7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  Tino watched him with mild astonishment. “When did you last eat, man?”

  “Breakfast.” A picture flashed in his mind—Sophie Johannsen, her face streaked with tears, offering to share her chocolate milk, beef jerky, and Ho Hos. “Actually, that’s not true. I had some beef jerky an hour or so ago.”

  Tino laughed out loud. “Beef jerky? You? Mr. Picky?”

  “I was hungry.” And taking it from Sophie’s hand had made the snack far more palatable than he would have guessed. She’d nagged at his thoughts all the way home, but now more urgent matters pressed. He lowered his voice. “I tried to call Dino, but his cell went right to voice mail. What happened tonight?”

  Tino leaned forward. “Dino called at about six,” he murmured. “Molly had been having numbness and she just collapsed. They think it was a mild stroke.”

  Stunned, Vito stared. “She’s only thirty-seven.”

  “I know.” Tino leaned in a little closer. “Dino sent Dominic to a neighbor’s with the kids so they wouldn’t see the ambulance take her away, then he called here looking for us, to get us to take the kids. He sounded scared to death. I went over to get them.”

  Vito pushed his plate aside, no longer hungry. “So how is she?”

  “Dad called two hours ago. She’s stable.”

  “And Dad?” Michael Ciccotelli had a very bad heart. This kind of stress wasn’t good.

  “He was ecstatic that Molly was okay and Mom was nagging him to calm down.” Tino studied him for a moment. “So you didn’t make it to the cemetery.”

  “No, but I’m okay. It’s not like last year,” Vito added. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “So you’ve paced your bedroom floor every night for the last week because you’re fine.” He lifted a brow when Vito opened his mouth to protest. “Your bedroom’s right over mine, man. I hear every creak of your floorboards.”

  “I guess it’s only fair then. I hear every ‘Oh Tino.’”

  Tino had the grace to pretend to be embarrassed. “I haven’t had a woman in my bed in weeks, and it doesn’t look like I will again anytime soon. But it’s okay. I had a custom portrait to finish. Thanks to your pacing I’ve finished Mrs. Sorrell’s painting ahead of schedule.” He waggled his brows. “You know the painting I mean.”

  “I know,” Vito said dryly. The woman had contracted Tino to paint her portrait from a boudoir photo as a gift for her husband. “The one with the really nice—” He heard a rustle in the living room. “Sweaters,” he finished firmly and Tino grinned.

  “Hey, I’m just glad I finished before the boys came over today. That job was decidedly . . . M for mature. Mr. Sorrell’s a lucky man.”

  Vito shook his head, mostly to clear the image of Sophie Johannsen in her snug sweater that had popped up in his mind. “Tino, you’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days, painting naughty pictures of other men’s wives.”

  Tino laughed. “Dante’s right, you really are too tight. Mrs. Sorrell has a sister.”

  Vito shook his head again. “No thanks.”

  Tino sobered abruptly. “It’s been two years since Andrea died,” he said gently.

  Since Andrea died was far too sanitized a phrase, but Vito didn’t have the energy to argue the point tonight. “I know how long it’s been. Down to the minute.”

  Tino was quiet for a long moment. “Then you know you’ve paid long enough.”

  Vito looked at him. “How long is long enough, Tino?”

  “To grieve? I don’t know. But to blame yourself . . . Five minutes was too long. Let it go, Vito. It happened. It was an accident. But you’re not gonna accept that until you’re ready. I just hope you’re ready soon or you’ll end up a lonely man.”

  Vito had nothing to say to that and Tino got up and pulled a plate from the fridge. “I saved you a piece of the boys’ cake. I supervised the baking, so it’s safe to eat.”

  Vito frowned at the plate. “It’s all frosting. Where’s the cake?”

  Tino’s lips twitched. “Not much of the batter made it into the pan.” He shrugged. “When they got here, they were scared about Molly. I figured what was the harm?”

  Startled when his eyes stung, Vito dropped his eyes to the cake, concentrating on peeling off the plastic wrap. He cleared his throat. “That was nice of you, Tino.”

  Tino shrugged again, embarrassed by the praise. “They’re our kids. Family.”

