Praise for Karen Roses Previous Novels COUNT TO TEN "Kept me up all night with the doors locked... Karen Rose writes hold-your-breath suspense." —Karen Robards, New York Times bestselling author Takes off like a house afire...There's action and chills galore in this nonstop thriller." —Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author "Rose cranks up the heat in more ways than one... another winning mystery thriller... Emotional subplots, engaging characters, and a string of red herrings will keep readers hooked." —Publishers Weekly YOU CAN'T HIDE "Suspense-filled... [an] action-packed serial killer thriller." —Baryon Magazine "This novel is, in a word, riveting." —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine more... "A fast-paced suspense novel with many twists and turns. Rose is a great suspense writer." —Midwest Book Review "Spine-tingling... Some writers can draw you in with the first sentence and keep you enthralled even if the house is burning down around you—and romantic suspense author Karen Rose is one of them." —Nightsand Weekends. com "If there's one name synonymous with great romantic suspense writers it's Karen Rose—she just keeps getting better and better." —BookLoons.com "Ms. Rose has done it again. She is one talented writer who can draw out a suspense read to the final spine-chilling end." —TheBestReviews.com "A chilling, fast-paced thriller." —CurledUp.com "As always, Rose delivers a masterful story of suspense." —OnceWritten.com NOTHING TO FEAR "A pulse-pounding tale that has it all: suspense, action, and a very hunky private investigator." —Cosmopolitan "Readers can always count on Rose to deliver an action-packed book, and this one is no exception." —Southern Pines Pilot (NC) "Four and a half stars! Top pick!... Filled with heart-stopping suspense and graphic terror... In the pantheon of horrific killers, [this one] surely ranks near the top." —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine "A tense, chilling suspense that readers will appreciate from start to finish." —Midwest Book Review "Rose's well-crafted story sets pulses pounding and pages turning." —BookPage "A caring women's advocate heroine, a determined, gritty hero, and a diabolical villain drive the plot of Rose's riveting story." —Library Journal I'M WATCHING YOU "Action-packed... a thrilling police procedural romance... fans will enjoy this tense thriller." —Midwest Book Review "TOP PICK! Terrifying and gritty." —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine more... "The suspense unfolds right up to the last page." —Southern Pines Pilot (NC) "A sensual, riveting book that kept me on the edge of my seat." —Rendezvous HAVE YOU SEEN HER? "Heart-racing thrills... showcases her growing talent... readers will... rush to the novel's thrilling conclusion." —Publishers Weekly "Terrifying and gripping." —Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine DON'T TELL "Rose delivers the kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat." —Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author "As gripping as a cold hand on the back of one's neck... and tempered by lovable characters and a moving romance." —Publishers Weekly "One of the best suspense novels [I've] read this summer... one hot author you don't want to miss." —The Belles & Beaux of Romance "Action-packed [with a] story line [that] is character driven." —Midwest Book Review "A stunning tour de force that readers won't want to miss... Don yt Tell belongs on the keeper shelf." —Word Weaving, com "A fantastic job of telling a tale... touchingly narrated." —BookLoons.com "A truly spectacular example of romantic suspense." —ARomanceReview.com "Don't Tell is a seat-of-your-pants tale, dragging the reader deep into the characters and wringing emotions from all concerned." —ScribesWorld.com "Couldn't put it down." —Bookhaunts.net "Excellent romantic suspense... will keep you on the edge of your seat... excellent writing and storytelling by Karen Rose." —RoadtoRomance.ca ALSO BY KAREN ROSE Don't Tell Have You Seen Her? I'm Watching You Nothing to Fear You Can't Hide Count to Ten KAREN ROSE DIE For Me VISION NEW YORK BOSTON Copyright © 2007 by Karen Rose Hafer Excerpt from Scream for Me copyright © 2007 by Karen Rose Hafer All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Vision Hachette Book Group USA 237 Park Avenue New York, NY 10017 First eBook Edition: September 2007 ISBN: 0-446-40548-5 Dedicated to the memory of Dr. Zoltan J. Kosztolnyik, Professor Emeritus of Medieval History, Texas A&M University. Although I never had the privilege of knowing him personally, I have had the honor, privilege, and pleasure of knowing the daughter he raised. And as always, to my precious husband Martin. You touch the lives of your students every day, bringing history to life with the same unique combination of passion, intelligence, and acerbic wit that made me fall in love with you twenty-five years ago. Whether you're dressing up like Cleopatra, illustrating the Declaration of Independence using the rock music videos of '80s hair bands, or explaining the Monroe Doctrine through the "Badger-Badger-Mushroom" Dance, you have assured that no student that passes through your class will ever forget you. You inspire me. I love you. I Acknowledgments So many people contributed to my knowledge base as I wrote this book. To all of you—my sincerest thanks! Danny Agan for answering all my detective questions and especially for helping my hero locate things underground. Tim Bechtel of Environscan, Inc. for background and technical details on ground penetrating radar. Niki Ciccotelli for her description of growing up in Philadelphia that was so real that I felt as if I were physically there myself. Monty Clark of the Art Institute of Florida in Ft. Lauderdale, for the invaluable and very cool information on video game design and designers. Marc Conterato for all things medical and Kay Conterato for clipping all those extremely useful newspaper articles on insurance and hackers. Diana Fox for a great title. Carleton Hafer for answering all my computer questions in a way I could clearly understand. Xll ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Linda Hafer for the wonderful introduction to opera and for opening a world of music I never thought I would like but that I do! Elaine Kriegh for her vivid descriptions of medieval tomb monuments. Sonie Lasker, my sempai, for demonstrating weapon technique and teaching me how personally rewarding martial arts can be. Domo arigato. Deana Seydel Rivera for showing me Philadephia—and three days before her wedding, no less. Loretta Rogers for her motorcycle expertise. How I wish I had the courage to fly on two wheels! Sally Schoeneweiss and Mary Pitkin for keeping my Web site organized, functional and beautiful. My language advisors: Mary C Turner and Anne Crowder— Merci beaucoup, Bob Busch and Barbara Mulrine—Spasiba, Kris Alice Hohls—Danke, Sarah Hafer—Domo arigato. Friends who answered my catch-all questions here and there—Shari Anton, Terri Bolyard, Kathy Caskie, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and Kelley St. John. My editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, and my agent, Robin Rue, who make this so much fun. As always, all mistakes are my own. Die For Me I : Prologue Philadelphia, Saturday, January 6 A he first thing that hit Warren Keyes was the smell. Ammonia, disinfectant... and something else. What else? Open your eyes, Keyes. He could hear his own voice echo inside his head and he struggled to lift his eyelids. Heavy. They were so heavy, but he fought until they stayed open. It was dark. No. There was a little light. Warren blinked once, than again with more force until a flickering light came into focus. It was a torch, mounted on the wall. His heart started thudding hard in his chest. The wall was rock. Vm in a cave. His heart began to race. What the hell is this? He lunged forward and white-hot pain speared down his arms to his back. Gasping, he fell back against something flat and hard. He was tied. Oh God. His hands and feet were tied. And he was naked. Trapped. Fear rose from his belly, clawing his insides. He twisted like a wild animal, then fell back again, panting, tasting the disinfectant as he sucked in air. Disinfectant and... His breath hitched as he recognized the odor under the disinfectant. Something dead. Rotting. Something died here. He closed his eyes, willing himself not to panic. This isn't 2 KAREN ROSE happening. This is just a dream, a nightmare. In a minute I'll wake up. But he wasn't dreaming. This, whatever it was, was real. He was stretched out on a board on a slight incline, his wrists tied together and his arms pulled up and behind his head. Why? He tried to think, to remember. There was something... a picture in his mind, just beyond his reach. He strained for the memory and realized his head ached—he winced as the pain sent little black spots dancing across his eyes. God, it was like a really bad hangover. But he hadn't been drinking. Had he? Coffee. He remembered drinking coffee, his hands closing around the cup to get warm. He'd been cold. He'd been outside. Running. Why was he running? He rotated his wrists, feeling his raw skin burn, reaching until the tips of his fingers touched rope. "So you're finally awake." The voice came from behind him and he craned his neck, trying to see. Then he remembered and the pressure on his chest lessened a fraction. It was a movie. Vm an actor and we were making a movie. A history documentary. He'd been running with... with what? He grimaced, focusing. A sword, that's it. He'd been in medieval costume, a knight with a helmet and shield... even chain mail, for God's sake. The entire scene came back now. He'd changed his clothes, even his underwear, for some scratchy, shapeless burlap that irritated his crotch. He'd had a sword, and he'd carried it as he ran through the woods outside Munch's studio, yelling at the top of his lungs. He'd felt like a damn idiot, but he'd done it all because it was in the damn script. But this—he jerked at the ropes again with no success— this was not in the script. DIE FOR ME 3 "Munch." Warren's voice was thick, grating on his dry throat. "What the hell is this?" Ed Munch appeared to his left. "I didn't think you'd ever wake up." Warren blinked as the dim light from the torch flickered across the man's face. His heart skipped a beat. Munch had changed. Before he'd been old, shoulders stooped. White hair and a trim mustache. Warren swallowed, his breath shallow. Now Munch stood straight. His mustache was gone. So was his hair, his head shaved shiny bald. Munch wasn't old. Dread coiled in his gut, seething and roiling. The deal was five hundred for the documentary. Cash if he came that day. Warren had been suspicious—it was a lot of money for a history documentary they'd show on PBS if he was lucky. But he'd agreed. One odd old man was no threat. But Munch wasn 't old. Bile rose, choking him. What have I done? Close on the heels of that question came the next, more terrifying. What will he do to me? "Who are you?" Warren croaked out and Munch held a bottle of water to his lips. Warren pulled away, but Munch grabbed his chin with surprising strength. His dark eyes narrowed and fear made Warren freeze. "It's just water this time," Munch ground out. "Drink it." Warren spat the mouthful of water back in the man's face and held himself rigid when Munch raised his fist. But the fist lowered and Munch shrugged. 'You'll drink eventually. I need your throat moist." Warren licked his lips. "Why?" Munch disappeared behind him again and Warren could hear something rolling. A video camera, Warren saw when Munch rolled it past him, stopping about five feet away. The 4 KAREN ROSE camera was pointing straight at his face. "Why?" Warren repeated, louder. Munch peered through the lens and stepped back. "Because I need you to scream." He lifted a brow, his expression surreally bland. "They all screamed. So will you." Horror bubbled up and Warren fought it back. Stay calm. Treat him nice and maybe you can talk your way out of this. He made his lips curve. "Look, Munch, let me go and we'll call it even. You can keep the sword fight scenes I did already at no charge." Munch just looked at him, his expression still bland. "I never planned to pay you anyway." He disappeared again and reappeared, pushing another video camera. Warren remembered the coffee, remembered Munch's insistence that he drink it. Just water this time. Rage geysered inside him, momentarily eclipsing the fear. 