7 Die For Me

  From Alan Brewster’s wife. Amanda Brewster did not like other women sleeping with her husband, even women who’d been tricked into doing so. Clint Shafer must have wasted no time calling Alan to say that Sophie had called last night. Amanda must have been listening.

  I should call the police. But she wouldn’t today any more than she had the last time, because down deep she knew Amanda Brewster had a right to her anger. So she scooped up the mouse and put the lid back on the box. For a brief second she considered tossing it in the Dumpster, but knew she couldn’t any more than she could keep Alan’s name to herself last night. She’d bury it later.

  Tuesday, January 16, 9:15 A.M.

  Daniel Vartanian had ripped the listings of hotels from the phone book he’d found in his hotel nightstand drawer. Armed with pictures of his parents, he planned to hit the hotel chains in which they normally stayed first, then work his way down.

  He was tying his tie when his cell rang. It was Susannah. “Hello.”

  “It was an Atlanta area code,” Susannah said without greeting. “A cell phone, registered to Mom.”

  It should have made him feel better. “So she called Grandma on her own phone to say she was coming to see you. Do you know where the phone was physically located when the call was placed?”

  Susannah was quiet for a long moment. “No, but I’ll try to find out. Good-bye.”

  He hesitated, then sighed. “Suze . . . I’m sorry.”

  He heard Susannah’s careful exhale. “I’m sure you are, Daniel. But you’re about eleven years too late. Keep me apprised.” And with that she was gone.

  She was right of course. He’d made so many mistakes. He went back to tying his tie, his hands unsteady. Maybe this time he could get something right.

  Tuesday, January 16, 9:30 A.M.

  Dr. Alan Brewster’s office was a mini-museum, Vito thought as Brewster’s assistant showed him in. Brewster’s assistant, on the other hand . . . well there was nothing mini about her. She was tall, blonde, with Barbie-doll proportions, and Vito instantly thought of Sophie. Obviously, Brewster liked them young, tall, blonde, and beautiful.

  This year’s model was Stephanie, who oozed sex with every step. “Alan’s coming. He said to make yourself comfortable,” she added with a knowing smile that invited Vito to make himself very comfortable indeed. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” An amused confidence in her eyes left the Me unsaid, but strongly implied.

  Vito kept his distance. “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Well if you change your mind, I’m just outside.”

  Semi-alone, Vito took in the understated opulence. Brewster’s mahogany desk was about an acre wide and neat as a pin, with only a single framed picture of a woman with two teenaged boys to clutter its glossy surface. Mrs. Brewster and the kids.

  One wall was lined with shelves filled with knickknacks from all over the world. Another wall was covered with photos. On closer inspection Vito could see that nearly every one contained the same man. Dr. Brewster, I presume. The pictures spanned twenty years, but Brewster always looked trim, tanned, and sophisticated.

  Many of the photos were taken on digs, labeled with the place and date. Russia, Wales, England. In every photo Brewster stood next to a tall, blonde, beautiful girl. Then Vito stopped at the photo labeled “France,” because Sophie was the girl. Ten years younger, she stood next to Brewster, wearing her army camouflage field coat and red bandana. And a smile that went far beyond joy of the job. She’d been in love.

  And Brewster had been married. Vito wondered if she’d known, then dismissed the thought. Of course she hadn’t and now her words from the day before made perfect sense. A slight noise behind him made him glance up and in the reflection of the glass covering the photo he saw Brewster standing behind him, watching silently.

  Vito looked at the France photo for another few seconds, then went on to give equal time to photos from Italy and Greece as if he still believed himself to be alone. Finally Brewster cleared his throat and Vito turned, widening his eyes. “Dr. Brewster?”

  Brewster closed the door behind him. “I’m Alan Brewster. Please sit down.” He gestured to a chair, then took his place behind the massive desk. “How can I help you?”

  “First, I have to request that you keep what I’m about to ask in confidence.”

  Brewster spread his hands, then steepled his fingers. “Of course, Detective.”

  “Thank you. We have a case in which we suspect that stolen goods have changed hands,” Vito began and Brewster’s brows rose.

