Die for Me (45 page)

“We found your CDs,” Nick said, mildly now. “You’re a gruesome sonofabitch, Van Zandt, thinkin’ up shit like that.”

Van Zandt’s jaw cocked. “This is a setup.”

“We found you on an anonymous tip . . . VZ,” Nick said, and Van Zandt’s eyes flashed. “The tipper asked us to pass on a message. What was it again, Chick?”

“‘Checkmate,’” Vito said, and the look on Van Zandt’s face was priceless.

“You played with fire, Jager,” Nick said. “And you got burned. Now you’re going down for murder.”

Van Zandt stared at the table, a muscle in his jaw twitching erratically. When he looked up, Vito knew they’d won. “What do you want?” Van Zandt said.

“Jager,” Musgrove started and Van Zandt turned on him with a snarl.

“Just shut up and go get me a real attorney. Now, detectives,
what do you want
?”

“Frasier Lewis,” Vito said. “We want the man you called Frasier Lewis.”

Dutton, Georgia, Friday, January 19, 2:45
P.M.

If she hadn’t been nearly breaking his hand, Daniel would have thought Susannah’s poise was complete. Her expression was flat, her features composed, just like he’d expect to see her in a courtroom. But this was no courtroom. There was a wall of flashing cameras behind them and it seemed most of the county had turned out to see who was buried in Simon’s tomb. Daniel knew it wouldn’t be Simon.

“Daniel,” Susannah murmured, “I’ve been thinking about what that archeologist said. About Dad not wanting Mother to know that he’d found Simon.”

“Me, too. Dad had to have known Simon was alive. He wouldn’t have wanted Mom to know what he did. I’ve been wondering why he took the pictures to Philadelphia.”

Susannah’s chuckle was mirthless. “He was blackmailing Simon. Think about it. If he knew Simon was alive, why all this?” She nodded at the crane moving into position. “And if he faked all of this, how could he be sure that Simon wouldn’t come back?”

“He kept the pictures as insurance,” Daniel said wearily. “But why do any of this at all? Suze, if you know something, please tell me.
Please.
”

Susannah was quiet for so long that Daniel thought she wouldn’t answer. But then she sighed. “Things were bad when you lived at home, Daniel, but after you went away to college things got a whole lot worse. Dad and Simon fought all the time. Mother would always intervene. It was ugly.”

“And you?” Daniel kept his voice gentle. “What did you do when they fought?”

She swallowed hard. “I got involved in every after-school activity I could find, then when I got home, I hid in my room. It was the easiest way. Then, one day right after Simon graduated from high school it all came to a head. It was Wednesday and Mother was at her hair appointment in town. I was in my room and I heard Dad bust open Simon’s door and they had this huge fight.”

She closed her eyes. “They were yelling about pictures. At the time I thought they were talking about the paintings under his bed, but now I know the pictures were probably the ones you found. Dad was up for judge reelection and he said Simon’s fuckups were killing his career, but that this one took the cake, that he’d fucked up one time too many. And then everything got real quiet.”

“And then?”

She opened her eyes and stared at the crane. “They were still arguing, but too low for me to hear. Then Simon yelled, ‘I’ll see you in hell before I let you send me to jail, old man,’ and Dad said, ‘Hell’s the best place for you.’ Simon said, ‘You ought to know. We’re birds of a feather.’” She swallowed hard. “Then Simon said, ‘And someday my gun will be a lot bigger than yours.’ ”

Daniel let out the breath he’d been holding. “Dear God.”

She nodded. “The front door slammed and . . . I’m not sure why, but something told me to hide, so I did, in my closet. A minute later, my door opened, then shut. I think Dad was looking to see if I’d overheard.”

He shook his head, but it didn’t clear his bewilderment. “Suze. My God.”

“I’ve never been sure what he would have done if he’d found me. That night Simon didn’t show up for supper. Mother was distraught. Dad said Simon had probably gone off with some friends, that she shouldn’t worry. A few days later, Dad told us he’d gotten a call that Simon was dead.” She looked up at him, pain in her eyes. “All these years I thought Dad had killed him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Same reason you didn’t when you thought Dad had burned the pictures. My word against his. I was only sixteen. He was a respected judge. And like I said, I had to sleep sometime.”