'You drugged me," he hissed, and he filled his lungs with air. "Somebody help me!" he yelled as loud as he could, but the hoarse sound from his throat was pathetically useless. Munch said nothing, just set up a third camera on a boom so that it pointed down. Every movement was methodical, precise. Unhurried. Unconcerned. Unafraid. And then Warren knew no one could hear him. The hot rage drained away, leaving only fear, cold and absolute. Warren's voice shook. There had to be something... some way out. Something he could say. Do. Offer. Beg. He'd beg. "Please, Munch, I'll do anything..." His words trailed away as Munch's words replayed in his mind. They all screamed. Ed Munch. Warren's chest constricted, despair making it difficult to breathe. "Munch isn't your real name. Edvard Munch, the artist." The painting of a ghoulish DIE FOR ME 5 figure clutching its face in agony flashed into his mind. "The Scream" "Actually, it's pronounced 'Moonk,' not 'Munch/ but nobody ever gets it right. Nobody gets the details right," he added in a disgusted voice. Details. The man had been all about details earlier, frowning when Warren argued against the scratchy underwear. The sword had been real, too. I should have used it on the bastard when I had the chance. "Authenticity," Warren murmured, repeating what he'd thought had been the ramblings of a crazy old man. Munch nodded. "Now you understand." "What will you do?" His own voice was eerily calm. One corner of Munch's mouth lifted. 'You'll see soon enough." Warren dragged in each breath. "Please. Please, I'll do anything. Just let me go." Munch said nothing. He pushed a cart with a television just beyond the camera at his feet, then checked the focus of each camera with calm precision. 'You won't get away with this," Warren said desperately, once again pulling at the ropes, struggling until his wrists burned and his arms strained in their sockets. The ropes were thick, the knots unyielding. He would not break free. That's what all the others said. But I have, and I will continue to do so." Others. There had been others. The smell of death was all around, mocking him. Others had died here. He would die here, too. From somewhere deep inside him, courage rallied. He lifted his chin. "My friends will come looking for me. I told my fiancee I was meeting you." 6 KAREN ROSE Finished with the cameras, Munch turned. His eyes held a contempt that said he knew it was a last, desperate bluff. "No, you didn't. You told your fiancee you were meeting a friend to help him read lines. You told me so when we met this afternoon. You said this money would pay for a surprise for her birthday. You wanted it to stay a secret. That and your tattoo were the reasons I chose you." He lifted one shoulder. "Plus, you fit the suit. Not everyone can wear chain mail correctly. So no one will be looking for you. And if they do, they'll never find you. Accept it—you belong to me." Everything inside him went deathly still. It was true. He had told Munch the money was for a surprise for Sherry. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody would save him. He thought of Sherry, of his mom and dad, of everyone he cared about. They'd wonder where he was. A sob rose in his throat. "You bastard," he whispered. "I hate you." One side of Munch's mouth quirked, but his eyes lit up with an amusement that was more terrifying than his smile. "The others said that, too." He shoved the water bottle at Warren's mouth again, pinching his nose until he gasped for air. Wildly Warren fought, but Munch forced the water down. "Now, Mr. Keyes, we begin. Don't forget to scream." Chapter One Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 10:25 A.M. -L/etective Vito Ciccotelli got out of his truck, his skin still vibrating. The beat-up old dirt road that led to the crime scene had only served to further rile his already churning stomach. He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. After fourteen years on the force, the odor of death still came as a putrid and unwelcome surprise. That shot my shocks to holy hell." Nick Lawrence grimaced, slamming the door of his sensible sedan. "Shit." His Carolina drawl drew the curse out to four full syllables. Two uniforms stood staring down into a hole halfway across the snow-covered field. Handkerchiefs covered their faces. A woman was crouched down in the hole, the top of her head barely visible. "I guess CSU's already uncovered the body," Vito said dryly. 'Y'think?" Nick bent down and shoved the cuffs of his pants into the cowboy boots he kept polished to a spit shine. "Well, Chick, let's get this show on the road." "In a minute." Vito reached behind his seat for his snow boots, then flinched when a thorn jabbed deep into his thumb. "Dammit." For a few seconds he sucked on the tiny wound, then with care moved the bouquet of roses out of the way to 8 KAREN ROSE get to his boots. From the corner of his eye he could see Nick sober. But his partner said nothing. "It's been two years. Today," Vito added bitterly. "How time flies." Nick's voice was quiet. "It's supposed to heal, too." And Nick was right. Two years had dulled the edge of Vito's grief. But guilt... that was a different matter entirely. "I'm going out to the cemetery this afternoon." "You want me to go with you?" Thanks, but no." Vito shoved his feet into his boots. "Let's go see what they found." Six years as a homicide detective had taught Vito that there were no simple murders, just varying degrees of hard ones. As soon as he stopped at the edge of the grave the crime scene unit had just unearthed in the snow-covered field, he knew this would be one of the harder ones. Neither Vito nor Nick said a word as they studied the victim, who might have remained hidden forever were it not for an elderly man and his metal detector. The roses, the cemetery, and everything else was pushed aside as Vito focused on the body in the hole. He dragged his gaze from her hands to what was left of her face. Their Jane Doe had been small, five-two or five-three, and appeared to have been young. Short, dark hair framed a face too decomposed to be easily identifiable and Vito wondered how long she'd been here. He wondered if anyone had missed her. If anyone still waited for her to come home. He felt the familiar surge of pity and sadness and pushed it to the edge of his mind along with all the other things he wanted to forget. For now he'd focus on the body, the evidence. Later, he and Nick would consider the woman—who she'd been and who she'd known. They'd do so as a means to DIE FOR ME 9 catch the sick sonofabitch who'd left her nude body to rot in an unmarked grave in an open field, who'd violated her even after death. Pity shifted to outrage as Vito's gaze returned to the victim's hands. "He posed her," Nick murmured beside him and in the soft words Vito heard the same outrage he felt. "He fucking posed her." Indeed he had. Her hands were pressed together between her breasts, her fingertips pointing to her chin. "Permanently folded in prayer," Vito said grimly. "Religious murderer?" Nick mused. "God, I hope not." A buzz of apprehension tickled his spine. "Religious murderers tend not to stop with just one. There could be more." "Maybe." Nick crouched down to peer into the grave which was about three feet deep. "How did he permanently pose her hands, Jen?" CSU Sergeant Jen McFain looked up, her eyes covered with goggles, her nose and mouth by a mask. "Wire," she said. "Looks like steel, but very fine. It's wound around her fingers. You'll be able to see it better once the ME cleans her up." Vito frowned. "Doesn't seem like wire that thin would be enough to trip the sensor on a metal detector, especially under a couple feet of dirt." 'You're right, the wire wouldn't have set it off. For that we can thank the rods your perp ran under the victim's arms." Jen traced one gloved finger along the underside of her own arm, down to her wrist. "They're thin and bendable, but have enough mass to set off a metal detector. It's how he kept her arms fixed in position." Vito shook his head. "Why?" he asked and Jen shrugged. 10 KAREN ROSE "Maybe we'll get more from the body. I haven't gotten much from the hole so far. Except..." She nimbly climbed from the grave. "The old man uncovered one of her arms using his garden spade. Now, he's in pretty good shape, but even I couldn't have dug that deep with a garden spade this time of year." Nick looked into the grave. "The ground must not have been frozen." Jen nodded. "Exactly. When he found the arm he stopped digging and called 911. When we got here, we started moving dirt to see what we had. The fill was easy to move until we got to the grave wall, then it was hard as a rock. Look at the corners. They look like they were cut using a T square. They're frozen solid." Vito felt a sick tug at his gut. "He dug the grave before the ground froze. He planned this pretty far in advance." Nick was frowning. "And nobody noticed a gaping hole?" "Perp might've covered it with something," Jen said. "Also, I don't think the fill dirt came from this field. I'll run the tests to tell you for sure. That's all I got for now. I can't do anything more until the ME gets here." Thanks, Jen" Vito said. "Let's talk to the property owner," he said to Nick. Harlan Winchester was about seventy, but his eyes were clear and sharp. He'd been waiting in the back seat of the police cruiser and got out when he saw them coming. "I suppose I'll have to tell you detectives the same thing I told the officers." Vito put a little sympathy into his nod. "I'm afraid so. I'm Detective Ciccotelli and this is my partner, Detective Lawrence. Can you take us through what happened?" "Hell, I didn't even want that damn metal detector. It was DIE FOR ME 11 a present from my wife. She's worried I don't get enough exercise since I retired." "So you got out this morning and walked?" Vito prompted and Winchester scowled. 'Harlan P. Winchester/ ' he mimicked in a high, nasal voice, ''"'you've been in that good-for-nothin' chair for the last ten years. Get your moldy butt up and walk.' So I did, 'cause I couldn't stand to listen to her nag me anymore. I thought I might find something interesting to make Ginny shut up. But... I never dreamed I'd find & person" "Was the body the first object your detector picked up?" Nick asked. 'Yeah." His mouth set grimly. "I took out my garden spade. It was then I thought about how hard the ground would be. I didn't think I'd be able to break the surface, much less dig deep. I almost put my spade away before I started, but I'd only been gone fifteen minutes and Ginny would have nagged me some more. So I started digging." He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, his bravado gone like so much mist. "My spade... it hit her arm. So I stopped digging and called 911." "Can you tell us a little more about this land?" Vito asked. "Who has access to it?" "Anybody with an ATV or four-wheel drive, I guess. You can't see this field from the highway and the little drive that connects to the main road isn't even paved." Vito nodded, grateful he'd driven his truck, leaving his Mustang parked safely in his garage alongside his bike. "It's definitely a rugged road. How do you get back here?" 