by Karen Rose
“Do you know who drew this boy into the game, Mr. England?” Nick asked softly.
England’s eyes narrowed. “Frasier Lewis. I hope you fry his ass and he rots in hell.”
Chapter Nineteen
Philadelphia, Thursday, January 18, 5:15 P.M.
She looked the same, Daniel thought as she passed through the train station’s revolving door. Petite and fragile. The men in their house had been big, the women small. I needed your protection then.
He’d believed he was protecting her. Obviously he’d been remiss. He got out of his rental car and stood, waiting until she saw him. Her step slowed, and even from where he stood he could see the stiffness in her shoulders.
He walked around and opened her door. She stopped in front of him and lifted her eyes. She’d been crying. “So you know,” he murmured.
“My boss called me on my cell after I’d already boarded the train.”
“My boss called me, too. The lieutenant who called him was Liz Sawyer. I have the address for her office.” He sighed. “I was too late.”
“But you know something that will help find who did this?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Or destroy us both. Get in.”
He slid behind the wheel and put his key in the ignition, but she put her hand over his. Her gray eyes were huge and flashed fire. “Tell me.”
He nodded. “All right.” He gave her the envelope that had been waiting for him at the mailbox store and waited as she slid the contents to her lap.
She gasped, then slowly, mechanically looked at each page. “Oh my God.” She looked up at him then. “You knew about these?”
“Yes.” He started up the car. “‘I know what your son did,’” he quoted softly. “Now you know, too.”
Thursday, January 18, 5:45 P.M.
Sophie stood in the middle of her warehouse, fists on her hips. She’d unpacked a dozen crates since Lieutenant Sawyer’s call that afternoon. Keeping herself busy had kept her from dwelling on the fact that Kyle and Clint were dead.
That Kyle and Clint were connected to the killer was without doubt. They’d been killed with the same gun used to murder one of the nine she’d found in the graveyard.
That the killer knew about her had been a possibility this morning when she’d allowed herself to be driven to the museum by a cop with a gun. Now it was more than a possibility, but still it wasn’t an eventuality. However she chose to balance nuance with her carefully chosen words, it was still damn scary. So she’d kept busy until Liz could free up an armed body to take her back to the precinct. To Vito.
She hoped he’d had success today. Now more than ever.
“Sophie.”
With a gasp she wheeled, pressing her hand to her heart. Once again in the shadows stood Theo Four. In his hand he held an ax, as effortlessly as if it had been a feather. Controlling her breathing she fought the urge to take a step back. To flee screaming. Screaming. She closed her eyes and got hold of herself. When she opened them he was still watching her, his face expressionless. “What do you want?”
“My dad said you needed some help opening crates. I couldn’t find the crowbar you were using yesterday, so I brought this.” He extended the ax. “So which crates?”
She exhaled as quietly as she could. Get a freakin’ grip, Sophie. She was seeing threats that didn’t exist. “Over here. I think these are from Ted the First’s travels to southeast Asia. I’m thinking about an exhibit about the Cold War and communism and wanted to include his artifacts from the Korean peninsula and Vietnam.”
Theo Four came into the light, his dark eyes oddly amused. “Ted the First?”
Sophie’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry. That’s how I think about all you Theodores.”
“I thought you were going to do an interactive exhibit. A dig.”
“I am, but this warehouse is big enough for three or four exhibits. I think this Cold War exhibit will touch people deeper. You know. Freedom isn’t free.”
He said nothing more, but stripped the tops off the crates as if they were crepe paper instead of heavy wood. “There. It’s done.” He then left as silently as he’d come.
Sophie shivered. That boy was either deep or just plain off. How “off” could he be? How much did she know about Theo or Ted, for that matter?
She laughed at herself. “Get a grip, Sophie,” she said out loud. It was time to go anyway. Liz had said her ride would be at the museum at six. It was almost that now. She locked the warehouse door and stood inside the front door waiting, then laughed again when Jen McFain approached with a grin.
