7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

Nick flashed her a look of relief. “Dr. Johannsen.”

  Patty Ann’s look was decidedly more threatening as she arched an overplucked eyebrow. “They’re detectives, Sophie,” she said and Sophie swallowed her sigh. Patty Ann had apparently decided to be British today. The proper blue suit now made more sense. “Homicide detectives,” she added menacingly. “They want to question you.”

  Nick shook his head. “We’d just like to talk with you, Dr. Johannsen.”

  Because he wasn’t a rat, she gave him a smile. “I was about to get lunch. I can give you thirty minutes.”

  Vito held the door open for her. He hadn’t said a word, but that probing gaze of his hadn’t left her face either. She gave him a glance that she hoped was as menacing as Patty Ann’s had been to her. He frowned, so she considered herself successful.

  The air outside felt wonderful against her skin. “If we could make this quick, I’d appreciate it. Ted has another tour scheduled and I have to get dressed.” She stopped at the end of the sidewalk. “So shoot.”

  Vito looked up and down the street. It was midday, and both car and foot traffic was heavy. “Can we go someplace a bit more private?” The frown on his face had made it into his voice. “We don’t want to be overheard.”

  “How about my car?” Nick asked smoothly and led the way, then held open the front passenger door. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea by making you sit in the back,” he said with an easy smile, then quickly slid in the back seat. She watched Vito aim a dirty glare Nick’s way before taking the driver’s seat next to her. Nick simply raised a brow in response and Sophie knew she was being manipulated.

  Annoyed, she grabbed the door handle. “Gentlemen, I don’t have time for games.”

  Vito clasped her shoulder, his hand gentle but firm as he held her in place. “This is no game,” he said grimly. “Please, Sophie.”

  Reluctantly she let go of the handle and Vito let go of her. “What’s this about?”

  “First of all, we wanted to thank you for your help yesterday,” Nick said. “But studying the bodies we’ve recovered so far has raised more questions.” He leaned one shoulder against the back of the driver’s seat and dropped his voice. “We found a strange pattern of punctures on one of our victims. Katherine believes they were caused by nails or some kind of sharp spikes. The punctures start at the neck and stretch down the back of her body to the middle of her calf. There are similar punctures down the back of her arms. We think the victim was forced to sit on a chair of nails.”

  She shook her head in reflexive denial. “You’re joking, right? Please say you’re joking.” But the memory of the dead man’s face, posed hands, and disemboweled body pushed the denial from her mind. “You’re serious.”

  Vito nodded once. “Very.”

  A shiver shook her. “The inquisitional chair,” she said quietly.

  “Nick found a photo on a museum website,” Vito said. “So the chairs did exist.”

  She nodded, her imagination painting horrific pictures. “Oh yes, they existed.”

  “Tell us about them,” Vito said. “Please.”

  She drew a deep breath, hoping her stomach would calm. “Let’s see . . . Well, first, the chair was one of many tools used by inquisitors.”

  “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Nick murmured grimly.

  “The Spanish Inquisition is the one that most people are familiar with, but there were several inquisitions.” It was easier to lecture than to think about the victims. “The first was the Medieval Inquisition. The chair existed during the later Spanish period and may have existed in the Medieval, but its use is a topic of debate among historians. If it was used, it wasn’t used as often as most of the other torture methods or devices.”

  Nick looked up from the notes he’d been scratching in his notebook. “Why not?”

  “According to original accounts, the inquisitors got a lot of benefit just by showing the chair to the accused. It’s a terrifying sight, more terrifying in person than the picture.”

  “You’ve seen one?” Nick asked.

  “Where?” Vito added when she nodded.

  “In museums. There are several in Europe with good examples.”

  “So, where would someone get an inquisitional chair today?” Vito pressed.

