Die for Me

Chapter Eight

Monday, January 15, 4:05

P.M.

Scowling in the mirror, Sophie scrubbed at the last of the theatrical makeup that stubbornly clung to her cheeks. “Damn Viking tour,” she muttered. “Paint me up like ten-dollar hooker.” The employee washroom door opened and Darla appeared, her face a frown of affectionate exasperation.

“You don’t have to scrub so hard, Sophie. You’re going to take your skin off.” She retrieved a jar from the vanity under the sink. “How many times have I told you to use cold cream?” She spread a thick layer on Sophie’s face and began to dab gently.

“About a million,” Sophie grumbled, flinching at the slimy coldness on her skin.

“Then why don’t you use it?”

“I forget.” It was a childish grouse and Darla smiled.

“Well, stop forgetting. It’s almost like you think if you take off your skin that Ted’s going to stop telling you to use the makeup. I can tell you right now, he’s not going to let it go.” She dabbed while she talked. “You might know history, Sophie, but Ted knows what sells. Without the tours, this museum might close.”

“And your point would be what, exactly?”

“Sophie.” Darla grabbed her chin and pulled her forward until her back hunched. “Hold still. Close your eyes.” Sophie did so until Darla let her go. “You’re done.”

Sophie touched her skin. “Now I’m greasy.”

“What you are is impossible, and you have been all day. What’s wrong with you?”

A sadistic medieval killer and a handsome cop who makes me drool even though he’s a cheating rat. “Vikings and Joan of Arc,” she said instead. “Ted hired me to be a curator, but I don’t have time to work on exhibits. I’m always doing these damn tours.”

Behind them a toilet flushed and Patty Ann emerged from one of the stalls. “I think it’s a guilty conscience,” she said ominously as she bent down to wash her hands. “Sophie was questioned by two cops this afternoon. One of them nearly dragged her off to the police car.” She glanced slyly at Sophie from the corner of her eye. “You must have done some slick talking to make him let you go.”

Darla looked alarmed. “What’s this about the police? Here? At the Albright?”

“They had some history questions, Darla. That was all.”

“What about the dark one?” Patty Ann needled and Sophie wanted to throttle her. “He chased you back to the museum.”

“He did not chase me,” Sophie said firmly, loosening the ties of her bodice. But Vito had done exactly that and her heart beat harder every time she thought about it. There was something about Vito Ciccotelli that drew her, tempted her, which was shameful in and of itself. She needed to get him the information he’d asked for so that she wouldn’t have to see him again. Temptation removed. Case closed.

She changed her clothes and escaped to the little storeroom Ted had given her for an office. It was tiny and filled with boxes, but it had a desk and a computer and a phone. A window would have been nice, but at this stage she was choosing her battles.

She sank down in her old chair and closed her eyes. She was tired. Tossing and turning all night had that effect, she supposed. Focus, Sophie. She needed to think about shady archeologists and collectors so she could make that list for Ciccotelli.

She considered the people she’d worked with over the years. Most were ethical scientists who handled artifacts as carefully as Jen McFain had handled the evidence at the crime scene. But inevitably her thoughts wandered to him. Alan Brewster. The bane of my life. She’d never paid attention to the rich donors who subsidized their digs, but Alan knew everyone. He would be a good contact for the detectives. Except…

Except Alan would ask Vito how he’d gotten his name. Vito would say, “From Sophie,” and Alan would smile like the lying cheating rat he was. She could hear his voice now, smooth, cultured. “Sophie,” he’d say. “A most able assistant.” That’s what he’d say when they’d… finished. She’d actually thought he’d meant it affectionately, that she’d been special to him.

Her cheeks heated as shame and humiliation reasserted themselves, as they did every time she remembered. Little had she known, then. She knew a hell of a lot more now.

But guilt sidled up to join the shame. “You’re a coward,” she murmured. Nine people were dead and Alan might be able to help, and she was letting her ego get in the way. She wrote his name on her notepad, but just seeing it in black and white left her cold. He’d tell. He always told. It was part of his fun. He’d tell Nick and Vito and then they’d know, too. What do you care what they think about you? But she did. She always did.