  “And you suspect one of my students? Are we talking TVs, stereos? Term papers?”

  “No. The objects we’ve recovered appear to be artifacts. Medieval, actually. We Googled history and archeology professors and yours is one of the names that came up as an expert in this field. I’m here to get your professional opinion.”

  “I see. Then let’s proceed. What kind of objects are you talking about?”

  Vito weighed his options. He didn’t like Brewster, but then he hadn’t liked him before he walked in the door. Just because the man cheated on his wife didn’t mean he wouldn’t be a good resource. “We have various weapons. Swords, flails, for example.”

  “Easily copied, of course. I’d be happy to authenticate anything you’ve found. Weaponry and warfare are my areas of expertise.”

  “Thank you. We may take you up on that.” Vito hesitated, considering. He had to ask about the chair sometime. Might as well be now. “We also found a chair.”

  “A chair,” Brewster repeated with a hint of disdain. “What kind of chair?”

  “One with spikes. Lots of spikes,” Vito said and watched Brewster’s face flatten in what might have been genuine shock before the color rose in his tanned cheeks.

  The man quickly recovered his poise. “You think you’ve found an inquisitional chair? You have it in your possession?”

  “Yes,” Vito lied. “We were wondering how someone might have come by it.”

  “Artifacts like that are very rare. What you have is most certainly a copy. We’d have to authenticate. If you brought it to me, I’d be happy to help.”

  On a cold day in hell, Vito thought. “But if it is authentic, where would it come from?”

  “Europe, originally, but few survive. Rarely do they come up for sale or auction.”

  “Dr. Brewster, let’s cut through the bull, shall we? I’m talking about the black market. If someone wanted to buy an artifact like a chair, where would he go?”

  Brewster’s eyes flashed. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t know anyone who deals in illegal merchandise, and if I did, I would report them immediately to the authorities.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vito said and watched the fire in Brewster’s eyes bank. If he was an actor, he was very good. Vito thought of Sophie. Brewster must be one hell of an actor. “I didn’t mean to imply you’d be involved in anything illegal. But if one of these chairs were to suddenly surface, would you hear about it?”

  “Most assuredly, Detective. But I have not.”

  “Do you know of any private collectors who might have interest in such items, were they to come up for legal auction?”

  Opening his desk drawer, Brewster took out a pad and jotted down a few names. “These men are of the highest ethics. I’m sure they will be as unable to help you as I.”

  Vito slipped the paper into his pocket. “I’m sure you’re right. Thank you for your time, Dr. Brewster. If you do hear anything, please call me. Here’s my card.”

  Brewster swept the card into the drawer with his notepad. “Stephanie will see you out.” Vito was at the door when Brewster added, “Please tell Sophie I said hello.”

  Controlling his surprise, Vito turned, forcing confusion to his face. “I’m sorry?”

  “Please, Detective. We all have our sources. I have mine and you have . . . Sophie Johannsen.” He smiled, a sly gleam in his eye that made Vito want to poke the man’s eyes out. “You’re in for a real treat. Sophie w
as one of my most able assistants.”

  Vito lifted a shoulder, barely controlling the pagan urge to leap across that mahogany desk and rip Brewster’s face off. Instead he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brewster. You really do have me at a loss. Maybe this Sophie Johnson—”

  “Johannsen,” Brewster corrected smoothly.

  “Whatever. Maybe she talked to my boss, but . . .” Vito shrugged. “Not to me.” He made himself smile conspiratorially. “Although it appears I missed something special.”

  Brewster’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That you did, Detective. That you did.”

  Tuesday, January 16, 10:30 A.M.

  It had been, Vito conceded, a professionally unproductive trip. Brewster hadn’t provided anything of real use and Vito didn’t believe the names he’d been given would be of any use either. He’d pursue the leads though, and see what more he could learn.

