Die for Me

Chapter Twenty-Five

Saturday, January 20, 10:30

P.M.

Sophie’s body ached. Every one of her muscles was tensed beyond the ability of meditation to relax. There had been an explosion, so loud her ears still rang, so hard that some of the rock had fallen from the walls. She’d quelled the scream before it escaped her throat, but she hadn’t been able to hide the reflexive tensing of her body. If Simon Vartanian came down now, he’d know she was awake.

So she had to relax. She thought of soothing music. She thought of Vito’s Che faro. Remembering the way he’d looked as he sang to Anna… Anna. Please be alive, Gran. Please be safe.

She prayed for Anna. She prayed that Simon had died in whatever exploded.

The ceiling above her head creaked, loud and long, and her heart sank. Simon wasn’t dead. He was walking around up there. So she prayed that he would stay where he was, at least until the tears that seeped from her closed eyes dried.

Saturday, January 20, 11:45

P.M.

Liz set a box down hard on Vito’s desk. “Vito, I thought I told you to go home.”

She frowned at Maggy who sat at Nick’s desk and at Jen who’d pulled a chair up to Vito’s desk and propped her feet on the edge, her laptop on her thighs. Brent had assumed a similar pose and power cords crisscrossed their legs.

“And you three,” Liz accused, “encouraging him, against my orders.”

Jen shrugged. “He got crullers.” She nudged the box with her toe. “Have one.”

Nick came in with another big evidence box. “Hey, crullers. I’m starved.”

Liz’s sigh was exasperated, and had they not found what they’d been looking for, it would not have boded well at all. “Okay, so what’s going on here?”

Vito looked up from his computer screen. “He’s a network engineer.”

Liz shook her head as if to clear it. “Who’s a what?”

“Simon Vartanian is a network engineer.” Vito pulled a sheet of paper from the printer. “We got into his tax records.”

Liz frowned. “How? Or don’t I want to know?”

Jen shrugged. “Brent had a friendly conversation with a fellow computer geek who happens to work for the IRS.”

“Who happened to be a friend of a friend of a friend,” Brent said with a smile at Maggy. “We got the Social Security number Simon used when he enrolled at Sophie’s college as John Trapper. He paid his college tuition by check and that checking account had a number of deposits over the last year. Trapper had his own business setting up computer networks.”

Vito handed Liz the paper. “John Trapper was issued 1099 forms by twenty firms last year.” He shot Liz an ironic look. “He was a frickin’ consultant.”

Vito could see the wheels turning in Liz’s mind. “Who didn’t work for free,” she said.

“No.” Vito smiled grimly. “Not by a long shot.”

“Vito was wondering where Simon was getting all his money,” Jen said. “He was getting his medical care by stealing Frasier Lewis’s medical benefits. But Simon had to have a place to live, some pretty expensive computer equipment, and cash to buy his goodies from Kyle Lombard. Claire didn’t have any money, so he didn’t steal it from her and he didn’t steal it from his parents. So what’s he been living on?”

“Follow the money,” Nick mused with his mouth full of cruller. “Smart.”

“Okay,” Liz said. “I’m hooked. What does a network engineer do, exactly?”

“Well, he sets up networks,” Brent said. “Connects computers in an office to each other and to other systems. All these computers are hooked into the PD’s network. There are files on shared servers you can see if you have access. There are databases you can search, if you have access. The key here is access.”

Liz pulled a doughnut from the box. “Keep talking, Brent. You haven’t lost me yet.”

“Big companies like Philly PD have an internal IT department to set up the networks and make sure everybody can get to the information they need. E-mail accounts, et cetera. But you gotta make sure people have access on a need-to-know basis. Everybody can download medical insurance forms from HR, but a mail clerk shouldn’t get access to AFIS. Jen gets access because she needs to run fingerprints.”

“Big companies have IT departments,” Vito said. “Little companies that have ten employees still need a network, but they hire a consultant to set it up.”

“And Simon was one of these consultants.” Liz nodded. “I’m guessing that Simon didn’t limit his evil deed-doing to his art. He stole from these companies?”

Brent smiled. “Not from the companies. From their clients. Every network has an administrator, the guy who sets up who gets access to what. We’re guessing Simon left a back door open in some or all of these companies’ networks, giving himself admin power. He could go back into their systems at any time to see anything on anybody.”

“Like financials,” Nick said. “The models-Warren and Brittany, Bill Melville and Greg Sanders. That’s how he knew they were desperate for cash. Sonofabitch.”