“Think of somebody else,” she told herself. “Somebody just as good.” She thought hard until another face came to mind, but not the man’s name. He’d been a fellow grad student working that same dig with Alan Brewster. While she’d been “assisting” Alan, this guy had been researching stolen antiquities for his dissertation. She ran a search, but found no such dissertation. But the guy had a friend… Hell.

His name Sophie remembered. Clint Shafer. With a sigh, she searched the white pages and got a number. Before she could change her mind, Sophie dialed. “Clint, this is Sophie Johannsen. You might not remember me, but-”

He cut her off with a wolf whistle. “Sophie. Well, well, how are you?”

“Just fine,” she said. Nine graves, Sophie. “Clint, do you remember that friend of yours who was researching stolen antiquities?”

“You mean Lombard?”

Lombard. Now she remembered. Kyle Lombard. “Yeah, that’s him. Did he ever finish his dissertation?”

“No, Lombard dropped out.” There was a pause, then slyly, “That was after you left the project. Alan was just devastated.”

There was laughter in his voice and Sophie’s cheeks heated as she bit back what she really wanted to say. “Have you heard from him?”

“Who? Alan? Sure. We chat often. You come up a lot.”

She bit down harder on her tongue. “No, I meant Kyle. Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from Kyle since Avignon. He dropped out of the program and I signed up to join Alan’s team on that Siberian dig. So, you’re in Philly?”

Sophie cursed caller ID. “Family emergency.”

“Well, I’m up in Long Island, but you knew that already. We could… get together.”

One stupid mistake and I’m still paying. She forced a brightness into her voice as she baldly lied. “I’m sorry, Clint. I’m married now.”

He laughed. “So? So am I. That never stopped you before.”

Sophie exhaled slowly. Then stopped biting her tongue and let it fly. “Foutre.”

Clint laughed again. “Name the time and the place, sweetheart. Alan still calls you one of his most able assistants. I’ve waited a long time to evaluate you myself.”

Her hand shaking, Sophie carefully hung up the phone. Then she took the sheet of paper on which she’d written Alan Brewster’s name and crumpled it into a tight ball in her tighter fist. There had to be someone else the police could contact.

Monday, January 15, 4:45

P.M.

“Here. Don’t say I never give you anything.”

Vito looked up when a bag of corn chips landed on the missing persons printout he’d been scanning. Liz Sawyer was leaning against the side of his desk, opening her own bag. He looked over to Nick’s empty desk where she’d thrown a second bag of chips. “Nick got barbeque flavor. I wanted barbeque flavor.”

Liz leaned over and switched the bags. “God, you’re worse than my kids.”

Vito grinned and opened the bag of barbeque chips. “But you love us anyway.”

She snorted. “Yeah, right. Where’s Nick?”

Vito sobered. “With the DA. He got called down to be prepped for tomorrow.”

Liz sighed. “We’ve all had our Siever cases, unfortunately.” Her eyes narrowed. “You had one, too. A couple of years ago. Right about this time.”

Vito crunched on his chips, keeping his expression bland, even though his gut clenched. Liz was fishing. He knew she’d known something wasn’t right about Andrea’s death, but she’d never come out and asked. “Right about.”

She watched him for another few seconds, then shrugged. “So bring me up to speed on our mass-grave situation. The story broke on the noon news and the phones down in PR have been ringing off the hooks ever since. Right now we’re ‘no commenting’ like there’s no tomorrow, but that won’t hold water too much longer.”

Vito told her everything they knew, finishing with their visit to the morgue. “Now I’m combing through missing persons reports trying to match vics.”

“The girl with the folded hands… If Keyes was an actor/model, maybe she is, too.”

“Nick and I thought the same thing. When we’re through looking through missing persons, we’ll canvas the bars where the actors hang out down by the theater district. Trouble is, the vic’s face is too decomposed to show her pictures.”

“Get an artist down to the morgue. Have them look at bone structure and do the best they can.”

Vito munched glumly. “Tried that. Both artists are with live victims. It’ll be days before they’re freed up enough to sketch a dead victim.”

