Die for Me

Chapter Eighteen

Thursday, January 18, 8:15

A.M.

Sophie drew an appreciative breath when Vito came through the bullpen door, sending every nerve in her body sizzling.

He smiled at her as he and Nick crossed the room. “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

“Nah. I’ll live. Which I imagine was the point.” Which she was smart enough to concede without argument. “Where are you going?” she added when he put on his coat.

“New York City,” Vito answered. “It’s about the game.” He put the game CD on his desk and she picked it up. “Be careful with that. Brent says that game’s gold.”

She tilted her head looking at the back cover. “So is the company.”

Nick was watching her. “Brent meant you couldn’t find the game in the stores.”

“I don’t know anything about that. But the company’s name is Oro. It means ‘gold’ in both Spanish and Italian.” Sophie squinted. “Oro is an acronym. Under their logo are little words, but the font’s too small. Do you have a bigger picture of their logo?”

Vito opened the company’s website on his computer and Sophie leaned close to the screen as the dragon soared. “These words aren’t Spanish or Italian. They’re Dutch.”

“Makes sense,” Vito said. “Their president’s from Holland. What do they mean?”

“Well, the R is rijkdom. It means wealth. The bigger of the two Os is onderhoud, which is… entertainment or fun. The smallest O…” She frowned. “Overtreffen. To go over, do better.” She looked up at Vito. “Maybe to transcend, become more.”

“R is the biggest letter,” Vito observed. “I guess we know what oRo’s priorities are.”

“How long will you be gone?” she asked.

He was looking through his files. “Just for the day probably.”

“What should I do while you’re gone? I can’t stay here all day.”

“I know,” he muttered, but offered no suggestions as he stacked folders.

“I’m Joan of Arc at ten,” she added wryly. “And the Viking queen at one and four-thirty.”

“You need a new repertoire,” Nick said, zipping up his coat. “You’re gettin’ stale.”

“I know. I’m thinking Marie Antoinette, before she lost her head, of course. Or maybe Boudiccea, Celtic Warrior Queen.” She sucked in a cheek. “She fought topless.”

Vito’s hands froze on the folders. “That is so not fair, Sophie.”

“Yeah,” Nick echoed faintly. “Really so not fair.”

She laughed. “Now we’re even for making me come in so early.” She sobered. “Vito, I don’t want to be stupid, but I have responsibilities. I’ll be careful. I’ll call before I leave and when I get there. But I can’t sit here all day.”

“I’ll ask Liz to get you an escort to the museum. Wait until she can. Please, Sophie, just until we locate Lombard or his pal Clint.”

“Or Brewster,” she murmured. “It could have been either of them.”

Vito kissed her hard. “Just wait for Liz, okay? Oh, and if you get a chance, Liz has that picture of the Sanders kid. He had a brand on his cheek. A letter T.”

“Okay.” Then she frowned. “You’re the second person in two days to ask me about branding.”

Vito had walked halfway to the door, but stopped and slowly turned. “What?”

She shrugged. “It’s nothing. One of my students asked me for some research sources on branding, for a paper he was writing.”

She watched Vito and Nick look at each other. “What’s this student’s name?”

Sophie shook her head. “No way. His name’s John Trapper, but… no way. I’ve known John for months. And he’s a paraplegic in a wheelchair. There is no way he could have done this.”

Vito’s mouth went flat. “I don’t like coincidences, Sophie. We’ll check him out.”

“Vito…” She sighed. “Okay. It’ll be a waste of your time, but I know you have to.”

Vito clenched his jaw. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere without an escort.”

“I promise. Now go. I’ll be fine.”

Thursday, January 18, 9:15

A.M.

“This is so embarrassing,” Sophie muttered.

“Better to be embarrassed than to be dead,” Officer Lyons said mildly.

“I know. But driving me here in a cruiser, and now you’re walking me to the door… Everybody’s going to think I’m in trouble,” she grumbled.

“Lieutenant Sawyer’s orders. I could write you a note, if that would help.”

