by Karen Rose
“Back porch,” he said and got up from the chair. “Sit down, Pop. You look tired.”
Michael did, which showed he was worn out. But he still laughed. “That was fun. We should do this every Friday night. You’ve set a precedent, Vito.”
Vito sighed. “Pasta on my walls and doughnuts for my team. Dom, Tess, help me pick up these blocks.” They’d stacked them along the wall when Vito realized Sophie wasn’t back with the bucket. His pulse started to race. He’d let her out of his sight. Just to his back porch, but out of his sight. “I’ll be back,” he said tightly.
Then breathed again when he got out to the back porch where Sophie was standing next to Dante, who sat on the overturned bucket, looking sullen.
“Seems to me you just hurt yourself,” she was saying. “You missed all the fun.”
“Nobody wants me in there,” he muttered. “So why should I give you the bucket?”
“One, because I’m an adult and it’s respectful. Two, because your uncle is probably getting antsy right now, seeing the pasta congealing on his walls. Three, because I’m getting ready to push you off the bucket and take it, and I don’t want to do that.”
Dante narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“You watch me,” she said. “You’re being a real brat, Dante, sulking out here.”
Dante lurched to his feet and kicked at the bucket. “Stupid old bucket and stupid game and stupid family. Everybody hates me anyway. I don’t need them.”
Sophie grabbed the bucket and started to leave, then sighed. “Your family isn’t stupid, they’re pretty special. And everybody needs a family. And nobody hates you.”
“Everybody looks at me like I’m scum or something. Just ’cause I broke the meter.”
“Well, I’m just an outsider looking in, but it seems to me that nobody’s mad because you broke the meter. I mean, you didn’t mean to any more than you meant to hurt your mother. You . . . didn’t mean to hurt your mother, did you, Dante?”
Dante shook his head, still sullenly. Then his shoulders sagged and Vito heard him sniffle. “No. But my mom’s going to hate me.” He started to cry in earnest, and Sophie put her arm around his shoulders. “I almost killed her and she’s going to hate me.”
“No, she won’t,” Sophie murmured. “Dante, you know what I think? I think they’re all disappointed because when they asked if you did it, you lied. Maybe it’s time you started making up for the bad thing you really meant to do and let go of the thing that you didn’t.” Vito watched her shoulders stiffen, then heard her chuckle softly. “Touché to me. You planning to stay out here all night, Dante?”
Dante scrubbed his face. “Maybe.”
“Well, then I recommend you get a blanket, ’cause it’s gonna be a cold night.” She turned and started when she saw Vito watching. She lifted the bucket. “I’m going to clean.”
“Thank God.”
She lifted her brows. “And I’m going to press charges against Lena.”
“Thank God.”
She walked past him and murmured, “Then . . . minks.”
He grinned at her back. “Thank God.”
Saturday, January 20, 7:45 A.M.
“You’re here early.”
Sophie spun around in the warehouse, her breath in her throat and her hand over her mouth. For a moment she stared at Theo Four, her heart pounding in her chest.
“You’ve suddenly become extremely interested in our little museum, Sophie. Why?”
Sophie got control of her breathing and took a step back. Vito had walked her into the Albright a half hour before. Officer Lyons had already been waiting inside, let in by Ted the Third and Patty Ann, who’d been polishing glass cases. Sophie hadn’t realized Theo was in the museum as well. “What do you mean?”
“A few days ago you hated doing the tours and you treated my father like he was an idiot. Now you’re here early and you stay late. You’ve been unpacking crates and developing new tours that make my father happy and have my mother counting the money that’s going to be coming in. I want to know what changed.”
Sophie’s heart was still knocking in her chest. Simon Vartanian was still out there, and she really didn’t know anything about Theo Albright. Except that he was a big guy, over six-two. She took another step back, grateful that Lyons was only a scream away.
“Maybe I decided to start earning my paycheck, although I’d ask you the same question. A few days ago, you were making yourself scarce. Now you’re here, every time I turn around. Why?”
