7 Die For Me

by Karen Rose

  So she had to relax. She thought of soothing music. She thought of Vito’s Che faro. Remembering the way he’d looked as he sang to Anna . . . Anna. Please be alive, Gran. Please be safe.

  She prayed for Anna. She prayed that Simon had died in whatever exploded.

  The ceiling above her head creaked, loud and long, and her heart sank. Simon wasn’t dead. He was walking around up there. So she prayed that he would stay where he was, at least until the tears that seeped from her closed eyes dried.

  Saturday, January 20, 11:45 P.M.

  Liz set a box down hard on Vito’s desk. “Vito, I thought I told you to go home.”

  She frowned at Maggy who sat at Nick’s desk and at Jen who’d pulled a chair up to Vito’s desk and propped her feet on the edge, her laptop on her thighs. Brent had assumed a similar pose and power cords crisscrossed their legs.

  “And you three,” Liz accused, “encouraging him, against my orders.”

  Jen shrugged. “He got crullers.” She nudged the box with her toe. “Have one.”

  Nick came in with another big evidence box. “Hey, crullers. I’m starved.”

  Liz’s sigh was exasperated, and had they not found what they’d been looking for, it would not have boded well at all. “Okay, so what’s going on here?”

  Vito looked up from his computer screen. “He’s a network engineer.”

  Liz shook her head as if to clear it. “Who’s a what?”

  “Simon Vartanian is a network engineer.” Vito pulled a sheet of paper from the printer. “We got into his tax records.”

  Liz frowned. “How? Or don’t I want to know?”

  Jen shrugged. “Brent had a friendly conversation with a fellow computer geek who happens to work for the IRS.”

  “Who happened to be a friend of a friend of a friend,” Brent said with a smile at Maggy. “We got the Social Security number Simon used when he enrolled at Sophie’s college as John Trapper. He paid his college tuition by check and that checking account had a number of deposits over the last year. Trapper had his own business setting up computer networks.”

  Vito handed Liz the paper. “John Trapper was issued 1099 forms by twenty firms last year.” He shot Liz an ironic look. “He was a frickin’ consultant.”

  Vito could see the wheels turning in Liz’s mind. “Who didn’t work for free,” she said.

  “No.” Vito smiled grimly. “Not by a long shot.”

  “Vito was wondering where Simon was getting all his money,” Jen said. “He was getting his medical care by stealing Frasier Lewis’s medical benefits. But Simon had to have a place to live, some pretty expensive computer equipment, and cash to buy his goodies from Kyle Lombard. Claire didn’t have any money, so he didn’t steal it from her and he didn’t steal it from his parents. So what’s he been living on?”

  “Follow the money,” Nick mused with his mouth full of cruller. “Smart.”

  “Okay,” Liz said. “I’m hooked. What does a network engineer do, exactly?”

  “Well, he sets up networks,” Brent said. “Connects computers in an office to each other and to other systems. All these computers are hooked into the PD’s network. There are files on shared servers you can see if you have access. There are databases you can search, if you have access. The key here is access.”

  Liz pulled a doughnut from the box. “Keep talking, Brent. You haven’t lost me yet.”

  “Big companies like Philly PD have an internal IT department to set up the networks and make sure everybody can get to the information they need. E-mail accounts, et cetera. But you gotta make sure people have access on a need-to-know basis. Everybody can download medical insurance forms from HR, but a mail clerk shouldn’t get access to AFIS. Jen gets access because she needs to run fingerprints.”

  “Big companies have IT departments,” Vito said. “Little companies that have ten employees still need a network, but they hire a consultant to set it up.”

  “And Simon was one of these consultants.” Liz nodded. “I’m guessing that Simon didn’t limit his evil deed–doing to his art. He stole from these companies?”

  Brent smiled. “Not from the companies. From their clients. Every network has an administrator, the guy who sets up who gets access to what. We’re guessing Simon left a back door open in some or all of these companies’ networks, giving himself admin power. He could go back into their systems at any time to see anything on anybody.”

