Die for Me

Chapter Three

Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 2:30

P.M.

Vito stopped the truck behind the CSU van. “This is the place.”

“I kind of figured that out for myself,” she murmured. “The yellow police tape and CSU van were my first clues.” Before he could say another word she opened her door and hopped out, flinched, then swallowed hard.

“It’s strong,” he said sympathetically. “Eau de… what did you call it?”

“L’odeur de la mort,” she said quietly. “Is the body still here?”

“No. But removing the body doesn’t always remove all the odor right away. I can get you a mask, but I don’t think it really helps.”

She shook her head and the big hoops at her ears swayed. “I was just surprised. I’ll be fine.” Her jaw set determinedly, she grabbed the two smaller cases. “I’m ready.”

She said it with a hard little nod, more as if to convince herself than anyone else.

Nick climbed from the CSU van and Vito had the satisfaction of seeing his partner’s face go blank. Jen McFain’s reaction was much the same. Of course they weren’t getting the full effect as Johannsen had braided the hair that hung an inch past her butt.

“Jen, Nick, this is Dr. Johannsen.”

Jen hurried forward with a smile, craning her neck to see Johannsen’s face. The difference in the women’s heights was almost comical. “I’m Jennifer McFain, CSU. Thank you so much for coming out to help us on such short notice, Dr. Johannsen.”

“You’re welcome. And please call me Sophie,” she said.

“Then I’m Jen.” Jen eyed the small suitcases. “I’ve always wanted to play with one of these. If you don’t mind, could you take off the earrings?”

Johannsen immediately dropped her earrings into one of the pockets of her jacket. “Sorry. I forgot I had them on.” She glanced over Jen’s shoulder at Nick. “You are?”

“Nick Lawrence,” Nick said. “Vito’s partner. Thanks for coming.”

“My pleasure. If you’d take me to where you’d like me to begin, I’ll get set up.”

They walked across the field, Jen and Johannsen in front, Vito and Nick trailing far enough behind that they wouldn’t be overheard.

“She’s not… what I expected,” Nick murmured.

Vito huffed a chuckle. He was keeping himself calm, cool, and collected. And would continue to do so. “That’s an understatement.”

“You’re sure she’s Katherine’s friend? She seems very young.”

“I did finally get in touch with Katherine. Johannsen’s the real deal all right.”

“And you’re sure she can keep this to herself?”

Vito thought of the memory-zapping gun and had to smile. “Yeah.” Then they came to the grave and he sobered. Now they would know if Jane Doe was a single or one of many.

Johannsen was staring at the grave. Her mouth drooped and he remembered how she’d dropped her eyes, ashamed of the calloused way she’d referred to the body. She hadn’t meant it, he knew. That she was so quick to apologize he could respect. She looked over her shoulder and met his eyes. “You found the woman here?”

“Yes.”

“The field is big. Do you have a preference on where you’d like me to start?”

“Dr. Johannsen thinks it will take four or five hours to scan the whole field,” Vito said. “Let’s survey the area to the right and left of the grave and see what we have.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Jen said. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Not long.” Sophie dropped to her knees in the snow and began opening the cases they’d brought, demonstrating the assembly for Jen who looked like a kid on Christmas. “The unit sends data to the laptop wirelessly and the laptop will store it.” She set the laptop on one of the cases, powered it up, then stood, the scanning portion in her hand.

Nick leaned forward, studying it. “It looks like a carpet sweeper,” he said.

“A fifteen-thousand-dollar carpet sweeper,” Johannsen said and Vito whistled.

“Fifteen grand for that? You said it was a little one.”

“It is. The big ones start at fifty. Are you all familiar with ground penetrating radar?”

“Jen is,” Vito said. “We were going to call for the cadaver dogs.”

“That works, but GPR gives you an image of what’s under the ground. It’s not a clear image like an x-ray. GPR tells you where and how deep an object is. The colors on the display represent the amplitude of the object. Brighter colors, bigger amplitude.”

