by Karen Rose
I might even earn an extra life. Simon chuckled. His internal balance restored, he got out of his vehicle and walked into the nursing home.
Saturday, January 20, 4:15 P.M.
Liz winced when Vito and Nick came into the bullpen. “Oh . . . guys.”
“Just some minor burns,” Vito said. “We were lucky. The only people hurt were Van Zandt’s lawyer, two pedestrians, and us. The pedestrians were treated and released.”
“The lawyer?” Liz asked.
“He’ll be okay,” Nick said. “He was twenty feet behind Van Zandt when he blew.”
Vito sat down at his desk. “We just got grazed by a few pieces of flying shrapnel.”
“I’ve got Bev and Tim and a half-dozen others beating the bushes,” Liz said, “but . . .”
Nick shook his head. “That sucker could run on that prosthetic leg, Liz. Surprised the hell outta me. Then Van Zandt blew. That surprised me a little more.”
“What the hell happened? You were supposed to be watching him.” ADA Maggy Lopez rushed in and stopped short when she saw them. “Good God.”
“Simon was waiting for Van Zandt.” Vito massaged the back of his neck. “He dropped a grenade in the pocket of Van Zandt’s overcoat. CSU’s got the fragments. We’re betting it matches the shrapnel we took from the kid we haven’t yet identified.”
Nick sank into his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Maggy.”
Lopez gave both of them a once-over. “Nothing to feel sorry about. Van Zandt probably would’ve gotten bail regardless of our plan. We didn’t have enough to get remand. Not with all the other factors. So now what?”
Nick looked at Vito. “Plan B? Stacy Savard.”
Vito scoffed. “Shit. We don’t even know where Savard is.”
Liz smiled. “Yes, we do. You were at the hospital when we brought her in.”
Vito straightened in his chair. “We have Stacy Savard? Here?”
“Yep. We found her parking her car at the airport. Apparently she was going to take whichever flight left the country first. When you’re up to it, she’s all yours.”
Vito smiled grimly. “Oh, we’re up to it. I can’t wait to talk to that cold bitch.”
Saturday, January 20, 4:50 P.M.
Taking out Van Zandt had been harder than he’d planned, but now that he knew his adversary, taking Johannsen would be easier. He’d planned for every contingency, from a uniformed police escort to the detectives who’d stuck to her like glue. He was ready.
Simon’s mouth curved. Soon a nurse would be changing Grandma’s IV. Bells would ring, alarms would clang. Sweet Sophie would get a frantic phone call. A frantic authentic phone call. One thing he’d always admired about Johannsen was her passion for authenticity. There was a certain . . . symmetry in Sophie’s fate.
Grandma was dying, so she’d come home. Because she was home, he’d met her. Because he’d met her, studied under her, he’d gained superior knowledge of the medieval world, and because of that knowledge, he’d created one hell of an authentic game. But because of the game and because of Johannsen’s involvement, the police were entirely too close. He’d always planned to eliminate her when the time was right, but the proximity of the police had forced him to play his hand sooner than he’d planned, and because of that . . . He checked his watch. It was time. Because of that, Grandma was dying. Authentically.
It was one big, beautiful circle. It was fate.
He straightened abruptly. There she was, coming into the lobby from the Great Hall, dressed in a suit of armor. He hoped she’d take it off before making what would certainly be a mad dash. She was a tall woman. It would take a great deal of strength to move her in regular clothes. The armor would be an unwelcome impediment, but he would deal with it if he must. He moved a little closer to the window. Soon there would be no glass between them to denigrate his entertainment experience. Soon, he’d have her in his possession, in his dungeon, where there were cameras and lights. The better to see you die, my dear.
Saturday, January 20, 5:00 P.M.
Stacy Savard sat at the interrogation table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared ahead sullenly until Vito and Nick came in, then looked at them with eyes dripping with pathetic despair. “What’s happened? Why have you brought me here?”
“Cut the drama, Stacy.” Vito took the chair next to hers. “We know what you’ve done. We have your laptop and Claire’s laptop. We know about Claire and Arthur Vartanian, and we found your fat little bank account.” He made his expression puzzled. “What I don’t get is how you could have betrayed Claire like that. You loved her.”
