Die for Me (44 page)

“Just like he was really killed,” Katherine murmured.

“Let me see that paper,” Nick said and frowned down at it. “This wasn’t written by Van Zandt. If you compare it to the note he left us, the writing is different.” He looked over at Vito. “We could be looking at a genuine copy of a Simon Vartanian original.”

Vito chuckled. “Jen, have your handwriting guy compare that writing to the signature on the letter, too. It’s numbers versus letters, but maybe he can match something. Good job, Brent. What else?”

“The church. You know how Simon mentioned a church on the tape? Well, after the fight scene where Bill Melville dies, it goes to a cut scene. You go into a crypt and see two tomb effigies. Woman’s hands folded in prayer, the man holding a sword.”

“Warren and Brittany,” Vito said. “What then?”

“Well, you’re in a crypt, which is attached to a church. And from the church you descend to the dungeon.”

Vito sat up. “You mean he shows the church?”

Brent winced. “Yes, but no. The church itself is a model of a French abbey, a famous one. Simon doesn’t create, but he does one hell of a copy job.”

“So is he killing in a church, or were his references on the tape just symbolic?” Vito asked. “Thomas?”

“I’m betting they’re symbolic,” Thomas said. “Most churches around here wouldn’t have the look he wanted anyway, he’s so stuck on authenticity. And anything that big is going to be in a neighborhood or close to people. People would hear, and he said ‘no one can hear you.’ But, on the off chance I’m wrong, we could check churches that are built in areas on Jen’s USDA soil map.”

“Okay.” Vito considered. “We have our next steps. Exhume whoever’s buried in Simon’s tomb, just to be sure it’s not him. Get Simon’s records from Dr. Pfeiffer. Find that second blackmailer. Check out Sophie’s student and the churches on Jen’s map. And find Van Zandt. He was on the turnpike in Pennsylvania yesterday, and according to Charles and Carlos, he hasn’t come back to his place in Manhattan yet. They put an APB on him, including all the airports, in case he tries to skip the country.” Vito looked around the table. “Anything else?”

“Just that Kay Crawford sends her thanks,” Brent said. “She doesn’t know much about the investigation, but she knows enough to understand she barely escaped from something very bad. She wanted me to tell you all thank you.”

“And did she thank you?” Liz asked him, mild amusement in her eyes.

Brent tried to bite back his smile but wasn’t successful. “Not yet. She asked me to dinner and I told her I’d go when this was all over. Hey,” he protested when Nick snickered, “how else would a guy like me get to go out with a hot six-foot-tall blonde?”

Vito’s smile disappeared. “What?”

Brent looked around. Everyone was frowning. “She’s a tall blonde. What did I say?”

“Do you have a picture of her?” Nick asked.

“Just the one on the UCanModel site.” Brent pulled it up and Vito’s heart stopped.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

“What?” Brent demanded.

Nick’s face was grim. “She looks like Sophie Johannsen.”

Jen looked ill. “Now we know why Simon’s lost interest in this model.”

“Because he’s picked Sophie instead.” Katherine’s voice trembled. “Vito.”

“I know.” Vito swallowed back his fear. “Liz, we—”

“I’ll send a uniform to the museum,” Liz said. “Sophie will have 24/7 protection until we have Simon in custody. He won’t touch her, Vito.”

Shakily, Vito nodded. “Thanks. Let’s go. Stay safe. And let’s find him. Please.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Friday, January 19, 9:30
A.M.

S
ophie.”

Sophie looked up from her computer to find an irate Ted the Third standing in her office doorway. “Ted.”

“Don’t you ‘Ted’ me. What’s this all about?” Ted demanded. “Cops dropping you off at work is one thing, but now cops are in my museum. What the hell is going on?”

Sophie sighed. “I’m sorry, Ted. I didn’t know about this until a half hour ago myself. I’m helping the police with a case.”

“By answering their history questions. Yes, I remember.”

“Well, somebody didn’t like me helping them. They think I might be in some danger. So they sent someone to watch over me. It’s only temporary.”

Ted expression swung from ire to concern. “My God. That’s why they’ve been driving you around all week. Your car and bike are fine.”

“Well, my bike’s not. Somebody dumped sugar in my tank.” But Amanda Brewster had been smart enough to wear gloves. The police hadn’t found a single print.

“Sophie, don’t try to distract me. What does this person look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sophie.” Ted’s brows snapped together. “If someone’s threatening you, that puts this whole museum at risk. Tell me.”

Sophie shook her head. “I would if I could. But I honestly don’t know.” He could be young, old.
He could be any face in any crowd.
He’d stalked his own sister for a year and she hadn’t recognized him. A chill ran down Sophie’s back. She could be looking right at him and not have a clue. “If you want me to leave, I will.”

Ted blew out a breath. “No, I don’t want you to leave. We’ve got four tours scheduled today.” He looked at her with wry affection. “This isn’t an elaborate ploy to get out of being Joan, is it?”

She laughed. “I wish I’d thought of it, but no.”

Ted sobered. “If you’re in danger, scream for us.”

Another chill ran down her back, harder this time, and she felt her smile slide right off her face. “Okay. I will.”