'Today I walked." He pointed to the tree line where a single set of footprints emerged. "But this was the first time I've been back here. We only moved in a month ago. This land was my aunt's," he explained. "She died and left it to me." 12 KAREN ROSE "So, did your aunt come out to this field often?" "I wouldn't think so. She was a recluse, never left the house. That's all I know." "Sir, you've been a big help," Vito said. "Thank you." Winchester's shoulders sagged. "Then I can go home?" "Sure. The officers will drive you home." Winchester got in the cruiser and it headed out, passing a gray Volvo on its way in. The Volvo parked behind Nick's sedan and a trim woman in her midfifties got out and started across the field. ME Katherine Bauer was here. It was time to face Jane Doe. Vito started toward the grave, but Nick didn't move. He was looking at Winchester's metal detector sitting inside the CSU van. "We should check the rest of the field, Chick." "You think there are more." "I think we can't leave until we know there aren't." Another shiver of apprehension raced down Vito's back. In his heart he already knew what they would find. "You're right. Let's see what else is out there." Sunday, January 14, 10:30 A.M. "Everybody's eyes closed?" Sophie Johannsen frowned at her graduate students in the darkness. "Bruce, you're peeking," she said. "I'm not peeking," he grumbled. "Besides, it's too dark to see anything anyway." "Hurry up" Marta said impatiently. "Turn on the lights." Sophie flicked on the lights, savoring the moment. "I give you... the Great Hall." For a moment no one said a word. Then Spandan let out DIE FOR ME 13 a low whistle that echoed off the ceiling, twenty feet above their heads. Bruce's face broke into a grin. 'You did it. You finally finished it." Marta's jaw squared. "It's nice." Sophie blinked at the younger woman's terse tone, but before she could say a word she heard the soft whir of John's wheelchair as he passed her to stare up at the far wall. "You did all this yourself," he murmured, looking around in his quiet way. "Awesome." Sophie shook her head. "Not nearly by myself. You all helped, cleaning swords and armor and helping me plan the sword display. This was definitely a group effort." Last fall, all fifteen members of her Weapons and Warfare graduate seminar had been enthusiastic volunteers at the Albright Museum of History, where Sophie spent her days. Now she was down to these faithful four. They'd come every Sunday for months, giving their time. They earned class credit, but more valuable was the opportunity to touch the medieval treasures their classmates could only view through glass. Sophie understood their fascination. She also knew that holding a fifteenth-century sword in a sterile museum was but a shadow of the thrill of unearthing that sword herself, of brushing away the dirt, exposing a treasure no eyes had seen in five hundred years. Six months ago as a field archeologist in southern France, she'd lived for that rush, waking every morning wondering what buried treasure she'd find at the dig that day. Now, as the Albright Museum's head curator, she could only touch the treasures unearthed by others. Touching them, caring for them would have to be enough for now. And as hard as it had been to walk away from the French dig of her dreams, every time she sat at her grandmother's 14 KAREN ROSE side as she lay in a nursing-home bed, Sophie knew she'd made the right choice. Moments like this, seeing the pride on the faces of her students, made her choice easier to bear, too. With pride of her own, Sophie admired what they'd accomplished. Large enough to easily accommodate groups of thirty or more, the new Great Hall was a spectacular sight. Against the far wall, three suits of armor stood at attention under a display of one hundred swords, arranged in a woven lattice pattern. War banners hung on the left wall, and on the right wall she'd mounted the Houarneau tapestry, one of the jewels of the collection amassed by Theodore Albright I during his brilliant archeological career. Standing in front of the tapestry, Sophie took a moment to enjoy looking at it. The twelfth-century Houarneau tapestry, like all the other treasures in the Albright collection, never failed to steal her breath away. "Wow," she murmured. 'Wow?' ' Bruce shook his head with a smile. "Dr. J, you should be able to think of a better word than that, in any one of a dozen languages." "Only ten," she corrected and watched him roll his eyes. For Sophie, the study of language had always been a practical pleasure. Fluency in ancient languages enabled her research, but more, she loved the fluid rhythm and nuance of words themselves. She'd had few opportunities to use her skill since coming home and she missed it. So, still admiring the tapestry, she indulged herself. "C'est incroyable" The French flowed through her mind like a welcome melody, which was no surprise. Excepting a few short visits back to Philly, Sophie had made France her home for the last fifteen years. Other languages required more conscious effort, but still her mind skimmed easily. Greek, DIE FOR ME 15 German, Russian... she picked the words like flowers from a field. "Katapliktikos. Hat was. O moy bog." Marta raised a brow. "And all that translated, means?" Sophie's lips curved. "Essentially... wow." She took another satisfied look around. "It's been a huge hit with tour groups." Her smile dimmed. Just thinking about the tours, or more specifically the tour guides, was enough to suck the joy right out of her day. John turned his chair so he could stare up at the swords. "You did this so fast." She set the unpleasant tours aside in her mind. "The trick was Brace's computer-generated mockup. It showed where to place the supports, and once that was done mounting the swords was easy. It looks as authentic as any display I've ever seen in any castle anywhere." She aimed a smile of appreciation toward Bruce. "Thank you." Bruce beamed. "And the paneling? I thought you were going with painted walls." Once again her smile dimmed. "I was overruled on that. Ted Albright insisted that the wood would make the place look more like a true hall and not a museum." "He was right," Marta said, her lips pursed tightly. "It looks better." 'Yeah, well maybe it does, but he also cleaned out my operating budget for this year," Sophie said, annoyed. "I had a list of new acquisitions that I now can't afford. We couldn't even afford to have the damn paneling installed." She looked at her abused hands, nicked and scraped. "While you all were back home sleeping until noon and pigging out on turkey leftovers, I was here with Ted Albright every day, putting up all this paneling. God, what a nightmare. Do you know how high these walls are?" 16 KAREN ROSE The whole paneling debacle had been the source of yet another argument with Ted "the Third" Albright. Ted was the only grandson of the great archeologist, which unfortunately made him the sole owner of the Albright collection. He was also the owner of the museum, which unfortunately made him Sophie's boss. She rued the day she'd ever heard of Ted Albright and his Barnum and Bailey approach to running a museum, but until a position opened up in one of the other museums, this job was it. Marta turned to look at her, her eyes cold and... disappointed. "Spending two weeks alone with Ted Albright doesn't sound like a hardship. He's an attractive man," she added, her tone acidic. "I'm surprised you managed to get any work done at all." Uncomfortable silence filled the room as Sophie stood, shocked and staring at the woman she'd mentored for four months. This can't be happening again. But it was. The men exchanged looks of wary confusion, but Sophie knew exactly what Marta was saying, exactly what she'd heard. The disappointment she'd seen in Marta's eyes now made sense. Rage and denial screamed through Sophie's mind, but she decided to address the current insinuation and leave the past covered, for now. Ted's married, Marta. And just so you can set the record straight, we weren't alone. Ted's wife, son, and daughter were working with us the whole time." Maintaining her icy stare, Marta said nothing. Awkwardly Bruce blew out a breath. "So," he said. "Last semester we revamped the Great Hall. What's next, Dr. J?" Ignoring the churning of her stomach, Sophie led the group to the exhibition area beyond the Great Hall. "The next project is redoing the weapons exhibit." DIE FOR ME 17 "Yes." Spandan socked the air. "Finally. This is what I've been waiting for." Then your wait is over." Sophie stopped at the glass display cabinet that held a half-dozen very rare medieval swords. The Houarneau tapestry was exquisite, but these weapons were her favorite items of the entire Albright collection. "I always wonder who owned them," Bruce said softly. "Who fought with them." John brought his chair closer. "And how many died at their tip," he murmured. He looked up, his eyes hidden behind the hair that was always in his face. "Sorry." "It's okay," Sophie said. "I've often wondered the same thing." Her mouth quirked up at a sudden memory. "My very first day as curator, a kid tried to pull the fifteenth-C Bas-tardsword off the wall and play Braveheart. Nearly gave me heart failure." They weren't behind glass?" Bruce gasped, appalled. Both Spandan and John wore similar looks of horror. Marta hung back, arms crossed and jaw cocked to one side. She said nothing. Sophie decided to deal with her privately. "No, Ted believes that putting glass between artifacts and museum patrons degrades the 'entertainment experience.'"' It had been their first argument. "He agreed to put these behind glass if we displayed some of the less valuable swords out in the Great Hall." Sophie sighed. "And if we displayed these rare swords in an 'entertaining' way. This display case was a temporary compromise until I could get the Great Hall finished. So this is the next project." "What exactly does 'entertaining' mean?" Spandan asked. Sophie frowned. "Think mannequins and costumes," she 18 KAREN ROSE said darkly. Costumes were Ted's passion, and when he'd only wanted to dress up mannequins, she could go with the flow. But two weeks ago he'd unveiled his newest scheme, adding another role to Sophie's job description. To kick off the new Great Hall, they'd give tours... in period garb. Specifically, Sophie and Ted's nineteen-year-old son, Theo, would lead the tours and nothing Sophie could say would change Ted's mind. Finally she'd outright refused—and in a rare fit of serious temper Ted Albright had threatened to fire her. Sophie had very nearly quit—until she'd gotten home that night and looked through the mail. The nursing home was raising the cost of Anna's room. So Sophie swallowed her pride, donned the damn costume and did Ted's damn tours during the day. In the evenings she'd redoubled her search for another job. "Did the boy damage the sword?" John asked. Thankfully, no. When you handle them, be sure you wear your gloves." Bruce waved his white gloves like a truce flag. "We always do," he said cheerfully. "And I appreciate it." He was trying to lighten her mood and Sophie appreciated that as well. "Your assignment is the following—each of you will prepare an exhibit proposal, including the space requirements and cost of materials you'll need to build it. It's due in three weeks. Keep it simple. I don't have the budget for anything grand." She left the three men to work and walked to where Marta stood motionless and stony-faced. "So now what?" Sophie asked. A petite woman, Marta craned her neck to meet Sophie's eyes. "Excuse me?" "Marta, you obviously heard something. You've also obviously chosen not only to believe it but to publicly challenge me DIE FOR ME 19 on it. Your choices as I see them are to either apologize to me for your disrespect and we go on, or continue this attitude" Marta frowned. "And if I continue?" Then there's the door. This is a volunteer experience, on both our parts." Sophie's expression softened. "Look, you're a nice kid and an asset to this museum. I'd miss you if you were gone. I'd really rather you chose door number one." Marta swallowed hard. "I was visiting a friend. A grad student at Shelton College." Shelton. The memory of the few months she'd been enrolled at Shelton College still made Sophie physically ill, more than ten years later. "It