  “Like financials,” Nick said. “The models—Warren and Brittany, Bill Melville and Greg Sanders. That’s how he knew they were desperate for cash. Sonofabitch.”

  Vito tapped his printout. “Twenty companies hired Frasier Lewis. Among them are six investment brokers, three realtors, and two medical insurance companies.”

  “But now we’re stuck,” Maggy said. “We’ve been checking these companies for anything that links them to Vartanian or one of our victims, but so far, nothing has.”

  “God.” Liz took the paper from Vito’s hands. “Simon really thought of everything.” Then she laughed, a smug yet joyful sound. “Good thing we did, too.” She handed the paper to Nick. “Look at the sixth company down, Nick.”

  Nick’s grin was sharp. “Fuckin’ bastard.” He slapped Vito on the back and put the list on the desk. “Chick, that company handled all the finances for Winchester’s aunt.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the evidence box. “Five years of broker’s statements.”

  “Rock Solid Investments is a brokerage firm that has a huge client base of retirees,” Liz added. “Lots of old people have their money there.”

  “Maybe the old woman buried next to Claire did, too.” Vito drew a breath. They were close. He only prayed they wouldn’t be too late. “Okay. So we need to do what?”

  “I’d say we need a warrant to search Rock Solid’s client files,” Maggy said. “I hope the judge on call is an insomniac. Who wants to go?”

  Vito got up, but Liz and Nick each grabbed one of his shoulders and pushed him back down. “Dammit, Liz,” Vito gritted. “This isn’t funny.”

  Liz got serious fast. “Maggy, take Nick. Brent, you go, too, in case they need someone to speak computerese with their network guy. Vito, you’re staying with me. If you want to help Sophie, get some rest. You’ll need it when you find Simon Vartanian.”

  Sunday, January 21, 3:10 A.M.

  The phone on Vito’s desk rang and he snatched it up. “Ciccotelli.”

  “It’s Tess. I know you’d call if you’d heard anything. But we’re all here, the whole family, sitting in your living room, worrying about you. We just wanted you to know.”

  He could picture it, his family gathered to support him, and he yearned to go be with them, to take their comfort. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about Sophie.”

  “We are. Don’t worry. We have plenty of worry to go around,” Tess added wryly. “Don’t give up. I guarantee Sophie knows you’re doing everything you can to find her.”

  If anyone understood, it was Tess. “Thank you. Tell them all thank you. I’ll call you when I can.” He hung up, then sat back, arms crossed tight over his chest. It had been ten hours since Simon had taken Sophie, three since Maggy, Nick, and Brent had gone off in search of Rock Solid Investment’s client list. “Where the hell are they?”

  Jen looked up from her laptop sympathetically. “Try to relax, Vito. I know it’s hard.”

  Maggy Lopez had gotten the warrant easily enough. But finding someone at Rock Solid Investments who had access to the full client list was turning out to be harder than expected. The one broker who played network administrator in his spare time was on vacation and couldn’t be reached. Nobody else seemed to know all the passwords and ironically, someone had actually suggested they call their network consultant.

  Vito tried to relax, but it wasn’t going to happen. His gaze settled on the CD Brent had made from the camera feed. He remembered Sophie watching that movie of her father’s, because she “needed to see him.” Now Vito needed to see her. He slid the CD in his
computer, then saw himself sitting next to Anna’s bed, and Sophie waiting at the doorway, that plastic pitcher in her hands.

  He muted the sound, then fast-forwarded until he saw Sophie again, the pitcher in her hand and tears on her face. He watched her expression soften and her eyes change. And saw what he hadn’t seen Friday night because he’d been focused on Anna—Sophie looking at him with love in her eyes. Neither of them had said the words. She’d been so scared of messing things up, but now he’d seen for himself. Vito closed the file, then closed his eyes and did what he hadn’t done in two years. He prayed.

  Sunday, January 21, 4:15 A.M.

  Nick came running in, clutching a stack of papers in his hand. “We got the list.”

