by Karen Rose
Liz leaned over and switched the bags. “God, you’re worse than my kids.”
Vito grinned and opened the bag of barbeque chips. “But you love us anyway.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Where’s Nick?”
Vito sobered. “With the DA. He got called down to be prepped for tomorrow.”
Liz sighed. “We’ve all had our Siever cases, unfortunately.” Her eyes narrowed. “You had one, too. A couple of years ago. Right about this time.”
Vito crunched on his chips, keeping his expression bland, even though his gut clenched. Liz was fishing. He knew she’d known something wasn’t right about Andrea’s death, but she’d never come out and asked. “Right about.”
She watched him for another few seconds, then shrugged. “So bring me up to speed on our mass-grave situation. The story broke on the noon news and the phones down in PR have been ringing off the hooks ever since. Right now we’re ‘no commenting’ like there’s no tomorrow, but that won’t hold water too much longer.”
Vito told her everything they knew, finishing with their visit to the morgue. “Now I’m combing through missing persons reports trying to match vics.”
“The girl with the folded hands . . . If Keyes was an actor/model, maybe she is, too.”
“Nick and I thought the same thing. When we’re through looking through missing persons, we’ll canvas the bars where the actors hang out down by the theater district. Trouble is, the vic’s face is too decomposed to show her pictures.”
“Get an artist down to the morgue. Have them look at bone structure and do the best they can.”
Vito munched glumly. “Tried that. Both artists are with live victims. It’ll be days before they’re freed up enough to sketch a dead victim.”
“Goddamn budget cuts,” Liz muttered. “Can you draw?”
He laughed. “Stick figures with a ruler.” Then sobered, thinking. “My brother does.”
“I thought your brother was a shrink.”
“That’s my sister Tess. Tino’s the artist. He specializes in faces.”
“Is he cheap?”
“Yeah, but don’t tell my mom. She thinks we’re all, you know, saints.” He lifted his brows cagily. “Candidates for the priesthood even.”
Liz laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me. Has your brother done anything like this?”
His mind came back to Tino. “No. But he’s a good guy. He’ll want to help.”
“Then call him. If he’s willing, bring him down and sign a release. You’re getting pretty good at finding free help these days, Chick. Archeologists, artists . . .”
Vito made himself grin carelessly. “So what do I get for my trouble?”
Liz reached over and snagged Nick’s chips and threw them at him. “Like I said, don’t say I never gave you anything.”
New York City, Monday, January 15, 4:55 P.M.
“Derek, I need to talk to you.”
Derek looked up from his laptop screen. Tony England stood in the open door of his office, his jaw clenched and sullen fire in his eyes. Derek leaned back in his chair. “I was wondering when you’d come. Come in. Close the door.”
“I started for your office at least twenty times today. But I was too angry.” Tony lifted a shoulder. “I’m too angry now.”
Derek sighed. “What do you want me to do, Tony?”
“Be a man and tell Jager no for once,” he exploded, then looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. You’ve been with oRo since the beginning. You supervised the fight scenes in the last three games. You expected to take my place someday, not be demoted to work for a newcomer.”
“All that’s true. Derek, you and I made a great team. Tell Jager no.”
“I can’t.”
Tony’s lip curled. “Because you’re afraid he’ll fire you?”
Derek let him have that shot. “No. Because he’s right.”
Tony’s spine went ramrod straight. “What?”
“He’s right.” He waved at his laptop. “I’ve been studying Enemy Lines next to everything we did before. Enemy Lines is stunning. The work we did on the last project is barely mediocre by comparison. If Frasier Lewis can do it—”
“You sold out,” Tony said dully. “I never believed you . . .” He lifted his chin. “I quit.”
It was what Derek expected. “I understand. If you sleep on it and decide to change your mind, it will be like we never had this conversation.”
“I won’t change my mind. And I won’t work for Frasier Lewis.”
“Then contact me for a recommendation. For whatever it’s worth.”
