Nick stood in the middle of Jill Ellis’s living room, taking in the destruction. “Looks like a hurricane tore through here.”
Vito slipped his phone into his pocket. “Jen’s sending a CSU team.” He looked at the landlord, who’d let them in with his master key. “Have you seen Miss Ellis recently?”
“Not since last week. She kept this place neat as a pin. This ain’t good, Detective.”
“Can you get us her rental app?” Nick asked. “Maybe there’s a number we can call.”
“Sure. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He stopped at the door, his eyes angry. “It was that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers. Richie Rich.”
Vito met the man’s eye. “You mean Gregory Sanders?”
The landlord scoffed. “Yeah. Spoiled rich kid. Jill worked hard, and once she even tossed him out on his ass. But he came back, begging her for another chance. I told her to slam the door in his face, but she said she felt sorry for him.”
“You say ‘worked.’ Do you think she’s come to harm?” Vito asked.
The man hesitated. “Don’t you?”
Vito studied his face. “What do you know, sir?”
“I saw some guys leaving here yesterday, about three. I was outside putting kitty litter on the sidewalk. Didn’t want anyone slipping on the ice and suing me.”
“So these guys?” Nick prodded gently and the landlord sighed.
“There were two of them. They got into a car that was all pimped up—neon, hydraulic shocks. I started to go up, to check on Jill, but I got a call from Mrs. Coburn in 6-B. She’s old and she’d fallen down, hurt her hip. By the time I got home from getting her to the emergency room, it was late.” He looked away. “I forgot about Jill.”
“You sound like you take pretty good care of your tenants,” Vito said kindly.
The landlord eyes were full of guilt. “Not as well as I should have. I’ll get that app.”
When the landlord was gone, Nick sat down at Jill Ellis’s computer. “This day just keeps gettin’ better.” He clicked the mouse. “Wiped clean as a baby’s butt.”
“I didn’t expect anything else. Looks like she got a phone call yesterday afternoon. Her answering machine’s blinking.” Vito hit play. Then frowned. “Come here, Nick.”
Nick was halfway back to the woman’s bedroom, but came back. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Vito rewound, then hit play again, turning up the volume to full. “It’s a man talking, but it’s muffled.”
“That sounded like a moan.” Nick rewound, this time putting his ear to the speaker before hitting play. “Sounds like he’s saying, ‘Terrible, terrible things.’”
“Like what?”
Nick looked up. “That’s what he’s saying.” He put his ear back to the speaker. “There’s the moan . . . Scream all you want. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I’ve killed them all.” Grim, Nick straightened, just as the voice grew loud enough to be heard on its own. They stared at the machine. Then they heard him.
The voice was sneering but refined. And decidedly southern.
“They all thought they suffered, but their suffering was nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.”
There was silence, followed by a slurred voice. The words were hard to understand, but the tone was not. The second man was frantic. Terrified. “No, please no. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. Just . . . Oh, God. No.” There was another moan, then a laugh followed by a dragging sound, and the southern voice became muffled.
Once again Nick put his ear to the speaker. “Let’s take a ride, Mr. Sanders. I call it my time machine. Now you’ll see what happens to thieves.”
Nick looked up, his face as stunned as Vito felt. “Meet E. Munch.”
Wednesday, January 17, 3:00 P.M.
Daniel Vartanian had stopped for a Philly cheesesteak for lunch. It would probably be the high point of his day, because he’d had no success in his search. The locals, he’d learned, took their cheesesteak with Cheez Whiz. The food was delicious and steaming hot, which was good because he was starving and freezing cold.
He didn’t think he’d ever been so cold. He didn’t know how Susannah had adapted to winters in the North, but he knew she had. They hadn’t talked in years, but he’d followed her career. She was an up-and-comer in the New York DA’s office. His smile was grim. Together they were Law and Order. It didn’t take a shrink to figure out why.
I know what your son did. Daniel had dedicated his life to making up for what Arthur Vartanian’s son had done and for what Arthur had not. Susannah had done the same. His mother had been caught in the middle, but she’d made her choices. Wrong ones.
