Die for Me (38 page)

“Daniel, I can’t . . .”

“Please, Susannah.” His voice was harsh. “I need you to come.
Please.
” He waited, his heart stuck in his throat.

Finally she sighed. “All right. I’ll take the train. I’ll be there in three hours.”

“I’ll pick you up at the station.”

“Daniel, are you all right?”

He stared at the papers he held. “No. I’m not.”

New York City, Thursday, January 18, 2:45
P.M.

“Harrington’s either gone under or he’s dead,” Vito told Liz on the phone. “We checked his office, his apartment, and his wife’s apartment. Nobody’s seen him. His car isn’t in its space. We visited his wife who says she hasn’t seen him in six months. They have a daughter at Columbia University who said she hasn’t seen him either.”

“Why do he and his wife have separate apartments?”

“She said they’d separated. He’d become increasingly depressed and ‘melancholy’ she said, but never violent. NYPD’s put out an APB and now we’re sitting in front of oRo eating lunch. We’re about to go back up to see if we can get an employee list from Van Zandt, or hang outside until one of the employees talks to us. Brent said Harrington didn’t do the art, but somebody there did. We just need one person willing to finger him.”

“Good. Stick with it. I have some news on the Vartanians. I called the sheriff in Dutton, Georgia. The Vartanians haven’t been seen since before Thanksgiving.”

“That’s consistent with what Yuri said last night.”

“I know. There’s more. The sheriff informed the Vartanians’ son that his parents might be missing last weekend. The son is with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, and the daughter is with the New York DA’s office. Neither of them is in their office. Daniel, the GBI guy, has been on leave since Monday. His sister, Susannah, just took leave this afternoon. I’ve left word with their supervisors to have them call me.”

But there was more, Vito could tell, and it was worse. “Just tell me, Liz.”

“The police in White Plains, New York, found Kyle Lombard in his antique store.”

Vito’s heart skipped a beat. “Dead?”

“Bullet between his eyes. Looks like it came from a German weapon, vintage. They’re sending the bullet to us so we can match it against the one from the kid on the first row. The local police searched his store and found all kinds of illegally obtained medieval goodies hidden under his floor. Your Sophie would have a field day.”

Vito’s willed his stomach to settle.
His Sophie
was now officially in danger. “What about the other two. Shafer and Brewster?”

“Shafer was riding shotgun with Lombard. So to speak. Also had a bullet between the eyes. Both were tied to chairs and shot there in the store. Brewster’s still missing.”

“If Lombard was dealing, let’s see if we can check his sales records. Maybe we can find a tie to our guy.”

“Not gonna happen. Lombard’s computer was wiped and his paper files were strewn all over the office. And to wrap it in pretty red tape, the store and Lombard’s inventory have been seized by the Feds. Even though they were sixty to six hundred years old, Lombard was smuggling weapons. I expect we’re going to get leaned on to hand this case over to the Feds sooner or later.”

Vito frowned. “You won’t let that happen, right?”

“To the extent of my authority, no. But were I your boss, and I am, I’d be telling you to get back here and wrap this one up quick or you’ll be getting help you don’t want.”

“Fuck.” Vito drew a breath. “Does Sophie know about Lombard and Shafer?”

“I called and told her. She’s a smart woman, Vito. She said she wouldn’t go out alone and would call one of us to pick her up when she’s done for the day.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

“Are
you
okay?” Liz asked.

“No. Not really. But if she’s careful . . . we just have to catch this guy.”

“So do it. See you soon.”

Scowling, Vito hung up and stared up at the building that housed oRo. “Lombard and Clint Shafer. Luger, between the eyes.”

“Shit,” Nick muttered. “I guess that snips off those loose ends.”

Vito started to get out of the car. “Let’s go have another little talk with Van Zandt.”

But Nick stopped him. “First, you need to eat. Second, you need to calm down. If you spook him, we’ll lose him, and like I said before—I ain’t takin’ your whoopin’.”

“Fine.”

“Maybe I should do the talking this time,” Nick said.

Vito ripped the plastic wrap from his sandwich angrily. “Fine.”