Ted glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, the show must go on. You’re the Viking queen at ten. Better get into makeup.”

Atlanta, Georgia, Friday, January 19, 10:30
A.M.

Frank Loomis met them at the airport. “I’m so sorry to hear about your parents.”

“Thanks, Frank,” Daniel said. Susannah said very little. She looked fragile. After finding out Simon had been stalking her for the past year, both of them were on edge.

“I have to tell you, Daniel, it didn’t take much for word to spread through town that we’re diggin’ up Simon’s grave. Y’all need to prepare to face some reporters.”

Daniel helped Susannah into Frank’s car. “When will they start digging?”

“Sometime after two, most likely.”

Daniel got in the front passenger seat and turned to check on Susannah, only to find her lifting the top off a copy-paper box. “What is it?”

“Your parents’ mail,” Frank answered. “I went by the post office and picked it all up this morning. There are another three boxes in the trunk. I had Wanda do some sorting, so most of the non–junk mail is in that box you have there, Suzie.”

“Thank you.” Susannah swallowed hard. “Welcome home to us.”

Philadelphia, Friday, January 19, 10:45
A.M.

Vito leaned into the sign-in counter. “Miss Savard.”

“Detective.” Pfeiffer’s receptionist looked at Nick with interest. “And this would be?”

“Detective Lawrence,” Nick answered. “Can we talk to Dr. Pfeiffer?”

“He’s with a patient right now, but I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Pfeiffer himself came to the waiting room door. “Detectives.” He led them back to his office and shut the door. “Did you find the person who killed Claire Reynolds?”

“Not yet,” Vito said, “but another one of your patients has come up in the course of our investigation.” They all sat down, Pfeiffer with a sigh.

“I can’t discuss my live patients, Detective. As much as I’d like to help you.”

“We knew that,” Nick said. “We came with a court order so that you could help us.”

Pfeiffer’s brows went up. He held out his hand. “Well, let’s have it.”

Vito felt a strange reluctance to hand it over. “We’re depending on your discretion.”

Pfeiffer just nodded. “I understand the rules of the game, Detective.”

Vito sensed Nick stiffen next to him and knew his instinct was shared. Nevertheless, he had to get the records, so he handed the court order over the desk.

Pfeiffer stared at the names on the court order for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

When he was gone, Nick folded his arms over his chest. “Rules of the game?”

“I know,” Vito said. “When we get back, let’s check him out.”

A minute later Pfeiffer was back. “Here is Mr. Lewis’s file. We took a picture of each patient for the study. I included the photo, as well.”

Vito took the file and flipped it opened and found himself looking at yet a different view of Simon Vartanian. It was a candid photo, taken as Simon sat in Pfeiffer’s waiting room. His jaw was softer, his nose less sharp than in the picture Tino had drawn of Frasier Lewis. He passed the file to Nick.

“You didn’t seem surprised, Doctor,” Vito commented blandly.

“You know how somebody shoots up his family and all the neighbors say, ‘He was so nice. We’re so shocked.’ Well, Frasier wasn’t nice. He had a coldness that made me nervous. Kind of like I’d walked into a cage with a cobra. And that hair is a wig.”

Vito blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. I came back after an exam and his wig had gone askew. I closed the door, then knocked and waited for him to tell me to come in. He’d fixed the wig by then.”

“What color was his hair underneath?” Nick asked.

“He’d shaved his head bald. In fact, Frasier Lewis had no body hair at all.”

“You didn’t think that was odd?” Vito asked.

“Not especially. Frasier was an athlete. Lots of athletes wax their body hair.”

Nick closed the file. “Thank you, Dr. Pfeiffer. We’ll see ourselves out.”

They were in Nick’s car when Vito’s cell began to ring. It was Liz.

“Get back here,” Liz said, excited. “Christmas just came all over again.”

Friday, January 19, 1:35
P.M.

They’d found Van Zandt through an “anonymous” tip. Vito and Nick took some time to get their evidence ducks in a row with Jen before meeting Liz in the interrogation room. They found her studying Van Zandt through the one-way glass.

Vito’s smile had claws as he looked at Van Zandt through the glass. Van Zandt looked annoyed but crisp in his three-piece suit. His attorney was a thin man, who looked just as annoyed, but not nearly as crisp. “I’m looking forward to this.”

One side of Liz’s mouth lifted. “Me, too. The tip was called in to 911 from an untraceable cell. The caller told us we could find Van Zandt at his hotel, gave us the room number, then called back when we’d brought him in, this time to my private line.”

“He was watching to be sure we picked him up,” Nick said. “Simon’s still in Philly.”

“Yep. He sounded just like the voice on the tape. Gave me a damn shiver.”

“What did you say to him?” Vito asked.

“I asked him who he was and he just laughed. Van Zandt’s car was missing from the hotel parking lot when they picked him up. Van Zandt claimed it wasn’t where he’d parked when he went to leave this morning.” She held out a piece of paper. “When Simon called me, he told us where to find Van Zandt’s car, then suggested we look in the trunk and asked me to pass on that message to ‘VZ.’” She punctuated the air. “Normally I wouldn’t play messenger for a killer, but under the circumstances . . .”