  His cell buzzed, Riker’s number on the caller ID. “Vito, it’s Tim. We just left Claire Reynolds’s parents’ place. Her parents had all of Claire’s things boxed in their basement. Bev got some hair from Claire’s old brush so we can get DNA. Her parents said they went to her apartment just before Thanksgiving a year ago when she hadn’t returned their calls, but she hadn’t been there in a long time. Then they checked her job and found the library where she’d worked received a letter of resignation fifteen months ago. The mother insists the signature isn’t Claire’s. We’ll bring the letter in, too.”

  “Huh. Somebody didn’t want anyone to investigate her as missing.”

  “That’s what we thought. But that’s not the best part. In the box with all her belongings were two prosthetic legs, one for running and one for water sports. And . . .” he paused dramatically, “one bottle of silicone lubricant.”

  Vito sat up straighter at that. “Really? Isn’t that interesting?”

  “Yeah.” There was a triumphant smile in Riker’s voice. “This one had never been opened. Claire’s mother said she used the lubricant to put on her leg and that she kept bottles in her apartment, her car, and her gym bag. The family didn’t find the car or the gym bag, so Claire may have had a few bottles on her when she was killed.”

  “A very practical souvenir for our killer.”

  “Yeah. We’ll have the lab match it to the samples Katherine took from the two vics.”

  “Excellent. What about Claire’s computer?”

  “Her parents say she didn’t have one. When we’re done at the lab we’ll get on the phones and see if we can find Brittany Bellamy.”

  “Then we’ll be three down, six to go. I got a few names of personal collectors from the professor I visited this morning and I’ll run those down. After hearing the Luger was vintage, I’m more convinced our guy is going for the most authentic weapons he can find. But just in case, I’m going to visit a few of the dealers that sell reproductions at the medieval festivals. We’ll see what shakes out. Keep in touch.”

  Vito closed his phone and sat with it clenched in his fist, staring at the little shop in front of which he’d parked. Andy’s Attic was the only seller on Sophie’s list that had a physical shop. All of the others sold through Internet sites. For now, Vito wanted to confine his interviews to people he could see so that he could watch their reactions.

  Like he’d watched Brewster. Slimy little sonofabitch. But how had Brewster known Sophie was his source? She wasn’t supposed to have made any calls, just given him names. Frowning, he dialed Sophie’s cell.

  She answered, her tone guarded. “This is Sophie.”

  “Sophie, it’s Vito Ciccotelli. I’m sorry to bother you again, but . . .”

  She sighed. “But you just talked to Alan Brewster. Did he give you anything?”

  “The names of three collectors he insists are ethical and legitimate. But Sophie, he knew you’d given me his name. I tried to evade my way out of it, but someone had told him before I got there. Who else did you talk to?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “A guy who was a grad student with me the summer I worked for Brewster. His name is Clint Shafer. I didn’t want to call any of them, but I couldn’t remember Kyle Lombard’s name and back then Kyle and Clint were friends.”

  “Did you call anyone else?”

  “Only my old graduate advisor, the one I put on the list. I called Etienne before I saw you last night and left him a voice mail saying he should talk to you when you called. He called me back late last night.”

  She’d changed graduate programs after she left Brewster, he thought. Her tone had become defensive, as if she expected him to be angry, so he kept his voice gentle. “Did your old advisor say anything useful?”

  “Yeah.” Some of the tightness in her tone eased. “I sent it to you in an e-mail.”

  So she wouldn’t have to talk to him again. She’d known what Brewster would tell him and still she’d given his name. “I haven’t checked my mail yet. What did he say?”

  “It’s all rumor, Vito. Etienne heard it at a cocktail party.”

  He took out his notepad. “Sometimes rumor is true. I’m ready.”

  “He said that he heard one of their donors, Alberto Berretti, had died. This guy lived in Italy and had a big collection of swords and armor, but it had been whispered for years that he also collected torture items. His family put his collection up for auction recently, but less than half of the swords and none of the rumored torture items were offered up for sale. Etienne said he’d heard a few people discreetly inquired, but the family denied finding anything other than what they auctioned.”

  “Did your teacher believe the family?”

  “He said he didn’t know them, and wouldn’t speculate. But the important thing is, there are some artifacts out there, somewhere. They may or may not relate to your case. Sorry, Vito, that’s all I know.”

