Die for Me

by Karen Rose

  Die for Me

  Karen Rose

  Can you solve the murder? Karen Rose is your host and YOU are the detective. Be the first one to correctly guess WHO KILLED model/socialite Abigail Dafonte and win the cool Grand Prize! Play the game and solve the murder at www.ucanmodel.com.

  Karen Rose

  Die for Me

  Daniel Vartanian 1, 2007

  Dedicated to the memory of Dr. Zoltan J. Kosztolnyik, Professor Emeritus of Medieval History, Texas A &M University.

  Although I never had the privilege of knowing him personally, I have had the honor, privilege, and pleasure of knowing the daughter he raised.

  And as always, to my precious husband Martin.You touch the lives of your students every day, bringing history to life with the same unique combination of passion, intelligence, and acerbic wit that made me fall in love with you twenty-five years ago.

  Whether you’re dressing up like Cleopatra, illustrating the Declaration of Independence using the rock music videos of ’80s hair bands, or explaining the Monroe Doctrine through the “Badger-Badger-Mushroom” Dance, you have assured that no student that passes through your class will ever forget you.

  You inspire me. I love you.

  Acknowledgments

  So many people contributed to my knowledge base as I wrote this book. To all of you-my sincerest thanks!

  Danny Agan for answering all my detective questions and especially for helping my hero locate things underground.

  Tim Bechtel of Environscan, Inc. for background and technical details on ground penetrating radar.

  Niki Ciccotelli for her description of growing up in Philadelphia that was so real that I felt as if I were physically there myself.

  Monty Clark of the Art Institute of Florida in Ft. Lauderdale, for the invaluable and very cool information on video game design and designers.

  Marc Conterato for all things medical and Kay Conterato for clipping all those extremely useful newspaper articles on insurance and hackers.

  Diana Fox for a great title.

  Carleton Hafer for answering all my computer questions in a way I could clearly understand.

  Linda Hafer for the wonderful introduction to opera and for opening a world of music I never thought I would like but that I do!

  Elaine Kriegh for her vivid descriptions of medieval tomb monuments.

  Sonie Lasker, my sempai, for demonstrating weapon technique and teaching me how personally rewarding martial arts can be. Domo arigato.

  Deana Seydel Rivera for showing me Philadephia-and three days before her wedding, no less.

  Loretta Rogers for her motorcycle expertise. How I wish I had the courage to fly on two wheels!

  Sally Schoeneweiss and Mary Pitkin for keeping my Web site organized, functional and beautiful.

  My language advisors: Mary C Turner and Anne Crowder-Merci beaucoup, Bob Busch and Barbara Mulrine-Spasiba, Kris Alice Hohls-Danke, Sarah Hafer-Domo arigato.

  Friends who answered my catch-all questions here and there-Shari Anton, Terri Bolyard, Kathy Caskie, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and Kelley St. John.

  My editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, and my agent, Robin Rue, who make this so much fun.

  As always, all mistakes are my own.

  Prologue

  Philadelphia, Saturday, January 6

  The first thing that hit Warren Keyes was the smell. Ammonia, disinfectant… and something else. What else? Open your eyes, Keyes. He could hear his own voice echo inside his head and he struggled to lift his eyelids. Heavy. They were so heavy, but he fought until they stayed open. It was dark. No. There was a little light. Warren blinked once, then again with more force until a flickering light came into focus.

  It was a torch, mounted on the wall. His heart started thudding hard in his chest. The wall was rock. I’m in a cave. His heart began to race. What the hell is this? He lunged forward and white-hot pain speared down his arms to his back. Gasping, he fell back against something flat and hard.

  He was tied. Oh God. His hands and feet were tied. And he was naked. Trapped. Fear rose from his belly, clawing his insides. He twisted like a wild animal, then fell back again, panting, tasting the disinfectant as he sucked in air. Disinfectant and…

  His breath hitched as he recognized the odor under the disinfectant. Something dead. Rotting. Something died here. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. This isn’t happening. This is just a dream, a nightmare. In a minute I’ll wake up.

