Die for Me

Chapter Nine

Monday, January 15, 9:00

P.M.

There he is.” Vito studied the photo of Warren Keyes on UCanModel dotcom. He’d logged onto Warren’s account from his own PPD computer using the user name and password supplied by Sherry Devlin. Sherry’s computer sat in a box on Nick’s desk. One of Jeff’s computer techs would be coming in to check it out within the hour.

“Spotty résumé,” Nick said, standing behind him. “He didn’t get a lot of work.”

Vito clicked around the statistics section of Warren’s account page. “Looks like he hasn’t had a lot of hits lately. Six in the last three months. But look at the last date.”

“January 3. That’s the day before the last day Sherry saw him alive. Coincidence?”

“I don’t think so.” Vito went to the photo section and clicked through the thumbnails that comprised Warren Keyes’s career. “Look at this one.” It was two photos spliced together, both close-ups of Warren’s bicep. One half showed the Oscar tattoo in reasonable detail, on the other half the tattoo had been rendered invisible with makeup. “There’s something about that tattoo that’s been bothering me.”

“Oscar? Doesn’t seem too uncommon for a young guy who wanted to be an actor.”

“No, that’s not it.” Vito shook his head. “I went to visit Tess in Chicago a while back and she took me to a museum where they were exhibiting the Oscar statues that were going to be given at the Academy Awards that year.” He looked up over his shoulder. “The company that makes the statues is in Chicago.”

“Okay,” Nick said slowly. “And?”

Vito visualized the statue and the memory clicked. “Oscar is a knight.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he’s a knight.” Excited now, Vito did a Google search and pulled up a close-up of the Oscar statue itself. “Look at his hands. Just like Warren’s were posed.”

Nick whistled softly. “Hell’s bells. Look at that. He’s holding a freaking sword. If Oscar were lyin’ down, he’d be the spittin’ image of the boy in the morgue.”

“Not a coincidence,” Vito said firmly. “He picked Warren because of the tattoo.”

“Or he posed Warren because of the tattoo.”

“No, he planned this. He’d posed the woman’s hands weeks before. God, Nick. Warren got picked because of his damn tattoo.”

“Shit.” Nick sat down. “I wonder if the girl’s picture is in here too.”

“And the guy without half his head. And the boy with the bullet between his eyes.” Vito checked his watch. “Tino’s been at the morgue since seven. Maybe he’s got something we can use.”

As if on cue, the elevator dinged and Tino walked into the bullpen. Vito winced. His younger brother’s face was haggard and drawn, his dark eyes stark. “I shouldn’t have asked him to do this.”

“He’ll live,” Nick insisted, then stood up. “Hey, Tino.” He pulled up a chair. “Sit.”

Tino sat, heavily. “How do you do it, Vito? Look at those people, every day?”

“It’s an acquired skill,” Nick answered for him. “What d’ya got for us?”

Tino held out an envelope. “I have no idea if this is anywhere close. I did my best.”

“It’s better than we had before,” Vito told him. “I’m sorry, Tino. I shouldn’t have-”

“Stop,” Tino interrupted. “I’m okay and yes, you should have. It was just more intense than I’d expected.” He made his mouth smile. “I’ll live.”

“That’s what I told him.” Nick slid the drawing from the envelope. From the page stared a serious female face and Vito could see his brother had captured the girl’s facial structure. But more than that was a poignant sadness that Vito suspected was Tino’s own feelings coming through as he’d sketched. It was beautifully done.

Nick hummed his approval. “Wow. How come you can’t draw like this, Vito?”

“Because he sings,” Tino answered wearily. “And Dino teaches, Gino builds, and Tess cooks like a goddess.” He blew out a sigh. “And on that note, I’m going home, Vito. Tess should be there with the boys and I’m going to see if she’ll make me supper.” He licked his lips with distaste. “Anything to get this taste out of my mouth.”

Vito remembered Sophie’s beef jerky. “Tell Tess to make it spicy, and save me some. Oh, and tell her to take my room. I’ll bunk on the sofa.”

Tino stood up. “Your ME showed me the other bodies, Vito. I don’t think I can do anything for the guy…” He grimaced. “You know. Without a head. And the kid with the bullet is too far gone. Same for the kid with the shrapnel. You’ll need-”

“Whoa.” Vito stopped him with a raised hand. “What shrapnel?”

“Your ME called him one-four.”

Nick frowned. “Shrapnel? What the hell?”