Jen nodded. “Brighter the color, bigger the amplitude, bigger the object.”

“Or the stronger the reflection. Metals will have high amplitude. Air pockets reflect even better. The amount of reflection depends on what you’re looking for.”

“What about bone?” Nick asked.

“Not as bright, but visible. Older the bone, the harder it is to see. As bodies decompose, they become like the soil and the reflections don’t stand out as much.”

“How old before you can’t see the bones anymore?” Jen asked.

“One of my colleagues identified the remains of a twenty-five-hundred-year-old Native American in a burial mound in Kentucky.” She glanced up. “I don’t think you need to worry about age.” She stood up and wiped her palms on her jacket. Her jeans were soaking wet, but she didn’t even seem to notice. She’d said she was “jazzed” and Vito could definitely see the energy in her clear green eyes. “Let’s go.”

She got to work, scanning along the height dimension of the first grave, slowly and precisely. Vito could see why scanning the whole field would take so long. But if they found something, they were in for a lot more man-hours than that.

Jen went still. “Sophie,” she said, her voice urgent.

Johannsen stopped for a screen check. “It’s the edge of something. The soil changes here, abruptly. It goes maybe three feet deep. Let me get a few more rows.”

She did, then frowned. “There is something here, but it looks like it’s got metal in it. We tend to see that in cemeteries with older, lead-lined caskets. The shape isn’t right for a casket, but there is definitely metal here.” She looked up, her eyes questioning. “Does that make sense?”

Vito thought about Jane Doe’s hands. “Yeah,” he said grimly. “It does.”

Johannsen nodded, accepting there would be no more answer than that. “Okay.” She marked the corners with her garden stakes. “It’s six and a half feet by three feet.”

“The same size as the first one,” Jen said.

“I didn’t want to be right, Vito.” Nick shook his head. “Fuck.”

Jen stood up. “I’ll get my tools and the camera, then I’ll get the team back and we’ll set up floodlights. Give me a hand with the tools, Nick. Vito, you call Katherine.”

“Will do. And I’ll call Liz.” Lieutenant Liz Sawyer had not been pleased to hear of the first body. Multiple unmarked graves would not be the news she wanted to hear.

Nick followed Jen, leaving Vito alone with Johannsen. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, sadness filling her eyes.

He nodded. “Yeah. Me, too. Let’s check the other side.”

As Johannsen continued on, Vito dialed Liz on his cell. “Liz, it’s Vito. We have the archeologist here. There’s another one.”

“Not good,” Liz said tightly. “One or more?”

“One at least. She’s just getting started and it’s going to take a while. Jen’s calling for her team and we’re going to get as much done as we can tonight.”

“Keep me apprised,” she ordered. “I’ll call the captain and give him the heads-up.”

“Will do.” Vito slid his phone back into his pocket.

Jen and Nick returned with the digging tools and the camera as Johannsen found the edge of the next grave. “Same length, same depth.” Twenty minutes ticked by before she looked up. “And another body. But this one doesn’t have any metal.”

“We didn’t find metal there with the detector,” Nick said.

Vito looked out over the field. “I know. That means there could be even more.”

Jen was laying plastic sheeting around the first new grave. “Take a spade, boys.”

They did, and for a while the four of them worked in silence, Johannsen marking the second plot and moving to the left to begin again, Nick, Vito, and Jen digging. Nick reached the body first. Jen leaned forward and with her small brush, removed the loose dirt from the victim’s face.

It was a man, young and blond. Decomposition was not yet advanced. He’d been handsome. “He hasn’t been dead long,” Nick said. “A week maybe.”

“If that,” Vito said. “Uncover his hands, Jen.” She did, and Vito twisted closer to get a better look at what he didn’t understand. “What the hell?”

“He’s not praying.” Nick frowned. “What is he doing?”

“Whatever he’s doing,” Jen said, “his hands are wired just like Jane Doe’s.”

