by Karen Rose
“Sophie?” Harry said when they’d sat down in a small family waiting room.
Vito looked at his hands, then back up. “She’s still missing.”
Harry shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone hurt our Sophie?”
Vito watched the corner of Freya’s mouth tighten. A tiny movement, probably caused by stress. He wasn’t sure. What he did know was that the man before him was the closest thing Sophie had ever had to a real father and he deserved to know the truth.
“Sophie was helping us with a case. It’s gotten some press coverage.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “The graves the old man discovered with a metal detector?”
“That’s the one. For the last week we’ve been tracking the man who killed all those people.” He drew a breath. “We have reason to believe he abducted Sophie.”
Harry paled. “My God. They found nine bodies up there.”
Now there were five more, perhaps six considering Alan Brewster had never been found. But Harry didn’t need to know that. “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”
“My mother’s heart attack,” Freya said slowly. “It happened not an hour before Sophie was taken. The timing can’t be coincidental.”
Vito thought of the look on Nurse Marco’s face when he’d told her about the tape and the tampering. She’d been, as he’d anticipated, both hurt and relieved. He wondered what Freya Smith’s response would be. “We know it wasn’t. The killer tampered with your mother’s IV, injected a high concentration of potassium chloride.” Probably a coarse grade, Jen had thought. The kind used to melt ice on roofs and streets, available at any hardware store this time of year.
Freya’s mouth pressed to a hard line. “He tried to kill my mother. To get to Sophie.”
Vito frowned, not at the words, but by the way in which she said them. Apparently Harry was as well. An expression of appalled shock crossed his face.
“Freya, Sophie didn’t cause this.” When Freya said nothing, Harry rose unsteadily to his feet. “Freya? Sophie’s gone. A man who killed nine people has our Sophie.”
Freya began to cry. “Your Sophie,” she spat. “Always your Sophie.” She looked up at him. “You have two daughters, Harry. What about them?”
“I love Paula and Nina,” he said, his shock becoming anger. “How dare you insinuate otherwise? But Paula and Nina have always had us. Sophie had no one.”
Freya’s face contorted. “Sophie had Anna.”
Harry paled further, then dark red stained his cheekbones as realization began to dawn. “I always thought it was because of Lena. That you couldn’t love Sophie because she was Lena’s. But it was because of Anna. Because Anna took her in.”
Freya was sobbing now. “She gave up everything for that girl. Her house, her career. She never stayed home for us. But for Sophie . . . Everything was for Sophie. And now my mother’s lying in there, dying.” She choked on a sob. “Because of Sophie.”
Vito let out a breath. Freya the Good wasn’t so good.
“My God, Freya,” Harry said quietly. “Who are you?”
She buried her face in her hands. “Go away, Harry. Just go away.”
Shaking, Harry walked outside the little waiting room and slumped against the wall. With a look of bewildered contempt at the sobbing Freya, Vito joined him. Harry’s eyes were closed, his face drawn. “I never understood before tonight.”
“You were wrong about something,” Vito said softly.
Harry swallowed hard, but opened his eyes. “What’s that?”
“Sophie didn’t have ‘no one.’ She had you. She told me you were her real father, that she didn’t think she’d ever told you that before.”
Harry’s throat worked. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Vito squared his shoulders. “She had you and Anna. And now she has me. And I’m going to find her.” His own throat closed, but he forced the words out. “And I’ll love her, Harry, and give her the home she’s always wanted. You have my word.”
Harry held his gaze, weighing both the promise Vito had made and his own response. “I told her that there was someone out there for her. That she just needed to be patient and wait.”
Patient and wait. Patience wasn’t something Vito had a whole lot of right now. He knew Liz had told him to go home, but he couldn’t. He owed Sophie more than patience and waiting. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something,” Vito said. “When I’ve found her.”
Vito walked a few steps, then thought again of the tape. “Anna’s nurse, Lucy Marco? Her quick thinking saved Anna’s life.”
Harry closed his eyes. “We yelled at her,” he murmured. “She told us she’d made a mistake with Anna’s IV and we yelled at her. I promise I’ll make that right.”
