by Karen Rose
“But you saw her.”
“I’m pretty sure. It’s hard to forget a woman that sick. Sorry, man.”
“Can you check Beaumont?” It was his mother’s maiden name.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
So close. “Can I talk to your staff? Maybe one of them remembers something.”
Ray’s eyes were kind. “Wait here.” In a few minutes he was back with a small Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform. “This is Maria. She remembers your mother.”
“Your mother was very sick, no? But she was nice to us. Tried not be a problem.”
“Do you remember what you called her?”
“Mrs. Carol.” She shrugged. “Her husband called her this too.”
Ray was already typing. “Here it is. Mr. Arthur Carol.”
It was a simple yet elegant ruse, Daniel thought. Carol was his mother’s first name. “Thank you, Maria,” Daniel said. “Thank you so much.” When she was gone, Daniel turned to Ray. “Can you tell me when they checked in?”
“Checked in November 19, out December 1. Paid in cash. Is there anything else?”
He thought of the floor of his parents’ bedroom. “Do you have a safe?” Ray’s eyes flickered. “They had articles in the safe, didn’t they?”
Ray shrugged. “Still do. According to this, they didn’t get the items they’d stored in the safe when they checked out. We have a policy of ninety days or we pitch it.”
“Can you at least check? That way I’ll know if I need to get a warrant.”
“Okay, but this is it.” Two minutes later Ray came back with an envelope, surprise on his face. “There was a letter in there addressed to you.”
On the envelope was written “For Daniel or Susannah Vartanian.” The handwriting was his mother’s. Daniel drew a breath. “Thank you, Ray.”
“Good luck,” Ray said quietly.
When he got to his car, Daniel opened the envelope. It was a single sheet of hotel stationery with an address and a box number, written in his mother’s hand. Daniel took out his cell phone and dialed. His sister answered on the third ring, her voice brisk.
“District Attorney’s office. Susannah Vartanian.”
“Suze, it’s Danny.”
Susannah let out a breath. “Did you find them?”
“No, but I found something else.”
Thursday, January 18, 12:00 P.M.
Johannsen was still being careful. She had surrounded herself with people all morning long. Dragging her anywhere was going to be difficult, because the woman was a veritable Amazon. He planned to get her near his vehicle then disable her quickly. But he needed to get her alone first. He’d planned to wait until she broke for lunch to make his move.
He’d timed it well. Her Viking tour had just finished. He was approaching her when the door opened and another old man came in, winding his way through the children who’d taken the tour. Hands extended in welcome, Johannsen rushed to the old man, who, he was surprised to see, wasn’t really old either. He wasn’t in disguise, but he wasn’t that old. His body had been damaged, likely from repeated abuse. The man’s broken hands confirmed the assumption.
He wondered how much torture the man had sustained and how long it would take to wreak that kind of damage. He’d like to paint that man’s eyes. He imagined he’d have a hell of a pain threshold and would last a lot longer than any of the models had.
Johannsen and the old man began to speak to each other in what sounded like Russian. As she walked the Russian to the front door, he stepped forward.
Then his cell phone rang. Several people looked up and he turned his face away quickly, hunching over his cane. Drawing attention to himself was not part of his mission. He hurried out of the museum as quickly as he thought an old man should and opened his cell phone when he got far enough away. It was Van Zandt’s direct number. Frowning, he dialed back. “It’s Frasier Lewis.”
“Frasier,” Van Zandt said. “I need to meet with you.”
“I can come up in a few days. Maybe next Tuesday.”
“No. I need to speak with you today. Frasier, Derek quit yesterday.”
He certainly had. In more ways than one. “Really? Why?”
“Didn’t want to give up artistic control. I have a contract for you to sign. I’ll be in Philadelphia later this afternoon. Meet me for dinner at seven. You can sign it and I’ll be on my way.
“Executive art director?” he asked and Van Zandt laughed.
“That’s what it says on the contract. I’ll see you then.”
