Die for Me

Chapter Fourteen

Wednesday, January 17, 12:05

A.M.

Sophie’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“You heard me.” He twisted to his feet, leaving her sitting naked on the step staring up at him. He grabbed his boxers and pulled them on, then disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back he was wearing his pants and carrying her clothes. He tossed them to her but she made no move to catch them.

Her whole body was numb, but no longer with pleasure. “Why are you so mad?”

He stared down at her, fists on his hips. “You’re kidding.”

“You wanted me. You had me.“ A wave of fury made it past the numbness and she lurched to her feet. “What is your problem anyway? Wasn’t it good enough for you?” The last she added with a sneer, because hurt was moving in, pushing her anger aside.

“It was damn good. But that-” he pointed to the steps, “wasn’t what I wanted. That was…” His mouth flattened and so did his voice. “That was fucking.”

The crudity hit her hard. “And you feel so used? You got what you came here for, Vito. If the delivery wasn’t to your liking, well, at least it was free.”

He faltered. “Sophie, I didn’t come here for… I came here to…” He shrugged, uncomfortable. “To make love to you.”

The very words mocked her. “You don’t love me,” she said bitterly.

He swallowed hard and seemed to be choosing his words. “No. No, I don’t. Not now. But someday… Someday I could. Sophie, have you never made love?”

She lifted her chin, tears dangerously close. “Don’t you dare make fun of me.”

He exhaled. Then leaned over and picked up her underwear. “Put them on.”

She swallowed the lump that had taken over her throat. “No. I want you to leave.”

“And I’m not going to until we talk.” He was gentle again. “Sophie.” He shook his head and held out her underwear. “Put them on, or I’ll put them on you myself.”

She had no doubt that he would so she snatched them from his hand. She jerked them up around her hips and held out her hands, still nude except for the panties. “Satisfied?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Not even close.” He pulled the sweater over her head like she was five years old. She elbowed his hands away.

“I can do it,” she gritted. She pushed her arms through the sleeves and pulled on her pants. “I’m all dressed now. Now get the hell out of my house.”

He pulled her across the living room. “Stop fighting me.” He pushed her to the sofa.

“Stop being an asshole,” she shot back. Then she crumpled and the floodgates crashed, letting the tears come. “What the hell did you want from me?”

“Obviously not what you know how to give. Not yet anyway.”

Furiously she wiped her cheeks. “I haven’t been with a lot of men. Surprised?”

He still stood, fists back on his hips. He was still angry, but now his anger no longer seemed directed at her. Big fucking deal. Hers was still directed at him.

“No,” he murmured. “I’m not surprised.”

“But no customer has ever been dissatisfied with the sex. Until you.”

He winced at that. “I’m sorry. I wanted you and it had been a long time and… Sophie, what we just did was incredible. But it was… just sex.”

She drew a deliberate breath. “And you expected what? Moonlight? Music? To hold me afterward and murmur promises you don’t intend to keep? No, thank you.”

His eyes flashed. “I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”

“How gallant of you.” Then she dropped her head against the sofa, suddenly so weary. “You said you wanted it fast, so I did it fast. I’m sorry if you were disappointed.”

He sat beside her and she flinched when his thumb caressed her cheek. “I said I couldn’t go slow.” He slid his fingers through the hair at her nape and tugged her to face him. The smooth timbre of his voice had her heart pounding again, but she refused to open her eyes. “That’s different from racing to the end because that’s all there is.” He kissed her eyelids, then both corners of her mouth. “There were so many things I wanted to do with you. For you.” His mouth covered hers, sweet. Patient. “To you.” She shuddered and felt him smile against her lips. “Don’t you want to know what all those things are?” he teased and every nerve ending buzzed.

“Maybe,” she whispered and he chuckled, rich and deep.

“Sophie, any two people can just have sex. I like you. A lot. I wanted more.”

She swallowed hard. “Maybe I can’t give you any more.”