Vito had expected no other reply. “Good. You should also know that the young man whose father owns the museum risked his life to stop the man who took Sophie.”
Harry’s eyes blinked open. “You mean Theo Four? Sophie didn’t think he liked her.”
Vito thought about the worry in the eyes of all the Albrights, both for Theo, who’d sustained serious internal injuries when Simon had backed over him with his van, and for Sophie. “They all like her, Harry. They’re terrified for her.”
Harry nodded unsteadily. “Theo. Will he be all right?”
“They hope so. It’s touch and go.”
Again he nodded. “Do they need . . . anything?”
Vito sighed. “Insurance. They didn’t have any. No money.” Insurance. Simon had stolen his. Vito sucked in a breath as it hit him like a sucker punch. In all the flash of this case he’d forgotten the most fundamental principle. Follow the money.
“What?” Harry grabbed his arm, panicked. “What?”
Vito clasped the older man’s shoulder. “I had a thought. I have to go.” Then he took off for the elevator, dialing ADA Maggy Lopez as he ran.
Saturday, January 20, 9:50 P.M.
He’d plugged his leg into the wall just in time. He’d been so busy lately, he’d run the battery until it was almost dead. It would take hours to fully charge. He had other legs, but none provided the same range of motion or reliability of movement as the microprocessor he’d acquired from participation in Pfeiffer’s study, and he had the feeling killing Sophie Johannsen would require that he have a physical edge.
He thought about her in full costume, swinging that battleax over her head. No fragile flower, she. Yes, he’d need every advantage Pfeiffer’s unit could give him.
Sitting on the bed in his studio, he paused, considering the issue of Dr. Pfeiffer. Pfeiffer and that nurse of his were helping the cops. It was the only explanation for the phone call he’d received. Come and get your lubricant. Ha. He’d honestly thought better of Ciccotelli than that. It was a damn good thing he hadn’t allowed Pfeiffer’s nurse to photograph him. Otherwise, Ciccotelli would also know his true face. That could present problems the next time he chose to surface with a new life.
With the death of Sophie Johannsen, all that would be left were the old man’s spawn. He smiled, suddenly eager for a family reunion. Especially Daniel. He looked at the trap on the table next to his unfinished matrix. That his beautifully planned graveyard would go unfinished gnawed at him. He would have to make up for it by finishing what his brother had started so many years ago. He’d dreamed of his revenge so many times . . . Maybe he’d dream of Daniel snared like an animal tonight.
But he was too restless to sleep. Had his leg been charged, he’d go for a run. He’d need to work off this nervous energy another way, and he had just the right thing. Pulling on his old leg, he crossed to the doors set into the stairwell. Opening them, he smiled. Brewster lay curled in a fetal ball, bound hands and feet. But he breathed.
“Have you given up hope yet, Brewster?”
The bound man’s eyelids flickered, but he made not the slightest noise. Not even a whimper. He could take Brewster standing one-legged in a hurricane. But he had other plans for Alan Brewste
r. “You know, Alan, I’ve never properly thanked you. You were the hub that brought my support staff together. How fortuitous that your name was one of the first I found when I searched for experts in medieval warfare. And how fortuitous that you associate with such . . . helpful merchants.” He pulled Brewster so that he sat up, his back propped against the wall.
“Thank you, by the way, for telling me about Dr. Johannsen, back from France and—how did you put it? A most able assistant. You were quite right. I found her expertise most helpful. Of course, our view on her specific expertise is quite different. I’m glad you were too busy reveling in the baser thoughts to fully utilize her academic assets.”
He stood looking Brewster over, framing the scene in his mind. Van Zandt had been right about needing a regal queen, and after much consideration, he’d agreed VZ was right about the flail scene too. He needed something more dramatic.
VZ had wanted to see someone explode. Simon smiled. And he’d given VZ his wish, up close and personal. This time, he’d capture it on tape.
Saturday, January 20, 9:55 P.M.
