Die for Me

Chapter Twenty-One

Friday, January 19, 9:30

A.M.

Sophie.”

Sophie looked up from her computer to find an irate Ted the Third standing in her office doorway. “Ted.”

“Don’t you ‘Ted’ me. What’s this all about?” Ted demanded. “Cops dropping you off at work is one thing, but now cops are in my museum. What the hell is going on?”

Sophie sighed. “I’m sorry, Ted. I didn’t know about this until a half hour ago myself. I’m helping the police with a case.”

“By answering their history questions. Yes, I remember.”

“Well, somebody didn’t like me helping them. They think I might be in some danger. So they sent someone to watch over me. It’s only temporary.”

Ted expression swung from ire to concern. “My God. That’s why they’ve been driving you around all week. Your car and bike are fine.”

“Well, my bike’s not. Somebody dumped sugar in my tank.” But Amanda Brewster had been smart enough to wear gloves. The police hadn’t found a single print.

“Sophie, don’t try to distract me. What does this person look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sophie.” Ted’s brows snapped together. “If someone’s threatening you, that puts this whole museum at risk. Tell me.”

Sophie shook her head. “I would if I could. But I honestly don’t know.” He could be young, old. He could be any face in any crowd. He’d stalked his own sister for a year and she hadn’t recognized him. A chill ran down Sophie’s back. She could be looking right at him and not have a clue. “If you want me to leave, I will.”

Ted blew out a breath. “No, I don’t want you to leave. We’ve got four tours scheduled today.” He looked at her with wry affection. “This isn’t an elaborate ploy to get out of being Joan, is it?”

She laughed. “I wish I’d thought of it, but no.”

Ted sobered. “If you’re in danger, scream for us.”

Another chill ran down her back, harder this time, and she felt her smile slide right off her face. “Okay. I will.”

Ted glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, the show must go on. You’re the Viking queen at ten. Better get into makeup.”

Atlanta, Georgia, Friday, January 19, 10:30

A.M.

Frank Loomis met them at the airport. “I’m so sorry to hear about your parents.”

“Thanks, Frank,” Daniel said. Susannah said very little. She looked fragile. After finding out Simon had been stalking her for the past year, both of them were on edge.

“I have to tell you, Daniel, it didn’t take much for word to spread through town that we’re diggin’ up Simon’s grave. Y’all need to prepare to face some reporters.”

Daniel helped Susannah into Frank’s car. “When will they start digging?”

“Sometime after two, most likely.”

Daniel got in the front passenger seat and turned to check on Susannah, only to find her lifting the top off a copy-paper box. “What is it?”

“Your parents’ mail,” Frank answered. “I went by the post office and picked it all up this morning. There are another three boxes in the trunk. I had Wanda do some sorting, so most of the non-junk mail is in that box you have there, Suzie.”

“Thank you.” Susannah swallowed hard. “Welcome home to us.”

Philadelphia, Friday, January 19, 10:45

A.M.

Vito leaned into the sign-in counter. “Miss Savard.”

“Detective.” Pfeiffer’s receptionist looked at Nick with interest. “And this would be?”

“Detective Lawrence,” Nick answered. “Can we talk to Dr. Pfeiffer?”

“He’s with a patient right now, but I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Pfeiffer himself came to the waiting room door. “Detectives.” He led them back to his office and shut the door. “Did you find the person who killed Claire Reynolds?”

“Not yet,” Vito said, “but another one of your patients has come up in the course of our investigation.” They all sat down, Pfeiffer with a sigh.

“I can’t discuss my live patients, Detective. As much as I’d like to help you.”

“We knew that,” Nick said. “We came with a court order so that you could help us.”

Pfeiffer’s brows went up. He held out his hand. “Well, let’s have it.”

Vito felt a strange reluctance to hand it over. “We’re depending on your discretion.”

Pfeiffer just nodded. “I understand the rules of the game, Detective.”

Vito sensed Nick stiffen next to him and knew his instinct was shared. Nevertheless, he had to get the records, so he handed the court order over the desk.

Pfeiffer stared at the names on the court order for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

When he was gone, Nick folded his arms over his chest. “Rules of the game?”

“I know,” Vito said. “When we get back, let’s check him out.”