“Sounds like we have some catching up to do in the morgue,” Vito said grimly. “I’m sorry, Tino. Go on. We’ll need what?”

“I was just going to say you’ll need a forensic anthropologist to reconstruct their faces. But the two old people I might be able to do. I can come back tomorrow and try.”

Vito felt a stirring of pride. “We’d appreciate it.”

Zipping up his coat, Tino shot them a lopsided grin. “I expect a recommendation. Who knows, I might have found a new career. God knows art doesn’t pay anything.”

“Where’s that stack of missing persons reports?” Nick asked when Tino was gone. “We can search this UCanModel site using the missing-persons names that fit the girl’s profile, then compare the photos to Tino’s drawing.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Monday, January 15, 9:55

P.M.

Nick tossed the missing persons printout to Vito’s desk in disgust. “That was the last one.” He glared at the UCanModel site on the computer screen. “She’s not in there.”

“Or she’s not in there.” Vito pointed to the printout. “Maybe she wasn’t declared a missing person. Or maybe she’s not local. Just because Warren was from Philly doesn’t mean she was. I’m not ready to give up yet.”

“Fuck,” Nick grumbled. “It would have been so sweet to find her fast.”

“Go home,” Vito said. “I’ll keep searching while I wait for Jeff’s computer tech to comb Sherry’s hard drive. I’ll check each model face by face if I have to.”

“There have to be five thousand names in there. You’ll be here all damn night.”

“Maybe not.” Vito ran the cursor over all the drop-down menus. “I can’t imagine that photographers looking for models are gonna scroll one picture at a time. They’d want to be able to look at all the blondes or brunettes, short or tall. Whatever.”

Nick sat up a little straighter. “So you could narrow the field. You know she was a brunette, five-foot-two, with short hair and blue eyes.”

“The eyes and hair are changeable. She could always wear contacts or a wig. But the height doesn’t change.” Vito squinted at the screen. “You can search, then sort by physical characteristics. So we search for five-foot-two and sort by hair color, then eye color.” He filled in the fields and clicked search. “You go home, I’ll stay here.”

“Hell, no. It’s just getting interesting again. Besides, you could find some cute girls on this site. They even list their bra size. What more do you want?”

“Nick.” Rolling his eyes, Vito shook his head.

“Hey, I’m single again and I don’t have time for bars.” His expression went sly. “Nor do I have the likes of Sophie Johannsen interested in me.”

She was interested. Vito swallowed hard. If she’d been any more interested he would have needed CPR. But she didn’t want to be. She’d turned him down, yet again. Last night it had been a misunderstanding. Tonight he suspected she understood all too well, even if he didn’t. So he ignored Nick and stared at the screen. “Only a hundred results. Her being short was good. Most of the models are tall.”

“Like Sophie.”

“Nick,” Vito gritted. “Shut up.”

Nick gave him a puzzled look. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I just assumed-”

“Well, you assumed wrong. And I’m not going to push this time.”

Nick seemed to chew on that for a minute. “Okay. Then let’s work.”

Vito clicked through each model’s portfolio, then stopped and blinked. “God, Tino is good.” The face staring out at them was the exact image of Tino’s drawing.

“I’ll say.” Nick leaned in for a closer look, very sober now. “Brittany Bellamy. Hell, Chick. She wasn’t even twenty. Click ‘contact.’”

Vito did, but it was an e-mail form. “They don’t give phone numbers or even geographical info, and I don’t want to send an e-mail. If we’re right, she won’t answer.”

“’Cause she’s dead,” Nick muttered. “And if we’re wrong, we’ve given out potentially valuable details on the killer’s MO. But you can check with her former clients in the morning.” He stood up. “I’m going home. I’ll call you when I’m outta court tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” Vito said, then dialed Liz Sawyer’s home number. “Hey, it’s Vito.”

“What do you have?”

“Possible ID on the girl with the hands.” He filled her in. “I’ll confirm tomorrow.”

“Very nicely done, Vito. I mean it. And thank your brother for me.”

Liz didn’t give out praise often. When she did, it felt good. “Thanks. And I will.”

“I rearranged some schedules and freed up Riker and Jenkins. They’ll be available to help you chase leads and IDs as of tomorrow morning.”

Liz had done well. Tim Riker and Beverly Jenkins were good cops. “Full time?”

“For a few days. It was the best I could do.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll ask them to track Brittany Bellamy through her modeling clients tomorrow. I got some names from the archeologist that I want to run down. One of them might be able to help us trace the equipment this guy is using. I want a money trail.”