Sophie laughed. She had sounded like a disgruntled first grader. “That’s okay.” She stopped at the door of the Albright and shook Lyons’s hand. “Thank you.”

He touched his hat. “Call Sawyer’s office when you want to come back.”

Patty Ann’s eyes widened as Sophie came in. “You were with the cops?”

Goth Wednesday was over. Patty Ann was Brooklyn again, and Sophie remembered the tryouts for Guys and Dolls were tonight. “Good luck on the audition, Patty Ann.”

“What’s wrong?” Patty asked in what might have been her normal voice. It had been so long since she’d heard it, Sophie wasn’t sure. “Why are cops bringing you to work?”

“Cops?” Ted came out of his office, frowning. “Were the police here again?”

“I was helping them with a case,” she said, then wished she’d taken Lyons up on the note when Ted and Patty Ann did not look convinced. “I’m dating one of the detectives and I had car trouble, so he had an officer give me a ride.” Kind of true.

Patty Ann relaxed and her eyes went sly. “The dark one or the redhead?”

“The dark one. But the redhead is too old for you, so forget about him.”

She pouted. “Shoot.”

Ted was still frowning. “First your motorcycle and now your car? We need to talk.”

She followed him into his office and he shut the door, then sat behind his desk. “Sit down.” When she had, he leaned forward, his expression worried. “Sophie, are you in trouble? Please be honest with me.”

“No. Both of the things I said were true. I’m helping the police and dating one of the cops. That’s all, Ted. Why is this such a big deal?”

He looked grim. “I got a call last night. From a police officer in New York. She said they needed to get in touch with you. That it was official business.”

Lombard’s wife had called from a New York area code. “You gave her my cell.”

Ted’s chin lifted. “I did.”

Sophie flipped open her phone and found the log of the call from Lombard’s wife. “Is this the number that called you last night?”

Ted took her phone, compared the number to his caller ID. “Yes.”

“She wasn’t the police. You can call the New York police and check if you want.”

Ted started to relax. He handed her back the phone. “Then who was she?”

“It’s a long story, Ted. She’s a jealous wife who thinks I’m stealing her husband.”

His suspicion became indignation. “You wouldn’t do that, Sophie.”

She had to smile. “Thanks. Now, listen, I have some ideas before the tour this morning that I wanted to run by you.” She leaned forward and told him about Yuri. “He said he would come and talk to a tour group. I’m thinking we could add an exhibit on the Cold War and communism. It’s not the period your grandfather studied, but-”

Ted was nodding, slowly. “I like it. A lot. Not enough people think of that as history.”

“I’m not sure I did until yesterday. It was his hands, Ted. Made me think.”

Ted studied her carefully. “You seem to be thinking a lot lately. I like that, too.”

Uncertain how to respond to that, Sophie stood up. “You know, we had a visitor yesterday who said he was from a retirement home and looking for an interesting outing for his fellow residents. Seems to me that they’d be more than willing to come in and talk to school groups. Don’t limit it to wars. Have them talk about radio programs and TV and inventions and how they felt when Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon.”

“Another good idea. Did you get the man’s name?”

“No, but he said he was going to book a tour with Patty Ann. She’d have his name.” Sophie opened the door, then paused, her hand on the doorknob. “How do you feel about adding some more tours? Joan and the Viking queen are gettin’ kind of stale.”

Ted looked happily puzzled both at the suggestion and the twang she’d borrowed from Nick Lawrence. “Sophie, you always say you’re an archeologist, not an actress.”

Sophie grinned. “But acting is in my blood. My father was an actor, you know.”

Ted nodded. “I know. And your grandmother was an opera diva. I’ve always known.”

Sophie’s grin faded. “You never said anything.”

“I was hoping you would,” Ted said. “It’s nice to finally get to know you, Sophie.”

Sophie felt both welcomed and chastised. “How do you feel about Marie Antoinette?”

Ted smiled at her. “Before or after she lost her head?”