  But he wasn’t dreaming. This, whatever it was, was real. He was stretched out on a board on a slight incline, his wrists tied together and his arms pulled up and behind his head. Why? He tried to think, to remember. There was something… a picture in his mind, just beyond his reach. He strained for the memory and realized his head ached-he winced as the pain sent little black spots dancing across his eyes. God, it was like a really bad hangover. But he hadn’t been drinking. Had he?

  Coffee. He remembered drinking coffee, his hands closing around the cup to get warm. He’d been cold. He’d been outside. Running. Why was he running? He rotated his wrists, feeling his raw skin burn, reaching until the tips of his fingers touched rope.

  “So you’re finally awake.”

  The voice came from behind him and he craned his neck, trying to see. Then he remembered and the pressure on his chest lessened a fraction. It was a movie. I’m an actor and we were making a movie. A history documentary. He’d been running with… with what? He grimaced, focusing. A sword, that’s it. He’d been in medieval costume, a knight with a helmet and shield… even chain mail, for God’s sake. The entire scene came back now. He’d changed his clothes, even his underwear, for some scratchy, shapeless burlap that irritated his crotch. He’d had a sword, and he’d carried it as he ran through the woods outside Munch’s studio, yelling at the top of his lungs. He’d felt like a damn idiot, but he’d done it all because it was in the damn script.

  But this-he jerked at the ropes again with no success-this was not in the script.

  “Munch.” Warren’s voice was thick, grating on his dry throat. “What the hell is this?”

  Ed Munch appeared to his left. “I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

  Warren blinked as the dim light from the torch flickered across the man’s face. His heart skipped a beat. Munch had changed. Before he’d been old, shoulders stooped. White hair and a trim mustache. Warren swallowed, his breath shallow. Now Munch stood straight. His mustache was gone. So was his hair, his head shaved shiny bald.

  Munch wasn’t old. Dread coiled in his gut, seething and roiling. The deal was five hundred for the documentary. Cash if he came that day. Warren had been suspicious-it was a lot of money for a history documentary they’d show on PBS if he was lucky. But he’d agreed. One odd old man was no threat.

  But Munch wasn’t old. Bile rose, choking him. What have I done? Close on the heels of that question came the next, more terrifying. What will he do to me?

  “Who are you?” Warren croaked out and Munch held a bottle of water to his lips. Warren pulled away, but Munch grabbed his chin with surprising strength. His dark eyes narrowed and fear made Warren freeze.

  “It’s just water this time,” Munch ground out. “Drink it.”

  Warren spat the mouthful of water back in the man’s face and held himself rigid when Munch raised his fist. But the fist lowered and Munch shrugged.

  “You’ll drink eventually. I need your throat moist.”

  Warren licked his lips. “Why?”

  Munch disappeared behind him again and Warren could hear something rolling. A video camera, Warren saw when Munch rolled it past him, stopping about five feet away. The camera was pointing straight at his face. “Why?” Warren repeated, louder.

  Munch peered through the lens and stepped back. “Because
I need you to scream.” He lifted a brow, his expression surreally bland. “They all screamed. So will you.”

  Horror bubbled up and Warren fought it back. Stay calm. Treat him nice and maybe you can talk your way out of this. He made his lips curve. “Look, Munch, let me go and we’ll call it even. You can keep the sword fight scenes I did already at no charge.”

  Munch just looked at him, his expression still bland. “I never planned to pay you anyway.” He disappeared again and reappeared, pushing another video camera.

  Warren remembered the coffee, remembered Munch’s insistence that he drink it. Just water this time. Rage geysered inside him, momentarily eclipsing the fear. “You drugged me,” he hissed, and he filled his lungs with air. “Somebody help me!” he yelled as loud as he could, but the hoarse sound from his throat was pathetically useless.

  Munch said nothing, just set up a third camera on a boom so that it pointed down. Every movement was methodical, precise. Unhurried. Unconcerned. Unafraid.

