by Karen Rose
Susannah was quiet for so long that Daniel thought she wouldn’t answer. But then she sighed. “Things were bad when you lived at home, Daniel, but after you went away to college things got a whole lot worse. Dad and Simon fought all the time. Mother would always intervene. It was ugly.”
“And you?” Daniel kept his voice gentle. “What did you do when they fought?”
She swallowed hard. “I got involved in every after-school activity I could find, then when I got home, I hid in my room. It was the easiest way. Then, one day right after Simon graduated from high school it all came to a head. It was Wednesday and Mother was at her hair appointment in town. I was in my room and I heard Dad bust open Simon’s door and they had this huge fight.”
She closed her eyes. “They were yelling about pictures. At the time I thought they were talking about the paintings under his bed, but now I know the pictures were probably the ones you found. Dad was up for judge reelection and he said Simon’s fuckups were killing his career, but that this one took the cake, that he’d fucked up one time too many. And then everything got real quiet.”
“And then?”
She opened her eyes and stared at the crane. “They were still arguing, but too low for me to hear. Then Simon yelled, ‘I’ll see you in hell before I let you send me to jail, old man,’ and Dad said, ‘Hell’s the best place for you.’ Simon said, ‘You ought to know. We’re birds of a feather.’” She swallowed hard. “Then Simon said, ‘And someday my gun will be a lot bigger than yours.’ ”
Daniel let out the breath he’d been holding. “Dear God.”
She nodded. “The front door slammed and . . . I’m not sure why, but something told me to hide, so I did, in my closet. A minute later, my door opened, then shut. I think Dad was looking to see if I’d overheard.”
He shook his head, but it didn’t clear his bewilderment. “Suze. My God.”
“I’ve never been sure what he would have done if he’d found me. That night Simon didn’t show up for supper. Mother was distraught. Dad said Simon had probably gone off with some friends, that she shouldn’t worry. A few days later, Dad told us he’d gotten a call that Simon was dead.” She looked up at him, pain in her eyes. “All these years I thought Dad had killed him.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Same reason you didn’t when you thought Dad had burned the pictures. My word against his. I was only sixteen. He was a respected judge. And like I said, I had to sleep sometime.”
Daniel was sick to his stomach. “And I left you there. God, Suze. I’m sorry. If I’d known you were in danger . . . even that you were afraid, I would have taken you with me. Please believe that.”
She returned her gaze to the crane. “What’s done is done. Last night I realized Dad probably found those pictures and knew his career wouldn’t survive if anyone saw them. He probably told Simon to leave and never come back and threatened him with prison if he didn’t. He knew Mother would never stop looking for Simon as long as there was any hope that he was alive. So . . .”
“So he fixed it so she’d believe Simon was dead.”
“It’s the only way it makes sense to me.” She bit at her lip. “I thought about them both all night. He tortured Dad, Daniel.”
“I know.” It had kept him awake all night as well.
“Do you think Simon tortured him so that he’d tell where Mother was?”
“I considered it,” Daniel admitted. “I think Simon’s capable.”
“Oh, I know he’s capable.”
“Suze . . . What happened? What did he do to you?”
She shook her head. “Not now. Someday. But not today.”
“When you’re ready, you’ll call me.”
She squeezed his hand tighter. “I will.”
“I want to think Dad would have died before letting Simon get to Mother,” he said.
“I’d like to think it,” she said flatly, which said a great deal.
“You know Simon’s not in there,” Daniel said as the crane brought up the casket.
“I know.”
Philadelphia, Friday, January 19, 4:20 P.M.
“Sophie.”
Sophie’s stomach dropped to her toes as Harry hurried across the lobby, passing Officer Lyons without a glance. “Harry? What’s wrong with Gran?”
He cast a wary glance at the ax on her shoulder. “Nothing, Anna’s fine. Can you put that down? It makes me nervous.”
Relieved, she set the ax head on the floor. “I’ve got a tour in a few minutes, Harry.”
“I needed to tell you something. In person. And it’s not good. Freya told me you’d called asking if we’d put Anna’s record collection away for safekeeping. We didn’t. I did some checking and . . . um . . . it’s been taken.”