New York City, Thursday, January 18, 9:55

A.M.

“Damn traffic,” Nick grumbled. “I hate New York.”

They were finally moving after having inched their way out of the Holland Tunnel. “This wasn’t the best hour to come,” Vito agreed. “We should have taken the train.”

“Shoulda coulda,” Nick said sourly. “What the hell is that?”

Vito pulled his chirping cell phone from his pocket. “Stop grumbling. It’s just my cell. I have messages.” He looked over his shoulder. “I must have lost the signal in there.” Then he frowned. “Liz called four times in twenty minutes.” He called back, his pulse starting to race. “Liz, it’s Vito. What’s happened? Is it Sophie?”

“No.” Liz sounded exasperated. “I had an officer drive her to her museum and walk her to the door. I have two minutes before my press conference. I need Tino’s number.”

“Why?”

“An hour ago, a woman came to the precinct looking for whoever was leading the Greg Sanders investigation.” Liz was talking fast as she walked. “She said she was a waitress and saw Greg on Tuesday. He was waiting in her bar for a man.”

“Munch. Yes. Did she see the man?”

“She saw a man. She said Greg left without paying for his drink. Then an old man who’d been sitting at the bar followed him. The waitress followed them both, but when she got to the corner, they were driving away in a truck. I called for the department artist but she’s off shift. I don’t want to wait so long this witness forgets the old man’s face. So… damn. I’m late. You call Tino. Ask him to come in as soon as he can.”

Thursday, January 18, 11:15

A.M.

“Mr. Harrington is not here. Mr. Van Zandt is in meetings and can’t be disturbed.”

Vito carefully placed his palms on Van Zandt’s secretary’s desk and leaned forward. “Ma’am, we are homicide detectives. He really does want to see us. Now.”

The woman’s eyes widened, but her chin came up. “Detective…”

“Ciccotelli,” Vito said. “And Lawrence. From Philadephia. Call his office again. Tell him we’ll be knocking in sixty seconds.”

Her lips thinned and she picked up her phone, then bent over it, cupping the receiver, as if at eighteen inches away Vito couldn’t hear every word anyway. “Jager, they say they are police detectives… Yes, homicide. They’re very insistent.” She nodded briskly. “He’ll be out momentarily.”

The door to Van Zandt’s office opened, and out walked the man, looking just like his picture. He was big and brawny and for a moment Vito thought perhaps…

But then he spoke. “I am Jager Van Zandt,” he said and his voice sounded nothing like the voice on the tape. “How can I help you?” He regarded them with a cool detachment that Vito sensed was more defensive than arrogant. But arrogant, too.

“We’re interested in your game, Mr. Van Zandt,” Vito said. “Behind Enemy Lines.”

There was no reaction in the man’s eyes or face as he inclined his head in a nod. “Come into my office.” He closed the door behind them and gestured to two chairs that sat before a huge desk. Vito was reminded of Brewster’s office. “Please, sit.”

Jager sat behind his desk and inclined his head, waiting for them to speak.

By previous agreement, Vito and Nick had decided not to reveal the “No one can hear you” line they’d heard on the tape. Instead Vito showed him a printout of the French woman who’d been strangled in the game.

Van Zandt nodded. “Clothilde.”

“She’s strangled in that scene,” Vito said.

“Yes.” Van Zandt lifted a brow. “You are perhaps offended at the violence? Or that the violence was perpetrated by an American? In the game, of course.”

“Well, yes, we are offended at the violence,” Nick said. “But that’s not why we’re here. Who drew that picture, Mr. Van Zandt?”

Van Zandt remained impassive. “My art director is Derek Harrington. He can give you information on any of the artists.”

“He didn’t come in today,” Vito said. “Your secretary said so. Any idea why?”

“We are business partners, Detective. Nothing more.”

Blessing Brent, Vito smiled. “I read that you’ve been friends since college.”

“D’y’all have a fallin’-out?” Nick drawled, and for the first time Van Zandt showed a flicker of response. Just a small flash of anger in his eyes, extinguished immediately.