“Good night, Darla!” Sophie called, then pushed the door open. “So you’re my bodyguard?” she asked, looking way down at Jen.
Jen looked way up. “That’s right, Xena. You got something to say about it?”
Sophie zipped up her coat, chuckling. “It seems silly. I should be protecting you.”
Jen pulled back the lapel of her jacket. “A nine-mil adds a lot of inches, Xena.”
“Stop calling me that,” Sophie said as she got into Jen’s car. She waited until Jen was in and buckled up. “‘Your majesty’ will suffice.”
Jen laughed. “Then let’s go, Your Majesty. Your prince awaits.”
Sophie couldn’t stop the smile that warmed her whole face. “Vito’s back?”
Jen’s smile went grim. “Yeah, they’re back.”
“What’s wrong?”
“The two guys they went looking for are missing, but they ID’d another one of the bodies from the graveyard. And . . .” Jen blew out a breath. “They found someone who can ID the motherfucker who started all this.”
Thursday, January 18, 6:25 P.M.
“Tino.” Vito gripped his brother’s arm in an abbreviated hug. “Thanks again.”
“No problem. You get anywhere with the picture of the old man from the bar?”
Vito shook his head. “I haven’t even seen a picture of the old man yet. Nick and I just got back from New York fifteen minutes ago.”
“Here’s another copy. I went home and did some more work, shadowing, hatching. It’s a better representation than the quick sketch I did for your lieutenant this morning.”
Vito stared down at the man who’d met Greg Sanders on Tuesday afternoon. “Man, he really is old. Hunched. It’s hard to believe.”
“That’s how the waitress saw him, but you know how accurate eyewitnesses aren’t.”
“Yeah, but I really want her to be right. But I may have something better—I brought back a guy from New York who knew the artist that made the cut scenes in Behind Enemy Lines. He’s waiting in the conference room. I was hoping you could . . .”
Tino grinned. “Lead the way.”
Vito took him to the conference room where Nick waited with Tony England. “Tony, this is my brother Tino. He’s a sketch artist.”
“I’m a sketch artist,” Tony said with frustration, “but I can’t get any more from my mind than that.” He pointed to a paper on the table. “My mind is frozen or something.”
It was a bare-bones sketch that could be almost anyone. Additionally, it had a cartoon quality that made Vito remember what Brent had said about Harrington’s expertise—cartoons and dragons. Van Zandt had brought in someone more skilled than he at the game physics. Perhaps he’d chosen this Frasier Lewis because he was more skilled at faces than Harrington and England.
Tino opened his sketchpad. “Sometimes it takes telling it to somebody else.”
Vito left them with Nick and went back to his desk. Jen and Sophie were back, he saw as he entered the bullpen. Jen had gone into Liz’s office and Sophie stood at his desk, her back to him. His heart thumping like a teenager’s, he quickened his pace, intending to surprise her with a kiss to the side of that long neck of hers. She liked that, he’d found. In two nights he’d found a lot of places she liked to be kissed. She jumped when he touched his lips to her skin, then settled back against him, like warm honey.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah. I’ve been good, stayed with my bodyguards. Even Thumbelina over there.”
Vito chuckled. “Jen’s little, but she’s feisty.” He drew back reluctantly. “Wait here. I need to go talk to Liz for a minute, but I’ll be right back.” He’d gotten a few steps away when she called his name, her voice suddenly strange.
“Vito, who is this?” She was holding the sketch Tino had made of the old man.
Dread gripped his gut. “Why?”
His dread became her fear. “Because I’ve seen him. Who is this?”
Jen had been standing in Liz’s doorway and turned at the panic that had crept into Sophie’s voice. A moment later Liz was at Jen’s side, watching with concern.
“We think that’s the man who met Greg Sanders on Tuesday,” Liz said slowly.
Sophie sank into the chair at his desk. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
Vito crouched down in front of her. “Where did you see this man, Sophie?”
She raised her eyes to his, green and horrified and his blood ran cold. “At my museum. He was at the Albright. He stopped me and asked for a private tour.” She pressed her lips together hard. “Vito, he was as close to me as you are now.”