Vito tapped his printout. “Twenty companies hired Frasier Lewis. Among them are six investment brokers, three realtors, and two medical insurance companies.”

“But now we’re stuck,” Maggy said. “We’ve been checking these companies for anything that links them to Vartanian or one of our victims, but so far, nothing has.”

“God.” Liz took the paper from Vito’s hands. “Simon really thought of everything.” Then she laughed, a smug yet joyful sound. “Good thing we did, too.” She handed the paper to Nick. “Look at the sixth company down, Nick.”

Nick’s grin was sharp. “Fuckin’ bastard.” He slapped Vito on the back and put the list on the desk. “Chick, that company handled all the finances for Winchester’s aunt.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the evidence box. “Five years of broker’s statements.”

“Rock Solid Investments is a brokerage firm that has a huge client base of retirees,” Liz added. “Lots of old people have their money there.”

“Maybe the old woman buried next to Claire did, too.” Vito drew a breath. They were close. He only prayed they wouldn’t be too late. “Okay. So we need to do what?”

“I’d say we need a warrant to search Rock Solid’s client files,” Maggy said. “I hope the judge on call is an insomniac. Who wants to go?”

Vito got up, but Liz and Nick each grabbed one of his shoulders and pushed him back down. “Dammit, Liz,” Vito gritted. “This isn’t funny.”

Liz got serious fast. “Maggy, take Nick. Brent, you go, too, in case they need someone to speak computerese with their network guy. Vito, you’re staying with me. If you want to help Sophie, get some rest. You’ll need it when you find Simon Vartanian.”

Sunday, January 21, 3:10

A.M.

The phone on Vito’s desk rang and he snatched it up. “Ciccotelli.”

“It’s Tess. I know you’d call if you’d heard anything. But we’re all here, the whole family, sitting in your living room, worrying about you. We just wanted you to know.”

He could picture it, his family gathered to support him, and he yearned to go be with them, to take their comfort. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about Sophie.”

“We are. Don’t worry. We have plenty of worry to go around,” Tess added wryly. “Don’t give up. I guarantee Sophie knows you’re doing everything you can to find her.”

If anyone understood, it was Tess. “Thank you. Tell them all thank you. I’ll call you when I can.” He hung up, then sat back, arms crossed tight over his chest. It had been ten hours since Simon had taken Sophie, three since Maggy, Nick, and Brent had gone off in search of Rock Solid Investment’s client list. “Where the hell are they?”

Jen looked up from her laptop sympathetically. “Try to relax, Vito. I know it’s hard.”

Maggy Lopez had gotten the warrant easily enough. But finding someone at Rock Solid Investments who had access to the full client list was turning out to be harder than expected. The one broker who played network administrator in his spare time was on vacation and couldn’t be reached. Nobody else seemed to know all the passwords and ironically, someone had actually suggested they call their network consultant.

Vito tried to relax, but it wasn’t going to happen. His gaze settled on the CD Brent had made from the camera feed. He remembered Sophie watching that movie of her father’s, because she “needed to see him.” Now Vito needed to see her. He slid the CD in his computer, then saw himself sitting next to Anna’s bed, and Sophie waiting at the doorway, that plastic pitcher in her hands.

He muted the sound, then fast-forwarded until he saw Sophie again, the pitcher in her hand and tears on her face. He watched her expression soften and her eyes change. And saw what he hadn’t seen Friday night because he’d been focused on Anna-Sophie looking at him with love in her eyes. Neither of them had said the words. She’d been so scared of messing things up, but now he’d seen for himself. Vito closed the file, then closed his eyes and did what he hadn’t done in two years. He prayed.

Sunday, January 21, 4:15

A.M.

Nick came running in, clutching a stack of papers in his hand. “We got the list.”

Vito was on his feet, grabbing it, but it was page after page of names that meant nothing. He looked up at Liz who’d rushed from her office at the sound of Nick’s voice.

“What are we supposed to do with this?” he said, frustrated.

Brent was right behind Nick, laptop under his arm. “We sort and filter. Katherine said she thought the old woman in the graveyard was between sixty and seventy, so I ran the search on female clients fifty-five to eighty, just to be sure. There are over three hundred names. When I just look at sixty to seventy, it’s still over two hundred.”

Vito sank into his chair. “Two hundred.” He’d hoped a single name would pop. But the others weren’t discouraged. They were energized and Vito drew from their energy.

Jen was pacing. “Okay, let’s think. What did he steal from these people? Money?”