“We have not agreed in recent days. Derek’s tastes have become… violent.”

Vito blinked. “Really? He looks so nice in his picture on your website.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Detective.”

Vito drew another photo from his folder. “Yes, they can. Perhaps you can help us clear something up.” He slid the picture of Claire Reynolds next to the screenshot of Clothilde. But there was nothing. Not even a flicker to indicate Van Zandt was impacted in any way. Surprise would have been the natural response, but there was nothing.

“The resemblance is uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?” Nick asked.

“Yes. But they say everyone looks like someone.” One side of his mouth lifted. “They say I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“It’s just the accent,” Vito said and Van Zandt’s smile disappeared. “We’d like to find Mr. Harrington. Can your secretary give us his address?”

“Of course.” He picked up the phone. “Raynette, please get Derek’s home address for the detectives. Then please show them out.” He said all that while holding Vito’s gaze in defiant coldness. “Is there anything else, Detective?”

“Not right now. Will you be here if we have more questions before we go home?”

He glanced down at the calendar on his desk. “I will be here. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood and opened his office door. “My secretary will help you now.”

Vito stood up, intentionally leaving the photo of Claire Reynolds on Van Zandt’s desk. The door closed at their backs with a firm click. Van Zandt’s secretary was glaring at them. “Mr. Harrington’s address.” She held a piece of paper in her hand.

Vito slid the paper in his folder. “When was Mr. Harrington last in the office?”

“Tuesday,” she said stonily. “He left right after lunch and didn’t return.”

Vito said nothing more until he and Nick were out on the sidewalk. “What a snake.”

“Everybody looks like somebody,” Nick mimicked in his best Arnold imitation.

“He was expecting us,” Vito said as they started for Nick’s car.

“You caught that, too? His secretary didn’t say we were homicide when she announced us, just that we were detectives, but then she said ‘Yes, homicide.’”

“Like he’d asked her first,” Vito mused. “I wonder who Van Zandt thinks is dead.”

“First round of drinks when we’re done says we don’t find Derek at that address.”

“Sucker bet, Nick,” Vito said as Nick slid behind the wheel.

“Shit. I was hoping now that you’re blinded by love I could slide that one right past.”

Vito chuckled. “Just drive, okay?”

Nick pulled away from the curb, one brow raised. “You didn’t disagree. So what’s the deal, you and Sophie? Are you blinded by love?” The last was said in a teasing tone that didn’t hide the more serious question underneath.

You don’t love me. Her bitter words following that first disastrous, unforgettable… mating came back to hit him in the head and now he thought he understood them a little better. Vito wondered if anyone had really loved her other than Anna and her uncle. Her mother was abusive, her father rather cold. Her aunt was selfish and her first lover a cheating snake. Quite a cast of characters.

“Vito?” Nick’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I asked you a question.”

“And I’m trying to answer. Sophie’s… She’s…”

“Smart, funny, sexy as hell?”

Yes. All of those things. But more than those things. “Important,” Vito finally said. “She’s important. Harrington lives west of here, so turn left at the corner.”

Thursday, January 18, 11:45

A.M.

Philadelphia had a lot of hotels. After showing his parents’ picture to staff at more than thirty hotels, Daniel Vartanian finally found a desk clerk who remembered his mother.

“She was sick, man,” Ray Garrett said. “I thought Housekeeping would find her dead in the bed. She should have been in a hospital.”

“Can you check the dates they stayed?”

“Against policy. I wish I could help, but without seeing a badge, I’d lose my job.”

I know what your son did. He wasn’t on duty, but Daniel pulled his shield from his pocket anyway. “I’m with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “I’d appreciate any help you can give me. The woman is sick, and she needs to see her doctor.”

Ray looked at him for a long moment. “She’s your mother, isn’t she?”

Daniel hesitated. He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

“Okay. What name were they registered under?”

“Vartanian.” Daniel spelled it.