“Goddamn budget cuts,” Liz muttered. “Can you draw?”

He laughed. “Stick figures with a ruler.” Then sobered, thinking. “My brother does.”

“I thought your brother was a shrink.”

“That’s my sister Tess. Tino’s the artist. He specializes in faces.”

“Is he cheap?”

“Yeah, but don’t tell my mom. She thinks we’re all, you know, saints.” He lifted his brows cagily. “Candidates for the priesthood even.”

Liz laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me. Has your brother done anything like this?”

His mind came back to Tino. “No. But he’s a good guy. He’ll want to help.”

“Then call him. If he’s willing, bring him down and sign a release. You’re getting pretty good at finding free help these days, Chick. Archeologists, artists…”

Vito made himself grin carelessly. “So what do I get for my trouble?”

Liz reached over and snagged Nick’s chips and threw them at him. “Like I said, don’t say I never gave you anything.”

New York City, Monday, January 15, 4:55

P.M.

“Derek, I need to talk to you.”

Derek looked up from his laptop screen. Tony England stood in the open door of his office, his jaw clenched and sullen fire in his eyes. Derek leaned back in his chair. “I was wondering when you’d come. Come in. Close the door.”

“I started for your office at least twenty times today. But I was too angry.” Tony lifted a shoulder. “I’m too angry now.”

Derek sighed. “What do you want me to do, Tony?”

“Be a man and tell Jager no for once,” he exploded, then looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. You’ve been with oRo since the beginning. You supervised the fight scenes in the last three games. You expected to take my place someday, not be demoted to work for a newcomer.”

“All that’s true. Derek, you and I made a great team. Tell Jager no.”

“I can’t.”

Tony’s lip curled. “Because you’re afraid he’ll fire you?”

Derek let him have that shot. “No. Because he’s right.”

Tony’s spine went ramrod straight. “What?”

“He’s right.” He waved at his laptop. “I’ve been studying Enemy Lines next to everything we did before. Enemy Lines is stunning. The work we did on the last project is barely mediocre by comparison. If Frasier Lewis can do it-”

“You sold out,” Tony said dully. “I never believed you…” He lifted his chin. “I quit.”

It was what Derek expected. “I understand. If you sleep on it and decide to change your mind, it will be like we never had this conversation.”

“I won’t change my mind. And I won’t work for Frasier Lewis.”

“Then contact me for a recommendation. For whatever it’s worth.”

“Once it would have been worth a great deal,” Tony said bitterly. “Now… I’ll take my chances on my own. Enjoy the money, Derek, because once Jager forces you out, it’ll be all you have left.”

Derek stared at the door Tony quietly closed behind him. Tony was right. Jager was forcing him out. The signs had been there for weeks, but Derek hadn’t wanted to see.

“Derek?” his secretary called through the intercom. “Lloyd Webber is on line two.”

He was not in the mood to speak to any more reporters. “Tell him no comment.”

“He’s not a reporter. He’s a parent and wants to talk to you about Enemy Lines.”

Nor was Derek in the mood to listen to any more irate parents who found Enemy Lines disturbing and violent. “Take a message. I’ll call him back tomorrow.”

Monday, January 15, 6:00

P.M.

His timing had been good, Vito thought as he watched Sophie exit the Albright Museum. She looks tired, he thought as she got closer to her bike.

He stepped around his truck as she unhooked her helmet from her seat. “Sophie.”

She gasped. “You scared the hell out of me,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

Vito hesitated, now unsure of the words to say. From behind his back he whisked out a single white rose and watched her eyes narrow.

“Is this a joke?” she said, her voice gone low and hard. “Because it’s not funny.”

“Not a joke. It bothered me that you thought I was just like ‘all the others.’ I wanted you to know that I’m not.”

For a moment she said nothing, then shook her head and bungeed her backpack to her seat. “Okay. Fine. You’re a prince,” she said sardonically. “A really nice guy.” She straddled her bike and tucked her braid under her jacket before pulling the helmet onto her head. “I would have gotten you the list anyway.”