was just a matter of time." Marta's chin trembled. "I was bragging on you to my friend, how you were such a great role model, my mentor, that you're a woman who made a name for herself in the field using her brain. My friend laughed and said you'd used other parts of your body to get ahead. She said you slept with Dr. Brewster so you could get on his dig team at Avignon, that that's how you got your start. Then when you went back to France, you slept with Dr. Moraux. That's why you moved up so fast, why you got your own dig team when you were so young. I told her it wasn't true, that you wouldn't do that. Did you?" Sophie knew she would be well within her rights to tell Marta that this was none of her business. But Marta was obviously disillusioned. And hurt. So Sophie reopened a wound that had never really healed. "Did I sleep with Brewster? Yes." And she still felt the shame of it. "Did I do it to get on his dig team? No." Then why did you?" Marta whispered. "He's married." "I know that now. I didn't then. I was young. He was older and... he deceived me. I made a stupid mistake, Marta, one I'm still paying for. I can tell you I got to where I am without 20 KAREN ROSE Dr. Alan Brewster." His very name still left a vile taste on her tongue, but she watched Marta's expression change as she accepted that her mentor was human, too. "But I never slept with Etienne Moraux," she went on fiercely. "And I got to where I was by working my ass off. I published more papers than anyone else and did all the grunt work to prove myself. Which is how you should do it, too. And Marta, no more comments about Ted. However we disagree over this museum, Ted's devoted to his wife. Darla Albright is one of the nicest people I've ever met. Rumors like that can destroy a marriage. Are we clear?" Marta nodded, relief in her face and respect back in her eyes. "Yes." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "You could have just thrown me out." "I could have, but I have a feeling I'm going to need you, especially for this new exhibit." Sophie looked down at her own ratty jeans. "I have no fashion sense, twenty-first or fifteenth century. You'll have to dress Ted's damn mannequins." Marta laughed softly. "That I can do. Thanks, Dr. J. For keeping me. And for telling me when you didn't have to. Next time I see my friend I'll tell her my original opinion stands." Her lips turned up charmingly. "I still want to be you when I grow up." Embarrassed, Sophie shook her head. "Trust me, you don't. Now get to work." Sunday, January 14, 12:25 p.m. Vito had placed a red flag in the snow every place Nick picked up a metal object. Now Nick and Vito stood with Jen, staring in dismay at five red flags. DIE FOR ME 21 "Any or all of those could be more Jane Does," Jen said quietly. "We have to know." Nick sighed. "We're going to have to search this whole field." That's a lot of manpower," Vito grumbled. "Does CSU have the resources?" "No, I'd have to request support. But I don't want to go up the ladder with that kind of request until I'm damn sure these flags don't mark arrowheads or buried Coke cans." "We could just start digging at one of the flags," Nick said. "See what we turn up." "We could." Jen frowned. "But I want to know what's under our feet before we do. I don't want to lose evidence because we moved too fast or the wrong way." "Cadaver dogs?" Vito suggested. "Maybe, but what I'd really like to have is a scan of the property. I saw it on the History Channel. These archeologists used ground-penetrating radar to locate the ruins of an ancient wall. It was very cool." Jen sighed. "But I'd never get the funds to pay a contractor. Let's bring in the dogs and get it done." Nick held up a wagging finger. "Not so fast. The show was about archeologists, right? Well, if we had an archeolo-gist, he might be able to do that... radar thing." Jen's eyes sharpened. "Do you know an archeologist?" "No," Nick said, "but the city's chock full of universities. Somebody must know one." They'd have to work for cheap," Vito said. "And they'd have to be somebody we could trust." Vito thought about the body, the way the hands were posed. "The press would have a field day with this if it leaked." "And our asses would be deep fried," Nick muttered. "Who do you need to trust?" 22 KAREN ROSE Vito turned to find the ME standing behind him. "Hi, Katherine. Are you done?" Katherine Bauer nodded wearily, peeling off her gloves. 'The body's in the bus." "Cause?" Nick asked. "Nothing yet. I'm thinking she's been dead two or three weeks at least. I can't give you anything more until I get some tissue samples under my microscope. So," she tilted her head sideways. "Who do you need to be able to trust?" "I want to get a scan of the property," Jen said. "I was going to see if anyone knows any of the professors in the archeology departments in the local universities." "I do," Katherine said, and the three of them stared at her. Jen's eyes widened. "You do? A real live archeologist?" "A dead one won't do us much good," Nick said dryly and Jen's cheeks turned red. Katherine chuckled. "Yes, I know a real live archeologist. She's home on...a sabbatical of sorts. She's considered an expert in her field. I know she'd help." "And she's discreet?" Nick insisted and Katherine patted his arm maternally. "Very discreet. I've known her for more than twenty-five years. I can call her now if you want." She waited, her gray brows lifted. "At least we'll know," Nick said. "I vote yes." Vito nodded. "Let's call her." Sunday, January 14, 12:30 p.m. "God, it's incredible." Spandan held the Bastardsword in his gloved hands with all the care and respect due a treasure that DIE FOR ME 23 had survived five hundred years. "I bet you wanted to kill that kid for trying to rip this off the wall." Sophie looked down at the two-handed longsword she'd taken from the case. The students were taking a "creativity break" to better help them "envision the assignment." Sophie knew they really just wanted to touch the swords and she couldn't blame them. There was a fundamental power in holding a weapon this old. And this lethal. "I was more angry at his mother who was too busy talking on her cell phone to watch her kid." She chuckled. "Luckily my brain hadn't fully settled back into English, so when I cussed her out, it was in French. But, uh, some things transcend language." "So what did she do?" Marta asked. "Went crying to Ted. He gave her a refund, then came after me. 'You can't frighten the guests, Sophie,'" she mimicked. "I still remember the look on that woman's face when I dragged her little brat over to her. She wasn't much bigger than the kid. Nearly broke her neck looking up at me. It was one of the few times being tall was an asset." "You need better security in this place," John commented, his eyes focused on the Viking Age sword he held. "It's a wonder nobody's walked off with any artifacts." Sophie frowned. "We have an alarm system, but you're right. Before, hardly anyone knew we were here, but now, with all these tours, we definitely need a guard." The salary for a guard had been in her operating budget for the coming year. But nooo...Ted wanted paneling. It was enough to make her twitch. "I know of at least two Italian reliquaries that are no longer on their shelf. I keep checking for them on eBay." "Makes you wish for medieval justice," Spandan grumbled. 24 KAREN ROSE "What would have been the penalty for theft?" John asked, slanting a look up at her. Sophie carefully settled the longsword back in the display case. "Depends on what point in the Middle Ages—early, high, or late—and on what was stolen, if it was stolen by force or by stealth, and who the victim was and who the thief was. Felony thieves might be hanged, but most small thefts were settled by recompense." "I thought they cut off a hand or gouged out an eye," Bruce said. "Not commonly," Sophie told him, her lips quirking at his obvious disappointment. "It didn't make sense for the lord to disfigure the people who were working his land. Without a hand or a foot they couldn't make him as much money." "No exceptions?" Bruce asked and Sophie shot him an amused look. "Bloodthirsty today, aren't we? Hmm. Exceptions." She considered it. "Outside Europe, there were cultures that certainly still practiced eye-for-an-eye justice. Thieves lost one hand and the opposite foot. In European culture, go back to the tenth century and you'll find amputation of 'the hand with which he did it' as a punishment in the Anglo-Saxon Dooms. But the culprit had to be caught stealing from a church." 'Your reliquaries would have been in a church back then," Spandan pointed out. Sophie had to chuckle. 'Yes, they would have been, so it's a damn good thing they were stolen from here and now, not there and then. Now your 'creativity break' is over. Put the swords away and get back to work." Sighing heavily they did as she asked, first Spandan, then Bruce and Marta. Until only John remained. In almost an offertory way, he lifted the sword with both hands and with both DIE FOR ME 25 hands Sophie took it. Fondly she studied the stylized pommel. "I found one like this once, at a dig in Denmark. Not this nice, and not all in one piece. The blade had corroded completely through, right in the middle. But what a feeling it was, uncovering it for the first time. Like it had been sleeping for all those years and woke up, just for me." She glanced down at him with an embarrassed laugh. "That sounds crazy, I know." His smile was solemn. "No, not crazy. You must miss it, being in the field." Sophie arranged the contents of the case and locked it. "Some days more than others. Today I miss it a great deal." Tomorrow, when she was leading a tour in period garb, she'd miss it a great deal more. "Let's go—" Her cell phone rang, surprising her. Even Ted gave her one day of rest. "Hello?" "Sophie, it's Katherine. Are you alone?" Sophie straightened at the urgency in Katherine's voice. "No. Should I be?" "Yes. I need to talk to you. It's important." "Hold on. John, I need to take this. Can I meet you and the others in the hall in a few?" He nodded and turned his chair toward the Great Hall and the other students. When he was gone, she shut the door. "Go ahead, Katherine. What's wrong?" "I need your help." Katherine's daughter Trisha had been Sophie's best friend since kindergarten and Katherine had become the mother Sophie had never had. "Name it." "We need to excavate a field and we need to know where to dig." Sophie's mind instantly put "medical examiner" and "excavation" together, conjuring a picture of a mass grave. She'd excavated dozens of gravesites over the years and 26 KAREN ROSE knew exactly what needed to be done. She found her pulse increasing at the thought of doing real fieldwork again. "Where and when do you need me?" "In a field about a half hour north of town, an hour ago." "Katherine, it'll take me at least two hours to get my equipment up there." Two hours? Why?" In the background Sophie heard several disgruntled voices. "Because I'm at the museum and I have my bike. I can't tie all that equipment to the seat. I have to go home first and get Gran's car. Plus, I was going to sit with her this afternoon. I need to stop by the nursing home and check on her at least." "I'll check on Anna myself. You go to the college and get the equipment. One of the detectives will meet you there and transport you and the equipment to the site." "Have him meet me in front of the humanities building at Whitman College. It's the one with the funky ape sculpture in front. I'll be out front by 1:30." There was more murmuring, more intense. "Okay," Katherine said, exasperated. "Detective Ciccotelli wants to be sure you understand this is to be kept in the utmost confidence. You must exercise extreme discretion and say nothing to anyone." "Understood." She returned to the Great Hall. "Guys, I need to go now." The students immediately began to gather their work. "Is your grandmother okay, Dr. J?" Bruce asked, his forehead creasing in concern. Sophie hesitated. "She will be." Not