  Vito was on his feet, grabbing it, but it was page after page of names that meant nothing. He looked up at Liz who’d rushed from her office at the sound of Nick’s voice.

  “What are we supposed to do with this?” he said, frustrated.

  Brent was right behind Nick, laptop under his arm. “We sort and filter. Katherine said she thought the old woman in the graveyard was between sixty and seventy, so I ran the search on female clients fifty-five to eighty, just to be sure. There are over three hundred names. When I just look at sixty to seventy, it’s still over two hundred.”

  Vito sank into his chair. “Two hundred.” He’d hoped a single name would pop. But the others weren’t discouraged. They were energized and Vito drew from their energy.

  Jen was pacing. “Okay, let’s think. What did he steal from these people? Money?”

  “Real estate,” Liz said. “He took Winchester’s aunt’s field. Maybe he took another field from somebody else. A field near a quarry, far enough out that he could do what he wanted without raising suspicion.”

  “Or anybody being able to hear,” Nick added.

  Vito closed his eyes, despair threatening again. “Of course we’ve also assumed he took Sophie to the place he took everyone else.”

  “Don’t borrow trouble,” Nick ordered. “Until we have a reason to think otherwise, there’s no reason to believe Simon will do anything more than stick to his routine.”

  Vito stood up with a hard nod. “Okay, we’re going to split these lists and figure out which of these people have property in the USDA soil areas that match the grave fill dirt. Then we find out which of those are homes with more than one story.”

  “The elevator shaft,” Nick said. “Don’t forget about the old woman’s dental fillings. Check for anyone who lived in Europe before 1960.”

  “Daniel called me last night,” Liz said. “He and his sister are back in town and want to help. I’ll put them on call to give us information if we end up in a hostage negotiation.”

  Vito made himself breathe. “Then let’s move. He’s had Sophie eleven hours now.”

  Sunday, January 21, 4:50 A.M.

  Simon leaned away from his computer, stretching his shoulders. Alan Brewster had been a lot heavier than he looked. Carrying him out to the barn for the filming had been the right choice, though. The mess from Brewster’s exploding head would have been bad enough, but percussion from the grenade had blown part of the barn wall away. Had he executed the film inside, he might have damaged his studio.

  He’d planned to leave Brewster’s body outside, but discovered the lighting in the barn hadn’t been sufficient to achieve the level of detail he required while filming. The video was grainy and the camera lens had been dirtied by flying debris of the human variety. So he’d brought Brewster back inside to get a closer look at what remained. Of course, carrying Brewster back indoors had been a tad easier. He estimated Brewster’s head alone had weighed a good ten pounds.

  With a click of his mouse Simon replayed the changes he’d made to Bill Melville’s death by flail. As much as he hated to admit it, Van Zandt had been one hundred percent correct. Seeing the knight’s head explode made playing Inquisitor a far more exciting experience. Not authentic, but damn exciting.

  Simon rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Sophie would provide both authenticity and excitement and he couldn’t wait. He checked his watch. Another few hours and his leg would be fully charged and ready to roll.

  As would parts of Sophie.

  Sunday, January 21, 5:30 A.M.

  “Dammit.” Vito stared at the USDA soil map, pock-marked with nearly forty thumbtacks representing each old woman who lived in the identified soil area and held an account with Rock Solid Investments. And the clock continued to tick. Almost thirteen hours had passed through their fingers.

  “There are still too many names,” Nick muttered. “And not one of them German.”

  “The old woman could have a German maiden name,” Jen said. “We have to start making calls. It’s the only way.”

  “But if we find the right one, Simon will answer,” Brent protested. “We’ll tip our hand.”

  Everyone looked at Vito expectantly. For a moment his brain spun uselessly, then it clicked. “Next of kin?” he asked. “Do we have next of kin contacts on these brokerage applications for Rock Solid?”

  Brent nodded excitedly. “It’s all in the database.”

  “Then we split it up.” Vito blinked at the list of names he held in his hand. “Nick, you’ve got Dina Anderson to Selma Crane. Jen, you take Margaret Diamond up through Priscilla Henley.” He gave Liz, Maggy, and Brent their names, then took the remaining share. And prayed again.