“Real estate,” Liz said. “He took Winchester’s aunt’s field. Maybe he took another field from somebody else. A field near a quarry, far enough out that he could do what he wanted without raising suspicion.”

“Or anybody being able to hear,” Nick added.

Vito closed his eyes, despair threatening again. “Of course we’ve also assumed he took Sophie to the place he took everyone else.”

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Nick ordered. “Until we have a reason to think otherwise, there’s no reason to believe Simon will do anything more than stick to his routine.”

Vito stood up with a hard nod. “Okay, we’re going to split these lists and figure out which of these people have property in the USDA soil areas that match the grave fill dirt. Then we find out which of those are homes with more than one story.”

“The elevator shaft,” Nick said. “Don’t forget about the old woman’s dental fillings. Check for anyone who lived in Europe before 1960.”

“Daniel called me last night,” Liz said. “He and his sister are back in town and want to help. I’ll put them on call to give us information if we end up in a hostage negotiation.”

Vito made himself breathe. “Then let’s move. He’s had Sophie eleven hours now.”

Sunday, January 21, 4:50

A.M.

Simon leaned away from his computer, stretching his shoulders. Alan Brewster had been a lot heavier than he looked. Carrying him out to the barn for the filming had been the right choice, though. The mess from Brewster’s exploding head would have been bad enough, but percussion from the grenade had blown part of the barn wall away. Had he executed the film inside, he might have damaged his studio.

He’d planned to leave Brewster’s body outside, but discovered the lighting in the barn hadn’t been sufficient to achieve the level of detail he required while filming. The video was grainy and the camera lens had been dirtied by flying debris of the human variety. So he’d brought Brewster back inside to get a closer look at what remained. Of course, carrying Brewster back indoors had been a tad easier. He estimated Brewster’s head alone had weighed a good ten pounds.

With a click of his mouse Simon replayed the changes he’d made to Bill Melville’s death by flail. As much as he hated to admit it, Van Zandt had been one hundred percent correct. Seeing the knight’s head explode made playing Inquisitor a far more exciting experience. Not authentic, but damn exciting.

Simon rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Sophie would provide both authenticity and excitement and he couldn’t wait. He checked his watch. Another few hours and his leg would be fully charged and ready to roll.

As would parts of Sophie.

Sunday, January 21, 5:30

A.M.

“Dammit.” Vito stared at the USDA soil map, pock-marked with nearly forty thumbtacks representing each old woman who lived in the identified soil area and held an account with Rock Solid Investments. And the clock continued to tick. Almost thirteen hours had passed through their fingers.

“There are still too many names,” Nick muttered. “And not one of them German.”

“The old woman could have a German maiden name,” Jen said. “We have to start making calls. It’s the only way.”

“But if we find the right one, Simon will answer,” Brent protested. “We’ll tip our hand.”

Everyone looked at Vito expectantly. For a moment his brain spun uselessly, then it clicked. “Next of kin?” he asked. “Do we have next of kin contacts on these brokerage applications for Rock Solid?”

Brent nodded excitedly. “It’s all in the database.”

“Then we split it up.” Vito blinked at the list of names he held in his hand. “Nick, you’ve got Dina Anderson to Selma Crane. Jen, you take Margaret Diamond up through Priscilla Henley.” He gave Liz, Maggy, and Brent their names, then took the remaining share. And prayed again.

Sunday, January 21, 7:20

A.M.

“Sophie.” He sang it sweetly. “I’m back.”

When Sophie didn’t respond, he chuckled. “You’re quite an actress. But then, it’s in your blood isn’t it? Your father was an actor and your grandmother an opera diva. But then… I’ve always known. I was hoping you’d tell me yourself.”

No. It couldn’t be. Sophie did her best not to tense. The words had been Ted’s.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Sophie.”

But no. She knew what Simon looked like. Ted was big. Was he that big? She couldn’t remember. She was so tired and the fear was backing up in her throat.

“I’ve been thinking about Marie Antoinette. With her head of course.” He ran his fingers across her throat and she flinched and he laughed. “Open your eyes, Sophie.”

Slowly she did, praying it would not be Ted. A face was an inch from hers, broad boned, hard jawed. The smile gleamed, as did the bald head. He had no eyebrows.

“Boo,” he whispered and she flinched again. But it wasn’t Ted. Thank God.

Her relief was amazingly short-lived. “Your charade is over, Sophie. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to your fate?”

