Ranger Kilkowski made a small mewling noise, handed them off to a handsome man with silver hair, a great tan, and crinkly blue eyes.
He scrambled up the bank, hand outstretched. Where Kilkowski was shy, this guy was a bundle of energy.
“Hey, I’m Dick Harkins. Park manager. Glad to meet you, though I’m sorry about the circumstances.” He waved to the scene below them.
Taylor did the introductions. “You found her?”
“I did. I was taking a walk around, just checking on things. Saw something out of place, a flash of color. I thought it might have been a piece of cloth, something someone discarded. Instead…”
A weeping willow hung over the water, and a fallen branch was sticking up out of the rocky shoal. The combination created a tunnel of shade. Taylor could see easily despite the shadows. She sucked in her breath, started down the bank.
A small woman bobbed gently, moving with the creek’s slight ebb and flow. She was on her back, mouth and eyes open, arms stretched out by her side. In her right hand, she clutched a bouquet of flowers, some red, some blue, some yellow. Her neck was ringed with purple flowers, violets, by the look of them. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown which stuck to her legs, outlining them in white cotton. The skirt had gotten snagged on the dead branch. That must be how she ended up here. Taylor instinctively felt the girl was supposed to be adrift.
“Tim, tell me you’ve documented the hell out of this.”
Tim carefully joined her. “I have.”
“I need to get Baldwin out here. Immediately.”
“What’s up with this? It looks so staged.”
“It is staged. Completely. This time I know what he’s trying to say. This has to be the same killer.”
Nineteen
B aldwin was in the lobby of the Loews Vanderbilt, finishing a call with Quantico and waiting for Memphis to get himself situated, when his other line rang. He saw it was Taylor but sent the call to voice mail-he needed to finish this meeting. He wrapped it up in five minutes and saw the message light blinking. He checked his voice mail, played the message. Felt the disbelief and excitement rise in his chest.
II Macellaio had struck again.
“Son of a bitch,” he said. Highsmythe, who’d appeared wearing jeans and a well-cut brown blazer, looked at him strangely.
“Sorry, not you,” Baldwin said.
“Bad news?” Highsmythe asked.
“In a way. In a way, good news. It looks like our boy has left us another victim. Hang on while I get the details. Have a seat, get a drink. I’ll be right with you.”
Highsmythe nodded and walked over to the restaurant, where he took a chair at the table and busied himself with his briefcase. Baldwin dialed Taylor’s number; she answered on the first ring.
“I’m at Radnor Lake. I’ve got another body,” she said. He could hear the exhilaration in her voice, knew something major had happened. “You need to get out here. Bring the Brit, he may be a help. I think I know what he’s doing this time, but I want you to see it. Tell me what you think.”
“Same guy?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay. We’ll be right there.”
He ended the call and put the BlackBerry back in his pocket. He ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing it to make his mind work better. Why had II Macellaio come to the United States? Why had his victims suddenly switched races? To throw them off the trail? Maybe he thought that no one in Nashville, Tennessee, would be bright enough to piece his earlier killings together with the new one. Well, he had another think coming. Baldwin was onto him.
Memphis was just about to go looking for the FBI agent when he spotted him on the way back to the table with a worried frown.
“Highsmythe, we have a conundrum. II Macellaio may have struck again. Why does this killer move from Italy to England and on to the United States? And why does he switch races when he crosses the pond?”
“Good questions, all.”
The waiter appeared, apologizing for the wait.
“Coffee, tea, water, soda, gents. What’s your poison?”
“I’m sorry, but we have to leave.” Baldwin tossed a five on the table.
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter said, pocketing the money.
Memphis stood and yawned widely, felt his ears crack. That was better. He hated to fly. He followed Baldwin’s swift steps out of the restaurant. “We’re going to the crime scene?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but Taylor felt we both needed to see this.”
“It’s not a problem.”
They walked through the lobby and retrieved the Suburban from the valet. Memphis didn’t know where they were headed. West, it seemed. He flipped the Suburban’s sun visor down and glanced in the mirror. Despite having a couple of hours of sleep and a chance to clean up, he was still looking rough. His blue eyes were bloodshot, his blond hair mussed, his cheeks and jaw covered in two days of golden stubble. He looked hard-ridden and put away wet. International travel did it to him every time. He slapped the visor back into place.
“Tired?” Baldwin asked.
“A bit. This case, you know. Been keeping me up all hours for weeks. Your bit of skirt is quite the woman, isn’t she?” Memphis asked.
Baldwin looked up in surprise, then smiled.
“Oh, Taylor? Yes, my fiancee, not my bit of skirt.”
“Must be awfully hard to work so far away. Woman like that, I’d want to keep my eye on. So tell me, is she a wine-and-roses kind of a girl, or is she a bit of a tigress between the sheets?”
“I live in Nashville full-time,” Baldwin said flatly. “And my personal life is none of your business.”
“Oh. Just so. My wife was the wine-and-roses type.” He took the hint. Mr. FBI didn’t like to talk about his private life. That was fine.
“Back to the case. Let’s talk about this development,” Baldwin was saying.
“Why do you live in Nashville and work in Virginia?” Memphis asked. He was needling, he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d known plenty of men like this. Reserved to the point of being standoffish, but Memphis could pry them open like an oyster with a few well-placed questions. The woman was off topic, but he’d yet to meet a man who didn’t like to talk about himself.
Baldwin looked over at him. “Why do you care?”
Hmm. That was a good question. Why was he fishing for information? Because you want to hear more about his woman, you fool. Get yourself together, get back in the case.
“Just getting to know you,” Memphis said. “Tell me about the developments.”
“I’m putting the finishing touches on the profile, but if this murder is connected we need to rethink a few things. The victim’s race has changed, which is an anomaly. And I didn’t expect him to strike again so soon.”
“Anomaly. Excellent. Something like that will help us run him to ground, right?”
“Perhaps.”
Memphis thought about it for a few minutes. “You said his new victims are Afro-Caribbean. Why would he change midstream?”
“That’s the question. A stressor, an event that’s driven him over the edge. Maybe a girlfriend broke up with him and now he’s transferring, which isn’t something he’s done in the past. I don’t know. He’s altered his methods as well, the murders in the States are much more like Florence. Showy. Planned. London feels more opportunistic. Couple that with the fact that he’s been killing black girls in the States for possibly four years, and we’ve found two