A minute later Pfeiffer was back. “Here is Mr. Lewis’s file. We took a picture of each patient for the study. I included the photo, as well.”

Vito took the file and flipped it opened and found himself looking at yet a different view of Simon Vartanian. It was a candid photo, taken as Simon sat in Pfeiffer’s waiting room. His jaw was softer, his nose less sharp than in the picture Tino had drawn of Frasier Lewis. He passed the file to Nick.

“You didn’t seem surprised, Doctor,” Vito commented blandly.

“You know how somebody shoots up his family and all the neighbors say, ‘He was so nice. We’re so shocked.’ Well, Frasier wasn’t nice. He had a coldness that made me nervous. Kind of like I’d walked into a cage with a cobra. And that hair is a wig.”

Vito blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. I came back after an exam and his wig had gone askew. I closed the door, then knocked and waited for him to tell me to come in. He’d fixed the wig by then.”

“What color was his hair underneath?” Nick asked.

“He’d shaved his head bald. In fact, Frasier Lewis had no body hair at all.”

“You didn’t think that was odd?” Vito asked.

“Not especially. Frasier was an athlete. Lots of athletes wax their body hair.”

Nick closed the file. “Thank you, Dr. Pfeiffer. We’ll see ourselves out.”

They were in Nick’s car when Vito’s cell began to ring. It was Liz.

“Get back here,” Liz said, excited. “Christmas just came all over again.”

Friday, January 19, 1:35

P.M.

They’d found Van Zandt through an “anonymous” tip. Vito and Nick took some time to get their evidence ducks in a row with Jen before meeting Liz in the interrogation room. They found her studying Van Zandt through the one-way glass.

Vito’s smile had claws as he looked at Van Zandt through the glass. Van Zandt looked annoyed but crisp in his three-piece suit. His attorney was a thin man, who looked just as annoyed, but not nearly as crisp. “I’m looking forward to this.”

One side of Liz’s mouth lifted. “Me, too. The tip was called in to 911 from an untraceable cell. The caller told us we could find Van Zandt at his hotel, gave us the room number, then called back when we’d brought him in, this time to my private line.”

“He was watching to be sure we picked him up,” Nick said. “Simon’s still in Philly.”

“Yep. He sounded just like the voice on the tape. Gave me a damn shiver.”

“What did you say to him?” Vito asked.

“I asked him who he was and he just laughed. Van Zandt’s car was missing from the hotel parking lot when they picked him up. Van Zandt claimed it wasn’t where he’d parked when he went to leave this morning.” She held out a piece of paper. “When Simon called me, he told us where to find Van Zandt’s car, then suggested we look in the trunk and asked me to pass on that message to ‘VZ.’” She punctuated the air. “Normally I wouldn’t play messenger for a killer, but under the circumstances…”

Vito already knew what Jen’s CSU team had found in Van Zandt’s trunk, and he and Nick had come heavily armed, so to speak. Vito took the paper Liz offered and laughed grimly. “Van Zandt didn’t know who he was dealing with.”

“Neither does Simon Vartanian,” Liz said, just as grimly. “Get in there and let that arrogant bastard know he’s fucked.”

Van Zandt looked up when Vito and Nick entered the interrogation room. His eyes were cold, his mouth a thin line. He stayed seated and said nothing.

His attorney came to his feet. “I’m Doug Musgrove. You have nothing with which to hold my client. Let him go or I’m filing formal charges against the Philadelphia PD.”

“You do that,” Vito said. “Jager, if this suit is your contracts attorney, you might want to get out the old phone book and hire a criminal defense attorney.”

Van Zandt just glared.

Musgrove bristled. “Arrest him, or let him go,” he said, and Vito shrugged.

“Okay. Jager Van Zandt, you’re under arrest for the murder of Derek Harrington.”

Van Zandt surged to his feet, unholy rage on face. “What?” He looked at his attorney. “What the fuck is this?”

“Oh, let me finish,” Vito said. “It’s not official if I don’t finish.” He quoted the rest of Miranda, then sat down and stretched out his legs. “I’m done. Your turn to play.”

“I did not kill anybody,” Van Zandt gritted. “Musgrote, get me out of here.”