She lifted her chin and looked around, horror congealing, clawing in her gut. She saw the chair, as it had looked in the museum. She saw a rack and a table with all the artifacts of torture this man had used to kill so many. She looked down at herself and saw she wore a gown, cream velvet, edged in purple. The thought of him touching her, dressing her… She swallowed back a grimace.

“Do you like the gown?” he asked and she raised her eyes. His expression was one of tolerant amusement without a flicker of nerves or fear. “The cream color will provide a wonderful contrast to your blood.”

“It’s too small,” Sophie said coldly, proud her voice didn’t shake.

He shrugged. “It was intended for someone else. I had to make some last minute alterations.”

“You sew?”

He smiled, cruelly. “I have a great many talents, Dr. Johannsen, one of which is a proficiency with needles and other sharp implements.”

She kept her chin lifted and her jaw tight. “What will you do to me?”

“Well, I really need to give the credit to you. I’d planned something far different until I heard you and your boss talking in the museum. You remember. Marie Antoinette.”

Sophie fought to keep her voice hard. “Jumped a few centuries, didn’t you?”

He smiled. “You will be fun to play with, Sophie. I couldn’t get a guillotine, so you’re safe on that score. We’ll have to go a little more medieval than that.”

She clucked her tongue in her cheek. “No pun intended.”

He stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. It was a chilling sound, abrasive and… mean.

Mean. Anna. “You tried to kill my grandmother, didn’t you?”

“Now, Sophie. There is no try. There is only success and failure. Of course I killed your grandmother. I always do what I set out to do.”

Sophie controlled the wave of grief, just barely. “You sonofabitch.”

“Language,” he chided. “And you a queen.” He stepped back and she saw a crisp white bed sheet that had been draped across two poles. He tugged at the sheet, and she saw the poles were really tall microphone stands. With a dramatic flourish, Simon pulled the sheet away completely, revealing a raised platform surrounded by a low white fence. In the middle of the platform was a block, curved in on top. Stained with blood.

“So?” he said. “What do you think?”

For a moment she could only stare, her brain denying the reality of what her eyes were seeing. It wasn’t possible. It was insane. Not real. But she remembered the others-Warren and Brittany and Bill… and Greg. They’d suffered at Simon Vartanian’s hand. He’d do this thing, this hideous terrible thing, of that she had no doubt.

She tried to remember everything she knew about Vartanian but could only hear Greg Sanders’s screams. The block was bloody. He’d cut off Greg’s hand. A scream rose in her throat and she bit her tongue until she’d forced it back.

Simon Vartanian was a monster. A sociopath with a hunger for power. A need to dominate. She couldn’t let him. She couldn’t play his game, feed his hunger. She’d play it ballsy, even though every bone in her body shook with fear.

“I’m waiting, Sophie. What do you think?”

Sophie drew on every dramatic drop of blood in her body and laughed out loud. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed and his expression went dark. “I don’t kid.”

And he didn’t like to be laughed at. She’d use that. Considering she was still bound hand and foot, she’d have to use anything she could think of to get away. She injected a note of amused incredulity into her voice. “You expect me to walk up to that block, put my neck on it, and hold still while you cut off my head? You’re crazier than we thought.”

Simon stared at her for a long moment, then smiled mildly. “As long as I get my film, I don’t care what you think.” He walked to a tall, wide cupboard and pulled it open.

Sophie had to really work to keep her mocking expression from changing to horror as her heart stumbled to a stop.

The cupboard was filled with daggers and axes and swords. Many of them were very old and pitted with age. And use. Some were shiny and new, obvious reproductions. All of them looked lethal. Simon tilted his head, considering his stash at length, and Sophie knew he was preening for her benefit. It was working. She remembered the dead man in the graveyard. Warren Keyes. Simon had disemboweled him. She remembered Greg Sanders’s screams as Simon cut off his hand.

Fear was again rising to close her throat. Still she kept the loose smile on her face.

He took out a battle-ax, similar to the one she carried on the Viking tour. He rested the handle on his shoulder and smiled at her. “You have one just like this.”

She made her voice cold. “I should have followed my instincts and used it on you.”

“It’s generally wise to follow your instincts,” he agreed affably, then put the ax back. Finally he chose a sword and pulled it from its sheath slowly. The blade gleamed, shiny and new. “This is a sharp one. It should do the job nicely.”

“It’s just a reproduction,” Sophie said with disdain. “I expected better.”

He looked at her for a moment, then laughed. “This is fun.” He brought the sword over to her and held it in front of her face, twisting it so it caught the flickering light. “The old swords are useful to get an idea of weight and size and balance. How someone moved while wielding one. But they’re ugly and rusted and really not that sharp.”