Vito spun the rose between his fingers nervously. She wore a black leather jacket tonight, and she’d exchanged the rainbow-fingered gloves for leather gloves similar to his own. With her forbidding expression and all that black leather, she looked like a dangerous biker chick, not like the eclectically dressed academic he’d met the day before. She tugged the strap under her chin and stood up to start the bike. She was leaving and he had not accomplished his mission.

“Sophie, wait.”

She paused, poised to kick the engine into gear. “What?”

“The flowers were for someone else.” Her eyes flickered. She obviously hadn’t expected him to own up to it. “They were for someone I cared for who died. I was going to put them on her grave yesterday, but got tied up in the case. And that’s the truth.” As much as he was willing to divulge, anyway.

She frowned slightly. “Most people put carnations on graves in the winter.”

He shrugged. “Roses were her favorite.” His throat thickened as a picture of Andrea flashed through his mind, burying her face in a bouquet of roses. Blood red, they’d stood out in marked contrast to her olive skin and black hair. The colors mocked him. Her black hair soaking up her red blood as it flowed from the bullet hole in the side of her head-the hole he’d put there.

Abruptly he cleared his throat. “Anyway, I was getting flowers for my sister-in-law who’s in the hospital and I saw the white roses. They made me think of you.”

She was studying him warily. “Either you’re really good or you’re telling the truth.”

“I’m not that good. But I’ve never cheated in my life, and I didn’t want you to think I had.” He laid the rose across her handlebars. “Thanks for listening.”

She stared down at the flower for a long, long moment, then her shoulders sagged. Tugging off one glove, she pulled a folded sheet of paper and a pen from the pocket of her coat. Unfolding the paper, she wrote something at the bottom, then with a hard swallow handed it to him. “Here’s your list. It’s not much.”

There was a defeated look in her eyes that startled him even as it squeezed his heart. There were twenty typed names, some with websites. She’d written one more name at the bottom. “This seems like more than not much,” he said.

She shrugged. “The top eighteen keep booths at the Medieval Festival that takes place every fall. They sell swords and chain mail and such. Most also sell their goods on the ’Net. If anyone’s been asking questions about torture devices, they might have tried one of these guys first.”

“And the others?”

“Etienne Moraux is my old professor at the university in Paris. I did my graduate research under him. He’s a good man, well connected in the archeological world. If someone’s found a chair recently, he’ll know. If one’s been sold or gone missing from any museums or legitimate private collections, he’ll know that, too. As for his knowledge of the black market, I doubt it, but you never know if he’s heard rumors.”

“And Kyle Lombard?”

“He’s a long shot. I don’t even know where he is. But ten years ago he was working on his dissertation while we were on a dig in southern France. He was investigating stolen artifacts. He never finished his dissertation, and I couldn’t find him in any of the alumni lists, but you have your spy-guy ways.”

“And our memory-zapping guns,” he said, hoping to coax a smile to her lips. Instead, her eyes filled with a sadness that shook him. But she didn’t look away.

“Sometimes I think that would be a very useful thing to have,” she murmured.

“I agree. What about this last name? Alan Brewster.”

For a moment her eyes flashed with a rage so intense he nearly stepped back. But it was gone as suddenly as it had come, her anger seeming to fizzle, leaving her looking weary and defeated once again. “Alan’s one of the top archeologists in the Northeast,” she said quietly, “well connected with wealthy donors that make a lot of digs possible, here and in Europe. If somebody’s been buying, he might know.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

She broke the stem off the rose, then with care pocketed the bloom. “He’s the chair of medieval studies at Shelton College. It’s in New Jersey, not too far from Princeton.” She stared at the ground, hesitating. When she looked back up, her eyes were filled with despair and grim acceptance. “If you could not mention my name, I’d appreciate it.”

So she and Brewster had some bad history. “How do you know him, Sophie?”

Her cheeks reddened and Vito felt a spurt of jealousy, irrational but undeniable. “He was my graduate advisor.”

He swallowed the jealousy back. Whatever had happened, it still caused her pain. He made his voice gentle. “I thought you did your graduate degree under Moraux.”

“I did, later.” The despair in her eyes give way to a quiet yearning that made him ache. “You have what you came for, Detective. Now I need to go.”

