7 Die For Me

  Jen McFain frowned. “We seem to have a problem, Vito.”

  Vito slid into his seat at the head of the table, still a little breathless from his mad morning dash. After leaving Sophie’s he’d raced home, showered, and apologized profusely to Tess about staying out all night without calling. Then he’d headed in to work, only to be accosted at the precinct door by a horde of reporters with flashing cameras.

  “I’ve had all kinds of problems this morning, Jen. What seems to be yours?”

  “No crullers. What kind of meeting are you trying to run anyway?’

  “Yeah, Vito,” Liz said. “What kind of meeting starts out without crullers?”

  “You never brought food,” Vito said to Liz and she grinned.

  “Yeah, but you did, on the first day. First rule of team leadership—never set a precedent you don’t intend to keep.”

  Vito looked around the table. “Anybody else have nuisance demands?”

  Liz looked amused, Katherine impatient. Bev and Tim looked tired. Jen just scowled at him. “Cheapskate,” she muttered, and Vito rolled his eyes.

  “We now have one more victim ID confirmed. Bill Melville is victim three-one. I’ve noted him on the chart. We also have a name. E. Munch. Nick came back from Melville’s apartment last night and ran it through the system, but came up with nothing.”

  “It’s not like he’d use his real name anyway,” Jen said. “But I’ll bet you dollars to donuts”—she glared at him meaningfully—“that the name means something.”

  “You could be right. Any ideas, besides the obvious Munch connection to food?”

  Jen’s lips twitched. “Very funny, Chick. I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to Katherine. “What’s new on your end?”

  “We autopsied the old couple from the second row last night. We didn’t find anything new that would help you ID them. But Tino did some sketches. My assistant said he didn’t leave the morgue until after midnight.”

  Vito felt a sharp spear of gratitude for his brother who’d jumped in with both feet to help. When this was all over he’d find a way to thank him. “Yes, and we’ll compare his sketches to missing-persons files.” From his folder Vito pulled copies of the sketches he’d found on his desk that morning. He passed them to Liz. “This is what Tino came up with. He made a few of the woman with different hairstyles. It’s hard to picture what she might have looked like without seeing some hair.”

  “Me next,” Jen said. “We got two new pieces of news last night. First, an ID on the tire tread print we took from the scene that first day. Our boy drives a Ford F150, just like yours, Vito.”

  “Terrific,” Vito muttered. “So nice to have something in common with a psycho killer. Let’s get the description out there. It’s a long shot, but at least we can be keeping our eyes open. Did you get any footprints with that tire tread?”

  “None that were usable. Sorry. Now the second thing is the grenade we took out of the gut of the last victim on the first row. It’s a vintage MK2 pineapple grenade, made sometime before 1945. Tracing it would be nearly impossible, but it’s one more piece of the puzzle. This guy uses the real thing.”

  “And speaking of the real thing.” Vito told them about Sophie’s inquiries the day before. “So we have one possible source for his medieval weapons. I was going to call Interpol before I checked out Claire Reynolds’s doctor and the library where she worked. And I still need to locate Bill Melville’s parents. They don’t know he’s dead.”

  “Give me Interpol,” Liz said. “You take the doctor and the parents.”

  “Thanks.” Vito looked over at Bev and Tim. “You guys are quiet.”

  “We’re tired,” Tim said. “We were up most of the night going through records with the owners of UCanModel. Then the attorneys got involved.”

  “Shit,” Vito murmured.

  “Yeah.” Tim scraped his palms down his unshaven cheeks. “The owners want to cooperate, but their attorneys are telling them they have a privacy notice for all subscribers. So it’s slow going. We broke at three A.M.

  and went home to sleep.”

  “The owner has to contact all the models who were sent e-mails before we can talk to them.” Bev sighed. “We’re supposed to get on a call with them in an hour.”

  Vito hadn’t gotten to sleep until three A.M.

  himself, but the reason was very different and he was pretty sure he’d get no sympathy. “Katherine, what will you do next?”

  “Autopsies on the final four. You have a preference on where I start? Old, young, bullet, or grenade?”

  “Start with Claire Reynolds. I’ll get with you as soon as I talk to her doctor. Then work on the old lady. She’s the one body that doesn’t fit with any of the others.” Vito stood up. “We’re done for this morning. Let’s meet again at five tonight. Stay safe.”

  Wednesday, January 17, 9:05 A.M.

  She’d died. The old Winchester woman had died. He sat back, frowning at his computer. She’d died and left her property to her nephew who’d been nearly as old as she was. Who knew who’d found the bodies? But knowing she was dead made more sense. If her nephew planned to sell the property someone might be inspecting it, or perhaps they’d already sold it and somebody was building on it.

  The bodies could have turned up that way. He assumed the cops had found them all. Only one person could have been identified by his prints, and those prints he’d erased. All the others . . . it would take the cops weeks to find their own asses with a flashlight. That they could identify the other bodies more quickly was ludicrous.

  He felt better now. But still he had loose ends. One of the bodies in that field was the Webber kid and somehow Derek had obtained the kid’s photo. He’d deal with Derek today. He needed to—

  His cell phone rang and he reflexively checked the caller ID. It was his . . . antiques dealer, for lack of a better description. “Yeah,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

  “What the fuck have you done?” came the furious reply.

