7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  Sophie closed her eyes. “Let me think about it,” she murmured. “I’m going to lunch.”

  “Don’t forget you’re leading the Viking tour at three,” Ted called after her.

  “I won’t,” she muttered, torn between guilt and what she still considered justified ire.

  “Yo, Soph. Over here.”

  The greeting came from Patty Ann who stood at the lobby desk smacking gum, loudly.

  Sophie crossed the lobby with a sigh. Patty Ann was trying to be from Brooklyn today, but she sounded more like Stallone’s Rocky. Sophie leaned against the desk and said, “Don’t tell me. You’re going out for Guys and Dolls.”

  “I got the part locked, and you got a package.” Patty Ann nudged it to the edge of the counter. “That’s two packages in one day. You’re getting mighty popular.”

  Sophie went instantly on edge. “Did you see who left the package?”

  Patty Ann’s smile was coy. “Sure I did. It was a dame.”

  Sophie bit back the urge to strangle the girl. “Did this dame have a name?”

  “Sure she did.” Patty Ann blew a bubble. “A really long one. Ciccotelli-Reagan.”

  Relieved and stunned at once, Sophie blinked. “No kidding?”

  “Cross my heart.” Patty Ann’s smile went sly. “I asked if she was any relation to a big hunky cop and she said he was her brother. Then she asked if I was Sophie.”

  Sophie cringed. “Please tell me you said no.”

  “Of course I said no,” Patty Ann huffed, indignant. “I want to play interestin’ roles. No offense, Sophie, but you ain’t that interestin’.”

  “Ah . . . thank you, Patty Ann. You’ve made my day.”

  The girl tilted her head thoughtfully. “Funny. That’s what she said, too. The dame.”

  Sophie liked Vito’s sister already. “Thanks, Patty Ann.” When she got to her dark little office, she closed the door and chuckled. Patty Ann wasn’t a bad kid. Too bad she didn’t fit the armor. She’d make a great Joan. Still smiling, she sat at her desk and opened the package. Then stared. What the hell? It was a pen. No, it wasn’t.

  The smile on her face faded as she realized exactly what she was looking at. She took the silver cylinder out of the box and hit a tiny button on its side with her thumb. The top sprang up, a blue light strobed, and a tinny little siren screeched.

  It was a toy reproduction of the Men in Black memory zapper, and her eyes stung as she realized exactly what it meant. Vito Ciccotelli had once again offered her a do-over.

  A note was tucked in the box. The handwriting was feminine, but the words were not. Brewster’s an ass. Forget him and go on. V. Sophie had to smile at the PS. Don’t forget to take off your purple sunglasses before you zap yourself or it won’t work. A squiggly arrow pointed to the other side of the paper so she turned it over. I still owe you a pizza. The place two blocks from your building at Whitman College makes a good one. If you still want to collect, I’ll be there after your class tonight.

  Sophie put the note and the toy back in the box, then sat, thinking hard. She’d collect on the pizza. But she owed Vito Ciccotelli a great deal more. She checked her watch. Between the Viking tour and the evening seminar she taught she didn’t have a lot of time, but she’d do what she could.

  Vito hadn’t gotten anything out of Alan Brewster. Sophie had known he wouldn’t. Giving his name was more to soothe her own conscience than for any real benefit Alan would be to Vito’s investigation. But Etienne Moraux had given her a good lead. Missing artifacts were floating around the world somewhere. They were probably still in Europe. But what if they weren’t? What if they were right here?

  Etienne hadn’t known the man who died or any of the other main players in the European world of arts patronage. He wasn’t the type to notice wealth and influence any more than she was. But she knew people who did.

  Sophie thought about her biological father. Alex had been well connected on a number of social and political levels, although she’d always been nervous about using his position and influence. Some of her reticence stemmed from her stepmother’s obvious dislike of her husband’s bastard American child. But most of her hesitation was wrapped up in the whole bizarre tangle of Anna and Alex and the rest of her family tree, and so she only called on the family when it was vital.