He had what he’d come for, but not everything he needed. From the look in her eyes, she needed it, too. Quickly he folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket as she tugged her glove back on. “Sophie, wait. There is one more thing.” Before he could change his mind he straddled her front tire, slipped his hands around her helmet, and covered her mouth with his.

She stiffened, then her hands came up to circle his wrists. But she didn’t pull his hands away and for a few precious moments they both took what they needed. She was sweet, her lips soft under his and the scent of her lit a fire in his blood. He needed more. He fumbled with the strap under her chin and managed to jerk it free. Without breaking contact, he pushed the helmet from her head, dropped it on the ground behind him, then tunneled his fingers through the hair at her nape. He’d pulled her closer, perfecting the fit of his lips on hers when she surged into motion and the kiss suddenly changed from slow and sweet to reckless and urgent.

Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she lifted on her toes and ate at his mouth with hot, greedy little bites, a hungry whimper rising from her throat. He’d been right. The thought pushed through the heat as he urged her lips apart and took the kiss deeper. She’d needed this as much as he had. Maybe more.

Her fingers were clenched in the shoulders of his coat and his heart was pounding so hard it was all he could hear. Vito knew this hadn’t begun to satisfy what he needed. What he really needed wasn’t going to happen standing over her bike in a parking lot. He left the warmth of her mouth, brushing his lips along her jaw, pressing against the underside where her pulse beat hard and fast.

Vito pulled away just far enough to search her face. Her eyes were wide, and in them he saw hunger and need and uncertainty, but no regret. Slowly she lowered to her heels, running her hands along his arms until she reached his wrists. She pulled his hands from her hair, then closed her eyes as she clutched his hands in hers for several beats of his heart. Then carefully she released him and opened her eyes. The look of despair had returned, stronger now, and he knew she’d walk away from him.

“Sophie,” he started, his voice harsh and gravelly. She put her fingers over his lips.

“I need to go,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “Please.”

He reached for the helmet he’d dropped on the ground and watched as she strapped it under her chin once again. He didn’t want her to leave like this. He didn’t want her to leave at all. “Sophie, wait. I still owe you a pizza.”

She flashed him a forced smile. “Can’t. I’ve got to visit my grandmother.”

“Tomorrow, then?” and she shook her head.

“I teach a graduate seminar at Whitman on Tuesdays.” She lifted her hand, stopping him before he pressed further. “Please don’t. Vito, yesterday when I met you I was hoping you’d be decent and I was so upset when I thought you weren’t. I’m truly glad you are. So…” She shook her head, regret now in her eyes. “So good luck.”

She stood up, kicked the bike into gear and was out of the lot in a roar. As he watched her go, he realized it was the third time in two days he’d done so.

Monday, January 15, 6:45

P.M.

Sophie sat back with a frustrated sigh. “Gran, you have to eat. The doctor says you’ll never get out of here if you don’t get your strength back.”

Her grandmother glared at the plate. “I wouldn’t feed that to my dogs.”

“You feed filet to your dogs, Gran,” Sophie said. “I wish I ate as well.”

“They only get filet once a year.” Her chin lifted. “On their birthday.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Oh, well, as long as it’s a special occasion.” She sighed again. “Gran, please eat. I want you strong enough to come home.”

The defiant spark faded from Anna’s eyes, her thin shoulders slumping back against her pillow. “I’m never going home, Sophie. Maybe it’s time we both accepted that.”

Sophie’s chest hurt. Her grandmother had always been the picture of health, but the stroke had left her frail and unable to use the right side of her body, and her speech was still too slurred to be understood by strangers. A recent bout of pneumonia had robbed her of even more strength and made every breath she drew painful.

The world had once been Anna’s stage-Paris, London, Milan. Opera fans flocked to hear her Orfeo. Now Anna’s world was this small room in a nursing home.

Still, the last thing Anna needed was pity so Sophie hardened her voice. “Bullshit.”

Anna’s eyes flew open. “Sophie!”

“Like you haven’t said that word a hundred times.” A day, she added to herself.