The victim’s hands were formed into fists, both settled against his naked torso, the right above the left. The right fist was positioned level with the heart and his elbows pointed down. Both fists formed O’s. “He was holding something,” Vito said.

“A sword.” The whispered words came from above them, where Sophie Johannsen stood, her face ghostly pale under the red bandana. Her eyes were wide, horrified, and fixed on the victim. Vito had the sudden urge to pull her face against his chest, shielding her from the decomposing body.

Instead he stood and put his hands on her shoulders. “What did you say?”

She didn’t move, her eyes still fixed on the dead man.

He gave her a gentle little shake and pinched her chin, forcibly turning her face to his. “Dr. Johannsen, what did you say?”

She swallowed, then lifted her eyes, no longer bright. “He looks like an effigy.”

“An effigy,” Vito repeated. “As in ‘hung in effigy’?”

She closed her eyes, visibly steeling herself and Vito remembered that her bodies had been dead for hundreds of years. “No,” she said, her voice shaken. “As in a tomb or crypt. Many times tombs would have images of the dead carved in stone or marble. These statues would lie on their backs on top of the crypt. It’s called an effigy.”

She’d calmed herself, sounding like a teacher giving a lecture now. Vito supposed it was her way of coping. “The women usually had their hands folded like this.” She folded her hands beneath her chin, the pose identical to Jane Doe’s.

Vito glanced sharply at Nick, who nodded.

“Go on, Sophie,” Nick said quietly. “You’re doing fine.”

“But… but sometimes their arms were folded across their breasts.” Again she demonstrated, laying her hands flat. “Sometimes the man’s hands are folded in prayer, but sometimes he’s in full armor, holding a sword. Usually he holds the sword at his side, but sometimes the effigy was carved like this.” She balled her trembling hands into fists and laid them on her chest in exactly the way the victim’s were posed. “He’d hold the hilt of the sword in his hands and the blade would lie flat against his torso, straight down his center. It’s not as common a pose. It means he died in battle. Do you know who he is?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Someone’s son or husband,” she murmured.

“Why don’t you go sit in my truck? Here are the keys.”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “No, I’m all right. I just came to tell you I didn’t find anything to the left of the other plot. I’m going back toward the trees.” She wiped her eyes with her multicolored gloved fingers. “I’ll be fine.”

Nick stood up. “Sophie, now that you’ve told us this, I remember seeing pictures in an old history book. This is a medieval custom, isn’t it? Placing an effigy on the grave?”

She nodded but she was still very pale. “Yes. Earliest known carvings date as far back as 1100 and were common practice through the Renaissance.”

“Guys.” Jen was kneeling on the edge of the grave. “We’ve got bigger problems than this guy’s sword.” She came to her feet, dusting soil from her coveralls.

Vito and Nick looked down into the grave, but Johannsen stayed back. Vito couldn’t say he blamed her. What he saw made him want to turn his face away, but he didn’t. Jen had uncovered the victim down to his groin and there was a huge hole in his abdomen. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

“What?” Johannsen asked from five feet away.

Jen sighed. “This man had his intestines removed.”

“Disemboweled,” Johannsen said. “A torture used throughout history, but definitely used in medieval times.”

“Torture,” Nick murmured. “Holy shit, Vito. What kind of sicko would do this?”

Vito’s gaze swept the field. “And how many more did he put here?”

New York City, Sunday, January 14, 5:00

P.M.

The pop of a champagne cork brought the noise level to a low roar. From the back of the room, Derek Harrington watched Jager Van Zandt hold the fizzing bottle away from his expensive suit amid the cheers of a host of young, eager faces.

“We used to be happy with a six-pack as long as it was cold.”

Derek glanced up at Tony England, his smile rueful. “Ah, the good old days.”

But Tony wasn’t smiling. “I miss those days, Derek. I miss your old basement and working all night and… T-shirts and jeans. When it was just you and me and Jager.”