“I think you can,” he whispered. “Sophie, look at me.” She forced herself to look up, dreading what she’d see. Sarcasm and scorn she could take. This she knew. Pity would be harder to swallow. But her breath caught in her throat because what she saw in his eyes was desire, tempered with tenderness and even a little self-deprecating humor. “Let me teach you the difference between fucking like minks and making love.”

Deep down she’d known there had to be something more, that she’d never really shared what people in real relationships had. Deep down she’d always known she’d only… she winced. Fucked like a mink. Somehow it had always been simpler to keep it to that. But deep down, she’d always wanted to know the difference.

He nibbled at her lower lip. “Come on, Sophie, you’ll like it better.”

Sophie eyed the stairs. “Better than that?”

He smiled, sensing victory. “I guarantee it.” He stood and held out his hand.

She eyed his hand. “What if I’m not completely satisfied?”

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.” He pulled her to her feet. “If you’re not satisfied, then I guess I’ll have to keep working until you are.” He cupped her jaw, his lips grazing hers. “Come to bed with me, Sophie. I have places to take you.”

The breath she drew was unsteady. “Okay.”

Wednesday, January 17, 5:00

A.M.

Vito crept from Sophie’s bed, where she slept curled up like a kitten. A very beautiful, teachable kitten. He moved his shoulders. With claws. Which she’d dug into his back that last time, when he’d taken her so high… The memory made him shudder. He’d like nothing better than to feel those sharp claws once more. But he had to get home and change and get on with his day.

Another day of identifying bodies. Of notifying grieving families. Of trying to stop a killer, before there were any more bodies or grieving families. Vito pulled on his clothes, then pressed a kiss against Sophie’s temple. At least he’d satisfied one customer.

He looked around for something to write on. He didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye. He got the impression she’d gotten enough of that over the years, from men who’d taken what they’d wanted and gone on, leaving her to believe that’s all there was.

She had no paper on her nightstand, unless he counted the candy wrappers, which he did not. But a framed picture caught his eye. He carried it to the window and held it to the light from the streetlamps. It was a young woman with long dark hair and big eyes, taken sometime in the fifties. She sat sideways, looking over the back of a chair, in front of what looked like a dressing room mirror. Vito thought about Sophie’s father, a French film star with whom she hadn’t spent much time until the end of his life. He wondered if this was her mother, but doubted she’d keep her picture next to her bed.

“My gran.” He looked over to see her sitting up in bed, knees pulled to her chest.

“She was an actress, too?”

“Of a fashion.” She lifted a brow. “Double bonus prize if you know who she is.”

“I liked the bonus prize from before. Are you going to give me a hint?”

“Nope. But I will make you breakfast.” She grinned. “I figure it’s the least I can do.”

He grinned back, then picked up another photo, turning on a lamp. It was the same woman, with a man he did recognize. “Your grandmother knew Luis Albarossa?”

Sophie poked her head out of a sweatshirt, her face stunned. “What is it with you? You know French actors and Italian tenors, too?”

“My grandfather was an opera fan.” He hesitated. “So am I.”

She’d bent at the waist to pull on a pair of sweats and paused, her hair a curtain over her face. She parted it with one hand and glared out. “What’s wrong with opera?”

“Nothing. It’s just that some people don’t think it’s very…”

“Manly? That’s just macho bullshit inherent in a patriarchal society.” She yanked at the sweats and pushed her hair from her face. “Opera or Guns-N-Roses, neither makes you less of a man. Besides, I’m the last person you need to prove your manhood to.”

“Tell that to my brothers and my dad.”

She looked amused. “What, that you give great sex?”

Startled, he laughed. “No, that opera is manly.”

“Ohhh. It’s always good to be clear. So gramps was an opera aficionado?”

“Every time it came to town he’d get tickets, but nobody would go to the concerts except me. We heard Albarossa do Don Giovanni when I was ten. Unforgettable.” He narrowed his eyes. “Give me a hint. What was your grandmother’s last name?”

“Johannsen,” she said with a smirk. “Lotte, Birgit! Time to go out.” The dogs scrambled from one of the bedrooms, yapping. She headed down the stairs and he followed.