the whole truth and hopefully for Anna, not a lie. "For now, you get a few free hours this afternoon. Don't have too much fun." DIE FOR ME 27 When they were gone, she locked up, set the alarm, and headed toward Whitman College as fast as she legally dared, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. For months she'd been missing the field. It looked like she was finally about to find one. Chapter Two Sunday, January 14, 2:00 P.M. H e sat back in his chair and nodded at his computer screen, his lips curving in a satisfied smile. It was good. Very, very good. If I do say so myself. Which he did. He raised his eyes to the still photos he'd taken from the video of Warren Keyes. He'd chosen his quarry well—height, weight, musculature. The young man's tattoo had been Fate sealing the deal. Warren was meant to be his victim. He'd suffered brilliantly. The camera had captured the exquisite agony on his face. But his screams... He clicked on an audio file and a chilling scream blasted from the speakers with crystal clarity, sending a shiver of pleasure racing down his back. Warren's screams had been perfect. Perfect pitch, perfect intensity. Perfect inspiration. His eyes moved to the canvases he'd hung next to the stills. This series of paintings might be his best work yet. He'd titled the series Warren Dies. It was done in oil, of 28 KAREN ROSE course. He'd found oil the best medium for capturing the intensity of expression, the victim's mouth stretching open on one of those perfect screams of excruciating pain. And the eyes. He'd learned there were stages to death by torture. All were most clearly seen through the victim's eyes. The first stage was fear, followed by defiance, then despair as the victim realized there was truly no escape. The fourth stage, hope, depended entirely on the victim's tolerance for pain. If the victim persisted through the first wave, he might give them respite, just long enough to allow hope to surface. Warren Keyes had had a remarkable tolerance for pain. Then, when all hope was gone, there was the fifth stage— the plea, the pitiful appeal for death, for release. Toward the end, there was stage six, the final surge of defiance, a primitive fight for survival that predated modern man. But the seventh stage was the best and most elusive—the instant of death itself. The burst... the flash of energy as the corporeal yielded its essence. It was a moment so brief that even the camera lens was incapable of complete capture, so fleeting that the human eye would miss it if one weren't expressly watching. He had been watching. And he'd been rewarded. His eyes lingered on the seventh painting. Although last in the series, he'd painted it first, rushing to his easel while Warren's released energy still vibrated along every nerve and Warren's final, perfect scream still rang in his ears. He saw it there, in Warren's eyes. That indefinable something he alone had found in the instant of death. He'd first achieved it with Claire Dies more than a year ago. Had it really been thai long? Time did fly when you were having fun. And he was finally having fun. He'd been chasing that indefinable something his entire life. He'd found it now. DIE FOR ME 29 Genius. That's what Jager Van Zandt called it. He'd first gained the entertainment mogul's attention with Claire, and although he personally considered his Zachary and Jared series to be superior, Claire remained VZ's favorite. Of course, Van Zandt had never seen his paintings, only his computer animations in which he'd transformed Claire into "Clothilde," a World War II Vichy French whore strangled to death by a soldier who'd been betrayed by her treachery. A crowd pleaser wherever the clip was shown, Clothilde had become the star of Behind Enemy Lines, Van Zandt's latest "entertainment venture." Most people called them video games. Van Zandt liked to think he was building an entertainment empire. Before Behind Enemy Lines, VZ's empire existed only in the man's dreams. But VZ's dreams had come true—Behind Enemy Lines had flown off the shelves—a runaway success thanks to Clothilde and the rest of his animations. My art. Van Zandt understood that as well and had chosen Clothilde, caught in her moment of death, to adorn the Behind Enemy Lines box. It always gave him a rush to see it, to know that the hands gripping "Clothilde's" throat were his own. VZ clearly recognized his genius, but he wasn't sure the man could handle the reality of his art. So he'd go on letting VZ believe what he wanted to—that Clothilde was a fictional character and that his own name was Frasier Lewis. In the end both he and Van Zandt would get what they wanted. VZ would get a best-selling "entertainment venture" and make his millions. And millions will see my art. Which was the ultimate goal. He had a gift. VZ's video game was merely the most efficient way to showcase that gift to the most people in the shortest time. Once he was established he wouldn't need the animations. His paintings 30 KAREN ROSE would be in demand on their own. But for now, he needed Van Zandt and Van Zandt needed him. VZ was going to be very pleased with his latest work. He clicked his mouse and once again watched his animation of Warren Keyes. It was perfect. Every muscle and sinew rippled as the man struggled against his bonds, arching and writhing in pain as his bones were slowly pulled from their sockets. The blood looked good, too. Not too red. Very authentic. Careful study of the video had enabled him to duplicate every aspect of Warren's body, down to the simplest twitch. He'd done an especially skillful job with Warren's face, capturing the fear and the defiance as Warren resisted the demands of his captor. Which would be me. The Inquisitor. He'd depicted himself as the old man who'd lured Warren to his dungeon. Speaking of such, now that Warren Dies was complete it was time to lure his next victim. He opened UCanModel, the delightful little website with which he'd had such success in locating the perfect faces for his work. For a modest fee, actors and models could post their portfolios on UCanModel so that any Hollywood director had only to click on their picture to launch them to instant stardom. Actors and models made the perfect subjects. They had beauty, the ability to emote, and their faces translated well to film and canvas. They also were so eager for fame and so poor that they'd take just about any job. Luring them with a part in a documentary had worked every time and allowed him to purport himself as the nonthreatening old history professor named Ed Munch. He was getting tired of being Edvard Munch, though. Maybe he'd be Hieronymus Bosch next time. Now, there was artistic genius. He perused the lineup his current search had produced. He'd identified fifteen prospects, but he'd already eliminated DIE FOR ME 31 all but five. The others weren't nearly poor enough to be easily hooked. Of the five, only three were truly destitute. His financial checks had shown them all to be in or on the verge of bankruptcy. He'd shadowed these three prospects for a week and found only one to be solitary and secretive enough not to be missed afterward. That was an important component. His victims must not have anyone to look for them. They were runaways like pretty Brittany with her folded hands. Or, like Warren and Billy before him, they had to be so secretive that no one would know they'd been contacted. Of all the current candidates, Gregory Sanders was the perfect choice. Rejected and cast out by his family, Sanders was alone. This he'd found the night before when he'd followed Sanders to his favorite bar. Disguised as an out-of-town businessman, he'd bought Sanders a few drinks and waited until the man blubbered his sad tale. Sanders had no one. So he was perfect. Clicking Gregory's contact button, he zipped off his standard e-mail, confident in the steps he'd taken to mask his own identity, both physical and electronic. By tomorrow, Greg would accept his offer. By Tuesday, he'd have a new victim. And a new scream. He pushed away from his desk and stiffly came to his feet, rubbing his right thigh. Damn these Philly winters. The pain was bad today. Apart from the sheer thrill, his art accomplished another important benefit—while he painted, he could forget about the phantom pains for which there was no treatment. No cure. No goddamn relief. He'd reached the door of his studio when he remembered. Tuesday. The old man's bills were due on Tuesday. Paying them was a necessity. As long as the mortgage and utilities 32 KAREN ROSE were paid on time, no one would wonder where the old man and his wife had gone. No one would look for them, which was the way he wanted it. He walked back to his computer. He'd be busy with his new victim on Tuesday, so he'd pay the bills now. Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 2:15 p.m. "I appreciate you coming so quick, Daniel." Sheriff Frank Loomis threw a glance over his shoulder before turning to unlock the front door. "I wasn't sure you would." Daniel Vartanian knew the observation was fair. "He's still my father, Frank." "Uh-huh." Frank frowned when the lock didn't budge. "I was sure that was the one. I've had this key since the last time your folks took a long vacation." Daniel watched Frank try five different keys, the feeling of apprehension in his gut swelling to dark dread. "I've got a key." Frank stepped back with a glare. "Then why the hell didn't you say so, boy?" Daniel lifted a brow. "Wouldn't want to go steppin' on toes," he said sarcastically. 'Jurisdictions bein' what they are.' * The words had been Frank's own, uttered just last night when he'd called to say Daniel's parents might be missing. "Pull that GBI stick outta your ass, Special Agent Vartanian, or I will, and then I'll whip you with it." The threat was not an idle one. Frank had tanned Daniel's hide more than once for one prank or another. But it was because Frank cared, which was more than he could say for his father. Judge Arthur Vartanian had been too busy to care. "Don't knock those GBI sticks," Daniel said mildly, though DIE FOR ME 33 his heart had begun to pound. "They're the latest technology, like all our toys. Even you might be impressed." "Damn bureaucrats," Frank muttered. "Offer 'technology' and 'expertise,' but only if they run the show. Give 'em an inch and pretty soon they've descended like locusts." That, too, was a fair observation, although Daniel doubted his superiors at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation would see it as such. He'd found the key, but now had to focus on steadying his trembling hand. "I'm one of those locusts, Frank," he said. Frank huffed, irritated. "Dammit, Daniel, you know what I meant. Art and Carol are your parents. I called you, not the GBI. I don't want my county overrun by bureaucrats." Daniel's key didn't fit the lock either. But it had been a long time, so that in and of itself was not a cause for alarm. "When was the last time you saw them?" "November. About two weeks before Thanksgivin'. Your mama was headed in to Angle's and your daddy was down at the courthouse." Then it was a Wednesday," Daniel said and Frank nodded. Angie's was the town's beauty shop where his mother had kept a standing Wednesday appointment since before he was born. "But why was Dad at the courthouse?" "Retirement was hard on your father. He missed the work. The people." Arthur Vartanian missed the power of being the circuit court judge in a little Georgia town, Daniel thought, but kept it to himself. "You said my mother's doctor called you." 'Yes. That's when I realized how long it had been since I'd seen either of them." Frank sighed. "I'm sorry, son. I assumed she'd at least told you and Susannah." That his mother had kept such a thing from her own 34 KAREN ROSE children had been hard to accept. Breast cancer. She'd had surgery and chemo and had never said a word. 14Yeah, well, things haven't been so good between any of us for a while." 