Die for Me (30 page)
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 class 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, shocked 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.”
Wednesday, January 17, 11:10
A.M.
B
ye! 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.”
“We were happy you came to work here, Sophie,” Ted said, serious as well. “You have great respect for my grandfather’s work. I know you don’t believe it, but so do I.”
“Yes, Ted, I do believe that. That was part of my epiphany.”
He looked through the glass where the last of the children was getting on a yellow bus. “I didn’t know you spoke Norwegian. It’s not one of the languages on your résumé.”
That’s all he would say on the subject, she realized. They’d just go on. “I don’t. But then, neither do they.” She chuckled. “I only know Norwegian cuss words because my gran used to say them. I think that’s all she picked up from my grandfather.”
Ted’s eyes popped wide. “You used Norwegian cuss words with
children?
”
“Good God, no.” She was miffed that he even considered it. “I speak a little Danish and some Dutch. The rest was pure Swedish Chef.” Her lips quirked. “Bork-bork-bork.”
Ted looked both relieved and touched. “We might make a thespian out of you yet, Sophie Johannsen.” He walked away. “Don’t forget, you’re Joan at noon.”
“That armor is still too heavy,” she called back after him, but with considerably less rancor than before. She headed for the washroom to get the makeup off her face before she broke out in hives. That was not how she wanted to be seen by Vito tonight.
She shivered, despite the sweat trickling down her back from the heavy costume. Vito had certainly made good on his word, more than once during the night. There was a big difference between making love and fucking like minks. She imagined it would be even better if she ever were to actually fall in love. She considered asking Uncle Harry, then laughed out loud picturing the horror on his face.
“Excuse me, miss.”
Still smiling, Sophie stopped next to the old man who’d been studying the photos of Ted the First in the front lobby, hunched over his cane. “Yes, sir?”
“I overheard part of your tour. It was fascinating. Do you do private tours also?”
There was something in his eyes that bothered her.
Horny old bastard, trying to pick me up.
Eyes narrowing, her fist tightened on the battle-ax handle. “How private?”
He looked confused, then shocked. “Oh, my. No, no, no. I live at a retirement home where the diversions are often boring, so I’ve taken it on myself to become something of the social coordinator. I was wondering if we could schedule a tour.”
Sophie laughed in embarrassed relief. “Of course, I’d be glad to. I know how bored my gran gets with nothing to do all day.”
“Your grandmother is certainly welcome to join us.”
Sophie’s smile dimmed. “Thank you, but no. She’s not well enough to come on a tour. You can reserve a time with the girl behind the desk.”
He frowned. “The one dressed in black? She looks a bit dangerous.”
“Patty Ann goes goth on Wednesdays. Kind of her own tribute to Wednesday Addams. She’s really quite nice. She’ll be happy to set you up with a tour. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get this makeup off my face or I’ll bloat up like Pugsly.”
He watched her go, his eyes noting every fluid step she took. He’d known her for months, but he’d never really seen her until today. He’d never even suspected the magnetism she’d possessed until he’d seen her like
this
—a six-foot-tall blonde swinging a two-handed battle-ax over her head, green eyes flashing like some mythical Valkyrie. She’d held the small crowd of children and their teachers in thrall for over an hour.
And me, as well.
Forget about the models on the website. He’d found his new queen. Van Zandt would be ecstatic. And Dr. Sophie Johannsen would no longer be a loose end. It was so cool when he could kill two birds with one stone.
Wednesday, January 17, 11:30
A.M.
Barbara Mulrine, librarian and Claire’s former boss, slid an envelope across the counter. “This is the original of the resignation letter we received from Claire Reynolds.”
Marcy Wiggs nodded. She was about Claire’s age and seemed to be taking the news of Claire’s death harder than her fifty-something, pragmatic boss. “We had to request it from the main office since she was out of our system for more than a year.” Marcy’s lip trembled. “That poor sweet girl. She wasn’t even thirty.”
From the corner of his eye Vito watched Barbara roll her eyes and was instantly more interested in the older woman’s take. He opened the envelope and looked inside. The letter was printed on ordinary paper and he suspected they’d get nothing of value in terms of prints, but still he asked. “Can you get me a list of anyone who’s handled this?”
“I can try,” Barbara said while Marcy sighed.
“We all feel so terrible that this happened. We should have suspected something at the time, should have made a phone call, but . . .”
Vito slid the envelope in his folder. “But?”
“But nothing,” Barbara said sharply. “You shouldn’t have suspected anything, Marcy. And Claire was not a sweet girl. You’re just saying that now because she’s dead.” She looked at Vito, vexed. “People always remember the dead as better than they were, especially when they get murdered. And when they’re murdered and have a handicap . . . well, you might as well call the Pope and request a canonization.”
Marcy’s lips thinned, but she said nothing.
Vito looked from one woman to the other. “So Claire was not a nice person?”
Marcy looked up out of the corner of her eye petulantly and Barbara blew out a sigh of frustration. “No, not really. When we got her resignation letter, we had a party.”
“Barbara,” Marcy hissed.
“Well, we did. He’s going to ask around and anybody’ll tell him it’s true.” Barbara looked back at Vito. “The party part and the not-nice part.”
“What did she do that wasn’t nice?”