  But this was vital. This was justice. So she’d use her father’s influence once again. She’d like to think he would have approved. Alex’s friends might know the man who’d died, whose collection was now AWOL. They might know the man’s family, his connections. If there was one thing she’d learned the hard way over her life—never underestimate gossip. Good or bad.

  She opened her phone book to the page where Alex Arnaud had written his friends’ numbers so that Sophie would not “be alone” in Europe when he was gone. By that point in his illness, his handwriting had become spidery and weak, but she could still make out the names and numbers. She’d known all of these people since she was a child, and all had offered their assistance countless times. Today she’d accept.

  Tuesday, January 16, 1:30 P.M.

  His heart was still pounding as he drove south toward Philly, along the same stretch of I-95 where he’d met Zachary Webber the year before. He was rattled and that made him angry. This day had not gone the way he’d planned.

  First Van Zandt’s unreasonable demands. Iron maidens, new queens, and exploding heads. He’d thought Van Zandt understood the value of authenticity. In the end, the man was just like everyone else.

  Then Harrington. Where the hell had he gotten that picture? Ultimately it didn’t matter. No one could prove he’d ever met Zachary Webber, much less held a 1943 German Luger to the boy’s head and pulled the trigger. Harrington had taken a lucky guess, but he was shooting blanks.

  Nevertheless, the whiny bastard was probably in VZ’s office this very moment, trying to convince him . . . To do what? Fire me? Report me to the cops? Van Zandt would never do either. He had a Pinnacle invitation and he couldn’t show up empty-handed. He needs me. Unfortunately, he also needed Van Zandt. For now.

  Harrington, on the other hand, needed to be dealt with, and soon. He’d whine to Van Zandt but would eventually take his story elsewhere, to someone who actually might listen. Van Zandt had said that Harrington had outlived his usefulness.

  He chuckled. Van Zandt had no idea how prophetic his words would become. He’d deal with Harrington, but for now he had an appointment to keep.

  Tuesday, January 16, 1:30 P.M.

  An hour and a half had passed before Derek had been summoned to Jager’s office and he’d used that time to plan how he would confront his partner with his suspicions about Frasier Lewis without sounding like a lunatic. When he’d finished, Jager’s forehead bunched in a frown. But in his eyes Derek saw bored indifference.

  “What you are suggesting, Derek, is very serious indeed.”

  “Of course it’s serious, Jager. You can’t sit there and tell me you don’t see any resemblance between that missing boy and the character in Lewis’s animation.”

  “I don’t deny a resemblance. But that’s a far cry from accusing an employee of cold-blooded murder.”

  “Lewis didn’t even acknowledge the resemblance. He’s a cold bastard.”

  “What did you expect him to say? You’d just accused him of murder. Perhaps you expected him to say, ‘You are correct. I kidnapped Zachary Webber, held a gun to his head, blew out his brains, then made him a character in a video game.’” He tilted his head, bemused. “Does that sound sane to you?”

  It didn’t, not when explicitly spelled out like that. But there was something wrong. Derek could feel it in his gut. “Then how do you account for this?” He tapped the photo. “This kid is missing, then just happens to show up in Behind Enemy Lines.”

  “He saw him somewhere. Hell, Derek, where did you get your inspiration?”

  Did. Past tense. Something desperate rose in Derek’s chest. “You don’t even know anything about Lewis. What were h
is production credits before you hired him at oRo?”

  “I know what I need to know.” Jager tossed a paper across his desk.

  Derek stared at the picture of a confident Jager with the headline: oRo SCORES A COUP—Up and comer earns a seat at Pinnacle.

  “So you’ve arrived,” Derek said dully.

  “Yes, I have.”

  The personal pronoun had been carefully enunciated. “You want me to quit.”

  Jager lifted his brows, maddeningly calm. “I never said that.”

  Suddenly the desperation eased and Derek knew what he needed to do. Slowly he stood. “Well, I just did.” He stopped at the door and looked back at the man who he’d once called his closest friend. “Did I ever really know you?”

  Jager was calm. “Security will walk you to your desk. You can pack your things.”

