Die for Me

Chapter Eleven

Philadephia, Tuesday, January 16, 11:30

A.M.

This still isn’t right,” Vito muttered as he ran his finger over the chain mail Andy had spread out on his counter. It was way too big. Andy’s Attic was an all-purpose costume store. Vito imagined their killer would sneer at such poor re-creations.

“I’ve shown you all the mail I have,” Andy said stiffly. “What are you looking for?”

“Something smaller. About a quarter inch in diameter.”

“You should have said so when you first came in,” Andy grumbled. “I don’t keep that quality here in the store, but I can order it for you.” He thumbed through a catalog. “What you’re talking about is much better quality, but pricier.” He found a picture of a man wearing a mail hood and shirt. “This hauberk-and-coif set runs eighteen hundred.”

Vito blinked. “Dollars?”

Andy looked offended. “Well, yeah. It’s SCA approved. You know, Society for Creative Anachronism. You don’t know anything about this stuff, do you? Is this a gift?”

Vito coughed. “Yeah. So this set is eighteen hundred. How much for just the shirt?”

“The hauberk is twelve-fifty.”

“Do you ever sell these out of your store?”

“Not usually. Usually I sell ’em off my website.”

“Have you sold any recently? Like before Christmas?”

“Yeah. I sold nine hauberks before Christmas. But I sold twenty-five last summer, about a month before the Medieval Festival. Serious jousters like to get the feel of the mail before the event.” Andy closed the catalog and handed it to Vito. “Detective.”

Vito winced. Busted. “I’m sorry.”

Andy’s smile was rueful. “I won’t say anything. I kind of figured it when you first walked in. My uncle was PPD, thirty years. What else are you looking for, Detective…?”

“Ciccotelli. A sword, about this long, with a hilt this big.” Vito gestured. “And a flail.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. Well, let’s see what we can find out.”

Tuesday, January 16, 11:45

A.M.

Van Zandt locked the CDs in his desk drawer. “This is good work, Frasier.”

He stood up. “Since you’re set for Pinnacle, I’ll be leaving. I’ve still got lots to do.”

Van Zandt shook his head. “I have a few more things to discuss. Please sit.”

With a frown, he complied. “Like what?”

“You must learn patience, Frasier. You’re still young. You have lots of time.”

Why did old people always equate youth with the need for patience? Just because he had lots of time didn’t mean he wanted to wait lots of time. “Like what?” he repeated, this time through his teeth. He had Gregory Sanders to meet at three o’clock.

Van Zandt sighed. “Like the queen. Have you designed her face?”

He thought of the old man’s daughter. “Yes.”

“And? What will she look like?”

Her face flashed in his mind. “Pretty. Petite. Brunette. Similar to Bri-Brianna.” Shit. He’d very nearly said Brittany. Focus.

“No, I don’t think that type of character has a dramatic enough beauty. Your queen should be stately. Bigger. Your Brianna looks little more than one and a half meters.”

Brittany Bellamy had been five-two. He’d chosen her because of her small stature. His chair was on the small side and he wanted it to look larger with respect to the woman sitting in it. “You want a different queen?”

“Yes.” Van Zandt had lifted his brows, as if expecting dissent.

He considered it. Van Zandt had an eye for what worked. What sold. He could be right. This was going to be messy. He’d be filling the third row in the field with Gregory Sanders, and the fourth with his resources, and the old man’s spawn still had to die. If he used any more models for this game, he’d need to start another row. Well, the field was big. “I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll do it,” Van Zandt corrected mildly, and although challenge burned his tongue he didn’t oppose him. For now, he still needed him. “Next, the flail scene.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What about it? It’s done.”

“No, it’s not. The scene you have in there is so sedate. He just… falls. It’s anticlimactic. Why not make the basic scene the head-coming-apart scene, then for the hidden scene make it even more exciting? Maybe his head could completely explode, or he could be decapitated entirely. It’s-”

“No. That’s not how it happens. The skull doesn’t explode and the entire head doesn’t come off.” He’d been very disappointed to discover this truth.

Van Zandt’s eyes had narrowed. “How do you know?”

Be careful. “I’ve researched it. Talked to doctors. That’s what they say.”

Van Zandt shrugged. “So what? What does it matter what really happens? It’s all fantasy anyway. Make the base injury more exciting.”

He counted to ten inside his head. Remember, this is a means to an end. It is not forever. Soon you can walk away and not have to think about Van Zandt or oRo Entertainment ever again. “Okay. I’ll spice it up.” He stood up but VZ stopped him.