“Just a hint, Sophie.”

She just smirked again and went out the back door with the two ridiculously colored dogs. “You know too much already. You should have to work for a double bonus.”

Chuckling, Vito wandered into the living room and investigated there. A double bonus prize was nothing to sneeze at. Plus, he admitted to himself, he was nosy. Sophie Johannsen was a damn interesting woman on her own, but it appeared her family tree had some unique knots and forks.

He found what he was looking for and carried it to the kitchen. She was back from outside and pulling pots and pans from the cupboard.

“You cook?” he said, surprised again.

“Of course. Woman cannot live by beef jerky and Ho Hos alone. I’m a good cook.” She looked at the framed program he held and sighed dramatically. “So who is she?”

Vito leaned against the refrigerator, both smug in the knowledge that the double bonus was now his and awed. “Your grandmother is Anna Shubert. My God, Sophie, my grandfather and I heard her sing Orfeo at the Academy downtown. Her Che faro…” He sobered, remembering the tears on his grandfather’s face. In his own eyes. “After her aria there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. She was remarkable.”

Sophie’s lips curved sadly. “Yeah, she was. Orfeo here in Philly was her last performance. I’ll tell her you knew who she was. It’ll make her day.” She nudged him out of the way, taking eggs and a carton of cream from the fridge and setting them on the counter. Then her shoulders sagged. “It’s so hard to watch her die, Vito.”

“I’m sorry. My dad’s got heart disease. We’re grateful for every day he’s with us.”

“Then you understand.” She blew a sigh up her forehead. “If you want, there are a few photo albums in the living room. If you like opera, it’ll be a treat.”

Eagerly he brought them to the table. “These albums have to be worth a mint.”

“To Gran, yeah. And to me.” She set a cup of coffee next to his elbow. “That’s the Paris Opera House. The man standing next to Gran is Maurice. He’s the one who gave me the information about the dead collector,” she added before going back to the stove.

Vito frowned. “I thought you said Maurice was your father’s friend.”

She winced. “He was Alex’s friend, too. It’s kind of complicated. Sordid, really.”

She called her father by his first name. Interesting. “Sophie, stop teasing me.”

She chuckled. “Maurice and Alex went to university together. Both were wealthy playboys. Anna was in her forties and at the peak of her career, touring Europe. She’d been a widow a long time by then. I guess she was lonely. Alex had had a few small movie roles. Maurice worked for the opera house in Paris which is where he met Anna. The opera threw a party and Maurice invited my father, introduced them, and”-she lifted a shoulder-“I’m told the infatuation was instantaneous.”

Vito grimaced. “Your grandmother and your father? That’s… ew.”

She whipped the eggs with a wire whisk. “Technically she wasn’t my grandmother and he wasn’t my father. Not yet anyway. I wasn’t in the picture yet.”

“Still…”

“I told you it was sordid. Well, they had a grand affair.” She frowned into the pan as she poured the eggs in. “Then she found out he was married. She tossed him aside.”

Vito was beginning to see a pattern here. “I see.”

She shot him a wry look. “Alex didn’t. Anna was born in Hamburg, but she was raised in Pittsburgh. I’m told he was quite devastated when Anna left.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Maurice. He’s quite the gossip. That’s why I knew he’d be able to get all the good stuff on Alberto Berretti.”

“So how did you… come into the picture?”

“Ah. It gets even more sordid. Anna has two daughters. Freya the Good and Lena.”

“The Bad?”

Sophie just shrugged. “Suffice it to say Lena and Anna didn’t get along. Freya was older and already married to my uncle Harry. Lena was seventeen, headstrong and rebellious. She wanted a singing career of her own. She got mad when Anna wouldn’t give her entrée. They had quite a falling-out. Then Anna broke up with my father.”

She dished eggs onto two plates and put them on the table. “Like I said, Alex was devastated and he spent a lot of time drunk. Not an excuse, but… One night he got approached in a bar by a young woman who seduced him. Lena.”