New York City, Thursday, January 18, 3:05
P.M.

“Mr. Van Zandt isn’t here.”

Vito gaped at the prune-mouthed secretary. “What?”

Nick cleared his throat. “Mr. Van Zandt said he’d be available this afternoon.”

“He had an unexpected call from a client. He had to leave.”

“So . . . what time was this?” Nick asked.

“About noon.”

Nick nodded. “I see. Well then, could you provide us with a list of your employees?”

Vito was biting his tongue. He knew neither of them thought the envelope she handed them with such nasty satisfaction would have the information they wanted.

Nick pulled out a letter on oRo letterhead, its message short and sweet. “‘Get a warrant,’” Nick read. “Signed ‘Jager A. Van Zandt.’ Well, then, that’s what we’ll do.” He pulled a sheet of blank paper from her printer. “Could you write your name for me please? I want to be sure we spell it correctly on the warrant. Then sign it.”

She was suddenly not so defiant. Still she wrote her name and handed him the page. “You know the way out.”

“Same way we came in,” Nick said with an easy smile. “Y’all have a nice day, now.”

Outside on the curb Nick folded the secretary’s paper and put it and the envelope in his pocket. “Handwriting samples,” he said. “To compare against the Claire letters.”

“Good work. Thanks, Nick. I was too mad to be effective.”

“You’ve covered for me enough times. I’d say we’re good.”

“Excuse me.”

A man was hurrying toward them, his face anxious. “Have you been in oRo?”

“Yes, sir,” Vito answered. “But we don’t work there.”

“I’ve been trying to see Derek Harrington since yesterday, but they say he’s not in.”

“Why were you trying to see Harrington?” Nick asked.

“It’s about my son. He promised he’d show a picture of my son to the other artists.”

Vito’s heart sank as his apprehension rose. “Why, sir?”

“My son is missing and someone in that building saw him. They used him as a model. I want to know when and where. Then I’ll least know where to start looking.”

Vito slid his shield from his pocket. “I’m Detective Ciccotelli, and this is my partner, Detective Lawrence. What’s your name, and do you have a photo of your son?”

The man squinted at his shield. “Philadelphia? I’m Lloyd Webber.” He handed Vito a picture. “This is my son, Zachary.”

It was the young man who got shot in the head. “One-three,” he murmured.

“What? What does that mean?” Webber demanded.

“I’ll call Carlos and Charles,” Nick said quietly and moved away to use his phone.

Vito met Webber’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. But I think we might have your son’s body.”

Denial warred with bitter reality in Webber’s eyes. “In Philadelphia?”

“Yes, sir. If this is the boy we think it is, he’s dead and has been for about a year.”

Webber deflated. “I knew. I just didn’t want to believe. I need to call my wife.”

“I’m sorry,” Vito said again.

Webber jerked a nod. “She’s going to ask how he died. What should I tell her?”

Vito hesitated. Liz would want to keep as much of this contained as possible, but this father deserved to know what had happened to his son and with that he was sure Liz would agree. “He was shot, sir.”

Webber flashed a hot furious glance up at the building. “In the head?”

“Yes, but if you could keep that to yourself for now, we’d appreciate it.”

He nodded, numb. “Thank you. I won’t tell her where he was shot.”

Vito watched as he walked ten feet away and called his wife. Then swallowed hard when Webber’s shoulders began to heave. “Fuck,” Vito viciously whispered, hearing Nick behind him. “I really want him. Bad.”

“I know. Charles and Carlos asked us to wait here while they get a warrant. They’re going to try to seize all oRo’s records.”

A car door slammed behind them and Vito and Nick turned. A man got out of a cab, his face grimly determined. “Are you the detectives from Philly?”

“Yeah,” Nick answered. “Who wants to know?”

The man stopped in front of them, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. “My name is Tony England. Until two days ago I worked for oRo. Derek Harrington was my boss.”

“What happened?” Nick asked.

“I quit. Derek was being steamrolled by Jager into doing things he didn’t agree with. That
I
didn’t agree with. I couldn’t stand by and watch Jager destroy it all.”

“How did you know we were here?” Vito asked.

