Vito peeled the bag to reveal Pierce’s tear-streaked face. “You scared?”
Pierce shook his head hard, but Vito waited and ten seconds later he was nodding.
Connor sat up. “He’s just a kid. You know how kids are.”
Vito nodded sagely, noticing Connor’s eyes were a little puffy as well. “I know. Is Dante awake, too?” He pulled Dante’s bag back far enough to peek and Dante blinked up at him. “So nobody’s sleeping, huh? What would help? Warm milk?”
Connor made a face. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s what they always do on TV.” He sat down on the floor between Pierce and Dante. “So what would help, ’cause I can’t stay awake all night with you. I have to work in a few hours, and I won’t be able to sleep if the three of you are wide awake. Eventually you’d start fighting and wake me up. So how do we resolve this?”
“Mom sings,” Dante mumbled. “To Pierce.”
Pierce gave Vito a yeah-right look. “To all of us.”
Molly had a nice soprano, pure and perfect for lullabies. “What does she sing?”
“The fourteen angels song,” Connor said quietly and Vito knew the song was more than a lullaby—it would be like having Molly here with them.
“From
Hansel and Gretel.
” It had always been one of his favorite operas, his grandfather’s, too. “Well, I’m not your mom, but everybody get settled and I’ll do my best.” He waited until they were all snuggled. “Grandpa Chick used to sing the fourteen angels song to me and your dad when we were your age,” he murmured, one hand on Dante’s back and one on Pierce’s. And singing it brought back sweet memories of the grandfather he had so loved, who’d fostered his love of all kinds of music from an early age.
When at night I go to sleep, Fourteen angels watch do keep;
Two my head are guarding, Two my feet are guiding;
Two are on my right hand, Two are on my left hand,
Two who warmly cover, Two who o’er me hover,
Two to whom ’tis given To guide my steps to heaven.
“You sing it pretty,” Pierce whispered when he’d sung the first verse.
Vito smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered back.
“He sang at Aunt Tess’s wedding and at your christening,” Connor whispered. He swallowed. “Mom cried.”
“It wasn’t all that bad,” Vito teased and was relieved to see Connor’s lips curve a little. “I bet your mom’s thinking about you right now. She’d want you to sleep.” He sang the second verse more quietly because Dante was already asleep. By the time he finished, Connor was, too. That left Pierce, who looked so little in that big sleeping bag. Vito sighed. “You want to bunk with me?”
Pierce’s nod was quick. “I don’t kick. Or hog the covers. I promise.”
Vito pulled him into his arms, bag and all. “Or wet the bed?”
Pierce hesitated. “Not recently.”
Vito laughed. “Good to know.”
Monday, January 15, 7:45
A.M.
The ringing of the phone next to his bed yanked Greg Sanders out of a sound whiskey-induced sleep. Groggy, he missed his ear on his first two attempts. “Yeah.”
“Mr. Sanders.” The voice was calmly menacing. “Do you know who this is?”
Greg rolled to his back, suppressing a moan when the room spun wildly. Goddamn hangovers. But he’d avoided this as long as he could. It was time to pay the devil his due. Greg didn’t want to think about what that “due” would be, but he was certain it would involve a great deal of pain. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. “Yeah.”
“You’ve been avoiding us, Mr. Sanders.”
Greg tried to sit up, leaning his spinning head against the wall. “I’m sorry. I . . .”
“You what?” The voice now mocked him. “You have our money?”
“No. Not all of it, anyway.”
“That’s not good, Mr. Sanders.”
Greg pressed his fingers to his throbbing temple, desperation making his pulse race faster. “
Wait.
Look, I have a job. Tomorrow. Pays five hundred. I’ll give it all to you.”
“Please, Mr. Sanders. That would be like pissing into a forest fire. Much too little, much too late. We want our money by this evening at five o’clock. We don’t care what you have to do to get it. All of it. Or you won’t be pissing anywhere because you won’t have, shall we say, the necessary equipment? Do you understand?”
Greg’s stomach roiled. He nodded, nauseated. “Yeah. I mean, yes. Yes, sir.”
“Good. Have a nice day, Mr. Sanders.”
Greg slumped into the pillow, then reared back and hurled the telephone at the wall. Plaster flew and the ringer clanged and glass shattered as a picture fell to the floor.
The bedroom door burst open. “What the hell?”
Greg groaned into his pillow. “Go away.” But he was yanked to his back and flinched when a palm connected with his cheek. Greg’s head felt like it had exploded.
By five o’clock today I’ll wish it had,
he thought.
“Open your eyes, you bastard.”
Blearily Greg obeyed. Jill was glaring down at him, one hand clutching his T-shirt and the other upraised, palm flat.
