Die for Me (48 page)

“And she was going to die anyway.” Daniel tossed the letter to the table. “What did she have to lose? Except time with us.”

“He’s still out there.”

Daniel hesitated. He’d tried to find a way to tell her all morning.
Just spit it out and get it over with.
“There’s more, Suze. I didn’t want to think about it, but all night I couldn’t think about anything but when Ciccotelli told us they’d found Claire Reynolds, our parents, and two empty graves. What they didn’t tell us is that they found them with six other bodies.”

Susannah’s eyes widened. “You mean the graveyard they found . . . I saw it on the news. I didn’t put it together. I should have.”

“I should have, too. I guess I was too shocked finding out Simon wasn’t dead.” Daniel stopped himself. “No, that’s not true. I didn’t want to think about it. But it was nagging at me, so I called Vito Ciccotelli this morning and asked. He confirmed that Simon was wanted for ten murders. Maybe more.”

Susannah shut her eyes wearily. “I keep thinking it can’t get worse.”

“I know. For years I would lie awake and worry about the people in the pictures, if they were real. That Simon had a hand in their deaths. That I couldn’t help them. Now there are more victims and this time I can’t look away. I need to go back to Philadelphia, to help Ciccotelli and Lawrence now.”

“We go together. This week we stood together over our parents. When this is over, I hope Simon will finally be dead and we can stand over his body together, too.”

Saturday, January 20, 9:15
A.M.

“We ready?” Nick asked, handing Vito a cup of coffee as he slid behind the wheel.

“Yep.” Vito peeled back the plastic lid. “Bev and Tim are in position around the block. Maggy Lopez just called to say Van Zandt’s next up in the docket. If the judge allows him bail, he should be out in an hour.”

“I hope this works,” Nick murmured. “I’d hate to see Van Zandt get away.”

“Me, too.” The words came out a lot shakier than he’d intended.

Nick looked over at Vito. “You’re scared.”

Vito didn’t say anything for a long minute, then cleared his throat gruffly. “Yeah. I’m scared to death. Every time my phone rings I wonder if it’s a call saying he’s gotten to her. That I didn’t keep her safe enough.”

“This is different from Andrea, Chick. This time you’re not in this alone.”

Vito nodded, wishing he was reassured. But he knew he wouldn’t breathe easily until Simon Vartanian was behind bars. Still, his friends cared. “Thanks.” Then his cell phone rang, making him jump. But it was Jen. “What’s up?”

Jen yawned. “I’ve been up all night, Vito.”

“So was I,” he said, then winced. “Um . . . never mind.”

Jen growled. “I’m ready to hate you, Ciccotelli. I worked all night while you were having hot sex. No, I think I hate you already.”

“I’ll buy you crullers every day next week. From the place in my neighborhood.”

“Not good enough, but it’s a start. We’ve charted churches in a fifty-mile radius on the soil map. Nothing that remotely resembles the church in the game.”

“Well, it was a long shot. Thanks for trying.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Chick. I found your picture.”

“Which picture?”

“The newspaper photo of Claire Reynolds and her lover. It was taken at a march three years ago. The woman is about thirty with light hair. She’s thin. Not really any physical attributes to set her apart. I’ve never seen her before.”

“Damn,” Vito muttered. “I was hoping. I wish I could come in and see it, but we need to stay here. Van Zandt could be coming out any time.”

“Can your phone receive pictures?”

“No, but Nick’s can. Can you send it?”

“It’s on its way.”

“Give me your phone,” Vito said to Nick, then squinted at the screen when the picture downloaded. Every muscle in his body went taut. “Fuck.”

“Who is it?” Nick asked. He took the phone, then whistled. “What a cold bitch.”

Jen’s voice perked up. “You recognize her, Vito?”

“It’s Stacy Savard,” Vito said. “Pfeiffer’s receptionist is blackmailer number two.”

“I’ll get her address and send a cruiser out right now,” Jen said.

Vito took Nick’s phone and stared again at the grainy photo. “She knew Claire was dead and she looked us in the eye and never blinked.”

“What you want to do, Vito? Go work over Savard or wait for Van Zandt?”

“Let’s let the cruiser pick up Savard. I’ll request a warrant for her house. If this thing with Van Zandt doesn’t pan out, then blackmailer number two becomes plan B.”

Saturday, January 20, 12:45
P.M.

It was probably inadvisable, but Simon couldn’t resist. If he was going to have to leave his Frasier Lewis identity behind, he might as well do it with style. Of course, if the DA’s office had managed to keep Van Zandt in jail instead of allowing him out on bail, this whole opportunity would never have arisen.

