The Cold Room

by J. T. Ellison

  She ditched Memphis at the front desk. She was tired, and hungry and tingling with anticipation. She tipped the porter when he dropped their bags in their room, washed her face, was ready to get started. It was smart of Baldwin to force the carabinieri chief to talk tonight. At least they’d have a sense of where the investigation stood. Baldwin’s fluency had a tendency to open doors; the inspector had obviously been charmed by the prospect as well. Baldwin could speak Italian like a native. One of his many little talents. Taylor had just learned that he was more than conversational in thirteen languages.

  She reset her watch to local time—the Tag Heuer dive watch Baldwin had given her for her birthday last month had sophisticated time-zone features. She made the secondary time read Nashville so she wouldn’t be rousing people in the middle of the night. Then she powered up her cell phone and checked in with McKenzie.

  It was lunchtime in Nashville, but McKenzie answered the phone immediately.

  “Hey! You’re in safe?”

  “Yes. Here’s the hotel information in case you need to reach me.” She read off the numbers. “Where do we stand?”

  “The media has made the connection between the Conductor and Il Macellaio, for starters.”

  “Damn it.”

  “Yeah. They’re running with it everywhere. But we’ve been making progress. The tapes from Radnor Lake show Adler’s Prius on the street alongside the west parking lot at 3:00 in the morning. He drove right past the barricade, and then is gone for about twenty minutes. He returns the same way, drives out again at 3:20, and that’s it. They don’t have any shots of the spot where Leslie Horne was put in the creek.”

  “Still, the car is great evidence. Anything else?”

  “I talked to the woman from the FBI, Pietra Dunmore? The DNA came back from Manchester. It matches all the rest that we’ve retrieved. Your idea about the carpet really was a stroke of brilliance, you know that?”

  “I think it was his first murder. Adler’s, that is. Did you show the six-pack to Hugh Bangor?”

  “I did, and he picked Adler out immediately. He was the designer contracted to do the Frist catalog for the Italian Masters exhibit. You were right, he was involved in the local arts scene. Bangor says Adler’s head is shaved now.”

  “Did you confirm how he knows Adler?”

  “Yeah, it was that big party Hugh had for everyone involved in the exhibit a few weeks back, including the artists and designers setting up the show. Adler was part of the team for the exhibit, he got an invite and came. Considering the fact that Adler has a poster of the Picasso in his living room, I think he was probably inspired to leave Allegra at Bangor’s house when he saw the painting. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Hugh says they talked about the piece a bit, and hasn’t had any other meaningful contact with him.”

  Ah. That did make sense. She made a note to tell Baldwin about Adler’s shaved head; it must be why the customs agents in Rome missed him. He didn’t look like his picture anymore.

  “Fabulous work. Can you get the pictures sent to Sheriff Simmons, see if he can show his brother and Marie Bender the photos?”

  “I’ve already done that. I actually have a lot of great information for you. Adler’s adopted family is from Manchester. They’re dead now, the parents, but he went to high school at Central. Plus, Mrs. Bender said Adler is the one she remembered LaTara being friends with. There was something hinky about his parents, too. They died while he was in high school, right before his eighteenth birthday. Simmons told me it was a fluke accident—a carbon monoxide leak.”

  “How convenient. Think he killed his parents?”

  “It’s a possibility. Regardless, there’s the connection.”

  She realized she hadn’t thought of McKenzie as Just Renn in nearly two days. That boded well.

  “That is great work, McKenzie. Thank you for handling all of this.”

  “No problem. By the way, Tim also found a pair of Asics running shoes at Adler’s house that match the plaster casts from Hugh’s house. Mr. Bangor, I mean. And I talked with the boy who used to live next door, Christopher Gallagher, the one Bangor’s partner was convicted of raping? He was at a party in Houston the night we found Allegra Johnson’s body. I talked with the restaurant owner who confirmed it. So he’s clear. I talked to the head of Riverbend about Arnold Fay, and the consensus is he’s on the straight and narrow, doing his time without complaint. I’m comfortable that that aspect of the case is just a coincidence. Bangor and I talked about it further, he said all three of them were completely devastated by the situation.”

