Die for Me (50 page)

“I’m not going to fight you,” Jen said, closing up her laptop. “But I’m not sure I can even get home. I think I’ll just crash in the crib for a while.” She gave Vito a hard hug on her way out. “Don’t lose hope.”

“Nick, you’re with me,” Liz said. “I’ll get my coat.”

“I call shotgun,” Nick said, then paused next to Vito. “Just sleep, Chick,” he muttered. “Don’t think. You think too damn much.” Then he and Liz were gone.

Brent hesitated, then gave Vito a CD in a plastic case. “I thought you’d want a copy.” One side of his mouth lifted sadly. “You have a hell of a set of pipes, Ciccotelli. There wasn’t a dry eye on the IT floor when I was viewing that part of the tape.”

Vito’s eyes burned. “Thank you.” Then Brent was gone and it was just him and Katherine. Not caring if she saw, he swiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Katherine, I don’t know what to say.”

“Neither do I, except that I’m sorry.”

He blinked at her. “You’re sorry?”

“I damaged our friendship this week more than I thought. Because I hurt you before, you’re thinking I blame you for this, and nothing could be further from the truth.”

Vito turned the CD over and over in his hands. “You should. I blame myself.”

“And I blame myself for bringing her in in the first place.”

“All I can see in my mind are all his victims.”

“I know,” she whispered harshly.

He looked at her then. Her eyes were haunted. She’d done twelve autopsies this week, each one a victim of Simon Vartanian. “You understand better than anyone.”

She nodded. “I also know Sophie Johannsen. If there’s a way to survive, she will. And you have to hold on to that, because right now it’s all we have.”

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

Sophie was waking up. She lifted her eyelids and swept her gaze from one edge of her peripheral vision to the other, without moving her head. Above her was waffleboard. It was, she knew from all those times she’d accompanied Anna to recording studios, used for soundproofing and controlling sound quality. The walls were covered with rock. Whether it was real or not was hard to tell. The torches in wall sconces appeared real enough, their flickering flames creating shadows on shadows.

She smelled death. And she remembered the screams. Greg Sanders had died here. As had so many others.
So will you.
She gritted her teeth.
Not if I have an ounce of strength left.
She had far too much to live for to give up.

It was a good thought, but pragmatically she was bound, hands and feet, and was lying on a wooden table. She had clothes, but they weren’t the ones she’d been wearing. She wore a dress or robes. She heard footsteps and quickly closed her eyes.

“No need to pretend, Sophie. I know you’re awake.” He had a soft, cultured drawl. “Open your eyes now. Look at me.”

Still she kept her eyes closed. The longer she could put off a confrontation, the more time she’d give Vito to find her. Because he would find her. Of that she was sure. Where and what shape she’d be in were the only questions in her mind.

“Sophie,” he crooned. She could feel his breath wash over her face and fought not to flinch. She felt the breeze his body made when he straightened. “You’re very good.” Because she was anticipating it, she controlled the flinch when he pinched her arm. He chuckled. “I’ll give you a few more hours, but only because I need to recharge my circuits.” He’d said the last few words with an almost self-deprecating amusement.

“Once I’m all charged up, I’ll be fit and ready to roll for another thirty hours. Just imagine all the
fun
we can have in thirty hours, Sophie.” He walked away chuckling, and Sophie prayed he didn’t see the shiver she couldn’t control.

Saturday, January 20, 9:30
P.M.

“Hi, Anna.” Vito sat in the chair next to her bed in the cardiac intensive care unit. Anna was barely lucid, but her good eye flickered. “It’s okay,” he said. “I understand if you can’t talk. I just came to see how you were.”

Her eye moved toward the door and her lips trembled, but no words came out. She was looking for Sophie, and Vito didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. “She had a long day. She fell asleep.” It wasn’t untrue. Witnesses said she’d been dragged to the white van in which she was taken, limp as if she’d been drugged. Vito hoped she had been and that she still slept. Every hour she slept gave them another hour to find her.

“Who are you?”

