7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  Sophie drew an appreciative breath when Vito came through the bullpen door, sending every nerve in her body sizzling.

  He smiled at her as he and Nick crossed the room. “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

  “Nah. I’ll live. Which I imagine was the point.” Which she was smart enough to concede without argument. “Where are you going?” she added when he put on his coat.

  “New York City,” Vito answered. “It’s about the game.” He put the game CD on his desk and she picked it up. “Be careful with that. Brent says that game’s gold.”

  She tilted her head looking at the back cover. “So is the company.”

  Nick was watching her. “Brent meant you couldn’t find the game in the stores.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. But the company’s name is Oro. It means ‘gold’ in both Spanish and Italian.” Sophie squinted. “Oro is an acronym. Under their logo are little words, but the font’s too small. Do you have a bigger picture of their logo?”

  Vito opened the company’s website on his computer and Sophie leaned close to the screen as the dragon soared. “These words aren’t Spanish or Italian. They’re Dutch.”

  “Makes sense,” Vito said. “Their president’s from Holland. What do they mean?”

  “Well, the R is rijkdom. It means wealth. The bigger of the two Os is onderhoud, which is . . . entertainment or fun. The smallest O . . .” She frowned. “Overtreffen. To go over, do better.” She looked up at Vito. “Maybe to transcend, become more.”

  “R is the biggest letter,” Vito observed. “I guess we know what oRo’s priorities are.”

  “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

  He was looking through his files. “Just for the day probably.”

  “What should I do while you’re gone? I can’t stay here all day.”

  “I know,” he muttered, but offered no suggestions as he stacked folders.

  “I’m Joan of Arc at ten,” she added wryly. “And the Viking queen at one and four-thirty.”

  “You need a new repertoire,” Nick said, zipping up his coat. “You’re gettin’ stale.”

  “I know. I’m thinking Marie Antoinette, before she lost her head, of course. Or maybe Boudiccea, Celtic Warrior Queen.” She sucked in a cheek. “She fought topless.”

  Vito’s hands froze on the folders. “That is so not fair, Sophie.”

  “Yeah,” Nick echoed faintly. “Really so not fair.”

  She laughed. “Now we’re even for making me come in so early.” She sobered. “Vito, I don’t want to be stupid, but I have responsibilities. I’ll be careful. I’ll call before I leave and when I get there. But I can’t sit here all day.”

  “I’ll ask Liz to get you an escort to the museum. Wait until she can. Please, Sophie, just until we locate Lombard or his pal Clint.”

  “Or Brewster,” she murmured. “It could have been either of them.”

  Vito kissed her hard. “Just wait for Liz, okay? Oh, and if you get a chance, Liz has that picture of the Sanders kid. He had a brand on his cheek. A letter T.”

  “Okay.” Then she frowned. “You’re the second person in two days to ask me about branding.”

  Vito had walked halfway to the door, but stopped and slowly turned. “What?”

  She shrugged. “It’s nothing. One of my students asked me for some research sources on branding, for a paper he was writing.”

  She watched Vito and Nick look at each other. “What’s this student’s name?”

  Sophie shook her head. “No way. His name’s John Trapper, but . . . no way. I’ve known John for months. And he’s a paraplegic in a wheelchair. There is no way he could have done this.”

  Vito’s mouth went flat. “I don’t like coincidences, Sophie. We’ll check him out.”

  “Vito . . .” She sighed. “Okay. It’ll be a waste of your time, but I know you have to.”

  Vito clenched his jaw. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere without an escort.”

  “I promise. Now go. I’ll be fine.”

  Thursday, January 18, 9:15 A.M.

  “This is so embarrassing,” Sophie muttered.

  “Better to be embarrassed than to be dead,” Officer Lyons said mildly.

  “I know. But driving me here in a cruiser, and now you’re walking me to the door . . . Everybody’s going to think I’m in trouble,” she grumbled.

  “Lieutenant Sawyer’s orders. I could write you a note, if that would help.”

  Sophie laughed. She had sounded like a disgruntled first grader. “That’s okay.” She stopped at the door of the Albright and shook Lyons’s hand. “Thank you.”