“Don’t hit me again.” It came out very nearly a whimper.
“You . . .” Jill shook her head in bewildered indignation. “I let you stay here against my better judgment and only because I once had the stupidity to love you. But you’re not the man you were. That was
him,
wasn’t it? The guy with the creepy voice that keeps calling for you. You owe him money, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He hissed out the word. “I owe him money. I owe you money. I owe my parents money.” He closed his eyes. “I owe the credit card companies and the bank.”
“You were somebody.” She released his shirt with a shove of disgust that set the room spinning again. “Now you’re just a dirty drunk. You haven’t worked in a year.”
He covered his eyes with his hands. “So my agent tells me.”
“Don’t you get smart with me. You had a career. Dammit, Greg, your face made it into nearly every living room in this city. But you gambled it all away.”
“And this was your life, Greg Sanders,” he sneered.
Jill exhaled on what sounded like a sob and he opened his eyes to find tears in hers. “They’re going to break your legs, Greg,” she whispered.
“That’s only in the movies. In real life, they do a lot worse than that.”
She took a step back. “Well, I’m not picking up the pieces this time and I don’t want any more damage to my place.” She turned and walked away, pausing at the door. “I want you out of here by Friday, understand?” Then she was gone.
I should be angry,
Greg thought. But he wasn’t. She was right.
I had it all and pissed it away. I have to get it back. I have to pay that debt and start over.
He didn’t have a penny, but he still had his face. It had earned him a decent living once before. It would do so again.
With care he climbed from the bed and slid into the chair in front of his computer. By tomorrow he’d have five hundred dollars. But that was barely a tenth of the principal he owed. When he added in the interest . . . He needed more money and fast. But how? From whom? Mechanically he clicked on his e-mail, then with a frown opened the message from E. Munch.
At least the job hadn’t been canceled, just moved a few hours.
I can hide until then.
But why was he even bothering? Five hundred really was like pissing on a forest fire. He’d do better to run to Canada, dye his hair, and change his name.
Or . . . another idea came to mind. Munch was prepared to pay five bills, cash, and his first e-mail said he had ten roles to fill. Even hung over, Greg could do that math. Munch’s profile said he’d worked in film for more than forty years. He’d be old. Old people hid money all kinds of places. Old people could be dealt with, easily.
No.
He couldn’t do that. Then he thought about the threat to his . . . equipment. Yeah, he could. And if Munch didn’t have all the cash . . . well, he’d cross that bridge when he got there.
Monday, January 15, 8:15
A.M.
L
ieutenant Liz Sawyer sat at her desk staring at the map of the four-by-four matrix of graves, her brow crunched into frown lines. “This is unbelievable.”
“We know,” Vito said. “But the archeologist says we have nine bodies buried in that field. She’s been right on every one so far.”
Liz looked up. “You’ve confirmed these seven are empty?”
“Empty, but covered with plywood, just like Sophie said,” Nick replied.
“So what’s our status?”
“Three bodies in the morgue,” Vito said. “The Lady, the Knight, and the guy that’s missing half his head. The fourth body is in transit. Jen’s working on the fifth.”
Nick went on. “The fourth body is male, older. The first three look like they may have been in their twenties. This guy might be in his sixties. No obvious anomalies.”
“No posed hands, missing entrails, or dismembered arms?” Liz asked sarcastically.
Vito shook his head. “The fourth body appeared to be a garden-variety victim.”
Liz sat back, her chair creaking. “So what are our next steps?”
“We’re going to the morgue,” Nick said. “Katherine promised to give us priority and we need to identify these people. When we start getting names we might see a pattern.”
“Jen has the lab analyzing the soil,” Vito added. “She’s hoping to find out where it came from. The lab will sift through all the fill dirt to see if they can find anything to point to the perp, but it doesn’t look like he left anything behind.”
Liz looked down at the map. “Why the empty graves? I mean, we could guess he’s not finished yet with whatever this scheme is, but why leave these two empty?” She pointed to the two graves on the far end of the second row. “He’s filled the entire first row, then the first two on the second row. Then he skips down to the third row.”
“We have to believe he had a reason,” Vito said. “He’s planned this down to the nth degree. I don’t think he’d just skip two graves for kicks, but we need to get all the bodies out of there before we start formulating any theories.”
Liz gestured to her office door. “Keep me apprised. I’ll get to work on freeing up another team to work any leads you come up with. Needless to say, the mayor is chomping at the bit. Don’t make me look stupid, guys.”
Vito took the map. “I’ll make you a copy. Try to keep the mayor from going to the press too soon, okay?”