Ray shook his head. “We have no records of a Vartanian. I’m sorry.”

“But you saw her.”

“I’m pretty sure. It’s hard to forget a woman that sick. Sorry, man.”

“Can you check Beaumont?” It was his mother’s maiden name.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

So close. “Can I talk to your staff? Maybe one of them remembers something.”

Ray’s eyes were kind. “Wait here.” In a few minutes he was back with a small Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform. “This is Maria. She remembers your mother.”

“Your mother was very sick, no? But she was nice to us. Tried not be a problem.”

“Do you remember what you called her?”

“Mrs. Carol.” She shrugged. “Her husband called her this too.”

Ray was already typing. “Here it is. Mr. Arthur Carol.”

It was a simple yet elegant ruse, Daniel thought. Carol was his mother’s first name. “Thank you, Maria,” Daniel said. “Thank you so much.” When she was gone, Daniel turned to Ray. “Can you tell me when they checked in?”

“Checked in November 19, out December 1. Paid in cash. Is there anything else?”

He thought of the floor of his parents’ bedroom. “Do you have a safe?” Ray’s eyes flickered. “They had articles in the safe, didn’t they?”

Ray shrugged. “Still do. According to this, they didn’t get the items they’d stored in the safe when they checked out. We have a policy of ninety days or we pitch it.”

“Can you at least check? That way I’ll know if I need to get a warrant.”

“Okay, but this is it.” Two minutes later Ray came back with an envelope, surprise on his face. “There was a letter in there addressed to you.”

On the envelope was written “For Daniel or Susannah Vartanian.” The handwriting was his mother’s. Daniel drew a breath. “Thank you, Ray.”

“Good luck,” Ray said quietly.

When he got to his car, Daniel opened the envelope. It was a single sheet of hotel stationery with an address and a box number, written in his mother’s hand. Daniel took out his cell phone and dialed. His sister answered on the third ring, her voice brisk.

“District Attorney’s office. Susannah Vartanian.”

“Suze, it’s Danny.”

Susannah let out a breath. “Did you find them?”

“No, but I found something else.”

Thursday, January 18, 12:00

P.M.

Johannsen was still being careful. She had surrounded herself with people all morning long. Dragging her anywhere was going to be difficult, because the woman was a veritable Amazon. He planned to get her near his vehicle then disable her quickly. But he needed to get her alone first. He’d planned to wait until she broke for lunch to make his move.

He’d timed it well. Her Viking tour had just finished. He was approaching her when the door opened and another old man came in, winding his way through the children who’d taken the tour. Hands extended in welcome, Johannsen rushed to the old man, who, he was surprised to see, wasn’t really old either. He wasn’t in disguise, but he wasn’t that old. His body had been damaged, likely from repeated abuse. The man’s broken hands confirmed the assumption.

He wondered how much torture the man had sustained and how long it would take to wreak that kind of damage. He’d like to paint that man’s eyes. He imagined he’d have a hell of a pain threshold and would last a lot longer than any of the models had.

Johannsen and the old man began to speak to each other in what sounded like Russian. As she walked the Russian to the front door, he stepped forward.

Then his cell phone rang. Several people looked up and he turned his face away quickly, hunching over his cane. Drawing attention to himself was not part of his mission. He hurried out of the museum as quickly as he thought an old man should and opened his cell phone when he got far enough away. It was Van Zandt’s direct number. Frowning, he dialed back. “It’s Frasier Lewis.”

“Frasier,” Van Zandt said. “I need to meet with you.”

“I can come up in a few days. Maybe next Tuesday.”

“No. I need to speak with you today. Frasier, Derek quit yesterday.”

He certainly had. In more ways than one. “Really? Why?”

“Didn’t want to give up artistic control. I have a contract for you to sign. I’ll be in Philadelphia later this afternoon. Meet me for dinner at seven. You can sign it and I’ll be on my way.

“Executive art director?” he asked and Van Zandt laughed.

“That’s what it says on the contract. I’ll see you then.”