“I know. Now we’re growing so fast… I don’t know half these kids.” More than that, he missed his friend. Fame and pursuit of the dollar had changed Jager Van Zandt into a man Derek wasn’t sure he knew anymore. “I suppose success does have a price.”

Tony was quiet for a moment. “Derek, is it true we’re going IPO?”

“I’ve heard the rumors.”

Tony frowned. “Rumors? You’re the damn vice president, Derek. Shouldn’t you have a little better information than rumors?”

Derek should, but he didn’t. He was saved a reply by Jager, who’d climbed on a chair and held his champagne flute high. “Gentlemen. And ladies. We’re here to celebrate. I know you all are tired at the end of a long convention, but it’s over and we did well. Every bit of our production of Behind Enemy Lines is committed. We have orders for every video game we can crank out the door. We’re sold out, yet again!”

The young people cheered, but Derek stayed silent.

“He sold out, all right,” Tony muttered.

“Tony,” Derek murmured. “Not here. Not the place or time.”

“When will be the place and time, Derek?” Tony demanded. “When we’re both Jager’s yes-men? Or am I the only one that has to worry about becoming a yes-man?” Shaking his head, Tony made his way through the crowded room and out the door.

Tony had always been dramatic, Derek knew. Passion often came hand in hand with artistic genius. Derek wasn’t sure he had passion anymore. Or genius. Or art.

“Of course you’ll all see a nice hefty reward for all those sales in your bonus checks,” Jager was saying and there were more cheers. “But for now, a sweet reward.” Two waiters rolled in a long rectangular table. On it sat a cake that was easily six feet wide and three feet long and had been decorated with the oRo logo-a golden dragon with a giant R on its chest. The dragon gripped two O’s, one in each claw.

He and Jager had chosen the logo with care. Derek had created the golden dragon, and Jager chose the company name. The letters o-R-o were symbolic, tied to Jager’s native Dutch. It had never bothered Derek the R was five times bigger than either of the O’s. But it bothered him now. Many things bothered Derek now. But, pasting a smile on his face for the benefit of the employees, he accepted a flute of champagne.

“We’re entering a new phase of oRo growth,” Jager said, “and to that end, we have some changes to announce. Derek Harrington is being promoted.”

Stunned, Derek straightened, staring at the smiling Jager. Quickly he re-pasted the smile, unwilling to be seen as out of the loop.

“Derek will now be executive art director.” There were more cheers and Derek nodded, his smile frozen. He now understood what Jager had done, and his expectation was confirmed with Jager’s next words. “And to recognize his incredible contribution to Behind Enemy Lines, Frasier Lewis is promoted to art director.”

The employees applauded as Derek’s heart sank to his toes.

“Frasier couldn’t be here tonight, but he sends his personal regards and good wishes for the next venture. He asked me to make this toast for him, and I quote: ‘Enemy Lines got us into orbit. May The Inquisitor launch oRo to the moon!’” Jager lifted his glass. “To oRo and to success!”

His hand shaking, Derek slipped from the room. There was so much cheering that nobody even noticed he’d gone. In the hall he leaned one shoulder against the wall, his stomach churning. The promotion was a lie. Derek hadn’t been promoted up. He’d been pushed aside. Frasier Lewis had brought riches and success to oRo, but his dark methods left Derek afraid. He’d tried to stop Jager, to keep oRo on the high road.

But now it was too late. He’d just been replaced by Jager’s yes-man.

Philadephia, Sunday, January 14, 5:00

P.M.

It was worse than she ever could have imagined. What had been excitement for a hunt when she’d first arrived had abruptly become cold dread when she’d looked on the face of the dead man. Her dread became colder as the afternoon waned. She continued to scan and tried to stop thinking about the markers she’d laid. Or the man they’d found. Someone had tortured and killed him. And others. How many others would there be?

Katherine had returned to examine the victim and she and Sophie had exchanged sober nods, but no words. There was an unnatural hush to the site, the small army of cops moving efficiently but quietly as they did their jobs.

