Die for Me (35 page)

“He just up and took you to
France
?”

“Yep. He left a note with Freya so she could tell Anna. I think Uncle Harry slept on the sofa for a long time after he got back for that one. He still does, come to think of it.”

“So what happened when you got to France?”

“The taxi dropped us off at a front door that was fifteen feet tall. I held Uncle Harry’s hand so tight. All I’d wanted was to know my father, and all of a sudden I was terrified. Turns out, Harry was too. He was afraid Alex would shun me, or worse, keep me. What happened was a formal visit, but with an invitation to come back over the summer.”

“Did you?”

“Oh, yes. The invitation was issued by the Arnaud family attorney straight to Gran. It was basically a threat that if she didn’t send me for the summer, Alex would claim his custodial rights. So I spent my summers in a French mansion, with a tutor and a cook. The cook taught me the art of French cuisine. The tutor was to teach me to speak French, but I picked it up quickly so he moved on to German, then Latin and so on.”

“And the linguist was born,” he said and she smiled.

“Yes. Staying with Alex was something out of a fairy tale. Sometimes he’d take me to see his film friends. The summer I was eight, they were making a film at the ruins of a castle, and I got to go.” The memory of it sparkled on her face. “It was incredible.”

“And the archeologist was born.”

“I guess so. Alex helped me over the years, with introductions, connections.”

“But did he love you?” The excitement ebbed from her face and his heart squeezed.

“In his own way. And over the summers I grew to love him, but not the way I love Harry. Harry is my true father.” She swallowed hard. “I’m not sure I ever told him so.”

He started to ask how Katherine factored in, but bit the question back. Mention of Katherine would bring up the confrontation they’d had at the precinct. Similarly he held off asking what the other reasons for hating her mother were. He figured Sophie would want
quid pro quo
in the secret sharing department.

Instead, Vito pointed over to the corner of the room, where CDs and vinyl albums were haphazardly stacked where they had not been before. “Having a yard sale?”

She frowned. “No. After seeing you with Gran tonight, I thought she might like to hear some of her old favorites. Anna has an extensive record collection. Very valuable. But they’re all gone, along with every recording of Anna in concert. Even
Orfeo.
”

“Could your aunt or uncle have moved them?”

“Maybe. I’ll ask them before I get all excited about it. I did so want to take her something to listen to tomorrow, but I’ll find something, even if it’s off eBay.”

Vito thought of his own record collection—most of which he’d inherited from his grandfather. He suspected there might be an Anna Shubert vinyl in his box, but he didn’t want to get Sophie’s hopes up, so he closeted that thought away.

Sophie got up. “I’m going to get some more cocoa. Do you want some?”

“Sure.”

She paused at the doorway. “I know the other questions you have, Vito. And I think you know mine. But we’ll leave things as they are for now.” She left without waiting for a reply and suddenly restless again, Vito got up and paced.

He always came back to the open book on the coffee table, though. Finally he sat down with the book and closed his eyes and let himself remember.

Go ahead and scream. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I killed them all.
Then the words echoed in another voice.
Are you ready to die, Clothilde?

“
Shit.
” Vito lurched to his feet as the pieces connected. “Holy fucking shit.”

“What?” Sophie ran back, a mug in each hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s the phone?”

She pointed with the mug. “In the kitchen. What is it?”

But he was already in the kitchen dialing Tino’s cell. “Tino?”

“
Vito?
Do you know what time it is?”

“Wake Dominic up. It’s important.” He looked at Sophie. “It’s a fucking
game.
”

She said nothing, instead sitting at the table and sipping cocoa while he paced like a wild man. Finally Dom came to the phone. “Vito?” His voice was scared. “Is it Mom?”

He felt a pang of guilt for worrying the boy. “She’s fine. Dom, I need to talk to that kid who came to the house last night. The rude one with the game. Jesse something.”

“
Now
?”

“Yes, now. Do you have his number?”