Twin spots of color darkened Anna’s pale cheeks. “Still,” she grumbled, then dropped her eyes back to the plate. “Sophie, this food is vile. It’s worse than usual.” She lifted her left brow, the only one she could lift anymore. “Try it yourself.”

Sophie did, then grimaced. “You’re right. Wait here.” She went to the door and saw one of the nurses at the station. “Nurse Marco? Did you get a new dietitian?”

The nurse looked up from her clipboard, her expression guarded. “Yes. Why?”

Most of the nursing home staff were wonderful. Nurse Marco, however, was a grouch. To say that she and Anna did not get along was putting it mildly, so Sophie tried to ensure her visits coincided with Marco’s shifts. Just to keep things civilized. “Because this food tastes really bad. Could you possibly get Anna something else?”

Marco pursed her lips. “She’s on a controlled diet, Dr. Johannsen.”

“Which she will follow, I promise.” Sophie smiled as engagingly as she could. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t really bad. Please?”

Marco’s sigh was long-suffering. “Very well. It will be a half hour or so.”

Sophie came back to sit at Anna’s bedside. “Marco will bring you a new dinner.”

“She’s mean,” Anna murmured, closing her eyes.

Sophie frowned. Her grandmother said things like that increasingly often these days and Sophie was never completely sure what she should believe. Likely it was petulance brought on by the frustration of being helpless and in pain, but she always worried there could be something more.

Sophie seemed worried most of the time these days-about Anna, about bills, about the career she hoped she could someday reclaim. And today she’d added a new worry-what Vito Ciccotelli would think about her once he met Alan Brewster.

She touched her lips with her fingertips and let herself remember that kiss. Her heart started pounding all over again. She’d wanted more, so much more. And for just a moment, she’d let herself hope that just this once, she could have it.

What a fool you are. She’d finally met a really nice man who might have been everything she wanted-and she’d sent him to the one man who was most likely to paint her as a cheap sex-crazed slut with no moral compass. Maybe he won’t believe Alan. Hah. Men always believed Alan, because on some level they wanted to believe she was cheap, that she’d fall into bed with anyone who asked.

Nine graves, Sophie. You did the right thing. But why did the right thing always suck so much? With a sigh she settled in her chair and watched Anna sleep.

Monday, January 15, 6:50

P.M.

“So how did your prep with the DA go?” Vito asked as he got into Nick’s sedan. They’d met outside the factory where Warren Keyes’s fiancée Sherry worked.

“Okay.” Nick tossed him a sub. “Lopez thinks she can nail the drug dealer.”

“Then there’ll be some justice,” Vito said, unwrapping the sandwich. The aroma of meatballs filled the car. “Some justice is a hell of a lot better than none.”

Nick’s shrug said he didn’t agree, but wouldn’t argue. “What’d I miss?”

“I went through the missing-persons printouts. Highlighted anyone vaguely matching our vics. Got approval from Liz to bring in an artist to give us something to show.”

Nick whistled. “She gave you money?”

“Hell, no. I got Tino.”

Nick looked impressed. “Good thinking.”

“He should be meeting Katherine at the morgue any time now. Then I stopped by the hospital to see Molly. She’s doing better.”

“You have been busy. They figure out where Molly got the mercury?”

“Yeah. The state’s environmental people found their gas meter had been broken.”

“They still make meters with mercury?”

“No, but Dino’s house is old and the meter’s the old style. Pop said they told him the utility companies have been replacing them, but they hadn’t gotten to Dino’s neighborhood yet. They found mercury in the mud under the meter.”

“But meters don’t just break.”

“They think it was hit by a ball or a rock or something. Pop asked the boys, but none of them knew anything about it. Molly said last Friday the dog came in covered in mud. She bathed him and that’s how she came into contact with the mercury. The vet tested the dog and found low levels, but not enough to hurt him. But after she bathed the dog, Molly vacuumed, which sent mercury through the house. They’ve got to replace all the carpet before they can live there again, so I’ll have company for quite a while.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s all right. That’s the important thing.”

Vito drew Sophie’s list from his pocket. “And…” He sighed. “I went to see Sophie.”