Theo’s expression darkened. “Because I’m watching you.”
Sophie blinked. “Watching me? Why?”
“Because unlike my father, I’m not an idiot who trusts for no reason.” He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Sophie staring at his back, her mouth open.
She shook her head. She was being ridiculous, being scared of Theo. But what did she really know about the Albrights? Sophie, come on. Simon was thirty years old and his father had been a judge. Theo was barely eighteen and his father was the grandson of an archeologist. She was truly being ridiculous. Theo was just a weird kid. Still . . .
She found the ax Theo had used to open crates for her before and set it where she could reach it quickly. Even with Officer Lyons on guard, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Atlanta, Georgia, Saturday, January 20, 8:45 A.M.
“Daniel. Look. It’s from Mom.”
Daniel looked up from the mail he was sorting to find Susannah focused on a piece of paper that he instantly recognized as stationery from the hotel where his parents had stayed. “She wrote us? And sent it to herself? Why?”
Susannah nodded. “She says that she also sent you a letter.” She sorted through her stack and found it, handing it over to him. She held hers to her nose as Daniel opened his. “It smells like her perfume.”
Daniel swallowed. “I always liked that perfume.” He scanned the letter and his heart sank even as he appreciated the missing pieces his mother had settled into place. “She knew Dad was lying about finding Simon for her but didn’t have the strength to follow him everywhere.”
“Are they the same letter?” Susannah asked.
They put them side by side. “Appears so. I guess she was taking no chances.”
“She sat in that hotel for two days, Daniel, while she waited for Dad to come back.”
“I guess he’d gone to see Simon,” Daniel murmured.
“But I was only two hours away.” There was hurt in Susannah’s voice. “She sat there in pain and alone for two days and never called me.”
“Simon was her favorite, from the time we were little. I don’t know why it still hurts that she saw it as a black-and-white thing. Love us or love Simon.”
“Up to the end she hoped he would be good.” Susannah put the letter down hard on the table. “And she trusted him.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “She knew Dad was missing and still went to meet Simon.”
Daniel blew out a breath. “And he killed her.” If you’re reading this, then I’m probably dead. If you’re reading this, you can be satisfied that you were right about your brother. “She met him and he broke her neck and threw her in an unmarked field.” He looked at Susannah, unable to control the bitterness. “And part of me thinks she got what she deserved.”
Susannah looked down. “I thought it, too. That’s why she sent these letters to herself. If her time with Simon was just an innocent visit, she would have exposed her true fears about her golden child’s character for nothing. If she sent it to us, we’d know. If she sent it to herself, she could scoop them back up before anyone was the wiser.”
“And she was going to die anyway.” Daniel tossed the letter to the table. “What did she have to lose? Except time with us.”
“He’s still out there.”
Daniel hesitated. He’d tried to find a way to tell her all morning. Just spit it out and get it over with. “There’s more, Suze. I didn’t want to think about it, but all night I couldn’t think about anyth
ing but when Ciccotelli told us they’d found Claire Reynolds, our parents, and two empty graves. What they didn’t tell us is that they found them with six other bodies.”
Susannah’s eyes widened. “You mean the graveyard they found . . . I saw it on the news. I didn’t put it together. I should have.”
“I should have, too. I guess I was too shocked finding out Simon wasn’t dead.” Daniel stopped himself. “No, that’s not true. I didn’t want to think about it. But it was nagging at me, so I called Vito Ciccotelli this morning and asked. He confirmed that Simon was wanted for ten murders. Maybe more.”
Susannah shut her eyes wearily. “I keep thinking it can’t get worse.”
“I know. For years I would lie awake and worry about the people in the pictures, if they were real. That Simon had a hand in their deaths. That I couldn’t help them. Now there are more victims and this time I can’t look away. I need to go back to Philadelphia, to help Ciccotelli and Lawrence now.”
“We go together. This week we stood together over our parents. When this is over, I hope Simon will finally be dead and we can stand over his body together, too.”