His cell phone rang. It was Chase Wharton. His boss would want an update. He’d be honest. Mostly. “Hey, Chase.”
“Hey. Did you find them?”
“Nope, and Philadelphia has a hell of a lot of hotels.”
“Philadelphia? I thought you were going to the Grand Canyon.”
“My dad’s PC showed he’d searched for oncologists in Philadelphia. I figured they’d come up here to start their vacation.”
“Your sister is only a few hours away,” Chase said quietly.
“I know.” And he knew what Chase was intimating. “And, yes, they’d be two hours away and not drop in on either of us. Like you said, I have a fucked-up family.”
“But no sign of foul play?”
I know what your son did. “No, Chase, I’ve found no evidence of foul play. If and when I do, I’ll blast my way to the local cops faster’n you can say Cheez Whiz.”
“All right. Be careful, Daniel.”
“I will.” Daniel hung up, sick with himself, sick with this whole situation. Quite possibly he was sick with his whole life. He wrapped his sandwich and tossed it in the paper sack. He’d lost his appetite. He’d never lied to Chase. Never lied to any of his bosses. I know what your son did. He’d just never told the whole truth.
And if he found his folks . . . alive . . . well, then, he wouldn’t have to start. He started his car and headed to the next hotel.
New York City, Wednesday, January 17, 3:30 P.M.
Derek Harrington stopped at the steps to his walk-up apartment, miserable. He’d had a life. A career he loved, a wife he adored, a daughter who looked at him with pride in her eyes. Now he couldn’t even look himself in the eye. Today he’d sunk to a new low. He’d walked past the police station five times but hadn’t gone in. According to his contract, Derek would get a settlement should he ever choose to quit. That settlement would pay his daughter’s college tuition. His silence would ensure his daughter’s future.
Lloyd Webber’s son would never have a future. He knew the boy was dead, just as he knew he’d have to tell the police his suspicions about Frasier Lewis. But the power of gold was strong and had him firmly in its grip. The power of gold. He started up the stairs. oRo. He and Jager had named their company well. He had his key in the door when he flinched at the sharp jab to his kidney. A gun. Jager or Frasier Lewis? Derek didn’t think he wanted to know.
“Don’t speak. Just obey.”
Derek now knew who held the gun. And he knew he was going to die.
Philadelphia, Wednesday, January 17, 4:45 P.M.
Vito jogged from his truck up the stairs to the library. This better be good, he thought. He’d had to move the five o’clock meeting to six and now he’d be late meeting Sophie at her grandmother’s nursing home.
But the call he’d received from librarian Barbara Mulrine sounded like it could be another big break. He’d dropped Nick off at the precinct with Jill Ellis’s answering machine. Nick was going to get the electronics guys to clean up the tape before six.
Barbara was waiting with Marcy at the desk. “We tried to get him to come in, but he wouldn’t,” Barbara said, bypassing any greeting.
“Where is he?” Vito asked.
Marcy pointed to an elderly man sweeping the floor. “He’s afraid of the police.”
“Why?”
br /> “He’s from Russia,” Barbara said. “He’s here legally, I’m sure of that. But he’s been through a lot. His name is Yuri, and he’s been in the U.S. for less than two years.”
“Does he speak English?”
“Some. Hopefully enough.”
It took Vito less than five minutes to realize that “some” wasn’t nearly enough. The old Russian had talked to “a man” about “Miss Claire.” After that, what they had was a failure to communicate bilingually. This was going to take longer than he thought.
“I’m sorry,” Barbara said softly. “I should have told you to line up an interpreter.”
“It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.” Vito sighed. Getting a Spanish interpreter took long enough. Getting a Russian one could take hours. It didn’t look like he’d be meeting any archeologists or opera legends tonight. He’d have to take the old man in while they waited for the interpreter. At least he could get other work done. “Sir, I need you to come with me.” He held out his hand and the old man’s eyes widened in fear.