Her eyes narrowed. “By whom?” But she already knew.
“Lena. She showed up after Anna’s stroke, but I sent her away. Instead she went to Anna’s house and took the records and other valuables. I found some of them on eBay. The seller on eBay believed he’d bought them legitimately from Lena. I’m sorry.”
Sophie let out a slow breath, her heart pounding in her head. “Is there more?”
“Yes. When I found out about the missing records, I talked to Anna’s lawyer. She had a lot of money tied up in bonds that I knew nothing about. If she’d died, her lawyer would have told us. As it was . . .” He took a breath. “The lawyer checked the serial numbers on the bonds. They’ve been cashed. I’m so sorry, Sophie. A good part of what would have been your inheritance—yours and Freya’s—is gone.”
Sophie nodded, numb. “Thanks for telling me in person. I have to work now.”
Harry frowned. “We have to call the police and press charges.”
She swung the ax on her shoulder with too much force. “You do it. If I press charges, I might have to see her. I’d really rather never see her again.”
“Sophie, wait.” Harry had noticed Officer Lyons. “Why is there a cop in your lobby?”
“He’s here for security.” It was a half-truth more than a half-lie. “Harry, I have a tour group waiting for me in the Hall. I have to go. Do what you want with Lena. I don’t care.”
Friday, January 19, 5:00 P.M.
Vito dropped into his chair at the conference room table and rubbed the back of his neck, tired and frustrated. “Fuck.” Three hours of interviewing Jager Van Zandt had at times brought new insights but ultimately hadn’t yielded the real information they sought.
Liz sat down next to him. “Van Zandt really might not know where Simon is, Vito.”
“You could try torturing it out of him,” Jen muttered, then shrugged when Liz raised her brows. “It was just a thought.”
“Damn good thought,” Katherine said, and by the looks on the faces around the table, a thought everyone else shared.
Gathered for the evening debrief, Nick and Jen, Katherine and Thomas, and Liz and Brent all wore grim expressions. They’d been joined by a new face—ADA Magdalena Lopez who, along with Thomas and Liz, had observed the interrogation of Van Zandt. Maggy was a delicate woman with dark brown eyes that now narrowed as she spoke.
“He might know and he might not. But I’m not prepared to give him anything more than I have, particularly not full immunity.”
Maggy had offered to reduce his murder charge to manslaughter if he told them where to find Frasier Lewis, aka Simon, but Van Zandt had demanded full immunity, the arrogant little bastard. “We don’t want you to give him immunity, Maggy,” Vito said. “He might not have killed anyone, but he was sure as hell prepared to profit from it.”
“Besides,” Nick said, “if Simon had believed Van Zandt really knew anything useful, he wouldn’t have handed him over to us. You did okay, Maggy.” The last was added with a grudging admiration, probably, Vito thought, because of the guilty verdict Maggy had gotten on Nick’s Siever case. Now Nick could finally feel like he deserved the Christmas cards the Siever girl’s parents sent every year.
“He did giv
e us Simon’s cell phone number,” Vito said.
“Same number he used to call me,” Liz said. “No GPS. Untraceable.”
“I found Van Zandt’s reaction to knowing real people died to make his game to be the most telling,” Thomas mused. “‘You must prune dead wood to save the tree,’” he mimicked in Van Zandt’s thick accent. “‘Sometimes you cut living wood.’”
“Ultimate break-the-eggs-to-make-the-omelet approach,” Nick agreed. “Slimy SOB.”
“Sophie told us that the big R in oRo was Dutch for wealth,” Vito said. “I guess Van Zandt’s never made a secret that he’s in it for the money.”
Thomas shook his head. “Van Zandt could be an even worse sociopath than Simon Vartanian. At least Simon’s doing this for art.”
“Van Zandt claimed he hadn’t paid Simon yet,” Vito told Katherine, Brent, and Jen. “Simon’s pay was based on royalties, which wouldn’t be paid for another three months.”
“And the royalties are piddly shit,” Nick added. “Simon didn’t do this for money.”