Vito already knew what Jen’s CSU team had found in Van Zandt’s trunk, and he and Nick had come heavily armed, so to speak. Vito took the paper Liz offered and laughed grimly. “Van Zandt didn’t know who he was dealing with.”

“Neither does Simon Vartanian,” Liz said, just as grimly. “Get in there and let that arrogant bastard know he’s fucked.”

Van Zandt looked up when Vito and Nick entered the interrogation room. His eyes were cold, his mouth a thin line. He stayed seated and said nothing.

His attorney came to his feet. “I’m Doug Musgrove. You have nothing with which to hold my client. Let him go or I’m filing formal charges against the Philadelphia PD.”

“You do that,” Vito said. “Jager, if this suit is your contracts attorney, you might want to get out the old phone book and hire a criminal defense attorney.”

Van Zandt just glared.

Musgrove bristled. “Arrest him, or let him go,” he said, and Vito shrugged.

“Okay. Jager Van Zandt, you’re under arrest for the murder of Derek Harrington.”

Van Zandt surged to his feet, unholy rage on face. “
What
?” He looked at his attorney. “What the
fuck
is this?”

“Oh, let me finish,” Vito said. “It’s not official if I don’t finish.” He quoted the rest of Miranda, then sat down and stretched out his legs. “I’m done. Your turn to play.”

“I did not kill anybody,” Van Zandt gritted. “Musgrote, get me out of here.”

Musgrote sat down. “They’ve arrested you, Jager. We’ll get you out on bail.”

Jager sneered. “I didn’t kill Derek. You have nothing.”

“We have your car,” Nick said and Van Zandt blinked.

“It was stolen,” he said stiffly. “That was why I was still at my hotel.”

Vito scratched his chin. “Uh-huh. Did you report it stolen?”

“No.”

“Three-month-old Porsche. I’d have reported it the second it was stolen.”

“Well, you know what they say about rich boys and their toys,” Nick drawled.

Van Zandt pounded the table. “I did not kill Derek. I don’t even know where he is.”

“That’s okay. We do,” Vito said. “He’s in the trunk of your Porsche. At least he was. Now he’s in the morgue.”

Van Zandt’s eyes flickered. “He’s dead? He’s really dead?”

“A bullet from a 1943 German Luger between the eyes tends to have that effect.” Nick’s voice was harsh. “The same gun we found hidden with your tire-changing kit. The same gun that killed Zachary Webber.”

“Oh,” Vito added, “and Kyle Lombard and Clint Shafer. Mustn’t forget about them.”

They had the pleasure of seeing Van Zandt pale. “The gun was planted,” he hissed furiously. “And I’ve never even heard of those other two men.”

“Jager, be quiet,” Musgrove said.

Van Zandt shot him a contemptuous glare. “Go get me a criminal attorney. I did not kill Derek or anyone else. I didn’t even know Derek was missing.”

“Of course you could tell the jury you shot him to put him out of his misery,” Nick said, stone-faced. “He’d suffered enough, what with having his feet burned and his intestines ripped out.”

Van Zandt stiffened. “What?”

“And his hands broken and his tongue cut out.” Nick sat down. “Then again, I can’t imagine any jury seeing you as merciful, Mr. Van Zandt.”

Van Zandt’s swallow was the only indication he was affected by the torture of the man he’d once called his friend. “I didn’t do any of those things.”

“The gun was with these,” Vito said. He laid a picture on the table and had the further pleasure of seeing Van Zandt flinch. “That’s Derek Harrington’s car and your chief of security peeking in the window. And that’s your reflection in the window. You were standing behind him.” Vito leaned back in his chair. “You knew Derek was missing yesterday when you gave us his home address.”

“I did not.” Van Zandt spat the words from behind tightly clenched teeth.

“Derek confronted you with pictures of Zachary Webber,” Nick continued, “the boy in your
game
who got shot with a German Luger. You had Derek followed. Then you took him and you killed him and you stuck him in your trunk and left it at a rest stop.”

“You can’t know when that photo was taken,” Musgrove scoffed.

“Ah, but we do. The photographer was quite clever,” Nick said.

Vito slid another photo across the table. “An enlargement of the detail of that bank sign behind Harrington’s car. It gives the temperature, and the time and the date.”

Van Zandt drew his body ramrod straight, but his face was still ashen. “Any ten-year-old with Photoshop could have doctored those photos. They mean nothing.”

Jen thought they’d been doctored, but they weren’t telling Van Zandt.

“Perhaps that’s true, but your secretary already gave you up,” Nick said.

Vito nodded. “Yeah, it’s true. NYPD just got done taking her statement this morning. Faced with charges of obstruction, she admitted you and Harrington quarreled three days ago and that he quit. Then you immediately called in your security guy.”

“Circumstantial,” Musgrote said, but there was doubt in his tone.

Vito lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps. But there’s more. With the gun we also found bank records showing you’d paid money to Zachary Webber and Brittany Bellamy and Warren Keyes.” Vito put pictures of the victims on the table. “You recognize them, don’t you?”