  Vito thought about Sophie’s praise, sincere and unaffected. He hadn’t felt embarrassed. He’d felt warm and more comfortable than he’d felt in a very long time. From the corner of his eye he saw Tino rise.

  “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, all the way around.”

  Suddenly the need to speak hit him like a club. Keeping his gaze locked on the frosting-covered plate, he pushed the words out. “I met someone today.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Tino sit back down. “Oh? Another cop?”

  No. No more cops. Not in a million years. “No. An archeologist.”

  Now Tino blinked. “An archeologist? Like . . . as in Indiana Jones?”

  Vito had to chuckle at the mental picture of Sophie Johannsen slashing through the jungle in a dusty fedora. “No. More like . . .” He realized a swift comparison was not easily conjured. “She dug up castles in France. She knows ten languages.” Three of them deader than the body you just left. She’d been ashamed at her insensitivity. She’d more than made up for it later. So what had happened in those last few moments?

  “So she has a brain. Does she have any other interesting features?”

  “She’s nearly six feet tall. Angelina lips. Blond hair down to her butt.”

  “I think I’m in love already,” Tino teased. “And her . . . sweaters?”

  A slow smile curved his lips. “Very, very nice.” Then he sobered. “And so is she.”

  “Interesting timing,” Tino said blandly. “I mean, you meeting her today of all days.”

  Vito looked away. “I was worried I was only interested just because it’s today. I’d convinced myself that today wasn’t the day to make a fast move. That it could be wistfulness or rebound or something.”

  “Vito, after two years, it’s not rebound in anybody’s dictionary.”

  Vito shrugged. “I told myself I’d come back in a few weeks and see if I felt the same. But then . . .” He shook his head.

  “Then?”

  Vito sighed. “But then I walked her to the parking lot. Damn, Tino, she rides a bike. Beemer, zero to a hundred in under ten.”

  Tino puckered his lips. “Stacked girl on a fast bike. Now I know I’m in love.”

  “It was a stupid reason to jump the gun,” Vito said, disgusted.

  Tino’s eyes widened. “So you asked her out? That is interesting.”

  Vito frowned. “I tried, but I don’t think I did it very well.”

  “Turned you down cold, huh?”

  “Yeah. Then took off on her bike like a bat out of hell.”

  Tino leaned across the table and sniffed, grimacing. “It could be your unique cologne. That must have been some graveyard.”

  “It was. And I get to go back tomorrow for round two.”

  Tino put the plates in the sink. “Then you should get some sleep.”

  “I will.” But he made no move to rise. “In a bit. I need to chill a little first. Thanks for nuking dinner.”

  When Tino was gone, Vito rested his head against the wall behind him, closed his eyes, and in his mind went over those last few moments with Sophie. He wasn’t that rusty at asking a woman to dinner, and frankly he’d never been turned down before. Not like that. He had to admit it had pierced his ego some.

  It would be easier to dismiss it as womanly whim, except Sophie didn’t seem like the type to change her mood with the wind. She seemed too sensible for that. So something had changed. Maybe something he did or said . . . But he was too tired to work through it anymore tonight. Tomorrow he’d just go ask her. That was wiser than trying to gues
s the mind of a woman, no matter how sensible she seemed.

  He’d gotten up to turn out the lights when he heard the noise, little and snuffling, and coming from the lump in Pierce’s sleeping bag. Vito’s heart squeezed. They were just babies, really. And they must have been so scared, seeing their mom collapse like that. He hunkered down by Pierce’s sleeping bag and ran his hand over the boy’s back.

  Vito peeled the bag to reveal Pierce’s tear-streaked face. “You scared?”

  Pierce shook his head hard, but Vito waited and ten seconds later he was nodding.

  Connor sat up. “He’s just a kid. You know how kids are.”

  Vito nodded sagely, noticing Connor’s eyes were a little puffy as well. “I know. Is Dante awake, too?” He pulled Dante’s bag back far enough to peek and Dante blinked up at him. “So nobody’s sleeping, huh? What would help? Warm milk?”