  His own temper began to sizzle. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about an inquisition chair. And the fucking cops.”

  He opened his mouth, but for a moment no words formed. Quickly he regained his composure. “I truly have no idea of what you’re talking about.”

  “The cops have a chair.” Each word was spaced deliberately. “In their possession.”

  “Well, it’s not mine. My chair is with my collection. I saw it just this morning.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. What is this all about?”

  “A cop asked questions yesterday. He was researching stolen artifacts and black market sales. Said he had a chair with spikes. Lots of spikes. He was a homicide cop.”

  His heart began racing for the second time that day, but he kept his cool. He knew they’d found his graves. That the police would connect Brittany’s body to an inquisitional chair was not a leap he’d expected them to make. He injected enough confusion in his voice to be believable. “I’m telling you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know anything about a massive graveyard in a field north of town? Because the same cop who made the visit is the one leading that case.”

  Fuck. He laughed, incredulously. “I don’t know anything about a graveyard either. All I know is that my artifacts are in my possession. If the cops have a chair, it’s probably handmade by one of those idiots from the reenactment group. But I must admit to a certain curiosity. How did the police know where to go to ask questions?”

  “They have a source. An archeologist.”

  That made sense. That was, after all, how he’d located his dealer in the beginning. “What’s his name, this archeologist?”

  “Her name is Sophie Johannsen.”

  His heart skipped a beat, then fury roared, sending his pulse skyrocketing. “I see.”

  “She teaches a cl
ass on Tuesday nights at Whitman College in Philly. She also works during the day at the Albright. I have her address at home, as well.”

  So did he. He knew she lived alone with two colored poodles who posed no threat at all. Still he scoffed, pretending to be offended. “I don’t want to find her, for God’s sake. I was just curious.”

  There was a pause, and when the man spoke again it was calmly, yet the menace of his words rang loud and clear. “If I were you, I’d be more than curious. As for us, we don’t plan to be implicated in anything you’ve done, and if push comes to shove, we will protect our interests. Don’t call us anymore. We no longer want your business.”

  There was a click, then silence. He’d been hung up on. He put his cell on his desk, rattled. He had to plug the leaks in the dyke. And quickly. Damn. He’d wanted to keep her available for research purposes until he was finished with his game.

  He’d just have to find another source.

  Wednesday, January 17, 9:30 A.M.

  “Dr. Pfeiffer’s with a patient right now, Detective.” Receptionist Stacy Savard was frowning at him from her side of the glass that separated the office from the waiting room. “You’ll have to wait or come back later.”

  “Ma’am, I’m a homicide detective. I only show up when people are dead when they shouldn’t be. Could you please have the doctor see me as soon as possible?”

  Her eyes had widened. “H-homicide? Who?” She leaned forward. “You can tell me, Detective. He tells me everything anyway.”

  Vito smiled at her as patiently as he could. “I’ll just wait over there.” A few minutes later an elderly man came to the doorway.

  “Detective Ciccotelli? Miss Savard told me you were here to see me.”

  “Yes. Can we talk privately?” He followed the doctor back to his office.

  Pfeiffer shut the door. “This is very distressing.” He sat down behind his desk. “Which of my patients is the subject of your investigation?”

  “Claire Reynolds.”

  Pfeiffer flinched. “I’m sorry to hear that. Miss Reynolds was a lovely young woman.”

  “You’d known her for a long time then?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been seeing Claire for . . . must be five years now.”

  “Can you tell me what kind of person she was? Outgoing, shy?”

  “Very outgoing. Claire was a paraolympian and active in the community.”

  “What kind of prosthetic devices did Claire use, Dr. Pfeiffer?”

  “I don’t remember off the top of my head. Wait one moment.” He pulled a folder from a file drawer and flipped through the pages.

  “Thick file,” Vito commented.

  “Claire was part of an experimental study I’m conducting, an upgrade to the microprocessor in her artificial knee.”

  “Microprocessor? Like as in a computer chip?”

  “Yes. Older prosthetic legs aren’t as stable when the patient is walking up and down stairs or walking with a big stride. The microprocessor is constantly evaluating stability and making fine adjustments.” He tilted his head. “Like antilock brakes in your car.”

  “That I can understand. How is it powered?”

  “By a battery pack. Patients charge it overnight. Most can get up to thirty hours’ use before the battery dies.”

  “So Claire had an upgraded microprocessor in her knee?”

  “She did. She was supposed to be coming in for regular checks.” He looked down, ashamed. “I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d seen her until just now.”

  “When was the last time she came in for an appointment?”

  “October 12, a year ago.” He frowned. “I should have missed her sooner. Why didn’t I?” He shuffled through some more paper, then sat back, relieved. “Oh, here’s why. She moved to Texas. I got a letter from her new physician, Dr. Joseph Gaspar in San Antonio. Her chart shows we forwarded a copy of her records the following week.”