“No.” Yuri’s hands clutched the handle of his broom and it was then Vito saw his misshapen knuckles. The man’s hands had been broken, years ago it appeared.
“Detective,” Barbara murmured. “Please don’t do this to him. Don’t make him go.”
Vito held up both hands in surrender. “Okay. You can stay here.”
Yuri looked at Barbara and she nodded. “He’s not going to make you go anywhere, Yuri. You’re safe here.”
Warily, Yuri turned away and went back to sweeping.
“You wouldn’t get him to talk to you if you forced him to go to the station,” Barbara said. “You can leave, and I’ll stay here with him until you can get an interpreter.”
Vito smiled ruefully. “That might take hours. You’ve been here all day.”
“I don’t mind. I didn’t like Claire Reynolds, but I don’t want whoever killed her to get away with it. And I promised Yuri a long time ago that he’d be safe here.”
Vito’s opinion of the librarian climbed another notch. “I’ll do my best to help you keep that promise.” He dug his cell from his pocket. “Now I have to break a date.”
She made a sad face. “That’s a shame.”
Vito thought of his double bonus prize. “You have no idea.” He walked to the window and dialed Sophie’s cell. She answered right away. “Sophie, it’s Vito.”
“What’s wrong?”
He’d thought he’d stripped the stress from his voice. “Nothing. Well, yeah, something. Look, I may have a break in this case and I have to stick with it. I may be able to meet you later, but it’s not looking good.”
“Can I help with anything?”
My double bonus prize, he thought, but made himself focus. “Actually, you can. We’re going to want you to tell us about medieval punishments for theft.”
“I can do that. Do you need me to come to the station?”
Vito turned around and looked at the old man. “Maybe. I’m stuck somewhere else for a while, waiting . . .” A thought struck. “Sophie, do you speak Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Very well or just the cuss words?”
“Very well,” she said cautiously. “Why?”
“Can you come to the Huntington Library?” He gave her the address. “I’ll explain when you get here. Bye.” He hung up and called Liz and updated her.
“You got another free consultant,” Liz chuckled. “You realize everyone is going to expect you to do this from now on. You’re never going to get any budget money again.”
“Technically, Sophie counts as the same consultant,” he said dryly. “Tell the team I’ll be there when I can, but it’ll be after six. Also, can you have Katherine print a photo of the brand on the Sanders kid’s cheek? I’ll bring Sophie in when she’s done here to look at it. She’s already seen one body. I don’t want her to have to go to the morgue.”
“Will do. Hey, I heard back from Interpol. We may have a hit.”
Vito straightened. “Great. Who?”
“I’m waiting on a fax with a picture. Hopefully I’ll have it when you get here. I’ll keep everyone on standby for the six o’clock debrief.”
“Thanks, Liz.”
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday, January 17, 5:20 P.M.
Sophie was breathing hard as she rushed into the library. Vito was across the lobby, talking with a woman in a dark sweater. He looked up and smiled and her heart shot off like a rocket. She managed to cross the lobby with some decorum, when she really wanted to launch herself into his arms and take up where they’d left off that morning.
From the flash of his dark eyes, he was thinking the same thing. “So, what’s the big mystery?” she asked with what she hoped wasn’t the dazzled smile of a teenaged fan-girl.
“I need you to translate for me. Sophie, this is Barbara Mulrine, the librarian here.”
She nodded to the woman. “It’s nice to meet you. What do you need translated?”
Barbara pointed to an old man washing windows. “Him. His name is Yuri Chertov.”
“He’s a witness,” Vito said. “Make sure he knows he’s not in trouble.”
“Okay.” She approached the old man, noticing his hands right away. Oh, no. Still she kept her smile respectful as she switched her brain to Russian. “Hello. I’m Sophie Alexandrovna Johannsen. How are you?”
He looked to Barbara who gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s all right,” she said.
“Do you have an office with a homey sofa or someplace that at least doesn’t look like an interrogation room?” Sophie asked the librarian.
“Marcy, mind the desk for a while. This way.” She led them to the back.