It was, overall, a delicious irony. Simon had wanted the second German killed in
Behind Enemy Lines
to be skewered with a bayonet. There had been something more up-close and personal about using a bayonet. But Van Zandt had insisted on a big bang.

Simon had been worried about the sensitivity of the detonator on a sixty-year-old grenade. What if he’d set up the scene, only to find he’d purchased a dud? So, being a thorough man, he’d planned for that scenario. Simon smiled. Kyle Lombard, being a greedy man, had offered him a volume discount.

Saturday, January 20, 12:55
P.M.

“What do you mean,
she’s gone
?” Vito barked into his cell.

“I mean she’s not at her apartment,” Jen said, annoyed. “Her car is gone. A neighbor saw her leaving with a suitcase this morning. We have an APB out.”

“We tipped our hand when we asked for Lewis’s file.” Vito rubbed his temples. “Call the airports and bus stations. And can you send a cruiser out to Pfeiffer’s residence?”

“We arresting him, too?”

“We just want to talk to him. Ask him to come in for questioning. We’ll be in soon.”

“Van Zandt hasn’t come out yet?” Jen asked.

Vito glared at the courthouse. “He must be paying his bail with pennies.”

Jen’s chuckle was brief. “Well, we did get one hit. Stacy Savard has the same printer model in her apartment that printed Claire’s letters.”

“Chick,” Nick hissed. “Look, it’s Van Zandt.”

“Gotta go, Jen. It’s showtime.” Vito dropped his phone in his pocket as Van Zandt exited the courthouse, his expression cold and hard and his attorney a good twenty feet behind him. He rushed to the curb with huge ground-eating strides, his arm out to hail a cab, pushing an old man who’d stumbled into his way.

The hairs raised on the back of Vito’s neck. There was something . . .

“
Nick,
” Vito said. “That old man.”

“Fuck,” Nick said, and they jumped from the car at the same time.

“Stop! Police!” Vito shouted it and the old man looked up. For a split second, Vito found himself staring into Simon Vartanian’s cold eyes.

Vartanian began to run. Really fast. Vito and Nick were in pursuit.

Then all hell broke loose when, before their eyes, Jager Van Zandt blew up.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saturday, January 20, 1:40
P.M.

H
e’d almost been caught. Simon sat in front in his vehicle, still furious. A single misstep and he’d be in the hands of the authorities right now.

And wouldn’t they like to get their hands on me?

That cop Ciccotelli was smarter than Simon had thought. And more ruthless. The cops had used Van Zandt as a pawn . . .
to try to draw me out.
Had it not been so close, Simon would have found that brazen ruthlessness an admirable quality.

It had been too close. But in the grand scheme, a mere skirmish. The cops only knew of Frasier Lewis. The only people who knew he wasn’t really dead, were dead.

Except the blackmailer whose amateurish tactics had drawn his parents to him. He needed to find that blackmailer and make that person pay, whoever he or she was. Then on to Susannah and Daniel. Miss and Mister Goody Two-Shoes.

That each of his siblings had two shoes was reason enough to hate them both. That they’d both become vanguards of justice made them dangerous foes.

It would soon become impossible to continue the charade that Arthur and Carol Vartanian were only on vacation, that they were indeed missing. Daniel and Susannah would never let it go. They’d dig until they found where their parents had gone. They were certainly smart enough to make the connections. And if they dug deep enough, they just might find that someone else lay under Simon’s tombstone.

Simon had often wondered who inhabited that plot, who his father had found to take his place, so to speak. He’d been tempted to check for himself when he’d gone back to Dutton for the first time in twelve years, to set up his parents’ little vacation and to fix their computer so that he would have ultimate access.

His father had come to him, but he’d have to go get Daniel and Susannah. He knew exactly where to find them. Daniel had a little house in Atlanta, while Susannah had an apartment in SoHo. Daniel was the “Law,” and little Susannah was the “Order.”

Artie should have been proud. But he hadn’t been.
Because underneath that judge’s robe, Arthur Vartanian was as rotten as me.
Daniel and Susannah would have to go. But first there was a little matter of payback. Because as he’d fled from the police like a common street criminal, it had registered that they’d recognized him—not as Frasier Lewis, but as the
old man.
And the only person who’d seen him as the old man and lived was . . . Dr. Sophie Johannsen. His eyes narrowed. Everywhere he turned, he ran into that woman’s interference.

Everything had been progressing according to plan until Sophie Johannsen began asking questions about black market artifacts. It had all unraveled from there. She knew far too much, and he wouldn’t rest until she was silenced.

He cocked his jaw. Besides, she had a great face, such expression. She should have been an actress or model herself. Soon, she would be.