  “It wouldn’t be that hard to make a simple one, if someone really wanted to. Of course there were more sophisticated models, even in the Middle Ages. Most of the chairs had simple restraints, but some had cranks that could tighten the restraints, forcing the nails deeper. And . . .” She sighed. “Some had metal sheeting that could be heated, burning the accused’s skin as well as puncturing it.” Vito and Nick exchanged a look and she lifted her hand to her mouth, horrified. “No.”

  “Where would someone get such a chair?” Vito repeated. “Please, Sophie.”

  The reality of their request began to sink in and a sense of panic began to crowd the horror. They were depending on her knowledge to find a killer and suddenly she felt totally inadequate. “Look, guys, my specialty is medieval fortifications and strategic warfare. My knowledge of inquisitional hardware is very basic at best. Why don’t I call an expert? Dr. Fournier at the Sorbonne is world renowned.”

  Both men shook their heads. “Maybe,” Vito said, “if we absolutely have to, but we want to keep this limited to as few people as possible. Your basic knowledge may be enough for now.” He fixed his eyes on hers, and the tumult inside her began to calm. “Just tell us what you know.”

  She nodded, forcing her brain to think beyond the rote knowledge they could get off any website. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Okay. Let me think. He either made his instruments, or he obtained them already made. If they were already made, they could be crude copies all the way up to original artifacts. What are you thinking?”

  “We don’t know,” Nick said. “Keep talking.”

  “How even was the pattern of nail punctures?”

  “Damn even,” Vito said grimly.

  “So he’s careful. If he made them, he’d pay attention to detail. Maybe he’d want drawings or even blueprints.”

  Nick looked as revolted as she felt. “There are blueprints?”

  Vito leaned forward, his brows crunched. “Where would he get these blueprints?”

  He was so close that the scent of his aftershave tickled her nose and she could see the thick black lashes that rimmed his eyes. Then his eyes narrowed, his gaze growing more intense and she realized she’d leaned toward him, drawn like a moth to a flame. Embarrassed and disgusted with herself, she jerked backward, putting more space between them. “You said to keep talking. I never promised to say anything worthwhile.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vito murmured, leaning back. “Where would he find blueprints?”

  Sophie made herself breathe. “On the Internet, maybe. I’ve never looked. The museums with the chairs might have documented the design somehow. Or . . . I suppose he could have used the old texts. There are a few journals kept by inquisitors. They might have drawings. He’d need access to the old texts, though.”

  “And he’d get this access how?” Nick asked.

  “Rare book collections. And he’d have to be able to read them. Most were written in medieval Latin. A few in Old French or Occitan.”

  Nick noted them on his pad. “You can read these languages?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nick muttered.

  Vito still watched her, more intensely than before. “And if he bought them?”

  “If he bought them, he either bought copies or real artifacts. You see copies of armor and other weapons for sale on re-creationist websites all the time. Medieval festivals often have booths where weapons of varying quality are sold. Some are handmade and others are mass manufactured, but all are copies.”

  “What kind of weapons?” Nick asked.

  “Daggers, swords. Flails and axes. But I’ve never seen torture weapons sold. Now if they were authentic artifacts . . .
” She shrugged. “You’d be talking private collectors.”

  Nick nodded. “What do you know about them?”

  “Like with everything else there are good and bad ones. Legitimate collectors purchase their artifacts privately from other collectors or from auction houses like Christie’s. Sometimes ‘new’ old stuff appears on the legitimate market, but that’s rare.”

  “Like?” Nick prompted.

  “Like the Dordogne swords. In 1977, six fifteenth-century swords that had been previously unknown came up for auction at Christie’s. Turns out they came from a rare find—eighty fifteenth-century swords were discovered at the bottom of the Dordogne River in France in the mid-1970s. They’d been on a barge headed for troops fighting the Hundred Years’ War. The barge sank and the swords lay buried for five hundred years. But that kind of find is very rare. Normally, catalogued artifacts change hands. Most of our exhibits come from the private collection of Theodore Albright the First.”