“Wait. One more thing. I’m thinking about your dungeon. Something’s missing.”

“What?”

“An iron maiden.”

Oh, for God’s sake. How amateurishly trite. His opinion of Van Zandt was rapidly deescalating. “No.”

“For God’s sake, Frasier, why not?” Van Zandt asked, exasperated.

“Because that is not period. Maidens didn’t even appear until the fifteen hundreds. I’m not putting an iron maiden in my dungeon.”

“Every one of our gamers will expect to see a maiden in his dungeon.”

“Do you know how long it’ll take to-” He drew a breath. He’d nearly said ‘build.’ There were no iron maidens to be had. If he wanted one, he’d have to build it himself and there was no way he’d do that. “Jager, I’ll find a new queen. I’ll spice up the flail scene, but I won’t put a fraudulent piece in my dungeon.”

His eyes darkening, Van Zandt leaned to one side and picked a sheet of letterhead out of his inbox. “I see my name on this letterhead as president. I do not see your name, Frasier. Anywhere.” He tossed the sheet back in the inbox. “So just do it.”

Gritting his teeth, he snatched his laptop case from the floor. “Fine.”

Tuesday, January 16, 11:55

A.M.

“Excuse me!”

Derek paused on the steps that led from the street to oRo’s office building, a bag lunch from the deli in his hand. A man was getting out of a taxi with a small suitcase. Although he was well dressed, it looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Yes?”

“Are you Derek Harrington?”

“Yes. Why?”

The man started for the steps, weary desperation on his face. “I just need to talk to you. Please. It’s about my son and your game.”

“If you’re upset your son’s playing Behind Enemy Lines, that’s out of my hands.”

“No, you don’t understand. My son isn’t playing your game. I think my son is in your game.” He pulled a wallet-sized photo from his pocket. “My name is Lloyd Webber. I’m from Richmond, Virginia. My son Zachary ran away a little more than a year ago. His note said he was going to New York. We never heard from him again.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Webber, but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”

“Your game has a scene where a young German soldier gets shot in the head. That boy looks exactly like my Zachary. I thought he’d modeled for your artists, so I looked up your company. Please. If you have a record of the models you’ve used, please see if he was one of them. Maybe he’s right here, in New York.”

“We don’t employ models, Mr. Webber. I’m sorry.” Derek started to move away, but Webber sidestepped him, blocking his path.

“Just look at his picture. Please. I tried to call you but you wouldn’t accept my calls. So I got up this morning and bought a plane ticket. Please.” He held out the photo and with a sigh for the man’s pain, Derek took it.

And felt every breath of air seep from his lungs. It was the same boy. The exact same face. “He’s… he’s a handsome boy, Mr. Webber.” He looked up to find Webber’s eyes filled with tears.

“Are you sure you haven’t had him in your studio?” he whispered.

Derek felt light-headed. He’d known from the minute he’d laid eyes on Frasier Lewis’s work that it possessed an element of realism that crossed the lines of decency, but the thoughts that were running through his mind right now… “Can I take your son’s photo, Mr. Webber? I can show it around to the staff. We don’t employ models, but maybe one of them saw him somewhere. In a restaurant or maybe on a bus. We get our ideas for characters from so many places.”

“Please. Keep the picture-it’s a copy and I can get you more. Show it to anyone you think can help.” He extended a business card in a trembling hand and, his own hand shaking, Derek took it. “My cell phone number is on there. Please call me at any time, day or night. I’ll stay in town for a few days, just until you know one way or the other.”

Derek stared down at the photo and the business card. Frasier Lewis was still here, inside, talking to Jager. He could ask him point-blank. But he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer. Be a man, Derek. Take a goddamn stand for something.

He looked up and nodded. “I’ll call you one way or the other. I promise.”

Gratitude and hope shone in Webber’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Tuesday, January 16, 12:05

P.M.

His simmering fury came to a full boil when he saw Derek Harrington waiting for him by the building exit. His fist clenched around the handle of his laptop case. He’d much rather his fist be engaged in more satisfying pursuits, such as breaking Harrington’s face. But there was a time and place. Not here, not yet. Without a word of greeting or acknowledgment of any kind, he walked past Harrington and out the door.

“Lewis, wait.” Harrington followed him out. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m late,” he gritted out and started down the steps to the street. “Later.”