Stacy’s face was impassive for a long moment, then she shrugged. “I didn’t love Claire. Nobody loved Claire except her parents, and that’s only because they didn’t know who she really was. Claire was mean . . . and a good lay. That’s all.”
Nick’s laugh was short and incredulous. “That’s all? So what happened, Stacy? Did you know she was blackmailing Frasier Lewis from the beginning?”
Stacy scoffed. “Like Claire would share something like that. She was going to keep everything she got from the Vartanians for herself. She was a bitch.”
Vito shook his head, disbelieving. “So when did you know Claire was dead?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I want full immunity.”
Vito laughed hard, then sobered abruptly. “No.”
Stacy sat back. “Then you get nothing more from me.”
Anticipating just such a reaction, Nick slid a photo of the mangled Van Zandt across the table and they watched Stacy pale.
“Who . . . who is that?”
“The last idiot who wanted immunity,” Vito said caustically.
“And the last idiot who tried to cross Frasier Lewis,” Nick said softly. “We could let you go, you know. And tell Frasier where to find you.”
Her eyes darkened in fear. “You wouldn’t tell him. That would be murder.”
Vito sighed. “She’s got us there. But, if the story were to leak . . . It might not be until this comes to trial, but he will find out. It’s too sensational to keep quiet.”
“And you’ll be lookin’ over your shoulder until he drops a grenade in your pocket.”
Stacy sucked in a cheek, stewing. Then she looked up. “I was supposed to have dinner with Claire back in October, fifteen months ago. She never showed, so I went to her apartment. I had a key. I found her laptop and pictures she’d taken of ‘Frasier Lewis’ while they sat in the waiting room.” One side of her mouth lifted. “One thing about Claire, she took good notes. She’d planned to write a book about it somewhere down the line. She recognized Lewis as Simon Vartanian, which she thought was odd.”
“Because he was supposed to be dead,” Vito said.
“Yeah. She researched Frasier Lewis, found out he was some guy in Iowa.”
Nick blinked at her. “So you knew about the insurance fraud, too.”
Stacy’s lips firmed stubbornly, and with a long-suffering sigh Vito put a photo of Derek Harrington with a hole in his forehead next to Van Zandt. “You don’t want to mess with Simon Vartanian, Stacy. Any more than you want to mess with us. Answer Detective Lawrence’s question.”
“Yes,” she bit out. “I knew about the insurance fraud. I found the e-mails on Claire’s computer—the ones she’d sent to Simon and his father. The father’s said ‘I know what your son did.’”
“What did you think she meant?” Nick asked and she shrugged.
“That he was cheating the insurance company and that he’d faked his death. Her e-mail to Simon said ‘I know who you are, Simon.’ The father paid. Simon insisted she meet him, and like a stupid idiot, Claire did.”
“Where?” Vito asked tightly. “Where did she meet him?”
“Simon mentioned meeting her outside the library where she worked. But she didn’t show up for a few days, anywhere. So I made the logical assumption she was dead.”
“You sent the letters,” Nick said. “To the library and to yoursel
f.”
“Yes. I sent the letters.”
Vito kept thinking he’d seen his fill of sociopaths on this case, but they just kept coming. “And you took up where she left off.”
“Only with the father, not with Simon.”
“Why not?” Nick asked and Stacy shot him an incredulous look.
“Because he was a killer. Duh. Claire was stupid. I’m not.”
“Here you are, so your intelligence isn’t necessarily a fact in evidence,” Nick said mildly. But a muscle in his cheek twitched and Vito knew the calm was a thin facade.
“Because he was a killer.” Vito shook his head. “You looked at him every time he came into your office for a checkup. You knew he wasn’t Frasier Lewis. You knew he’d killed Claire Reynolds and you never said a word?”
Again she shrugged. “What was the point? Claire was dead. Nothing I could do would bring her back, and obviously Arthur Vartanian could spare the money.”
Nick huffed out a chuckle. “God, this case just keeps getting better and better. So, Stacy, tell us. What made Arthur Vartanian come to find you?”