Musgrote sat down. “They’ve arrested you, Jager. We’ll get you out on bail.”

Jager sneered. “I didn’t kill Derek. You have nothing.”

“We have your car,” Nick said and Van Zandt blinked.

“It was stolen,” he said stiffly. “That was why I was still at my hotel.”

Vito scratched his chin. “Uh-huh. Did you report it stolen?”

“No.”

“Three-month-old Porsche. I’d have reported it the second it was stolen.”

“Well, you know what they say about rich boys and their toys,” Nick drawled.

Van Zandt pounded the table. “I did not kill Derek. I don’t even know where he is.”

“That’s okay. We do,” Vito said. “He’s in the trunk of your Porsche. At least he was. Now he’s in the morgue.”

Van Zandt’s eyes flickered. “He’s dead? He’s really dead?”

“A bullet from a 1943 German Luger between the eyes tends to have that effect.” Nick’s voice was harsh. “The same gun we found hidden with your tire-changing kit. The same gun that killed Zachary Webber.”

“Oh,” Vito added, “and Kyle Lombard and Clint Shafer. Mustn’t forget about them.”

They had the pleasure of seeing Van Zandt pale. “The gun was planted,” he hissed furiously. “And I’ve never even heard of those other two men.”

“Jager, be quiet,” Musgrove said.

Van Zandt shot him a contemptuous glare. “Go get me a criminal attorney. I did not kill Derek or anyone else. I didn’t even know Derek was missing.”

“Of course you could tell the jury you shot him to put him out of his misery,” Nick said, stone-faced. “He’d suffered enough, what with having his feet burned and his intestines ripped out.”

Van Zandt stiffened. “What?”

“And his hands broken and his tongue cut out.” Nick sat down. “Then again, I can’t imagine any jury seeing you as merciful, Mr. Van Zandt.”

Van Zandt’s swallow was the only indication he was affected by the torture of the man he’d once called his friend. “I didn’t do any of those things.”

“The gun was with these,” Vito said. He laid a picture on the table and had the further pleasure of seeing Van Zandt flinch. “That’s Derek Harrington’s car and your chief of security peeking in the window. And that’s your reflection in the window. You were standing behind him.” Vito leaned back in his chair. “You knew Derek was missing yesterday when you gave us his home address.”

“I did not.” Van Zandt spat the words from behind tightly clenched teeth.

“Derek confronted you with pictures of Zachary Webber,” Nick continued, “the boy in your game who got shot with a German Luger. You had Derek followed. Then you took him and you killed him and you stuck him in your trunk and left it at a rest stop.”

“You can’t know when that photo was taken,” Musgrove scoffed.

“Ah, but we do. The photographer was quite clever,” Nick said.

Vito slid another photo across the table. “An enlargement of the detail of that bank sign behind Harrington’s car. It gives the temperature, and the time and the date.”

Van Zandt drew his body ramrod straight, but his face was still ashen. “Any ten-year-old with Photoshop could have doctored those photos. They mean nothing.”

Jen thought they’d been doctored, but they weren’t telling Van Zandt.

“Perhaps that’s true, but your secretary already gave you up,” Nick said.

Vito nodded. “Yeah, it’s true. NYPD just got done taking her statement this morning. Faced with charges of obstruction, she admitted you and Harrington quarreled three days ago and that he quit. Then you immediately called in your security guy.”

“Circumstantial,” Musgrote said, but there was doubt in his tone.

Vito lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps. But there’s more. With the gun we also found bank records showing you’d paid money to Zachary Webber and Brittany Bellamy and Warren Keyes.” Vito put pictures of the victims on the table. “You recognize them, don’t you?”

“We found your CDs,” Nick said, mildly now. “You’re a gruesome sonofabitch, Van Zandt, thinkin’ up shit like that.”

Van Zandt’s jaw cocked. “This is a setup.”

“We found you on an anonymous tip… VZ,” Nick said, and Van Zandt’s eyes flashed. “The tipper asked us to pass on a message. What was it again, Chick?”

“‘Checkmate,’” Vito said, and the look on Van Zandt’s face was priceless.

“You played with fire, Jager,” Nick said. “And you got burned. Now you’re going down for murder.”