Vito caught up with Maggy Lopez as she was entering the precinct. “Maggy. Thanks for coming.” He took her elbow and hastened her toward the elevator. “We have to hurry. He’s had Sophie for five hours now.” And he was using every ounce of concentration not to think about what Simon could have done to her in those five hours.
Maggy was jogging to keep up with him. “I’m gonna break my ankle. Slow down.”
He slowed a little, chafing at every minute that slipped away. “I need your help.”
“I figured that out.” She drew a breath when they stopped at the elevator. “Exactly what do you need, Vito?”
The elevator doors opened and he ushered her in. “I need access to Simon Vartanian’s financial records.”
She nodded. “Okay. I’ll get a warrant started, using all the same aliases we used to get his medical records from Pfeiffer.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you could have asked me to do that on the phone. What do you want, Vito?”
The elevator dinged and he tugged her into the hall outside the homicide bullpen. Maggie stopped and yanked her arm away. “Stop it. What do you want, Vito?”
He drew a breath. “We can’t wait for a warrant, Maggy. There’s no time. Simon bought things. He had to have a money source. I have to find that source.”
“So we subpoena bank records, canceled checks.” She frowned at him. “Legally.”
“I don’t have canceled checks. I don’t have a single thing he bought. Dammit,” Vito hissed. “He’s had Sophie for five hours. If these aren’t exigent circumstances, I don’t know what the hell is. You know people who can get this information quickly. Please.”
She faltered. “Vito . . . last time I helped you, a man died.”
Vito struggled for calm. “You said Van Zandt would have made bail anyway. Besides, he deserved to die. Sophie doesn’t.”
She closed her eyes. “You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies, Vito.”
Vito grabbed her shoulders and her eyes flew open. Ignoring the warning flare in her eyes, he tightened his grip. “If I don’t find her, he will torture and kill her. I’m begging you, Maggy. Please. Anything you can do. Please.”
“God, Vito.” He held his breath as indecision warred in her eyes, then she sighed. “Fine. I’ll make some calls.”
He exhaled slowly, able to breathe once more. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said darkly and pushed past him into the bullpen.
Brent Yelton was waiting for them at Vito’s desk. “I got here as fast as I could.”
Maggy shot Vito a glare. “Your own hacker? Pretty sure of yourself, hotshot.”
Vito refused to feel guilty. “You can use Nick’s desk, Maggy.”
Maggy sat, muttering to herself as she dug her Palm Pilot from her purse.
Brent gave a satisfied nod. “What do you need me to hack?”
He sounded so eager that Vito almost smiled. “I don’t know yet. I’ve been wracking my brain trying to remember something he bought.”
“He bought lubricant from the doctor,” Brent said, but Vito shook his head.
“He always paid Pfeiffer in cash. Co-pays and lubricants. I checked that on my way over. Can’t we look up all the area banks? Maybe he had a checking account.”
Brent puffed out his cheeks. “It would be easier if we knew where to start. Bank hacking is delicate work. It’ll take time. It’d be easier to check the credit bureaus to see if he has a credit card.”
Maggy groaned. “I don’t want to hear any of this.” She got up and moved to another desk, out of earshot. But she had her cell in her hand and was making calls.
That was something, Vito supposed.
Brent opened his laptop. “How did oRo pay him?”
“They hadn’t yet. Van Zandt said he wouldn’t get any royalties for three months.” Vito unlocked his desk drawer and found the Pfeiffer medical file. “Here’s the Social Security number he gave Pfeiffer. Search all his aliases.”
Brent looked up, sympathy on his face. “Go away, Vito.”
Vito’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I’m telling you what you already know.”
“Get some coffee.” Brent’s mouth quirked up. “I take two sugars.”
Vito turned around—and ran straight into Jen. She bounced, landing on her heels. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. Her hair was sticking out at all angles and she looked like she’d just woken up. Her eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”
“Following the money,” he said grimly, “like I should have been doing all along. What are you doing here?”
Jen looked over her shoulder, and it was then Vito noticed the two young people who’d followed her in. “Meet Marta and Spandan. They’re Sophie’s grad students.”