  And then Warren knew no one could hear him. The hot rage drained away, leaving only fear, cold and absolute. Warren’s voice shook. There had to be something… some way out. Something he could say. Do. Offer. Beg. He’d beg. “Please, Munch, I’ll do anything…” His words trailed away as Munch’s words replayed in his mind.

  They all screamed. Ed Munch. Warren’s chest constricted, despair making it difficult to breathe. “Munch isn’t your real name. Edvard Munch, the artist.” The painting of a ghoulish figure clutching its face in agony flashed into his mind. “The Scream.”

  “Actually, it’s pronounced ‘Moonk,’ not ‘Munch,’ but nobody ever gets it right. Nobody gets the details right,” he added in a disgusted voice.

  Details. The man had been all about details earlier, frowning when Warren argued against the scratchy underwear. The sword had been real, too. I should have used it on the bastard when I had the chance. “Authenticity,” Warren murmured, repeating what he’d thought had been the ramblings of a crazy old man.

  Munch nodded. “Now you understand.”

  “What will you do?” His own voice was eerily calm.

  One corner of Munch’s mouth lifted. “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Warren dragged in each breath. “Please. Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me go.”

  Munch said nothing. He pushed a cart with a television just beyond the camera at his feet, then checked the focus of each camera with calm precision.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Warren said desperately, once again pulling at the ropes, struggling until his wrists burned and his arms strained in their sockets. The ropes were thick, the knots unyielding. He would not break free.

  “That’s what all the others said. But I have, and I will continue to do so.”

  Others. There had been others. The smell of death was all around, mocking him. Others had died here. He would die here, too. From somewhere deep inside him, courage rallied. He lifted his chin. “My friends will come looking for me. I told my fiancée I was meeting you.”

  Finished with the cameras, Munch turned. His eyes held a contempt that said he knew it was a last, desperate bluff. “No, you didn’t. You told your fiancée you were meeting a friend to help him read lines. You told me so when we met this afternoon. You said this money would pay for a surprise for her birthday. You wanted it to stay a secret. That and your tattoo were the reasons I chose you.” He lifted one shoulder. “Plus, you fit the suit. Not everyone can wear chain mail correctly. So no one will be looking for you. And if they do, they’ll never find you. Accept it-you belong to me.”

  Everything inside him went deathly still. It was true. He had told Munch the money was for a surprise for Sherry. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody would save him. He thought of Sherry, of his mom and dad, of everyone he cared about. They’d wonder where he was. A sob rose in his throat. “You bastard,” he whispered. “I hate you.”

  One side of Munch’s mouth quirked, but his eyes lit up with an amusement that was more terrifying than his smile. “The others said that, too.” He shoved the water bottle at Warren’s mouth again, pinching his nose until he gasped for air. Wildly Warren fought, but Munch forced the water down. “Now, Mr. Keyes, we begin. Don’t forget to scream.”

  Chapter One

  Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 10:25

  A.M.

  Detective Vito Ciccotelli got out of his truck, his skin still vibrating. The beat-up old dirt road that led to the crime scene had only served to further rile his already churning stomach. He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. After fourteen years on the force, the odor of death still came as a putrid and unwelcome surprise.

  “That shot my shocks to holy hell.” Nick Lawrence grimaced, slamming the door of his sensible sedan. “Shit.” His Carolina drawl drew the curse out to four full syllables.

  Two uniforms stood staring down into a hole halfway across the snow-covered field. Handkerchiefs covered their faces. A woman was crouched down in the hole, the top of her head barely visible. “I guess CSU’s already uncovered the body,” Vito said dryly.

  “Y’think?” Nick bent down and shoved the cuffs of his pants into the cowboy boots he kept polished to a spit shine. “Well, Chick, let’s get this show on the road.”

  “In a minute.” Vito reached behind his seat for his snow boots, then flinched when a thorn jabbed deep into his thumb. “Dammit.” For a few seconds he sucked on the tiny wound, then with care moved the bouquet of roses out of the way to get to his boots. From the corner of his eye he could see Nick sober. But his partner said nothing.