“Well, we’d want them to be sharp, wouldn’t we?” she said dryly, hoping he couldn’t hear the thundering of her heart.

He smiled. “Unless you want me hacking at that pretty neck of yours.”

He was baiting her again. She made herself shrug. “If you use the sword, you can’t use the block. It’s like wearing suspenders and a belt. It just isn’t done.”

He considered her again, then walked to the platform, picked up the block, and placed it off to the side. “True. You’ll kneel. I’ll get a better view of your face that way anyway. Thank you.” He pushed a camera on a rolling tripod into place.

“Any time. So, did you let your other victims handle the old swords?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Yes. I wanted to capture their movements. Why?”

“I was wondering how it would feel to hold a sword nearly eight centuries old.”

“It feels like it had been sleeping all those years and woke up, just for you.”

Sophie’s mouth fell open as she recognized her own words, and when she spoke her voice was barely audible. “John?”

He smiled. “One of my names.”

“But the…” The wheelchair. Oh, Vito.

“The wheelchair?” He expelled an exaggerated sigh. “You know, people don’t consider old people or handicapped people a threat. I was able to hide in plain sight.”

“All… all this time?”

“All this time,” he said, amused. “You see, Dr. J, I’m not crazy and I’m not stupid.”

She got control of herself, forced the tremble out of her voice. “You’re just bad.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice. Besides, ‘bad’ is one of those relative terms.”

“Perhaps in some parallel universe that’s true, but in this universe, killing lots of people for no good reason is bad.” She tilted her head. “So why did you?”

“What? Kill lots of people?” He pushed another camera into place. “Various reasons. Some got in my way. One I hated. But mostly I just wanted to see them die.”

Sophie drew a deep breath. “See? Now that’s just bad. You won’t-”

He held up a hand. “Don’t say I won’t get away with it. That’s trite, and I’d really hoped for better from you.” He moved a third camera into place and stepped back, dusting his hands. “That takes care of the cameras. I have to do a sound test.”

“A sound test.”

“Yes, a sound test. I need you to scream.”

Go ahead and scream. She shook her head. “No fucking way.”

He clucked. “Language. You’ll scream. Or I’ll use an ax.”

“Either way I’m dead. And I’m not giving you the satisfaction.”

“I think Warren said that. No, it was Bill. Big bad Bill the black belt. He thought he was so tough. In the end he cried like a baby. And he screamed. A lot.”

He came over and touched her hair which was still braided in a crown from the last Joan tour the day before. “You have lovely hair. I’m glad it’s braided up. I would have hated to cut it.” He chuckled. “Although it does seem silly to worry about cutting your hair when I’ll be cutting something more important.” He ran his fingers across her throat. “Right here, I think.”

Panic was making it hard to breathe. Taunting him was going to buy her no more time. Vito, where are you? She jerked her body back, away from his fingers.

“Which one was Bill? The one you disemboweled?”

He was visibly startled. “Well, well. You know more than I thought. I didn’t think your cop boyfriend would give you the details.”

“He didn’t have to. I was there when they were dug up. You cut off Greg Sanders’s hand.”

“And his foot. He deserved it, stealing from a church. You said so yourself.”

Horror turned her stomach inside out. He’d used her words, her lessons to murder so vilely. “You sick sonofabitch.”

His eyes went dark. “I’ve given you some latitude because you amused me. But that time is done. If you are attempting to unnerve me, it won’t work. When I get angry, I become more focused.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her off the table to the floor.

Sophie winced as her hip hit hard concrete. “Yeah, like you did with Greg Sanders.” He’d cut off that man’s hand… and his foot. Because he’d stolen from a church. But it hadn’t been what she’d said. That wasn’t right. He’d made a mistake. He didn’t become more focused with rage. He made mistakes. She’d have to use it.

He dragged her across the floor and she struggled out of his grasp. Then saw stars when he smashed her head against the floor, using her thick braided crown as a handhold. “Don’t try that again.”

She rolled to her back and blinked up at him, breathing hard. He was huge, especially from this angle. He stood, fists on his hips, his face like stone. But he was breathing hard, too, his nostrils flaring.

“You fucked up with Greg, you know,” she panted. “The amputated foot didn’t go with the Church. Only the hand. You got so angry that he tried to steal from you that you messed up the details.”

“I messed up nothing.” He reached under her neck, grabbed a handful of the gown, and twisted until the velvet cut at her throat, cutting off her air. More stars danced in front of her eyes and she bucked, trying to get away. Abruptly he released her, and she dragged air into her lungs.