'Your mama missed several appointments, so the nurse got worried and called me. I checked around and found your mother told Angie she and your father were going to visit your grandma in Memphis the day she canceled her December hair appointments." "But they didn't go to Memphis." "No. Your grandma said that your mother told her that they were spending the holidays with your sister, but when I called Susannah she said she hadn't heard from your parents in more than a year. That's when I called you." That's just too many lies, Frank," Daniel said. "We're going in." He shattered the small windowpane to the side of the door with his elbow, reached in and unlocked the door. The house was quiet as a tomb and smelled musty. Stepping over the threshold was like stepping back in time. In his mind Daniel saw his father standing at the foot of the stairs, his knuckles battered and bloody. Mama stood at his father's side, tears running down her face. Susannah stood alone, a desperate plea on her face for him to abandon the confrontation that she didn't understand. It would be easier on Susannah if she never knew, so he'd never told her. He'd walked away, planning never to return. The best-laid plans... "You take the upstairs, Frank. I'll take this level and the basement." Daniel's first look confirmed his parents had gone on a trip. The water was off and every appliance unplugged. His mother had a fear of fire by toaster oven, he recalled. He cleared the first floor and heart pounding, descended DIE FOR ME 35 into the basement, visions of bodies he'd found throughout his years as a cop bombarding his mind. But there was no smell of death and the basement was as orderly as it had always been. He climbed the stairs to find Frank waiting in the hall by the front door. 'They took lots of clothes," Frank said. "Their suitcases are gone." This doesn't make a lick of sense." Daniel walked into each room again, pausing in his father's office. "He was a judge for twenty years, Frank. He made enemies." "I considered that. I asked Wanda to pull records of his old cases." Surprised and comforted, Daniel gave Frank a weary smile. "Thanks." Frank shrugged. "Wanda will be thankful for the overtime. Come on, Daniel. Let's go back to town, get something to eat and figure out what to do next." "In a minute. Let me check his desk." He pulled on the drawer, surprised when it slid right open. Staring up at him was a brochure for the Grand Canyon and his throat tightened. His mother had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, but his father was always too busy and they never went. It looked like he'd finally made the time to go. Suddenly the reality of his mother's cancer hit him square in the face, becoming more than a secret she'd withheld. My mother's going to die. He cleared his throat harshly. "Look, Frank." He moved the brochures to the blotter, fanning them out. "Grand Canyon, Lake Tahoe, Mount Rushmore." Frank sighed. "I guess your daddy finally took her on that trip he'd been promising all these years." 36 KAREN ROSE "But why not just say that's where they were going? Why all the lies?" Frank squeezed his shoulder. "I guess your mama doesn't want anyone to know she's sick. For Carol, it's a pride thing. Let her have her dignity. Let's go get supper." His heart heavy, Daniel started to rise but a noise stopped him. "What was that?" "What?" Frank asked. "I didn't hear anything." Daniel listened and heard it again. A high whirring sound. "His computer is running." "That's impossible. It's turned off." The monitor was dark. But Daniel laid his hand on the computer and his breath caught. "It's warm and it's running. Somebody is using this computer, right now." He hit the button on the monitor and together they watched an online banking screen appear. The cursor moved with ghostly precision, untouched by either of them. "Shit, it's like watching a Ouija board," Frank murmured. "It's Dad's online bill pay system. Someone just paid Dad's mortgage." 'Your daddy?" Frank asked, confusion obvious in his voice. "I don't know." Daniel's jaw hardened. "But you can be damn sure I'll find out." Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 2:15 P.M. Vito stared at the "funky ape sculpture" with increasing annoyance. He'd been waiting for more than half an hour but there was no sign of Katherine's friend. He was frustrated and cold, having rolled down his window for fresh air. The DIE FOR ME 37 smell of Jane Doe was in his hair and his sinuses and he couldn't stand himself. He'd called Katherine a half dozen times with no success. He couldn't have missed her. He'd been early and the only person he'd seen was a college girl sitting on a bench at the bus stop about fifteen feet behind his truck. The girl looked about twenty and had long, long blond hair that had to touch her butt when she stood up. A red bandana covered the top of her head and two thin braids hung from her temples, but the rest of her hair fell loose, covering her like a cape. Enormous gold hoops swung from her ears and her face was half-covered by the round frames of her purple sunglasses. And to top it all off, she wore an old army surplus camouflage jacket that looked about four sizes too big. College kids, he thought, shaking his head. She looked up the street, then down before drawing her knees up under her coat, propping her thick-soled army boots on the bench. She must be freezing. God knew he was and he had the truck's heater going. Finally his cell rang. "Dammit, Katherine, where have you been?" "In the morgue, getting your Jane Doe settled for the night. What do you need?" 'Your friend's cell number." He looked up at the knock on the passenger window. It was the college girl. "Hold on, Katherine." He rolled the far window down. "Yes?" The girl's full lips were quivering. "Um...I'm waiting for someone and I think it might be you." She was even prettier up close, and asking for trouble approaching men like that. "Hell of a pickup line, but I'm not interested. Go practice on somebody your own age." "Wait!" she shouted, but he rolled the window back up. 38 KAREN ROSE "Who was that?" Katherine asked, amusement in her voice. Vito was not amused. "College kid trying for an older guy. Your friend isn't here." "If she said she'd be there, she's there, Vito. Sophie's very reliable." "And I'm telling you—Goddammit." It was the girl again, at his window now. "Look here," he said to the girl, "I said I'm not interested. That means go away." He started to raise the window, but she slammed her palms on the edge of the glass, curling her fingers into claws as she fought the window's ascent. The gloves she wore were thin knit and every finger was a different color of the rainbow, clashing with the camouflage. Vito was reaching for his badge when the girl took off her sunglasses. She rolled eyes that were bright green. "Do you know Katherine?" she demanded and it was then he realized she was no girl. She was at least thirty, maybe a few years older. He gritted his teeth. "Katherine," he said slowly. "What does your friend look like?" "Like the woman standing at your window," Katherine said, chuckling. "Long hair, blond, thirtyish. Eclectic fashion sense. Sorry, Vito." He bit back his smartass retort. "I was looking for someone your age. You said you'd known her for twenty-five years." Twenty-eight, actually. Since I was in kindergarten," the woman said brusquely and stuck out her multicolored hand. "Sophie Johannsen. Hello, Katherine," she called into the phone. "You should have given us cell phone numbers," she added in a tone that was singsong on top, but underneath was taut with impatience. Katherine sighed. "I'm sorry. I've got to go, Vito. I have DIE FOR ME 39 company coming for dinner and I still have to check on Sophie's grandmother on my way home." Vito closed his phone and met the woman's narrowed green eyes, feeling like a total and complete idiot. "I'm sorry. I thought you were twenty." One side of her full mouth lifted in a wry smile and he was struck with the certainty that he'd been wrong yet again. She wasn't simply pretty up close. She was absolutely beautiful. Vito found his fingers itching to touch her lips. A woman could do amazing things with that mouth. Abruptly he clenched his jaw, both annoyed and shocked at the vividness of the images stampeding through his mind. Rein it in, Chick. Now. "I guess I'm flattered. It's been a long time since somebody mistook me for a college coed." She pointed an electric blue finger at the building. "The equipment we need is just inside. There's too much for one trip and I didn't want to leave it on the curb while I went back for the rest of it. It's pretty expensive. Can you give me a hand?" Controlling his thoughts with considerable difficulty, he followed her to the building. "We appreciate your help, Dr. Johannsen," he said as she unlocked the door. "It's my pleasure. Katherine's been there for me more times than I can count. And please, call me Sophie. Nobody calls me Dr. Johannsen. Even my students call me Dr. J—but I think that's more of a basketball reference, because I'm tall." She offered the last line with a self-deprecating smile and Vito couldn't take his eyes off her face. Devoid of a speck of makeup, she had a natural, wholesome glow despite the hippie earrings and army surplus clothes and rainbow fingers. He was hit with a rush of yearning so keen it nearly stole his breath. Before... that had been lust. This was something 40 KAREN ROSE different. He searched for a word, but only one came to mind. Home. Looking at her face was like coming home. Her cheeks grew pink and Vito realized he'd been staring. For three beats of his heart she stared back, then abruptly turned to tug hard on the heavy door, taking a stumbling step back against him when it flew open. His hands gripped her shoulders to hold her upright, bringing her against him. Let her go. But his hands did not obey. Instead they held on and for one moment she seemed to relax, resting against him. Then she leaped forward as if stung, lunging to catch the door before it closed again, breaking the contact and ending the moment. He'd held her for only a few seconds, but it was like touching a live wire, and he took a step back, physically and mentally. Shaken and not liking it, he drew a breath. It's just because it's today, he told himself. Get a grip, Chick, before you make a fool of yourself But he blinked in surprise as the next words tumbled from his mouth. "Call me Vito." He usually preferred being called "Detective" when he was working. It kept things nice and separate. But it was too late now. "Okay." The single word came out on an exhale, as if she'd been holding her breath. "Here are the things we need to take." Four suitcases sat by the door and Vito picked up the two largest. She got the other two and pulled the door closed. "I'll need to get these back to the university tonight," she said briskly. "One of the professors has the GPR signed out for a field trip tomorrow." It seemed she'd shrugged the moment away and Vito decided to do the same, but his eyes had a mind of their own. He couldn't stop looking at her face, searching her profile as they walked to his truck. Her lips were still quivering from DIE FOR ME 41 the cold and he felt a pang of guilt. "Why didn't you just come up to me earlier?" he asked. 