by Karen Rose
Yuri frowned. “Yes. It was like D’Artagnan from The Three Musketeers, but with a V. He said his name was Arthur Vartanian, from Georgia. I remembered that clearly because I am also from Georgia.” He lifted an ironic brow. “Small world, is it not?”
One corner of Vito’s mouth lifted as he wrote down the man’s name and the state of Georgia. Yuri’s Georgia was, of course, half a world away, both geographically and philosophically. “A very small world indeed,” she said to Yuri. “Please, pardon my rudeness, but would you tell me what you did in Georgia?”
“I was a surgeon by profession. But in my heart I was a patriot, and for this I spent twenty years in Novosibirsk. When I was released I came to America, with the help of sponsors like Barbara.” He lifted his broken hands. “I paid a high price for my freedom.”
Sophie’s throat closed and she found she had no words. Novosibirsk was the site of several Siberian prisons. She couldn’t imagine what he’d endured.
He saw her distress and awkwardly patted her knee. “And what do you do, Sophie Alexandrovna, that you have such an expert command of my language?”
I’m an archeologist, a linguist, a historian. But what came out was none of those things, because in her mind she suddenly saw the rapt faces of the children as she’d taught them medieval history through Ted’s tours. This man’s history was every bit as relevant. No, she thought looking at his hands. More.
“I work in a museum. It’s small, but we get good attendance. We try to bring history to life. Would you come and talk to people about your experiences?”
He smiled at her. “I would like that. Now, your detective looks eager to leave.”
Sophie kissed both his cheeks. “Stay well, Yuri Petrovich.”
Vito shook Yuri’s hand, gently. “Thank you.”
“The two people,” Yuri said in English, pointing to Vito’s folder. “They are not well?”
Vito shook his head. “No, sir. They’re not well at all.”
Wednesday, January 17, 6:25 P.M.
Vito waited as Sophie parked her grandmother’s car in the precinct lot. When she got out, he slipped a hand through her hair and kissed her the way he’d been wanting to since she’d crossed the library lobby. When he lifted his head, she sighed.
“I was afraid I’d imagined this.” She leaned up and kissed him lightly. “You.”
They stole a few moments to just look at each other, then Vito forced himself to step away. “Thank you. You saved me hours waiting for a translator.” He took her hand and led her toward the precinct entrance.
“It was my pleasure. Yuri Petrovich said he would come and talk at my museum.”
Vito looked down at her, surprised. “I thought it was Albright’s museum and you were just biding your time till you could leave,” he said, and her lips curved.
“Things change. You know, Vito, interpreters get paid good wages. Overtime even.”
“I’ll try to find some money in the budget.” If I can’t, I’ll pay her myself.
She frowned at him as they walked. “I said helping you was my pleasure.” Her brows winged up. “I was hoping my payment would also be.”
Vito chuckled. “I’m sure I can think of something. So tell me about your day, Sophie Alexandrovna. Any more nasty gifts from Brewster’s wife?”
“No.” Her expression grew thoughtful. “It was actually a very nice day.”
“So tell me.” She did, and her stories of her tours had him chuckling again as the elevator opened to his floor. “Hey,” Vito said to Nick as he and Sophie came into the bullpen. “We hit the jackpot with the library. We were able to get an ID on the old couple.”
“Good,” Nick said, but there was no energy in his voice. “Hey, Sophie.”
“Hello, Nick,” she said warily. “Good to see you again.”
Nick tried to smile. “I see you’re official this time. The badge,” he added.
Sophie looked at the temporary badge they’d issued her at the downstairs desk. “Yeah, now I’m part of the club. I get to know the password and the secret handshake.”
“That’s good,” Nick said quietly and Vito frowned.
“Please don’t tell me there’s another body. That would totally ruin my day.”
“No, not that we know of anyway. It’s that answering machine tape, Chick. It’s bad.”
“Bad like you can’t hear it?”
“No. Bad like you can,” Nick answered heavily. “You’ll hear it soon enough.” He sat up, forced a smile. “So, don’t keep me in suspense. Who are two-one and two-two?”