Breathe. Think. He took her hands in his. They were ice cold. “When, Sophie?”
“Yesterday, after I’d finished the Viking tour.” She closed her eyes. “I had a feeling, a creepy feeling about him. But I laughed it off. He was just an old man.” She opened her eyes. “Vito, I’m scared. I was nervous before. Now I’m terrified.”
So was he. “You don’t leave my sight,” he said harshly. “Not for a second.”
She nodded unsteadily. “Okay.”
“Vito.”
Vito twisted to see Tino rushing into the bullpen. He was holding his sketchpad out so that Vito could see the picture he’d drawn. “Vito, Frasier Lewis is the old man. The eyes are the same as the old man the waitress saw with Greg Sanders.”
Vito nodded. It felt like every breath had been sucked from his lungs. “I know.” He stepped aside, revealing Sophie who still sat behind him. “This is Sophie. The old man visited her at her museum yesterday.”
Tino let out a breath. “Shit, Vito.”
“Yeah,” Vito muttered. He looked over at Liz. “Encore?”
Liz shook her head, grim. “I don’t think my heart could take another curtain call.”
“Where’s Tony England?” Vito asked his brother.
“On his way downstairs with Nick. Nick’s gonna get him a cab to the train station.”
Liz perched on the side of Nick’s desk. “Let’s call the troops together, Vito. We have some debriefing to do. But first, everybody take a deep breath. Sophie’s safe and we now know the face of our killer. That’s a hell of a lot more than we had this morning.”
For a full minute everyone did as she asked, breathing and focusing. Then once again the peace was shattered. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Lieutenant Liz Sawyer.”
A couple stood in the doorway. She was five-three and dark. He was six-four and blond. The man had spoken.
Liz lifted her hand. “I’m Sawyer.”
“I’m Special Agent Daniel Vartanian with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. This is my sister, Susannah Vartanian with the New York City DA’s office. We understand you have our parents. We believe we know who killed them.”
There was silence. Then Liz sighed. “There’s your encore.”
Thursday, January 18, 7:00 P.M.
Van Zandt was already seated when he arrived at the upscale seafood restaurant located inside his hotel. “Frasier, please join me. Would you like some wine? Or perhaps some of this lobster Newburg. It’s really quite wonderful.”
“No. I’m busy, VZ. I’m working on your new queen and I want to get back to it.”
Van Zandt’s mouth turned up in a strange smile. “Interesting. Tell me, Frasier, where do you get your inspiration?”
If he’d had hairs on the back of his neck, they would have lifted. “Why?”
“Well, I was just thinking that you have such a realism to your art. I was wondering if you based your characters on anyone? Live models, maybe?”
He sat back and viewed Van Zandt through narrowed eyes. “No. Why?”
“I was just thinking that if you did use live models, it would be patently foolish to choose local faces. That a truly wise man would go elsewhere. Bangkok or Amsterdam come to mind. Culturally diverse. Interesting clientele in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. Seems an artist could find his pick of models from a population no one would miss.”
He drew a breath. “Jager, if you have somethin’ to say, then just spit it out.”
Van Zandt blinked. “‘Spit it out’? Frasier, that sounds so . . . provincial. Very well.” He handed him a large envelope across the table. “Copies,” he said. “Of course.”
It was pictures. The first was Zachary Webber. “Derek gave you this. He’s insane.”
“Perhaps. Keep going.”
Gritting his teeth he flipped to the next picture in the stack and went still. Claire Reynolds’s face stared up at him. Van Zandt knew.
Van Zandt sipped his wine. “The resemblance is uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?”
“What do you want?”
Van Zandt chuckled. “Keep going.”
The next photo had his heart racing, but with rage. “You sonofabitch.”
Van Zandt’s smile was unpleasantly smug. “I know. I really just wanted Derek watched. If he attempted to go to the police . . . about you . . . then my head of security would merely attempt to dissuade him. Imagine my surprise when I saw that.”