Vito turned to find a shorter, younger version of Anna in the open door. That, he guessed, would be Freya. He patted Anna’s hand. “I’ll come back when I can, Anna.”

“I said,
who are you
?” Freya’s voice was shrill, but under it Vito heard panic.

Panic he understood. “I’m Vito Ciccotelli, a friend of Anna’s. And Sophie’s.”

A man with a thin ring of hair around the back of his head appeared behind Freya, fear and hope warring in his eyes. This would be Uncle Harry.

The man confirmed it. “I’m Harry Smith, Sophie’s uncle. You’re her cop.”

Her cop. Vito’s heart broke a little more. “Let’s find a place to talk.”

“Sophie?” Harry said when they’d sat down in a small family waiting room.

Vito looked at his hands, then back up. “She’s still missing.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone hurt our Sophie?”

Vito watched the corner of Freya’s mouth tighten. A tiny movement, probably caused by stress. He wasn’t sure. What he did know was that the man before him was the closest thing Sophie had ever had to a real father and he deserved to know the truth.

“Sophie was helping us with a case. It’s gotten some press coverage.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “The graves the old man discovered with a metal detector?”

“That’s the one. For the last week we’ve been tracking the man who killed all those people.” He drew a breath. “We have reason to believe he abducted Sophie.”

Harry paled. “My God. They found nine bodies up there.”

Now there were five more, perhaps six considering Alan Brewster had never been found. But Harry didn’t need to know that. “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”

“My mother’s heart attack,” Freya said slowly. “It happened not an hour before Sophie was taken. The timing can’t be coincidental.”

Vito thought of the look on Nurse Marco’s face when he’d told her about the tape and the tampering. She’d been, as he’d anticipated, both hurt and relieved. He wondered what Freya Smith’s response would be. “We know it wasn’t. The killer tampered with your mother’s IV, injected a high concentration of potassium chloride.” Probably a coarse grade, Jen had thought. The kind used to melt ice on roofs and streets, available at any hardware store this time of year.

Freya’s mouth pressed to a hard line. “He tried to kill my mother. To get to
Sophie.
”

Vito frowned, not at the words, but by the way in which she said them. Apparently Harry was as well. An expression of appalled shock crossed his face.

“Freya, Sophie didn’t cause this.” When Freya said nothing, Harry rose unsteadily to his feet. “Freya? Sophie’s gone. A man who killed nine people has our Sophie.”

Freya began to cry. “Your Sophie,” she spat. “Always
your
Sophie.” She looked up at him. “You have two daughters, Harry. What about them?”

“I love Paula and Nina,” he said, his shock becoming anger. “How dare you insinuate otherwise? But Paula and Nina have always had us. Sophie had no one.”

Freya’s face contorted. “
Sophie had Anna.
”

Harry paled further, then dark red stained his cheekbones as realization began to dawn. “I always thought it was because of Lena. That you couldn’t love Sophie because she was Lena’s. But it was because of Anna. Because Anna took her in.”

Freya was sobbing now. “She gave up everything for that girl. Her house, her career. She never stayed home for us. But for Sophie . . . Everything was for Sophie. And now my mother’s lying in there,
dying.
” She choked on a sob. “Because of
Sophie.
”

Vito let out a breath. Freya the Good wasn’t so good.

“My God, Freya,” Harry said quietly. “Who are you?”

She buried her face in her hands. “Go away, Harry. Just go away.”

Shaking, Harry walked outside the little waiting room and slumped against the wall. With a look of bewildered contempt at the sobbing Freya, Vito joined him. Harry’s eyes were closed, his face drawn. “I never understood before tonight.”

“You were wrong about something,” Vito said softly.

Harry swallowed hard, but opened his eyes. “What’s that?”

“Sophie didn’t have ‘no one.’ She had you. She told me you were her real father, that she didn’t think she’d ever told you that before.”

Harry’s throat worked. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Vito squared his shoulders. “She had you and Anna. And now she has me. And I’m going to find her.” His own throat closed, but he forced the words out. “And I’ll love her, Harry, and give her the home she’s always wanted. You have my word.”