“No, now.” Harrington grabbed his shoulder and he teetered dangerously, nearly losing his balance and falling down the steps. He caught himself, leaning against the iron handrail. Fury erupted and he shoved Harrington’s hand out of the way.

“Get your hands off me,” he said, his roar barely contained.

Derek took a step back so that he was two steps higher. They now stood eye to eye. There was something new in Harrington’s eyes, something defiant.

“Or what?” Derek asked quietly. “What would you do to me, Frasier?”

Not here. Not yet. But the time would come. “I’m late. I have to go.”

He turned to go, but Derek followed, passing him on the steps so that he waited at the bottom. “What would you do to me?” he repeated, with more force. “Hit me?” He climbed one step and looked up out of the corner of his eye. “Kill me?” he murmured.

“You’re crazy.” He started down the stairs again, but Harrington grabbed his arm. This time he was prepared and stood steady, his good leg taking his weight.

“Would you kill me, Frasier?” Harrington asked in that same low voice. “Like you killed Zachary Webber?” He took a photo from his coat pocket. “The resemblance to your German soldier is amazing, wouldn’t you agree?”

He looked at the photo and kept his expression impassive, even as his heart began to beat more rapidly. For staring back from the photo was Zachary Webber’s face as it had been the day he’d picked him up off I-95 outside of Philly, hitchhiking. Zachary had been on his way to New York, to be an actor. His father had told him he was too young, that he should finish high school. Zachary had scorned his father. I’ll show him, he’d said. When I’m famous, he’ll eat every damn word.

The words had echoed in his mind that day. They had been his own, at Zachary’s age. Meeting Zachary was fate, just like Warren Keyes’s tattoo.

“I don’t see it,” he said carelessly. He got to the street and turned to look Derek in the eye once again, as the older man still stood on the steps. “You should be careful before making accusations of that nature, Harrington. It could come back to haunt you.”

Tuesday, January 16, 1:15

P.M.

Ted Albright was frowning. “You were flat today, Joan.”

Sophie glared at Ted Albright as she pulled the armored boots from her feet. “I told you to get Theo to do the knight tour. My back is killing me.” So was her head. And her pride. “I’m going to get some lunch.”

Ted grasped her arm as she walked away, his grip surprisingly gentle. “Wait.”

Slowly she turned, prepared for another argument. “What?” she snapped, but stopped when she saw the look on his face. Marta was right, Ted Albright was a very handsome man, but right now his broad shoulders were slumped and his face was haggard. “What?” she said, much more softly than she had the first time.

“Sophie, I know what you think of me.” One corner of his mouth lifted when she said nothing. “And believe it or not, I respect that you’re not denying it right now. You never actually met my grandfather. He died before you were born.”

“I read all about his archeological career.”

“But none of the books tell what he was really like. He wasn’t a dry historian.” His voice dropped low on the word. Then he smiled. “My grandfather was… fun. He died when I was a kid, but I still remember that he loved cartoons. Bugs Bunny was his favorite. He gave me pony rides on his back and he was a huge Stooges fan. He loved to laugh. He also loved the theater and so do I.” He sighed. “I’m trying to make this a place children can come and… experience, Sophie. I’m trying to make this a place my grandfather would have loved to visit.”

Sophie stood there a moment, uncertain of what to say. “Ted, I think I have a better idea of what you’re trying to do, but… hell. I am a dry historian. Asking me to dress up. It’s humiliating.”

He shook his head. “You’re not dry, Sophie. You don’t see the faces of the kids when you start to talk. They love to listen to you.” He let out a breath. “I have tours scheduled every day for weeks. We need that income. Desperately,” he added quietly. “I have everything I own invested in this building. If this museum fails, I have to sell the collection. I don’t want to do that. It’s all I have left of him. It’s his legacy.”

Sophie closed her eyes. “Let me think about it,” she murmured. “I’m going to lunch.”

“Don’t forget you’re leading the Viking tour at three,” Ted called after her.

“I won’t,” she muttered, torn between guilt and what she still considered justified ire.

“Yo, Soph. Over here.”

The greeting came from Patty Ann who stood at the lobby desk smacking gum, loudly.

Sophie crossed the lobby with a sigh. Patty Ann was trying to be from Brooklyn today, but she sounded more like Stallone’s Rocky. Sophie leaned against the desk and said, “Don’t tell me. You’re going out for Guys and Dolls.”

“I got the part locked, and you got a package.” Patty Ann nudged it to the edge of the counter. “That’s two packages in one day. You’re getting mighty popular.”

Sophie went instantly on edge. “Did you see who left the package?”

