7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  The “sorry asshole,” a junkie with track marks on his track marks had rolled on his partner, an up-and-coming local drug lord. The DA had wanted the drug lord more than the junkie and had dealt him down. “Which DA made the deal?”

  “Lopez.” Nick nearly spat the name.

  Vito frowned. “Maggy Lopez? Our Maggy Lopez?”

  “One and the same.”

  Maggy Lopez was a recent addition to Liz Sawyer’s homicide team, but every time she drew one of their cases, Nick had let Vito handle the communications. Now that made sense. “You never said word one about her before.”

  Nick just shrugged angrily. “I shouldn’t have this time. Call the lab and see if they got anything on Keyes’s computer.”

  “Okay.” Vito’s call was answered by Jeff Rosenburg. “You guys have a chance to look at that computer we took from Warren Keyes’s residence this morning?”

  “Dream on, Chick. We’ve got a line out the door.” Jeff always said that.

  “Can you look? It’s important.”

  “Important,” Jeff finished with him sarcastically. “What isn’t? Hold on . . .” A minute later he was back. “You lucked out, Chick.” Jeff always said that, too. “We got to it, but only because one of the techs is working on a special drive-wiping project.”

  “So you’re saying Keyes’s drive was wiped?”

  “Not totally. It takes a lot to totally wipe a drive, but enough is gone to make it a challenge. The method was very elegant.” Jeff sounded impressed. “It was a virus, delivered through your vic’s e-mail. But it was timed.”

  “Like a sleeper?”

  “Just like. The tech is still trying to piece together the code to find out how long the virus stayed hidden before leaping to life and gobbling your vic’s files. We’ll call you if we come up with anything more.”

  Vito snapped his phone shut thoughtfully. “Wiped,” he said. “But elegantly.” He told Nick what Jeff had said. “So we have a sadistic OCD killer who digs graves with military precision, who has a sick medieval obsession, and who is a computer wizard.”

  “Or who has access to a computer wizard,” Nick countered. “Or maybe we’re dealing with more than one killer.”

  “Could be. Let’s see what else Jen’s dug up.”

  Monday, January 15, 3:00 P.M.

  They found Katherine studying x-rays. Vito stood behind her, easily able to see over her head. Andrea had been small like that. There had been times Vito was afraid he’d break her. Sophie Johannsen on the other hand . . . she was just a few inches shorter than he was. When she’d confronted him about the roses, those full lips of hers had been about even with his chin. Physically, it would take a lot to break her, but inside was a vulnerability that touched him. You really are like all the others. Someone had hurt her. Deeply. And she thinks I’m just like them.

  That bothered Vito. Deeply. He needed her to know he wasn’t like all the others. Even if only for his own peace of mind.

  “Who is this guy?” Nick asked with a frown, snapping Vito’s attention back to the x-rays at which he’d been blindly staring. “Did he push our bodies to the back of the line?”

  Vito scanned the skull illuminated on the light board. “He’s not one of ours. No evidence of medieval torture. This guy took a bullet right between the eyes.”

  “No medieval wounds and he took a bullet,” Katherine agreed, “but this is one of your victims, boys.” She extended one hand. “Meet victim number one-dash-three.”

  “What?” Vito said.

  “He’s ours?” Nick said at the same time.

  “What does one-dash-three mean?” Vito added.

  “Yes, he’s yours. One-three means he comes from the third grave in the first row. He was young, late teens, early twenties maybe. Cause of death was that bullet to his skull. He’s been dead perhaps a year. I’ll know more after I run some tests.”

  She walked to the counter and grabbed a sheet of paper. On it she’d drawn a four-by-four matrix of rectangles and had made notes in all but three of them. “This is what you have so far. Seven empty graves, nine occupied ones. Jen’s recovered six of the nine bodies. She’s in the process of excavating the seventh body in row one, grave four, aka one-four.”

  “The fourth row is empty,” Nick murmured. “Three-one, Caucasian male, midtwenties, blunt trauma to head and torso. Trauma with a jagged object to head and right arm. Right arm nearly severed. Time of death, at least two months ago. Contusions on torso and upper arms, circular in shape, approximately one quarter inch in diameter.” He looked up. “This is the third body we pulled out last night.”