“Lena seduced him just to get back at her mother? She really was Lena the Bad.”

“It gets worse. Lena and Anna had it out. Lena ran away, and Anna came home to Pittsburgh to lick her wounds. I think Anna really loved Alex and expected to marry him.” She toyed with the food on her plate. “Nine months later, Lena came home with a bundle of joy.” She twirled her fork. “Voilà. And that’s how I came into the picture.”

“A child of an illicit affair conducted because of another illicit affair,” Vito said quietly. “Then you met Brewster and unwittingly did what your mother and Anna had done.”

“I’m not that hard to figure out. But I am a good cook. Your food’s getting cold.”

She’d closed the door on her life again, but each time it stayed open a little longer. He still didn’t know what happened to her mother or how Katherine Bauer had come to be the ‘mother she’d never known’ or the significance of the body bag, but Vito could be patient. He pushed his clean plate aside. “What will you do about your bike?”

“I’ll get it towed. Can you give me the name of your mechanic?”

“Sure, but you should report it to the police, along with the dead mouse. Brewster’s wife can’t just get away with terrorizing you like that.”

She made a scoffing noise. “You can bet your double bonus I’ll report it. That woman bullied me once, but I’m done with her.”

“Good girl. How will you get to work this morning?”

“I can use Gran’s car until my bike is fixed.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s an okay car, it just smells like Lotte and Birgit.”

At their names, the dogs came running, wagging their rainbow butts as they begged for handouts. Vito laughed softly. “Lotte Lehman and Birgit Nilsson. Opera legends.”

“Gran’s idols. Naming these girls after them was the biggest honor she could think of. These dogs are like Gran’s children. She spoils them rotten.”

“Did she color them?”

Sophie put their plates in the sink. “No, that was my mistake. I brought Gran home from rehab after her stroke-before she got pneumonia and had to go to the nursing home. She’d sit at the window and watch the dogs play outside, but her eyes were bad. Then it snowed and they were white and she couldn’t see them at all.” She trailed off. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. It was just food coloring. It’s actually faded a lot.”

Vito laughed. “Sophie, you’re incredible.” He walked to the sink, pushed her hair aside and ran his lips down the back of her neck. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She shivered. “I’m going to sit with Gran tonight. It’s Freya’s bingo night.”

“Then I’ll go with you. How often can I meet a legend?”

Wednesday, January 17, 6:00

A.M.

Something was different. Wrong. He drove the highway to his field, Gregory Sanders’s body in a plastic bag under the tarp in the bed of his truck. Normally he never passed another car on this road. But he’d passed two cars already. Sheer instinct had him driving past the access road without slowing down, and what he saw as he passed stopped his heart. There should have been untouched snow where the access road met the highway, but instead he saw the crisscross of tire ruts, indicating repeated access by multiple vehicles.

Bile rose in his throat, choking him. They’d found his graveyard.

Somehow, someone had found his graveyard. But how? And who? The police?

He made himself breathe. Most certainly the police.

They’ll find me. They’ll catch me. He made himself breathe again. Relax. How can they catch you? There’s no way they can identify any of those bodies.

And even if they did, there was no way to link any of the bodies to him. His heart was pounding hard and he wiped a shaky hand across his mouth. He needed to get out of here. He had Gregory Sanders’s body in a plastic bag in his truck. If for any reason he was stopped… Even he couldn’t explain a dead body away.

So breathe. Just breathe. Think. You have to be smart about this.

He’d been so very careful. He’d worn gloves, ensured none of his own body came in contact with the victims. Not even a hair. So even if they identified every damn one of the victims, they couldn’t link them to him. He was safe.

So he breathed. And thought. His first step was to get rid of Gregory. Next, he had to find out what the cops knew and how they’d found out. If they were close, he’d bolt.

He knew how to disappear. He’d done it before.

He drove for five miles. No one followed him. He pulled off the road, behind some trees. And waited, holding his breath. No police cars drove by. No cars of any kind.