Patty Ann’s smile was coy. “Sure I did. It was a dame.”

Sophie bit back the urge to strangle the girl. “Did this dame have a name?”

“Sure she did.” Patty Ann blew a bubble. “A really long one. Ciccotelli-Reagan.”

Relieved and stunned at once, Sophie blinked. “No kidding?”

“Cross my heart.” Patty Ann’s smile went sly. “I asked if she was any relation to a big hunky cop and she said he was her brother. Then she asked if I was Sophie.”

Sophie cringed. “Please tell me you said no.”

“Of course I said no,” Patty Ann huffed, indignant. “I want to play interestin’ roles. No offense, Sophie, but you ain’t that interestin’.”

“Ah… thank you, Patty Ann. You’ve made my day.”

The girl tilted her head thoughtfully. “Funny. That’s what she said, too. The dame.”

Sophie liked Vito’s sister already. “Thanks, Patty Ann.” When she got to her dark little office, she closed the door and chuckled. Patty Ann wasn’t a bad kid. Too bad she didn’t fit the armor. She’d make a great Joan. Still smiling, she sat at her desk and opened the package. Then stared. What the hell? It was a pen. No, it wasn’t.

The smile on her face faded as she realized exactly what she was looking at. She took the silver cylinder out of the box and hit a tiny button on its side with her thumb. The top sprang up, a blue light strobed, and a tinny little siren screeched.

It was a toy reproduction of the Men in Black memory zapper, and her eyes stung as she realized exactly what it meant. Vito Ciccotelli had once again offered her a do-over.

A note was tucked in the box. The handwriting was feminine, but the words were not. Brewster’s an ass. Forget him and go on. V. Sophie had to smile at the PS. Don’t forget to take off your purple sunglasses before you zap yourself or it won’t work. A squiggly arrow pointed to the other side of the paper so she turned it over. I still owe you a pizza. The place two blocks from your building at Whitman College makes a good one. If you still want to collect, I’ll be there after your class tonight.

Sophie put the note and the toy back in the box, then sat, thinking hard. She’d collect on the pizza. But she owed Vito Ciccotelli a great deal more. She checked her watch. Between the Viking tour and the evening seminar she taught she didn’t have a lot of time, but she’d do what she could.

Vito hadn’t gotten anything out of Alan Brewster. Sophie had known he wouldn’t. Giving his name was more to soothe her own conscience than for any real benefit Alan would be to Vito’s investigation. But Etienne Moraux had given her a good lead. Missing artifacts were floating around the world somewhere. They were probably still in Europe. But what if they weren’t? What if they were right here?

Etienne hadn’t known the man who died or any of the other main players in the European world of arts patronage. He wasn’t the type to notice wealth and influence any more than she was. But she knew people who did.

Sophie thought about her biological father. Alex had been well connected on a number of social and political levels, although she’d always been nervous about using his position and influence. Some of her reticence stemmed from her stepmother’s obvious dislike of her husband’s bastard American child. But most of her hesitation was wrapped up in the whole bizarre tangle of Anna and Alex and the rest of her family tree, and so she only called on the family when it was vital.

But this was vital. This was justice. So she’d use her father’s influence once again. She’d like to think he would have approved. Alex’s friends might know the man who’d died, whose collection was now AWOL. They might know the man’s family, his connections. If there was one thing she’d learned the hard way over her life-never underestimate gossip. Good or bad.

She opened her phone book to the page where Alex Arnaud had written his friends’ numbers so that Sophie would not “be alone” in Europe when he was gone. By that point in his illness, his handwriting had become spidery and weak, but she could still make out the names and numbers. She’d known all of these people since she was a child, and all had offered their assistance countless times. Today she’d accept.

Tuesday, January 16, 1:30

P.M.

His heart was still pounding as he drove south toward Philly, along the same stretch of I-95 where he’d met Zachary Webber the year before. He was rattled and that made him angry. This day had not gone the way he’d planned.

First Van Zandt’s unreasonable demands. Iron maidens, new queens, and exploding heads. He’d thought Van Zandt understood the value of authenticity. In the end, the man was just like everyone else.

Then Harrington. Where the hell had he gotten that picture? Ultimately it didn’t matter. No one could prove he’d ever met Zachary Webber, much less held a 1943 German Luger to the boy’s head and pulled the trigger. Harrington had taken a lucky guess, but he was shooting blanks.

