7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 9:40 P.M.

  Daniel Vartanian sat on his hotel bed, rubbing his brow behind which the beginnings of a migraine lurked. “That’s the situation,” he finished and waited for his boss to speak.

  Chase Wharton sighed. “You have one fucked-up family. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Believe me, I know. Well, can I have the leave?”

  “Are you sure they’re really traveling? Why all the lies?”

  “My parents keep up appearances, no matter what.” His parents had covered up many family secrets to preserve the family’s “good name.” If people only knew. “That they didn’t want anyone to know about my mother’s illness is par for the course.”

  “But it’s cancer, Daniel, not some awful secret like pedophilia or something.”

  Or something, Daniel thought. “Cancer would be enough to start tongues wagging. My father wouldn’t tolerate that, especially since he’d just agreed to run for Congress.”

  “You never said your father was a politician.”

  “My father was a politician from the day he was born,” Daniel said bitterly. “He just did it from the bench. But I didn’t know he was running. Apparently he’d just agreed to run before he went away.” This he’d heard from Tawny Howard who’d taken his and Frank’s dinner order. Tawny had heard it from the secretary of Carl Sargent, the man his father had visited the last time he’d been in town. “I’m sure he views my mother’s cancer as fodder for the opposition. My mother will go along with whatever he says.”

  Chase was silent and Daniel could imagine his worried expression.

  “Chase, I just want to find my folks. My mother’s sick. I . . .” Daniel blew out a breath. “I need to see her. I have something to tell her and I don’t want her to die before I can. We had an argument and I said some harsh things.” He’d actually said them to his father, but the feelings of anger and disgust . . . and shame . . . they’d extended to include his mother as well.

  “Were you wrong?” Chase asked quietly.

  “No. But . . . I shouldn’t have let so many years pass with this between us.”

  “Take your leave then. But the minute you suspect anything other than an ordinary vacation, you back off and we’ll set up a proper investigation. I don’t want my ass fried because a retired judge is missing and I didn’t follow procedure.” Chase hesitated. “Be careful, Daniel. And I’m sorry about your mom.”

  “Thanks.” Daniel wasn’t sure where to begin, but was certain clues resided in his father’s computer. Tomorrow a pal from the GBI was coming to help him sort through his father’s computer records. Daniel only hoped he could deal with what he found.

  New York City, Sunday, January 14, 10:00 P.M.

  From his chair in the darkness of their hotel suite’s sitting room, Derek watched Jager stumble through the door. “You’re drunk,” Derek said with disgust.

  Jager jerked upright. “Goddamn it, Derek. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Then we’re even,” Derek said bitterly. “Just what the hell was that all about?”

  “What?” The word was uttered with contempt and Derek felt his temper boil higher.

  “You know what. Who the hell gave you the right to make Lewis the art director?”

  “It’s just a title, Derek.” Jager shot him a scathing look as he yanked his tie from his collar. “If you’d been in the bar celebrating with us instead of up here in the dark, sulking like a little boy, you would have heard the news firsthand. We got a booth at Pinnacle.”

  “Pinnacle?” Pinnacle, the game convention of the year. On the planet. This was huge. Pinnacle was to game designers what Cannes was to filmmakers. The premier event to see and be seen. To have your art admired by the entire industry. Gamers would stand in line for days for a ticket. Booths were awarded by invitation only. Pinnacle was . . . the pinnacle. He let out a slow breath, hardly daring to believe it was true. Only in his wildest dreams . . . “You’re kidding.”

  Jager laughed, but it was an ugly sound. “I would never kid about something like that.” He walked to the sideboard and poured himself another drink.

  “Jager, you’ve had enough,” Derek started, but Jager flashed him a furious glare.

  “Shut up. Just shut up. I’m so fucking tired of you and your ‘don’t do this’ and ‘don’t do that.’” He tossed back a swallow. “We’re going to Pinnacle because I took a risk. Because I had the balls to push the envelope. Because I have what it takes to succeed.”