New York City, Thursday, January 18, 12:30 P.M.
“Told you it was a sucker bet,” Vito muttered under his breath.
Nick nodded, arms crossed over his chest as the two of them watched a pair of NYPD detectives check anyplace a man could hide. Or be hidden. “Now what?”
“Put out an APB, I guess. Looks like they’re done here.”
The two NY cops came back to the living room. They were Carlos and Charles. Almost as good as Nick and Chick, Vito thought, but not quite.
“He’s not here,” Carlos said. “Sorry.”
“Thanks,” Vito said. “We didn’t think we’d find him here, but . . .”
Charles nodded. “You guys have ten bodies down there. We’d have looked, too.”
“So what do you boys want to do?” Carlos asked. “Is this guy a suspect?”
“We don’t think he’s our killer,” Nick said, “but he might have an idea of who is.”
“We can put out an APB for you,” Charles offered.
“We appreciate it.” Vito picked up a framed photo, Harrington with a woman and teenaged girl. “He’s married with a kid. Can we find the wife?”
“We’ll call it in,” Carlos said. “Anything else?”
Nick shrugged. “Maybe recommend a good deli where we can get lunch?”
Philadelphia, Thursday, January 18, 2:15 P.M.
“Can I help you?” The boy behind the counter looked barely old enough to shave.
I certainly hope so, Daniel thought. The address his mother had left on the hotel stationery was a mailbox store on the other side of town.
He’d sat outside for some time, debating whether he should call his boss and make this an official investigation. But “I know what your son did” continued to haunt him. So here he was, about to use his badge to bypass the law again. “I need to check a box.”
The boy nodded professionally. “Can I see your ID?”
Daniel handed him his shield and watched the boy’s eyes grow wide.
“I’ll look it up . . . Special Agent Vartanian.”
The boy was so impressed with his being an agent he didn’t wait to see which box Daniel wanted. The kid typed in his name, then looked up. “Just a minute, sir.”
Wait was on Daniel’s lips, but he bit it back. His name was in their computer. He’d never set foot in this city before this week. Heart pounding, he waited. In a minute the boy returned with a thick manila envelope that had been folded sideways.
“Just this, sir,” the kid said.
“Thank you,” Daniel managed. “But that’s not the only reason I came in. I’m working a case and one of the leads is a box here at this store. I took the responsibility for following up since I had to come by anyway. Can you tell me who owns box 115?”
It was way too easy. Both to utter the lie and to fool the boy. But he got what he needed. “It’s registered to Claire Reynolds. Do you need her address?”
“Please.”
The boy wrote it down, and Daniel once again went out to his car with an envelope in his hand. He carefully sliced the top with his pen knife, then drew out the contents.
For a moment he could only stare in horror and total disbelief. Then the years yanked him back like a riptide. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Dad, what did you do?”
This was worse than his worst fear. I know what your son did. Now Daniel knew what his father had done as well. He wasn’t sure he could ask why.
When he could bre
athe again he called Susannah.
“Did you find them?” she asked without preamble.
He forced his mouth to speak the words. “You need to come.”
“Daniel, I can’t . . .”
“Please, Susannah.” His voice was harsh. “I need you to come. Please.” He waited, his heart stuck in his throat.
Finally she sighed. “All right. I’ll take the train. I’ll be there in three hours.”
“I’ll pick you up at the station.”
“Daniel, are you all right?”
He stared at the papers he held. “No. I’m not.”
New York City, Thursday, January 18, 2:45 P.M.
“Harrington’s either gone under or he’s dead,” Vito told Liz on the phone. “We checked his office, his apartment, and his wife’s apartment. Nobody’s seen him. His car isn’t in its space. We visited his wife who says she hasn’t seen him in six months. They have a daughter at Columbia University who said she hasn’t seen him either.”
“Why do he and his wife have separate apartments?”