Harry held his gaze, weighing both the promise Vito had made and his own response. “I told her that there was someone out there for her. That she just needed to be patient and wait.”

Patient and wait.
Patience wasn’t something Vito had a whole lot of right now. He knew Liz had told him to go home, but he couldn’t. He owed Sophie more than patience and waiting. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” Vito said. “When I’ve found her.”

Vito walked a few steps, then thought again of the tape. “Anna’s nurse, Lucy Marco? Her quick thinking saved Anna’s life.”

Harry closed his eyes. “We yelled at her,” he murmured. “She told us she’d made a mistake with Anna’s IV and we yelled at her. I promise I’ll make that right.”

Vito had expected no other reply. “Good. You should also know that the young man whose father owns the museum risked his life to stop the man who took Sophie.”

Harry’s eyes blinked open. “You mean Theo Four? Sophie didn’t think he liked her.”

Vito thought about the worry in the eyes of all the Albrights, both for Theo, who’d sustained serious internal injuries when Simon had backed over him with his van, and for Sophie. “They all like her, Harry. They’re terrified for her.”

Harry nodded unsteadily. “Theo. Will he be all right?”

“They hope so. It’s touch and go.”

Again he nodded. “Do they need . . . anything?”

Vito sighed. “Insurance. They didn’t have any. No money.”
Insurance.
Simon had stolen his. Vito sucked in a breath as it hit him like a sucker punch. In all the flash of this case he’d forgotten the most fundamental principle.
Follow the money.

“What?” Harry grabbed his arm, panicked. “What?”

Vito clasped the older man’s shoulder. “I had a thought. I have to go.” Then he took off for the elevator, dialing ADA Maggy Lopez as he ran.

Saturday, January 20, 9:50
P.M.

He’d plugged his leg into the wall just in time. He’d been so busy lately, he’d run the battery until it was almost dead. It would take hours to fully charge. He had other legs, but none provided the same range of motion or reliability of movement as the microprocessor he’d acquired from participation in Pfeiffer’s study, and he had the feeling killing Sophie Johannsen would require that he have a physical edge.

He thought about her in full costume, swinging that battleax over her head. No fragile flower, she. Yes, he’d need every advantage Pfeiffer’s unit could give him.

Sitting on the bed in his studio, he paused, considering the issue of Dr. Pfeiffer. Pfeiffer and that nurse of his were helping the cops. It was the only explanation for the phone call he’d received. Come and get your lubricant. Ha. He’d honestly thought better of Ciccotelli than that. It was a damn good thing he hadn’t allowed Pfeiffer’s nurse to photograph him. Otherwise, Ciccotelli would also know his true face. That could present problems the next time he chose to surface with a new life.

With the death of Sophie Johannsen, all that would be left were the old man’s spawn. He smiled, suddenly eager for a family reunion. Especially Daniel. He looked at the trap on the table next to his unfinished matrix. That his beautifully planned graveyard would go unfinished gnawed at him. He would have to make up for it by finishing what his brother had started so many years ago. He’d dreamed of his revenge so many times . . . Maybe he’d dream of Daniel snared like an animal tonight.

But he was too restless to sleep. Had his leg been charged, he’d go for a run. He’d need to work off this nervous energy another way, and he had just the right thing. Pulling on his old leg, he crossed to the doors set into the stairwell. Opening them, he smiled. Brewster lay curled in a fetal ball, bound hands and feet. But he breathed.

“Have you given up hope yet, Brewster?”

The bound man’s eyelids flickered, but he made not the slightest noise. Not even a whimper. He could take Brewster standing one-legged in a hurricane. But he had other plans for Alan Brewster. “You know, Alan, I’ve never properly thanked you. You were the hub that brought my support staff together. How fortuitous that your name was one of the first I found when I searched for experts in medieval warfare. And how fortuitous that you associate with such . . . helpful merchants.” He pulled Brewster so that he sat up, his back propped against the wall.