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.”
“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