Die for Me (24 page)

“Is this Mrs. Bellamy?”

“Yes.” The woman’s voice was both frantic and angry. “What’s this about the police? What’s Brittany done?”

“This is Detective Ciccotelli, Philly PD. When was the last time you saw Brittany?”

There was a moment of tense silence. “Oh my God. Is she dead?”

“When was the last time you saw her, Mrs. Bellamy?”

“Oh, God. She is dead.” The woman’s voice was becoming hysterical. “Oh God.”

“Mrs. Bellamy, please. When—?” But the woman was weeping too loudly to hear him. The young girl’s eyes filled with tears and she took the phone from Vito’s hand.

“Ma, come home. I’ll call Pop.” She disconnected and held the phone against her chest with both fists, much like Warren Keyes had held the sword. “It was after Thanksgiving. She and my dad had a big fight because she dropped out of dental school to be an actress.” She blinked, sending the tears down her face. “She left home, said she’d make it on her own. That’s the last time I saw her. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Vito sighed. “Do you have a computer?”

She frowned. “Yeah, it’s brand-new.”

“How new, honey?” Vito asked.

“A month or so.” She faltered. “Right after Brittany left the old one crashed. My dad was so mad. He didn’t have a backup.”

“We’re going to need to get your parents’ permission to search her room.”

She looked away, lips quivering. “I’ll call my pop.”

Vito turned to Beverly and Tim. “I’ll stay here,” he murmured. “Go back to the precinct and start searching for the third victim in that row on UCanModel dotcom.”

“Flail guy,” Tim said grimly. “But we can’t count on his name being in the missing person reports. Even if Brittany had been reported missing, she might not have ended up in the Philly reports, being way down here in Jersey.”

“The database allows you to search by physical attribute. If you can’t figure it out, call Brent Yelton in IT. Tell him I sent you. Also, see if he can get a listing of everyone who got hits the same days Warren and Brittany’s résumés were viewed. I’m betting this guy didn’t just get lucky with the first model he contacted. Maybe we can find somebody who talked to him that’s still alive and still has their computer intact.”

Bev and Tim nodded. “Will do.”

The girl had come back to the storm door. “My pop’s on his way.”

A Catholic shrine rested against the house. “Do you have a priest?” Vito asked.

She nodded, dully. “I’ll call him, too.”

Tuesday, January 16, 3:20
P.M.

Munch was late. Gregory Sanders glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, feeling way too visible sitting in the bar where Munch had promised to meet him. He knew only to look for an older man who’d be walking with a cane.

The waitress stopped at his table. “You can’t stay here if you don’t order nothin’.”

“I’m waiting for someone. But bring me a G&T.”

She tilted her head, studying him closer. “I’ve seen you before. I know I have.” She snapped her fingers. “Sanders Sewer Service.” She grinned. “I loved that ad.”

He held a polite smile firmly in place as she walked away. He’d done sophisticated ads for national campaigns, but everybody who’d grown up in Philly remembered him in that stupid commercial that his father had forced his six sons to do. He would never be taken seriously by anyone who knew about that commercial. And he needed to be taken seriously. He needed Ed Munch to hire him for this job.

Greg fingered the switchblade he’d slid up his sleeve. What he really needed was to catch the old man unaware so he could rob him blind. But he couldn’t sit out here in the open for much longer. Those guys wanted their money, and they wanted it now.

His cell buzzed in his pocket and he quickly looked around, wondering if he’d been discovered. But his cell was a throwaway and only Jill had his number. “Yeah?” Jill was crying and he sat up straighter. “What?”

“Damn you,” she sobbed into the phone. “They were here, in my place. They trashed everything, looking for you. They put their hands on me.”

She was hysterical, screeching so high it hurt his ears. “What did they do?” he asked, dread clutching at his gut. “Dammit, Jill, what did those sonsofbitches do?”