Sophie tried to focus on recording the objects under the ground. But they weren’t objects. They were people, and they were dead. She tried not to think about that, taking refuge in the routine of the scan, of the precise placement of each stake.

Until she reached into her pocket and found it empty. She’d grabbed two packs from the equipment room before meeting Vito. A dozen to a pack. Twenty-four stakes. Six graves. She’d located six graves already. The grave the police had located before she got there made seven. And I’m not finished yet. My God. Seven people.

Her vision blurred and angrily she rubbed at the tears with the back of her hand. CSU would have something that she could use to mark more graves. She raised her eyes to look for Jen McFain, but a sound behind her made her body freeze. It was a zipper, amplified in the surreal hush. Slowly she met Katherine Bauer’s eyes over the body bag she’d just zipped shut, and was hurled back sixteen years. Katherine’s hair had been darker then, a little longer.

The body bag she’d zipped had been much smaller.

The hush faded. All Sophie could hear was the drum of her own pulse. Katherine’s eyes widened with horrified understanding. She’d looked just like that back then, too.

Sophie heard her name, but all she could see was the body on the gurney, as it had been that day. So very small. That day she’d been too late and could only stand in shock as they’d rolled her away. A wave of grief surged, powerful and sudden. Anger followed in its wake, bitter and cold. Elle was gone, and nothing could bring her back.

“Sophie.”

Sophie blinked at the sudden pinch on her chin. She focused on Katherine’s face, on the lines sixteen years had wrought and let out a shuddering breath. Remembering where she was, she closed her eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

The pressure on her chin intensified until she opened her eyes. Katherine was frowning up at her. “Go to my car, Sophie. You’re white as a sheet.”

Sophie pulled away. “I’m all right.” She glanced up to find Vito Ciccotelli standing next to the very large body bag, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched her. He’d thought her rude and insensitive before. Now he probably thought she was unstable, or even worse, weak. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, meeting his watchful stare with a flash of defiance. She’d rather be considered rude.

But he didn’t look away, just kept those dark eyes fastened to hers. Unsettled, Sophie shifted her gaze away from Vito and took a step back. “I’m all right. Really.”

“No,” Katherine murmured. “You’re not all right. You’ve done enough for today. I’ll have one of the officers drive you home.”

Sophie’s jaw tightened. “I finish what I start.” She bent to retrieve the GPR’s handle which had fallen from her hands as she’d taken her little skip down memory lane. “Unlike some people.” She started to turn, but Katherine grabbed her arm.

“It was an accident,” Katherine whispered, and Sophie knew the woman honestly believed that to be the truth. “I thought after all this time you’d have accepted that.”

Sophie shook her head. Her anger lingered, bubbling inside her and when she spoke, her voice was cold. “You were always too soft on her. I’m afraid I’m not that-”

“Forgiving?” Katherine interrupted sharply.

Sophie huffed a laugh, utterly mirthless. “Blind. I’ll finish the job you asked me to do.” She pulled away from Kath-erine’s grasp and shoved her hand in her empty pocket, then remembered. Stakes. She searched for Jen only to find the small army had gone largely still, watching with blatant curiosity as the scene between her and Katherine unfolded.

She wanted to scream for them to mind their own damn business, but controlled the impulse. She looked for Jen, but it was Vito Ciccotelli’s dark eyes she met once again. He’d never looked away. “I’ve run out of stakes. Do you have any markers?”

“I’ll find something.” He gave her another long look of speculation before turning for the CSU van. When he was no longer watching her, she felt the air leave her lungs in a long sigh and realized she’d been holding her breath for a long time. As the sigh left her body, so did her temper. Now all she felt was weary regret and shame.

“I’m sorry, Katherine. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.” She stopped just short of saying she’d been wrong. She’d never lied to Katherine and wasn’t about to start now.