“How did Simon hook up with Van Zandt?” Jen asked.
“Van Zandt was in a bar near his apartment in SoHo,” Vito answered. He shook his head. “The bar is right down the street from the park where Susannah Vartanian walks her dog. We think Simon met up with Van Zandt one of the times he was stalking Susannah. Anyway, Simon approached Van Zandt in the bar a year ago, bought him a few drinks, and showed him a demo disk.”
“It was the Clothilde strangulation scene,” Nick said. “But it was done in a modern-day setting. Van Zandt saw ‘promise’ and told Simon if he converted it to a World War II theme, he’d get it in his next game. Simon did and Van Zandt asked for more. Simon did the scenes with the Luger and the grenade. It’s all Van Zandt had time to put in Behind Enemy Lines because he was up against the delivery deadline.”
“Derek protested,” Thomas said and frowned. “‘Because he was weak.’”
Maggy Lopez sighed. “Van Zandt’s quite a guy.”
“And I hope he rots in hell,” Nick said. “But bottom line, Van Zandt says he doesn’t know where Lewis came from or where he lived, or who the boy with the grenade was.”
“Well, I got some info on Frasier Lewis,” Katherine said. “The real Frasier Lewis.”
Vito blinked, surprised. “He really exists?”
“Oh, yes. He’s a forty-year-old farmer in Iowa. Simon’s been using his medical insurance for some time. The real Frasier’s medical insurance has a lifetime cap of a million dollars. If he ever got really sick, he’d be in trouble, because a lot of that money is gone. I wondered how Simon afforded the fancy prosthetics Dr. Pfeiffer’s file said he used. He paid for his own medical care through medical insurance fraud.”
“Does the real Frasier Lewis have two legs?” Nick asked.
“Yes,” Katherine said.
Nick was frowning. “Wouldn’t Pfeiffer have seen that there was no amputation?”
“Not necessarily,” Brent said thoughtfully. “Simon is good with computers. We already thought he could get into people’s financials. What if he could get into a medical-records database, too? What if that’s why he picked Lewis’s medical identity to steal? Because he had access to Lewis’s medical history to change it? It’s just a thought.”
“It’s a good thought. Run with it,” Vito said. “See what you come up with.”
“I’m glad I could offer something, because I didn’t get anything off Daniel’s father’s PC. At least nothing to lead you to Simon directly. There was a utility downloaded—it allowed whoever put it on there to access the father’s computer remotely, but it was nothing fancy. Just a common UNIX utility that anyone could have downloaded.”
“You sound disappointed,” Nick said and Brent chuckled.
“Maybe a little. I was expecting something huge based on the Trojan ’bots with timers he used on the models’ computers. But this was simple and elegant. And untraceable. Maybe I’ll have more luck with the medical databases. They tend not to be so elegant. Oh.” Brent handed Vito a framed photo. “The Dutton sheriff that sent the computer sent this. He said Daniel and Susannah had asked him to give it to us.”
“It’s Simon,” Vito said. “Younger. This is the same face as the one in Pfeiffer’s picture. I guess even Simon found it difficult to disguise himself in anything more than a wig at a doctor’s exam. It’s one more piece of the puzzle.”
Nick was frowning. “That remote control download. Can you tell when it was done?”
“Sure,” Brent said. “A few days after Thanksgiving.”
“Would Simon have to have been in the house to do the download?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know of any other way he could have independently done it.”
Troubled, Liz followed the thought. “Mr. and Mrs. Vartanian come here looking for their blackmailer and, presumably, Simon. At some point they find Simon, or he finds them, because they’re dead and buried in Simon’s graveyard. So then Simon goes back to Georgia and fixes his father’s PC for remote access, plants the travel brochures, and makes it look like they’ve gone on vacation. He even keeps paying their bills. Why?”
“He didn’t want anyone to know his parents were dead,” Jen said. “Arthur was a retired judge—somebody would have investigated.”
“And Daniel and Susannah would have gotten involved, which they did.” Nick looked at Vito. “He wanted to keep them away, because he wasn’t ready for them yet.”