“They hit me. Broke two of my teeth.” She quieted suddenly. “And they said tomorrow they’d do worse, so now
I
have to find a place to hide. So help me God, you’d sure as hell better hope they find you, ’cause if I find you first, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

“Jill, I’m sorry.”

She laughed harshly. “Yes, you are. Sorry. Just like my father always said. And yours.” She hung up and Greg exhaled, long and heavy. If they found him, they’d beat him, too. And if by some miracle he survived, his face would be so messed up that he wouldn’t be able to work for weeks. He had to get some money. Today.

Munch was nearly a half hour late. The old man wasn’t coming. Greg stood up and walked out of the restaurant, not sure where he’d go next, only sure that he had to get that money. Thinking about knocking off convenience stores, he walked to the curb to catch the next bus. Where he’d go, he had no clue. Away from Philly, most certainly.

“Mr. Sanders?”

Greg spun, his heart in full throttle. But it was just an old man with a cane. “Munch?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sanders. I ran late. Are you still interested in my documentary?”

Greg sized the old man up. At one time he’d been a good-sized guy, but now he was stooped and brittle. “Are you still paying cash?”

“Of course. Do you have a car?”

He’d sold it long ago. “No.”

“Then we’ll take my truck. I’m parked on the next block.”

Once he got his money, he could steal the old man’s truck and fly. “Then let’s go.”

Tuesday, January 16, 4:05
P.M.

Sophie’s office phone was ringing when she got back after the Viking tour. She ran to answer it. It was after ten in Europe. The men she’d called would just be finishing their dinner about now. “Hello?”

“Dr. Johannsen.” It was a haughty, cultured voice that she’d heard before.

Sophie drew a breath. Not Europe. It was Amanda Brewster. “Yes.”

“Do you know who this is?”

She glanced at the box with the mouse and new rage hit her like a wave. She planned to give the poor animal a decent burial after her shift. “You are a sick bitch.”

“And you have a poor memory. I told you once to stay away from my husband.”

“And you have poor hearing. I told you that I don’t want your husband. I don’t ever want to see him again. You do not need to worry about me, Amanda. In fact if I were you, I’d be more worried about your husband’s new blonde assistant
du jour.
”

“If you were me, you’d have Alan,” she said smugly and Sophie rolled her eyes.

“You need to get some professional help.”

“What I need,” Amanda gritted through clenched teeth, “is for every little whore to keep their hands off my husband. I told you the last time I caught you that—”

“You didn’t catch me,” Sophie said in exasperation. “I came to you.” Which, after trusting that Alan Brewster had really loved her, was Sophie’s second big mistake. She stupidly had thought the wife of a philanderer should know, but Amanda Brewster hadn’t listened then and she wasn’t going to listen now.

“—that I’d ruin you,” Amanda continued as if Sophie had not said a word.

The woman hadn’t needed to ruin her then. Alan and his posse had accomplished that on their own, with their sexual innuendo. And they’d started it again.

Which really pissed her off. She picked up the toy Vito had sent her, wishing it would work through the phone, wishing she could wipe the entire incident off the face of the planet. But that wasn’t going to happen and it was time she dealt with it. She’d run from Alan ten years ago, ashamed of what she’d done and scared of Amanda’s threats to her career. She was still ashamed, but she wasn’t running anymore.

“Get some help, Amanda. I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

“You’d better be. Look at you now,” Amanda screeched. “You’re working in a third-rate museum for an idiot. You think your career’s in the toilet now.” She laughed, not a little hysterically. “You’ll be digging sewer trenches by the time I’m done with you.”

Sophie huffed a surprised chuckle. “Digging sewer trenches” were the same exact words Amanda had used ten years before. At twenty-two, Sophie had believed her. At thirty-two, she recognized the ranting of a mentally imbalanced woman. She probably should pity Amanda Brewster. Maybe in another ten years she would.

“You’re not going to believe anything I say about Alan, but you can believe this. Send me another package like you did this morning and I
will
call the police.”