“You really were busy.” He scanned the sheet. “Sellers of medieval novelties, chain mail…” He looked up, a light in his eyes. “The circular bruises on the guy missing half his head. He could have been wearing chain mail.”

Vito nodded. “You’re right. The bruises would be just about that size. Good job.”

“Professor in France,” Nick continued. “Long-shot Lombard, whereabouts unknown. And Alan Brewster. Why is his name handwritten in?”

“She gave me that one at the last minute. I think there’s some bad history there.”

Nick glanced up briefly. “No pun intended.”

Vito rolled his eyes. “No. I considered phoning him at home, but thought we might want to visit him in person.”

Nick considered it. “This guy hurt Sophie, huh?”

“Seems like it. She didn’t want me to mention her name.”

“What made her change her mind?”

“I told her the truth. Some of it anyway,” he clarified when Nick’s brow went up. He thought about the way she’d so carefully pocketed the rose, and remembered the kiss, which still filled his mind. “She believed me. Then she gave me the list and added Brewster’s name.”

“You’re gonna go tomorrow?”

Vito nodded. “I told Tino to focus on the woman with the folded hands. I want to take whatever he comes up with to the actors that hang around the theaters, but they won’t start gathering until late afternoon. I’ll have time to visit Brewster in the morning. He may be able to point us in the right direction. If we can find where they’re getting the devices, we can follow the money trail.”

“Well, when we’re done here I’ll go back to the office and run a list of Kyle Lombards. I might as well try to track him down tomorrow while I’m waiting to testify.” Nick straightened abruptly. “There she is. Sherry Devlin.” He pointed to a young woman getting out of a rusted Chevette. “She looks beat. I wonder where she’s been.”

Vito took Sophie’s list back, folded and pocketed it. “Let’s go find out,” he said and the two of them got out of Nick’s car and approached Sherry Devlin. “Miss Devlin?”

She spun to face them, her face freezing in fear.

“Relax,” Vito said. “We’re detectives, Philly PD. We’re not going to hurt you.”

She looked from Vito to Nick, her eyes still a little wild. “Is this about Warren?”

“Where have you been all day, Miss Devlin?” Nick asked, in lieu of an answer.

Sherry’s chin lifted. “In New York. I thought maybe Warren had gone up there to look for work. I figured if the police wouldn’t help me look, I’d search for him myself.”

“And did you find anything?” Vito asked gently and she shook her head.

“No. None of the agencies he’d worked for in the past had heard from him in a long time.” There was a tension to her posture that told Vito she knew why they’d come.

“Miss Devlin, I’m Detective Ciccotelli. This is my partner, Detective Lawrence. We have some bad news for you.”

The color drained from her face. “No.”

“We found Warren’s body, Miss Devlin,” Nick said gently. “We’re so sorry.”

“I knew something terrible had happened to him.” She lifted her eyes, numb with grief. “They said he’d run away, but I knew he’d never leave me. Not voluntarily.”

“Leave your car here. We’ll take you home.” He helped her sit in the back seat, then crouched next to her. “How did you know where to look in New York?”

She blinked slowly. “From Warren’s portfolio.”

“We looked at his portfolio, Miss Devlin,” Nick said, “We didn’t see a list of modeling agencies, just photos.”

“That’s his photofolio,” she murmured. “His résumé is online.”

Vito felt an electric current zip down his spine. “Where online?”

“At UCanModel dotcom. He had an account there.”

“What kind of account?” Nick asked.

She looked confused. “For models. They upload their photos and credits, and people who want to hire them can contact them through the site.”

Vito glanced over at Nick. Bingo. “Did Warren ever use your computer?”

“Sure. He was at my place more than he was at his folks’.”

Vito squeezed her hand. “We’re going to want to take your computer into our lab.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “Anything you need.”

Monday, January 15, 8:15

P.M.

“Sophie, wake up.”

Sophie blinked and focused on Harry’s face. She’d fallen asleep in the chair next to Anna’s bed. “What are you doing here?” Then she winced when she remembered. “Lou’s for cheesesteak. I forgot. Dang, and I’m hungry, too.”