  “Exactly. Three-two is the woman with the folded hands.”

  “Sophie told us about the Inquisitional Chair,” Nick said, his voice heavy with disgust. “Our boy has the deluxe model. Spikes and metal plates for heating.”

  Katherine sighed. “This just gets better all the time. Three-three is your Knight.”

  “Warren Keyes,” Vito said. “He was an actor.”

  “I thought so. I finished his autopsy, by the way.” She handed Vito the report. “Cause of death was heart failure brought on by blood loss. His abdominal cavity was empty. There were no injuries to his head, but the bones in his arms and legs were all dislocated. The force was shear, not radial.”

  “Meaning they were pulled, not twisted,” Vito said, scanning the report.

  “Yes.”

  “He was stretched on a rack,” Nick murmured.

  “I’d say that’s a good guess. He was definitely drugged.”

  “His mother said he was clean and sober. He’d been in rehab,” Vito said.

  “That’s entirely plausible. There was damage to his nasal membranes from the coke. I found a lot more of that white mixture up in his nasal cavity.”

  “So was the stuff you found silicone grease?” Nick asked.

  “Silicone lubricant, yes. The lab’s going to try to narrow it to a brand for you. But there was something mixed with the silicone. Plaster. It had filled his sinus cavity.”

  Nick frowned. “Plaster and lubricant? Why?”

  But a memory was poking at the edge of Vito’s mind. “One Halloween when we were kids, our boy scout troop made masks by taking plaster casts of our faces. We used cold cream to make the plaster lift off better. He made death masks of Warren Keyes and the woman with the hands.”

  “Then he took the cast over most of their body,” Katherine said. “But why?”

  “It has something to do with medieval effigies.” Vito shook his head. “He made a tomb, maybe? I don’t know. None of this makes sense yet.”

  Nick had turned back to Katherine’s diagram of the graveyard. “So what about the elderly male they brought in this morning?”

  “Ah. Him.” Katherine tapped the second row from the top. “The second row had two bodies and two empty graves. The bodies were both elderly, one male, one female.” She lifted a brow. “The female was bald.”

  Vito blinked. “He shaved her head?” he asked but Katherine shook her head.

  “She’d had a mastectomy.”

  “He killed a woman with breast cancer?” Nick shook his head. “Good God almighty. What kind of sick bastard kills an old woman with cancer?”

  “The same kind that would torture and mutilate his other victims,” Katherine said. “But he didn’t torture her. She had a broken neck, but no additional injuries. Now the old man, he’s a very different story.”

  “Of course he would be,” Vito muttered as she put up three new x-rays.

  “The old man in plot two-two has a broken jaw, massive trauma to his face and torso. He was beaten badly, by a fist, I’m guessing. The jaw is dislocated and the cheekbones are crushed. This was a vicious attack with lots of power behind it.”

  “A big fist,” Vito murmured. “He’s a big guy, our killer. He had to have been to haul Warren Keyes’s body around, even if he drugged him.”

  “I agree. The man has six broken ribs. These femur injuries were made with someth
ing bigger and harder. Both femurs were broken.” She turned around, both brows lifted. “But the pièce de résistance . . .”

  “Shit.” Nick sighed. “What?”

  “His fingertips are gone. Sliced clean off.”

  Vito and Nick looked at each other. “Somebody wanted the old man to stay incognito,” Vito said and Nick nodded.

  “So he’s probably in the system. Were they sliced before or after death, Katherine?”

  “Before.”

  “Of course,” Vito muttered. “Time of death?”

  “I’d say two months or more. The bodies of the elderly couple were in a similar stage of decomposition to three-one, the man whose right arm is nearly severed.”

  “The one with the circular bruises,” Vito murmured. “Any idea of what they are?”

  “Not yet, but I haven’t really looked too hard. One of my techs found the bruises and recorded it in the log.”

  Nick rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “And now we have one-three with a bullet in his head. Decidedly postmodern era.”

