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.”
Saturday
Twenty-Nine
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