  Connor made a face. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s what they always do on TV.” He sat down on the floor between Pierce and Dante. “So what would help, ’cause I can’t stay awake all night with you. I have to work in a few hours, and I won’t be able to sleep if the three of you are wide awake. Eventually you’d start fighting and wake me up. So how do we resolve this?”

  “Mom sings,” Dante mumbled. “To Pierce.”

  Pierce gave Vito a yeah-right look. “To all of us.”

  Molly had a nice soprano, pure and perfect for lullabies. “What does she sing?”

  “The fourteen angels song,” Connor said quietly and Vito knew the song was more than a lullaby—it would be like having Molly here with them.

  “From Hansel and Gretel.” It had always been one of his favorite operas, his grandfather’s, too. “Well, I’m not your mom, but everybody get settled and I’ll do my best.” He waited until they were all snuggled. “Grandpa Chick used to sing the fourteen angels song to me and your dad when we were your age,” he murmured, one hand on Dante’s back and one on Pierce’s. And singing it brought back sweet memories of the grandfather he had so loved, who’d fostered his love of all kinds of music from an early age.

  When at night I go to sleep, Fourteen angels watch do keep;

  Two my head are guarding, Two my feet are guiding;

  Two are on my right hand, Two are on my left hand,

  Two who warmly cover, Two who o’er me hover,

  Two to whom ’tis given To guide my steps to heaven.

  “You sing it pretty,” Pierce whispered when he’d sung the first verse.

  Vito smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered back.

  “He sang at Aunt Tess’s wedding and at your christening,” Connor whispered. He swallowed. “Mom cried.”

  “It wasn’t all that bad,” Vito teased and was relieved to see Connor’s lips curve a little. “I bet your mom’s thinking about you right now. She’d want you to sleep.” He sang the second verse more quietly because Dante was already asleep. By the time he finished, Connor was, too. That left Pierce, who looked so little in that big sleeping bag. Vito sighed. “You want to bunk with me?”

  Pierce’s nod was quick. “I don’t kick. Or hog the covers. I promise.”

  Vito pulled him into his arms, bag and all. “Or wet the bed?”

  Pierce hesitated. “Not recently.”

  Vito laughed. “Good to know.”

  Monday, January 15, 7:45 A.M.

  The ringing of the phone next to his bed yanked Greg Sanders out of a sound whiskey-induced sleep. Groggy, he missed his ear on his first two attempts. “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Sanders.” The voice was calmly menacing. “Do you know who this is?”

  Greg rolled to his back, suppressing a moan when the room spun wildly. Goddamn hangovers. But he’d avoided this as long as he could. It was time to pay the devil his due. Greg didn’t want to think about what that “due” would be, but he was certain it would involve a great deal of pain. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. “Yeah.”

  “You’ve been avoiding us, Mr. Sanders.”

  Greg tried to sit up, leaning his spinning head against the wall. “I’m sorry. I . . .”

  “You what?” The voice now mocked him. “You have our money?”

  “No. Not all of it, anyway.”

  “That’s not good, Mr. Sanders.”

  Greg pressed his fingers to his throbbing temple, desperation making his pulse race faster. “Wait. Look, I have a job. Tomorrow. Pays five hundred. I’ll give it all to you.”

  “Please, Mr. Sanders. That would be like pissing into a forest fire. Much too little, much too late. We want our money by this evening at five o’clock. We don’t care what you have to do to get it. All of it. Or you won’t be pissing anywhere because you won’t have, shall we say, the necessary equipment? Do you understand?”

  Greg’s stomach roiled. He nodded, nauseated. “Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Have a nice day, Mr. Sanders.”

  Greg slumped into the pillow, then reared back and hurled the telephone at the wall. Plaster flew and the ringer clanged and glass shattered as a picture fell to the floor.

  The bedroom door burst open. “What the hell?”

  Greg groaned into his pillow. “Go away.” But he was yanked to his back and flinched when a palm connected with his cheek. Greg’s head felt like it had exploded. By five o’clock today I’ll wish it had, he thought.

  “Open your eyes, you bastard.”

  Blearily Greg obeyed. Jill was glaring down at him, one hand clutching his T-shirt and the other upraised, palm flat.