  Sunday, January 21, 7:20 A.M.

  “Sophie.” He sang it sweetly. “I’m back.”

  When Sophie didn’t respond, he chuckled. “You’re quite an actress. But then, it’s in your blood isn’t it? Your father was an actor and your grandmother an opera diva. But then . . . I’ve always known. I was hoping you’d tell me yourself.”

  No. It couldn’t be. Sophie did her best not to tense. The words had been Ted’s.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sophie.”

  But no. She knew what Simon looked like. Ted was big. Was he that big? She couldn’t remember. She was so tired and the fear was backing up in her throat.

  “I’ve been thinking about Marie Antoinette. With her head of course.” He ran his fingers across her throat and she flinched and he laughed. “Open your eyes, Sophie.”

  Slowly she did, praying it would not be Ted. A face was an inch from hers, broad boned, hard jawed. The smile gleamed, as did the bald head. He had no eyebrows.

  “Boo,” he whispered and she flinched again. But it wasn’t Ted. Thank God.

  Her relief was amazingly short-lived. “Your charade is over, Sophie. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to your fate?”

  She lifted her chin and looked around, horror congealing, clawing in her gut. She saw the chair, as it had looked in the museum. She saw a rack and a table with all the artifacts of torture this man had used to kill so many. She looked down at herself and saw she wore a gown, cream velvet, edged in purple. The thought of him touching her, dressing her . . . She swallowed back a grimace.

  “Do you like the gown?” he asked and she raised her eyes. His expression was one of tolerant amusement without a flicker of nerves or fear. “The cream color will provide a wonderful contrast to your blood.”

  “It’s too small,” Sophie said coldly, proud her voice didn’t shake.

  He shrugged. “It was intended for someone else. I had to make some last minute alterations.”

  “You sew?”

  He smiled, cruelly. “I have a great many talents, Dr. Johannsen, one of which is a proficiency with needles and other sharp implements.”

  She kept her chin lifted and her jaw tight. “What will you do to me?”

  “Well, I really need to give the credit to you. I’d planned something far different until I heard you and your boss talking in the museum. You remember. Marie Antoinette.”

  Sophie fought to keep her voice hard. “Jumped a few centuries, didn’t you?”

  He smiled. “You will be fun to play with, Sophie. I couldn’t get a guillotine, so you’re saf
e on that score. We’ll have to go a little more medieval than that.”

  She clucked her tongue in her cheek. “No pun intended.”

  He stared at her a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. It was a chilling sound, abrasive and . . . mean.

  Mean. Anna. “You tried to kill my grandmother, didn’t you?”

  “Now, Sophie. There is no try. There is only success and failure. Of course I killed your grandmother. I always do what I set out to do.”

  Sophie controlled the wave of grief, just barely. “You sonofabitch.”

  “Language,” he chided. “And you a queen.” He stepped back and she saw a crisp white bed sheet that had been draped across two poles. He tugged at the sheet, and she saw the poles were really tall microphone stands. With a dramatic flourish, Simon pulled the sheet away completely, revealing a raised platform surrounded by a low white fence. In the middle of the platform was a block, curved in on top. Stained with blood.

  “So?” he said. “What do you think?”

  For a moment she could only stare, her brain denying the reality of what her eyes were seeing. It wasn’t possible. It was insane. Not real. But she remembered the others—Warren and Brittany and Bill . . . and Greg. They’d suffered at Simon Vartanian’s hand. He’d do this thing, this hideous terrible thing, of that she had no doubt.

  She tried to remember everything she knew about Vartanian but could only hear Greg Sanders’s screams. The block was bloody. He’d cut off Greg’s hand. A scream rose in her throat and she bit her tongue until she’d forced it back.

  Simon Vartanian was a monster. A sociopath with a hunger for power. A need to dominate. She couldn’t let him. She couldn’t play his game, feed his hunger. She’d play it ballsy, even though every bone in her body shook with fear.