New York City, Thursday, January 18, 12:30

P.M.

“Told you it was a sucker bet,” Vito muttered under his breath.

Nick nodded, arms crossed over his chest as the two of them watched a pair of NYPD detectives check anyplace a man could hide. Or be hidden. “Now what?”

“Put out an APB, I guess. Looks like they’re done here.”

The two NY cops came back to the living room. They were Carlos and Charles. Almost as good as Nick and Chick, Vito thought, but not quite.

“He’s not here,” Carlos said. “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” Vito said. “We didn’t think we’d find him here, but…”

Charles nodded. “You guys have ten bodies down there. We’d have looked, too.”

“So what do you boys want to do?” Carlos asked. “Is this guy a suspect?”

“We don’t think he’s our killer,” Nick said, “but he might have an idea of who is.”

“We can put out an APB for you,” Charles offered.

“We appreciate it.” Vito picked up a framed photo, Harrington with a woman and teenaged girl. “He’s married with a kid. Can we find the wife?”

“We’ll call it in,” Carlos said. “Anything else?”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe recommend a good deli where we can get lunch?”

Philadelphia, Thursday, January 18, 2:15

P.M.

“Can I help you?” The boy behind the counter looked barely old enough to shave.

I certainly hope so, Daniel thought. The address his mother had left on the hotel stationery was a mailbox store on the other side of town.

He’d sat outside for some time, debating whether he should call his boss and make this an official investigation. But “I know what your son did” continued to haunt him. So here he was, about to use his badge to bypass the law again. “I need to check a box.”

The boy nodded professionally. “Can I see your ID?”

Daniel handed him his shield and watched the boy’s eyes grow wide.

“I’ll look it up… Special Agent Vartanian.”

The boy was so impressed with his being an agent he didn’t wait to see which box Daniel wanted. The kid typed in his name, then looked up. “Just a minute, sir.”

Wait was on Daniel’s lips, but he bit it back. His name was in their computer. He’d never set foot in this city before this week. Heart pounding, he waited. In a minute the boy returned with a thick manila envelope that had been folded sideways.

“Just this, sir,” the kid said.

“Thank you,” Daniel managed. “But that’s not the only reason I came in. I’m working a case and one of the leads is a box here at this store. I took the responsibility for following up since I had to come by anyway. Can you tell me who owns box 115?”

It was way too easy. Both to utter the lie and to fool the boy. But he got what he needed. “It’s registered to Claire Reynolds. Do you need her address?”

“Please.”

The boy wrote it down, and Daniel once again went out to his car with an envelope in his hand. He carefully sliced the top with his pen knife, then drew out the contents.

For a moment he could only stare in horror and total disbelief. Then the years yanked him back like a riptide. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Dad, what did you do?”

This was worse than his worst fear. I know what your son did. Now Daniel knew what his father had done as well. He wasn’t sure he could ask why.

When he could breathe again he called Susannah.

“Did you find them?” she asked without preamble.

He forced his mouth to speak the words. “You need to come.”

“Daniel, I can’t…”

“Please, Susannah.” His voice was harsh. “I need you to come. Please.” He waited, his heart stuck in his throat.

Finally she sighed. “All right. I’ll take the train. I’ll be there in three hours.”

“I’ll pick you up at the station.”

“Daniel, are you all right?”

He stared at the papers he held. “No. I’m not.”

New York City, Thursday, January 18, 2:45

P.M.

“Harrington’s either gone under or he’s dead,” Vito told Liz on the phone. “We checked his office, his apartment, and his wife’s apartment. Nobody’s seen him. His car isn’t in its space. We visited his wife who says she hasn’t seen him in six months. They have a daughter at Columbia University who said she hasn’t seen him either.”

“Why do he and his wife have separate apartments?”

“She said they’d separated. He’d become increasingly depressed and ‘melancholy’ she said, but never violent. NYPD’s put out an APB and now we’re sitting in front of oRo eating lunch. We’re about to go back up to see if we can get an employee list from Van Zandt, or hang outside until one of the employees talks to us. Brent said Harrington didn’t do the art, but somebody there did. We just need one person willing to finger him.”