  “Okay then. Good work. This is a wrapping up in a nice little bow. Now we just need to catch them.”

  It was almost 9:00 p.m., and Baldwin still hadn’t called. Arranging for three additional law-enforcement agencies to be working on Italian soil wasn’t going to be an easy task. Taylor was thankful he was dealing with it, and not her. But she was hungry, and restless.

  All the restaurants had reopened after their afternoon respites; the cafés had refreshed their supplies of gelato and espresso. She could walk around, find something, or sit someplace. She knew a great little place close by where she could get an espresso and a bite, maybe a bit of wine.

  She knew enough about Italy to know that the investigation would be shuttered until tomorrow, that no more work would be done on it after the meetings tonight. They would be able to eat dinner, get some rest, and start tracking the brothers in the morning.

  She knocked on the door to Memphis’s room. He answered, broke into a wide smile when he saw it was her.

  “Signorina!”

  “Buona sera, Memphis. I’m hungry. Do you want to get something to eat?”

  “Yes. I’m famished. Airline food just isn’t what it used to be. Shouldn’t we wait for your chap?”

  “He said he’d be in touch when he was finished. I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait. I need to eat something to hold me over. Besides, we’ll just be around the corner. I know a place. Come on. It’s not far.”

  They exited the hotel, Memphis tagging along at her side like a happy Labrador. Taylor realized the sun was setting, the shadows lengthening. The summer days seemed to last forever here. She was struck by a thought. She reversed course, grabbed Memphis by the arm to turn him around.

  “What?” he asked, but she just smiled.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  She led him down the block to the Ponte Santa Trinita. The bridge was guarded at all four corners by statues of the four seasons—Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. They didn’t have to walk far. The sun was disappearing, flashing off the neighboring bridge, the world-famous Ponte Vecchio. The medieval bridge was one of Florence’s easiest landmarks to navigate by, second only to the Duomo, and Taylor recalled its beauty at this particular time of night.

  She wasn’t disappointed. The view was postcard perfect—the sun’s luminous glow turning to fire as it slid into the western horizon, the Arno sparkling and reflecting off the edifice of the Ponte Vecchio, the Vassari Corridor, which connected the Pitti Palace with the Palazzo Vecchio.

  Memphis stood next to her and sighed. “Why, Miss Jackson. I’m touched. Our first shared sunset.”

  She immediately regretted the gesture. Of course he’d misinterpret her intentions.

  Not speaking, she swung away and headed back onto the Via Tornabuoni. Memphis followed her. They passed the hotel, then turned right and walked through the Strozzi Palace courtyard and into an understated piazza. The aptly named Piazza degli Strozzi was more functional than ornamental, one of many little piazzas tucked away neatly on Florence’s side streets. They were usually the best spots for homemade gelato, family-owned stores off the beaten path held treasures for anyone willing to look for them. But Taylor wanted something solid, some crostini or the like, so they got a table on the patio of Colle Bereto.

  It was one of her favorite Italian-watching spots—the college students started flowing in around ten in the evening, pre- or post-m
ovies at the theater around the corner, drinking cosmopolitans and martinis. There were plenty of tables now. They got a plate, some nuts and olives to nibble on, and a bottle of a fine Nero D’Avola Taylor remembered. A group of girls settled three tables over, shooting giggling glances at Memphis. She had to admit, lounging back in the chair, his sleeves rolled up, the brown skin of his wrists showing, he did look terribly handsome.

  Sipping the wine, she looked around the piazza. Tried to ignore the fact that Memphis was running his fingers up and down the stem of his wineglass. What was it about this man that got under her skin? She was strangely attracted to him, even though he wasn’t remotely her type. It wasn’t a sexual thing, she thought, more of an intellectual curiosity. Besides, she was very, very much taken.

  “What’s your favorite flower?” he asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Your favorite flower. Come on, we’re stuck here while FBI super-agent Baldwin lays the groundwork. Who knows how long it will take. Let’s get to know one another.”