'You said to be discreet," she said, looking straight ahead. "I wasn't sure you were Katherine's cop and you weren't in a police car. I kept thinking that if you weren't the right one, you might not appreciate me blabbing your name. Katherine didn't tell me what you looked like and she didn't give me the secret handshake. So I waited." While she froze, he thought, remembering the way she'd drawn her body up under the coat for warmth. He put the two large suitcases in the bed of his truck and secured them. When he reached for the smaller cases she held, she shook her head. "These are delicate. Given a choice, I'd ride in the bed and buckle these in my seat." "I think I can find room for you both." He stowed the cases in the back floorboard, then opened her door. "After you..." His mind derailed when she moved past him. She smelled like the roses he'd thrown behind his seat in the truck, fragrant and sweet. He stood motionless, just breathing in her scent. She looked nothing like his Andrea, who'd been dark and petite. Sophie Johannsen was an Amazon, tall, blond, and...alive. She's alive, Chick. And today, that's just enough to get you into trouble. By tomorrow, he'd be blessedly numb once more. "Sophie," she said warily. "I'm Sophie." "I'm sorry." Focus, Chick. One unidentified body, perhaps more. That was what should be occupying his thoughts, not Sophie Johannsen's perfume. He gestured to the front seat, determined to pull their interaction back to the professional level. "Please." Thanks." She climbed in and he heard the clinking of metal coming from her coat. 42 KAREN ROSE "What do you have in your pockets?" "Oh, all kinds of things. This is my field jacket." From one of the pockets she pulled a handful of garden stakes. "Markers for what we find." / sure as hell hope you brought enough, he thought, remembering the red flags Nick would be removing before they got back. They wanted a clean investigation with no prejudicing the expert before she started her scan. "Let's go." Once they were under way, Sophie held her frozen fingers up to the truck's heater. Without a word, Vito leaned forward and twisted a knob, turning the temperature up. When her fingers were warm again, she settled into the seat and studied Vito Ciccotelli. His appearance had come as a surprise. With a name like Vito, she'd expected him to be a brawny thug with a face that had gone too many rounds with the champ. She could not have been more mistaken. Which was why she'd stared. She'd been taken off guard. You go right on thinking that. He was at least six-two. She'd had to look up to meet his eyes, and at five-eleven herself, that didn't happen very often. His shoulders were broad in his leather jacket, but there was a lean toughness to him that spoke more of a large cat than a scrappy bulldog. He had the kind of rugged, chiseled face that one saw in fashion magazines. Not that she read fashion magazines herself, of course. That was Aunt Freya's vice. Sophie imagined most women would consider Vito Ciccotelli swooningly handsome and fall helplessly at his feet. That was probably why he'd been so quick to rebuff her earlier—women probably hit on him all the time. It was a DIE FOR ME 43 good thing she wasn't most women, she thought dryly. Falling helplessly at his feet was the last thing on her mind. Although that's very nearly what she 'd done. How embarrassing. But for that one moment when he'd held her against him she'd felt comfort and the solidity of welcome. As if she could lay her head back against his shoulder and rest. Don't be ridiculous, Sophie. Men that looked like Vito were too accustomed to getting exactly what they wanted with the bat of an eyelash. But somehow that assessment felt unfair. As if it mattered. He'd come for her GPR. Nothing more. So focus on what you're here for. A chance to work again. To do something important. Still, her eyes were drawn to his face. He was wearing sunglasses, but she could just see the corner of his eye where the darkness of his skin was broken by tiny white lines, as if he was quick to smile. He wasn't smiling now. At this moment, his expression was sober and brooding which made her feel a little guilty for feeling so excited and energized. For the first time in months she'd be doing something that got her back into the field. That was what had her heart pumping and goosebumps pebbling her skin. The thrill of the hunt, of finding secrets hidden below the surface of the earth, not the memory of his hands gripping her shoulders. He was just keeping you from falling on your ass. It had been way too long since she'd been touched by a man, for any reason. She frowned and focused. "So Vito, tell me about this gravesite." "Who said anything about graves?" he asked, his tone casual. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm not stupid. An ME and a cop are looking for something under the ground. So how many graves are we talking about?" He shrugged. "Maybe none." 44 KAREN ROSE "But you've found at least one." "What makes you say that?" She wrinkled her nose. "L'odeur de la mort. It's quite noticeable." fcYou speak French? 1 took it in high school, but 1 only learned the swear words." Now she did roll her eyes, her temper flaring. "I'm fluent in ten languages, three of them deader than the body you just came from," she snapped, then instantly wished her words back as he flinched, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. The body I just came from was somebody's daughter or wife," he said quietly. Her face heated, her annoyance becoming embarrassment and shame. Shoved your foot in your mouth, army boot and all "I'm sorry," she said, just as quietly. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful. The bodies I come across have been dead several hundred years. But it's not an excuse. I got a little.. .jazzed at the prospect of doing something interesting. I let myself get carried away. I apologize. It was insensitive of me." He kept his gaze fixed ahead. "It's all right." No, it wasn't, but she didn't know what to say to make it right. She pulled off her gloves and began to braid her hair that still hung loose so it would be out of her way when she got to where the detective was taking her. She was almost done when he spoke, startling her. "So," he said. "You speak French? I took it in high school, but..." His mouth turned up in a rueful smile and she smiled back. He'd thrown her a do-over. This time she would keep her feet out of her mouth. "But you only learned the swear words. Yes, I speak French and several other languages. It comes in handy translating old texts and conversing with the locals when I'm DIE FOR ME 45 working." She went back to braiding her hair. "I'll teach you a few swear words in other languages if you want." His lips twitched. "It's a deal. Katherine said you were on sabbatical." "Of sorts." She secured the braid into a tight ball at her nape. "My grandmother had a stroke, so I came back to Philly to help my aunt take care of her." "Is she recovering?" "Some days we think so. Other days..." She sighed. "Other days it's not so good." "I'm sorry." He sounded very sincere. "Thank you." "And where did you come back from?" "Southern France. We were excavating a thirteenth-century castle." He looked impressed. "Like, with a dungeon?" She chuckled. "At one time, most likely. Now we'll be lucky to find the outer walls and the foundation of the keep. They'll be lucky," she corrected. "Listen, Vito...I'm sorry I was out of line, but it really would help me to know a little more about what you need me to do before I begin." He shrugged. "There's really not much to tell. We found one body." Back to square one. "But you think there are more." "Maybe." Keeping her feet well away from her mouth, she injected a note of lightness into her voice. "If I uncover something, I'll know your secrets. I hope this isn't one of those 'now I'll have to kill you' things. That would ruin my day." The corners of his mouth quirked. "Killing you would be illegal, Dr. Johannsen." They were back to formalities. Too bad. She was still 46 KAREN ROSE calling him Vito. "Well then, Vito, unless you plan to erase my memory, you'll have to trust that I won't blab. You don't have one of those memory-zapping guns like they used in Men in Black, do you?" His lips twitched again. "I left it in my other suit." "Forewarned is forearmed, they say. Which suit is it? I promise I won't tell." Abruptly he grinned, exposing a deep dimple in his right cheek. Oh, my, she thought. Oh my, oh my. A smile turned Vito Ciccotelli from merely magazine-handsome to movie-star-gorgeous. Aunt Freya's heart would be going pitter-pat. Just like yours is right now. Then he spoke. That information is classified," he said and Sophie stiffened. "So much for establishing rapport." His grin faded. "Dr. Johannsen, it's not that I don't trust you. You wouldn't be here if I didn't. Katherine vouches for you and that was enough for me." "Then—" He shook his head. "I don't want to give you any information that could bias your findings. Go in with a clean slate and tell us what you see. That's all we want." She considered. "I suppose that makes sense." "Thank God," he muttered and she chuckled. "Can you at least tell me how big this area is?" "One, two acres tops." She winced. "Oh. That'll take a while." His black brows went up. "How long is a while?" "Four, five hours. Maybe more. Whitman's ground-penetrating radar is a small unit. We use it for teaching purposes. The biggest plot we ever scan with students is maybe ten meters square. Sorry," she added when he scowled. "If DIE FOR ME 47 you need an area that big scanned I can recommend some geophysical survey companies that are really good. They'll have bigger units they can drag with a tractor." "With big price tags," he said. "We can't afford to hire a contractor. Our department budgets have been cut so much...We simply don't have the funds." He threw her a cautious glance. "Can you give us four or five hours?" She checked her watch. Her stomach had already started to rumble. "Can your department budget spring for pizza? I didn't have lunch." "That we can do." Chapter Three Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 2:30 P.M. V ito stopped the truck behind the CSU van. "This is the place." "I kind of figured that out for myself," she murmured. The yellow police tape and CSU van were my first clues." Before he could say another word she opened her door and hopped out, flinched, then swallowed hard. "It's strong," he said sympathetically. "Eau de... what did you call it?" "Uodeur de la mort," she said quietly. "Is the body still here?" 48 KAREN ROSE "No. But removing the body doesn't always remove all the odor right away. I can get you a mask, but I don't think it really helps." She shook her head and the big hoops at her ears swayed. "I was just surprised. I'll be fine." Her jaw set determinedly, she grabbed the two smaller cases. "I'm ready." She said it with a hard little nod, more as if to convince herself than anyone else. Nick climbed from the CSU van and Vito had the satisfaction of seeing his partner's face go blank. Jen McFain's reaction was much the same. Of course they weren't getting the full effect as Johannsen had braided the hair that hung an inch past her butt. "Jen, Nick, this is Dr. Johannsen." Jen hurried forward with a smile, craning her neck to see Johannsen's face. The difference in the women's heights was almost comical. "I'm Jennifer McFain, CSU. Thank you so much for coming out to help us on such short notice, Dr. Johannsen." 'You're welcome. And please call me Sophie," she said. Then I'm Jen." Jen eyed the small suitcases. "I've always wanted to play with one of these. If you don't mind, could you take off the earrings?" Johannsen immediately dropped her earrings into one of the pockets of her jacket. "Sorry. I forgot I had them on." She glanced over Jen's shoulder at Nick. "You are?" "Nick Lawrence," Nick said. "Vito's partner. Thanks for coming." "My pleasure. If you'd take me to where you'd like me to begin, I'll get set up." They walked across the field, Jen and Johannsen in front, DIE FOR ME 49 Vito and Nick trailing far enough behind that they wouldn't be overheard. "She's not... what I expected," Nick murmured. Vito huffed a chuckle. He was keeping himself calm, cool, and collected. And would continue to do so. "That's an understatement." 