  “It’s been two years. Today,” Vito added bitterly. “How time flies.”

  Nick’s voice was quiet. “It’s supposed to heal, too.”

  And Nick was right. Two years had dulled the edge of Vito’s grief. But guilt… that was a different matter entirely. “I’m going out to the cemetery this afternoon.”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “Thanks, but no.” Vito shoved his feet into his boots. “Let’s go see what they found.”

  Six years as a homicide detective had taught Vito that there were no simple murders, just varying degrees of hard ones. As soon as he stopped at the edge of the grave the crime scene unit had just unearthed in the snow-covered field, he knew this would be one of the harder ones.

  Neither Vito nor Nick said a word as they studied the victim, who might have remained hidden forever were it not for an elderly man and his metal detector. The roses, the cemetery, and everything else was pushed aside as Vito focused on the body in the hole. He dragged his gaze from her hands to what was left of her face.

  Their Jane Doe had been small, five-two or five-three, and appeared to have been young. Short, dark hair framed a face too decomposed to be easily identifiable and Vito wondered how long she’d been here. He wondered if anyone had missed her. If anyone still waited for her to come home.

  He felt the familiar surge of pity and sadness and pushed it to the edge of his mind along with all the other things he wanted to forget. For now he’d focus on the body, the evidence. Later, he and Nick would consider the woman-who she’d been and who she’d known. They’d do so as a means to catch the sick sonofabitch who’d left her nude body to rot in an unmarked grave in an open field, who’d violated her even after death. Pity shifted to outrage as Vito’s gaze returned to the victim’s hands.

  “He posed her,” Nick murmured beside him and in the soft words Vito heard the same outrage he felt. “He fucking posed her.”

  Indeed he had. Her hands were pressed together between her breasts, her fingertips pointing to her chin. “Permanently folded in prayer,” Vito said grimly.

  “Religious murderer?” Nick mused.

  “God, I hope not.” A buzz of apprehension tickled his spine. “Religious murderers tend not to stop with just one. There could be more.”

  “Maybe.” Nick crouched down to peer into the grave which was about three feet deep. “How did he permanently pose her hand
s, Jen?”

  CSU Sergeant Jen McFain looked up, her eyes covered with goggles, her nose and mouth by a mask. “Wire,” she said. “Looks like steel, but very fine. It’s wound around her fingers. You’ll be able to see it better once the ME cleans her up.”

  Vito frowned. “Doesn’t seem like wire that thin would be enough to trip the sensor on a metal detector, especially under a couple feet of dirt.”

  “You’re right, the wire wouldn’t have set it off. For that we can thank the rods your perp ran under the victim’s arms.” Jen traced one gloved finger along the underside of her own arm, down to her wrist. “They’re thin and bendable, but have enough mass to set off a metal detector. It’s how he kept her arms fixed in position.”

  Vito shook his head. “Why?” he asked and Jen shrugged.

  “Maybe we’ll get more from the body. I haven’t gotten much from the hole so far. Except…” She nimbly climbed from the grave. “The old man uncovered one of her arms using his garden spade. Now, he’s in pretty good shape, but even I couldn’t have dug that deep with a garden spade this time of year.”

  Nick looked into the grave. “The ground must not have been frozen.”

  Jen nodded. “Exactly. When he found the arm he stopped digging and called 911. When we got here, we started moving dirt to see what we had. The fill was easy to move until we got to the grave wall, then it was hard as a rock. Look at the corners. They look like they were cut using a T square. They’re frozen solid.”

  Vito felt a sick tug at his gut. “He dug the grave before the ground froze. He planned this pretty far in advance.”

  Nick was frowning. “And nobody noticed a gaping hole?”

  “Perp might’ve covered it with something,” Jen said. “Also, I don’t think the fill dirt came from this field. I’ll run the tests to tell you for sure. That’s all I got for now. I can’t do anything more until the ME gets here.”