“Always follow the money,” Liz agreed. “Schedule a briefing for oh-eight tomorrow.”

“Will do. Hey, I gotta go. Looks like the IT guy is here.”

A young guy carrying a laptop was approaching his desk. “You Ciccotelli?”

“Yeah. You Jeff’s guy?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “I prefer Brent.” He shook Vito’s hand. “Brent Yelton. And just so you know, calling us ‘Jeff’s guy’ won’t make you a lot of friends on our floor.”

Vito grinned. “I’ll remember that. The computer’s in the box. Thanks for coming out.”

Brent nodded. “I was the one who checked out the computer you took from Keyes’s room. I told Jeff to call me if anything else came up on this case, that I’d be there.”

Vito scowled. “I used up a favor to get you here. Jeff’s an asshole.”

Brent laughed as he hooked Sherry’s computer to his laptop. “One more reason not to be associated with him.” He sat in Nick’s chair and for five minutes worked in silence. Finally he looked up. “Well, this machine hasn’t been wiped. No trace of the virus that took out the victim’s computer. Somebody has been fooling with the history, though.”

Vito walked around to stand behind him. “What do you mean?”

“The wipe on the vic’s machine was a virus. This here is totally an amateur effort. Somebody didn’t want anybody knowing he visited certain sites and deleted them from the history. But that doesn’t delete them from the hard drive.” He glanced up. “Big mistake people make when they use company computers to surf for porn. They delete the history, but it’s still on the drive and any IT person worth a nickel can find it.”

“Good to know,” Vito said wryly. “So which sites were deleted by our amateur?”

Brent did a little doubletake. “This is a first for me. Somebody’s hiding visits to medievalworld.com, medievalhistory.com, fencing.com… here’s one for clothing of the Middle Ages, more of the same, yada yada, and… Hmm. A site for Caribbean cruises.”

Vito sighed. “Their honeymoon. Warren and Sherry were getting married. She said he’d dropped some hints about cruises, to see if that’s where she wanted to go.”

“And the medieval stuff?”

Vito stared at the list broodingly. “It all fits. I’m just not sure how.”

“Call me if you come up with any more wiped machines. Gotta say I’m intrigued. That virus had one of the sneakiest codes I’ve ever seen. Here’s my card with my cell.” He grinned as he packed up his laptop. “That way you don’t have to go through Jeff.”

“Thanks, man.” Vito pocketed Brent’s card, then dialed Jen McFain’s cell.

“McFain.” The connection was bad, but Jen’s fatigue came through loud and clear.

“Jen, it’s Vito. What’s happening?”

“Just sent the eighth body to the morgue, another elderly woman. Nothing funky.”

“Meaning no bullets, no shrapnel, no cancer, no weird bruises or folded hands.”

“Pretty much. We’re on the final grave now. First row, first grave.”

“Well we’ve ID’d the Knight for sure and maybe the Lady.”

“Wow.” She sounded impressed. “That’s fast work.”

“Thanks. You didn’t do too badly yourself. Six bodies excavated in one day.”

“We couldn’t have without Sophie’s map. The real work starts tomorrow when we start sifting through the dirt we took away.”

“Speaking of tomorrow, we’re having a briefing at oh-eight. Can you be here?”

“If you bring coffee and crullers from that bakery at the end of your street, then I’m there. Hold on. The team’s calling me.” A minute later she was back. “Last one’s uncovered.” Her voice held new energy. “Young female. And Vito, she’s missing a leg.”

Vito grimaced. “You mean he cut off her leg?”

“No, she’s an amputee. And oh, my goodness. If I’m not mistaken… Oh, Vito, this is good. Really good. She’s got a plate in her skull. Oh man, this is gold.”

Vito blinked hard. “She has a gold plate in her skull? Jen, that doesn’t make sense.”

She huffed in frustration. “Dammit, Vito, stick with the program here.”

“Sorry. I’m just tired. Try again.”

“Well, it’s not like this has been a garden party for me either. Pay attention. Her skull has decomposed, revealing a metal plate. She obviously had it implanted after an injury or surgery at some point in her life. Now that she’s decomposing, it’s visible.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “I’m still missing why this is so good.”

“Vito, an implantable metal plate is a class-three medical device. All class-three medical devices have unique, traceable serial numbers.”

Cognition clicked and he stood up straighter. “By which we can identify her.”

“And the prize goes to the man who just woke up.”

Vito grinned, almost giddy over this lucky turn. “I’ll call Katherine and have her start with the amputee first thing tomorrow morning. See you at oh-eight.”