  Derek cocked his jaw, coldly furious at what had been left unsaid. “And I don’t.”

  Jager spread his arms wide. “You said it.” He looked away. “Partner,” he muttered.

  “I am, you know,” Derek said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Your partner.”

  “Then start acting like one,” Jager said flatly. “And stop acting like some religious fanatic. Frasier Lewis’s art is entertainment, Derek. Period.”

  Derek shook his head as Jager headed toward his room. “It’s indecent. Period.”

  Jager stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “It’s what sells.”

  “It’s not right, Jager.”

  “I don’t see you refusing any paychecks. You act morally repulsed by the violence, but you’re in it for the money as much as I am. And if you’re not, you need to get out.”

  “Is that a threat?” Derek asked quietly.

  “No. It’s reality. Just contact Frasier and tell him to speed up the fight scenes he’s been promising me for a month. I want them by nine Tuesday morning. I need the fight scenes from Inquisitor to show at Pinnacle so he needs to light a fire under his ass.”

  Stunned, Derek could only stare. “You already gave him the new game.”

  Jager turned, his eyes cold. “It’s an entertainment venture,” he said between his teeth, “and yes, I gave Frasier the design for Inquisitor months ago. If I left it to you, we’d end up with the same sorry washed-out graphics we’ve had for years. He’s been researching and working the design for months while you’ve been sitting on your ass, doodling cartoons.” The last was uttered with contempt. “Face it, Derek, I’ve moved oRo to the next level. Keep up or get out.” He shut the door with a snap.

  Derek stood motionless for a long time, staring at the door. Keep up or get out. Get out. He couldn’t just get out. Where would he go? He’d put all his talent, all his heart into oRo. He couldn’t just walk away. He needed his salary. His daughter’s college tuition wasn’t cheap. I am a hypocrite. He’d disagreed so vehemently with using Frasier Lewis’s scenes because the killings were so chillingly real. But Jager was right. I take the money. I like the money.

  He needed to make a choice. If he planned to continue at oRo, he needed to come to terms with his distaste for Frasier Lewis’s “art.” Either I’m morally opposed or I’m not.

  He sighed. Or he needed to decide if Jager had been telling him the truth, hard as it would be to accept. The same sorry washed-out look. That hurt. Am I jealous? Is Lewis the better artist? If so, could he accept that, and, more important, could he work with him?

  Derek got up and paced the length of the room, stopping at the bar. He poured himself a drink, then sat back down in the dark to consider his options.

  Chapter Four

  Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 10:30 P.M.

  Vito watched as Katherine wheeled away another body in a bag, the third they’d recovered so far. He’d been male, about the same age as the “Knight” as the first man had been dubbed. The name was inevitable once word had spread among the team that the archeologist said the victim’s hands had been posed to hold a sword. The woman they’d uncovered that morning had become the “Lady.”

  He wondered what they would call this last victim. The third victim had lain with his arms at his sides. Well, kind of. One arm lay straight, but the other was mangled at the shoulder, barely attached at the joint and rotated so that the palm faced outward. The man’s head was in worse sh
ape. What little that remained was unrecognizable.

  “It’s late,” Vito said. “We’ve got uniforms on guard duty. I say we call it a night.”

  “So, we meet back here tomorrow at first light?” Nick asked.

  Vito nodded. “Then we begin to ID the victims. Katherine should have the initial exams done by morning. The autopsies could take days.”

  Jen looked around. “Where is Sophie?”

  Vito pointed to his truck where Johannsen sat sideways on the passenger side, her door wide open. She’d been there for about a half hour. He’d worried she’d freeze, then tried to put her out of his mind, figuring she’d have shut the door if she got too cold. But he’d been unsuccessful in pushing her out of his thoughts or his sight. He’d watched her as they’d worked. Seeing the Knight had rocked her. Still she’d worked steadily.

  But something else had happened. When Katherine had zipped the body bag shut, Sophie looked like she’d seen a ghost. Whatever memory the body had triggered, it had been substantial enough to send Katherine to her side. And the two had exchanged angry words, that much had been crystal clear.