Van Zandt stared at the table, a muscle in his jaw twitching erratically. When he looked up, Vito knew they’d won. “What do you want?” Van Zandt said.

“Jager,” Musgrove started and Van Zandt turned on him with a snarl.

“Just shut up and go get me a real attorney. Now, detectives, what do you want?”

“Frasier Lewis,” Vito said. “We want the man you called Frasier Lewis.”

Dutton, Georgia, Friday, January 19, 2:45

P.M.

If she hadn’t been nearly breaking his hand, Daniel would have thought Susannah’s poise was complete. Her expression was flat, her features composed, just like he’d expect to see her in a courtroom. But this was no courtroom. There was a wall of flashing cameras behind them and it seemed most of the county had turned out to see who was buried in Simon’s tomb. Daniel knew it wouldn’t be Simon.

“Daniel,” Susannah murmured, “I’ve been thinking about what that archeologist said. About Dad not wanting Mother to know that he’d found Simon.”

“Me, too. Dad had to have known Simon was alive. He wouldn’t have wanted Mom to know what he did. I’ve been wondering why he took the pictures to Philadelphia.”

Susannah’s chuckle was mirthless. “He was blackmailing Simon. Think about it. If he knew Simon was alive, why all this?” She nodded at the crane moving into position. “And if he faked all of this, how could he be sure that Simon wouldn’t come back?”

“He kept the pictures as insurance,” Daniel said wearily. “But why do any of this at all? Suze, if you know something, please tell me. Please.”

Susannah was quiet for so long that Daniel thought she wouldn’t answer. But then she sighed. “Things were bad when you lived at home, Daniel, but after you went away to college things got a whole lot worse. Dad and Simon fought all the time. Mother would always intervene. It was ugly.”

“And you?” Daniel kept his voice gentle. “What did you do when they fought?”

She swallowed hard. “I got involved in every after-school activity I could find, then when I got home, I hid in my room. It was the easiest way. Then, one day right after Simon graduated from high school it all came to a head. It was Wednesday and Mother was at her hair appointment in town. I was in my room and I heard Dad bust open Simon’s door and they had this huge fight.”

She closed her eyes. “They were yelling about pictures. At the time I thought they were talking about the paintings under his bed, but now I know the pictures were probably the ones you found. Dad was up for judge reelection and he said Simon’s fuckups were killing his career, but that this one took the cake, that he’d fucked up one time too many. And then everything got real quiet.”

“And then?”

She opened her eyes and stared at the crane. “They were still arguing, but too low for me to hear. Then Simon yelled, ‘I’ll see you in hell before I let you send me to jail, old man,’ and Dad said, ‘Hell’s the best place for you.’ Simon said, ‘You ought to know. We’re birds of a feather.’” She swallowed hard. “Then Simon said, ‘And someday my gun will be a lot bigger than yours.’ ”

Daniel let out the breath he’d been holding. “Dear God.”

She nodded. “The front door slammed and… I’m not sure why, but something told me to hide, so I did, in my closet. A minute later, my door opened, then shut. I think Dad was looking to see if I’d overheard.”

He shook his head, but it didn’t clear his bewilderment. “Suze. My God.”

“I’ve never been sure what he would have done if he’d found me. That night Simon didn’t show up for supper. Mother was distraught. Dad said Simon had probably gone off with some friends, that she shouldn’t worry. A few days later, Dad told us he’d gotten a call that Simon was dead.” She looked up at him, pain in her eyes. “All these years I thought Dad had killed him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Same reason you didn’t when you thought Dad had burned the pictures. My word against his. I was only sixteen. He was a respected judge. And like I said, I had to sleep sometime.”

Daniel was sick to his stomach. “And I left you there. God, Suze. I’m sorry. If I’d known you were in danger… even that you were afraid, I would have taken you with me. Please believe that.”

She returned her gaze to the crane. “What’s done is done. Last night I realized Dad probably found those pictures and knew his career wouldn’t survive if anyone saw them. He probably told Simon to leave and never come back and threatened him with prison if he didn’t. He knew Mother would never stop looking for Simon as long as there was any hope that he was alive. So…”

“So he fixed it so she’d believe Simon was dead.”