Monday, January 15, 10:15

P.M.

Daniel was staring mindlessly at CNN on the hotel television when his cell phone rang. “Luke? Where have you been?”

“Catching fish,” Luke said dryly. “That’s what usually happens on a fishing trip. I didn’t get your message till now. So what’s up? Where are you?”

“In Philadelphia. Listen, I found a memory stick after you left this morning. I plugged it into my laptop and all I could see was a list of files with PST at the end.”

“Those are e-mail files. That’s probably your dad’s backup file since he wiped everything before November.”

Daniel pulled the memory stick from his pocket. “How can I see what’s on here?”

“Plug the stick into your PC. I’ll walk you through. It’s not hard.”

Daniel did what Luke said to do and was soon looking at his father’s e-mails. “I’ve got ’em.” Several years’ worth, in fact. But Daniel didn’t think he wanted Luke to know what had been on the memory stick any more than he wanted Frank Loomis to know about his father’s secret safe. “Let me check it out. Thanks, Luke.”

It took Daniel only minutes to get to the message that stopped his heart. It was from “RunnerGirl” and was dated July, eighteen months before. It said only, “I know what your son did.”

Daniel forced himself to breathe, to think. This was not going to be pretty at all.

Tuesday, January 16, 12:45

A.M.

It was damn good. On his computer screen the Inquisitor battled his opponent, the Good Knight. Both characters fought sword in one hand, flail in the other. Each step was smooth, each jab of a sword or arc of the flail a realistic combination of muscular movement. It was a masterpiece.

Van Zandt would be pleased. Soon hundreds of thousands across the world would flock to experience this. Van Zandt considered him an animation genius, but he never forgot that the computer animations were merely a means to an end. The end was having his paintings displayed in the best galleries, the very galleries that had rejected him before.

He lifted his eyes to the seventh painting of Warren Dies. To the moment Warren Keyes ceased to be. Perhaps those galleries had been right. His work before Claire and Warren and all the others had been generic. Familiar. But these-Warren, Claire, Brittany, Bill Melville as the flail sheared his head away-these were genius.

He stood up and stretched. He needed to sleep. He had a long drive ahead of him tomorrow morning. He wanted to be in Van Zandt’s office by nine and out by noon. That would allow him ample time to meet Mr. Gregory Sanders at three. By midnight he’d have Gregory Dies on canvas and a whole new scream.

He took a few stiff steps, rubbing his right thigh. This old house was too drafty. He’d picked it for its remote location and ease of… appropriation, but every gust of winter wind found its way inside. Philadelphia in the winter was hell. Made him long for magnolias and peach blossoms. He clenched his jaw. He’d been exiled from home far too long, but that would soon change. The old man’s hold over him was broken.

He chuckled. So was the old man. Broken. He walked to his bed on the far side of his studio. Sitting on the mattress, he focused on the poster board that he’d mounted on the wall next to his bed, positioned so that he could see it every time he woke. The poster board on which he’d drawn the matrix. Four by four.

Sixteen blocks, nine of them filled with still shots of the victim at that crucial moment of death. Well, one was a photo of a painting. He hadn’t filmed his strangulation of Claire Reynolds, but in the moments after her death, he had created Claire Dies and knew his life had irrevocably changed. In the days thereafter he’d relived the moment he’d ended Claire’s life over and over.

In those days, he’d dreamed of doing it again and again. And in those days he’d formulated the plan which was progressing well. Some might attribute his success to luck, but only fools believed in luck. Luck was for the lazy, the undeserving. He believed in intellect, and in skill. And fate.

He hadn’t always believed in fate, in the inevitable overlap of one person’s destiny with another’s. He believed now. How else could he explain walking into Jager Van Zandt’s favorite bar a year ago, just hours after the man had received a crushing review on his last game? “Less exciting than Pong,” the reviewer had proclaimed and Van Zandt had been just drunk enough to pour out every last detail, from his frustration with Derek Harrington to the fear that the game he was ready to launch, Behind Enemy Lines, would be equally disastrous.

How else could he explain the sudden appearance of Claire Reynolds with her bold but poorly executed attempt at blackmail the very next day? Those had been fate.

Intellect was being able to combine Claire’s unfortunate end and Van Zandt’s unfortunate present into a new destiny that would meet his own needs. But none of it could have happened without skill. He had been uniquely gifted to give Van Zandt exactly what he wanted in exactly the form he needed. Few others could create images, worlds, with both pixels and paint. Few others had the computer expertise to imbue them with life.