“Good. Stick with it. I have some news on the Vartanians. I called the sheriff in Dutton, Georgia. The Vartanians haven’t been seen since before Thanksgiving.”

“That’s consistent with what Yuri said last night.”

“I know. There’s more. The sheriff informed the Vartanians’ son that his parents might be missing last weekend. The son is with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, and the daughter is with the New York DA’s office. Neither of them is in their office. Daniel, the GBI guy, has been on leave since Monday. His sister, Susannah, just took leave this afternoon. I’ve left word with their supervisors to have them call me.”

But there was more, Vito could tell, and it was worse. “Just tell me, Liz.”

“The police in White Plains, New York, found Kyle Lombard in his antique store.”

Vito’s heart skipped a beat. “Dead?”

“Bullet between his eyes. Looks like it came from a German weapon, vintage. They’re sending the bullet to us so we can match it against the one from the kid on the first row. The local police searched his store and found all kinds of illegally obtained medieval goodies hidden under his floor. Your Sophie would have a field day.”

Vito’s willed his stomach to settle. His Sophie was now officially in danger. “What about the other two. Shafer and Brewster?”

“Shafer was riding shotgun with Lombard. So to speak. Also had a bullet between the eyes. Both were tied to chairs and shot there in the store. Brewster’s still missing.”

“If Lombard was dealing, let’s see if we can check his sales records. Maybe we can find a tie to our guy.”

“Not gonna happen. Lombard’s computer was wiped and his paper files were strewn all over the office. And to wrap it in pretty red tape, the store and Lombard’s inventory have been seized by the Feds. Even though they were sixty to six hundred years old, Lombard was smuggling weapons. I expect we’re going to get leaned on to hand this case over to the Feds sooner or later.”

Vito frowned. “You won’t let that happen, right?”

“To the extent of my authority, no. But were I your boss, and I am, I’d be telling you to get back here and wrap this one up quick or you’ll be getting help you don’t want.”

“Fuck.” Vito drew a breath. “Does Sophie know about Lombard and Shafer?”

“I called and told her. She’s a smart woman, Vito. She said she wouldn’t go out alone and would call one of us to pick her up when she’s done for the day.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

“Are you okay?” Liz asked.

“No. Not really. But if she’s careful… we just have to catch this guy.”

“So do it. See you soon.”

Scowling, Vito hung up and stared up at the building that housed oRo. “Lombard and Clint Shafer. Luger, between the eyes.”

“Shit,” Nick muttered. “I guess that snips off those loose ends.”

Vito started to get out of the car. “Let’s go have another little talk with Van Zandt.”

But Nick stopped him. “First, you need to eat. Second, you need to calm down. If you spook him, we’ll lose him, and like I said before-I ain’t takin’ your whoopin’.”

“Fine.”

“Maybe I should do the talking this time,” Nick said.

Vito ripped the plastic wrap from his sandwich angrily. “Fine.”

New York City, Thursday, January 18, 3:05

P.M.

“Mr. Van Zandt isn’t here.”

Vito gaped at the prune-mouthed secretary. “What?”

Nick cleared his throat. “Mr. Van Zandt said he’d be available this afternoon.”

“He had an unexpected call from a client. He had to leave.”

“So… what time was this?” Nick asked.

“About noon.”

Nick nodded. “I see. Well then, could you provide us with a list of your employees?”

Vito was biting his tongue. He knew neither of them thought the envelope she handed them with such nasty satisfaction would have the information they wanted.

Nick pulled out a letter on oRo letterhead, its message short and sweet. “‘Get a warrant,’” Nick read. “Signed ‘Jager A. Van Zandt.’ Well, then, that’s what we’ll do.” He pulled a sheet of blank paper from her printer. “Could you write your name for me please? I want to be sure we spell it correctly on the warrant. Then sign it.”