“It’s the only way it makes sense to me.” She bit at her lip. “I thought about them both all night. He tortured Dad, Daniel.”

“I know.” It had kept him awake all night as well.

“Do you think Simon tortured him so that he’d tell where Mother was?”

“I considered it,” Daniel admitted. “I think Simon’s capable.”

“Oh, I know he’s capable.”

“Suze… What happened? What did he do to you?”

She shook her head. “Not now. Someday. But not today.”

“When you’re ready, you’ll call me.”

She squeezed his hand tighter. “I will.”

“I want to think Dad would have died before letting Simon get to Mother,” he said.

“I’d like to think it,” she said flatly, which said a great deal.

“You know Simon’s not in there,” Daniel said as the crane brought up the casket.

“I know.”

Philadelphia, Friday, January 19, 4:20

P.M.

“Sophie.”

Sophie’s stomach dropped to her toes as Harry hurried across the lobby, passing Officer Lyons without a glance. “Harry? What’s wrong with Gran?”

He cast a wary glance at the ax on her shoulder. “Nothing, Anna’s fine. Can you put that down? It makes me nervous.”

Relieved, she set the ax head on the floor. “I’ve got a tour in a few minutes, Harry.”

“I needed to tell you something. In person. And it’s not good. Freya told me you’d called asking if we’d put Anna’s record collection away for safekeeping. We didn’t. I did some checking and… um… it’s been taken.”

Her eyes narrowed. “By whom?” But she already knew.

“Lena. She showed up after Anna’s stroke, but I sent her away. Instead she went to Anna’s house and took the records and other valuables. I found some of them on eBay. The seller on eBay believed he’d bought them legitimately from Lena. I’m sorry.”

Sophie let out a slow breath, her heart pounding in her head. “Is there more?”

“Yes. When I found out about the missing records, I talked to Anna’s lawyer. She had a lot of money tied up in bonds that I knew nothing about. If she’d died, her lawyer would have told us. As it was…” He took a breath. “The lawyer checked the serial numbers on the bonds. They’ve been cashed. I’m so sorry, Sophie. A good part of what would have been your inheritance-yours and Freya’s-is gone.”

Sophie nodded, numb. “Thanks for telling me in person. I have to work now.”

Harry frowned. “We have to call the police and press charges.”

She swung the ax on her shoulder with too much force. “You do it. If I press charges, I might have to see her. I’d really rather never see her again.”

“Sophie, wait.” Harry had noticed Officer Lyons. “Why is there a cop in your lobby?”

“He’s here for security.” It was a half-truth more than a half-lie. “Harry, I have a tour group waiting for me in the Hall. I have to go. Do what you want with Lena. I don’t care.”

Friday, January 19, 5:00

P.M.

Vito dropped into his chair at the conference room table and rubbed the back of his neck, tired and frustrated. “Fuck.” Three hours of interviewing Jager Van Zandt had at times brought new insights but ultimately hadn’t yielded the real information they sought.

Liz sat down next to him. “Van Zandt really might not know where Simon is, Vito.”

“You could try torturing it out of him,” Jen muttered, then shrugged when Liz raised her brows. “It was just a thought.”

“Damn good thought,” Katherine said, and by the looks on the faces around the table, a thought everyone else shared.

Gathered for the evening debrief, Nick and Jen, Katherine and Thomas, and Liz and Brent all wore grim expressions. They’d been joined by a new face-ADA Magdalena Lopez who, along with Thomas and Liz, had observed the interrogation of Van Zandt. Maggy was a delicate woman with dark brown eyes that now narrowed as she spoke.

“He might know and he might not. But I’m not prepared to give him anything more than I have, particularly not full immunity.”

Maggy had offered to reduce his murder charge to manslaughter if he told them where to find Frasier Lewis, aka Simon, but Van Zandt had demanded full immunity, the arrogant little bastard. “We don’t want you to give him immunity, Maggy,” Vito said. “He might not have killed anyone, but he was sure as hell prepared to profit from it.”

“Besides,” Nick said, “if Simon had believed Van Zandt really knew anything useful, he wouldn’t have handed him over to us. You did okay, Maggy.” The last was added with a grudging admiration, probably, Vito thought, because of the guilty verdict Maggy had gotten on Nick’s Siever case. Now Nick could finally feel like he deserved the Christmas cards the Siever girl’s parents sent every year.