He got out of the truck, for the first time grateful for the chill of a Philadephia morning on his heated skin. The land beyond the edge of the road sloped sharply down into a gulley. This was as good a place as any to dump Sanders.

Quickly he lowered the tailgate, pulled away the tarp and grabbed the plastic bag in his gloved hands. He heaved the bag into the snow, shoving with his foot until it started to slide. The bag hit a tree, then rolled the rest of the way down. There was a visible path in the snow marking its descent, but if he was lucky it would snow again tonight and the cops wouldn’t find Gregory Sanders before the spring thaw.

He’d be long gone by then. He got back behind the wheel and turned in the direction he’d come, wondering if he’d done the right thing.

Then he knew that he had. Two police cruisers sat at the entrance to his access road where none had been before, one pointed in, one out. Shift change, he thought. He’d slipped through their shift change by the skin of his teeth. An officer got out of one of the cruisers as he approached.

His first inclination was to hit the accelerator and take the cop out, but that would be foolish. Satisfying, but ultimately foolish. He slowed to a stop. Made himself frown in polite puzzlement as he rolled his window down.

“Where are you headed, sir?” the officer asked with no smile.

“To work. I live down this road.” He squinted, pretending to try to see past the cruiser. “What’s going on over there? I seen cars comin’ and goin’.”

“This is a restricted area, sir. If you can take another route, then do.”

“Ain’t no other route,” he said. “But I reckon I can keep my eyes to myself.”

The officer took his notepad from his pocket. “Can I get your name, sir?”

This was where long-term planning paid off, and he settled into his seat, confident now. “Jason Kinney.” It would be the name registered to his license plate, because he’d filed the change in title with the DMV himself a year ago. Jason Kinney was just one of the driver’s licenses he had in his wallet. It always paid to be thorough.

The officer made a big show of walking to the rear of the truck and writing down the license plate. He checked under the tarp before coming back and touching the tip of his hat. “Now that we know you’re a resident of the area, we won’t need to stop you again.”

He nodded. Like he’d ever come this way again. Not. “I appreciate it, Officer. Have a nice day.”

Wednesday, January 17, 8:05

A.M.

Jen McFain frowned. “We seem to have a problem, Vito.”

Vito slid into his seat at the head of the table, still a little breathless from his mad morning dash. After leaving Sophie’s he’d raced home, showered, and apologized profusely to Tess about staying out all night without calling. Then he’d headed in to work, only to be accosted at the precinct door by a horde of reporters with flashing cameras.

“I’ve had all kinds of problems this morning, Jen. What seems to be yours?”

“No crullers. What kind of meeting are you trying to run anyway?’

“Yeah, Vito,” Liz said. “What kind of meeting starts out without crullers?”

“You never brought food,” Vito said to Liz and she grinned.

“Yeah, but you did, on the first day. First rule of team leadership-never set a precedent you don’t intend to keep.”

Vito looked around the table. “Anybody else have nuisance demands?”

Liz looked amused, Katherine impatient. Bev and Tim looked tired. Jen just scowled at him. “Cheapskate,” she muttered, and Vito rolled his eyes.

“We now have one more victim ID confirmed. Bill Melville is victim three-one. I’ve noted him on the chart. We also have a name. E. Munch. Nick came back from Melville’s apartment last night and ran it through the system, but came up with nothing.”

“It’s not like he’d use his real name anyway,” Jen said. “But I’ll bet you dollars to donuts”-she glared at him meaningfully-“that the name means something.”

“You could be right. Any ideas, besides the obvious Munch connection to food?”

Jen’s lips twitched. “Very funny, Chick. I’ll give it some thought.”

“Thank you.” He turned to Katherine. “What’s new on your end?”

“We autopsied the old couple from the second row last night. We didn’t find anything new that would help you ID them. But Tino did some sketches. My assistant said he didn’t leave the morgue until after midnight.”

Vito felt a sharp spear of gratitude for his brother who’d jumped in with both feet to help. When this was all over he’d find a way to thank him. “Yes, and we’ll compare his sketches to missing-persons files.” From his folder Vito pulled copies of the sketches he’d found on his desk that morning. He passed them to Liz. “This is what Tino came up with. He made a few of the woman with different hairstyles. It’s hard to picture what she might have looked like without seeing some hair.”