Nevertheless, the whiny bastard was probably in VZ’s office this very moment, trying to convince him… To do what? Fire me? Report me to the cops? Van Zandt would never do either. He had a Pinnacle invitation and he couldn’t show up empty-handed. He needs me. Unfortunately, he also needed Van Zandt. For now.

Harrington, on the other hand, needed to be dealt with, and soon. He’d whine to Van Zandt but would eventually take his story elsewhere, to someone who actually might listen. Van Zandt had said that Harrington had outlived his usefulness.

He chuckled. Van Zandt had no idea how prophetic his words would become. He’d deal with Harrington, but for now he had an appointment to keep.

Tuesday, January 16, 1:30

P.M.

An hour and a half had passed before Derek had been summoned to Jager’s office and he’d used that time to plan how he would confront his partner with his suspicions about Frasier Lewis without sounding like a lunatic. When he’d finished, Jager’s forehead bunched in a frown. But in his eyes Derek saw bored indifference.

“What you are suggesting, Derek, is very serious indeed.”

“Of course it’s serious, Jager. You can’t sit there and tell me you don’t see any resemblance between that missing boy and the character in Lewis’s animation.”

“I don’t deny a resemblance. But that’s a far cry from accusing an employee of cold-blooded murder.”

“Lewis didn’t even acknowledge the resemblance. He’s a cold bastard.”

“What did you expect him to say? You’d just accused him of murder. Perhaps you expected him to say, ‘You are correct. I kidnapped Zachary Webber, held a gun to his head, blew out his brains, then made him a character in a video game.’” He tilted his head, bemused. “Does that sound sane to you?”

It didn’t, not when explicitly spelled out like that. But there was something wrong. Derek could feel it in his gut. “Then how do you account for this?” He tapped the photo. “This kid is missing, then just happens to show up in Behind Enemy Lines.”

“He saw him somewhere. Hell, Derek, where did you get your inspiration?”

Did. Past tense. Something desperate rose in Derek’s chest. “You don’t even know anything about Lewis. What were his production credits before you hired him at oRo?”

“I know what I need to know.” Jager tossed a paper across his desk.

Derek stared at the picture of a confident Jager with the headline: oRo SCORES A COUP-Up and comer earns a seat at Pinnacle.

“So you’ve arrived,” Derek said dully.

“Yes, I have.”

The personal pronoun had been carefully enunciated. “You want me to quit.”

Jager lifted his brows, maddeningly calm. “I never said that.”

Suddenly the desperation eased and Derek knew what he needed to do. Slowly he stood. “Well, I just did.” He stopped at the door and looked back at the man who he’d once called his closest friend. “Did I ever really know you?”

Jager was calm. “Security will walk you to your desk. You can pack your things.”

“I should say good luck, but I wouldn’t mean it. I hope you get what you deserve.”

Jager’s eyes went cold. “Now that you’re no longer with the company, any move to discredit any of my employees will be considered slander and prosecuted with zeal.”

“In other words, stay away from Frasier Lewis,” Derek said bitterly.

Jager’s smile was a terrible thing to see. “You do know me after all.”

New Jersey, Tuesday, January 16, 2:30

P.M.

Vito drove through the quiet little neighborhood in Jersey, following Tim Riker’s directions. He’d left Andy from Andy’s Attic sorting through receipts of sales of swords and flails to join Tim and Beverly who were waiting for him on the sidewalk.

“Brittany Bellamy’s house?” he asked when he got out and Beverly nodded.

“Her parents live here. The only address Brittany listed with all her jobs was a PO box in Philly. If she doesn’t live here, hopefully her parents can tell us where.”

“Have you talked to her parents?”

“No,” Tim said. “We were waiting for you. One of the photographers on her résumé said he’d hired Brittany to do an ad for a local jewelry store last spring.”

“The ad was for rings.” Beverly’s eyes grew dark. “Only her hands were in the shot.”

“Nick and I think the killer chose Warren for his tattoo. That Brittany was a hand model could have drawn him, since he posed her hands. Was she reported missing?”

“No,” Tim said with a frown. “So this might not be our vic.”

“Then let’s go find out.” Vito led the way to the door and knocked. A minute later a girl opened the front door. She was perhaps fourteen and about the same size as their victim, her hair the same dark brown. In her hand was a box of tissues.

“Yes?” she asked, her nose stuffy, her voice muffled through the storm door glass.

Vito showed her his shield. “I’m Detective Ciccotelli. Are your parents home?”

“No.” She sniffled. “They’re both at work.” Her heavy eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“We’re looking for Brittany Bellamy.”