“He did give us Simon’s cell phone number,” Vito said.

“Same number he used to call me,” Liz said. “No GPS. Untraceable.”

“I found Van Zandt’s reaction to knowing real people died to make his game to be the most telling,” Thomas mused. “‘You must prune dead wood to save the tree,’” he mimicked in Van Zandt’s thick accent. “‘Sometimes you cut living wood.’”

“Ultimate break-the-eggs-to-make-the-omelet approach,” Nick agreed. “Slimy SOB.”

“Sophie told us that the big R in oRo was Dutch for wealth,” Vito said. “I guess Van Zandt’s never made a secret that he’s in it for the money.”

Thomas shook his head. “Van Zandt could be an even worse sociopath than Simon Vartanian. At least Simon’s doing this for art.”

“Van Zandt claimed he hadn’t paid Simon yet,” Vito told Katherine, Brent, and Jen. “Simon’s pay was based on royalties, which wouldn’t be paid for another three months.”

“And the royalties are piddly shit,” Nick added. “Simon didn’t do this for money.”

“How did Simon hook up with Van Zandt?” Jen asked.

“Van Zandt was in a bar near his apartment in SoHo,” Vito answered. He shook his head. “The bar is right down the street from the park where Susannah Vartanian walks her dog. We think Simon met up with Van Zandt one of the times he was stalking Susannah. Anyway, Simon approached Van Zandt in the bar a year ago, bought him a few drinks, and showed him a demo disk.”

“It was the Clothilde strangulation scene,” Nick said. “But it was done in a modern-day setting. Van Zandt saw ‘promise’ and told Simon if he converted it to a World War II theme, he’d get it in his next game. Simon did and Van Zandt asked for more. Simon did the scenes with the Luger and the grenade. It’s all Van Zandt had time to put in Behind Enemy Lines because he was up against the delivery deadline.”

“Derek protested,” Thomas said and frowned. “‘Because he was weak.’”

Maggy Lopez sighed. “Van Zandt’s quite a guy.”

“And I hope he rots in hell,” Nick said. “But bottom line, Van Zandt says he doesn’t know where Lewis came from or where he lived, or who the boy with the grenade was.”

“Well, I got some info on Frasier Lewis,” Katherine said. “The real Frasier Lewis.”

Vito blinked, surprised. “He really exists?”

“Oh, yes. He’s a forty-year-old farmer in Iowa. Simon’s been using his medical insurance for some time. The real Frasier’s medical insurance has a lifetime cap of a million dollars. If he ever got really sick, he’d be in trouble, because a lot of that money is gone. I wondered how Simon afforded the fancy prosthetics Dr. Pfeiffer’s file said he used. He paid for his own medical care through medical insurance fraud.”

“Does the real Frasier Lewis have two legs?” Nick asked.

“Yes,” Katherine said.

Nick was frowning. “Wouldn’t Pfeiffer have seen that there was no amputation?”

“Not necessarily,” Brent said thoughtfully. “Simon is good with computers. We already thought he could get into people’s financials. What if he could get into a medical-records database, too? What if that’s why he picked Lewis’s medical identity to steal? Because he had access to Lewis’s medical history to change it? It’s just a thought.”

“It’s a good thought. Run with it,” Vito said. “See what you come up with.”

“I’m glad I could offer something, because I didn’t get anything off Daniel’s father’s PC. At least nothing to lead you to Simon directly. There was a utility downloaded-it allowed whoever put it on there to access the father’s computer remotely, but it was nothing fancy. Just a common UNIX utility that anyone could have downloaded.”

“You sound disappointed,” Nick said and Brent chuckled.

“Maybe a little. I was expecting something huge based on the Trojan ’bots with timers he used on the models’ computers. But this was simple and elegant. And untraceable. Maybe I’ll have more luck with the medical databases. They tend not to be so elegant. Oh.” Brent handed Vito a framed photo. “The Dutton sheriff that sent the computer sent this. He said Daniel and Susannah had asked him to give it to us.”

“It’s Simon,” Vito said. “Younger. This is the same face as the one in Pfeiffer’s picture. I guess even Simon found it difficult to disguise himself in anything more than a wig at a doctor’s exam. It’s one more piece of the puzzle.”

