“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 cafes 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-movies 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 deja 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.