The corners of Katherine’s mouth lifted in wry acceptance of what Sophie had left unsaid. “I know. Seeing the victim would have been bad enough, but you had a shock on top of that. I never meant for you to see any bodies. I thought you’d do the scan, then go home. I guess I didn’t think that through very well.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you asked me to help.” Sophie squeezed Katherine’s arm and knew the air was clear between them again. It’s a good thing Katherine’s more forgiving than me, she thought ruefully. Then again, it was easier to forgive when one felt the loss less keenly. Elle had not been Katherine’s child. She was mine. Sophie cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was brusque. “Now let me get to work so all the cops will stop looking at us.”

Katherine looked over her shoulder, as if realizing for the first time they had an audience. With a single lifted brow, the little woman sent everyone back to their business. “Cops are the nosiest,” she whispered. “Worse gossips than girls.”

“Now, that’s just mean.”

Sophie’s eyes flew up to see Vito standing behind them, clutching a handful of colored flags as if they were flowers.

Katherine smiled up at him. “No, that’s just true, and you know it.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Replace ‘nosy’ with ‘observant’ and we’re square.” His words were directed to Katherine, but he looked at Sophie, his eyes just as intent as before. He held out the flags. “Your markers,” he said. She hesitated before scooping them from his hand, the thought of touching him making her nervous. Ridiculous. She was a professional and she would do the job she’d been brought here to do.

She took the flags and shoved them in her pocket. “I hope I don’t need this many.”

Vito’s slight smile disappeared as his gaze swept the field. “That makes two of us.”

Katherine sighed. “Amen.”

Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 9:40

P.M.

Daniel Vartanian sat on his hotel bed, rubbing his brow behind which the beginnings of a migraine lurked. “That’s the situation,” he finished and waited for his boss to speak.

Chase Wharton sighed. “You have one fucked-up family. You know that, don’t you?”

“Believe me, I know. Well, can I have the leave?”

“Are you sure they’re really traveling? Why all the lies?”

“My parents keep up appearances, no matter what.” His parents had covered up many family secrets to preserve the family’s “good name.” If people only knew. “That they didn’t want anyone to know about my mother’s illness is par for the course.”

“But it’s cancer, Daniel, not some awful secret like pedophilia or something.”

Or something, Daniel thought. “Cancer would be enough to start tongues wagging. My father wouldn’t tolerate that, especially since he’d just agreed to run for Congress.”

“You never said your father was a politician.”

“My father was a politician from the day he was born,” Daniel said bitterly. “He just did it from the bench. But I didn’t know he was running. Apparently he’d just agreed to run before he went away.” This he’d heard from Tawny Howard who’d taken his and Frank’s dinner order. Tawny had heard it from the secretary of Carl Sargent, the man his father had visited the last time he’d been in town. “I’m sure he views my mother’s cancer as fodder for the opposition. My mother will go along with whatever he says.”

Chase was silent and Daniel could imagine his worried expression.

“Chase, I just want to find my folks. My mother’s sick. I…” Daniel blew out a breath. “I need to see her. I have something to tell her and I don’t want her to die before I can. We had an argument and I said some harsh things.” He’d actually said them to his father, but the feelings of anger and disgust… and shame… they’d extended to include his mother as well.

“Were you wrong?” Chase asked quietly.

“No. But… I shouldn’t have let so many years pass with this between us.”

“Take your leave then. But the minute you suspect anything other than an ordinary vacation, you back off and we’ll set up a proper investigation. I don’t want my ass fried because a retired judge is missing and I didn’t follow procedure.” Chase hesitated. “Be careful, Daniel. And I’m sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks.” Daniel wasn’t sure where to begin, but was certain clues resided in his father’s computer. Tomorrow a pal from the GBI was coming to help him sort through his father’s computer records. Daniel only hoped he could deal with what he found.

New York City, Sunday, January 14, 10:00

P.M.