Stacy blinked. “He never came to find me. He just kept paying.”
“Oh, he came to find you all right. Now he’s dead. We found him and his wife buried near Claire.” Nick raised a brow. “You wanna see the pictures?”
Stacy shook her head. “He wanted proof that I knew his son, but he kept paying.”
Vito flicked a glance at Nick. “How did you prove it to him, Stacy?” Vito asked.
“I sent him a picture of Simon. The one I took for Pfeiffer.”
“It was a candid photo,” Vito remembered. “He didn’t pose for it.”
“Of course not. He wouldn’t let me take his picture, so I snapped one when he wasn’t looking. I thought I might need it someday.”
“Okay,” Nick said quietly, “now we’re going to want your help.”
Saturday, January 20, 5:00 P.M.
“You see the skinny bald guy?” Ted the Third whispered as he and Sophie stood waving good-bye to the final tour group of the day. “He’s runs a philanthropy group.”
Sophie smiled and waved. “I know. He told me. Three times.”
“He is a bit of a blowhard,” Ted admitted. “But he represents lots of rich people who want to use their money to further ‘education and the arts.’ He liked you. A lot.”
“I know. It was the only time I was glad to be in this armor. He tried to pinch my ass, Ted.” She scowled, but Ted just grinned.
“You had a sword, Sophie. Look at the bright side. Next time you might have the battle-ax.” He loosened his tie. “I think I’m going to splurge and take Darla out tonight.”
“Moshulu’s or the Charthouse?” she asked, and Ted choked on a shocked laugh.
“Our idea of a splurge is Chinese takeout.” He walked away, shaking his head.
“They never go out. They don’t have the money.”
Once again Sophie spun, the armor making her movement awkward. She glared up, more angry than startled this time. “Theo.”
“I can’t remember the last time we had an evening out.” Theo tilted his head. “Oh, wait. Yes, I can. It was just before Dad hired you.”
“Theo, if you have something to say, then for God’s sake, just say it.”
“Fine. Your salary is more than what my parents bring home together.”
Stunned, Sophie stared for a moment. “What?”
“They were so excited to hire you,” Theo said coldly. “My mom gave up her salary. They figured a ‘real historian’ would help them increase revenue. ‘Short-term sacrifice.’”
He turned on his heel to walk away, but Sophie grabbed his arm. “Theo. Wait.”
He stopped, but didn’t look at her.
“I had no idea my salary was a hardship for them.” And in turn, for him. She wondered what the financial hardship meant for Theo, for his future.
“Well, now you do.”
“You graduated from high school last year. What about college?”
He stiffened. “No money.”
Guilt swelled up within her and she pushed it back. Ted the Third had made sacrifices to keep this place going. But ultimately sacrifices were choices. “Theo, believe it or not, what your parents pay me is less than I’d make managing a McDonald’s. I could tell you I’d give the money back, but every penny I make pays for my gran’s nursing home.”
He turned and she saw she’d scored a small point. “McDonald’s? Really?”
“Really. You know, rather than being angry, why don’t we try to find some ways to bring more business in? More tours, new exhibits.”
His jaw tightened. “I hate the tours. They’re so . . . embarrassing. I mean, Patty Ann’s into all that theater stuff, but . . .”
“I thought it was embarrassing, too. But it reaches people, Theo. The other day when we talked, you seemed interested in building the interactive exhibit. Are you still?”
He nodded again. “I’m good with my hands.”
“I know. You did an awesome job on the paneling in the Great Hall.” Sophie thought of Michael and his blocks and the trebuchet he’d made. “Give me some time to think of a way for you to use your hands and help your—”
Her cell, which she’d tucked inside her bra, vibrated, making her jump. Quickly she loosened the strips that held on the breastplate. “Help me get this off, Theo.”
One look at the caller ID drove every thought from her mind. “It’s my Gran’s nursing home.” She answered, her heart thumping. “Hello?”
“It’s Fran.” Fran was the head nurse and her tone was urgent.
Sophie’s thumping heart stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Anna went into cardiac arrest and we’ve called an ambulance. Sophie, you need to hurry. It’s bad, honey.”