  “You’ve helped a great deal,” he said. “Sophie, about Brewster.”

  “I need to go now,” she said tightly. “I have work to do. Good-bye, Vito.”

  Vito looked at his phone for a full minute after she hung up. He should listen to her. The last time he’d pursued a woman, it had gone so wrong. It could go wrong again.

  Or it could go right and he’d get the only thing he’d ever wanted. Someone who waited for only him at the end of a long day. Someone to come home to. Maybe that would be Sophie Johannsen and maybe it wouldn’t. But he’d never know unless he tried. And this time he’d have to make sure it went right. Into his cell he punched in a number with single-minded intent. “Hey, Tess, it’s Vito. I need a favor.”

  New York City, Tuesday, January 16, 10:45 A.M.

  “Wow.” Van Zandt’s eyes never left the computer screen as his character battled the Good Knight, sword in one hand, flail in the other. Van Zandt’s knuckles were white as he gripped his game controller, his face a study in concentration. “My God, Frasier, this is amazing. This will put oRo right up there with Sony.”

  He smiled. Sony was the company to catch. Sony games were present in millions of households. Millions. “I thought you’d like it. This is the final fight. By this point, the Inquisitor has become all-powerful and has stolen the queen herself for his own. The knight will die trying to win her freedom. Because he’s . . . you know, a knight.”

  “The wonderful myth of chivalry.” A muscle in VZ’s jaw twitched as he struggled. “Artificial intelligence is superb. This knight is damned hard to kill. So die already,” he said through clenched teeth. “Come on. Die already. Die for me. Yes.” The knight collapsed to his knees, then onto his chest as VZ dealt the killing blow with the flail.

  VZ frowned. “But it’s . . . so . . . anticlimactic. I was hoping for a little more . . .” He gestured broadly. “Pah.”

  Expecting just such a reaction, he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and tossed it across Van Zandt’s desk. “Here. Try it this way.”

  His eyes sparkling like a kid’s, Van Zandt entered the code, opening the alternate gameplay he’d created. “Yes,” he hissed when the Good Knigh
t’s head sheared away, sending bone and brain flying. “This is what I was hoping for.” He glanced from the corner of his eye. “Pretty smart, making it an Easter egg. If the gamers haven’t guessed the code within six months after release, we’ll let it ‘slip.’ Within two hours it will be all over the ’net and we will have ourselves some very effective, cheap publicity.”

  “Then mothers and preachers and teachers will get whipped into an uproar, objecting to the senseless violence pervasive in our society.” He smiled. “Which just makes their kids go out and buy more copies.”

  Van Zandt grinned. “Exactly. You could throw a few nude scenes in, too. If the violence does not whip them into frenzy, a little nudity will. Explicit sex is even better.”

  He considered the scenes he’d constructed using Brittany Bellamy. She was fully nude. There was no sex, but the violence was so raw, he knew VZ would be pleased. He hadn’t planned to show the dungeon to Van Zandt today, but the time seemed right. He pulled a CD from his laptop case. “You want a peek at the dungeon?”

  Van Zandt stuck his hand out, greedy anticipation all over his face. “Give it to me.”

  He leaned forward with the CD and VZ snatched it from his hand. “This is the way the dungeon will look by the end,” he explained as VZ inserted the CD. “The Inquisitor starts out small, accusing landowners of witchcraft, then taking their assets once he’s arrested them and killed them with conventional weapons, his sword, dagger, et cetera. With the money, he buys bigger and better torture toys.”

  As the sequence started, the camera wound through mist, coming to the cemetery on the grounds of a church, a perfect copy of a French abbey outside Nice.

  Van Zandt shot him a surprised look. “You put the dungeon in a church?”

  “Under it. A medieval ‘up-yours’ to the establishment. Which was the Church.”

  Van Zandt’s lips twitched. “I do not want to stand next to you in a lightning storm.” The camera entered the church and passed through the crypt. Van Zandt whistled softly. “Very nice, Frasier. I especially like the tomb effigies. Very authentic.”