She was suddenly not so defiant. Still she wrote her name and handed him the page. “You know the way out.”

“Same way we came in,” Nick said with an easy smile. “Y’all have a nice day, now.”

Outside on the curb Nick folded the secretary’s paper and put it and the envelope in his pocket. “Handwriting samples,” he said. “To compare against the Claire letters.”

“Good work. Thanks, Nick. I was too mad to be effective.”

“You’ve covered for me enough times. I’d say we’re good.”

“Excuse me.”

A man was hurrying toward them, his face anxious. “Have you been in oRo?”

“Yes, sir,” Vito answered. “But we don’t work there.”

“I’ve been trying to see Derek Harrington since yesterday, but they say he’s not in.”

“Why were you trying to see Harrington?” Nick asked.

“It’s about my son. He promised he’d show a picture of my son to the other artists.”

Vito’s heart sank as his apprehension rose. “Why, sir?”

“My son is missing and someone in that building saw him. They used him as a model. I want to know when and where. Then I’ll least know where to start looking.”

Vito slid his shield from his pocket. “I’m Detective Ciccotelli, and this is my partner, Detective Lawrence. What’s your name, and do you have a photo of your son?”

The man squinted at his shield. “Philadelphia? I’m Lloyd Webber.” He handed Vito a picture. “This is my son, Zachary.”

It was the young man who got shot in the head. “One-three,” he murmured.

“What? What does that mean?” Webber demanded.

“I’ll call Carlos and Charles,” Nick said quietly and moved away to use his phone.

Vito met Webber’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. But I think we might have your son’s body.”

Denial warred with bitter reality in Webber’s eyes. “In Philadelphia?”

“Yes, sir. If this is the boy we think it is, he’s dead and has been for about a year.”

Webber deflated. “I knew. I just didn’t want to believe. I need to call my wife.”

“I’m sorry,” Vito said again.

Webber jerked a nod. “She’s going to ask how he died. What should I tell her?”

Vito hesitated. Liz would want to keep as much of this contained as possible, but this father deserved to know what had happened to his son and with that he was sure Liz would agree. “He was shot, sir.”

Webber flashed a hot furious glance up at the building. “In the head?”

“Yes, but if you could keep that to yourself for now, we’d appreciate it.”

He nodded, numb. “Thank you. I won’t tell her where he was shot.”

Vito watched as he walked ten feet away and called his wife. Then swallowed hard when Webber’s shoulders began to heave. “Fuck,” Vito viciously whispered, hearing Nick behind him. “I really want him. Bad.”

“I know. Charles and Carlos asked us to wait here while they get a warrant. They’re going to try to seize all oRo’s records.”

A car door slammed behind them and Vito and Nick turned. A man got out of a cab, his face grimly determined. “Are you the detectives from Philly?”

“Yeah,” Nick answered. “Who wants to know?”

The man stopped in front of them, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. “My name is Tony England. Until two days ago I worked for oRo. Derek Harrington was my boss.”

“What happened?” Nick asked.

“I quit. Derek was being steamrolled by Jager into doing things he didn’t agree with. That I didn’t agree with. I couldn’t stand by and watch Jager destroy it all.”

“How did you know we were here?” Vito asked.

“oRo’s a small company. Everyone knew you were there thirty seconds after you walked in the door. An old friend called, told me you were here asking about Derek. I came down right away, but you were gone.” England’s eyes narrowed at Webber, who’d finished his call, but stood with his back to them, quietly weeping. “Who is he?”

Vito looked at Nick and Nick gave him a little nod. Vito held out the photo. “The father of this boy. His name is Zachary. He’s dead.”

Every drop of color drained from England’s thin face. “Fuck. Holy fuck. That’s…” He stared in horror at the picture. “Oh, my God, what have we done?”

“Do you know who drew this boy into the game, Mr. England?” Nick asked softly.

England’s eyes narrowed. “Frasier Lewis. I hope you fry his ass and he rots in hell.”