Daniel was sick to his stomach. “And I left you there. God, Suze. I’m sorry. If I’d known you were in danger . . . even that you were afraid, I would have taken you with me. Please believe that.”

She returned her gaze to the crane. “What’s done is done. Last night I realized Dad probably found those pictures and knew his career wouldn’t survive if anyone saw them. He probably told Simon to leave and never come back and threatened him with prison if he didn’t. He knew Mother would never stop looking for Simon as long as there was any hope that he was alive. So . . .”

“So he fixed it so she’d believe Simon was dead.”

“It’s the only way it makes sense to me.” She bit at her lip. “I thought about them both all night. He tortured Dad, Daniel.”

“I know.” It had kept him awake all night as well.

“Do you think Simon tortured him so that he’d tell where Mother was?”

“I considered it,” Daniel admitted. “I think Simon’s capable.”

“Oh, I know he’s capable.”

“Suze . . . What happened? What did he do to you?”

She shook her head. “Not now. Someday. But not today.”

“When you’re ready, you’ll call me.”

She squeezed his hand tighter. “I will.”

“I want to think Dad would have died before letting Simon get to Mother,” he said.

“I’d like to think it,” she said flatly, which said a great deal.

“You know Simon’s not in there,” Daniel said as the crane brought up the casket.

“I know.”

Philadelphia, Friday, January 19, 4:20
P.M.

“Sophie.”

Sophie’s stomach dropped to her toes as Harry hurried across the lobby, passing Officer Lyons without a glance. “Harry? What’s wrong with Gran?”

He cast a wary glance at the ax on her shoulder. “Nothing, Anna’s fine. Can you put that down? It makes me nervous.”

Relieved, she set the ax head on the floor. “I’ve got a tour in a few minutes, Harry.”

“I needed to tell you something. In person. And it’s not good. Freya told me you’d called asking if we’d put Anna’s record collection away for safekeeping. We didn’t. I did some checking and . . . um . . . it’s been taken.”

Her eyes narrowed. “By whom?” But she already knew.

“Lena. She showed up after Anna’s stroke, but I sent her away. Instead she went to Anna’s house and took the records and other valuables. I found some of them on eBay. The seller on eBay believed he’d bought them legitimately from Lena. I’m sorry.”

Sophie let out a slow breath, her heart pounding in her head. “Is there more?”

“Yes. When I found out about the missing records, I talked to Anna’s lawyer. She had a lot of money tied up in bonds that I knew nothing about. If she’d died, her lawyer would have told us. As it was . . .” He took a breath. “The lawyer checked the serial numbers on the bonds. They’ve been cashed. I’m so sorry, Sophie. A good part of what would have been your inheritance—yours and Freya’s—is gone.”

Sophie nodded, numb. “Thanks for telling me in person. I have to work now.”

Harry frowned. “We have to call the police and press charges.”

She swung the ax on her shoulder with too much force. “You do it. If I press charges, I might have to see her. I’d really rather never see her again.”

“Sophie, wait.” Harry had noticed Officer Lyons. “Why is there a cop in your lobby?”

“He’s here for security.” It was a half-truth more than a half-lie. “Harry, I have a tour group waiting for me in the Hall. I have to go. Do what you want with Lena. I don’t care.”

Friday, January 19, 5:00
P.M.

Vito dropped into his chair at the conference room table and rubbed the back of his neck, tired and frustrated. “Fuck.” Three hours of interviewing Jager Van Zandt had at times brought new insights but ultimately hadn’t yielded the real information they sought.

Liz sat down next to him. “Van Zandt really might not know where Simon is, Vito.”

“You could try torturing it out of him,” Jen muttered, then shrugged when Liz raised her brows. “It was just a thought.”

“Damn good thought,” Katherine said, and by the looks on the faces around the table, a thought everyone else shared.

Gathered for the evening debrief, Nick and Jen, Katherine and Thomas, and Liz and Brent all wore grim expressions. They’d been joined by a new face—ADA Magdalena Lopez who, along with Thomas and Liz, had observed the interrogation of Van Zandt. Maggy was a delicate woman with dark brown eyes that now narrowed as she spoke.