The girl’s chin came up and she sniffled again. “My sister. What’s she done?”

“Nothing. We’d just like to talk to her. Can you tell us where she lives?”

“Not here. Not anymore.”

Beverly stepped forward. “Can you tell us where she does live then?”

“I don’t know. Look, you should talk to my parents. They’ll be home after six.”

“Then can you give us your parents’ phone number at work?” Beverly pressed.

The sleepy look in her eyes was replaced by fear. “What’s happened to Brittany?”

“We’re not sure,” Vito said. “We really need to talk to your parents.”

“Wait here.” She closed the door and Vito could hear the deadbolt clicking. Two minutes later the door opened again and the girl reappeared with a cordless phone. She handed the phone to Vito. “My mom is on the phone.”

“Is this Mrs. Bellamy?”

“Yes.” The woman’s voice was both frantic and angry. “What’s this about the police? What’s Brittany done?”

“This is Detective Ciccotelli, Philly PD. When was the last time you saw Brittany?”

There was a moment of tense silence. “Oh my God. Is she dead?”

“When was the last time you saw her, Mrs. Bellamy?”

“Oh, God. She is dead.” The woman’s voice was becoming hysterical. “Oh God.”

“Mrs. Bellamy, please. When-?” But the woman was weeping too loudly to hear him. The young girl’s eyes filled with tears and she took the phone from Vito’s hand.

“Ma, come home. I’ll call Pop.” She disconnected and held the phone against her chest with both fists, much like Warren Keyes had held the sword. “It was after Thanksgiving. She and my dad had a big fight because she dropped out of dental school to be an actress.” She blinked, sending the tears down her face. “She left home, said she’d make it on her own. That’s the last time I saw her. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Vito sighed. “Do you have a computer?”

She frowned. “Yeah, it’s brand-new.”

“How new, honey?” Vito asked.

“A month or so.” She faltered. “Right after Brittany left the old one crashed. My dad was so mad. He didn’t have a backup.”

“We’re going to need to get your parents’ permission to search her room.”

She looked away, lips quivering. “I’ll call my pop.”

Vito turned to Beverly and Tim. “I’ll stay here,” he murmured. “Go back to the precinct and start searching for the third victim in that row on UCanModel dotcom.”

“Flail guy,” Tim said grimly. “But we can’t count on his name being in the missing person reports. Even if Brittany had been reported missing, she might not have ended up in the Philly reports, being way down here in Jersey.”

“The database allows you to search by physical attribute. If you can’t figure it out, call Brent Yelton in IT. Tell him I sent you. Also, see if he can get a listing of everyone who got hits the same days Warren and Brittany’s résumés were viewed. I’m betting this guy didn’t just get lucky with the first model he contacted. Maybe we can find somebody who talked to him that’s still alive and still has their computer intact.”

Bev and Tim nodded. “Will do.”

The girl had come back to the storm door. “My pop’s on his way.”

A Catholic shrine rested against the house. “Do you have a priest?” Vito asked.

She nodded, dully. “I’ll call him, too.”

Tuesday, January 16, 3:20

P.M.

Munch was late. Gregory Sanders glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, feeling way too visible sitting in the bar where Munch had promised to meet him. He knew only to look for an older man who’d be walking with a cane.

The waitress stopped at his table. “You can’t stay here if you don’t order nothin’.”

“I’m waiting for someone. But bring me a G &T.”

She tilted her head, studying him closer. “I’ve seen you before. I know I have.” She snapped her fingers. “Sanders Sewer Service.” She grinned. “I loved that ad.”

He held a polite smile firmly in place as she walked away. He’d done sophisticated ads for national campaigns, but everybody who’d grown up in Philly remembered him in that stupid commercial that his father had forced his six sons to do. He would never be taken seriously by anyone who knew about that commercial. And he needed to be taken seriously. He needed Ed Munch to hire him for this job.

Greg fingered the switchblade he’d slid up his sleeve. What he really needed was to catch the old man unaware so he could rob him blind. But he couldn’t sit out here in the open for much longer. Those guys wanted their money, and they wanted it now.

His cell buzzed in his pocket and he quickly looked around, wondering if he’d been discovered. But his cell was a throwaway and only Jill had his number. “Yeah?” Jill was crying and he sat up straighter. “What?”

“Damn you,” she sobbed into the phone. “They were here, in my place. They trashed everything, looking for you. They put their hands on me.”