  “I should say good luck, but I wouldn’t mean it. I hope you get what you deserve.”

  Jager’s eyes went cold. “Now that you’re no longer with the company, any move to discredit any of my employees will be considered slander and prosecuted with zeal.”

  “In other words, stay away from Frasier Lewis,” Derek said bitterly.

  Jager’s smile was a terrible thing to see. “You do know me after all.”

  New Jersey, Tuesday, January 16, 2:30 P.M.

  Vito drove through the quiet little neighborhood in Jersey, following Tim Riker’s directions. He’d left Andy from Andy’s Attic sorting through receipts of sales of swords and flails to join Tim and Beverly who were waiting for him on the sidewalk.

  “Brittany Bellamy’s house?” he asked when he got out and Beverly nodded.

  “Her parents live here. The only address Brittany listed with all her jobs was a PO box in Philly. If she doesn’t live here, hopefully her parents can tell us where.”

  “Have you talked to her parents?”

  “No,” Tim said. “We were waiting for you. One of the photographers on her résumé said he’d hired Brittany to do an ad for a local jewelry store last spring.”

  “The ad was for rings.” Beverly’s eyes grew dark. “Only her hands were in the shot.”

  “Nick and I think the killer chose Warren for his tattoo. That Brittany was a hand model could have drawn him, since he posed her hands. Was she reported missing?”

  “No,” Tim said with a frown. “So this might not be our vic.”

  “Then let’s go find out.” Vito led the way to the door and knocked. A minute later a girl opened the front door. She was perhaps fourteen and about the same size as their victim, her hair the same dark brown. In her hand was a box of tissues.

  “Yes?” she asked, her nose stuffy, her voice muffled through the storm door glass.

  Vito showed her his shield. “I’m Detective Ciccotelli. Are your parents home?”

  “No.” She sniffled. “They’re both at work.” Her heavy eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “We’re looking for Brittany Bellamy.”

  The girl’s chin came up and she sniffled again. “My sister. What’s she done?”

  “Nothing. We’d just like to talk to her. Can you tell us where she lives?”

  “Not here. Not anymore.”

  Beverly stepped forward. “Can you tell us where she does live then?”

  “I don’t know. Look, you should talk to my parents. They’ll be home after six.”

  “Then can you give us your parents’ phone number at work?” Beverly pressed.

  The sleepy look in her eyes was replaced by fear. “What’s happened to Brittany?”

  “We’re not sure,” Vito said. “We really need to talk to your parents.”

  “Wait here.” She closed the door and Vito could hear the deadbolt clicking. Two minutes later the door opened again and the girl reappeared with a cordless phone. She handed the phone to Vito. “My mom is on the phone.”

  “Is this Mrs. Bellamy?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s voice was both frantic and angry. “What’s this about the police? What’s Brittany done?”

  “This is Detective Ciccotelli, Philly PD. When was the last time you saw Brittany?”

  There was a moment of tense silence. “Oh my God. Is she dead?”

  “When was the last time you saw her, Mrs. Bellamy?”

  “Oh, God. She is dead.” The woman’s voice was becoming hysterical. “Oh God.”

  “Mrs. Bellamy, please. When—?” But the woman was weeping too loudly to hear him. The young girl’s eyes filled with tears and she took the phone from Vito’s hand.

  “Ma, come home. I’ll call Pop.” She disconnected and held the phone against her chest with both fists, much like Warren Keyes had held the sword. “It was after Thanksgiving. She and my dad had a big fight because she dropped out of dental school to be an actress.” She blinked, sending the tears down her face. “She left home, said she’d make it on her own. That’s the last time I saw her. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Vito sighed. “Do you have a computer?”

  She frowned. “Yeah, it’s brand-new.”

  “How new, honey?” Vito asked.

  “A month or so.” She faltered. “Right after Brittany left the old one crashed. My dad was so mad. He didn’t have a backup.”

  “We’re going to need to get your parents’ permission to search her room.”

  She looked away, lips quivering. “I’ll call my pop.”

  Vito turned to Beverly and Tim. “I’ll stay here,” he murmured. “Go back to the precinct and start searching for the third victim in that row on UCanModel dotcom.”

