Die for Me (21 page)

“I’m expecting a lab report on the silicon lubricant this afternoon,” Katherine said.

“Good.” Vito rose. “We’re done for now. We all have our list of to-do items. Let’s meet back here to debrief at five o’clock. Stay in touch and stay safe.”

Chapter Ten

Tuesday, January 16, 8:35
A.M.

P
atty Ann wasn’t at the front desk when Sophie let herself into the museum. Theo Four was, and Sophie was glad to see him. “You’re back. Now you can wear the armor.”

He shook his head. “Not today. I won’t be here for the first tour.”

“
Theo.
You have to stay. That knight tour is a pain.”

“For which my father pays you well,” Theo said stonily.

Sophie wanted to hit him, but Theo was a very large young man, built like a rock. “I got news for you, kid. Your dad pays—” She broke it off. Her meager salary wasn’t an appropriate topic to share with the owner’s son. She turned, headed for her office.

“Sophie, you have a package.” Theo gestured to a small box on the desk.

Annoyed with herself for getting angry at the boy, Sophie grabbed the small box from the desk and took it into her office, shutting her door behind her. With short rips she tore the paper from the box and flipped off the lid.

Then dropped the box, muffling her scream with her hand.

A dead mouse rolled out of the box. Its head didn’t follow. At the bottom of the box was the mousetrap that had been the mouse’s execution device.

Breathing hard, she sank blindly into her chair, her hand still clamped hard over her mouth. Bile rose and she choked it back. She knew exactly who had sent the mouse and why, because she’d received a similar one ten years before.

From Alan Brewster’s wife. Amanda Brewster did not like other women sleeping with her husband, even women who’d been tricked into doing so. Clint Shafer must have wasted no time calling Alan to say that Sophie had called last night. Amanda must have been listening.

I should call the police.
But she wouldn’t today any more than she had the last time, because down deep she knew Amanda Brewster had a right to her anger. So she scooped up the mouse and put the lid back on the box. For a brief second she considered tossing it in the Dumpster, but knew she couldn’t any more than she could keep Alan’s name to herself last night. She’d bury it later.

Tuesday, January 16, 9:15
A.M.

Daniel Vartanian had ripped the listings of hotels from the phone book he’d found in his hotel nightstand drawer. Armed with pictures of his parents, he planned to hit the hotel chains in which they normally stayed first, then work his way down.

He was tying his tie when his cell rang. It was Susannah. “Hello.”

“It was an Atlanta area code,” Susannah said without greeting. “A cell phone, registered to Mom.”

It should have made him feel better. “So she called Grandma on her own phone to say she was coming to see you. Do you know where the phone was physically located when the call was placed?”

Susannah was quiet for a long moment. “No, but I’ll try to find out. Good-bye.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Suze . . . I’m sorry.”

He heard Susannah’s careful exhale. “I’m sure you are, Daniel. But you’re about eleven years too late. Keep me apprised.” And with that she was gone.

She was right of course. He’d made so many mistakes. He went back to tying his tie, his hands unsteady. Maybe this time he could get something right.

Tuesday, January 16, 9:30
A.M.

Dr. Alan Brewster’s office was a mini-museum, Vito thought as Brewster’s assistant showed him in. Brewster’s assistant, on the other hand . . . well there was nothing mini about her. She was tall, blonde, with Barbie-doll proportions, and Vito instantly thought of Sophie. Obviously, Brewster liked them young, tall, blonde, and beautiful.

This year’s model was Stephanie, who oozed sex with every step. “Alan’s coming. He said to make yourself comfortable,” she added with a knowing smile that invited Vito to make himself very comfortable indeed. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” An amused confidence in her eyes left the
M
e unsaid, but strongly implied.

Vito kept his distance. “No thanks. I’m fine.”

“Well if you change your mind, I’m just outside.”

Semi-alone, Vito took in the understated opulence. Brewster’s mahogany desk was about an acre wide and neat as a pin, with only a single framed picture of a woman with two teenaged boys to clutter its glossy surface. Mrs. Brewster and the kids.