“Me next,” Jen said. “We got two new pieces of news last night. First, an ID on the tire tread print we took from the scene that first day. Our boy drives a Ford F150, just like yours, Vito.”

“Terrific,” Vito muttered. “So nice to have something in common with a psycho killer. Let’s get the description out there. It’s a long shot, but at least we can be keeping our eyes open. Did you get any footprints with that tire tread?”

“None that were usable. Sorry. Now the second thing is the grenade we took out of the gut of the last victim on the first row. It’s a vintage MK2 pineapple grenade, made sometime before 1945. Tracing it would be nearly impossible, but it’s one more piece of the puzzle. This guy uses the real thing.”

“And speaking of the real thing.” Vito told them about Sophie’s inquiries the day before. “So we have one possible source for his medieval weapons. I was going to call Interpol before I checked out Claire Reynolds’s doctor and the library where she worked. And I still need to locate Bill Melville’s parents. They don’t know he’s dead.”

“Give me Interpol,” Liz said. “You take the doctor and the parents.”

“Thanks.” Vito looked over at Bev and Tim. “You guys are quiet.”

“We’re tired,” Tim said. “We were up most of the night going through records with the owners of UCanModel. Then the attorneys got involved.”

“Shit,” Vito murmured.

“Yeah.” Tim scraped his palms down his unshaven cheeks. “The owners want to cooperate, but their attorneys are telling them they have a privacy notice for all subscribers. So it’s slow going. We broke at three

A.M.

and went home to sleep.”

“The owner has to contact all the models who were sent e-mails before we can talk to them.” Bev sighed. “We’re supposed to get on a call with them in an hour.”

Vito hadn’t gotten to sleep until three

A.M.

himself, but the reason was very different and he was pretty sure he’d get no sympathy. “Katherine, what will you do next?”

“Autopsies on the final four. You have a preference on where I start? Old, young, bullet, or grenade?”

“Start with Claire Reynolds. I’ll get with you as soon as I talk to her doctor. Then work on the old lady. She’s the one body that doesn’t fit with any of the others.” Vito stood up. “We’re done for this morning. Let’s meet again at five tonight. Stay safe.”

Wednesday, January 17, 9:05

A.M.

She’d died. The old Winchester woman had died. He sat back, frowning at his computer. She’d died and left her property to her nephew who’d been nearly as old as she was. Who knew who’d found the bodies? But knowing she was dead made more sense. If her nephew planned to sell the property someone might be inspecting it, or perhaps they’d already sold it and somebody was building on it.

The bodies could have turned up that way. He assumed the cops had found them all. Only one person could have been identified by his prints, and those prints he’d erased. All the others… it would take the cops weeks to find their own asses with a flashlight. That they could identify the other bodies more quickly was ludicrous.

He felt better now. But still he had loose ends. One of the bodies in that field was the Webber kid and somehow Derek had obtained the kid’s photo. He’d deal with Derek today. He needed to-

His cell phone rang and he reflexively checked the caller ID. It was his… antiques dealer, for lack of a better description. “Yeah,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

“What the fuck have you done?” came the furious reply.

His own temper began to sizzle. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about an inquisition chair. And the fucking cops.”

He opened his mouth, but for a moment no words formed. Quickly he regained his composure. “I truly have no idea of what you’re talking about.”

“The cops have a chair.” Each word was spaced deliberately. “In their possession.”

“Well, it’s not mine. My chair is with my collection. I saw it just this morning.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. What is this all about?”

“A cop asked questions yesterday. He was researching stolen artifacts and black market sales. Said he had a chair with spikes. Lots of spikes. He was a homicide cop.”

His heart began racing for the second time that day, but he kept his cool. He knew they’d found his graves. That the police would connect Brittany’s body to an inquisitional chair was not a leap he’d expected them to make. He injected enough confusion in his voice to be believable. “I’m telling you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know anything about a massive graveyard in a field north of town? Because the same cop who made the visit is the one leading that case.”