But I can. He’d created the virtual world of the evil Inquisitor, a fourteenth-century cleric who saw the elimination of heretics as more of a hostile takeover opportunity and the elimination of witches to be the door to great power. The more wealthy heretics and true witches the Inquisitor found and eliminated, the more powerful he would become, until he becomes the king.

A fanciful tale, but gamers would enjoy the political scheming and lies required to get ahead. Points would be scored by how clever the deceit and how diabolically complex the torture. He’d filled most of the primary roles-the powerful Witch who’d suffered the torture of the chair before revealing the source of her great power, the Good Knight who is vanquished with the flail, the king himself who suffers a most ignominious and… gutless end.

Of course all of these subjects had played supporting roles as well. He’d been careful to plan the tortures to get the most use out of each subject, both audio and video. With a few small changes, these additional tortures would be converted to at least twenty additional minor characters that gamers could add to their collection.

Gregory Sanders would play the role of an honest cleric attempting to stop the evil Inquisitor. Of course the cleric would not prevail and Gregory Sanders would meet a most bitter and painful end, after which he would be buried in the final plot on the third row. The third row would be complete.

The first row was already complete, filled with casualties of Behind Enemy Lines-Claire and Jared and Zachary. And poor Mrs. Crane. Crane was… collateral damage, an unfortunate victim of his real-estate acquisition. Regrettable, but unavoidable.

The fourth row was currently empty, reserved for cleanup when Inquisitor was complete. The fourth row would hold his resources, the only people capable of proving the images in his medieval fantasy world were more than the product of an active imagination. They were the only people who knew the instruments of torture were indeed real, who knew of his intense interest in the weapons and warfare of the Middle Ages. They would pose a distinct threat when Inquisitor hit store shelves, so they would have to be dealt with before that time.

The three vendors of illegal antiquities would give him no pause. They were pompous asses who’d overcharged him too many times. Simply put, he disliked all three. But the historian… She would be another regrettable loss. He had nothing against her, per se. On some level he even… liked her. She was intelligent and skilled. A loner. Just like me.

Still, she’d interacted with him on too many occasions. He could not allow her to live. Like the two old women, he’d make it as painless as possible. Nothing personal. But the historian would die and would be laid to rest in the last block on the fourth row.

He lifted his gaze and stared at the second row of blocks with cold resolve. Two blocks were filled. Two remained. Unlike any of the others, this row, these blocks were very, very personal indeed.

Tuesday, January 16, 1:15

A.M.

Daniel had been staring at the ceiling for hours, putting off what he knew he had to do. It was probably too late, in more ways than one. But she had a right to know, and he had a responsibility to tell her.

She’d be angry. She was entitled. With a sigh Daniel sat up and reached for the phone, dialing the number he’d committed to memory long ago but had never called.

She answered on the first ring. “Hello?” She sounded awake and alert.

“Susannah? It’s… me. Daniel.”

There was a long moment of silence. “What do you want, Daniel?” There was an edge to her voice that made him cringe. But he supposed he deserved it.

“I’m in Philadelphia. Looking for them.”

“In Philadephia? Why would they go there?”

“Susannah, when was the last time you talked to them?”

“I called Mom on Christmas Day, a year ago. I haven’t talked to Dad in five years. Why?”

“Frank called me, told me they might be missing, but it looked like they were only on vacation. Then I found e-mails on Dad’s computer. They say ‘I know what your son did.’”

Once again he was treated to a moment of silence. “So what did his son do?”

Daniel closed his eyes. “I don’t know. The only things I know is that one of them did an Internet search for Philadelphia oncologists and that the last person to actually talk to them was Grandma. I’m here looking for them, and I’m prepared to go to every hotel in this city, but it would help to know what number they called Grandma from.”

“Why don’t you ask someone from GBI to run it for you?” she asked.

Daniel hesitated. “I’d rather not. My boss wanted me to initiate a missing-person case. I told him I would when I had evidence that this was more than a simple vacation.”

“Your boss is right,” she said coldly. “You should do this by the book.”

“I will, once I’m convinced they are missing, and not on vacation. So can you run Grandma’s LUDs?”

“I’ll do my best. Don’t call me again. I’ll call you if and when I find something.”

Daniel winced when the phone clicked in his ear. It had actually gone far better than he’d anticipated.

Tuesday, January 16, 1:15

A.M.