Sophie’s knees buckled and were it not for Theo’s steadying hand she might have fallen. “I’m on my way.” Sophie closed her phone, her hands shaking. Think.
Simon. Maybe it was a lie. A trap. Conscious of Theo’s watchful eye, she dialed the nursing home, calling the main switchboard. “Hello, it’s Sophie Johannsen. I just got a call and wanted to confirm my grandmother was—”
“Sophie? This is Linda.” Another nurse. Sophie doubted even Simon Vartanian could get two nurses to lie. “Didn’t Fran call you? Get to the hospital. Now.”
“Thank you.” Sophie hung up, feeling sick. “I have to go to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you,” Theo said.
“No. That’s okay. I’ll go with Officer Lyons.“ She looked around, panic mounting with every wild beat of her heart. “Where is he?”
“Sophie, why are cops following you around?” Theo asked, following her as she moved toward the lobby door as fast as her armored legs would allow.
“Later. Where is Lyons? Dammit.” She stopped at the door and looked out. It was dark outside. The minutes were ticking and Anna was dying. She’d been too late for Elle. She wouldn’t allow Anna to die alone. She ripped at the Velcro that held her greaves on her shins. “Help me get these things off. Please.”
Theo dropped to a crouch and removed the greaves. He grabbed her foot. “Lift.”
She obeyed, balancing one hand on the cold window as he removed her boot. She squinted out the window and saw a cop, his face half turned from view. The red glow of a cigarette hovered a few inches from his mouth. Not Lyons. She looked at her watch. It was after five. Shift change. Theo pulled off the other boot and she raced out the door, waving behind her. “Thanks, Theo. I’ll call later.”
“Sophie, wait. You don’t have any shoes on.”
“I can’t go back for them. No time.”
“I’ll get your shoes,” Theo said. “It’ll just take a second. Wait here.”
But there was no time. She ran toward the new officer, ignoring the shock of the cold sidewalk on her feet. It was only until she got to his cruiser. She’d get slippers at the hospital. “Officer, I need to go to the hospital. Now.” She headed f
or the curb where his cruiser was parked, hearing his footsteps behind her.
“Dr. Johannsen, stop. I’m under orders to wait with you until one of the detectives arrives.”
“I don’t have time to wait. I have to get to the hospital.”
“Fine.” He caught up to her, took her arm. “Slow down or you’ll slip on the ice. You’re no good to your grandmother if you’re knocked unconscious.”
She opened her mouth to tell him to hurry, then froze. She hadn’t mentioned Anna. Simon. She jerked her arm away. “No.” She’d taken two steps when his arm came around her throat and he covered her mouth with a cloth. She fought like an animal, but he was big, strong, and she heard Susannah Vartanian’s voice, hauntingly quiet. Simon was bigger. “No.” But the word was muffled by the cloth and her vision began to blur.
Fight. Scream. But her body was no longer obeying her command. Her scream was shrill and loud and totally inside her own head. No one could hear her.
He was dragging her. She fought to turn her head. To see where he was taking her, but she couldn’t. She heard a door sliding open and suddenly pain was radiating up her spine. She could feel, but she could move nothing more than her eyes as she lay on her back looking out the side door of a van.
She strained past the blurred double images to see Theo come up behind him. Her shoes. Theo was holding her shoes. The darting of her eyes must have alerted Simon because Theo Albright was leveled with a single blow of Simon’s fist to his head.
Then they were moving. The van thumped as it ran over something big, then sped from the lot with a squeal of tires. Vito, she thought, fighting the pull of whatever had been on that rag. I’m sorry. Then there was nothing but darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Saturday, January 20, 5:30 P.M.
Stacy Savard stared at them defiantly. “I’m not talking to him. You can’t make me. I’ll end up like that.” She shoved the photos. “No fucking way. You’ve got to be crazy.”
Vito swallowed back his anger and disgust. “You could have reported Simon Vartanian at any time and avoided the deaths of more than ten people. They’re on your head. So you will help us. We want you to draw Simon out into the open.”