Fuck. He laughed, incredulously. “I don’t know anything about a graveyard either. All I know is that my artifacts are in my possession. If the cops have a chair, it’s probably handmade by one of those idiots from the reenactment group. But I must admit to a certain curiosity. How did the police know where to go to ask questions?”

“They have a source. An archeologist.”

That made sense. That was, after all, how he’d located his dealer in the beginning. “What’s his name, this archeologist?”

“Her name is Sophie Johannsen.”

His heart skipped a beat, then fury roared, sending his pulse skyrocketing. “I see.”

“She teaches a class on Tuesday nights at Whitman College in Philly. She also works during the day at the Albright. I have her address at home, as well.”

So did he. He knew she lived alone with two colored poodles who posed no threat at all. Still he scoffed, pretending to be offended. “I don’t want to find her, for God’s sake. I was just curious.”

There was a pause, and when the man spoke again it was calmly, yet the menace of his words rang loud and clear. “If I were you, I’d be more than curious. As for us, we don’t plan to be implicated in anything you’ve done, and if push comes to shove, we will protect our interests. Don’t call us anymore. We no longer want your business.”

There was a click, then silence. He’d been hung up on. He put his cell on his desk, rattled. He had to plug the leaks in the dyke. And quickly. Damn. He’d wanted to keep her available for research purposes until he was finished with his game.

He’d just have to find another source.

Wednesday, January 17, 9:30

A.M.

“Dr. Pfeiffer’s with a patient right now, Detective.” Receptionist Stacy Savard was frowning at him from her side of the glass that separated the office from the waiting room. “You’ll have to wait or come back later.”

“Ma’am, I’m a homicide detective. I only show up when people are dead when they shouldn’t be. Could you please have the doctor see me as soon as possible?”

Her eyes had widened. “H-homicide? Who?” She leaned forward. “You can tell me, Detective. He tells me everything anyway.”

Vito smiled at her as patiently as he could. “I’ll just wait over there.” A few minutes later an elderly man came to the doorway.

“Detective Ciccotelli? Miss Savard told me you were here to see me.”

“Yes. Can we talk privately?” He followed the doctor back to his office.

Pfeiffer shut the door. “This is very distressing.” He sat down behind his desk. “Which of my patients is the subject of your investigation?”

“Claire Reynolds.”

Pfeiffer flinched. “I’m sorry to hear that. Miss Reynolds was a lovely young woman.”

“You’d known her for a long time then?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been seeing Claire for… must be five years now.”

“Can you tell me what kind of person she was? Outgoing, shy?”

“Very outgoing. Claire was a paraolympian and active in the community.”

“What kind of prosthetic devices did Claire use, Dr. Pfeiffer?”

“I don’t remember off the top of my head. Wait one moment.” He pulled a folder from a file drawer and flipped through the pages.

“Thick file,” Vito commented.

“Claire was part of an experimental study I’m conducting, an upgrade to the microprocessor in her artificial knee.”

“Microprocessor? Like as in a computer chip?”

“Yes. Older prosthetic legs aren’t as stable when the patient is walking up and down stairs or walking with a big stride. The microprocessor is constantly evaluating stability and making fine adjustments.” He tilted his head. “Like antilock brakes in your car.”

“That I can understand. How is it powered?”

“By a battery pack. Patients charge it overnight. Most can get up to thirty hours’ use before the battery dies.”

“So Claire had an upgraded microprocessor in her knee?”

“She did. She was supposed to be coming in for regular checks.” He looked down, ashamed. “I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d seen her until just now.”

“When was the last time she came in for an appointment?”

“October 12, a year ago.” He frowned. “I should have missed her sooner. Why didn’t I?” He shuffled through some more paper, then sat back, relieved. “Oh, here’s why. She moved to Texas. I got a letter from her new physician, Dr. Joseph Gaspar in San Antonio. Her chart shows we forwarded a copy of her records the following week.”