It was him, with Derek. He was the old man, but he stood upright. The photo didn’t show it, but his gun had been pressed into Derek’s back. Carefully he put the pictures back in the envelope. “I repeat. What do you want?” Before you die.
“I didn’t come alone, Frasier. My head of security is at one of those tables over there, ready to call the authorities.”
He drew a frustrated breath. “What . . . do . . . you . . . want?”
Van Zandt’s jaw tightened. “I want more of what you’ve been giving me. But I want it untraceable.” He rolled his eyes. “What kind of idiot kills people that can be identified?” He pulled a smaller envelope from his coat pocket. “This is a cashier’s check and a plane ticket to Amsterdam for tomorrow afternoon. Be on that plane. And when you get there, you change the faces of every character in the Inquisitor or our deal is off.” He shook his head, furious now. “Are you that arrogant? Did you believe no one would find out? You have jeopardized everything I own with your stupidity. So fix it.” He drained his wine glass and slammed it to the table. “That’s . . . what . . . I . . . want.”
He had to laugh, despite the fury boiling in his gut. “You would have really liked my father, Jager.”
Van Zandt didn’t smile. “Then we have a deal?”
“Sure. Where do I sign?”
Thursday, January 18, 7:35 P.M.
“Please, sit down.” Vito Ciccotelli gestured to a large table in a conference room. Daniel did a quick count. Six people already sat around the table. Ciccotelli closed the door and pulled out a chair for Susannah, who was still shaking like a leaf.
Daniel had offered to do the ID of their parents himself, but Susannah had insisted she’d stand with him, and she had. The medical examiner had come back with them from the morgue and now sat at the end of the table, next to the tall blonde that Ciccotelli had introduced as their consultant, Dr. Sophie Johannsen.
“Do you need more time?” This came from Ciccotelli’s partner, Nick Lawrence.
“No,” Susannah murmured. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You’ve got our attention, Agent Vartanian,” Ciccotelli said. “What do you know?”
“I hadn’t seen my parents in many years. Our family is . . . was . . . estranged.”
“How many in your family?” Sawyer asked.
“Now, just Susannah and me. We hadn’t talked in a whi
le, not until this past week. The sheriff in our hometown called, said my parents had gone on a trip, but they hadn’t returned. My mother’s oncologist had called to check on our mother when she missed several appointments. It was the first either my sister or I had heard about her cancer.”
“Hell of a way to find out,” Nick murmured. He would be the good cop, Daniel thought.
“Yeah. Anyway, the sheriff and I searched the house. My parents had closed it up and taken all their suitcases. I found brochures in my father’s desk for destinations out west. I thought it was my mother’s last trip before she died.” He tried to block the picture of his mother on that metal table in the morgue. Susannah squeezed his hand.
“Do you need a minute?” Jen McFain asked kindly.
“No. The sheriff and I were ready to leave when I realized my father’s computer was still running—in fact, it was being controlled remotely at that moment.” He’d been watching Ciccotelli and was rewarded with a flicker of interest in the man’s dark eyes.
“Why didn’t you report them missing then?” Sawyer asked.
“I almost did. But the sheriff thought my mother should be able to keep her privacy, and it looked like they really had gone on vacation.”
“The remote computer thing didn’t concern you?” Nick Lawrence asked.
“Not so much at the time. My father was a computer person. He liked to play with networks and motherboards and such. So . . . I got a leave of absence. I wanted to find her, to make sure my mother was all right.” He swallowed. “To see her again.”
He took them over his search, ending with the hotel safe and the mailbox store, but not mentioning the envelope his mother had left for him. He wasn’t sure he could. “I knew I had to report the blackmail. Susannah agreed. So here we are.”
“So the last time your father made a withdrawal was when?” Sawyer asked.
“November 16.”
Ciccotelli noted it. “What did you do when you got to the mailbox store?”
“More than I should have, less than I wanted. I thought if I knew who was doing the blackmailing . . . I asked the kid behind the counter who rented the box. I wanted him to give me the contents of the box, but I knew I’d pushed too far as it was.”