  “Flail guy,” Tim said grimly. “But we can’t count on his name being in the missing person reports. Even if Brittany had been reported missing, she might not have ended up in the Philly reports, being way down here in Jersey.”

  “The database allows you to search by physical attribute. If you can’t figure it out, call Brent Yelton in IT. Tell him I sent you. Also, see if he can get a listing of everyone who got hits the same days Warren and Brittany’s résumés were viewed. I’m betting this guy didn’t just get lucky with the first model he contacted. Maybe we can find somebody who talked to him that’s still alive and still has their computer intact.”

  Bev and Tim nodded. “Will do.”

  The girl had come back to the storm door. “My pop’s on his way.”

  A Catholic shrine rested against the house. “Do you have a priest?” Vito asked.

  She nodded, dully. “I’ll call him, too.”

  Tuesday, January 16, 3:20 P.M.

  Munch was late. Gregory Sanders glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, feeling way too visible sitting in the bar where Munch had promised to meet him. He knew only to look for an older man who’d be walking with a cane.

  The waitress stopped at his table. “You can’t stay here if you don’t order nothin’.”

  “I’m waiting for someone. But bring me a G&T.”

  She tilted her head, studying him closer. “I’ve seen you before. I know I have.” She snapped her fingers. “Sanders Sewer Service.” She grinned. “I loved that ad.”

  He held a polite smile firmly in place as she walked away. He’d done sophisticated ads for national campaigns, but everybody who’d grown up in Philly remembered him in that stupid commercial that his father had forced his six sons to do. He would never be taken seriously by anyone who knew about that commercial. And he needed to be taken seriously. He needed Ed Munch to hire him for this job.

  Greg fingered the switchblade he’d slid up his sleeve. What he really needed was to catch the old man unaware so he could rob him blind. But he couldn’t sit out here in the open for much longer. Those guys wanted their money, and they wanted it now.

  His cell buzzed in his pocket and he quickly looked around, wondering if he’d been discovered. But his cell was a throwaway and only Jill had his number. “Yeah?” Jill was crying and he sat up straighter. “What?”

  “Damn you,” she sobbed into the phone. “They were here, in my place. T
hey trashed everything, looking for you. They put their hands on me.”

  She was hysterical, screeching so high it hurt his ears. “What did they do?” he asked, dread clutching at his gut. “Dammit, Jill, what did those sonsofbitches do?”

  “They hit me. Broke two of my teeth.” She quieted suddenly. “And they said tomorrow they’d do worse, so now I have to find a place to hide. So help me God, you’d sure as hell better hope they find you, ’cause if I find you first, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

  “Jill, I’m sorry.”

  She laughed harshly. “Yes, you are. Sorry. Just like my father always said. And yours.” She hung up and Greg exhaled, long and heavy. If they found him, they’d beat him, too. And if by some miracle he survived, his face would be so messed up that he wouldn’t be able to work for weeks. He had to get some money. Today.

  Munch was nearly a half hour late. The old man wasn’t coming. Greg stood up and walked out of the restaurant, not sure where he’d go next, only sure that he had to get that money. Thinking about knocking off convenience stores, he walked to the curb to catch the next bus. Where he’d go, he had no clue. Away from Philly, most certainly.

  “Mr. Sanders?”

  Greg spun, his heart in full throttle. But it was just an old man with a cane. “Munch?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Sanders. I ran late. Are you still interested in my documentary?”

  Greg sized the old man up. At one time he’d been a good-sized guy, but now he was stooped and brittle. “Are you still paying cash?”

  “Of course. Do you have a car?”

  He’d sold it long ago. “No.”

  “Then we’ll take my truck. I’m parked on the next block.”

  Once he got his money, he could steal the old man’s truck and fly. “Then let’s go.”

  Tuesday, January 16, 4:05 P.M.

  Sophie’s office phone was ringing when she got back after the Viking tour. She ran to answer it. It was after ten in Europe. The men she’d called would just be finishing their dinner about now. “Hello?”