The occupants of the second row were completely personal. The old man and his wife were already buried there. Soon the empty plots would hold the old man’s spawn. How fitting that the family would spend eternity together… in my graveyard. His mouth curved. How fitting that the only one buried in the family plot behind the little Baptist church in Dutton, Georgia… is me.

He hadn’t asked for the confrontation now. Artie and his wife had brought it to him, right to his doorstep. He’d always planned to wage this war, but after he’d made his mark. After his goals were met. When he had true success to shove down the old man’s throat. When he could say, You said I’d never be anything. You were wrong.

It was too late for that. He’d never be able to say, “You were wrong.” Artie started it, but now that he was engaged in battle, he’d finish it, once and for all. The old man had paid dearly for his crimes. His offspring would soon follow.

Artie’s daughter would play the final major role in his game-she would become the Queen, the only character standing between the Inquisitor and the throne. She would be, of course, destroyed. Painfully.

Artie’s son would play a mere peasant poaching the king’s land. A minor role in the game. He stood abruptly. But his death will close a significant chapter in my life. He crossed the floor of his studio with a purposeful stride, no longer tired. Opening a cabinet, he carefully drew out the tool that would deliver his vengeance. He’d saved it for years, just waiting for this time. Setting it on his desk, he pried open the jagged steel jaws and set the trap. Hands steady, he lowered a pencil between the jaws and tapped the release. The jaws snapped shut and the shattered pencil flew from his hand.

He gave a hard nod of approval. Artie’s son would know pain-intense, excruciating, unimaginable pain. Artie’s son would scream for help, for release, and finally for death. But no one would hear him. No one would save him. I killed them all.

Tuesday, January 16, 6:00

A.M.

Vito stumbled into the kitchen, lured by the smells of coffee and sizzling bacon. Then smiled at the sight of his sister Tess sitting at the kitchen table, feeding baby Gus in his high chair. Or trying to.

Gus pushed his bowl of oatmeal away. “Want cake,” Gus said, very distinctly.

“Don’t we all?” Tess asked the baby wryly. “But we don’t always get what we want, and I know your mama does not give you cake for breakfast.”

Gus tilted his head, measuring her slyly. “Tino cake.”

Vito’s lips twitched. Cake had been Tino’s answer to every child-care calamity since the boys had arrived. “I guess we’re busted.”

She wheeled around, eyes wide. But the startled look quickly gave way to her gorgeous smile as she quickly crossed the small kitchen into his open arms. “Vito.”

“Hey, kid.” Something was wrong. Her smile had been genuine, but her body was tense as she hugged him. “What’s wrong? Is it Molly?”

“No, she’s better this morning. You worry too much, Vito. Sit. I’ll get your plate.”

Still wary, he sat. “I found the snack you left in the fridge last night. Thanks.”

She threw a look over her shoulder as she heaped eggs and bacon on his plate. “That was an entire ravioli, not a snack. But you’re welcome.” She put the plate on the table before him and took the other chair. “What time did you get home last night?”

“Almost one.” On the way home he’d stopped at the bar where Warren Keyes had waited tables. Interviews with Warren’s boss and coworkers had turned up nothing new. No one had noticed anything or anyone out of the ordinary. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t. The boys wore me out last night.” She tickled Gus’s feet through his socks. “This one moves fast on these chubby little legs and you’ve got too many things lying around that he can break. Once I got Gus and the others asleep, I crashed.”

Vito frowned. “Dante was awake when I got home, crying out on the back porch.”

Tess’s eyes widened. “The back porch? It’s freezing cold out there.”

Vito’s back porch was enclosed with glass, but it wasn’t heated and it had been freezing cold. “I know. He was wrapped up in his sleeping bag, but still. I was scared shitless when I came in and saw he wasn’t asleep on the living room floor. I think I scared him shitless when I found him out there. He said he just wanted to be alone.”

“He was upset about Molly,” Tess said. “That’s understandable.”

Vito had his doubts, but hadn’t pressed the boy. “Maybe. I made him come back in, but keep an eye on him.” He regarded Tess over his cup. “So what’s wrong?”

Her chuckle was wry. “You’re nosy, you know that?”

Sophie came to mind and he felt a sharp stab in his heart. “So I’ve been told.”

Tess lifted her brows. “I’ll tell if you tell.”

“I should know better than to probe a shrink. Okay, but you first.”

She shrugged. “Being around the kids is hard. Aidan and I have been trying to…” She looked down. “Both of us are one of five kids, and we can’t even have one.”

“Maybe you just need to give it some time.”