  That was the second letter someone had received in reference to Claire Reynolds’s disappearance. First the library’s resignation letter, now this. “Can I have that letter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Doctor, can you tell me about silicone lubricants?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How are they used? Where do you get them? Are there different ones?”

  Pfeiffer took a shampoo-sized bottle from his desk and handed it to Vito. “That’s a silicone lubricant. Go ahead, try it.”

  Vito squeezed a few drops onto his thumb. It was odorless, colorless, and left a slick residue on his skin. The samples Katherine had pulled from Warren and Brittany had been white because they’d been mixed with plaster. “Why is it used?”

  “Above-the-knee amputees like Miss Reynolds generally use one of two different methods to achieve suspension—that means attaching the limb. The first is using a liner. It looks like this.” Pfeiffer reached into his drawer and pulled out what looked like a giant condom with a metal pin at the end. “The patient rolls this liner over the residual limb—you get a very tight fit. Then the metal pin attaches down into the socket of the prosthesis. Some patients use the silicone lubricant under the liner, especially if they have sensitive or broken skin.”

  “Did Claire Reynolds use this method?”

  “Sometimes, but usually younger patients like Claire use the suction method. It is what it sounds like—the artificial limb is held on through suction and is released using an air valve. This puts the skin in direct contact with the plastic of the prosthesis. Most everyone who uses the suction method uses lubricant.”

  “Where would your patients get this?” Vito asked handing him back the bottle.

  “From me or directly from the distributor. Most distributors have online stores.”

  “And formulas? Are there a lot of them?”

  “One or two main ones. But a lot of cottage industries offer special blends, herbs and things.” He took a magazine from his desk and flipped to the back. “Like these.”

  Vito took the magazine and scanned the ads. “Can I keep this?”

  “Certainly. I can have Miss Savard get you a sample of the lubricant, as well.”

  “Thank you. Doctor, I know it’s been more than a year since you’ve seen Miss Reynolds, but I was wondering if you could remember her frame of mind. Was she happy or sad, angry or worried maybe? Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Pfeiffer looked uncomfortable. “No, she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, a girlfriend then?”

  Pfeiffer’s discomfort increased. “I didn’t know her that well, Detective. But I know she often marched in activist parades. She mentioned it several times when she came in to get her leg checked. I think she was just trying to get me to react, honestly.”

  “Well, then, how about her mood?”

  Pfeffer steepled his fingers under his chin. “I know she was worried about money. She was nervous that she wouldn’t have enough for the microprocessor upgrade.”

  “I’m confused. I thought she was in your study and already had the new processor.”

  “She was and she did, but when the study was completed she was going to have to buy it. The maker offers the microprocessor at their cost, but it was still more than Claire could afford. This upset her a great deal.” His expression grew very sad. “She thought having the upgrade would give her an edge in the paraolympic games.”

  Vito stood. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been a huge help.”

  “When you find who did this, will you let me know?”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Good.” The doctor rose and opened his office door. “Stacy?” The receptionist came to his office quickly. “Stacy, the detective is here about Claire Reynolds.”

  Stacy’s eyes widened as she placed the name. “Claire? But . . .” She leaned against the door, her shoulders sagging. “Oh, no.”

  “Did you know Miss Reynolds well, Miss Savard?”

  “Not well well.” She looked up at Vito, shocke
d and upset. “I chatted with her when she would come for her fittings. Congratulated her when she won a race or something. She was always up.” Stacy’s eyes filled with tears. “Claire was a sweet person. Why would anyone hurt her?”

  “That’s what I have to find out. Doctor?” Vito looked at the file in the man’s hand.

  The doctor shook himself. “Oh, yes. Stacy, make a copy of the letter we received from Dr. Gaspar in Texas for Detective Ciccotelli.”

  “Actually, I need the original.”

  Pfeiffer blinked. “Of course. I wasn’t thinking. Stacy, just keep the copy for our files and assist the detective in any other way we can.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday, January 17, 11:10 A.M.

  Bye! Bye!” The class of eight-year-olds waved as they were herded out the door.

  “That was wonderful.” Their teacher beamed at Sophie and Ted the Third. “Normally the kids get irritable and bored at museums, but you made it fun, what with the costume and acting and the ax. And your hair! It all looks so real.”

  Sophie adjusted the battle-ax she’d rested on her shoulder after brandishing it early in the Viking tour. The kids’ eyes had nearly popped from their heads. “The hair is real,” she smiled back. “The rest is . . . fun. We’re here to bring history to life.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly be sure to tell the other teachers.”

  “We certainly appreciate the support,” Sophie said warmly.

  Ted’s glance was wary. “You should see her Joan of Arc. I think it’s even better.”

  “He’s just trying to sweet-talk me because the armor is heavy. Please come back.”

  “You were nice to them,” Ted said when the teacher was gone. “What’s wrong?”

  Sophie winced. “I guess I had that coming. I had an epiphany yesterday, Ted. You do a good thing here. And I haven’t been very nice.”

  He looked over, his brows arched. “I thought it was part of the act,” he said dryly. “You mean you really did want to cleave me in two with your ax?”

  Sophie’s lips twitched. “Only sometimes.” She sobered. “I’m sorry, Ted.”