  Nick frowned. “The father of the guy we talked to in there?”

  “Grandfather. Ted the First was one of the more famous archeologists of the twentieth century. He got a lot of his items from other collectors, but . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “Ted the First was digging in the teens and early twenties. Nobody knows for sure, but I’d bet some of the items in his collection are artifacts he uncovered on his digs. If it could be proven, the Albrights might be forced to give them back.”

  Nick nodded again. “So he wasn’t always a legitimate collector.”

  “No, Albright the First was a good guy. See, that’s how it was done back then. You came, you saw, you dug, you carted home your loot. Reality is, museums have artifacts because someone brought them home . . . back then.”

  “And now?” Nick prodded.

  “Today, most governments have seriously cracked down on artifacts being removed from their countries. It’s considered theft and they prosecute.”

  “So now they go through the black market,” Vito said.

  “There’s always been a black market. It’s just that the prices have been going up since the crackdowns started. I’ve heard of private collectors buying art and pottery and documents. Roman mosaic floors, even. But not instruments of torture.”

  “But it could be happening,” Vito pushed.

  “Of course it could. I don’t travel in those circles, so I wouldn’t know.” She thought about some of the shadier archeologists she’d known. “But I could ask around.”

  Vito shook his head. “We’ll ask the questions,” he said firmly, then lifted his hand when she lifted her chin with a jerk. “It’s procedure, Sophie,” he sighed wearily, “just like not telling you about the graves yesterday before you found them.”

  “But that was to prevent bias,” she pointed out. “I know the details now.”

  “This is to prevent harm,” Vito returned. “To you. This isn’t some academic project for a thesis. This is a multiple homicide in which the killer dug seven extra graves. I don’t want to see you in one of them.”

  Sophie shuddered out a breath. “Good point. I’ll make you a list.”

  One corner of Vito’s mouth lifted and his dark eyes warmed. “Thank you.”

  She found herself smiling back before she realized that once again he’d reeled her in like a fish on a hook. I’m as gullible as a trout. Wiping the smile from her face, she dropped her eyes to her watch. “I really need to go.”

  She got out of the car, then stuck her head in the open door. Vito was watching her again, his eyes slightly narrowed and . . . hurt. Her heart pricked, but she hardened it. Deliberately she turned to Nick. “I’ll e-mail you a list of any sources I can come up with. Good luck.” She was halfway to the museum’s front door when she heard a car door slam, then Vito calling her name. She kept walking, hoping he’d take the hint and leave her alone, but his footsteps grew louder as he closed the distance between them.

  “Sophie. Wait.” He gripped her arm and pulled until she stopped.

  “What more do you want, Detective?”

  He tugged on her arm. “I want you to turn around and look at me.”

  She complied. His face was inches away, his brows furrowed in a confused frown. From the corner of her eye she saw Nick leaning against his car wearing a similar look of confusion and she felt a spurt of indecision, but the words on the card she’d found with the roses echoed in her mind. A—I’ll always love you. V. “Let go of my arm.” He released her but didn’t move back, so she did. “What do you want from me, Detective?”

  “What happened? Last night we were talking and you were smiling, then I asked if you wanted to get a pizza and you got mad. I want to understand why.”

  “Maybe I just didn’t want to have dinner with you.”

  “No. If looks could have killed, I would have dropped dead on the spot. I’d like to know why. And I’d like to know why I’m Detective now when I was Vito last night.”

  She huffed a flat laugh. He sounded so victimized. “You guys really are all the same, aren’t you? Look, Vito, I’m sorry your ego got bruised, but it’s time you learned that not all women are going to fall at your feet. I’ll get you the information, as quickly as I can. But not because of you, so get that straight now.” She took a step, then stopped. He was still standing there, his dark eyes snapping with anger and suddenly the questions she’d asked herself too many times demanded answers.

  “Tell me, Vito. When you’re on the make, do you think about the woman at home?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, each word deliberately spaced.