That he would hurt that cop Ciccotelli in the process was . . . He smiled. Bonus points.

I might even earn an extra life.
Simon chuckled. His internal balance restored, he got out of his vehicle and walked into the nursing home.

Saturday, January 20, 4:15
P.M.

Liz winced when Vito and Nick came into the bullpen. “Oh . . . guys.”

“Just some minor burns,” Vito said. “We were lucky. The only people hurt were Van Zandt’s lawyer, two pedestrians, and us. The pedestrians were treated and released.”

“The lawyer?” Liz asked.

“He’ll be okay,” Nick said. “He was twenty feet behind Van Zandt when he blew.”

Vito sat down at his desk. “We just got grazed by a few pieces of flying shrapnel.”

“I’ve got Bev and Tim and a half-dozen others beating the bushes,” Liz said, “but . . .”

Nick shook his head. “That sucker could run on that prosthetic leg, Liz. Surprised the hell outta me. Then Van Zandt blew. That surprised me a little more.”

“What the hell happened? You were supposed to be
watching
him.” ADA Maggy Lopez rushed in and stopped short when she saw them. “Good God.”

“Simon was waiting for Van Zandt.” Vito massaged the back of his neck. “He dropped a grenade in the pocket of Van Zandt’s overcoat. CSU’s got the fragments. We’re betting it matches the shrapnel we took from the kid we haven’t yet identified.”

Nick sank into his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Maggy.”

Lopez gave both of them a once-over. “Nothing to feel sorry about. Van Zandt probably would’ve gotten bail regardless of our plan. We didn’t have enough to get remand. Not with all the other factors. So now what?”

Nick looked at Vito. “Plan B? Stacy Savard.”

Vito scoffed. “Shit. We don’t even know where Savard is.”

Liz smiled. “Yes, we do. You were at the hospital when we brought her in.”

Vito straightened in his chair. “We have Stacy Savard? Here?”

“Yep. We found her parking her car at the airport. Apparently she was going to take whichever flight left the country first. When you’re up to it, she’s all yours.”

Vito smiled grimly. “Oh, we’re up to it. I can’t wait to talk to that cold bitch.”

Saturday, January 20, 4:50
P.M.

Taking out Van Zandt had been harder than he’d planned, but now that he knew his adversary, taking Johannsen would be easier. He’d planned for every contingency, from a uniformed police escort to the detectives who’d stuck to her like glue. He was ready.

Simon’s mouth curved. Soon a nurse would be changing Grandma’s IV. Bells would ring, alarms would clang. Sweet Sophie would get a frantic phone call. A frantic
authentic
phone call. One thing he’d always admired about Johannsen was her passion for authenticity. There was a certain . . . symmetry in Sophie’s fate.

Grandma was dying, so she’d come home. Because she was home, he’d met her. Because he’d met her, studied under her, he’d gained superior knowledge of the medieval world, and because of that knowledge, he’d created one hell of an authentic game. But because of the game and because of Johannsen’s involvement, the police were entirely too close. He’d always planned to eliminate her when the time was right, but the proximity of the police had forced him to play his hand sooner than he’d planned, and because of
that
. . . He checked his watch. It was time. Because of
that,
Grandma was dying. Authentically.

It was one big, beautiful circle. It was fate.

He straightened abruptly. There she was, coming into the lobby from the Great Hall, dressed in a suit of armor. He hoped she’d take it off before making what would certainly be a mad dash. She was a tall woman. It would take a great deal of strength to move her in regular clothes. The armor would be an unwelcome impediment, but he would deal with it if he must. He moved a little closer to the window. Soon there would be no glass between them to denigrate his entertainment experience. Soon, he’d have her in his possession, in his dungeon, where there were cameras and lights.
The better to see you die, my dear.

Saturday, January 20, 5:00
P.M.

Stacy Savard sat at the interrogation table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared ahead sullenly until Vito and Nick came in, then looked at them with eyes dripping with pathetic despair. “What’s happened? Why have you brought me here?”

“Cut the drama, Stacy.” Vito took the chair next to hers. “We know what you’ve done. We have your laptop and Claire’s laptop. We know about Claire and Arthur Vartanian, and we found your fat little bank account.” He made his expression puzzled. “What I don’t get is how you could have betrayed Claire like that. You loved her.”

Stacy’s face was impassive for a long moment, then she shrugged. “I didn’t love Claire. Nobody loved Claire except her parents, and that’s only because they didn’t know who she really was. Claire was mean . . . and a good lay. That’s all.”

Nick’s laugh was short and incredulous. “That’s all? So what happened, Stacy? Did you know she was blackmailing Frasier Lewis from the beginning?”