Vito had been on the phone with Records as he drove back from the library. “Arthur and Carol Vartanian, from Dutton, Georgia. And get this—he’s a retired judge.”
Nick blinked. “Whoa.”
“Sit,” Vito said to Sophie, pulling out his desk chair for her. “I’ll see if we have that photo of the brand on the victim’s cheek. Then you can go to your grandmother.”
She caught the sleeve of Vito’s coat as he pulled away. “And then?”
Nick perked up, genuinely. “And then?” he repeated cagily.
Vito smiled down at Sophie and totally ignored Nick. “Depends on how late I get out of here. I still want to meet your grandmother if I can.”
“Meeting the grandmother,” Nick said. “Does that have some double meaning?”
Sophie laughed. “You sound like my uncle Harry.”
Liz came out of her office. “You’re back. And you must be Dr. Johannsen.” She shook Sophie’s hand firmly. “We’re very grateful for all you’ve done.”
“Please call me Sophie. I was glad to help.”
“Did you get the photo of the victim’s cheek, Liz?”
“No, Katherine said she’d bring it to the meeting. They’re all waiting for us in the conference room, so let’s go. Sophie, can you wait for us in the cafeteria? It’s on the second floor. Hopefully Vito can keep this meeting short. My sitter’s on overtime.”
“Sure. I have my cell, Vito. Call me when you’re ready to show me the pictures.”
Sophie went down the elevator and Liz glanced up at Vito with what might have been a smirk. “You never said she was so young.”
“And pretty,” Nick teased in a singsong.
Vito wanted to scowl, but found he could only grin. “Yeah, she is, isn’t she?”
White Plains, New York, Wednesday, January 17, 6:30 P.M.
It had been a gratifying day. Perhaps he’d had a rocky start, but the end was looking quite fine. He’d started the day with loose ends. As of this moment, he’d snipped all but one. Only one person could keep a secret, a truth his antique dealer had illustrated with dazzling clarity that morning. He didn’t regret utilizing the dealer’s services. After all, one couldn’t just walk into Wal-Mart and buy an authentic broadsword, circa 1422. Special purchases required special connections. Unfortunately his dealer had a supply chain, which increased his exposure considerably.
And since only one man could keep a secret, the whole chain had to go. They’d gone nicely and without much fuss. Now, should the police continue asking about chairs with lots of spikes, they would find no answers. His dealer had been silenced.
“How are you doing back there, Derek?” he called to the back of his van, but there was no reply. If Harrington was awake, it would be a miracle. In hindsight he probably should have cut Derek’s dose. He’d given him the same amount he’d given Warren and Bill and Gregory, and they’d all been twice Derek’s size. He did hope Derek wasn’t dead. He had plans for him.
Just as he had for Dr. Johannsen. He definitely didn’t want to kill her, at least not at the outset. She’d die, but at a time and method of his choosing. She was big enough that he didn’t need to worry about the dose. By midnight he’d have all his loose ends snipped, his queen secured, so that he could focus on what was important.
Finishing the game. Making oRo, and by extension himself, a household name. His dreams were finally within his grasp.
Wednesday, Jan
uary 17, 6:45 P.M.
“Sorry, everyone,” Vito said, closing the door behind them. They were all there, Jen, Scarborough, Katherine, Tim, and Bev. Brent Yelton from IT had also joined them, which Vito hoped meant good news. “Thanks for waiting.”
Jen looked up from her laptop. “Did you get an ID for the couple?”
“Yeah, finally.” Vito went to the whiteboard and wrote their names in the first two blocks of the second row on the grave diagram. “Arthur Vartanian and his wife, Carol. Ages fifty-six and fifty-two. Come from a small town in Georgia called Dutton.”
“And he’s a freakin’ judge,” Nick added, slumping into the chair beside Jen.
“Interesting,” Scarborough said. “Arthur Vartanian was the one murder of passion. Maybe he sentenced the killer to prison.”
“But why did he kill them here and not in Dutton, Georgia?” Katherine asked. “And why leave those two empty graves?”
Vito sighed. “We’ll add those questions to the list. Let’s cover the tape first.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Scarborough said. “Nick wanted me to hear it.”