One wall was lined with shelves filled with knickknacks from all over the world. Another wall was covered with photos. On closer inspection Vito could see that nearly every one contained the same man.
Dr. Brewster, I presume.
The pictures spanned twenty years, but Brewster always looked trim, tanned, and sophisticated.

Many of the photos were taken on digs, labeled with the place and date. Russia, Wales, England. In every photo Brewster stood next to a tall, blonde, beautiful girl. Then Vito stopped at the photo labeled “France,” because Sophie was the girl. Ten years younger, she stood next to Brewster, wearing her army camouflage field coat and red bandana. And a smile that went far beyond joy of the job. She’d been in love.

And Brewster had been married. Vito wondered if she’d known, then dismissed the thought. Of course she hadn’t and now her words from the day before made perfect sense. A slight noise behind him made him glance up and in the reflection of the glass covering the photo he saw Brewster standing behind him, watching silently.

Vito looked at the France photo for another few seconds, then went on to give equal time to photos from Italy and Greece as if he still believed himself to be alone. Finally Brewster cleared his throat and Vito turned, widening his eyes. “Dr. Brewster?”

Brewster closed the door behind him. “I’m Alan Brewster. Please sit down.” He gestured to a chair, then took his place behind the massive desk. “How can I help you?”

“First, I have to request that you keep what I’m about to ask in confidence.”

Brewster spread his hands, then steepled his fingers. “Of course, Detective.”

“Thank you. We have a case in which we suspect that stolen goods have changed hands,” Vito began and Brewster’s brows rose.

“And you suspect one of my students? Are we talking TVs, stereos? Term papers?”

“No. The objects we’ve recovered appear to be artifacts. Medieval, actually. We Googled history and archeology professors and yours is one of the names that came up as an expert in this field. I’m here to get your professional opinion.”

“I see. Then let’s proceed. What kind of objects are you talking about?”

Vito weighed his options. He didn’t like Brewster, but then he hadn’t liked him before he walked in the door. Just because the man cheated on his wife didn’t mean he wouldn’t be a good resource. “We have various weapons. Swords, flails, for example.”

“Easily copied, of course. I’d be happy to authenticate anything you’ve found. Weaponry and warfare are my areas of expertise.”

“Thank you. We may take you up on that.” Vito hesitated, considering. He had to ask about the chair sometime. Might as well be now. “We also found a chair.”

“A chair,” Brewster repeated with a hint of disdain. “What kind of chair?”

“One with spikes. Lots of spikes,” Vito said and watched Brewster’s face flatten in what might have been genuine shock before the color rose in his tanned cheeks.

The man quickly recovered his poise. “You think you’ve found an inquisitional chair? You have it in your possession?”

“Yes,” Vito lied. “We were wondering how someone might have come by it.”

“Artifacts like that are very rare. What you have is most certainly a copy. We’d have to authenticate. If you brought it to me, I’d be happy to help.”

On a cold day in hell
, Vito thought. “But if it
is
authentic, where would it come from?”

“Europe, originally, but few survive. Rarely do they come up for sale or auction.”

“Dr. Brewster, let’s cut through the bull, shall we? I’m talking about the black market. If someone wanted to buy an artifact like a chair, where would he go?”

Brewster’s eyes flashed. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t know anyone who deals in illegal merchandise, and if I did, I would report them immediately to the authorities.”

“I’m sorry,” Vito said and watched the fire in Brewster’s eyes bank. If he was an actor, he was very good. Vito thought of Sophie. Brewster must be one hell of an actor. “I didn’t mean to imply you’d be involved in anything illegal. But if one of these chairs were to suddenly surface, would you hear about it?”

“Most assuredly, Detective. But I have not.”

“Do you know of any private collectors who might have interest in such items, were they to come up for legal auction?”

Opening his desk drawer, Brewster took out a pad and jotted down a few names. “These men are of the highest ethics. I’m sure they will be as unable to help you as I.”