Saturday, January 20, 9:15 A.M.
“We ready?” Nick asked, handing Vito a cup of coffee as he slid behind the wheel.
“Yep.” Vito peeled back the plastic lid. “Bev and Tim are in position around the block. Maggy Lopez just called to say Van Zandt’s next up in the docket. If the judge allows him bail, he should be out in an hour.”
“I hope this works,” Nick murmured. “I’d hate to see Van Zandt get away.”
“Me, too.” The words came out a lot shakier than he’d intended.
Nick looked over at Vito. “You’re scared.”
Vito didn’t say anything for a long minute, then cleared his throat gruffly. “Yeah. I’m scared to death. Every time my phone rings I wonder if it’s a call saying he’s gotten to her. That I didn’t keep her safe enough.”
“This is different from Andrea, Chick. This time you’re not in this alone.”
Vito nodded, wishing he was reassured. But he knew he wouldn’t breathe easily until Simon Vartanian was behind bars. Still, his friends cared. “Thanks.” Then his cell phone rang, making him jump. But it was Jen. “What’s up?”
Jen yawned. “I’ve been up all night, Vito.”
“So was I,” he said, then winced. “Um . . . never mind.”
Jen growled. “I’m ready to hate you, Ciccotelli. I worked all night while you were having hot sex. No, I think I hate you already.”
“I’ll buy you crullers every day next week. From the place in my neighborhood.”
“Not good enough, but it’s a start. We’ve charted churches in a fifty-mile radius on the soil map. Nothing that remotely resembles the church in the game.”
“Well, it was a long shot. Thanks for trying.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Chick. I found your picture.”
“Which picture?”
“The newspaper photo of Claire Reynolds and her lover. It was taken at a march three years ago. The woman is about thirty with light hair. She’s thin. Not really any physical attributes to set her apart. I’ve never seen her before.”
“Damn,” Vito muttered. “I was hoping. I wish I could come in and see it, but we need to stay here. Van Zandt could be coming out any time.”
“Can your phone receive pictures?”
“No, but Nick’s can. Can you send it?”
“It’s on its way.”
“Give me your phone,” Vito said to Nick, then squinted at the screen when the picture downloaded. Every muscle in his body went taut. “Fuck.”
“Who is it?” Nick asked. He took the phone, then whistled. “What a cold bitch.”
Jen’s voice perked up. “You recognize her, Vito?”
“It’s Stacy Savard,” Vito said. “Pfeiffer’s receptionist is blackmailer number two.”
“I’ll get her address and send a cruiser out right now,” Jen said.
Vito took Nick’s phone and stared again at the grainy photo. “She knew Claire was dead and she looked us in the eye and never blinked.”
“What you want to do, Vito? Go work over Savard or wait for Van Zandt?”
“Let’s let the cruiser pick up Savard. I’ll request a warrant for her house. If this thing with Van Zandt doesn’t pan out, then blackmailer number two becomes plan B.”
Saturday, January 20, 12:45 P.M.
It was probably inadvisable, but Simon couldn’t resist. If he was going to have to leave his Frasier Lewis identity behind, he might as well do it with style. Of course, if the DA’s office had managed to keep Van Zandt in jail instead of allowing him out on bail, this whole opportunity would never have arisen.
It was, overall, a delicious irony. Simon had wanted the second German killed in Behind Enemy Lines to be skewered with a bayonet. There had been something more up-close and personal about using a bayonet. But Van Zandt had insisted on a big bang.
Simon had been worried about the sensitivity of the detonator on a sixty-year-old grenade. What if he’d set up the scene, only to find he’d purchased a dud? So, being a thorough man, he’d planned for that scenario. Simon smiled. Kyle Lombard, being a greedy man, had offered him a volume discount.
Saturday, January 20, 12:55 P.M.
“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Vito barked into his cell.
“I mean she’s not at her apartment,” Jen said, annoyed. “Her car is gone. A neighbor saw her leaving with a suitcase this morning. We have an APB out.”