Nick handed Jen a CD and she put it in her laptop, positioning the small speakers she’d connected and turning the laptop to Nick. “I’ve listened to this four or five times already,” Nick said. “There are periods of dead tape, so we’ll fast-forward through those. Electronics cleaned it up as best they could. Part of the static is that it’s a cell phone. The other part is that the phone is covered, probably in a pocket or something.”
“We checked Jill Ellis’s LUDs.” Jen said. “She made a call to Greg’s cell phone at 3:30 yesterday afternoon. She received this call at 4:25.”
Nick hit play and the CD began with a ragged moan that made everyone flinch.
“Scream all you want. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I’ve killed them all.” It went on, the killer promising to make Greg suffer and Greg pleading pitifully. “It’s time for your ride in my time machine. Now you’ll see what happens to thieves.”
Nick fast-forwarded. “He drags him for a minute, then there’s a bang, like a door being opened too hard. And then this.” He hit play and they heard squeaking that echoed softly. “There’s about five minutes of dead space. And then . . .” He hit play.
There was a scraping sound, then the killer’s voice. “Welcome to my dungeon, Mr. Sanders. You will not enjoy your stay.”
Another thud, then the volume dropped. “We think he took off Greg’s coat and dropped it next to him. Greg’s cell phone’s still connected, but it gets hard to hear in some places.” Nick’s jaw tightened. “In others it’s way too loud.”
“You are a thief and . . . subject to penalties . . . law.” More dragging and crashing and fevered pleas from Greg Sanders that nauseated Vito. Then more squeaking.
“He’s rolling something,” Nick said, then closed his eyes tight, waiting.
The scream left sweat beading on Vito’s forehead. “What the hell was that?”
“Don’t worry,” Nick said grimly. “You’ll get to hear it again.”
And they did, as Greg Sanders screamed again. “You bastard. You fucking bastard. Oh, God.” A big crash, then Greg’s screams became moans.
“See what you’ve made me do. What a mess. Sit up. Sit up.” There was scraping and more dragging and the labored breathing of exertion. “Now we can proceed.”
“You . . . you bastard.” It was Greg’s voice, very faint. “My hand . . . My . . .” A broken sob of anguish.
“And . . . foot. See, you . . . common thief . . . stole . . . church . . . special punishment.”
More words followed. Vito leaned forward to hear them, but jerked back when Greg shrieked again. It was a hideous wail, part agony, part terror. It didn’t sound human.
Liz lifted her hands. “Nick, turn it off. That’s enough.”
Nick nodded and stopped the CD, leaving a thick silence broken only by the sound of their own heavy breathing. “It pretty much ends there,” Nick said. “Greg screams some more, then I think he passes out. After five minutes of dead space the tape ends. One of the guys in Electronics is trying to place the sounds, the squeaks and bangs.”
Scarborough exhaled quietly. “I’ve been a psychologist for twenty years. I’ve never heard anything like this. Your killer showed no remorse, and beyond the slamming and banging, I heard no real rage in his voice. There was only disdain and contempt.”
Jen took her hand from her mouth where it had been clamped throughout most of the tape. “He said ‘Stole . . . church,’” she said unsteadily. “Greg stole in a church, from a church? Maybe he killed Greg in a church?”
“Before he started cutting his foot, he was chanting. I heard ‘ecclesia,’” Tim said.
“I heard it, too. It’s Latin for ‘church,’” Vito said. “I was an altar boy,” he added when Nick looked surprised. “Really. I was.”
Tim dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. “Same here. I heard that word more than enough times during mass. The question is, why did he use it?”
“I’d like to know what he did with Gregory’s hand and foot,” Katherine said quietly. “They weren’t with the body.”
“Or anywhere near the scene,” Jen added. “I even brought in cadaver dogs.”
Vito looked at Thomas. “He said Greg was going to ride on his time machine, then welcomed him to his dungeon. Is he crazy?”
Thomas shook his head forcefully. “In a clinical sense, almost certainly not. He’s acquired instruments of torture, whether he bought them or made them himself. He’s lured his victims with planning and forethought. He’s not crazy. I think the time machine reference is part of his . . . fun.”