She was hysterical, screeching so high it hurt his ears. “What did they do?” he asked, dread clutching at his gut. “Dammit, Jill, what did those sonsofbitches do?”

“They hit me. Broke two of my teeth.” She quieted suddenly. “And they said tomorrow they’d do worse, so now I have to find a place to hide. So help me God, you’d sure as hell better hope they find you, ’cause if I find you first, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

“Jill, I’m sorry.”

She laughed harshly. “Yes, you are. Sorry. Just like my father always said. And yours.” She hung up and Greg exhaled, long and heavy. If they found him, they’d beat him, too. And if by some miracle he survived, his face would be so messed up that he wouldn’t be able to work for weeks. He had to get some money. Today.

Munch was nearly a half hour late. The old man wasn’t coming. Greg stood up and walked out of the restaurant, not sure where he’d go next, only sure that he had to get that money. Thinking about knocking off convenience stores, he walked to the curb to catch the next bus. Where he’d go, he had no clue. Away from Philly, most certainly.

“Mr. Sanders?”

Greg spun, his heart in full throttle. But it was just an old man with a cane. “Munch?”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sanders. I ran late. Are you still interested in my documentary?”

Greg sized the old man up. At one time he’d been a good-sized guy, but now he was stooped and brittle. “Are you still paying cash?”

“Of course. Do you have a car?”

He’d sold it long ago. “No.”

“Then we’ll take my truck. I’m parked on the next block.”

Once he got his money, he could steal the old man’s truck and fly. “Then let’s go.”

Tuesday, January 16, 4:05

P.M.

Sophie’s office phone was ringing when she got back after the Viking tour. She ran to answer it. It was after ten in Europe. The men she’d called would just be finishing their dinner about now. “Hello?”

“Dr. Johannsen.” It was a haughty, cultured voice that she’d heard before.

Sophie drew a breath. Not Europe. It was Amanda Brewster. “Yes.”

“Do you know who this is?”

She glanced at the box with the mouse and new rage hit her like a wave. She planned to give the poor animal a decent burial after her shift. “You are a sick bitch.”

“And you have a poor memory. I told you once to stay away from my husband.”

“And you have poor hearing. I told you that I don’t want your husband. I don’t ever want to see him again. You do not need to worry about me, Amanda. In fact if I were you, I’d be more worried about your husband’s new blonde assistant du jour.”

“If you were me, you’d have Alan,” she said smugly and Sophie rolled her eyes.

“You need to get some professional help.”

“What I need,” Amanda gritted through clenched teeth, “is for every little whore to keep their hands off my husband. I told you the last time I caught you that-”

“You didn’t catch me,” Sophie said in exasperation. “I came to you.” Which, after trusting that Alan Brewster had really loved her, was Sophie’s second big mistake. She stupidly had thought the wife of a philanderer should know, but Amanda Brewster hadn’t listened then and she wasn’t going to listen now.

“-that I’d ruin you,” Amanda continued as if Sophie had not said a word.

The woman hadn’t needed to ruin her then. Alan and his posse had accomplished that on their own, with their sexual innuendo. And they’d started it again.

Which really pissed her off. She picked up the toy Vito had sent her, wishing it would work through the phone, wishing she could wipe the entire incident off the face of the planet. But that wasn’t going to happen and it was time she dealt with it. She’d run from Alan ten years ago, ashamed of what she’d done and scared of Amanda’s threats to her career. She was still ashamed, but she wasn’t running anymore.

“Get some help, Amanda. I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

“You’d better be. Look at you now,” Amanda screeched. “You’re working in a third-rate museum for an idiot. You think your career’s in the toilet now.” She laughed, not a little hysterically. “You’ll be digging sewer trenches by the time I’m done with you.”

Sophie huffed a surprised chuckle. “Digging sewer trenches” were the same exact words Amanda had used ten years before. At twenty-two, Sophie had believed her. At thirty-two, she recognized the ranting of a mentally imbalanced woman. She probably should pity Amanda Brewster. Maybe in another ten years she would.

“You’re not going to believe anything I say about Alan, but you can believe this. Send me another package like you did this morning and I will call the police.”

She hung up and looked around her tiny windowless office. Amanda was right about one thing. Sophie did work in a third-rate museum.

But it didn’t have to be. Amanda was wrong about one other thing. Ted wasn’t an idiot. Sophie had watched the faces of the tour group this afternoon. They’d had fun, and they’d learned something. Ted was right. He was keeping his grandfather’s legacy alive the best way he knew how. And he hired me to help him do that. So far she hadn’t been a lot of help.