  “Memphis, I don’t think—”

  “Come on. It will be fun. Favorite flower.”

  She shook her head, took another sip of wine. “Fine. Roses.”

  “I knew it.” His grin lit up his whole face.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. What’s your favorite food?”

  She sighed. “Italian anything.”

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Gray.”

  “Hmm. That’s interesting. Because of those incredibly lovely eyes of yours?”

  “Memphis—”

  “Okay, okay. What’s your favorite film ever?”

  “Oh, come on. Who cares about that?”

  “I care. Favorite film.”

  She had a strange sense of déjà vu. Baldwin had asked these questions of her, a long time ago. The same setting too, over wine, a getting-to-know-you session. It felt vaguely wrong to be having the same kind of conversation with Memphis. She pushed the thought away. She’d been doing that a lot lately.

  “I liked Gladiator. Satisfied?”

  “Fits with the Italian theme nicely. Though I would have guessed something like Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  She shook her head. “No way. I was too pissed at Holly for abandoning Cat in the rain.”

  “She came back for the poor slob, though.”

  “Still, it was selfish. I don’t like selfish. She just wanted attention.”

  “Interesting. Moving along. Who’s your favorite band?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “We can have all night.” He smirked.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t have a favorite. I like a lot of different music.”

  “Like who?”

  “The Police, Josh Joplin, Death Cab for Cutie, Portis-head, Duran Duran, Evanescence, U2, all the way back to hair metal. I prefer the Stones over the Beatles, like blues more than jazz, and I’m passionate about classical. Okay?”

  “But you live in Nashville. No country and western?”

  She smiled at him. “Country and western? How quaint. We dropped the western a long time ago. And no. It’s just not my style. Though you can never go wrong with a Johnny Cash tune.”

  “Now you’re mocking me.”

  She just sipped from her wine.

  “One more. What’s your favorite book ever?”

  “Oh, good grief. Eat your olives.”

  “Come on, answer.” He poured them some more wine. “Favorite book.”

  She thought for a moment. That was a hard one. “Sense and Sensibility. No, Pride and Prejudice.”

  “You like Jane Austen?” He sounded completely shocked, to the point that she laughed out loud.

  “Of course I like Austen. Who doesn’t? I think I’ve become engaged to Mr. Darcy, anyway, just like every girl dreams.”

  “I can see that. Stubborn bastard, your chap, just like your hero Mr. Darcy. Jane Austen, eh? It seems like such a girly choice. Funny, Miss Jackson, I never pegged you for a romantic.”

  “Quit calling me that.” She shook out her hair, put it back up in a ponytail, off her neck. “Of course I’m a romantic. I’m a cop. I’m an idealist. I think I can change the world. How could I be anything but? And I’d prefer you not talk like that about Baldwin. He’s been very good to you, and you’re constantly spitting in his face. You should knock that off.”

  Memphis shrugged off her suggestion. “Why do you call him Baldwin, anyway? Why don’t you call him by his first name? If you were chums from school, or a bloke, I could understand. But you’re his fiancée. It seems you would be a bit more familiar.”

  She struggled to explain that one, then settled for, “Because he asked me to. A long time ago. And he never asked me to call him anything else.”

  “You love him.” Memphis sounded bereft, lonely. She was tempted to take his hand to comfort him, pushed that thought away.

  “Yes, I do. He’s, well, it sounds silly, but he’s the other half of me. Until I met him, I didn’t feel…complete. He’s more than a lover, or a partner. Can you understand that?”

  His blue eyes darkened with remembered pain. “Yes. When I lost Evan, my wife, it seemed like such a senseless thing. A car accident. Totally random. I’ve felt like a piece of me was missing ever since. She was pregnant, you know.”

