Die for Me (37 page)

“We are business partners, Detective. Nothing more.”

Blessing Brent, Vito smiled. “I read that you’ve been friends since college.”

“D’y’all have a fallin’-out?” Nick drawled, and for the first time Van Zandt showed a flicker of response. Just a small flash of anger in his eyes, extinguished immediately.

“We have not agreed in recent days. Derek’s tastes have become . . . violent.”

Vito blinked. “Really? He looks so nice in his picture on your website.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Detective.”

Vito drew another photo from his folder. “Yes, they can. Perhaps you can help us clear something up.” He slid the picture of Claire Reynolds next to the screenshot of Clothilde. But there was nothing. Not even a flicker to indicate Van Zandt was impacted in any way. Surprise would have been the natural response, but there was nothing.

“The resemblance is uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?” Nick asked.

“Yes. But they say everyone looks like someone.” One side of his mouth lifted. “They say I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“It’s just the accent,” Vito said and Van Zandt’s smile disappeared. “We’d like to find Mr. Harrington. Can your secretary give us his address?”

“Of course.” He picked up the phone. “Raynette, please get Derek’s home address for the detectives. Then please show them out.” He said all that while holding Vito’s gaze in defiant coldness. “Is there anything else, Detective?”

“Not right now. Will you be here if we have more questions before we go home?”

He glanced down at the calendar on his desk. “I will be here. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood and opened his office door. “My secretary will help you now.”

Vito stood up, intentionally leaving the photo of Claire Reynolds on Van Zandt’s desk. The door closed at their backs with a firm click. Van Zandt’s secretary was glaring at them. “Mr. Harrington’s address.” She held a piece of paper in her hand.

Vito slid the paper in his folder. “When was Mr. Harrington last in the office?”

“Tuesday,” she said stonily. “He left right after lunch and didn’t return.”

Vito said nothing more until he and Nick were out on the sidewalk. “What a snake.”

“Everybody looks like somebody,” Nick mimicked in his best Arnold imitation.

“He was expecting us,” Vito said as they started for Nick’s car.

“You caught that, too? His secretary didn’t say we were homicide when she announced us, just that we were detectives, but then she said ‘Yes, homicide.’”

“Like he’d asked her first,” Vito mused. “I wonder who Van Zandt thinks is dead.”

“First round of drinks when we’re done says we don’t find Derek at that address.”

“Sucker bet, Nick,” Vito said as Nick slid behind the wheel.

“Shit. I was hoping now that you’re blinded by love I could slide that one right past.”

Vito chuckled. “Just drive, okay?”

Nick pulled away from the curb, one brow raised. “You didn’t disagree. So what’s the deal, you and Sophie?
Are
you blinded by love?” The last was said in a teasing tone that didn’t hide the more serious question underneath.

You don’t love me.
Her bitter words following that first disastrous, unforgettable . . . mating came back to hit him in the head and now he thought he understood them a little better. Vito wondered if anyone had really loved her other than Anna and her uncle. Her mother was abusive, her father rather cold. Her aunt was selfish and her first lover a cheating snake. Quite a cast of characters.

“Vito?” Nick’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I asked you a question.”

“And I’m trying to answer. Sophie’s . . . She’s . . .”

“Smart, funny, sexy as hell?”

Yes.
All of those things.
But more than those things.
“Important,” Vito finally said. “She’s important. Harrington lives west of here, so turn left at the corner.”

Thursday, January 18, 11:45
A.M.

Philadelphia had a lot of hotels. After showing his parents’ picture to staff at more than thirty hotels, Daniel Vartanian finally found a desk clerk who remembered his mother.

“She was sick, man,” Ray Garrett said. “I thought Housekeeping would find her dead in the bed. She should have been in a hospital.”

“Can you check the dates they stayed?”

“Against policy. I wish I could help, but without seeing a badge, I’d lose my job.”

I know what your son did.
He wasn’t on duty, but Daniel pulled his shield from his pocket anyway. “I’m with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “I’d appreciate any help you can give me. The woman is sick, and she needs to see her doctor.”

Ray looked at him for a long moment. “She’s your mother, isn’t she?”

Daniel hesitated. He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

“Okay. What name were they registered under?”

“Vartanian.” Daniel spelled it.

Ray shook his head. “We have no records of a Vartanian. I’m sorry.”

“But you saw her.”

“I’m pretty sure. It’s hard to forget a woman that sick. Sorry, man.”

“Can you check Beaumont?” It was his mother’s maiden name.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

So close. “Can I talk to your staff? Maybe one of them remembers something.”

Ray’s eyes were kind. “Wait here.” In a few minutes he was back with a small Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform. “This is Maria. She remembers your mother.”

“Your mother was very sick, no? But she was nice to us. Tried not be a problem.”

“Do you remember what you called her?”

“Mrs. Carol.” She shrugged. “Her husband called her this too.”

Ray was already typing. “Here it is. Mr. Arthur Carol.”

It was a simple yet elegant ruse, Daniel thought. Carol was his mother’s first name. “Thank you, Maria,” Daniel said. “Thank you so much.” When she was gone, Daniel turned to Ray. “Can you tell me when they checked in?”

“Checked in November 19, out December 1. Paid in cash. Is there anything else?”

He thought of the floor of his parents’ bedroom. “Do you have a safe?” Ray’s eyes flickered. “They had articles in the safe, didn’t they?”

Ray shrugged. “Still do. According to this, they didn’t get the items they’d stored in the safe when they checked out. We have a policy of ninety days or we pitch it.”

“Can you at least check? That way I’ll know if I need to get a warrant.”