“I don’t hang with him, Vito. I told you that. Ray might have it, though.”

“Then give me Ray’s number.” Vito wrote it down, then placed his next call to Nick.

“What?” Nick was whiny when he was waked from a sound sleep.

“Nick, last night some kids came to my house. They were playing this World War II video game and there was a scene where this woman is strangled. Nick, listen carefully. The guy who does the murder says ‘No one can hear you. No one will save you.’”

“Oh my God. You’re tellin’ me this is a
game
?”

“If not, they’re connected somehow. Meet me at the precinct in an hour. I’m going to try to get a copy of the game. Call Brent, Jen, and . . . Liz. Have them meet us there.”

Hanging up with Nick, he planted a hard kiss on Sophie’s mouth, then licked his lips. “That chocolate tastes good. Remind me where we left off later. For now, get dressed.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not leaving you here alone with those two rainbow wigs for protection.”

She sighed heavily. “You owe me big-time, boy.”

Vito slowed down long enough to give her a respectable kiss that left them both breathing hard. “Compound my interest. Now get dressed.”

Thursday, January 18, 7:45
A.M.

“The game is
Behind Enemy Lines,”
Vito explained to Liz, Jen, and Nick while Brent played the game to get them to the strangulation scene. They’d gathered around Brent’s computer in the IT bullpen, which was a very different environment from the homicide bullpen. Vito had counted no fewer than six
Star Trek
action figures on as many desks as he’d walked to Brent’s cubicle. Brent himself had the set of the original crew of the Starship
Enterprise.
Mr. Spock was still in his original box. Brent was very proud of that.

Vito found that very disturbing, but he focused now on the game. “It’s a World War II first-person shooting game. You’re an American soldier who’s trapped behind enemy lines. The objective is to get from Germany, through occupied France, to Switzerland.”

“This is a very popular game,” Brent commented. “My kid brother was trying to get one at Christmas and the stores were all sold out.”

Jen made a face. “The graphics suck. How nineties.”

“Kids don’t buy it for the game play,” Brent said. “I’ve got it ready to go, Vito.”

Vito pointed to the screen. “At this point you’ve decimated a bunker, then searched for the woman who betrayed you. When Brent kills the last Nazi, it’ll go to the cut scene.”

Brent fired the final shot and the scene went to the one Vito had watched with the teenagers Tuesday night. On screen, the American had his hands around the French woman’s throat and the woman fought for her life.

“No. Please no!” She struggled, and the screen filled with her face and his hands as she sobbed and begged for her life. The fear in her eyes gave Vito a chill. It had been far too real for comfort the first time he’d seen it. Now he knew why.

Jen sucked in a breath. “My God. It’s Claire Reynolds.”

“Are you ready to die, Clothilde?” the soldier mocked and she screamed, chillingly. The soldier laughed. “Go ahead and scream, Clothilde. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I killed them all. And now I’ll kill you.”

His hands tightened further and Clothilde began to writhe. The hands lifted until her feet no longer touched the floor. Her hands grabbed at his, her nails scoring his skin. Panic lit her eyes and she began to gasp for breath.

Then her eyes changed, horror combined with the certainty that she would die. Her hands clawed, her mouth gaping open as she desperately fought to breathe. Finally she stiffened, then her eyes went abruptly blank, her hands limp on the soldier’s now bloody wrists. The soldier gave her a final vicious shake, then tossed her to the floor. As her body lay crumpled in a heap, the camera focused on her eyes. Wide open and dead.

“Clothilde is Claire,” Jen repeated quietly. “We just saw Claire die.”

“There’s a scene where the soldier shoots a young man in the head with a Luger,” Vito told them. “And another where he blows up a man with a grenade.”

Liz sat heavily. “He killed all those people for this game?”

“Not all of them,” Vito said. “At least not for this game. But you should see what this company’s coming out with next. Brent, go to their website.”