“Once it would have been worth a great deal,” Tony said bitterly. “Now . . . I’ll take my chances on my own. Enjoy the money, Derek, because once Jager forces you out, it’ll be all you have left.”
Derek stared at the door Tony quietly closed behind him. Tony was right. Jager was forcing him out. The signs had been there for weeks, but Derek hadn’t wanted to see.
“Derek?” his secretary called through the intercom. “Lloyd Webber is on line two.”
He was not in the mood to speak to any more reporters. “Tell him no comment.”
“He’s not a reporter. He’s a parent and wants to talk to you about Enemy Lines.”
Nor was Derek in the mood to listen to any more irate parents who found Enemy Lines disturbing and violent. “Take a message. I’ll call him back tomorrow.”
Monday, January 15, 6:00 P.M.
His timing had been good, Vito thought as he watched Sophie exit the Albright Museum. She looks tired, he thought as she got closer to her bike.
He stepped around his truck as she unhooked her helmet from her seat. “Sophie.”
She gasped. “You scared the hell out of me,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”
Vito hesitated, now unsure of the words to say. From behind his back he whisked out a single white rose and watched her eyes narrow.
“Is this a joke?” she said, her voice gone low and hard. “Because it’s not funny.”
“Not a joke. It bothered me that you thought I was just like ‘all the others.’ I wanted you to know that I’m not.”
For a moment she said nothing, then shook her head and bungeed her backpack to her seat. “Okay. Fine. You’re a prince,” she said sardonically. “A really nice guy.” She straddled her bike and tucked her braid under her jacket before pulling the helmet onto her head. “I would have gotten you the list anyway.”
Vito spun the rose between his fingers nervously. She wore a black leather jacket tonight, and she’d exchanged the rainbow-fingered gloves for leather gloves similar to his own. With her forbidding expression and all that black leather, she looked like a dangerous biker chick, not like the eclectically dressed academic he’d met the day before. She tugged the strap under her chin and stood up to start the bike. She was leaving and he had not accomplished his mission.
“Sophie, wait.”
She paused, poised to kick the engine into gear. “What?”
“The flowers were for someone else.” Her eyes flickered. She obviously hadn’t expected him to own up to it. “They were for someone I cared for who died. I was going to put them on her grave yesterday, but got tied up in the case. And that’s the truth.” As much as he was willing to divulge, anyway.
She frowned slightly. “Most people put carnations on graves in the winter.”
He shrugged. “Roses were her favorite.” His throat thickened as a picture of Andrea flashed through his mind, burying her face in a bouquet of roses. Blood red, they’d stood out in marked contrast to her olive skin and black hair. The colors mocked him. Her black hair soaking up her red blood as it flowed from the bullet hole in the side of her head—the hole he’d put there.
Abruptly he cleared his throat. “Anyway, I was getting flowers for my sister-in-law who’s in the hospital and I saw the white roses. They made me think of you.”
She was studying him warily. “Either you’re really g
ood or you’re telling the truth.”
“I’m not that good. But I’ve never cheated in my life, and I didn’t want you to think I had.” He laid the rose across her handlebars. “Thanks for listening.”
She stared down at the flower for a long, long moment, then her shoulders sagged. Tugging off one glove, she pulled a folded sheet of paper and a pen from the pocket of her coat. Unfolding the paper, she wrote something at the bottom, then with a hard swallow handed it to him. “Here’s your list. It’s not much.”
There was a defeated look in her eyes that startled him even as it squeezed his heart. There were twenty typed names, some with websites. She’d written one more name at the bottom. “This seems like more than not much,” he said.
She shrugged. “The top eighteen keep booths at the Medieval Festival that takes place every fall. They sell swords and chain mail and such. Most also sell their goods on the ’Net. If anyone’s been asking questions about torture devices, they might have tried one of these guys first.”
“And the others?”
“Etienne Moraux is my old professor at the university in Paris. I did my graduate research under him. He’s a good man, well connected in the archeological world. If someone’s found a chair recently, he’ll know. If one’s been sold or gone missing from any museums or legitimate private collections, he’ll know that, too. As for his knowledge of the black market, I doubt it, but you never know if he’s heard rumors.”