“Okay, but this is it.” Two minutes later Ray came back with an envelope, surprise on his face. “There was a letter in there addressed to you.”

On the envelope was written “For Daniel or Susannah Vartanian.” The handwriting was his mother’s. Daniel drew a breath. “Thank you, Ray.”

“Good luck,” Ray said quietly.

When he got to his car, Daniel opened the envelope. It was a single sheet of hotel stationery with an address and a box number, written in his mother’s hand. Daniel took out his cell phone and dialed. His sister answered on the third ring, her voice brisk.

“District Attorney’s office. Susannah Vartanian.”

“Suze, it’s Danny.”

Susannah let out a breath. “Did you find them?”

“No, but I found something else.”

Thursday, January 18, 12:00
P.M.

Johannsen was still being careful. She had surrounded herself with people all morning long. Dragging her anywhere was going to be difficult, because the woman was a veritable Amazon. He planned to get her near his vehicle then disable her quickly. But he needed to get her alone first. He’d planned to wait until she broke for lunch to make his move.

He’d timed it well. Her Viking tour had just finished. He was approaching her when the door opened and another old man came in, winding his way through the children who’d taken the tour. Hands extended in welcome, Johannsen rushed to the old man, who, he was surprised to see, wasn’t really old either. He wasn’t in disguise, but he wasn’t that old. His body had been damaged, likely from repeated abuse. The man’s broken hands confirmed the assumption.

He wondered how much torture the man had sustained and how long it would take to wreak that kind of damage. He’d like to paint that man’s eyes. He imagined he’d have a hell of a pain threshold and would last a lot longer than any of the models had.

Johannsen and the old man began to speak to each other in what sounded like Russian. As she walked the Russian to the front door, he stepped forward.

Then his cell phone rang. Several people looked up and he turned his face away quickly, hunching over his cane. Drawing attention to himself was not part of his mission. He hurried out of the museum as quickly as he thought an old man should and opened his cell phone when he got far enough away. It was Van Zandt’s direct number. Frowning, he dialed back. “It’s Frasier Lewis.”

“Frasier,” Van Zandt said. “I need to meet with you.”

“I can come up in a few days. Maybe next Tuesday.”

“No. I need to speak with you today. Frasier, Derek quit yesterday.”

He certainly had. In more ways than one. “Really? Why?”

“Didn’t want to give up artistic control. I have a contract for you to sign. I’ll be in Philadelphia later this afternoon. Meet me for dinner at seven. You can sign it and I’ll be on my way.

“Executive art director?” he asked and Van Zandt laughed.

“That’s what it says on the contract. I’ll see you then.”

New York City, Thursday, January 18, 12:30
P.M.

“Told you it was a sucker bet,” Vito muttered under his breath.

Nick nodded, arms crossed over his chest as the two of them watched a pair of NYPD detectives check anyplace a man could hide. Or be hidden. “Now what?”

“Put out an APB, I guess. Looks like they’re done here.”

The two NY cops came back to the living room. They were Carlos and Charles. Almost as good as Nick and Chick, Vito thought, but not quite.

“He’s not here,” Carlos said. “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” Vito said. “We didn’t think we’d find him here, but . . .”

Charles nodded. “You guys have ten bodies down there. We’d have looked, too.”

“So what do you boys want to do?” Carlos asked. “Is this guy a suspect?”

“We don’t think he’s our killer,” Nick said, “but he might have an idea of who is.”

“We can put out an APB for you,” Charles offered.

“We appreciate it.” Vito picked up a framed photo, Harrington with a woman and teenaged girl. “He’s married with a kid. Can we find the wife?”

“We’ll call it in,” Carlos said. “Anything else?”

Nick shrugged. “Maybe recommend a good deli where we can get lunch?”

Philadelphia, Thursday, January 18, 2:15
P.M.

“Can I help you?” The boy behind the counter looked barely old enough to shave.

I certainly hope so
, Daniel thought. The address his mother had left on the hotel stationery was a mailbox store on the other side of town.

He’d sat outside for some time, debating whether he should call his boss and make this an official investigation. But “I know what your son did” continued to haunt him. So here he was, about to use his badge to bypass the law again. “I need to check a box.”

The boy nodded professionally. “Can I see your ID?”

Daniel handed him his shield and watched the boy’s eyes grow wide.

“I’ll look it up . . . Special Agent Vartanian.”

The boy was so impressed with his being an agent he didn’t wait to see which box Daniel wanted. The kid typed in his name, then looked up. “Just a minute, sir.”

Wait
was on Daniel’s lips, but he bit it back. His name was in their computer. He’d never set foot in this city before this week. Heart pounding, he waited. In a minute the boy returned with a thick manila envelope that had been folded sideways.

“Just this, sir,” the kid said.

“Thank you,” Daniel managed. “But that’s not the only reason I came in. I’m working a case and one of the leads is a box here at this store. I took the responsibility for following up since I had to come by anyway. Can you tell me who owns box 115?”

It was way too easy.
Both to utter the lie and to fool the boy. But he got what he needed. “It’s registered to Claire Reynolds. Do you need her address?”

“Please.”

The boy wrote it down, and Daniel once again went out to his car with an envelope in his hand. He carefully sliced the top with his pen knife, then drew out the contents.

For a moment he could only stare in horror and total disbelief. Then the years yanked him back like a riptide. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Dad, what did you do?”

This was worse than his worst fear.
I know what your son did.
Now Daniel knew what his father had done as well. He wasn’t sure he could ask why.

When he could breathe again he called Susannah.

“Did you find them?” she asked without preamble.

He forced his mouth to speak the words. “You need to come.”