Vito slipped the paper into his pocket. “I’m sure you’re right. Thank you for your time, Dr. Brewster. If you do hear anything, please call me. Here’s my card.”

Brewster swept the card into the drawer with his notepad. “Stephanie will see you out.” Vito was at the door when Brewster added, “Please tell Sophie I said hello.”

Controlling his surprise, Vito turned, forcing confusion to his face. “I’m sorry?”

“Please, Detective. We all have our sources. I have mine and you have . . . Sophie Johannsen.” He smiled, a sly gleam in his eye that made Vito want to poke the man’s eyes out. “You’re in for a real treat. Sophie was one of my most able assistants.”

Vito lifted a shoulder, barely controlling the pagan urge to leap across that mahogany desk and rip Brewster’s face off. Instead he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brewster. You really do have me at a loss. Maybe this Sophie Johnson—”

“Johannsen,” Brewster corrected smoothly.

“Whatever. Maybe she talked to my boss, but . . .” Vito shrugged. “Not to me.” He made himself smile conspiratorially. “Although it appears I missed something special.”

Brewster’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That you did, Detective. That you did.”

Tuesday, January 16, 10:30
A.M.

It had been, Vito conceded, a professionally unproductive trip. Brewster hadn’t provided anything of real use and Vito didn’t believe the names he’d been given would be of any use either. He’d pursue the leads though, and see what more he could learn.

His cell buzzed, Riker’s number on the caller ID. “Vito, it’s Tim. We just left Claire Reynolds’s parents’ place. Her parents had all of Claire’s things boxed in their basement. Bev got some hair from Claire’s old brush so we can get DNA. Her parents said they went to her apartment just before Thanksgiving a year ago when she hadn’t returned their calls, but she hadn’t been there in a long time. Then they checked her job and found the library where she’d worked received a letter of resignation fifteen months ago. The mother insists the signature isn’t Claire’s. We’ll bring the letter in, too.”

“Huh. Somebody didn’t want anyone to investigate her as missing.”

“That’s what we thought. But that’s not the best part. In the box with all her belongings were two prosthetic legs, one for running and one for water sports. And . . .” he paused dramatically, “one bottle of silicone lubricant.”

Vito sat up straighter at that. “Really? Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yeah.” There was a triumphant smile in Riker’s voice. “This one had never been opened. Claire’s mother said she used the lubricant to put on her leg and that she kept bottles in her apartment, her car, and her gym bag. The family didn’t find the car or the gym bag, so Claire may have had a few bottles on her when she was killed.”

“A very practical souvenir for our killer.”

“Yeah. We’ll have the lab match it to the samples Katherine took from the two vics.”

“Excellent. What about Claire’s computer?”

“Her parents say she didn’t have one. When we’re done at the lab we’ll get on the phones and see if we can find Brittany Bellamy.”

“Then we’ll be three down, six to go. I got a few names of personal collectors from the professor I visited this morning and I’ll run those down. After hearing the Luger was vintage, I’m more convinced our guy is going for the most authentic weapons he can find. But just in case, I’m going to visit a few of the dealers that sell reproductions at the medieval festivals. We’ll see what shakes out. Keep in touch.”

Vito closed his phone and sat with it clenched in his fist, staring at the little shop in front of which he’d parked. Andy’s Attic was the only seller on Sophie’s list that had a physical shop. All of the others sold through Internet sites. For now, Vito wanted to confine his interviews to people he could see so that he could watch their reactions.

Like he’d watched Brewster. Slimy little sonofabitch. But how had Brewster known Sophie was his source? She wasn’t supposed to have made any calls, just given him names. Frowning, he dialed Sophie’s cell.

She answered, her tone guarded. “This is Sophie.”

“Sophie, it’s Vito Ciccotelli. I’m sorry to bother you again, but . . .”

She sighed. “But you just talked to Alan Brewster. Did he give you anything?”

“The names of three collectors he insists are ethical and legitimate. But Sophie, he knew you’d given me his name. I tried to evade my way out of it, but someone had told him before I got there. Who else did you talk to?”