She looked up and his heart wanted to break at the sadness in her eyes. “It’s been eighteen months. We’re starting to talk doctors and treatment and adoption.”

He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Her lips curved, still sadly. “Me, too. So now it’s your turn. What’s her name?”

He huffed a laugh. “Sophie. And she’s very pretty, very smart and I like her, but she doesn’t want to like me. She pretty much asked me to leave her alone and I will.”

“Advisable from the standpoint of not becoming a stalker, but utterly uncharacteristic for you. I don’t think I’ve ever known you to not pursue a female that caught your eye.”

That had been true until Andrea. She’d said no at first, but he’d been infatuated. He’d pursued and she’d eventually changed her mind. It ended up being the worst thing that could have happened to either of them. “Maybe I’ve just grown up.”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded, clearly unconvinced. “Right.”

He stood up. “Well, right or wrong I have to get out of here. I have to stop at the bakery and the morgue before work.”

Tess made a face. “Bakery and morgue are two words that should not be used together, Vito. Will you be home for dinner?”

“I don’t know.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll call you either way.”

“I’ve got to get the boys off to school.” She looked around the kitchen. “Then I think Gus and I will go shopping for curtains. Your windows look sad.”

It was Tess that looked sad, but there wasn’t anything Vito could do to fix it any more than he could fix the look of sadness he’d seen on Sophie’s face the night before.

Tuesday, January 16, 8:01

A.M.

“Mmmm.” Jen McFain sank her teeth into a sugary cruller. “Have one.” She pushed the box toward Beverly Jenkins, one of the detectives Liz had assigned to Vito’s case.

Beverly cast a baleful eye at the box. “How do you stay so skinny, McFain?”

“Metabolism.” Jen grinned. “But if it’s any consolation, my mom says my metabolism will come to a screeching halt when I’m forty and every bite I take will land on my ass.”

Beverly’s lips twitched. “Then there is a God.”

Liz came in with Katherine and Tim Riker, Beverly’s partner. “Where are we, Vito?” Liz asked when they’d taken their seats and passed the donut box down the table.

“Liz gave you most of the details yesterday,” Vito said to Riker and Jenkins. “We have one firm ID yesterday and two more tentative IDs last night,” Vito said. He walked to the whiteboard where he’d recreated Katherine’s sketch of the four by four matrix. In each rectangle he’d written in a short description of each victim and their cause and approximate time of death.

“We’ve ID’d Warren Keyes, and our tentative IDs are on these females.” He pointed to plots three-two and one-one. “The one with the folded hands could be Brittany Bellamy.” He taped her picture on the side of the board. “Brittany was a model. Her picture and a list of her clients is in the packet of info I made for each of you. We don’t know where she lives. Her name isn’t in our missing persons files or in the DMV files. She might not be local.”

“What about the other female?” Liz asked.

“Her name is Claire Reynolds,” Katherine said. “She’s got a metal plate in her head and she’s an amputee, right leg, above the knee. I came in at six and contacted the manufacturer of the metal plate. They were able to match the serial number on the plate to Claire Reynolds. The plate was put into Claire’s head after a car accident. Claire was living in Georgia at the time and the surgery was done in Atlanta. I assume her leg was damaged in the same accident. I’ll know when I get her medical history.”

Vito took up the tale. “Claire moved to Philly about four years ago. Her last known employment was with one of the branches of the library. Her parents reported her missing about fourteen months ago. Their description matches the body we found.”

“And the timing is consistent with the level of decomposition,” Katherine added. “I haven’t started her autopsy yet, but I did x-ray her while I was waiting for the guy to check his records for her name. Her neck was broken. No other obvious injuries.”

Vito taped her picture to the whiteboard next to the rectangle marking her grave. “I got this photo from the DMV records. Her parents need to be notified.”

Beverly was taking notes. “We can take that. We’ll also see if we can get a hair sample or anything we can use for a positive DNA ID.”

“You found the woman with the folded hands in the same modeling site that Warren Keyes used,” Tim said. “Was Claire a model too, and is there any possibility we could find any of these others there?”

“I didn’t check to see if Claire was a model. She doesn’t really have the look, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t. It’s worth a check.”

“I doubt the three elderly people were models,” Liz said. “It’s more likely you’ll find the three younger men there, the head-wound, gunshot, and shrapnel vics.”

Vito frowned. “Tino said there wasn’t enough of the other young men left for a sketch, and the forensic anthropologist is at a conference until next week.”

Beverly lifted her brows. “Tino?”