  “Don’t hit me again.” It came out very nearly a whimper.

  “You . . .” Jill shook her head in bewildered indignation. “I let you stay here against my better judgment and only because I once had the stupidity to love you. But you’re not the man you were. That was him, wasn’t it? The guy with the creepy voice that keeps calling for you. You owe him money, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” He hissed out the word. “I owe him money. I owe you money. I owe my parents money.” He closed his eyes. “I owe the credit card companies and the bank.”

  “You were somebody.” She released his shirt with a shove of disgust that set the room spinning again. “Now you’re just a dirty drunk. You haven’t worked in a year.”

  He covered his eyes with his hands. “So my agent tells me.”

  “Don’t you get smart with me. You had a career. Dammit, Greg, your face made it into nearly every living room in this city. But you gambled it all away.”

  “And this was your life, Greg Sanders,” he sneered.

  Jill exhaled on what sounded like a sob and he opened his eyes to find tears in hers. “They’re going to break your legs, Greg,” she whispered.

  “That’s only in the movies. In real life, they do a lot worse than that.”

  She took a step back. “Well, I’m not picking up the pieces this time and I don’t want any more damage to my place.” She turned and walked away, pausing at the door. “I want you out of here by Friday, understand?” Then she was gone.

  I should be angry, Greg thought. But he wasn’t. She was right. I had it all and pissed it away. I have to get it back. I have to pay that debt and start over. He didn’t have a penny, but he still had his face. It had earned him a decent living once before. It would do so again.

  With care he climbed from the bed and slid into the chair in front of his computer. By tomorrow he’d have five hundred dollars. But that was barely a tenth of the principal he owed. When he added in the interest . . . He needed more money and fast. But how? From whom? Mechanically he clicked on his e-mail, then with a frown opened the message from E. Munch.

  At least the job hadn’t been canceled, just moved a few hours. I can hide until then. But why was he even bothering? Five hundred really was like pissing on a forest fire. He’d do better to run to Canada, dye his hair, and change his name.

  Or . . . another idea came to mind. Munch was prepared to pay five bills, cash, and his first e-mail said he had ten roles to fill. Even
hung over, Greg could do that math. Munch’s profile said he’d worked in film for more than forty years. He’d be old. Old people hid money all kinds of places. Old people could be dealt with, easily.

  No. He couldn’t do that. Then he thought about the threat to his . . . equipment. Yeah, he could. And if Munch didn’t have all the cash . . . well, he’d cross that bridge when he got there.

  Chapter Six

  Monday, January 15, 8:15 A.M.

  Lieutenant Liz Sawyer sat at her desk staring at the map of the four-by-four matrix of graves, her brow crunched into frown lines. “This is unbelievable.”

  “We know,” Vito said. “But the archeologist says we have nine bodies buried in that field. She’s been right on every one so far.”

  Liz looked up. “You’ve confirmed these seven are empty?”

  “Empty, but covered with plywood, just like Sophie said,” Nick replied.

  “So what’s our status?”

  “Three bodies in the morgue,” Vito said. “The Lady, the Knight, and the guy that’s missing half his head. The fourth body is in transit. Jen’s working on the fifth.”

  Nick went on. “The fourth body is male, older. The first three look like they may have been in their twenties. This guy might be in his sixties. No obvious anomalies.”

  “No posed hands, missing entrails, or dismembered arms?” Liz asked sarcastically.

  Vito shook his head. “The fourth body appeared to be a garden-variety victim.”

  Liz sat back, her chair creaking. “So what are our next steps?”

  “We’re going to the morgue,” Nick said. “Katherine promised to give us priority and we need to identify these people. When we start getting names we might see a pattern.”

  “Jen has the lab analyzing the soil,” Vito added. “She’s hoping to find out where it came from. The lab will sift through all the fill dirt to see if they can find anything to point to the perp, but it doesn’t look like he left anything behind.”

  Liz looked down at the map. “Why the empty graves? I mean, we could guess he’s not finished yet with whatever this scheme is, but why leave these two empty?” She pointed to the two graves on the far end of the second row. “He’s filled the entire first row, then the first two on the second row. Then he skips down to the third row.”