That was the second letter someone had received in reference to Claire Reynolds’s disappearance. First the library’s resignation letter, now this. “Can I have that letter?”

“Of course.”

“Doctor, can you tell me about silicone lubricants?”

“What do you want to know?”

“How are they used? Where do you get them? Are there different ones?”

Pfeiffer took a shampoo-sized bottle from his desk and handed it to Vito. “That’s a silicone lubricant. Go ahead, try it.”

Vito squeezed a few drops onto his thumb. It was odorless, colorless, and left a slick residue on his skin. The samples Katherine had pulled from Warren and Brittany had been white because they’d been mixed with plaster. “Why is it used?”

“Above-the-knee amputees like Miss Reynolds generally use one of two different methods to achieve suspension-that means attaching the limb. The first is using a liner. It looks like this.” Pfeiffer reached into his drawer and pulled out what looked like a giant condom with a metal pin at the end. “The patient rolls this liner over the residual limb-you get a very tight fit. Then the metal pin attaches down into the socket of the prosthesis. Some patients use the silicone lubricant under the liner, especially if they have sensitive or broken skin.”

“Did Claire Reynolds use this method?”

“Sometimes, but usually younger patients like Claire use the suction method. It is what it sounds like-the artificial limb is held on through suction and is released using an air valve. This puts the skin in direct contact with the plastic of the prosthesis. Most everyone who uses the suction method uses lubricant.”

“Where would your patients get this?” Vito asked handing him back the bottle.

“From me or directly from the distributor. Most distributors have online stores.”

“And formulas? Are there a lot of them?”

“One or two main ones. But a lot of cottage industries offer special blends, herbs and things.” He took a magazine from his desk and flipped to the back. “Like these.”

Vito took the magazine and scanned the ads. “Can I keep this?”

“Certainly. I can have Miss Savard get you a sample of the lubricant, as well.”

“Thank you. Doctor, I know it’s been more than a year since you’ve seen Miss Reynolds, but I was wondering if you could remember her frame of mind. Was she happy or sad, angry or worried maybe? Did she have a boyfriend?”

Pfeiffer looked uncomfortable. “No, she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“Oh. I see. Well, a girlfriend then?”

Pfeiffer’s discomfort increased. “I didn’t know her that well, Detective. But I know she often marched in activist parades. She mentioned it several times when she came in to get her leg checked. I think she was just trying to get me to react, honestly.”

“Well, then, how about her mood?”

Pfeffer steepled his fingers under his chin. “I know she was worried about money. She was nervous that she wouldn’t have enough for the microprocessor upgrade.”

“I’m confused. I thought she was in your study and already had the new processor.”

“She was and she did, but when the study was completed she was going to have to buy it. The maker offers the microprocessor at their cost, but it was still more than Claire could afford. This upset her a great deal.” His expression grew very sad. “She thought having the upgrade would give her an edge in the paraolympic games.”

Vito stood. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been a huge help.”

“When you find who did this, will you let me know?”

“Yes. I will.”

“Good.” The doctor rose and opened his office door. “Stacy?” The receptionist came to his office quickly. “Stacy, the detective is here about Claire Reynolds.”

Stacy’s eyes widened as she placed the name. “Claire? But…” She leaned against the door, her shoulders sagging. “Oh, no.”

“Did you know Miss Reynolds well, Miss Savard?”

“Not well well.” She looked up at Vito, shocked and upset. “I chatted with her when she would come for her fittings. Congratulated her when she won a race or something. She was always up.” Stacy’s eyes filled with tears. “Claire was a sweet person. Why would anyone hurt her?”

“That’s what I have to find out. Doctor?” Vito looked at the file in the man’s hand.

The doctor shook himself. “Oh, yes. Stacy, make a copy of the letter we received from Dr. Gaspar in Texas for Detective Ciccotelli.”

“Actually, I need the original.”

Pfeiffer blinked. “Of course. I wasn’t thinking. Stacy, just keep the copy for our files and assist the detective in any other way we can.”