“And Kyle Lombard?”
“He’s a long shot. I don’t even know where he is. But ten years ago he was working on his dissertation while we were on a dig in southern France. He was investigating stolen artifacts. He never finished his dissertation, and I couldn’t find him in any of the alumni lists, but you have your spy-guy ways.”
“And our memory-zapping guns,” he said, hoping to coax a smile to her lips. Instead, her eyes filled with a sadness that shook him. But she didn’t look away.
“Sometimes I think that would be a very useful thing to have,” she murmured.
“I agree. What about this last name? Alan Brewster.”
For a moment her eyes flashed with a rage so intense he nearly stepped back. But it was gone as suddenly as it had come, her anger seeming to fizzle, leaving her looking weary and defeated once again. “Alan’s one of the top archeologists in the Northeast,” she said quietly, “well connected with wealthy donors that make a lot of digs possible, here and in Europe. If somebody’s been buying, he might know.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
She broke the stem off the rose, then with care pocketed the bloom. “He’s the chair of medieval studies at Shelton College. It’s in New Jersey, not too far from Princeton.” She stared at the ground, hesitating. When she looked back up, her eyes were filled with despair and grim acceptance. “If you could not mention my name, I’d appreciate it.”
So she and Brewster had some bad history. “How do you know him, Sophie?”
Her cheeks reddened and Vito felt a spurt of jealousy, irrational but undeniable. “He was my graduate advisor.”
He swallowed the jealousy back. Whatever had happened, it still caused her pain. He made his voice gentle. “I thought you did your graduate degree under Moraux.”
“I did, later.” The despair in her eyes give way to a quiet yearning that made him ache. “You have what you came for, Detective. Now I need to go.”
He had what he’d come for, but not everything he needed. From the look in her eyes, she needed it, too. Quickly he folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket as she tugged her glove back on. “Sophie, wait. There is one more thing.” Before he could change his mind he straddled her front tire, slipped his hands around her helmet, and covered her mouth with his.
She stiffened, then her hands came up to circle his wrists. But she didn’t pull his hands away and for a few precious moments they both took what they needed. She was sweet, her lips soft under his and the scent of her lit a fire in his blood. He needed more. He fumbled with the strap under her chin and managed to jerk it free. Without breaking contact, he pushed the helmet from her head, dropped it on the ground behind him, then tunneled his fingers through the hair at her nape. He’d pulled her closer, perfecting the fit of his lips on hers when she surged into motion and the kiss suddenly changed from slow and sweet to reckless and urgent.
Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she lifted on her toes and ate at his mouth with hot, greedy little bites, a hungry whimper rising from her throat. He’d been right. The thought pushed through the heat as he urged her lips apart and took the kiss deeper. She’d needed this as much as he had. Maybe more.
Her fingers were clenched in the shoulders of his coat and his heart was pounding so hard it was all he could hear. Vito knew this hadn’t begun to satisfy what he needed. What he really needed wasn’t going to happen standing over her bike in a parking lot. He left the warmth of her mouth, brushing his lips along her jaw, pressing against the underside where her pulse beat hard and fast.
Vito pulled away just far enough to search her face. Her eyes were wide, and in them he saw hunger and need and uncertainty, but no regret. Slowly she lowered to her heels, running her hands along his arms until she reached his wrists. She pulled his hands from her hair, then closed her eyes as she clutched his hands in hers for several beats of his heart. Then carefully she released him and opened her eyes. The look of despair had returned, stronger now, and he knew she’d walk away from him.
“Sophie,” he started, his voice harsh and gravelly. She put her fingers over his lips.
“I need to go,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “Please.”
He reached for the helmet he’d dropped on the ground and watched as she strapped it under her chin once again. He didn’t want her to leave like this. He didn’t want her to leave at all. “Sophie, wait. I still owe you a pizza.”