From his chair in the darkness of their hotel suite’s sitting room, Derek watched Jager stumble through the door. “You’re drunk,” Derek said with disgust.

Jager jerked upright. “Goddamn it, Derek. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Then we’re even,” Derek said bitterly. “Just what the hell was that all about?”

“What?” The word was uttered with contempt and Derek felt his temper boil higher.

“You know what. Who the hell gave you the right to make Lewis the art director?”

“It’s just a title, Derek.” Jager shot him a scathing look as he yanked his tie from his collar. “If you’d been in the bar celebrating with us instead of up here in the dark, sulking like a little boy, you would have heard the news firsthand. We got a booth at Pinnacle.”

“Pinnacle?” Pinnacle, the game convention of the year. On the planet. This was huge. Pinnacle was to game designers what Cannes was to filmmakers. The premier event to see and be seen. To have your art admired by the entire industry. Gamers would stand in line for days for a ticket. Booths were awarded by invitation only. Pinnacle was… the pinnacle. He let out a slow breath, hardly daring to believe it was true. Only in his wildest dreams… “You’re kidding.”

Jager laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “I would never kid about something like that.” He walked to the sideboard and poured himself another drink.

“Jager, you’ve had enough,” Derek started, but Jager flashed him a furious glare.

“Shut up. Just shut up. I’m so fucking tired of you and your ‘don’t do this’ and ‘don’t do that.’” He tossed back a swallow. “We’re going to Pinnacle because I took a risk. Because I had the balls to push the envelope. Because I have what it takes to succeed.”

Derek cocked his jaw, coldly furious at what had been left unsaid. “And I don’t.”

Jager spread his arms wide. “You said it.” He looked away. “Partner,” he muttered.

“I am, you know,” Derek said quietly.

“What?”

“Your partner.”

“Then start acting like one,” Jager said flatly. “And stop acting like some religious fanatic. Frasier Lewis’s art is entertainment, Derek. Period.”

Derek shook his head as Jager headed toward his room. “It’s indecent. Period.”

Jager stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “It’s what sells.”

“It’s not right, Jager.”

“I don’t see you refusing any paychecks. You act morally repulsed by the violence, but you’re in it for the money as much as I am. And if you’re not, you need to get out.”

“Is that a threat?” Derek asked quietly.

“No. It’s reality. Just contact Frasier and tell him to speed up the fight scenes he’s been promising me for a month. I want them by nine Tuesday morning. I need the fight scenes from Inquisitor to show at Pinnacle so he needs to light a fire under his ass.”

Stunned, Derek could only stare. “You already gave him the new game.”

Jager turned, his eyes cold. “It’s an entertainment venture,” he said between his teeth, “and yes, I gave Frasier the design for Inquisitor months ago. If I left it to you, we’d end up with the same sorry washed-out graphics we’ve had for years. He’s been researching and working the design for months while you’ve been sitting on your ass, doodling cartoons.” The last was uttered with contempt. “Face it, Derek, I’ve moved oRo to the next level. Keep up or get out.” He shut the door with a snap.

Derek stood motionless for a long time, staring at the door. Keep up or get out. Get out. He couldn’t just get out. Where would he go? He’d put all his talent, all his heart into oRo. He couldn’t just walk away. He needed his salary. His daughter’s college tuition wasn’t cheap. I am a hypocrite. He’d disagreed so vehemently with using Frasier Lewis’s scenes because the killings were so chillingly real. But Jager was right. I take the money. I like the money.

He needed to make a choice. If he planned to continue at oRo, he needed to come to terms with his distaste for Frasier Lewis’s “art.” Either I’m morally opposed or I’m not.

He sighed. Or he needed to decide if Jager had been telling him the truth, hard as it would be to accept. The same sorry washed-out look. That hurt. Am I jealous? Is Lewis the better artist? If so, could he accept that, and, more important, could he work with him?

Derek got up and paced the length of the room, stopping at the bar. He poured himself a drink, then sat back down in the dark to consider his options.