“It was just her attitude,” Barbara answered wearily. “We wanted to like her, all of us did. But she was abrupt and rude. I’ve worked here for over twenty years. I’ve had employees with all kinds of abilities and disabilities. Claire wasn’t nasty because she was an amputee. She was nasty because she liked to be.”
“Was she into drugs or alcohol?”
Barbara looked appalled. “Not that I ever saw. Claire’s body was her temple. No, this was more a sense of entitlement. She’d come in late, leave early. Her work was always done, but only what I asked and nothing more. This was just a job for her.”
“She was a writer,” Marcy said. “She was working on her novel.”
“She was always working on that laptop,” Barbara agreed. “Her novel was about a paraolympian, semiautobiographical I guess.”
Marcy sighed. “Except that the protagonist was nice. Barbara’s right, Detective. Claire wasn’t that nice. Maybe I just wanted her to be.”
Vito frowned. “You say she had a laptop?”
The women looked at each other. “Yeah,” Barbara said. “A nice new one.”
Marcy bit her lip. “She got the new one about a month before she . . . died.”
“Her parents didn’t find a laptop,” Vito said. “They said she didn’t have one.”
Barbara made a face at that. “There were lots of things Claire didn’t tell her parents, Detective Ciccotelli.”
“Like?” Vito asked, but he thought he knew.
Marcy pursed her lips again. “Now, we weren’t judgmental, but—”
“Claire was a lesbian,” Barbara broke in, matter-of-factly.
“Her parents wouldn’t have approved?”
Barbara shook her head. “No. They were very conservative.”
“I see. Well, did she mention a partner or a girlfriend?”
“No, but there was this photograph,” Barbara said. “In the paper. It was a picture taken at one of the gay pride marches—Claire in a lip-lock with another woman. Claire got really upset. Figured her folks would see it and all hell would break loose and they’d stop paying her rent. She called the paper and complained.” She grimaced. “And now you’re going to ask me which paper it was, and I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. Was it a local community paper, or big like the Philly
Inquirer
?”
“I’m thinking a local paper,” Marcy said uncertainly.
Barbara sighed. “I was thinking a big one. I’m sorry, Detective.”
“Don’t be. You’ve been a lot of help. If you remember anything else, please call me.”
Wednesday, January 17, 12:30
P.M.
Vito stopped his truck in front of the courthouse and Nick jumped in. “Well?”
Nick tugged at his tie. “It’s done. I was the last witness for the prosecution. Lopez wanted me to go last to paint the picture of the murdered girl so that the final thing the jury would remember that it wasn’t just the drugs, but that a girl had died at their hands.”
“Sounds like a good strategy. I know you have your issues with Lopez, but she’s a damn good DA. Sometimes you have to deal with a demon to bring down the devil. It’s not pretty, but it’s the big picture that counts. I hope the girl’s parents understood that.”
Nick pulled his palms down his face wearily. “Actually, they were the ones to tell me that very thing. I was ready to apologize for Lopez pleading their daughter’s killer down to manslaughter so she could get the drug dealer, and they said that the way Lopez handled it, both men would pay and the dope dealer would never touch anyone else’s child. They were very grateful.” He sighed. “And I felt about an inch tall. I owe Maggy Lopez an apology.”
“I’d just be happy to have her work this case. After we nail this sonofabitch, that is.”
”Speaking of,” Nick said, “where are we going?”
“To tell Bill Melville’s parents that he’s dead. You get to tell them.”
“Gee thanks, Chick.”
“Hey, I told the Bellamys. It’s only fair—” His cell buzzed. “It’s Liz,” he told Nick. He listened, then sighed. “We’re on our way.” Vito turned his truck around.
“Where are we going?”
“Not to the Melvilles’,” Vito said grimly. “We’re going back to Winchester’s field.”
“Number ten?”
“Number ten.”
Wednesday, January 17, 1:15
P.M.
Jen was already at the scene, coordinating. She walked over to Vito and Nick when they got out of the truck. “The officer on guard got the APB on the F150 and realized he’d stopped a truck just like it this morning. When he ran the plates, he saw the name the guy gave matched, but when he called the phone number listed for the address, it didn’t match. He drove down this road until he saw the tire tracks in the snow.” She pointed down at an opaque bag lying in the gully. “He saw that and called it in.”
“He knows we’re on to him,” Nick said. “Damn, I was hoping we’d have more time.”
Vito was shoving his feet into his boots. “Well, we don’t. You check it out yet, Jen?”
“It’s a man.” She started down the slope. “I haven’t opened the bag. He ain’t pretty.”
The sight that greeted them at the bottom of the slope would linger in Vito’s mind for a long, long time. The plastic had pulled taut over the man’s face, so that it appeared he was straining to break free. The opacity of the bag clouded everything but the man’s mouth which yawned grotesquely, as if frozen in a scream that no one would hear.
“Hell,” Nick whispered.
Vito shuddered out a breath. “Yeah.” He crouched by the body and did a quick visual. The body was not wrapped in a single bag, but two. “One bag for the head and torso, another for the feet and legs. Tied together.” He pulled at the knot with gloved fingers. “Simple knot. You want me to open him up?”
Jen crouched on the other side of the body with a knife and carefully sliced the plastic next to the knot so that the bags separated, but the knot itself was preserved. She then sliced up the front of the bag and drew a breath. “Grab an edge, Chick.”