“Fuck you,” she snarled, coughing. “You can kill me, but I’m not giving you anything for your precious game.”

Simon grabbed the bodice of the gown in both hands and effortlessly lifted her to her feet, then higher, until she was eye to eye with him. “You will give me what I want. If I have to nail you in place you will not fight me. Do you understand me?”

Sophie spat in his face and had the pleasure of seeing his face contort with rage. He drew back one fist, still holding her with one hand and she lifted her chin, ready for the blow. But it never came.

“I won’t mark your face. I need it… pretty.” He wiped at his cheek with his sleeve and lowered her to her feet.

“What’s the matter?” she taunted deliberately. “Can’t you see past a few bruises when you immortalize me in your stupid game? Or can you not function without an exact model? It must be frustrating, only being able to copy. Never creating anything on your own.” She swallowed hard and lifted her chin again. “Simon.”

His jaw tightened as his eyes narrowed and once again he jerked her off her feet. “What do you know?”

“Everything,” she sneered. “I know everything. And so do the police. So go ahead and kill me, but you really won’t get away with it. You’ll get caught and you’ll go to prison where you can paint clowns all day long and not need to hide them under your bed.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Where are they?”

Sophie smiled at him. “Who?”

He shook her, so hard her teeth rattled. “Daniel and Susannah. Where are they?”

“They’re here, looking for you. Just like Vito Ciccotelli is looking for you. He won’t rest until he finds you.” She narrowed her gaze. “Did you think no one would know, Simon? That no one could find you? Did you really think that no one would hear?”

“No one has found me,” he said. He lifted her higher and she winced which made him smile. “No one did hear me,” he said. “And no one will hear you.”

Fury gave her courage. “You’re wrong. All the people you killed screamed long after you buried them. You just weren’t listening. But Vito Ciccotelli was and he always will.”

He forced her to her knees. “Then I’ll kill him, too. But first I’ll kill you.”

Sunday, January 21, 7:45

A.M.

Selma Crane had lived in a tidy Victorian house before Simon had buried her next to Claire Reynolds in the Winchester field. Vito crept up to the attached garage, weapon in his hand, and looked in the window. Inside was a white van. He nodded to Nick and Liz who stood behind a cruiser at the end of the driveway.

Behind Nick and Liz stood the SWAT team, ready to storm the house on Vito’s signal. Vito joined them. “It’s a white van. I don’t see any sign of movement inside.”

The leader of the SWAT team stepped forward. “Do we go in?”

“I’d rather surprise him,” Vito said. “Hold for now.”

A car approached, Jen McFain behind the wheel. Daniel Vartanian was in the front seat, his sister in the back. They approached in silence, leaving their car doors open.

“Is he in there?” Daniel asked quietly.

“I think so,” Vito said. “There’s a back door that leads into the kitchen. All of the windows on the back side of the house are boarded up and covered in black tarp.”

“Then this is his place,” Susannah murmured. “Simon wanted to control his lighting so he blacked out the windows of his room and installed lights he could dim.”

“McFain filled us in,” Daniel said. “She told us he has your consultant. Let me go in.”

“No.” Vito shook his head. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you go in there half-cocked because you feel guilty that you didn’t turn him in ten years ago.”

Daniel’s jaw twitched. “What I was going to say,” he said carefully, “is that I’m SWAT trained and a trained negotiator. I know what to do.”

Vito hesitated. “You’re still his brother.”

Daniel didn’t look away. “Now you’re just being mean. I’m offering my help. Take it.”

Vito looked at Liz. “When will our negotiator get here?”

“Another hour,” Liz told him. “At best.”

Vito checked his watch, even though he knew exactly what time it was and exactly how much time had passed. Sophie was in there, he could feel it. He didn’t want to think about what Simon could be doing to her right now. “We can’t wait another hour, Liz.”

“Daniel is a negotiator. His CO told me so when I checked up on him the other night. Do you want me to take over and make the call?”

It was tempting. But Vito shook his head and looked Daniel Vartanian square in the eye. “You follow my orders in there. No questions, no hesitation.”

Daniel lifted his brows. “Think of me as a consultant.”

Vito was shocked he could still smile. “Suit up. You and I go in the front, Jen, you and Nick go in the back. SWAT stays at ready.”

“I send them in at the first shot,” Liz said and Vito nodded.

“Be prepared for anything. Let’s go.”

Sunday, January 21, 7:50

A.M.