“For now we’ve been lucky,” Liz said. “The reporters haven’t found out about our secret garden, but it’s just a matter of time. Too many bodies showing up to the morgue and too many CSU techs coming in for overtime. One of the reporters is bound to grab the scent. Just stick with ‘no comment’ and leave the rest to me.”
Vito’s laugh was grim. “That’s one order we’ll be glad to follow.”
Monday, January 15, 8:15
A.M.
The Albright Museum was housed in what had once been a chocolate factory. It had been a definite consideration as Sophie had considered Ted the Third’s job offer six months before. It was fate, she’d thought. The museum boasted one of the greatest private collections of medieval European artifacts in North America and it was in a
chocolate
factory. How could she possibly go wrong accepting?
That had become one of the questions for the ages, she thought darkly as she let herself in the museum’s front door. Like the secret of life or how many licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop. The world would never know.
Because she had, of course, gone wrong. Accepting Ted the Third’s job offer had been one of the stupidest things she’d ever done in her life.
And I’ve done some really stupid things,
she thought, even more darkly. Vito Ciccotelli’s handsome face popped into her mind and she shoved it away. At least she’d found out his cheating ways before she’d done something really stupid, like sleep with him.
“Hello?” she called.
“In the office.” Ted’s wife, Darla, sat behind the big cluttered desk, a pencil stuck in her graying hair. Darla managed the books, which meant the most important function of the museum—her paycheck—was in capable hands. “How was your weekend, dear?”
Sophie shook her head. “You really don’t want to know.”
Darla glanced up, her eyes concerned. “Did your grandmother take a turn?”
It was one of the reasons that Sophie liked Darla. She was a nice person who really cared. And she seemed fairly normal, which made her the odd Albright. With the exception of Darla, Ted’s family was . . . just plain off.
There was Ted himself with his bizarro-world approach to running a history museum and his son, who Sophie always thought of as Theo Four. Theo was nineteen, a sulky, angry boy who played hooky more than he showed up. That wouldn’t have been such an issue, but Theo’s new job was to run the Knight tour and when he played hooky, the responsibility fell to Sophie who was the only other one big enough to fit the suit. Darla was barely five-two and the Albrights’ daughter, Patty Ann, even smaller.
Patty emerged from the ladies’ room, wearing a very conservative blue suit, and Sophie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Patty Ann looks nice today. How come?”
Darla smiled without looking up. “I’m just glad it’s not Wednesday.”
Wednesday was Patty Ann’s goth day. Any other day you never knew how she’d show up for work. A struggling actress, Patty Ann hadn’t yet found her persona, so she imitated everyone else’s. Usually not well.
Sophie questioned the wisdom of assigning her to the reception desk and wondered how many visitors took one look at Patty Ann and went on to the Franklin Institute or some other real museum, especially on Wednesdays. But Sophie kept her mouth shut because as much as she hated doing the tours, she hated the thought of cheerily greeting visitors even more.
I miss my pile of rocks.
Darla looked up, reluctantly. “Theo’s got a cold.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “And we have a knight tour scheduled. That’s just great. Dammit, Darla . . . I’m sorry. I really wanted to do some real work today.”
Darla looked distressed. “The tours will bring in a lot of money, Sophie.”
“I know.” And she wondered if she was whoring herself for that money, participating in an enterprise that cheapened history. But as long as Anna was alive, she needed the money. Sophie hoped she needed the money for a long time. “So what time am I on?”
“The knight tour is at twelve-thirty, Viking at three.”
Oh joy, oh rapture.
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
Monday, January 15, 8:45
A.M.
“You got lucky, boys,” Katherine said as she pulled the Knight’s body from cold storage. “This guy has a tattoo. May make identifying him a little easier.” She pulled the sheet away, revealing the man’s shoulder. “Can you guess what it is?”
Vito crouched down and stared at the tattoo through narrowed eyes. “It’s a man.”
“Not just any man. If you look at him as closely as you watched Sophie yesterday, you’ll figure it out.”
Vito’s cheeks heated. He hadn’t realized his scrutiny of Sophie Johannsen had been so obvious. Feeling squirmy, he turned back to the victim’s shoulder, but not before he caught Nick’s look of amusement. It wouldn’t have been so bad had Sophie not turned him down cold. It still stung. “It’s a yellow man,” Vito said flatly.
Nick looked over Vito’s shoulder. “It’s Oscar. You know, the movie award statue.”
Vito squinted. “Not a particularly good rendition, but it could be.” Straightening, he looked at Nick. “Maybe our Knight’s an actor?”
Nick shrugged. “It’s a place to start. It’ll narrow down the missing persons reports.”
Vito took his notebook from his pocket. “Cause of death was the hole in his gut?”
“That seems likely. I’ll start the autopsies today. So far I’ve only done external exams on the three victims from yesterday.” She looked back at the Knight and sighed. “But this one suffered, I can tell that right now.”