  “Then I guess the answer is no. What about the target? Do you think she’s stupid, that she’ll never find out that she’s only a conquest? Do you think the woman at home will never find out that she’s being betrayed?”

  “I don’t know where you get your information, but I have no woman at home.”

  She stomped her foot. “The ‘woman at home’ is a metaphor. It means you’re taken.”

  His expression didn’t change. “I have no one, Sophie.”

  She held his gaze. “So those roses in your truck . . . weren’t yours?”

  His eyes flickered. He opened his mouth, but this time no words emerged.

  She smiled, but not nicely. Turning on her heel, she walked the rest of the way to the museum without interruption. But when she got to the door she saw his reflection in the window. He stood where she’d left him, watching her go. Just like the night before.

  Monday, January 15, 2:15 P.M.

  Vito slumped in the passenger seat, ignoring Nick’s curious stare. “Just drive.”

  Nick pulled away from the curb into traffic. “Where to?”

  “Let’s go to the morgue. Jen should have sent a few more in by now.”

  “Happy, happy, joy, joy,” Nick muttered. He was silent for several minutes as Vito stared out the window, thinking about knights and torture . . . and roses.

  “We could contact another professor,” Nick finally said quietly. “Other universities have archeology programs. I checked it out on the Web last night.”

  “You checked lots of stuff on the Web last night,” Vito returned, and even he could hear the animosity in his voice. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. The house is too quiet,” Nick murmured. “I always hated the way Josie would stay up all night with her music blaring, but now that she’s gone . . . I miss it.”

  Vito turned only his head to study his partner. “Do you miss her?”

  “I know she cheated, and I know it makes me a fool. But yeah. I miss her.”

  It was an open door, Vito knew. Nick didn’t like talking about his private life. That he’d been duped by his ex-wife for so long was an especially sore spot. But he’d opened the door so that Vito could talk.

  “She saw the roses.”

  Nick winced. “Sheee-it.”

  “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

  “Did you tell her who the roses were for?”

  “That would have been too log
ical.” Vito huffed a disgusted sigh. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t. So she thought the worst. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  “What a crock of bullshit. Vito, do you like her?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, of course. Even if she does speak Occitan, whatever the hell that is. She’s funny and cute and . . .” He shrugged with a rueful grin.

  “Hot,” Vito supplied morosely.

  “That ’bout sums it up. But more importantly, she might be able to help us with this case.” He glanced over, serious again. “So even if you don’t want to explore her personally, tell her the truth so we can use her ‘basic knowledge.’”

  “I don’t want to tell her the truth.” I don’t want to tell anybody the truth.

  “Then make up a damn good lie, because if we end up having to pay another expert, Liz’ll want to know why. And I’m not taking your whoopin’, Chick.”

  Vito gritted his teeth. Of course Nick was right. A free resource was too valuable to let get away for personal reasons. “Fine. I’ll stop by the museum tomorrow.”

  “Better do it tonight. I’ve got to go to court tomorrow, so you’ll be on your own.”

  Vito blinked in surprise. “Did I know about this?”

  “I told you twice and sent you a memo. You’ve been distracted this week.”

  By Andrea. Vito blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. So why are you in court?”

  Nick’s jaw tightened. “Diane Siever.”

  Vito winced. Diane had been a thirteen-year-old Delaware girl who’d gone missing three years before. Nick had been the unlucky cop to stumble across her body during a raid on a heroin ring when he’d still been Vice. “Do you still get cards from her folks?”

  Nick swallowed hard. “Every damn Christmas. I wish they weren’t so grateful.”

  “You gave her parents closure. At least they know. I can’t imagine not knowing.”

  “I can’t imagine sitting in a courtroom watching the sorry asshole that murdered your daughter strutting up to the stand like a damn peacock.” Nick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel. “Damn DA deals. Every time I think they’re on our side, they go and deal a murderer. Makes me sick.”