Because she’d spent the last six months feeling sorry for herself. Big important archeologist forced to leave the dig of a lifetime. “When did I become such a snob?” she wondered out loud. Just because she wasn’t digging in France didn’t mean she couldn’t do something important here.

She looked at the boxes that filled her office, stacked floor to ceiling. Most of them were filled with pieces of Ted the First’s collections that Ted and Darla hadn’t been able to find room for in the main museum. She’d find a place for them.

She looked at her hand and realized she still clenched Vito’s memory zapper. Carefully she returned it to its box. She’d put her personal life back on track when she met Vito for dinner. She’d start putting her professional life back on track right now.

She found Ted in his office. “Ted, I need some space.”

His eyes narrowed. “What kind of space? Sophie, are you leaving us?”

Her eyes widened. “No, I’m not leaving. I want more exhibit space. I’ve got some ideas for new exhibits.” She smiled. “Fun ones. Where can I put them?”

Ted smiled back. “I have the perfect place. Well, it’s not perfect yet, but I have every confidence you’ll whip it into shape.”

Tuesday, January 16, 4:10

P.M.

Munch had spent the first half hour of their drive telling Greg Sanders about the documentary he was making. It was a fresh look at daily life in medieval Europe.

God, Greg thought. What a yawner. This would have been worse for his career than Sanders Sewer Service. “How about the other actors?”

“I begin shooting them next week.”

Then they’d be alone. And Munch hadn’t paid anyone else yet. He should have a lot of cash in his house. “How much farther out is your studio?” Greg demanded. “We must have gone fifty miles.”

“Not much farther,” Munch replied. He smiled and Greg felt a cold shiver burn down his back. “I don’t like to bother my neighbors, so I live out where no one can hear me.”

“How would you bother them?” Greg asked, not so sure he wanted the answer.

“Oh, I host medieval reenacting groups.”

“You mean like jousting and shit?”

Munch smiled again. “And shit.” He turned off the highway. “That’s my house.”

“Nice place,” Greg murmured. “Classic Victorian.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He pulled into the driveway. “Come in.”

Greg followed Munch, impatient that the old man took so long walking with the damn cane. Inside he looked around, wondering where the old man kept his money.

“This way,” Munch said and led him into a room filled with costumes. Some were on hangers, while others were worn by faceless mannequins. It looked like a medieval department store. “You’ll wear this.” Munch pointed to a friar’s robe.

“Pay me first.”

Munch looked annoyed. “You’ll be paid when I am satisfied. Get dressed.” He turned to go and Greg knew it was now or never.

Do it. Quickly he flipped out his blade, moved in behind the old man and hooked his arm around Munch’s neck, pressing the sharp edge against his throat. “You’ll pay me now, old man. Walk slowly to wherever you keep your money and you won’t get hurt.”

Munch went still. Then in an explosion of movement he grasped Greg’s thumb and twisted. Greg yelped with pain and his knife clattered to the floor. His arm was whipped behind his back and a second later he was on the ground, Munch’s knee in his back.

“You slimy little sonofabitch,” Munch said and it was not the voice of an old man.

Greg could barely hear him over the pounding in his head. The pain was excruciating. His arm, his hand. They were burning. Pop. Greg screamed as his wrist snapped. Then moaned when his elbow did the same.

“That was for trying to rob me,” Munch said, grabbed a handful of Greg’s hair and smashed his head into the floor. “That was for calling me old.”

Nausea rolled through him when Munch stood up and pocketed his blade. Get help. He slipped his hand into his pocket and fumbled his cell open with his left hand. He had time only to push one button before Munch’s boot came crashing against his kidneys.

“Hands out of your pockets.” He shoved his boot into Greg’s stomach and flipped him to his back. Greg could only stare in horror as Munch pulled off his gray wig. Munch wasn’t old. He wasn’t gray. He was totally bald. Munch pulled off his goatee and put it next to the wig. The eyebrows were last and Greg’s stomach clenched as panic gave way to cold hard fear. Munch had no eyebrows. He had no hair of any kind.

He’s going to kill me. Greg coughed and tasted blood. “What are you going to do?”

Munch smiled down at him. “Terrible things, Greg. Terrible, terrible things.”

Scream. But when he tried, all that came out was a pathetic croak.

Munch threw his arms wide. “Scream all you want. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I’ve killed them all.” He bent down until all Greg could see were his eyes, cold and furious. “They all thought they suffered, but their suffering was nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.”