Sophie was kneeling, Simon’s fingers tunneled under her braid. Fiercely he gripped her head, yanking her upright as she struggled. “Scream, damn you,” he gritted, twisting, making her scalp burn but Sophie bit her tongue.

She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t give him what he wanted. She wrenched to one side, awkward with her wrists and ankles tied, still kneeling. Simon’s foot crashed down on her calf, holding her legs in place. He jerked her up again by her hair and fumbled behind him. She heard the singing of the sword as he pulled it from its sheath, then the sheath fell on the floor in front of her. His left hand was yanking at her hair, pulling up so that he had free access to the back of her neck while still pointing her face at his cameras. He raised his right arm and Sophie bit her tongue again.

Do not scream. Whatever you do. Do not scream.

“Scream, damn you.” He was furious, shaking.

“Go to hell, Vartanian,” she spat. His foot crashed down on her calf again, sending pain radiating up her spine. She bit down on her tongue even harder and tasted blood. She strained to try to spit it at him, but he dug his fingers in deeper. Her head throbbed from the pressure on her scalp as he held her head in the palm of his huge hand.

He yanked up and she was lifted almost off her knees. Then she heard a noise from upstairs. A creak. Simon’s body jerked. He’d heard it, too.

Vito. Sophie spat the blood from her mouth, filled her lungs with air and screamed.

“Shut up,” Simon gritted.

Sophie wanted to sing. But she screamed again. Screamed Vito’s name.

“You stupid bitch. You’re going to die.” Simon raised his arm, bearing his weight on her legs with his good foot.

Good foot. Abruptly Sophie rocked right, then left with all her might sending her shoulder into Simon’s artificial leg. He swayed for a split second, then toppled. The sword clattered from his hand as he tried to break his fall. She rolled to one side, barely avoiding becoming his crash pad. But his hand was still in her hair and she couldn’t get away. The door at the top of the stairs opened and footsteps thundered.

“Police! Don’t move!”

Vito. “I’m down here,” Sophie screamed.

Simon came up on his good knee, then reared back, pulling her into him. Making her a human shield. “Go back,” he called. “Go back or I kill her.”

The footsteps continued until Sophie saw Vito’s feet, then his legs. Then his face, dark with controlled fury. “Are you hurt, Sophie?”

“No.”

“Don’t come another step,” Simon warned. “Or I swear I’ll break her fucking neck.”

Vito was still on the stairs, his gun trained on Simon. “Don’t touch her, Vartanian,” Vito said, his voice low and ominous. “I will shoot your head right off your shoulders.”

“And risk killing her? I don’t think so. I think you’re going to go back up those stairs and call off your dogs. Then we’re going to walk away, me and your pretty girl.”

Sophie was breathing hard, one of Simon’s hands twined in her hair, his other arm crossed over her throat. There was no way Simon could have planned this better, no way he could have found a deeper vulnerability, capable of stopping Vito in his tracks.

“Kill him, Vito,” she said. “Kill him now or he’ll just kill again. I couldn’t live with that.”

“Your girl has a death wish, Ciccotelli. Come closer and I’ll make her wish come true. Let me walk away and she lives.”

“No, Simon.” It was a soft drawl, calm and steady. “You won’t. I won’t let you.”

Sophie felt the sudden tense of Simon’s body at Daniel’s voice and she jerked to one side, but he came with her and they crashed to the floor. He flattened her against the concrete floor, his weight knocking the breath from her lungs. He jerked back to his knees, dragging her with him. She swung her bound hands but hit only air. He twisted her hair harder and tears stung her eyes.

She swung her hands, scrabbling for any hold, any way to put enough distance between them so that Vito could get a shot. She toppled again, but this time her hands touched metal. Simon’s shiny sword. Sophie kneeled over it, fisted her hands around the hilt, twisted her body so the blade skimmed her side.

And jabbed backward with all her might. The sword met flesh and kept going, plunging deep. With a startled gasp, Simon fell backward, dragging her with him. She let go of the hilt and rolled to her knees, bowed forward, twisted painfully, his hand still gripping her scalp. For a moment all she could hear was her own labored breathing, then footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Simon lay on his back, his own sword plunged into his gut, the blade leaning at an awkward angle away from his body. His white shirt was rapidly becoming red. His mouth was open and he gasped for air. Still his eyes burned with hate and rage and he lunged upward, his free hand going for her throat.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Vito said. “Because I really want to shoot you.”

Breathing hard, Sophie straightened as much as she could, her eyes still on Simon’s. “Go ahead and scream, Simon.”