  He touched his hat. “Call Sawyer’s office when you want to come back.”

  Patty Ann’s eyes widened as Sophie came in. “You were with the cops?”

  Goth Wednesday was over. Patty Ann was Brooklyn again, and Sophie remembered the tryouts for Guys and Dolls were tonight. “Good luck on the audition, Patty Ann.”

  “What’s wrong?” Patty asked in what might have been her normal voice. It had been so long since she’d heard it, Sophie wasn’t sure. “Why are cops bringing you to work?”

  “Cops?” Ted came out of his office, frowning. “Were the police here again?”

  “I was helping them with a case,” she said, then wished she’d taken Lyons up on the note when Ted and Patty Ann did not look convinced. “I’m dating one of the detectives and I had car trouble, so he had an officer give me a ride.” Kind of true.

  Patty Ann relaxed and her eyes went sly. “The dark one or the redhead?”

  “The dark one. But the redhead is too old for you, so forget about him.”

  She pouted. “Shoot.”

  Ted was still frowning. “First your motorcycle and now your car? We need to talk.”

  She followed him into his office and he shut the door, then sat behind his desk. “Sit down.” When she had, he leaned forward, his expression worried. “Sophie, are you in trouble? Please be honest with me.”

  “No. Both of the things I said were true. I’m helping the police and dating one of the cops. That’s all, Ted. Why is this such a big deal?”

  He looked grim. “I got a call last night. From a police officer in New York. She said they needed to get in touch with you. That it was official business.”

  Lombard’s wife had called from a New York area code. “You gave her my cell.”

  Ted’s chin lifted. “I did.”

  Sophie flipped open her phone and found the log of the call from Lombard’s wife. “Is this the number that called you last night?”

  Ted took her phone, compared the number to his caller ID. “Yes.”

  “She wasn’t the police. You can call the New York police and check if you want.”

  Ted started to relax. He handed her back the phone. “Then who was she?”

  “It’s a long story, Ted. She’s a jealous wife who thinks I’m stealing her husband.”

  His suspicion became indignation. “You wouldn’t do that, Sophie.”

  She had to smile. “Thanks. Now, listen, I have some ideas before the tour this morning that I wanted to run by you.” She leaned forward and told him about Yuri. “He said he would come and talk to a tour group. I’m thinking we could add an exhibit on the Cold War and communism. It’s not the period your grandfather studied, but—”

  Ted was nodding, slowly. “I like it. A lot. Not enough people think of that as history.”

  “I’m not sure I did until yesterday. It was his hands, Ted. Made me think.”

  Ted studied her carefully. “You seem to be thinking a lot lately. I like that, too.”

  Uncertain how to respond to that, Sophie stood up. “You know, we had a visitor yesterday who said he was from a retirement home and looking for an interesting outing for his fellow residents. Seems to me that they’d be more than willing to come in and talk to school groups. Don’t limit it to wars. Have them talk about radio programs and TV and inventions and how they felt when Neil Armstrong stepped
on the moon.”

  “Another good idea. Did you get the man’s name?”

  “No, but he said he was going to book a tour with Patty Ann. She’d have his name.” Sophie opened the door, then paused, her hand on the doorknob. “How do you feel about adding some more tours? Joan and the Viking queen are gettin’ kind of stale.”

  Ted looked happily puzzled both at the suggestion and the twang she’d borrowed from Nick Lawrence. “Sophie, you always say you’re an archeologist, not an actress.”

  Sophie grinned. “But acting is in my blood. My father was an actor, you know.”

  Ted nodded. “I know. And your grandmother was an opera diva. I’ve always known.”

  Sophie’s grin faded. “You never said anything.”

  “I was hoping you would,” Ted said. “It’s nice to finally get to know you, Sophie.”

  Sophie felt both welcomed and chastised. “How do you feel about Marie Antoinette?”

  Ted smiled at her. “Before or after she lost her head?”

  New York City, Thursday, January 18, 9:55 A.M.