Marta was a petite young woman with dark hair and a tear-stained face. She gripped the arm of a young Indian man with scared eyes. “We saw it on the news,” Marta said, trembling. “The shooting outside the Albright. And Dr. J . . . Somebody took her.”
“We came as soon as we heard,” Spandan said. “My God. We can’t believe it.”
“The desk sergeant called Liz and she called me.” Jen gestured to some chairs and the students sat down. “This is Detective Ciccotelli. Tell him what you told me.”
“The reporter,” Spandan started unsteadily, “said Dr. J was helping the police with a case. Your case, Detective. She said it involved all those graves in the field and that Greg Sanders was the last victim.” He swallowed. “She said his limbs had been amputated.”
Vito shot a frustrated look at Jen and she shrugged. “We knew we couldn’t keep the lid on it forever, Chick. We’re lucky it took the press this long to connect the dots.” She gave Spandan a nod of encouragement. “Keep going.”
“We work with Dr. J on Sundays. At the museum.”
“We talked about amputation as a medieval punishment for theft,” Marta burst out. “Hand and the opposite foot. Then she’s kidnapped. We had to come and tell you.”
Vito opened his mouth but no sound came out and no breath went in. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “I never got a chance to ask her about the brand or the amputations or the church. If I’d asked her . . .”
“Don’t go there, Vito,” Jen snapped. “It doesn’t help.”
“Brand?” Spandan asked, frowning. “We didn’t talk about branding.”
“One of her students did,” Vito said, making himself breathe. “It wasn’t you two?”
Both students shook their heads. “There are four of us,” Marta said. “We couldn’t find Bruce or John, so we just came ourselves.”
“John was the name Sophie mentioned. John . . .” Vito closed his eyes. “Trapper.”
Jen sighed. “Hell.”
“Do you know where John lives?” Vito asked, but again they shook their heads. “What does he drive?”
“A white van,” Spandan said immediately. “He gave Dr. J a ride T
uesday night.”
“Because her bike had been tampered with.” Breathe. Think. Then a piece of the puzzle fell into place. “If he was a student, he’d have to pay tuition.” He turned to Brent.
Brent was typing. “Already on it. It would help to know his student number.”
“We don’t know each other’s numbers,” Spandan said. “But the library would have it. He’d need it to check out books.”
“I’ll call the library,” Brent said. “But they’re probably closed.”
Maggy rose from where she’d been sitting. “Perhaps our guests would like a snack.”
Jen’s brows lifted and understanding filled her eyes. “I’ll take them to the cafeteria.”
Marta shook her head violently. “No, I couldn’t eat a bite.”
“They want us to leave,” Spandan murmured. He looked at Vito. “We’ll go back to campus. Please call us as soon as you find her.”
Brent waited until they were gone. “Library’s closed. You want me to find a way in?”
Jen raised her hand. “Wait. Liz had Beverly and Tim run a check on John Trapper. Bev called and told me he checked out, that his medical file listed him as confined to a wheelchair.”
“But we know Simon can change medical files,” Vito said. “If Bev and Tim have seen his medical file, they’ll have whatever Social he’s been using. If he paid tuition or for anything at the university, we can track it to his bank.”
“I’ll call them,” Jen said and sat down at an unoccupied desk as Maggy Lopez approached, her expression sober.
“I’ve got a name at the IRS. Vito, you need to be clear on what happens from here. This is an unauthorized search. Anything we find from this point is fruit from the poisoned tree. It won’t be admissible in court. If you apprehend Simon Vartanian based on what we find next, he could walk on thirteen murders.”
Vito met her eyes. “Let’s just make sure it’s not fourteen.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Saturday, January 20, 10:30 P.M.
Sophie’s body ached. Every one of her muscles was tensed beyond the ability of meditation to relax. There had been an explosion, so loud her ears still rang, so hard that some of the rock had fallen from the walls. She’d quelled the scream before it escaped her throat, but she hadn’t been able to hide the reflexive tensing of her body. If Simon Vartanian came down now, he’d know she was awake.