I was.”

“You have no idea. Our consultation with the Met is in an hour. I'm ingesting coffee as quickly as humanly possible. How are you?”

“Tired, too. I was up half the night knocking on doors, trying to confirm addresses with the names from the Picasso monograph. I've been trying to track them down in Nashville, cross-referenced every match against drivers of white Priuses, but I was hoping you could take a look in your federal databases, as well.”

“For the white Prius?”

“Against the names, yeah. My informant saw Allegra Johnson and Leslie Horne get into a Prius for a trick. That was the last time he saw them alive. Stands to reason.”

“It's not that, I remember. I just find it highly unlikely that an organized offender would be dumb enough to use his own car. But I'll plug them into my system, too. Fax them up. I'll get Pietra on it.”

“Must be nice having a staff.”

“Things go south this morning?”

“Last night. Sorry, I didn't get a chance to tell you. If you can believe this, I think my replacement has Alzheimer's. And I'm not kidding. I talked to Percy yesterday, asked him to look into it. But I've got a bigger problem—the press has just enough detail to be dangerous. We need to catch this creep now before they put the whole story together and start an international crisis.”

“We're getting close. I can feel it.”

“I hate that we have to work apart on this. I feel like things are breaking, though. When are you coming back?”

“I'll be back in Nashville this afternoon. After the presentation, and after I get Lord James
call me Memphis
Highsmythe, the Viscount Dulsie, out of my hair.”

“Oh, he's not that bad.” She couldn't believe she'd just said that. He
was
that bad, and then some. Since when did she start defending him? “Besides, I thought you liked him.”

“I don't dislike him. He's a good cop, smart, intuitive. He just gives new meaning to stiff upper lip. I hate to profile someone I'm working with, but he's in extreme pain. He overcompensates by trying to get under people's skin, make them as uncomfortable as he is. You saw that firsthand. He's a very capable investigator. I think he needs more work, that's all.”

No kidding.

“Well, I'm glad you're coming back. I want this case solved. I miss you.”

“In that order?” he teased.

“No, I miss you first and foremost. There, happy?”

“Very, love. I'll talk to you later.”

“Good luck with the profile,” she said. They hung up, and she sipped her tea. James Memphis Highsmythe. She
knew exactly what Baldwin was talking about. The viscount had gotten a little too far under
her
skin, as well.

Tossing that thought away, she rinsed out her cup, snapped her Glock into its holster, put her badge on her belt and headed downtown.

McKenzie was already at his desk when she walked in, a steaming latte at his elbow. The smell made her stomach rumble.

He turned to her with a smile. “I got you one. It's on your desk.”

“Thank you. That was sweet. How are you this morning?”

“You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Elm's gone. He's been placed on medical leave indefinitely. I didn't know he was sick.”

“Oh.” She sat at her desk, grabbed the Starbucks. “Listen, about that. I talked with my union rep about him last night.”

“You filed a complaint?” McKenzie's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“No, no, nothing like that. I figured out why he was so erratic, that's all.”

“Why?”

She looked at him for a moment. He'd been pretty damn honest with her over the past few days. She decided to bring him in the loop. Her life would be much easier if she could start trusting him.

“Can you keep your mouth shut?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Alzheimer's.”

McKenzie sat back in his chair. “Now that makes sense.”

“You're familiar with it?”

“Yes. My dad. He's in a home right now. I couldn't
take care of him after my mom died.” He said all of this without looking for sympathy, just reciting facts.

“Jeez, McKenzie, I'm sorry about that.”

He smiled sadly, took a sip of his coffee. “Well, what are you going to do? I thought something might be wrong with Elm, but I didn't want to say anything.”

“Why?”

“It wasn't polite.”

Taylor decided right there and then that she liked Renn McKenzie.

“So have you heard anything else?”

“Like who they're replacing him with? No.” But he smiled at her, and she relaxed. No sense getting herself worked up about management issues. She had a killer to catch, and a hot trail to follow. She brought McKenzie up to speed on her midnight travels.

He got visibly upset. “You should have called me before you went out prowling. I was just talking to Bangor. Something could have happened. I could have had your back.”

“McKenzie, I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. Besides, Parks went with me. We were fine.”

“Be that as it may, you're my partner. Something goes down and I'm not there, I would feel bad. So next time, just call me, okay? I don't sleep much, anyway.”

“Funny, me either. Okay, I promise. What did Bangor have to say? Did he divulge any good secrets?”

McKenzie blushed. She wondered what exactly she'd said to make him spook like that. He recovered quickly, answered her with feigned nonchalance.