“She said they’d separated. He’d become increasingly depressed and ‘melancholy’ she said, but never violent. NYPD’s put out an APB and now we’re sitting in front of oRo eating lunch. We’re about to go back up to see if we can get an employee list from Van Zandt, or hang outside until one of the employees talks to us. Brent said Harrington didn’t do the art, but somebody there did. We just need one person willing to finger him.”
“Good. Stick with it. I have some news on the Vartanians. I called the sheriff in Dutton, Georgia. The Vartanians haven’t been seen since before Thanksgiving.”
“That’s consistent with what Yuri said last night.”
“I know. There’s more. The sheriff informed the Vartanians’ son that his parents might be missing last weekend. The son is with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, and the daughter is with the New York DA’s office. Neither of them is in their office. Daniel, the GBI guy, has been on leave since Monday. His sister, Susannah, just took leave this afternoon. I’ve left word with their supervisors to have them call me.”
But there was more, Vito could tell, and it was worse. “Just tell me, Liz.”
“The police in White Plains, New York, found Kyle Lombard in his antique store.”
Vito’s heart skipped a beat. “Dead?”
“Bullet between his eyes. Looks like it came from a German weapon, vintage. They’re sending the bullet to us so we can match it against the one from the kid on the first row. The local police searched his store and found all kinds of illegally obtained medieval goodies hidden under his floor. Your Sophie would have a field day.”
Vito’s willed his stomach to settle. His Sophie was now officially in danger. “What about the other two. Shafer and Brewster?”
“Shafer was riding shotgun with Lombard. So to speak. Also had a bullet between the eyes. Both were tied to chairs and shot there in the store. Brewster’s still missing.”
“If Lombard was dealing, let’s see if we can check his sales records. Maybe we can find a tie to our guy.”
“Not gonna happen. Lombard’s computer was wiped and his paper files were strewn all over the office. And to wrap it in pretty red tape, the store and Lombard’s inventory have been seized by the Feds. Even though they were sixty to six hundred years old, Lombard was smuggling weapons. I expect we’re going to get leaned on to hand this case over to the Feds sooner or later.”
Vito frowned. “You won’t let that happen, right?”
“To the extent of my authority, no. But were I your boss, and I am, I’d be telling you to get back here and wrap this one up quick or you’ll be getting help you don’t want.”
“Fuck.” Vito drew a breath. “Does Sophie know about Lombard and Shafer?”
“I called and told her. She’s a smart woman, Vito. She said she wouldn’t go out alone and would call one of us to pick her up when she’s done for the day.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
“Are you okay?” Liz asked.
“No. Not really. But if she’s careful . . . we just have to catch this guy.”
“So do it. See you soon.”
Scowling, Vito hung up and stared up at the building that housed oRo. “Lombard and Clint Shafer. Luger, between the eyes.”
“Shit,” Nick muttered. “I guess that snips off those loose ends.”
Vito started to get out of the car. “Let’s go have another little talk with Van Zandt.”
But Nick stopped him. “First, you need to eat. Second, you need to calm down. If you spook him, we’ll lose him, and like I said before—I ain’t takin’ your whoopin’.”
“Fine.”
“Maybe I should do the talking this time,” Nick said.
Vito ripped the plastic wrap from his sandwich angrily. “Fine.”
New York City, Thursday, January 18, 3:05 P.M.
“Mr. Van Zandt isn’t here.”
Vito gaped at the prune-mouthed secretary. “What?”
Nick cleared his throat. “Mr. Van Zandt said he’d be available this afternoon.”
“He had an unexpected call from a client. He had to leave.”
“So . . . what time was this?” Nick asked.
“About noon.”
Nick nodded. “I see. Well then, could you provide us with a list of your employees?”
Vito was biting his tongue. He knew neither of them thought the envelope she handed them with such nasty satisfaction would have the information they wanted.
Nick pulled out a letter on oRo letterhead, its message short and sweet. “‘Get a warrant,’” Nick read. “Signed ‘Jager A. Van Zandt.’ Well, then, that’s what we’ll do.” He pulled a sheet of blank paper from her printer. “Could you write your name for me please? I want to be sure we spell it correctly on the warrant. Then sign it.”