“You bitch,” Simon spat. His eyes narrowed and once again he lunged, and too late Sophie saw him jerk his wrist outward, bringing the slim blade he’d hidden in his sleeve into his hand. She heard the shots at the same time she felt a searing pain in her side.

The hand in her hair sagged, dragging her so that she knelt at Simon’s side, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. She could see up, but not down. From the corner of her eye she saw Vito step back and holster his gun.

What sounded like an army thundered across the floor upstairs and down the stairs.

“Scene is secure,” Vito said loudly, but his voice shook. “Call an ambulance.”

Sophie could smell the acrid odor of gunpowder and the iron scent of blood. A wave of nausea hurled up from her stomach. “Get his hand out of my hair,” she gritted out. Then she sagged against Daniel as he worked Simon’s big hand out from under her braid. Carefully he laid her down on her back and she clenched her eyes against the sharp pain in her side.

“Merde,” she muttered. “Goddamn, this hurts.”

“Chick?” It was Nick’s voice from the stairs. “What happened?”

Vito scrambled to her side. “Call another ambulance, Nick. Sophie’s hit.” Using the blade, he cut the gown into strips and pushed them against her, stemming the flow.

“It’s not deep,” he said. “It’s not deep.”

She grimaced. “Still hurts like hell. Tell me he’s dead.”

“Yeah,” Vito said. “He’s dead.”

Sophie looked over to where Simon lay, less then three feet between them, sightlessly staring at the ceiling. He had two more wounds, one in his head and the other in his chest. She was grimly satisfied to see the sword still stuck in his gut.

“I guess Katherine will figure out which one of us killed him,” she said.

“You can’t feel guilty, Sophie,” Vito murmured. “You had no choice.”

Sophie scoffed. “Guilty? I hope it was my sword that killed the fucker. Although whoever got the headshot is probably taking home the grand prize.”

“That would have been me,” Vito said.

“Good,” Sophie said. She looked up at Daniel who had grabbed the skinny blade and was sawing through the rope that bound her hands. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Daniel asked. “That he’s dead or that I don’t get the grand prize?”

She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Whichever answer is the right one.”

Daniel laughed softly. “I think we did the world a service today. So, Sophie, other than the knife wound, are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Maybe my tongue.” She stuck it out and both men flinched.

Daniel gently took her chin, angling her face toward the light. “My God, girl, you nearly bit it clear through. You might need stitches there, too.”

“But I didn’t scream,” she said with satisfaction. “Not until I heard you upstairs.”

Daniel smiled grimly. “Good for you, Sophie.” He took one of her hands and started rubbing her wrist where the rope had chafed.

Vito took her other hand, and his were shaking now. “My God. Sophie.”

“I’m all right, Vito.”

“She’s all right,” Daniel repeated and Vito’s eyes snapped up to glare at Daniel.

“What the hell kind of negotiation was that?” he ground out in fury. “‘No, you won’t walk away. I won’t let you.’ What the fuck kind of negotiation was that?”

“Vito,” Sophie murmured.

“You wouldn’t have let him leave,” Daniel said. “You know that. Simon hated to be told what to do, by anyone. I could only hope he’d get mad and Sophie could use it to her advantage.” He smiled down at her. “You did good, kid.”

“Thank you.”

“I need to tell Suze.” Daniel stood up. “I’m sorry, Vito. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He shuddered. “It’s okay. She’s safe. He’s dead. I’m happy.” When Daniel had walked back up the stairs, Sophie squeezed Vito’s hand.

“My gran?”

“Holding on.”

Sophie drew her first good breath, despite the pain in her side. “Thank you.”

Vito smiled down at her unsteadily. “That was some fancy sword work.”

Her lips curved. “My father and I used to fence. Alex was a champion, but I wasn’t too bad. If Simon had seen the Joan tour, he would have known that.”

Vito remembered the way she flourished the sword to the delight of the children on the tour. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to watch her do so again. “Maybe we should retire Joan. Expand your repertoire,” he added, mimicking Nick’s drawl.

Sophie closed her eyes. “That’s a good plan. But I don’t think I’m touching Marie Antoinette with a ten-foot pole after this.”

Vito brought her hands to his lips, his laugh shaky. “There’s always that topless Celtic Warrior Queen.”

“Boudiccea,” she murmured as new footsteps thundered down the stairs. The paramedics were here. “The after-hours X-rated tour. Ted’ll have Theo’s college tuition saved up in no time.”