“oRo’s a small company. Everyone knew you were there thirty seconds after you walked in the door. An old friend called, told me you were here asking about Derek. I came down right away, but you were gone.” England’s eyes narrowed at Webber, who’d finished his call, but stood with his back to them, quietly weeping. “Who is he?”

Vito looked at Nick and Nick gave him a little nod. Vito held out the photo. “The father of this boy. His name is Zachary. He’s dead.”

Every drop of color drained from England’s thin face. “Fuck. Holy fuck. That’s . . .” He stared in horror at the picture. “Oh, my God, what have we done?”

“Do you know who drew this boy into the game, Mr. England?” Nick asked softly.

England’s eyes narrowed. “Frasier Lewis. I hope you fry his ass and he rots in hell.”

Chapter Nineteen

Philadelphia, Thursday, January 18, 5:15
P.M.

S
he looked the same, Daniel thought as she passed through the train station’s revolving door. Petite and fragile. The men in their house had been big, the women small.
I needed your protection then.

He’d believed he was protecting her. Obviously he’d been remiss. He got out of his rental car and stood, waiting until she saw him. Her step slowed, and even from where he stood he could see the stiffness in her shoulders.

He walked around and opened her door. She stopped in front of him and lifted her eyes. She’d been crying. “So you know,” he murmured.

“My boss called me on my cell after I’d already boarded the train.”

“My boss called me, too. The lieutenant who called him was Liz Sawyer. I have the address for her office.” He sighed. “I was too late.”

“But you know something that will help find who did this?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Or destroy us both. Get in.”

He slid behind the wheel and put his key in the ignition, but she put her hand over his. Her gray eyes were huge and flashed fire. “
Tell me.
”

He nodded. “All right.” He gave her the envelope that had been waiting for him at the mailbox store and waited as she slid the contents to her lap.

She gasped, then slowly, mechanically looked at each page. “Oh my God.” She looked up at him then. “You knew about these?”

“Yes.” He started up the car. “‘I know what your son did,’” he quoted softly. “Now you know, too.”

Thursday, January 18, 5:45
P.M.

Sophie stood in the middle of her warehouse, fists on her hips. She’d unpacked a dozen crates since Lieutenant Sawyer’s call that afternoon. Keeping herself busy had kept her from dwelling on the fact that Kyle and Clint were dead.

That Kyle and Clint were connected to the killer was without doubt. They’d been killed with the same gun used to murder one of the nine she’d found in the graveyard.

That the killer knew about her had been a possibility this morning when she’d allowed herself to be driven to the museum by a cop with a gun. Now it was more than a possibility, but still it wasn’t an eventuality. However she chose to balance nuance with her carefully chosen words, it was still damn scary. So she’d kept busy until Liz could free up an armed body to take her back to the precinct. To Vito.

She hoped he’d had success today. Now more than ever.

“Sophie.”

With a gasp she wheeled, pressing her hand to her heart. Once again in the shadows stood Theo Four. In his hand he held an ax, as effortlessly as if it had been a feather. Controlling her breathing she fought the urge to take a step back. To flee screaming.
Screaming.
She closed her eyes and got hold of herself. When she opened them he was still watching her, his face expressionless. “What do you want?”

“My dad said you needed some help opening crates. I couldn’t find the crowbar you were using yesterday, so I brought this.” He extended the ax. “So which crates?”

She exhaled as quietly as she could.
Get a freakin’ grip, Sophie.
She was seeing threats that didn’t exist. “Over here. I think these are from Ted the First’s travels to southeast Asia. I’m thinking about an exhibit about the Cold War and communism and wanted to include his artifacts from the Korean peninsula and Vietnam.”

Theo Four came into the light, his dark eyes oddly amused. “Ted the First?”

Sophie’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry. That’s how I think about all you Theodores.”

“I thought you were going to do an interactive exhibit. A dig.”

“I am, but this warehouse is big enough for three or four exhibits. I think this Cold War exhibit will touch people deeper. You know. Freedom isn’t free.”

He said nothing more, but stripped the tops off the crates as if they were crepe paper instead of heavy wood. “There. It’s done.” He then left as silently as he’d come.