She was suddenly not so defiant. Still she wrote her name and handed him the page. “You know the way out.”
“Same way we came in,” Nick said with an easy smile. “Y’all have a nice day, now.”
Outside on the curb Nick folded the secretary’s paper and put it and the envelope in his pocket. “Handwriting samples,” he said. “To compare against the Claire letters.”
“Good work. Thanks, Nick. I was too mad to be effective.”
“You’ve covered for me enough times. I’d say we’re good.”
“Excuse me.”
A man was hurrying toward them, his face anxious. “Have you been in oRo?”
“Yes, sir,” Vito answered. “But we don’t work there.”
“I’ve been trying to see Derek Harrington since yesterday, but they say he’s not in.”
“Why were you trying to see Harrington?” Nick asked.
“It’s about my son. He promised he’d show a picture of my son to the other artists.”
Vito’s heart sank as his apprehension rose. “Why, sir?”
“My son is missing and someone in that building saw him. They used him as a model. I want to know when and where. Then I’ll least know where to start looking.”
Vito slid his shield from his pocket. “I’m Detective Ciccotelli, and this is my partner, Detective Lawrence. What’s your name, and do you have a photo of your son?”
The man squinted at his shield. “Philadelphia? I’m Lloyd Webber.” He handed Vito a picture. “This is my son, Zachary.”
It was the young man who got shot in the head. “One-three,” he murmured.
“What? What does that mean?” Webber demanded.
“I’ll call Carlos and Charles,” Nick said quietly and moved away to use his phone.
Vito met Webber’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. But I think we might have your son’s body.”
Denial warred with bitter reality in Webber’s eyes. “In Philadelphia?”
“Yes, sir. If this is the boy we think it is, he’s dead and has been for about a year.”
Webber deflated. “I knew. I just didn’t want to believe. I need to call my
wife.”
“I’m sorry,” Vito said again.
Webber jerked a nod. “She’s going to ask how he died. What should I tell her?”
Vito hesitated. Liz would want to keep as much of this contained as possible, but this father deserved to know what had happened to his son and with that he was sure Liz would agree. “He was shot, sir.”
Webber flashed a hot furious glance up at the building. “In the head?”
“Yes, but if you could keep that to yourself for now, we’d appreciate it.”
He nodded, numb. “Thank you. I won’t tell her where he was shot.”
Vito watched as he walked ten feet away and called his wife. Then swallowed hard when Webber’s shoulders began to heave. “Fuck,” Vito viciously whispered, hearing Nick behind him. “I really want him. Bad.”
“I know. Charles and Carlos asked us to wait here while they get a warrant. They’re going to try to seize all oRo’s records.”
A car door slammed behind them and Vito and Nick turned. A man got out of a cab, his face grimly determined. “Are you the detectives from Philly?”
“Yeah,” Nick answered. “Who wants to know?”
The man stopped in front of them, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. “My name is Tony England. Until two days ago I worked for oRo. Derek Harrington was my boss.”
“What happened?” Nick asked.
“I quit. Derek was being steamrolled by Jager into doing things he didn’t agree with. That I didn’t agree with. I couldn’t stand by and watch Jager destroy it all.”
“How did you know we were here?” Vito asked.
“oRo’s a small company. Everyone knew you were there thirty seconds after you walked in the door. An old friend called, told me you were here asking about Derek. I came down right away, but you were gone.” England’s eyes narrowed at Webber, who’d finished his call, but stood with his back to them, quietly weeping. “Who is he?”
Vito looked at Nick and Nick gave him a little nod. Vito held out the photo. “The father of this boy. His name is Zachary. He’s dead.”
Every drop of color drained from England’s thin face. “Fuck. Holy fuck. That’s . . .” He stared in horror at the picture. “Oh, my God, what have we done?”