Brent typed and the screen filled with a gold dragon soaring across a night sky. The dragon landed on a mountain and the letters O-R-O circled the dragon. The R landed on the dragon’s scaled chest while the dragon caught the two O’s in its front claws.

“Wow,” Nick said. “Impressive.”

“This is oRo’s website,” Brent said. “They were a not-quite-B-list game designer that was facing bankruptcy before
Behind Enemy Lines
came out. They’ve doubled their net worth three times in the last six months.” He clicked a button and the face of a barrel-chested man in his forties filled the screen. “Meet Jager Van Zandt. Pronounce it with a Y, not like ‘jogger.’ Jager is the president of oRo and its principal owner. Born in Holland, he’s lived in the U.S. for about thirty years.” Brent clicked again and the thin face of another man appeared. He was the same age as Van Zandt, but easily a third smaller. “This is Derek Harrington, oRo’s VP and art director.”

“
He
did the art?” Jen said in disbelief. “He doesn’t look big enough to be our killer.”

“Harrington did the flying dragon,” Brent said. “He’s good at cartoon characters and flashy dragons. He doesn’t do faces worth shit. Harrington didn’t do those cut scenes.”

“Maybe he’ll know who did,” Nick said grimly.

“They’re headquartered in New York City,” Vito said. “When we’re done here, I say we take a little trip. Show them the press release, Brent.”

Brent clicked and sat back. “Front and center.”

“‘oRo’s next game announced at the New York Gaming Expo,’” Liz read aloud. “‘
BEHIND ENEMY LINES
continues to exceed sales projections,’ stated President Jager Van Zandt at the conclusion of a standing-room-only presentation of their breakout game. ‘Our next endeavor is
The Inquisitor,
a game of swords and sorcery and medieval justice. Very prominently featured will be the dungeon, where gamers earn bonus points for originality and effective use of their weapon arsenal.’” Liz blew out a controlled but angry breath. “Find these guys and squash them like bugs.”

Vito’s smile was fierce. “That will be a pleasure.”

“So, Brent,” Jen said, “how do you know all this about oRo?”

“I’m a gamer from way back, so I keep up with all the new companies. My kid brother is
really
good. He’s majoring in game design at Carnegie-Mellon.”

Liz looked dumbfounded. “You can major in game design?”

“One of the hottest new majors out there. My brother and I have been watching the industry because he graduates next year and is looking for places to send his résumé. oRo moved to the top of his list after
Behind Enemy Lines
came out, because they’re hiring.”

“Your brother’s a computer artist?” Vito asked.

“No, he’s into the game physics—how to make the characters move fluidly, which is Jager’s department, incidentally. But last year Jager must have finally admitted that his game physics sucked, because he lured one of the big physics experts from one of the other companies. I’m always watching the industry for investment opportunities. Rumor has it that oRo’s going IPO soon. But now I couldn’t buy their stock.”

“If they’re arrested, it’ll be worthless,” Liz said. “You’d lose your shirt.”

“If both Harrington and Van Zandt are involved, yes. But if it’s just one of them, their stock will go to the moon. I could retire at forty, but I couldn’t live with myself.” He took the CD out of his computer. “People were murdered for this. I couldn’t profit from that.”

That gave them all pause, then Vito squared his shoulders. “We have to keep anyone from profiting from that, so let’s get moving. I’m expecting the fashion model that hadn’t responded to Munch’s e-mail to come in around ten. Liz, can you meet with her since we’re going to New York? Tell her to stay quiet and out of her e-mail.”

Liz shook her head. “I’ve got a press conference at ten and meetings with the brass before and after.”

“I’ll meet her,” Brent said. “I won’t profit from oRo, but I wouldn’t mind meeting a model. Besides, I’ve already talked to her, with Bev and Tim yesterday.”

Liz chuckled. “Your priorities are commendable, Brent. But I have to wonder—if Harrington and Van Zandt live in New York City, why are all the victims from Philly?”