“Being disemboweled has got to hurt a little,” Nick said sarcastically.
“I can only hope he was dead at least for part of it, but I don’t think he was. I’m fairly certain he was alive when every major bone in his body was dislocated.”
Vito and Nick flinched. “My God,” Vito murmured. “How would . . .? He’s a big guy.”
“Six feet three, two hundred twenty-five,” Katherine confirmed. “And he fought hard. There are deep abrasions on his wrists and ankles where he was tied with rope. And yeah, I sent a sample of the rope fiber to the lab, but that’s a long shot, kids. Other than the dislocations and an empty abdominal cavity, he appears to have been in good shape.” She held up a hand. “And yes, I’ve already started a urine tox. I can’t see how he could have been overpowered without being drugged. I don’t see any head trauma.”
Nick blew out a breath. “Anything on the woman?”
“Official cause of death is a broken neck.” She pulled out another drawer, their female victim, the sheet forming a tent over her folded hands.
“You need to see her back.” Katherine lifted the sheet and carefully pushed the woman’s hip so that the back of her thigh was visible. “A pattern of contusions, regularly spaced and very deep.” She looked up, her face grim. “I’m thinking nails.”
Vito’s eyes were already beginning to water. Blinking, he focused on the pattern on the woman’s skin. Each hole was round and small. “Is it only on her legs?”
“No.” Katherine slid the drawer back into the wall. “It’s deepest on the backs of her thighs, but the same pattern is visible on her back, calves and the backs of her arms. From the depth of the thigh punctures, I’d say she was sitting up, all of her body weight driving her down onto the nails.”
Nick’s expression became strangely strained. “A chair of nails?”
“Or something like that. Her gluteus was severely burned. No skin remains.” Katherine cocked her jaw, anger in her eyes. “And she was alive the whole time.”
Vito’s stomach churned as the extent of this killer’s cruelty became clearer. “We’re dealing with a creative sadist here. I mean, how the hell would anybody even conceive of a chair of nails?”
Nick sat down at Katherine’s computer. “Come here, Chick. Look at this.”
Vito frowned at the screen. It was the chair he’d envisioned, covered in spikes. Restraints were attached to the chair’s arms and front legs. “What the hell is that?”
“I couldn’t sleep last night—kept thinking about the way he’d posed their hands. So I got up and Googled medieval effigies. Sophie was right, by the way. The poses of our victims are exactly like the tomb effigies I found online.”
Vito didn’t want to think about Sophie right now. He’d done enough of that during the night while he tossed and turned. “That’s nice,” he scowled, focusing on the screen. “But what about the chair? Please don’t tell me this is available on eBay.”
Nick looked back at the screen, troubled. “It might be. But this site belongs to a museum in Europe that specializes in medieval torture.”
“A torture museum?” It was real, then. That chair existed in a museum. One also existed right here in Philly. “I can’t begin to imagine how she suffered. How both of them suffered. And we haven’t even started on the others.” He pressed his fingers into the back of his skull, a headache forming there. “How did you find this site?”
“I thought about what Sophie said about disembowelment being used as torture during medieval times. I Googled ‘medieval torture’ and this is one of the top results. This chair has over thirteen hundred spikes.”
“That would induce the pattern of injury on the victim,” Katherine agreed tightly.
Vito ran a hand through his hair. “So we have poses like statues on medieval crypts, a chair of spikes, a disembowelment and, what, a stretching on a . . . rack? This is not normal, people.”
“A killer with a theme,” Nick mused. “Except for the body that’s on its way in. It didn’t appear to have anything funky like this.”
Katherine stepped back from the computer. “I thought I’d seen everything on this job, but I keep being proved wrong.” She squared her shoulders. “I do have two other things so far.” She handed Vito a glass jar containing small white crumbs. “I scraped it from the wire on the male victim’s hands. I found what looks like the same substance on the female victim’s wires.”
Vito held it up to the light, then passed the jar to Nick. “Best guess?”
Katherine frowned. “I sent a sample to the lab, but it looks like something in the silicone family. I’ll let you know when I get the results.”
“What’s the second thing you have for us?” Nick asked.
“All three of these victims were washed thoroughly. Blood should have been caked all over the three of them, but there was none. That tells me that originally the two posed victims had a lot more of whatever’s in that jar all over them.”
“We’ll try Missing Persons to match the Knight’s tat,” Vito said. “Thanks, Katherine.”
“Then let’s call Sophie,” Nick said when they were out in the hall. “I want to follow up on those torture devices. If that’s what he used, he had to get them somewhere and maybe she can give us an idea of where to start looking. We should have gotten her number from Katherine.”