“Fun,” Vito said bitterly. “I can’t wait to find this guy.”
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that Greg’s phone had a GPS,” Liz said.
Nick shook his head. “Throwaway. His old cell was disconnected for nonpayment.”
Beverly cleared her throat. “He found Greg through the model site. Greg’s résumé is posted, but his Septic Service ads aren’t listed. I guess he wasn’t proud of them.”
“So Munch didn’t know he was a local icon,” Nick said. “Coupled with his charmin’ drawl”—Nick accentuated his own—“we can assume he’s not from ’round here.”
Vito nodded. “Munch has a southern accent, as did the Vartanians. Coincidence?”
“At the risk of making myself a suspect,” Nick said dryly, “no, not a coincidence.”
“The Vartanians were from Georgia,” Katherine said, her brows crunched in thought. “So was Claire Reynolds.”
“You’re right,” Vito agreed. “Again, not a coincidence. In fact, it’s our first solid link between victims other than the UCanModel website. Perhaps the Vartanian family can tell us if Claire and Arthur and Carol knew each other. How about the autopsy reports?”
“I autopsied Claire Reynolds and the elderly lady on the first row. I got nothing more to help you identify the old woman. She had a broken neck, just like Carol Vartanian and Claire. I did get the final report from the lab on the silicone spray. It’s a special blend. They didn’t know who made it.”
From his folder Vito pulled the magazine that he’d gotten from Dr. Pfeiffer that morning. “Claire’s doctor said companies advertise their lotions in the back. Claire definitely would have used lotion, but her doctor said she bought it from him.”
Jen took the magazine. “She could have bought it from one of these, too. I’ll work on tracking the special formula to one of these manufacturers.”
“Thanks. Here are the Claire letters. One’s from Pfeiffer, the other from the library.”
Jen took the letters, as well. “I’ll get them to the lab, along with examples of Claire’s handwriting. We’ll see if anything shakes.”
“Good. Bev and Tim, what did you find at UCanModel dotcom?”
“Nothing for a while,” Bev said. “We were searching models who’d either gotten hits on their résumé or e-mail
s from E. Munch. Interestingly, Munch only e-mailed four people—Warren, Brittany, Bill, and Greg. Nobody else.”
Vito frowned. “That’s hard to believe. How could he be sure they’d accept?”
“It’s like he knew something else,” Nick mused. “Blackmail?”
“More like financials,” Brent Yelton said. “All the victims had overdrawn checking accounts, owed thousands on their credit cards, and had credit scores in the toilet.”
“So we still have nothing,” Nick said darkly, but Beverly was smiling.
“No, we said he didn’t e-mail anybody else as Munch,” she said, “but we kept thinking about what Jen said this morning. That E. Munch meant something. So we Googled and came up with this.” She pulled an art book from under the printouts. It was open to a painting Vito recognized.
It was a surreal, ghoulish-looking character whose mouth yawned open hideously. Just like Greg Sanders’s had this afternoon. “The Scream,” Vito said.
“Edvard Munch,” Scarborough added. “How apropos, given the way he made Gregory scream. This guy is one scary, very thorough sociopath.”
Beverly flipped to another picture, an even scarier one in a medieval style, with demons wreaking havoc on lost souls in grisly, macabre ways. “This is Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. A model named Kay Crawford got an e-mail from one H. Bosch yesterday afternoon. She hadn’t answered the e-mail yet.”
“And we got her computer before it fried,” Brent added with satisfaction. “Bosch wanted to hire her for a documentary.”
“She’s agreed to help us,” Tim said. “We could set a trap for this bastard.”
A smile started across Vito’s face. “I like it. A lot. I think her help will mainly be her silence, but let’s get her in here first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you’ve got her computer, can you answer the e-mail and say you want the job?”
Brent nodded. “I made a full sector image of Kay Crawford’s hard drive, so if the virus’s timer is triggered by a reply like I think it is, then we’ll have a backup.”
“Excellent. And Liz.” Vito turned to her. “You said you’d gotten a hit from Interpol.”