“We tipped our hand when we asked for Lewis’s file.” Vito rubbed his temples. “Call the airports and bus stations. And can you send a cruiser out to Pfeiffer’s residence?”
“We arresting him, too?”
“We just want to talk to him. Ask him to come in for questioning. We’ll be in soon.”
“Van Zandt hasn’t come out yet?” Jen asked.
Vito glared at the courthouse. “He must be paying his bail with pennies.”
Jen’s chuckle was brief. “Well, we did get one hit. Stacy Savard has the same printer model in her apartment that printed Claire’s letters.”
“Chick,” Nick hissed. “Look, it’s Van Zandt.”
“Gotta go, Jen. It’s showtime.” Vito dropped his phone in his pocket as Van Zandt exited the courthouse, his expression cold and hard and his attorney a good twenty feet behind him. He rushed to the curb with huge ground-eating strides, his arm out to hail a cab, pushing an old man who’d stumbled into his way.
The hairs raised on the back of Vito’s neck. There was something . . .
“Nick,” Vito said. “That old man.”
“Fuck,” Nick said, and they jumped from the car at the same time.
“Stop! Police!” Vito shouted it and the old man looked up. For a split second, Vito found himself staring into Simon Vartanian’s cold eyes.
Vartanian began to run. Really fast. Vito and Nick were in pursuit.
Then all hell broke loose when, before their eyes, Jager Van Zandt blew up.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saturday, January 20, 1:40 P.M.
He’d almost been caught. Simon sat in front in his vehicle, still furious. A single misstep and he’d be in the hands of the authorities right now.
And wouldn’t they like to get their hands on me?
That cop Ciccotelli was smarter than Simon had thought. And more ruthless. The cops had used Van Zandt as a pawn . . . to try to draw me out. Had it not been so close, Simon would have found that brazen ruthlessness an admirable quality.
It had been too close. But in the grand scheme, a mere skirmish. The cops only knew of Frasier Lewis. The only people who knew he wasn’t really dead, were dead.
Except the blackmailer whose amateurish tactics had drawn his parents to him. He needed to find that blackmailer and make that person pay, whoever he or she was. Then on to Susannah and Daniel. Miss and Mister Goody Two-Shoes.
That each of his siblings had t
wo shoes was reason enough to hate them both. That they’d both become vanguards of justice made them dangerous foes.
It would soon become impossible to continue the charade that Arthur and Carol Vartanian were only on vacation, that they were indeed missing. Daniel and Susannah would never let it go. They’d dig until they found where their parents had gone. They were certainly smart enough to make the connections. And if they dug deep enough, they just might find that someone else lay under Simon’s tombstone.
Simon had often wondered who inhabited that plot, who his father had found to take his place, so to speak. He’d been tempted to check for himself when he’d gone back to Dutton for the first time in twelve years, to set up his parents’ little vacation and to fix their computer so that he would have ultimate access.
His father had come to him, but he’d have to go get Daniel and Susannah. He knew exactly where to find them. Daniel had a little house in Atlanta, while Susannah had an apartment in SoHo. Daniel was the “Law,” and little Susannah was the “Order.”
Artie should have been proud. But he hadn’t been. Because underneath that judge’s robe, Arthur Vartanian was as rotten as me. Daniel and Susannah would have to go. But first there was a little matter of payback. Because as he’d fled from the police like a common street criminal, it had registered that they’d recognized him—not as Frasier Lewis, but as the old man. And the only person who’d seen him as the old man and lived was . . . Dr. Sophie Johannsen. His eyes narrowed. Everywhere he turned, he ran into that woman’s interference.
Everything had been progressing according to plan until Sophie Johannsen began asking questions about black market artifacts. It had all unraveled from there. She knew far too much, and he wouldn’t rest until she was silenced.
He cocked his jaw. Besides, she had a great face, such expression. She should have been an actress or model herself. Soon, she would be.
That he would hurt that cop Ciccotelli in the process was . . . He smiled. Bonus points.