“My brother, aka free consultant sketch artist. He did this sketch of the girl with the folded hands. We used it to locate Brittany Bellamy on the modeling site.” Vito pulled Tino’s sketch from his folder and slid it to the middle of the table. “He thinks he can do sketches of the older couple, but none of the others.”

“He’s good,” Tim said, comparing the sketch to Brittany’s picture. “But if he can’t get us sketches, we can try to match their physical characteristics to missing persons.”

“It’s worth a try,” Vito agreed. “But first we need to confirm our victim really is Brittany Bellamy. After you notify Claire Reynolds’s parents, can you two also call Brittany’s clients and see if you can track down an address?”

Jen raised a brow. “And you’ll be doing…?”

“I’ll be tracking down the equipment he used on the most recent torture-murders. I want to establish a money trail. Sophie Johannsen gave me a list of people who either sell reproductions or may know of the sale of authentic artifacts. I’m looking for a chair, a rack, a sword, and mail.” He looked at Katherine. “Nick thinks the circular bruises you saw were from chain mail.”

“He could be right. Someone would have had to hit him with a lot of force to cause that kind of bruising,” she said thoughtfully. “Like maybe with a hammer.”

“But that doesn’t explain the other injuries,” Liz said. She pulled the photos of victim three-one closer. “Whatever hit his head and arm was heavy and sharp. Jagged, even.”

“The blow to his head came from a horizontal angle,” Katherine added. “It was enough to rip the top of his head off. The blow to his arm was delivered vertically.”

“Warren had held a sword at some point,” Jen suggested. “Maybe he used that.”

Katherine shook her head. “We’re looking for something blunt, but also sharp.”

“And medieval.” Jen grimaced. “What about that spiked ball on a chain? If it got whipped around hard enough, it could deliver a blow with that kind of force.”

“A flail,” Tim said and winced. “God.”

“I’ll add a flail to my list,” Vito said. “Okay. We know Warren got a hit on his résumé the day before he disappeared. The modeling site allows prospective employers to contact the models via e-mail. We don’t know who e-mailed him because they sent a virus to wipe his hard drive.”

“Maybe we can get something from Brittany’s computer,” Liz said. “Get it to IT for testing. Also get into her account and see if she got any hits in the last month.”

Beverly nodded. “Will do. You know, Vito, there’s one thing that bothers me.”

“Only one?” Vito asked and she shot him a dry smile.

“The fingertips on the old man. Your report says you think it was the only crime of real passion out of all of these, and that makes sense. But why take his fingertips? Seems like the killer must have known the man could be identified by his prints, but it would have been a threat only if the body were found. He obviously didn’t think any of his other victims would be found. He made no effort to disguise any of them.”

“It was part of the assault,” Katherine said. “The fingerpads were cut off while the old man was still alive. Whoever this guy is, the killer really hated him.”

“Let’s let Tino sketch their faces,” Vito suggested, “then we’ll see if anything pops. What about the old lady buried in the first row?”

“Haven’t even peeked at her yet. I’ll do the autopsy today.” Katherine looked at Jen. “Did you get anything on the bullet I took from one-three?”

“Yes. The bullet’s from a German Luger,” Jen said with a satisfied nod. “The ballistics guy thinks it’s vintage 1940s. He’s going to do some checking today.”

Liz shrugged. “It’s a common enough gun, even the vintage ones. It most likely won’t be traceable.”

But Tim was nodding. “Yeah, but it’s significant considering he’s buried next to a guy with shrapnel in his gut. It’s going to be interesting to get a read on the grenade that was used on him. And if the gun is vintage, it’s just more data to show that this guy goes for authenticity wherever possible.” Tim looked over at Vito. “You got two historical themes going on, both warfare related.”

“You’re right. We just need to figure out why. Jen, what do we know about the field?”

“Nothing yet. We start sifting dirt today. I sent samples of the fill dirt from each grave along with a sample of the dirt from the field off to the lab. They should have an analysis in a few days. We can at least see if the fill dirt came from the field.”

“I’d like to know why that field,” Liz mused. “What led him to that field?”

“Good point.” Vito jotted it down. “We’ll check out Har-lan P. Winchester’s aunt. She’s deceased, but she owned the land when the first grave was dug. What else?”

“I’m expecting a lab report on the silicon lubricant this afternoon,” Katherine said.

“Good.” Vito rose. “We’re done for now. We all have our list of to-do items. Let’s meet back here to debrief at five o’clock. Stay in touch and stay safe.”