She hung up and looked around her tiny windowless office. Amanda was right about one thing. Sophie
did
work in a third-rate museum.

But it didn’t have to be. Amanda was wrong about one other thing. Ted wasn’t an idiot. Sophie had watched the faces of the tour group this afternoon. They’d had fun, and they’d learned something. Ted was right. He was keeping his grandfather’s legacy alive the best way he knew how.
And he hired me to help him do that.
So far she hadn’t been a lot of help.

Because she’d spent the last six months feeling sorry for herself. Big important archeologist forced to leave the dig of a lifetime. “When did I become such a snob?” she wondered out loud. Just because she wasn’t digging in France didn’t mean she couldn’t do something important here.

She looked at the boxes that filled her office, stacked floor to ceiling. Most of them were filled with pieces of Ted the First’s collections that Ted and Darla hadn’t been able to find room for in the main museum. She’d find a place for them.

She looked at her hand and realized she still clenched Vito’s memory zapper. Carefully she returned it to its box. She’d put her personal life back on track when she met Vito for dinner. She’d start putting her professional life back on track right now.

She found Ted in his office. “Ted, I need some space.”

His eyes narrowed. “What kind of space? Sophie, are you leaving us?”

Her eyes widened. “No, I’m not leaving. I want more exhibit space. I’ve got some ideas for new exhibits.” She smiled. “Fun ones. Where can I put them?”

Ted smiled back. “I have the perfect place. Well, it’s not perfect yet, but I have every confidence you’ll whip it into shape.”

Tuesday, January 16, 4:10
P.M.

Munch had spent the first half hour of their drive telling Greg Sanders about the documentary he was making. It was a fresh look at daily life in medieval Europe.

God,
Greg thought.
What a yawner.
This would have been worse for his career than Sanders Sewer Service. “How about the other actors?”

“I begin shooting them next week.”

Then they’d be alone. And Munch hadn’t paid anyone else yet. He should have a lot of cash in his house. “How much farther out is your studio?” Greg demanded. “We must have gone fifty miles.”

“Not much farther,” Munch replied. He smiled and Greg felt a cold shiver burn down his back. “I don’t like to bother my neighbors, so I live out where no one can hear me.”

“How would you bother them?” Greg asked, not so sure he wanted the answer.

“Oh, I host medieval reenacting groups.”

“You mean like jousting and shit?”

Munch smiled again. “And shit.” He turned off the highway. “That’s my house.”

“Nice place,” Greg murmured. “Classic Victorian.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He pulled into the driveway. “Come in.”

Greg followed Munch, impatient that the old man took so long walking with the damn cane. Inside he looked around, wondering where the old man kept his money.

“This way,” Munch said and led him into a room filled with costumes. Some were on hangers, while others were worn by faceless mannequins. It looked like a medieval department store. “You’ll wear this.” Munch pointed to a friar’s robe.

“Pay me first.”

Munch looked annoyed. “You’ll be paid when I am satisfied. Get dressed.” He turned to go and Greg knew it was now or never.

Do it.
Quickly he flipped out his blade, moved in behind the old man and hooked his arm around Munch’s neck, pressing the sharp edge against his throat. “You’ll pay me now, old man. Walk slowly to wherever you keep your money and you won’t get hurt.”

Munch went still. Then in an explosion of movement he grasped Greg’s thumb and twisted. Greg yelped with pain and his knife clattered to the floor. His arm was whipped behind his back and a second later he was on the ground, Munch’s knee in his back.

“You slimy little sonofabitch,” Munch said and it was not the voice of an old man.

Greg could barely hear him over the pounding in his head. The pain was excruciating. His arm, his hand. They were burning.
Pop.
Greg screamed as his wrist snapped. Then moaned when his elbow did the same.

“That was for trying to rob me,” Munch said, grabbed a handful of Greg’s hair and smashed his head into the floor. “That was for calling me old.”