Die for Me

by Karen Rose

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 his 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. They 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?”

  “Dr. Johannsen.” It was a haughty, cultured voice that she’d heard before.

  Sophie drew a breath. Not Europe. It was Amanda Brewster. “Yes.”

  “Do you know who this is?”

  She glanced at the box with the mouse and new rage hit her like a wave. She planned to give the poor animal a decent burial after her shift. “You are a sick bitch.”

  “And you have a poor memory. I told you once to stay away from my husband.”

  “And you have poor hearing. I told you that I don’t want your husband. I don’t ever want to see him again. You do not need to worry about me, Amanda. In fact if I were you, I’d be more worried about your husband’s new blonde assistant du jour.”

  “If you were me, you’d have Alan,” she said smugly and Sophie rolled her eyes.

  “You need to get some professional help.”

  “What I need,” Amanda gritted through clenched teeth, “is for every little whore to keep their hands off my husband. I told you the last time I caught you that-”

  “You didn’t catch me,” Sophie said in exasperation. “I came to you.” Which, after trusting that Alan Brewster had really loved her, was Sophie’s second big mistake. She stupidly had thought the wife of a philanderer should know, but Amanda Brewster hadn’t listened then and she wasn’t going to listen now.

  “-that I’d ruin you,” Amanda continued as if Sophie had not said a word.

  The woman hadn’t needed to ruin her then. Alan and his posse had accomplished that on their own, with their sexual innuendo. And they’d started it again.

  Which really pissed her off. She picked up the toy Vito had sent her, wishing it would work through the phone, wishing she could wipe the entire incident off the face of the planet. But that wasn’t going to happen and it was time she dealt with it. She’d run from Alan ten years ago, ashamed of what she’d done and scared of Amanda’s threats to her career. She was still ashamed, but she wasn’t running anymore.

  “Get some help, Amanda. I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

  “You’d better be. Look at you now,” Amanda screeched. “You’re working in a third-rate museum for an idiot. You think your career’s in the t
oilet now.” She laughed, not a little hysterically. “You’ll be digging sewer trenches by the time I’m done with you.”

  Sophie huffed a surprised chuckle. “Digging sewer trenches” were the same exact words Amanda had used ten years before. At twenty-two, Sophie had believed her. At thirty-two, she recognized the ranting of a mentally imbalanced woman. She probably should pity Amanda Brewster. Maybe in another ten years she would.

  “You’re not going to believe anything I say about Alan, but you can believe this. Send me another package like you did this morning and I will call the police.”

  She hung up and looked around her tiny windowless office. Amanda was right about one thing. Sophie did work in a third-rate museum.

  But it didn’t have to be. Amanda was wrong about one other thing. Ted wasn’t an idiot. Sophie had watched the faces of the tour group this afternoon. They’d had fun, and they’d learned something. Ted was right. He was keeping his grandfather’s legacy alive the best way he knew how. And he hired me to help him do that. So far she hadn’t been a lot of help.

  Because she’d spent the last six months feeling sorry for herself. Big important archeologist forced to leave the dig of a lifetime. “When did I become such a snob?” she wondered out loud. Just because she wasn’t digging in France didn’t mean she couldn’t do something important here.

  She looked at the boxes that filled her office, stacked floor to ceiling. Most of them were filled with pieces of Ted the First’s collections that Ted and Darla hadn’t been able to find room for in the main museum. She’d find a place for them.

  She looked at her hand and realized she still clenched Vito’s memory zapper. Carefully she returned it to its box. She’d put her personal life back on track when she met Vito for dinner. She’d start putting her professional life back on track right now.

  She found Ted in his office. “Ted, I need some space.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What kind of space? Sophie, are you leaving us?”

  Her eyes widened. “No, I’m not leaving. I want more exhibit space. I’ve got some ideas for new exhibits.” She smiled. “Fun ones. Where can I put them?”