“He might know and he might not. But I’m not prepared to give him anything more than I have, particularly not full immunity.”

Maggy had offered to reduce his murder charge to manslaughter if he told them where to find Frasier Lewis, aka Simon, but Van Zandt had demanded full immunity, the arrogant little bastard. “We don’t want you to give him immunity, Maggy,” Vito said. “He might not have killed anyone, but he was sure as hell prepared to profit from it.”

“Besides,” Nick said, “if Simon had believed Van Zandt really knew anything useful, he wouldn’t have handed him over to us. You did okay, Maggy.” The last was added with a grudging admiration, probably, Vito thought, because of the guilty verdict Maggy had gotten on Nick’s Siever case. Now Nick could finally feel like he deserved the Christmas cards the Siever girl’s parents sent every year.

“He did give us Simon’s cell phone number,” Vito said.

“Same number he used to call me,” Liz said. “No GPS. Untraceable.”

“I found Van Zandt’s reaction to knowing real people died to make his game to be the most telling,” Thomas mused. “‘You must prune dead wood to save the tree,’” he mimicked in Van Zandt’s thick accent. “‘Sometimes you cut living wood.’”

“Ultimate break-the-eggs-to-make-the-omelet approach,” Nick agreed. “Slimy SOB.”

“Sophie told us that the big
R
in oRo was Dutch for wealth,” Vito said. “I guess Van Zandt’s never made a secret that he’s in it for the money.”

Thomas shook his head. “Van Zandt could be an even worse sociopath than Simon Vartanian. At least Simon’s doing this for art.”

“Van Zandt claimed he hadn’t paid Simon yet,” Vito told Katherine, Brent, and Jen. “Simon’s pay was based on royalties, which wouldn’t be paid for another three months.”

“And the royalties are piddly shit,” Nick added. “Simon didn’t do this for money.”

“How did Simon hook up with Van Zandt?” Jen asked.

“Van Zandt was in a bar near his apartment in SoHo,” Vito answered. He shook his head. “The bar is right down the street from the park where Susannah Vartanian walks her dog. We think Simon met up with Van Zandt one of the times he was stalking Susannah. Anyway, Simon approached Van Zandt in the bar a year ago, bought him a few drinks, and showed him a demo disk.”

“It was the Clothilde strangulation scene,” Nick said. “But it was done in a modern-day setting. Van Zandt saw ‘promise’ and told Simon if he converted it to a World War II theme, he’d get it in his next game. Simon did and Van Zandt asked for more. Simon did the scenes with the Luger and the grenade. It’s all Van Zandt had time to put in
Behind Enemy Lines
because he was up against the delivery deadline.”

“Derek protested,” Thomas said and frowned. “‘Because he was weak.’”

Maggy Lopez sighed. “Van Zandt’s quite a guy.”

“And I hope he rots in hell,” Nick said. “But bottom line, Van Zandt says he doesn’t know where Lewis came from or where he lived, or who the boy with the grenade was.”

“Well, I got some info on Frasier Lewis,” Katherine said. “The real Frasier Lewis.”

Vito blinked, surprised. “He really exists?”

“Oh, yes. He’s a forty-year-old farmer in Iowa. Simon’s been using his medical insurance for some time. The real Frasier’s medical insurance has a lifetime cap of a million dollars. If he ever got really sick, he’d be in trouble, because a lot of that money is gone. I wondered how Simon afforded the fancy prosthetics Dr. Pfeiffer’s file said he used. He paid for his own medical care through medical insurance fraud.”

“Does the real Frasier Lewis have two legs?” Nick asked.

“Yes,” Katherine said.

Nick was frowning. “Wouldn’t Pfeiffer have seen that there was no amputation?”

“Not necessarily,” Brent said thoughtfully. “Simon is good with computers. We already thought he could get into people’s financials. What if he could get into a medical-records database, too? What if that’s why he picked Lewis’s medical identity to steal? Because he had access to Lewis’s medical history to change it? It’s just a thought.”

“It’s a good thought. Run with it,” Vito said. “See what you come up with.”