“At least they know to be on alert,” Vito said. “Where are they now?”
“Back in Dutton,” Katherine said. “They went back for the exhumation.”
“So did you get the results?” Vito asked.
“Only that the body isn’t Simon’s. The bones are those of a five-foot-ten-inch man.”
“Wasn’t an autopsy done?” Liz asked and Katherine rolled her eyes.
“Mexican autopsy,” Katherine said. “That supposed car crash was in Tijuana. Vartanian’s father went down and got the death certificate, bought the casket, and brought it back through customs. Either he greased some palms or whoever peeked inside saw a horribly charred corpse and shut the coffin back up quick.”
“So he still might not have known whether Simon was really dead,” Jen said.
Katherine shrugged. “I don’t know. I imagine Daniel and Susannah want to know, but at this point, I’m not sure how that helps us find Simon.”
“Did Pfeiffer or his receptionist come in to be printed?” Nick asked.
Jen shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Let us know when they do,” Vito said. “What else? What about churches in the quarry areas, Jen? Or the silicone lubricant manufacturer?”
“I’ve got a tech calling lube manufacturers and two techs mapping churches. Nothing yet. I was personally working Van Zandt’s car all day. Sorry, Vito. We’re doing our best.”
Vito sighed. “I know.” He thought of Sophie. “But we have to try harder.”
“Now that Van Zandt’s in jail,” Nick mused, “what if Simon decides to leave town? oRo’s going to fold. Simon doesn’t have a job anymore.”
“We need a way to make him stay,” Vito said. “To draw him out into the open.”
“He thinks he’s got Van Zandt fucked over a barrel.” Nick looked at Maggy Lopez. “What if Van Zandt were to get released?”
Maggy shook her head. “I can’t let just let him go. We charged him. He hasn’t agreed to the plea, and I’m not giving him immunity. He’s got to go through the system. Nick, I can’t believe you of all people want me to deal him down.”
“I don’t want to deal him down,” Nick said. “But I want him on the street, so we can follow him. You don’t have to let him go, exactly. His bond hearing is tomorrow morning, right?”
“So? Two hours ago you wanted to push the plunger on the lethal injection syringe yourself. Now you want me to put him on the streets. You want me to make him bait.”
“I don’t see a problem with it,” Nick said.
“We keep close to him. Simon won’t be able to resist. It’ll be like we painted a big bull’s-eye on Jager’s ass.”
“More like an R,” Brent said dryly. “For riches.”
“And don’t forget the dead wood comment,” Vito added. “Van Zandt deserves whatever he gets, Maggy. But we won’t let Simon get him, because we want to see Van Zandt behind bars, too. If he knew about these murders and let it go on, he’s complicit.”
Maggy sighed. “If we lose him . . .”
“We won’t,” Nick promised. “All you have to do is ask for a teensy bail.”
“All right,” Maggy said. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“We won’t,” Vito promised, feeling a surge of energy. “Liz, can we get Bev and Tim back for a few more days? Maybe even just tomorrow? We need surveillance eyes.”
“I’ll arrange it,” Liz said. “But only for one day. We’ll have to reevaluate if this drags.”
“Fair enough.” Vito stood up. “Let’s meet early tomorrow and coordinate.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Friday, January 19, 7:00 P.M.
Sophie sank into the front seat of Vito’s truck. She’d pushed the fury aside, but with the day done, it started to churn anew. What more could Lena possibly take?
Vito started the engine and sat quietly as the heater began to warm the cab. He was waiting for her to say something, she knew. She also knew he’d had a bad day himself. His problems were a lot bigger than hers. He had a killer to catch.
Getting angry about a few missing vinyl records had kept her own mind off the fact that that same killer had been watching her, so maybe indirectly Lena had finally done something good. She rolled her head to look at him. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but what did you think of my Viking tour?”
His eyes shifted, heated, and his lips curved, making her pulse quicken. “I thought you made the sexiest Viking warrior I ever saw. I wanted to jump you right there.”
She laughed, as he’d meant her to. “In front of all those children? Shame on you.”