Sophie shivered. That boy was either deep or just plain off. How “off” could he be? How much did she know about Theo or Ted, for that matter?

She laughed at herself. “Get a grip, Sophie,” she said out loud. It was time to go anyway. Liz had said her ride would be at the museum at six. It was almost that now. She locked the warehouse door and stood inside the front door waiting, then laughed again when Jen McFain approached with a grin.

“Good night, Darla!” Sophie called, then pushed the door open. “So you’re my bodyguard?” she asked, looking way down at Jen.

Jen looked way up. “That’s right, Xena. You got something to say about it?”

Sophie zipped up her coat, chuckling. “It seems silly. I should be protecting you.”

Jen pulled back the lapel of her jacket. “A nine-mil adds a lot of inches, Xena.”

“Stop calling me that,” Sophie said as she got into Jen’s car. She waited until Jen was in and buckled up. “‘Your majesty’ will suffice.”

Jen laughed. “Then let’s go, Your Majesty. Your prince awaits.”

Sophie couldn’t stop the smile that warmed her whole face. “Vito’s back?”

Jen’s smile went grim. “Yeah, they’re back.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The two guys they went looking for are missing, but they ID’d another one of the bodies from the graveyard. And . . .” Jen blew out a breath. “They found someone who can ID the motherfucker who started all this.”

Thursday, January 18, 6:25
P.M.

“Tino.” Vito gripped his brother’s arm in an abbreviated hug. “Thanks again.”

“No problem. You get anywhere with the picture of the old man from the bar?”

Vito shook his head. “I haven’t even seen a picture of the old man yet. Nick and I just got back from New York fifteen minutes ago.”

“Here’s another copy. I went home and did some more work, shadowing, hatching. It’s a better representation than the quick sketch I did for your lieutenant this morning.”

Vito stared down at the man who’d met Greg Sanders on Tuesday afternoon. “Man, he really is old. Hunched. It’s hard to believe.”

“That’s how the waitress saw him, but you know how accurate eyewitnesses
aren’t.
”

“Yeah, but I really want her to be right. But I may have something better—I brought back a guy from New York who knew the artist that made the cut scenes in
Behind Enemy Lines.
He’s waiting in the conference room. I was hoping you could . . .”

Tino grinned. “Lead the way.”

Vito took him to the conference room where Nick waited with Tony England. “Tony, this is my brother Tino. He’s a sketch artist.”

“
I’m
a sketch artist,” Tony said with frustration, “but I can’t get any more from my mind than that.” He pointed to a paper on the table. “My mind is frozen or something.”

It was a bare-bones sketch that could be almost anyone. Additionally, it had a cartoon quality that made Vito remember what Brent had said about Harrington’s expertise—cartoons and dragons. Van Zandt had brought in someone more skilled than he at the game physics. Perhaps he’d chosen this Frasier Lewis because he was more skilled at faces than Harrington and England.

Tino opened his sketchpad. “Sometimes it takes telling it to somebody else.”

Vito left them with Nick and went back to his desk. Jen and Sophie were back, he saw as he entered the bullpen. Jen had gone into Liz’s office and Sophie stood at his desk, her back to him. His heart thumping like a teenager’s, he quickened his pace, intending to surprise her with a kiss to the side of that long neck of hers. She liked that, he’d found. In two nights he’d found a lot of places she liked to be kissed. She jumped when he touched his lips to her skin, then settled back against him, like warm honey.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah. I’ve been good, stayed with my bodyguards. Even Thumbelina over there.”

Vito chuckled. “Jen’s little, but she’s feisty.” He drew back reluctantly. “Wait here. I need to go talk to Liz for a minute, but I’ll be right back.” He’d gotten a few steps away when she called his name, her voice suddenly strange.

“Vito, who is this?” She was holding the sketch Tino had made of the old man.

Dread gripped his gut. “Why?”

His dread became her fear. “Because I’ve seen him. Who is this?”

Jen had been standing in Liz’s doorway and turned at the panic that had crept into Sophie’s voice. A moment later Liz was at Jen’s side, watching with concern.