  “Dead for a year, not a few weeks to a few months like the others,” Vito added. “This doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  “Not yet,” Nick agreed. “We won’t be able to make any sense of it until we identify more of the victims. We got lucky on Warren Keyes. Was there anything you could readily see that might identify the others?”

  Katherine shook her head.

  “Shit,” Nick muttered. “So, we’ve got six bodies so far, one identified. Four of the six are young, two old. One actor, one cancer patient, one who might be identified if we’d been able to run his prints.”

  “Who the killer really hated,” Vito added. “And that breaks with his profile.”

  Nick lifted a brow. “Keep talkin’.”

  “He dug all those graves perfectly, all exactly the same. He’s obsessive-compulsive. The third-row vics were tortured, but with tools, not his bare hands. The new guy with the bullet—another tool. The old man’s injuries say he really let loose. Rage and passion aren’t the MOs of an OCD perp.”

  “Personal,” Nick agreed thoughtfully. “If he knew the old man, chances are good that he knew the old woman, too. But he used his hands on her. Broke her neck.”

  “But he didn’t beat her up.”

  Katherine cleared her throat. “Boys, this is all fascinating, but I’ve been on my feet all day and I’d like to get out of here before midnight. So leave.”

  “Gee, Ma, we like the morgue,” Nick whined and chuckling, she shooed him out.

  “If you want autopsies—then go. I’ll call you later. Now go.”

  Chapter Eight

  Monday, January 15, 4:05 P.M.

  Scowling in the mirror, Sophie scrubbed at the last of the theatrical makeup that stubbornly clung to her cheeks. “Damn Viking tour,” she muttered. “Paint me up like ten-dollar hooker.” The employee washroom door opened and Darla appeared, her face a frown of affectionate exasperation.

  “You don’t have to scrub so hard, Sophie. You’re going to take your skin off.” She retrieved a jar from the vanity under the sink. “How many times have I told you to use cold cream?” She spread a thick layer on Sophie’s face and began to dab gently.

  “About a million,” Sophie grumbled, flinching at the slimy coldness on her skin.

  “Then why don’t you use it?”

  “I forget.” It was a childish grouse and Darla smiled.

  “Well, stop forgetting. It’s almost like you think if you take off your skin that Ted’s going to stop telling you to use the makeup. I can tell you right now, he’s not going to let it go.” She dabbed while she talked. “You might know history, Sophie, but Ted knows what sells. Without the tours, this museum might close.”

  “And your point would be what, exactly?”

  “Sophie.” Darla grabbed her chin and pulled her forward until her back hunched. “Hold still. Close your eyes.” Sophie did so until Darla let her go. “You’re done.”

  Sophie touched her skin. “Now I’m greasy.”

  “What you are is impossible, and you have been all day. What’s wrong with you?”

  A sadistic medieval killer and a handsome cop who makes me drool even though he’s a cheating rat. “Vikings and Joan of Arc,” she said instead. “Ted hired me to be a curator, but I don’t have time to work on exhibits. I’m always doing these damn tours.”

  Behind them a toilet flushed and Patty Ann emerged from one of the stalls. “I think it’s a guilty conscience,” she said ominously as she bent down to wash her hands. “Sophie was questioned by two cops this afternoon. One of them nearly dragged her off to the police car.” She glanced slyly at Sophie from the corner of her eye. “You must have done some slick talking to make him let you go.”

  Darla looked alarmed. “What’s this about the police? Here? At the Albright?”

  “They had some history questions, Darla. That was all.”

  “What about the dark one?” Patty Ann needled and Sophie wanted to throttle her. “He chased you back to the museum.”

  “He did not chase me,” Sophie said firmly, loosening the ties of her bodice. But Vito had done exactly that and her heart beat harder every time she thought about it. There was something about Vito Ciccotelli that drew her, tempted her, which was shameful in and of itself. She needed to get him the information he’d asked for so that she wouldn’t have to see him again. Temptation removed. Case closed.

  She changed her clothes and escaped to the little storeroom Ted had given her for an office. It was tiny and filled with boxes, but it had a desk and a computer and a phone. A window would have been nice, but at this stage she was choosing her battles.