  From then on, he’d watched her even more closely. It was simple curiosity, he told himself. Or perhaps nosiness was more accurate, as Katherine claimed. He wanted to know what had happened, both today and on whatever day she’d been remembering.

  But he probably would never find out. He’d take her back and that would be that. Still, the sight of her sitting in his truck tugged at him. She sat with her knees up under her coat, much as she had earlier in the day. She looked young and very much alone.

  “Are we finished with her?” Vito asked.

  Jen nodded, looking at the printout of Sophie’s scan. “She did an incredible job.” Stakes and flags were arranged in four rows of four plots, every plot the same exact size, rows and columns spaced with military precision. “We just have to start digging.”

  When Vito got close to the truck he noticed she’d loaded and secured the two big cases into the truck bed, all by herself. They’d been heavy when he’d done it earlier. She must have some muscle under her field jacket. He thought about how she’d felt those few seconds she’d leaned against him and wondered what else he’d find under her jacket, but again, he’d probably never find out.

  When Vito got close to Sophie, his heart squeezed. Tears slid down her cheeks in a steady flow as she stared at the field with its stakes and flags. She’d seen things that rocked most seasoned cops. But she’d stayed the course. He respected that.

  He cleared his throat and she turned her head to look at him. She wiped at her cheeks with her sleeve but made no attempt to hide the tears or apologize for them. Vito respected that, too. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded and drew a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

  “You did good today.”

  She sniffled. “Jen showed you the scan?”

  “Yes. Thank you. It’s very thorough and very well done. But that’s not what I meant. You held up under terribly stressful conditions. Most people wouldn’t have.”

  Her lips trembled and her eyes filled anew. She swallowed hard as she turned her back to stare at the field, visibly fighting for composure. Patiently he waited and when she spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper. “When Katherine called me today, I had no idea it would be like this. Nine people. My God. It’s unreal.”

  “You marked seven of the plots as empty. Are you sure?”

  She nodded, her tears slowing. “The seven empty ones are air pockets. But every one of them is covered with something thick and solid. Probably wood.” She looked at him, her eyes filled with horror and pain. “My God, Vito. He planned to kill seven more.”

  “I know.” The scan had given them not only the lay of the land, but insight into the mind of a killer. Vito knew the insight would be valuable when he’d had enough sleep to consider it. “I’m beat,” he said. “You must be, too. Let me take you home.”

  She shook her head. “I have to take the equipment back to the university and get my bike. Besides, you must have plans of your own tonight. A family to get home to.”

  He thought of the roses, wilted now. He’d buy another bouquet and go to the cemetery next week. It wasn’t like Andrea would care one way or another. The flowers and the visit, he knew, were really for himself. “I don’t have plans.” He hesitated, then let the words come. “Or anyone waiting for me.”

  Their eyes held and he could see she’d taken his words the way he’d meant them. He watched her throat work as she tried to swallow. “Well, then I’m ready to go when you are.” She was buckling herself in when he slid behind the wheel, then dug into a pocket and pulled out what, in the shadow of the cab, looked like a cigar. “Want one?”

  He started the engine with a frown. “I don’t smoke.”

  “I don’t either,” she said glumly. “Anymore, anyway. But you’d have trouble lighting this. It’s beef jerky. Good field food. Doesn’t spoil. And surprisingly, overrides the taste that’s been in my mouth all day.” She shrugged. “Temporarily, anyway.”

  He took one of the sticks. “Thanks.”

  As he munched, she dug into her pocket again, this time pulling out a drink box, like his nephews packed in their lunchboxes. He glanced over and made a face when the letters on the label registered. “Chocolate milk? With beef jerky?”

  She stabbed the box with a little straw. “Calcium’s good for the bones. Want one?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “That’s gross, Dr. Johannsen.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it.” She paused deliberately. “Vito.” She stared out the window as she sipped. When she was done, she put the box in a baggie, sealed it, and put it back in her pocket.

