settled with one of those cocksure grins on his face. At least they weren’t seated together.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this exhausted. Baldwin had curled next to her right after takeoff and lost himself in sleep. She followed soon after, woke just as they began the descent into Florence.
The airport was terribly crowded; this was high tourist season for Italy. Florence, Firenze, was always a stop on every traveler’s list. One of the big three-Rome, Venice and Florence, the city was the gateway to Tuscany, to the very representation of Italy that had entranced travelers for centuries.
They left the gate and were met by a striking man with deep brown eyes and gray hair combed back from a distinct widow’s peak on his forehead. He was thick through the shoulders, about five foot eight, wearing a black silk suit. He spoke impeccable but heavily accented English. He zeroed in on them immediately. Taylor assumed they weren’t exactly inconspicuous, even in this sea of foreigners.
“ Buona sera. Supervisory Special Agent Baldwin, Detective Jackson. I am Chief Inspector Luigi Folarni, head of the Macellaio task force. I will see you to your hotel. Is Detective Inspector Highsmythe with you?”
“Here I am,” Memphis said. He raised an eyebrow at Taylor. “Trying to ditch me?”
“No,” she said. “We would have waited. For a minute.”
“Sorry, but I needed to buzz the office. We’ve got confirmation on where our boy was staying. Looks like he sublet a flat in Battersea. Inspector Folarni, hello.”
“ Buona sera, Detective. If you’ll follow me, I will get you collected and to your hotel. I am sure you will want to rest after your long flight.”
Baldwin said, “Actually, we’d like to get started.”
“Ah, but that is not possible. Everyone you will need to work with has gone home for the evening.” He trotted along so quickly that Taylor had to stretch her stride to keep up. It looked like Folarni wanted to join his troops and head home. She was used to that-the Italians were wonderful workers, but when the day was over, it was time to decompress. It’s what kept their stress levels so low. They could walk away, pick up an investigation the next day. Understandable. They’d been living with the specter of Il Macellaio far longer than she had.
Still, it drove her crazy. She wanted to get on their trail immediately. Baldwin, thankfully, read her mind.
“Chief Inspector,” Baldwin started, but Folarni interrupted.
“Ah, per favore, Folarni. All these titles get in the way, I think.”
“Folarni. Can we at least get briefed on where the investigation stands right now?”
Folarni sighed deeply. “I can take you back to my office for a brief time. We have not made very much progress since we spoke last night. II Macellaio has been preying on our streets for many years. Another evening will not make a difference. Wouldn’t the lady like to freshen up?”
Taylor started to decline, but Baldwin squeezed her arm.
“Detective Jackson and Detective Highsmythe can see to our rooms. You can brief me. Inoltre, parlo italiano. Andra piu velocemente questo senso.”
“Show-off,” Memphis muttered under his breath. Taylor shot him a look.
Baldwin speaking Italian was easier than Folarni speaking English, especially when it came down to the little details. A broad smile crossed Folarni’s face. “Ah. Si. Io capisco. Perfecto. Va bene.” Taylor had enough Italian to understand Folarni; he was very pleased by Baldwin’s fluency.
They exited the building, Folarni and Baldwin speaking in rapid-fire Italian, Taylor and Memphis following behind. Folarni led them to a black four-door Alfa Romeo.
“Nice wheels,” Memphis said.
“Shh,” Taylor reproached him. They climbed in the backseat; Baldwin took the front.
The Amerigo Vespucci Aeroporto was only a few miles north of the center of Florence. They drove down the Viale Guidoni at breakneck speed. One thing Taylor had never gotten used to was the pace on the streets of Italy. It was like New York, with smaller vehicles and more shouting and gesturing.
They were soon in the heart of downtown Florence, and Folarni stopped in front of the hotel that Baldwin had arranged. He bustled out of the car, got Taylor’s door, kissed her hand and bid her farewell. Baldwin and Memphis grabbed the bags and loaded them inside the door for the porter.
Baldwin got back in the Alfa. He and Folarni roared off into the streets.
“Whew. Glad that’s over. He drives like a maniac,” Memphis said. “Shall we check in? You can freshen up in my room instead of yours, if you’d like.”
“God, Memphis, give it a rest.” The man was incorrigible, but she smiled at him, shaking her head.
Leave it to Baldwin to secure the best accommodations. He’d gotten them rooms on the Via de Tornabuoni, just off the Ponte Santa Trinita, one bridge down from the Ponte Vecchio. This was the fashion district, the most elegant street of shopping in all of Florence. Legendary names paraded up and down the storefronts along the via- Gucci, Ferragamo, Cartier, Bulgari, Versace, Yves St. Laurent-to name a few. Their hotel was actually nestled into the side of the Strozzi Palace. They were centrally located, and an easy walk to the carabinieri station. Taylor was familiar with the area-she and Baldwin had been here for their pseudo-honeymoon a few months prior.
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.”