When the four of them were in Barbara’s office, Sophie switched back to Russian. “Let’s sit down,” she said. “I don’t know about you, but I have had a long day.”
“As have I. This is my second job. When I have finished here, I will go to a third.”
His Russian was of the higher class. This man was very educated. Sophie could only guess at the path that had brought him to work three menial jobs. “You work hard,” she said, choosing her dialect more carefully. “But hard work is good for the soul.”
“Very good for the soul, Sophie Alexandrovna. I am Yuri Petrovich Chertov. Tell your detective to ask his questions. I will answer to the best of my ability.”
“Ask him if he knew Claire Reynolds,” Vito said when she told him to begin.
The man nodded, his eyes darkening. “Claire was not a good person.”
Sophie relayed it and Vito nodded. “Ask him why not?”
Yuri frowned. “She treated Barbara with disrespect.”
“And you as well, Yuri Petrovich?” Sophie asked him, and his eyes darkened more.
“Yes, but I was not her employer. Barbara is a kind person, very loyal. Claire often took advantage of Barbara’s trust. I once saw her take money from Barbara’s purse. When Claire saw that I’d seen, she threatened to turn me in to the police for the theft.”
As Sophie translated, Barbara’s mouth fell open. “How did she know how to threaten you, and why were you afraid?” Vito asked. “Barbara says you’re here legally.”
Sophie translated Vito’s question, but the librarian’s shock needed none. Yuri looked down at his hands. “Claire had her computer with her and used one of the translation websites to translate her threat. It was a very rough translation, but still I understood. As for fear of the police . . .” He shrugged. “I take no chances.” He looked at Barbara sadly when Sophie had finished. “I am sorry, Miss Barbara,” he said in English.
Barbara smiled. “It’s all right. It can’t have been much money. I didn’t miss it.”
“Because I replaced it,” Yuri said when Sophie told him what she’d said.
Barbara’s eyes grew moist. “Oh, Yuri. You shouldn’t have done that.”
Vito looked touched as well. “Ask him about the man he spoke with.”
Sophie did
. “He was about my age,” Yuri answered. “I am fifty-two.”
Sophie’s eyes widened before she could stop herself. Fifty-two. He looked as old as Anna, who was almost eighty. Sophie’s cheeks heated when his brows lifted. She dropped her eyes. “I am very sorry, Yuri Petrovich. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It is all right. I know I look much older. This man you seek was nearly two meters tall, perhaps one hundred kilos. Thick gray hair that waved. He had robust health.”
Sophie looked at Vito. “About six-four, two-twenty, mid-fifties. Thick gray wavy hair. And . . . healthy.” She turned back to Yuri, curious. “Why did you notice his health?”
“Because his wife looked ill. Near unto death.”
Vito’s eyes flashed as she relayed that information. He drew two sketches from his folder. Sophie remembered Vito saying his brother Tino had sketched some of the victims’ faces. Sophie knew she was looking at two of the nine victims right now. “Are these the people he saw?” Vito asked.
Yuri awkwardly took the sketches in his gnarled hands. “Yes. Her hair was different. Longer and darker, but the faces are very similar.”
“Ask him when they came in, what they said, and if they gave him their names.”
“They were here before Thanksgiving,” Yuri said when she translated. His smile was wry. “They said quite a lot, but I understood very little. The man did all the talking. The woman sat. He asked about Claire Reynolds. Had I seen her? Did I know her? He had an accent. How do you say . . .” He said a word Sophie didn’t know.
“Wait.” She pulled her Russian dictionary from her backpack. She found the word, then looked back up at Yuri, puzzled. “He had a dangerous accent?”
“Not dangerous.” Yuri blew a frustrated breath. “He said Yawl. Like . . . Daisy Duke.”
Sophie blinked, then laughed. “Hazardous. Oh, like the Dukes of Hazzard.”
Yuri nodded, a gleam in his eye. “I saw the movie. You’re far prettier than that Jessica Simpson.”
Sophie smiled. “You’re very kind.” She looked up at Vito. “They were southerners.”
“Did they give their name?”