She flashed him a forced smile. “Can’t. I’ve got to visit my grandmother.”
“Tomorrow, then?” and she shook her head.
“I teach a graduate seminar at Whitman on Tuesdays.” She lifted her hand, stopping him before he pressed further. “Please don’t. Vito, yesterday when I met you I was hoping you’d be decent and I was so upset when I thought you weren’t. I’m truly glad you are. So . . .” She shook her head, regret now in her eyes. “So good luck.”
She stood up, kicked the bike into gear and was out of the lot in a roar. As he watched her go, he realized it was the third time in two days he’d done so.
Monday, January 15, 6:45 P.M.
Sophie sat back with a frustrated sigh. “Gran, you have to eat. The doctor says you’ll never get out of here if you don’t get your strength back.”
Her grandmother glared at the plate. “I wouldn’t feed that to my dogs.”
“You feed filet to your dogs, Gran,” Sophie said. “I wish I ate as well.”
“They only get filet once a year.” Her chin lifted. “On their birthday.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Oh, well, as long as it’s a special occasion.” She sighed again. “Gran, please eat. I want you strong enough to come home.”
The defiant spark faded from Anna’s eyes, her thin shoulders slumping back against her pillow. “I’m never going home, Sophie. Maybe it’s time we both accepted that.”
Sophie’s chest hurt. Her grandmother had always been the picture of health, but the stroke had left her frail and unable to use the right side of her body, and her speech was still too slurred to be understood by strangers. A recent bout of pneumonia had robbed her of even more strength and made every breath she drew painful.
The world had once been Anna’s stage—Paris, London, Milan. Opera fans flocked to hear her Orfeo. Now Anna’s world was this small room in a nursing home.
Still, the last thing Anna needed was pity so Sophie hardened her voice. “Bullshit.”
Anna’s eyes flew open. “Sophie!”
“Like you haven’t said that word a hundred times.” A day, she
added to herself.
Twin spots of color darkened Anna’s pale cheeks. “Still,” she grumbled, then dropped her eyes back to the plate. “Sophie, this food is vile. It’s worse than usual.” She lifted her left brow, the only one she could lift anymore. “Try it yourself.”
Sophie did, then grimaced. “You’re right. Wait here.” She went to the door and saw one of the nurses at the station. “Nurse Marco? Did you get a new dietitian?”
The nurse looked up from her clipboard, her expression guarded. “Yes. Why?”
Most of the nursing home staff were wonderful. Nurse Marco, however, was a grouch. To say that she and Anna did not get along was putting it mildly, so Sophie tried to ensure her visits coincided with Marco’s shifts. Just to keep things civilized. “Because this food tastes really bad. Could you possibly get Anna something else?”
Marco pursed her lips. “She’s on a controlled diet, Dr. Johannsen.”
“Which she will follow, I promise.” Sophie smiled as engagingly as she could. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t really bad. Please?”
Marco’s sigh was long-suffering. “Very well. It will be a half hour or so.”
Sophie came back to sit at Anna’s bedside. “Marco will bring you a new dinner.”
“She’s mean,” Anna murmured, closing her eyes.
Sophie frowned. Her grandmother said things like that increasingly often these days and Sophie was never completely sure what she should believe. Likely it was petulance brought on by the frustration of being helpless and in pain, but she always worried there could be something more.
Sophie seemed worried most of the time these days—about Anna, about bills, about the career she hoped she could someday reclaim. And today she’d added a new worry—what Vito Ciccotelli would think about her once he met Alan Brewster.
She touched her lips with her fingertips and let herself remember that kiss. Her heart started pounding all over again. She’d wanted more, so much more. And for just a moment, she’d let herself hope that just this once, she could have it.
What a fool you are. She’d finally met a really nice man who might have been everything she wanted—and she’d sent him to the one man who was most likely to paint her as a cheap sex-crazed slut with no moral compass. Maybe he won’t believe Alan. Hah. Men always believed Alan, because on some level they wanted to believe she was cheap, that she’d fall into bed with anyone who asked.