“We think that’s the man who met Greg Sanders on Tuesday,” Liz said slowly.

Sophie sank into the chair at his desk. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

Vito crouched down in front of her. “Where did you see this man, Sophie?”

She raised her eyes to his, green and horrified and his blood ran cold. “At my museum. He was at the Albright. He stopped me and asked for a private tour.” She pressed her lips together hard. “Vito, he was as close to me as you are now.”

Breathe. Think.
He took her hands in his. They were ice cold. “When, Sophie?”

“Yesterday, after I’d finished the Viking tour.” She closed her eyes. “I had a feeling, a creepy feeling about him. But I laughed it off. He was just an old man.” She opened her eyes. “Vito, I’m scared. I was nervous before. Now I’m terrified.”

So was he. “You don’t leave my sight,” he said harshly. “Not for a second.”

She nodded unsteadily. “Okay.”

“Vito.”

Vito twisted to see Tino rushing into the bullpen. He was holding his sketchpad out so that Vito could see the picture he’d drawn. “Vito, Frasier Lewis is the old man. The eyes are the same as the old man the waitress saw with Greg Sanders.”

Vito nodded. It felt like every breath had been sucked from his lungs. “I know.” He stepped aside, revealing Sophie who still sat behind him. “This is Sophie. The old man visited her at her museum yesterday.”

Tino let out a breath. “Shit, Vito.”

“Yeah,” Vito muttered. He looked over at Liz. “Encore?”

Liz shook her head, grim. “I don’t think my heart could take another curtain call.”

“Where’s Tony England?” Vito asked his brother.

“On his way downstairs with Nick. Nick’s gonna get him a cab to the train station.”

Liz perched on the side of Nick’s desk. “Let’s call the troops together, Vito. We have some debriefing to do. But first, everybody take a deep breath. Sophie’s safe and we now know the face of our killer. That’s a hell of a lot more than we had this morning.”

For a full minute everyone did as she asked, breathing and focusing. Then once again the peace was shattered. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Lieutenant Liz Sawyer.”

A couple stood in the doorway. She was five-three and dark. He was six-four and blond. The man had spoken.

Liz lifted her hand. “I’m Sawyer.”

“I’m Special Agent Daniel Vartanian with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. This is my sister, Susannah Vartanian with the New York City DA’s office. We understand you have our parents. We believe we know who killed them.”

There was silence. Then Liz sighed. “There’s your encore.”

Thursday, January 18, 7:00
P.M.

Van Zandt was already seated when he arrived at the upscale seafood restaurant located inside his hotel. “Frasier, please join me. Would you like some wine? Or perhaps some of this lobster Newburg. It’s really quite wonderful.”

“No. I’m busy, VZ. I’m working on your new queen and I want to get back to it.”

Van Zandt’s mouth turned up in a strange smile. “Interesting. Tell me, Frasier, where
do
you get your inspiration?”

If he’d had hairs on the back of his neck, they would have lifted. “Why?”

“Well, I was just thinking that you have such a realism to your art. I was wondering if you based your characters on anyone? Live models, maybe?”

He sat back and viewed Van Zandt through narrowed eyes. “No. Why?”

“I was just thinking that if you did use live models, it would be patently foolish to choose local faces. That a truly wise man would go elsewhere. Bangkok or Amsterdam come to mind. Culturally diverse. Interesting clientele in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. Seems an artist could find his pick of models from a population no one would miss.”

He drew a breath. “Jager, if you have somethin’ to say, then just spit it out.”

Van Zandt blinked. “‘Spit it out’? Frasier, that sounds so . . . provincial. Very well.” He handed him a large envelope across the table. “Copies,” he said. “Of course.”

It was pictures. The first was Zachary Webber. “Derek gave you this. He’s insane.”

“Perhaps. Keep going.”

Gritting his teeth he flipped to the next picture in the stack and went still. Claire Reynolds’s face stared up at him.
Van Zandt knew.

Van Zandt sipped his wine. “The resemblance is uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What do you want?”

Van Zandt chuckled. “Keep going.”

The next photo had his heart racing, but with rage. “You sonofabitch.”