“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. We talked movies, mostly. He's a fascinating guy. We didn't come up with any connections to the Johnson girl. One thing that did stand out was that he's a big supporter of the Frist Center.
He donates money all the time so they can get good exhibits. He's sponsoring part of a new exhibit that's coming from Italy, had a fund-raising party at the house about a month ago. So he's connected to the arts here in town.” He smiled slyly, and Taylor saw where he was going.

“McKenzie. Did you get the guest list from the fundraiser?”

He grinned. “Of course I did. Thought we could cross-reference the names against what we have so far, see if anything matches.”

She clapped him on the shoulder. “Nice work, kiddo. That's just the kind of stuff we need. Great. Let's get to it. I think we should send some patrols out to the addresses I hit last night that looked deserted. You and I can tackle the ones that looked more promising. Let's go through the guest list, see if any names match the copyright page and match the DMV list of white Priuses.”

Rowena Wright came into the offices. “Detective Jackson?” she said, getting Taylor's attention.

Taylor turned and smiled at Rowena, but just as quickly jumped out of her chair and went to the woman. Her face was gray, haggard. She looked like she'd aged twenty years overnight.

“Rowena, what's wrong?”

“My niece. Kendra. She didn't come home last night. Her father just called me, he found her car by the side of the road, off of Highway 96 down in Williamson County.”

“Any sign of foul play?” McKenzie asked. Taylor shot him a look; it wasn't the most sensitive question to ask a distraught aunt.

Rowena shuddered. “No. Nothing. She hasn't answered her cell phone. That girl lives to text message, but none of her friends have heard from her. I've just filed a missing-persons report, but I wanted to talk to you. To ask
you personally to look for her. She's a good girl. Headstrong, silly, but such a treat. She's…I just…I would hate to have something bad happen.”

“I'll do everything I can, Rowena. What's her full name?”

“Kendra. Kendra Kelley.”

“Do you have an extra picture? And can you get me on the phone with her father?”

“Yes. I can do that.”

“Then let's go into Elm's office and start making some calls. McKenzie, you come with me.”

Rowena pulled a photo out of her capacious handbag. She handed it to Taylor, who felt all the breath leave her lungs. Kendra was tiny, petite, with long black hair in braids.

A perfect candidate for II Macellaio.

She looked at McKenzie. “Those addresses just became our number one priority.”

 

Baldwin hung up with Taylor and grimaced. He shook three Tylenols into his hand, letting the water warm in the shower. He'd woken up with a wicked headache, which was getting worse by the second. Scotch always did that to him. He and Memphis had shot the shit, told some stories, finished the bottle and crawled off to their respective beds at four in the morning. He was too damn old to have a hangover, especially when he hadn't been drunk the night before.

None of that mattered. He needed to focus on II Macellaio now.

He showered, shaved and left the apartment he kept for just these kinds of overnight visits. It took him five minutes to get onto the FBI campus, and by the time he swung through the gates his headache was gone. He was thinking about the profile.

The consultation had to look at the whole, rather than just the sum of all the parts. And for a case this big, he felt like he needed a full team—he'd pulled Wills and Charlaine in, then added a forensic expert and a computer analyst. Pietra was his forensics go-to girl. Kevin Salt was his most talented computer expert. He entered his offices and continued down the hall to Kevin's cube. He knocked on the bar across the top, a tinny echoing clang.

“Kevin, briefing on II Macellaio in five. You ready?”

“I am, Chief. Got everything right here. I'll go get set up.” He pointed to a laptop, then scooped it up and walked off down the hall. He was ridiculously tall, nearly six foot nine, whiter than a starched linen handkerchief, with flame-red hair. He'd been a point guard for UCLA but blew out a knee his last game senior year. He'd been good enough for the NBA, too; was being recruited by the Lakers and the Nuggets. A damn shame, but Baldwin saw his scores on the FBI entrance exams and had been grooming him ever since. Taylor had her Lincoln, but Baldwin could stake money on Kevin's ability to outdo him. It would be a close, tough fight between two very different and talented men.

He moved on to Pietra's cube. She looked tired but greeted him with a smile.

“Pietra, briefing in five.”

“On my way,” she said. “I'll grab Charlaine and Wills. The Brit's already in the conference room. He's much too chipper this morning.”

“That's not fair. He was up all night, too. Thanks, Pietra. I'm just going to grab some coffee and I'll be right there.”

He stepped into the break room, the luscious scent of fresh-brewed java making his head swim. He poured a cup and drank it down, then poured another. Caffeine
buzzed through his veins and he felt more alert. It was time to finish this.

We're ready to get you, you son of a bitch.