  “Damn traffic,” Nick grumbled. “I hate New York.”

  They were finally moving after having inched their way out of the Holland Tunnel. “This wasn’t the best hour to come,” Vito agreed. “We should have taken the train.”

  “Shoulda coulda,” Nick said sourly. “What the hell is that?”

  Vito pulled his chirping cell phone from his pocket. “Stop grumbling. It’s just my cell. I have messages.” He looked over his shoulder. “I must have lost the signal in there.” Then he frowned. “Liz called four times in twenty minutes.” He called back, his pulse starting to race. “Liz, it’s Vito. What’s happened? Is it Sophie?”

  “No.” Liz sounded exasperated. “I had an officer drive her to her museum and walk her to the door. I have two minutes before my press conference. I need Tino’s number.”

  “Why?”

  “An hour ago, a woman came to the precinct looking for whoever was leading the Greg Sanders investigation.” Liz was talking fast as she walked. “She said she was a waitress and saw Greg on Tuesday. He was waiting in her bar for a man.”

  “Munch. Yes. Did she see the man?”

  “She saw a man. She said Greg left without paying for his drink. Then an old man who’d been sitting at the bar followed him. The waitress followed them both, but when she got to the corner, they were driving away in a truck. I called for the department artist but she’s off shift. I don’t want to wait so long this witness forgets the old man’s face. So . . . damn. I’m late. You call Tino. Ask him to come in as soon as he can.”

  Thursday, January 18, 11:15 A.M.

  “Mr. Harrington is not here. Mr. Van Zandt is in meetings and can’t be disturbed.”

  Vito carefully placed his palms on Van Zandt’s secretary’s desk and leaned forward. “Ma’am, we are homicide detectives. He really does want to see us. Now.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, but her chin came up. “Detective . . .”

  “Ciccotelli,” Vito said. “And Lawrence. From Philadephia. Call his office again. Tell him we’ll be knocking in sixty seconds.”

  Her lips thinned and she picked up her phone, then bent over it, cupping the receiver, as if at eighteen inches away Vito couldn’t hear every word anyway. “Jager, they say they are police detectives. . . . Yes, homicide. They’re very insistent.” She nodded briskly. “He’ll be out momentarily.”

  The door to Van Zandt’s office opened, and out walked the man, looking just like his picture. He was big and brawny and for a moment Vito thought perhaps . . .

  But then he spoke. “I am Jager Van Zandt,” he said and his voice sounded nothing like the voice on the tape. “How can I help you?” He regarded them with a cool detachment that Vito sensed was more defensive than arrogant. But arrogant, too.

  “We’re interested in your game, Mr. Van Zandt,” Vito said. “Behind Enemy Lines.”

  There was no reaction in the man’s eyes or face as he inclined his head in a nod. “Come into my office.” He closed the door behind them and gestured to two chairs that sat before a huge desk. Vito was reminded of Brewster’s office. “Please, sit.”

  Jager sat behind his desk and inclined his head, waiting for them to speak.

  By previous agreement, Vito and Nick had decided not to reveal the “No one can hear you” line they’d heard on the tape. Instead Vito showed him a printout of the French woman who’d been strangled in the game.

  Van Zandt nodded. “Clothilde.”

  “She’s strangled in that scene,” Vito said.

  “Yes.” Van Zandt lifted a brow. “You are perhaps offended at the violence? Or that the violence was perpetrated by an American? In the game, of course.”

  “Well, yes, we are offended at the violence,” Nick said. “But that’s not why we’re here. Who drew that picture, Mr. Van Zandt?”

  Van Zandt remained impassive. “My art director is Derek Harrington. He can give you information on any of the artists.”

  “He didn’t come in today,” Vito said. “Your secretary said so. Any idea why?”

  “We are business partners, Detective. Nothing more.”

  Blessing Brent, Vito smiled. “I read that you’ve been friends since college.”

  “D’y’all have a fallin’-out?” Nick drawled, and for the first time Van Zandt showed a flicker of response. Just a small flash of anger in his eyes, extinguished immediately.