“I brought you one. It’s out in my car.”

“I’m sorry I stood you up. I had a long day.” She studied Anna’s sleeping face. “Marco must have given her her meds. She’s out for the night, so I might as well go.”

“Then come eat your sandwich and tell me about your long day.”

In his car, Sophie stared up at the nursing home while she ate. “Gran keeps saying that this one nurse is mean to her. Does she say that to Freya?”

“Freya hasn’t mentioned it.” Harry frowned. “Do you think Anna’s being abused?”

“Don’t know. I hate having to leave her here at night.”

“We have to, unless we get a private nurse and that’s expensive. I checked into it.”

“I did, too. But I can barely afford this place, and Alex’s money will be gone soon.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t be using your inheritance for Anna’s care.”

She smiled at him. “Why not? What else would I use it on? Harry, everything I own fits in this backpack.” She nudged it with her toe. “That’s the way I like it.”

“I think that’s what you tell yourself. Alex should have provided for you better.”

“Alex provided for me just fine.” Harry always thought her biological father should have done more. “He paid for my university so that I could provide for myself. Not that I seem to be doing very well with that.” She scowled. “S’il vous plaît.”

“Let me guess. You were Joan again today.”

“Yeah,” she said glumly. “And the only thing worse than being Joan is having somebody I know see me that way.” She’d felt embarrassed when Vito and Nick had seen her in her costume. Of course, she’d be more embarrassed when Vito found out what kind of person she’d been. Alan would be sure to give him an earful.

“I think you make a cute Joan,” Harry said. “But who saw you?”

“Just this guy. It’s nothing.” No, it hadn’t been nothing. It had been incredible. She shrugged. “I thought he was a cheater, but it turns out he’s a really nice guy.”

“Then what’s the problem, Sophie?” Harry asked gently.

“The problem is that he’s about to meet Alan Brewster.”

Harry’s eyes flashed dark. “I’d hoped I’d never hear that name again.”

“Me, too. But we don’t get everything we want, do we? I have no doubt that within an hour after talking to Alan that Vito will think I’m trashy, and worse, hypocritical trash because I yelled at him for cheating on a girlfriend he doesn’t even have.”

“If he’s really a nice man he won’t listen to the vile gossip of a snake like Brewster.”

“I hear you, Uncle Harry. I just know better. Men hear about Brewster and I become a different person. I can’t seem to make people back here forget.”

Harry looked sad. “You’ll go back to Europe when Anna dies, won’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t think I can stay around Philly. Funny thing is, it happened over there, but it’s here that the story won’t die. Alan and his wife won’t let it because I had to be a freakin’ hero and try to do the right thing. Confess to the wife. Merde. Freakin’ idiot is more like it,” she muttered. “Confession is not good for the soul and there’s a damn good reason the wife’s always the last to know.”

“Sophie, that’s the first time you didn’t tell me Anna wasn’t going to die.”

Sophie went still. “I’m sorry. Of course she’ll-”

“Sophie.” His admonishment held affection. “Anna’s led one hell of a life. Don’t feel guilty because you believe she won’t hold on. Or that you’ll get your life back once she passes. You gave up a lot to come home. She appreciates that. So do I.”

She swallowed hard. “How could I have done anything else, Harry?”

“You couldn’t have.” He patted her knee. “You done with your sandwich? Because I have to get rid of the evidence. Freya can’t know I went to Lou’s. It’s not on my diet.”

“She’ll smell the onions. I’m sorry, Harry. You’re busted.”

“Well, it was worth it. I’ll just drive with the windows open on the way home.” He rolled down his window as Sophie gathered her backpack and the trash and got out.

“I’ll dispose of the evidence,” she said in a loud whisper. “See you around, Harry.”

“Sophie, wait.” She turned around and leaned in his window. His face was serious. “If this Vito is a good man, nothing Brewster says would make him disrespect you.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re so sweet. Naïve, but sweet.”

He frowned. “I’m just afraid the right man will come along and you’ll be so sure he’s going to think the worst that you don’t give him an opportunity. I don’t want to see you miss your chance, Sophie. I’m not sure how many we get to waste.”