  “So your field jacket serves as a trash receptacle, too?”

  She glanced at him, embarrassed. “Habit. Can’t be leaving litter around the dig.”

  “So what other foodstuffs do you keep in your pockets?”

  “A couple of Ho Hos, but they’re a little squashed. They still taste good, though.”

  “You like chocolate, I take it.”

  “Duh.” She looked wary. “Don’t tell me you don’t. I was just starting to like you.”

  He laughed and the sound surprised him. He hadn’t thought he had enough energy left to laugh. “I can take it or leave it. But my brother Tino, he’s an addict. Milk, dark, white, chocolate chips to Easter bunnies, Tino inhales it.”

  She was smiling at him and once again he found himself mesmerized. Even with eyes red from crying, she drew him. “You have a brother named Tino? Really?”

  He forced himself to focus on driving. “I have three brothers, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

  Her eyes were laughing even as she firmed her mouth sternly. “I promise.”

  “My older brother is Dino and my two younger brothers are Tino and Gino. Our sister is Contessa Maria Teresa, but we just call her Tess. She lives in Chicago.”

  Her lips twitched. “I’m not laughing. I’m not even going to make any Mafia jokes.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly. “What about you? Any family in the area?”

  She went still and he knew he’d touched a nerve. “Just my grandmother and my uncle Harry. And my aunt Freya, of course.” She’d added her aunt almost in afterthought. “And a few assorted cousins, but we’ve never been close.” She smiled again, but it was wistful. “Sounds like your family is. Close, that is. That’s nice.”

  She sounded lost and once again his heart squeezed. “It is nice, although at times it’s very noisy. My family’s in and out of my house like Grand Central Station. Tino actually rents the apartment in my basement, so he’s a permanent fixture. There are some times I pray for silence.“

  “I think if you truly had silence, you’d wish for noise,” she murmured.

  He stole another look at her. Even in the darkness of the cab he could see the weary loneliness on her face, but before he could say a word she straightened her spine and dug into he
r pockets for more beef jerky.

  “How long before I don’t taste . . . that anymore?” she asked.

  “Hopefully in a few hours. Maybe by tomorrow.”

  “You want another one?”

  He grimaced. “No thanks. You wouldn’t happen to have a burger or fries in one of those pockets, would you?” he added lightly and was relieved when she smiled at him.

  “Nope. But I do have a cell phone, a camera, a compass, a box of paintbrushes, a ruler, two emergency flares, a flashlight, and . . . a box of matches. I can survive anywhere.”

  He found himself chuckling. “It’s a wonder you could walk. Your coat must weigh fifty pounds.”

  “Close. I’ve had this coat for a lot of years. I hope I can get it clean.” Her smile faded and the haunted look returned. “L’odeur de la mort,” she said quietly. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but no words came, so he said nothing at all.

  Sunday, January 14, 11:15 P.M.

  Vito stopped his truck in front of the funky ape sculpture. “Dr. Johannsen.” He gently shook her shoulder. “Sophie.”

  She woke with a jerk and in her eyes he saw an instant of disoriented fear before she realized where she was. “I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t. I wish I could have.”

  Shaking herself to full attention, she was out of his truck before he could come around to help her. But her shoulders sagged. He took the two small cases from behind her seat. “You go on up and open the door. I’ll carry these.”

  “Normally I carry my own gear, but tonight I’ll say thank you.” He followed her up to the door, remembering earlier this afternoon, the long look they’d shared. Her hands faltered as she unlocked the front door and he hoped she was remembering it, too. But she opened the door without mishap this time and flipped on a light switch. “You can leave the cases there. I can get them downstairs myself.”

  “Just show me where to put them, Sophie,” he said. “And I’ll go get the other two.”

  There was a fine line between independence and stubbornness, Vito thought as he went back to his truck for the two big cases. It seemed Sophie Johannsen walked the sensible side, although he suspected it was only out of sheer exhaustion. She’d allowed him to take the small cases to a basement storeroom, but was adamant that she had to clean the equipment tonight.