Nick was frowning. “That remote control download. Can you tell when it was done?”

“Sure,” Brent said. “A few days after Thanksgiving.”

“Would Simon have to have been in the house to do the download?” Nick asked.

“I don’t know of any other way he could have independently done it.”

Troubled, Liz followed the thought. “Mr. and Mrs. Vartanian come here looking for their blackmailer and, presumably, Simon. At some point they find Simon, or he finds them, because they’re dead and buried in Simon’s graveyard. So then Simon goes back to Georgia and fixes his father’s PC for remote access, plants the travel brochures, and makes it look like they’ve gone on vacation. He even keeps paying their bills. Why?”

“He didn’t want anyone to know his parents were dead,” Jen said. “Arthur was a retired judge-somebody would have investigated.”

“And Daniel and Susannah would have gotten involved, which they did.” Nick looked at Vito. “He wanted to keep them away, because he wasn’t ready for them yet.”

“At least they know to be on alert,” Vito said. “Where are they now?”

“Back in Dutton,” Katherine said. “They went back for the exhumation.”

“So did you get the results?” Vito asked.

“Only that the body isn’t Simon’s. The bones are those of a five-foot-ten-inch man.”

“Wasn’t an autopsy done?” Liz asked and Katherine rolled her eyes.

“Mexican autopsy,” Katherine said. “That supposed car crash was in Tijuana. Vartanian’s father went down and got the death certificate, bought the casket, and brought it back through customs. Either he greased some palms or whoever peeked inside saw a horribly charred corpse and shut the coffin back up quick.”

“So he still might not have known whether Simon was really dead,” Jen said.

Katherine shrugged. “I don’t know. I imagine Daniel and Susannah want to know, but at this point, I’m not sure how that helps us find Simon.”

“Did Pfeiffer or his receptionist come in to be printed?” Nick asked.

Jen shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Let us know when they do,” Vito said. “What else? What about churches in the quarry areas, Jen? Or the silicone lubricant manufacturer?”

“I’ve got a tech calling lube manufacturers and two techs mapping churches. Nothing yet. I was personally working Van Zandt’s car all day. Sorry, Vito. We’re doing our best.”

Vito sighed. “I know.” He thought of Sophie. “But we have to try harder.”

“Now that Van Zandt’s in jail,” Nick mused, “what if Simon decides to leave town? oRo’s going to fold. Simon doesn’t have a job anymore.”

“We need a way to make him stay,” Vito said. “To draw him out into the open.”

“He thinks he’s got Van Zandt fucked over a barrel.” Nick looked at Maggy Lopez. “What if Van Zandt were to get released?”

Maggy shook her head. “I can’t let just let him go. We charged him. He hasn’t agreed to the plea, and I’m not giving him immunity. He’s got to go through the system. Nick, I can’t believe you of all people want me to deal him down.”

“I don’t want to deal him down,” Nick said. “But I want him on the street, so we can follow him. You don’t have to let him go, exactly. His bond hearing is tomorrow morning, right?”

“So? Two hours ago you wanted to push the plunger on the lethal injection syringe yourself. Now you want me to put him on the streets. You want me to make him bait.”

“I don’t see a problem with it,” Nick said. “We keep close to him. Simon won’t be able to resist. It’ll be like we painted a big bull’s-eye on Jager’s ass.”

“More like an R,” Brent said dryly. “For riches.”

“And don’t forget the dead wood comment,” Vito added. “Van Zandt deserves whatever he gets, Maggy. But we won’t let Simon get him, because we want to see Van Zandt behind bars, too. If he knew about these murders and let it go on, he’s complicit.”

Maggy sighed. “If we lose him…”

“We won’t,” Nick promised. “All you have to do is ask for a teensy bail.”

“All right,” Maggy said. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“We won’t,” Vito promised, feeling a surge of energy. “Liz, can we get Bev and Tim back for a few more days? Maybe even just tomorrow? We need surveillance eyes.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Liz said. “But only for one day. We’ll have to reevaluate if this drags.”

“Fair enough.” Vito stood up. “Let’s meet early tomorrow and coordinate.”