  She sank down in her old chair and closed her eyes. She was tired. Tossing and turning all night had that effect, she supposed. Focus, Sophie. She needed to think about shady archeologists and collectors so she could make that list for Ciccotelli.

  She considered the people she’d worked with over the years. Most were ethical scientists who handled artifacts as carefully as Jen McFain had handled the evidence at the crime scene. But inevitably her thoughts wandered to him. Alan Brewster. The bane of my life. She’d never paid attention to the rich donors who subsidized their digs, but Alan knew everyone. He would be a good contact for the detectives. Except . . .

  Except Alan would ask Vito how he’d gotten his name. Vito would say, “From Sophie,” and Alan would smile like the lying cheating rat he was. She could hear his voice now, smooth, cultured. “Sophie,” he’d say. “A most able assistant.” That’s what he’d say when they’d . . . finished. She’d actually thought he’d meant it affectionately, that she’d been special to him.

  Her cheeks heated as shame and humiliation reasserted themselves, as they did every time she remembered. Little had she known, then. She knew a hell of a lot more now.

  But guilt sidled up to join the shame. “You’re a coward,” she murmured. Nine people were dead and Alan might be able to help, and she was letting her ego get in the way. She wrote his name on her notepad, but just seeing it in black and white left her cold. He’d tell. He always told. It was part of his fun. He’d tell Nick and Vito and then they’d know, too. What do you care what they think about you? But she did. She always did.

  “Think of somebody else,” she told herself. “Somebody just as good.” She thought hard until another face came to mind, but not the man’s name. He’d been a fellow grad student working that same dig with Alan Brewster. While she’d been “assisting” Alan, this guy had been researching stolen antiquities for his dissertation. She ran a search, but found no such dissertation. But the guy had a friend . . . Hell.

  His name Sophie remembered. Clint Shafer. With a sigh, she searched the white pages and got a number. Before she could change her mind, Sophie dialed. “Clint, this is Sophie Johannsen. You might not remember me, but—”

  He cut her off with a wolf whistle. “Sophie. Well, well, how are you?”

  “Just fine,” she said
. Nine graves, Sophie. “Clint, do you remember that friend of yours who was researching stolen antiquities?”

  “You mean Lombard?”

  Lombard. Now she remembered. Kyle Lombard. “Yeah, that’s him. Did he ever finish his dissertation?”

  “No, Lombard dropped out.” There was a pause, then slyly, “That was after you left the project. Alan was just devastated.”

  There was laughter in his voice and Sophie’s cheeks heated as she bit back what she really wanted to say. “Have you heard from him?”

  “Who? Alan? Sure. We chat often. You come up a lot.”

  She bit down harder on her tongue. “No, I meant Kyle. Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from Kyle since Avignon. He dropped out of the program and I signed up to join Alan’s team on that Siberian dig. So, you’re in Philly?”

  Sophie cursed caller ID. “Family emergency.”

  “Well, I’m up in Long Island, but you knew that already. We could . . . get together.”

  One stupid mistake and I’m still paying. She forced a brightness into her voice as she baldly lied. “I’m sorry, Clint. I’m married now.”

  He laughed. “So? So am I. That never stopped you before.”

  Sophie exhaled slowly. Then stopped biting her tongue and let it fly. “Foutre.”

  Clint laughed again. “Name the time and the place, sweetheart. Alan still calls you one of his most able assistants. I’ve waited a long time to evaluate you myself.”

  Her hand shaking, Sophie carefully hung up the phone. Then she took the sheet of paper on which she’d written Alan Brewster’s name and crumpled it into a tight ball in her tighter fist. There had to be someone else the police could contact.

  Monday, January 15, 4:45 P.M.

  “Here. Don’t say I never give you anything.”

  Vito looked up when a bag of corn chips landed on the missing persons printout he’d been scanning. Liz Sawyer was leaning against the side of his desk, opening her own bag. He looked over to Nick’s empty desk where she’d thrown a second bag of chips. “Nick got barbeque flavor. I wanted barbeque flavor.”