Stacy scoffed. “Like Claire would share something like that. She was going to keep everything she got from the Vartanians for herself. She was a bitch.”

Vito shook his head, disbelieving. “So when did you know Claire was dead?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I want full immunity.”

Vito laughed hard, then sobered abruptly. “No.”

Stacy sat back. “Then you get nothing more from me.”

Anticipating just such a reaction, Nick slid a photo of the mangled Van Zandt across the table and they watched Stacy pale.

“Who . . . who is that?”

“The last idiot who wanted immunity,” Vito said caustically.

“And the last idiot who tried to cross Frasier Lewis,” Nick said softly. “We could let you go, you know. And tell Frasier where to find you.”

Her eyes darkened in fear. “You wouldn’t tell him. That would be murder.”

Vito sighed. “She’s got us there. But, if the story were to leak . . . It might not be until this comes to trial, but he will find out. It’s too sensational to keep quiet.”

“And you’ll be lookin’ over your shoulder until he drops a grenade in your pocket.”

Stacy sucked in a cheek, stewing. Then she looked up. “I was supposed to have dinner with Claire back in October, fifteen months ago. She never showed, so I went to her apartment. I had a key. I found her laptop and pictures she’d taken of ‘Frasier Lewis’ while they sat in the waiting room.” One side of her mouth lifted. “One thing about Claire, she took good notes. She’d planned to write a book about it somewhere down the line. She recognized Lewis as Simon Vartanian, which she thought was odd.”

“Because he was supposed to be dead,” Vito said.

“Yeah. She researched Frasier Lewis, found out he was some guy in Iowa.”

Nick blinked at her. “So you knew about the insurance fraud, too.”

Stacy’s lips firmed stubbornly, and with a long-suffering sigh Vito put a photo of Derek Harrington with a hole in his forehead next to Van Zandt. “You don’t want to mess with Simon Vartanian, Stacy. Any more than you want to mess with us. Answer Detective Lawrence’s question.”

“Yes,” she bit out. “I knew about the insurance fraud. I found the e-mails on Claire’s computer—the ones she’d sent to Simon and his father. The father’s said ‘I know what your son did.’”

“What did you think she meant?” Nick asked and she shrugged.

“That he was cheating the insurance company and that he’d faked his death. Her e-mail to Simon said ‘I know who you are, Simon.’ The father paid. Simon insisted she meet him, and like a stupid idiot, Claire did.”

“Where?” Vito asked tightly. “Where did she meet him?”

“Simon mentioned meeting her outside the library where she worked. But she didn’t show up for a few days, anywhere. So I made the logical assumption she was dead.”

“You sent the letters,” Nick said. “To the library and to yourself.”

“Yes. I sent the letters.”

Vito kept thinking he’d seen his fill of sociopaths on this case, but they just kept coming. “And you took up where she left off.”

“Only with the father, not with Simon.”

“Why not?” Nick asked and Stacy shot him an incredulous look.

“Because he was a killer. Duh. Claire was stupid. I’m not.”

“Here you are, so your intelligence isn’t necessarily a fact in evidence,” Nick said mildly. But a muscle in his cheek twitched and Vito knew the calm was a thin facade.

“Because he was a killer.” Vito shook his head. “You looked at him every time he came into your office for a checkup. You knew he wasn’t Frasier Lewis. You knew he’d killed Claire Reynolds and you
never said a word
?”

Again she shrugged. “What was the point? Claire was dead. Nothing I could do would bring her back, and obviously Arthur Vartanian could spare the money.”

Nick huffed out a chuckle. “God, this case just keeps getting better and better. So, Stacy, tell us. What made Arthur Vartanian come to find you?”

Stacy blinked. “He never came to find me. He just kept paying.”

“Oh, he came to find you all right. Now he’s dead. We found him and his wife buried near Claire.” Nick raised a brow. “You wanna see the pictures?”

Stacy shook her head. “He wanted proof that I knew his son, but he kept paying.”

Vito flicked a glance at Nick. “How did you prove it to him, Stacy?” Vito asked.

“I sent him a picture of Simon. The one I took for Pfeiffer.”

“It was a candid photo,” Vito remembered. “He didn’t pose for it.”

“Of course not. He wouldn’t let me take his picture, so I snapped one when he wasn’t looking. I thought I might need it someday.”

“Okay,” Nick said quietly, “now we’re going to want your help.”

Saturday, January 20, 5:00
P.M.

“You see the skinny bald guy?” Ted the Third whispered as he and Sophie stood waving good-bye to the final tour group of the day. “He’s runs a philanthropy group.”

Sophie smiled and waved. “I know. He told me. Three times.”