  “We have not agreed in recent days. Derek’s tastes have become . . . violent.”

  Vito blinked. “Really? He looks so nice in his picture on your website.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, Detective.”

  Vito drew another photo from his folder. “Yes, they can. Perhaps you can help us clear something up.” He slid the picture of Claire Reynolds next to the screenshot of Clothilde. But there was nothing. Not even a flicker to indicate Van Zandt was impacted in any way. Surprise would have been the natural response, but there was nothing.

  “The resemblance is uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?” Nick asked.

  “Yes. But they say everyone looks like someone.” One side of his mouth lifted. “They say I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  “It’s just the accent,” Vito said and Van Zandt’s smile disappeared. “We’d like to find Mr. Harrington. Can your secretary give us his address?”

  “Of course.” He picked up the phone. “Raynette, please get Derek’s home address for the detectives. Then please show them out.” He said all that while holding Vito’s gaze in defiant coldness. “Is there anything else, Detective?”

  “Not right now. Will you be here if we have more questions before we go home?”

  He glanced down at the calendar on his desk. “I will be here. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood and opened his office door. “My secretary will help you now.”

  Vito stood up, intentionally leaving the photo of Claire Reynolds on Van Zandt’s desk. The door closed at their backs with a firm click. Van Zandt’s secretary was glaring at them. “Mr. Harrington’s address.” She held a piece of paper in her hand.

  Vito slid the paper in his folder. “When was Mr. Harrington last in the office?”

  “Tuesday,” she said stonily. “He left right after lunch and didn’t return.”

  Vito said nothing more until he and Nick were out on the sidewalk. “What a snake.”

  “Everybody looks like somebody,” Nick mimicked in his best Arnold imitation.

  “He was expecting us,” Vito said as they started for Nick’s car.

  “You caught that, too? His secretary didn’t say we were homicide when she announced us, just that we were detectives, but then she said ‘Yes, homicide.’”

  “Like he’d asked her first,” Vito mused. “I wonder who Van Zandt thinks is dead.”

  “First round of drinks when we’re done says we don’t find Derek at that address.”

  “Sucker bet, Nick,” Vito said as Nick slid behind the wheel.


  “Shit. I was hoping now that you’re blinded by love I could slide that one right past.”

  Vito chuckled. “Just drive, okay?”

  Nick pulled away from the curb, one brow raised. “You didn’t disagree. So what’s the deal, you and Sophie? Are you blinded by love?” The last was said in a teasing tone that didn’t hide the more serious question underneath.

  You don’t love me. Her bitter words following that first disastrous, unforgettable . . . mating came back to hit him in the head and now he thought he understood them a little better. Vito wondered if anyone had really loved her other than Anna and her uncle. Her mother was abusive, her father rather cold. Her aunt was selfish and her first lover a cheating snake. Quite a cast of characters.

  “Vito?” Nick’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I asked you a question.”

  “And I’m trying to answer. Sophie’s . . . She’s . . .”

  “Smart, funny, sexy as hell?”

  Yes. All of those things. But more than those things. “Important,” Vito finally said. “She’s important. Harrington lives west of here, so turn left at the corner.”

  Thursday, January 18, 11:45 A.M.

  Philadelphia had a lot of hotels. After showing his parents’ picture to staff at more than thirty hotels, Daniel Vartanian finally found a desk clerk who remembered his mother.

  “She was sick, man,” Ray Garrett said. “I thought Housekeeping would find her dead in the bed. She should have been in a hospital.”

  “Can you check the dates they stayed?”

  “Against policy. I wish I could help, but without seeing a badge, I’d lose my job.”

  I know what your son did. He wasn’t on duty, but Daniel pulled his shield from his pocket anyway. “I’m with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” he said. “I’d appreciate any help you can give me. The woman is sick, and she needs to see her doctor.”

  Ray looked at him for a long moment. “She’s your mother, isn’t she?”

  Daniel hesitated. He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

  “Okay. What name were they registered under?”

  “Vartanian.” Daniel spelled it.

  Ray shook his head. “We have no records of a Vartanian. I’m sorry.”