  She didn’t know exactly what to say. That was more information than she wanted to know about Memphis right now. She didn’t need to see his vulnerable side. It was bad enough that they did have so much in common—both from privileged upbringings, both choosing a field that couldn’t please their parents. Both having to fight for the respect of their peers, having to work just that much harder to prove themselves. She imagined his being a viscount had created more antagonism at the Met than he would ever let on. She knew she’d faced it, and she was just a little debutante from Belle Meade. Hardly on par with the peerage.

  A melancholy silence lingered around them for a moment, almost peaceful, then Memphis started the barrage again.

  “Favorite animal?”

  “Oh, come on. Enough about me. What about you? What’s the son of a peer doing working for the Met? It must be strange, being the son of an earl. I thought you landed gentry weren’t supposed to work.”

  “Ooh, someone’s been doing her homework. Couldn’t resist, could you?”

  “Hardly. You’re a little high up in the peerage to be playing with the working class, aren’t you?”

  “Ouch.” Memphis grimaced, then said softly, “Evan insisted I have a real job. Wouldn’t marry me otherwise. Ever hear the term morganatic?”

  “No.”

  “Some people call it a left-hand marriage. It’s an old term, reserved for marriages of rank. It’s when someone of breeding marries well beneath their station. Like your Mr. Darcy.”

  “Okay. What does that have to do with you?”

  “Evan’s father wasn’t a peer. It bothered her tremendously that mine was.”

  He paused, his gaze searching, like he could look right into her very soul. She felt trapped under his gaze; she couldn’t look away. She could tell he wanted to tell her something, felt instinctively that it was important to understanding who the man really was, and what he wanted with her. What the hell?

  Then he looked away, and the moment was gone.

  “You were saying?” Taylor said.

  He looked at her, then waved his hand in the air in front of them. “I’m showing off. My title means nothing to me, though it was always important to my parents. Being a viscount isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But thankfully, my father never pressured me to be like him. He’s quite philanthropic, you know. I’m more like you, an idealist. He supported me joining the Met, helped me get a foot in the door as a matter of fact. My mother, well, she was rather peeved.”

  “I love it. Your parents really are an earl and a countess.”

  He flashed her that cocksure grin. “Well, there’s the illusion for you. All we
have is several thousand acres in the Scottish Highlands and a draughty castle nestled up to the moors. Cobwebby old thing, impossible to heat properly, the roof leaks constantly, the taxes are crippling, and if you can actually find a bit of ground flat enough to play a chukka of polo, the chances are it’s a quagmire for eight months out of every twelve. The grouse and pheasant are plentiful, though, the sheep outnumber the people and the trees outnumber the sheep, so there you have it. But it all gets rather old once you’ve been doing it forever.”

  “How very Brontë of you,” Taylor said.

  Memphis barked a laugh, then let a sly smile linger on his lips. “Shall I call you Cathy, then?”

  She laughed. “You most certainly shall not, braggart. Scotland, huh? Why is your accent so…well, you don’t sound like any Scot I’ve met.”

  “I received a proper education.”

  She laughed again. “You’re just a plain old snob. How’d you get saddled with a name like Memphis, anyway?”

  “My dear mamma, and the chaps at school. Mamma was awfully keen on Elvis Presley. Actually took me to Graceland when I was about eight. I came back home, talked everyone’s ear off about Memphis. Couple of the chaps started making fun. Suddenly I was that Memphis boy. By the time I was ten, everyone took to calling me that. It stuck.”

  “Wow. You realize as a native Nashvillian, I’ve been born and bred to loathe all things Memphis?”

  “Good lord, Miss Jackson, are you teasing me?”

  She waved him off. “I told you to stop calling me that. Call me Jackson, or Taylor, but knock off the Miss shit. And of course I’m not kidding. I never kid about important stuff.”

  “So, Jackson. I’ve been dying to know. I’m betting you aren’t a candlelight, keep it gentle, missionary kind of girl?” He smiled, raised his eyebrow suggestively.

  Okay, that was enough. “Screw you, Memphis.”

  “You’ve got quite a mouth on you. Do a sailor proud.” But he smiled, and she knew he was teasing her. For some reason, it didn’t bother her as much. They laughed together, easy for the first time.