'You're sure she's Katherine's friend? She seems very young." "I did finally get in touch with Katherine. Johannsen's the real deal all right." "And you're sure she can keep this to herself?" Vito thought of the memory-zapping gun and had to smile. "Yeah." Then they came to the grave and he sobered. Now they would know if Jane Doe was a single or one of many. Johannsen was staring at the grave. Her mouth drooped and he remembered how she'd dropped her eyes, ashamed of the calloused way she'd referred to the body. She hadn't meant it, he knew. That she was so quick to apologize he could respect. She looked over her shoulder and met his eyes. "You found the woman here?" "Yes." The field is big. Do you have a preference on where you'd like me to start?" "Dr. Johannsen thinks it will take four or five hours to scan the whole field," Vito said. "Let's survey the area to the right and left of the grave and see what we have." That sounds like a plan," Jen said. "How long will it take you to get ready?" "Not long." Sophie dropped to her knees in the snow and began opening the cases they'd brought, demonstrating the assembly for Jen who looked like a kid on Christmas. "The 50 KAREN ROSE unit sends data to the laptop wirelessly and the laptop will store it." She set the laptop on one of the cases, powered it up, then stood, the scanning portion in her hand. Nick leaned forward, studying it. "It looks like a carpet sweeper," he said. "A fifteen-thousand-dollar carpet sweeper," Johannsen said and Vito whistled. "Fifteen grand for that? You said it was a little one." "It is. The big ones start at fifty. Are you all familiar with ground penetrating radar?" "Jen is," Vito said. "We were going to call for the cadaver dogs." That works, but GPR gives you an image of what's under the ground. It's not a clear image like an x-ray. GPR tells you where and how deep an object is. The colors on the display represent the amplitude of the object. Brighter colors, bigger amplitude." Jen nodded. "Brighter the color, bigger the amplitude, bigger the object." "Or the stronger the reflection. Metals will have high amplitude. Air pockets reflect even better. The amount of reflection depends on what you're looking for." "What about bone?" Nick asked. "Not as bright, but visible. Older the bone, the harder it is to see. As bodies decompose, they become like the soil and the reflections don't stand out as much." "How old before you can't see the bones anymore?" Jen asked. "One of my colleagues identified the remains of a twenty-five-hundred-year-old Native American in a burial mound in Kentucky." She glanced up. "I don't think you need to worry about age." She stood up and wiped her palms on her jacket. DIE FOR ME 51 Her jeans were soaking wet, but she didn't even seem to notice. She'd said she was "jazzed" and Vito could definitely see the energy in her clear green eyes. "Let's go." She got to work, scanning along the height dimension of the first grave, slowly and precisely. Vito could see why scanning the whole field would take so long. But if they found something, they were in for a lot more man-hours than that. Jen went still. "Sophie," she said, her voice urgent. Johannsen stopped for a screen check. "It's the edge of something. The soil changes here, abruptly. It goes maybe three feet deep. Let me get a few more rows." She did, then frowned. "There is something here, but it looks like it's got metal in it. We tend to see that in cemeteries with older, lead-lined caskets. The shape isn't right for a casket, but there is definitely metal here." She looked up, her eyes questioning. "Does that make sense?" Vito thought about Jane Doe's hands. 'Yeah," he said grimly. "It does." Johannsen nodded, accepting there would be no more answer than that. "Okay." She marked the corners with her garden stakes. "It's six and a half feet by three feet." "The same size as the first one," Jen said. "I didn't want to be right, Vito." Nick shook his head. "Fuck." Jen stood up. "I'll get my tools and the camera, then I'll get the team back and we'll set up floodlights. Give me a hand with the tools, Nick. Vito, you call Katherine." "Will do. And I'll call Liz." Lieutenant Liz Sawyer had not been pleased to hear of the first body. Multiple unmarked graves would not be the news she wanted to hear. Nick followed Jen, leaving Vito alone with Johannsen. "I'm sorry," she said simply, sadness filling her eyes. 52 KAREN ROSE He nodded. "Yeah. Me, too. Let's check the other side." As Johannsen continued on, Vito dialed Liz on his cell. "Liz, it's Vito. We have the archeologist here. There's another one." "Not good," Liz said tightly. "One or more?" "One at least. She's just getting started and it's going to take a while. Jen's calling for her team and we're going to get as much done as we can tonight." "Keep me apprised," she ordered. "I'll call the captain and give him the heads-up." "Will do." Vito slid his phone back into his pocket. Jen and Nick returned with the digging tools and the camera as Johannsen found the edge of the next grave. "Same length, same depth." Twenty minutes ticked by before she looked up. "And another body. But this one doesn't have any metal." "We didn't find metal there with the detector," Nick said. Vito looked out over the field. "I know. That means there could be even more." Jen was laying plastic sheeting around the first new grave. "Take a spade, boys." They did, and for a while the four of them worked in silence, Johannsen marking the second plot and moving to the left to begin again, Nick, Vito, and Jen digging. Nick reached the body first. Jen leaned forward and with her small brush, removed the loose dirt from the victim's face. It was a man, young and blond. Decomposition was not yet advanced. He'd been handsome. "He hasn't been dead long," Nick said. "A week maybe." "If that," Vito said. "Uncover his hands, Jen." She did, and Vito twisted closer to get a better look at what he didn't understand. "What the hell?" "He's not praying." Nick frowned. "What is he doing?" DIE FOR ME 53 "Whatever he's doing," Jen said, "his hands are wired just like Jane Doe's." The victim's hands were formed into fists, both settled against his naked torso, the right above the left. The right fist was positioned level with the heart and his elbows pointed down. Both fists formed O's. "He was holding something," Vito said. "A sword." The whispered words came from above them, where Sophie Johannsen stood, her face ghostly pale under the red bandana. Her eyes were wide, horrified, and fixed on the victim. Vito had the sudden urge to pull her face against his chest, shielding her from the decomposing body. Instead he stood and put his hands on her shoulders. "What did you say?" She didn't move, her eyes still fixed on the dead man. He gave her a gentle little shake and pinched her chin, forcibly turning her face to his. "Dr. Johannsen, what did you say?" She swallowed, then lifted her eyes, no longer bright. "He looks like an effigy." "An effigy," Vito repeated. "As in 'hung in effigy'?" She closed her eyes, visibly steeling herself and Vito remembered that her bodies had been dead for hundreds of years. "No," she said, her voice shaken. "As in a tomb or crypt. Many times tombs would have images of the dead carved in stone or marble. These statues would lie on their backs on top of the crypt. It's called an effigy." She'd calmed herself, sounding like a teacher giving a lecture now. Vito supposed it was her way of coping. "The women usually had their hands folded like this." She folded her hands beneath her chin, the pose identical to Jane Doe's. Vito glanced sharply at Nick, who nodded. 54 KAREN ROSE "Go on, Sophie," Nick said quietly. "You're doing fine." "But...but sometimes their arms were folded across their breasts." Again she demonstrated, laying her hands flat. "Sometimes the man's hands are folded in prayer, but sometimes he's in full armor, holding a sword. Usually he holds the sword at his side, but sometimes the effigy was carved like this." She balled her trembling hands into fists and laid them on her chest in exactly the way the victim's were posed. "He'd hold the hilt of the sword in his hands and the blade would lie flat against his torso, straight down his center. It's not as common a pose. It means he died in battle. Do you know who he is?" He shook his head. "Not yet." "Someone's son or husband," she murmured. "Why don't you go sit in my truck? Here are the keys." She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "No, I'm all right. I just came to tell you I didn't find anything to the left of the other plot. I'm going back toward the trees." She wiped her eyes with her multicolored gloved fingers. "I'll be fine." Nick stood up. "Sophie, now that you've told us this, I remember seeing pictures in an old history book. This is a medieval custom, isn't it? Placing an effigy on the grave?" She nodded but she was still very pale. "Yes. Earliest known carvings date as far back as 1100 and were common practice through the Renaissance." "Guys." Jen was kneeling on the edge of the grave. "We've got bigger problems than this guy's sword." She came to her feet, dusting soil from her coveralls. Vito and Nick looked down into the grave, but Johannsen stayed back. Vito couldn't say he blamed her. What he saw made him want to turn his face away, but he didn't. Jen had DIE FOR ME 55 uncovered the victim down to his groin and there was a huge hole in his abdomen. "Sonofabitch," he muttered. "What?" Johannsen asked from five feet away. Jen sighed. "This man had his intestines removed." "Disemboweled," Johannsen said. "A torture used throughout history, but definitely used in medieval times." Torture," Nick murmured. "Holy shit, Vito. What kind of sicko would do this?" Vito's gaze swept the field. "And how many more did he put here?" New York City, Sunday, January 14, 5:00 p.m. The pop of a champagne cork brought the noise level to a low roar. From the back of the room, Derek Harrington watched Jager Van Zandt hold the fizzing bottle away from his expensive suit amid the cheers of a host of young, eager faces. "We used to be happy with a six-pack as long as it was cold." Derek glanced up at Tony England, his smile rueful. "Ah, the good old days." But Tony wasn't smiling. "I miss those days, Derek. I miss your old basement and working all night and.. .T-shirts and jeans. When it was just you and me and Jager." "I know. Now we're growing so fast...I don't know half these kids." More than that, he missed his friend. Fame and pursuit of the dollar had changed Jager Van Zandt into a man Derek wasn't sure he knew anymore. "I suppose success does have a price." Tony was quiet for a moment. "Derek, is it true we're going IPO?" 56 KAREN ROSE "I've heard the rumors." Tony frowned. "Rumors? You're the damn vice president, Derek. Shouldn't you have a little better information than rumors!" Derek should, but he didn't. He was saved a reply by Jager, who'd climbed on a chair and held his champagne flute high. "Gentlemen. And ladies. We're here to celebrate. I know you all are tired at the end of a long convention, but it's over and we did well. Every bit of our production of Behind Enemy Lines is committed. We have orders for every video game we can crank out the door. We're sold out, yet again!" The young people cheered, but Derek stayed silent. "He sold out, all right," Tony muttered. Tony," Derek murmured. "Not here. Not the place or time." "When will be the place and time, Derek?" Tony demanded. "When we're both Jager's yes-men? Or am I the only one that has to worry about becoming a yes-man?" Shaking his head, Tony made his way through the crowded room and out the door. Tony had always been dramatic, Derek knew. Passion often came hand in hand with artistic genius. Derek wasn't sure he had passion anymore. Or genius. Or art. "Of course you'll all see a nice hefty reward for all those sales in your bonus checks," Jager was saying and there were more cheers. "But for now, a sweet reward." Two waiters rolled in a long rectangular table. On it sat a cake that was easily six feet wide and three feet long and had been decorated with the oRo logo—a golden dragon with a giant R on its chest. The dragon gripped two O's, one in each claw. He and Jager had chosen the logo with care. Derek had created the golden dragon, and Jager chose the company DIE FOR ME 57 name. The letters o-R-o were symbolic, tied to Jager's native Dutch. It had never bothered Derek the R was five times bigger than either of the O's. But it bothered him now. Many things bothered Derek now. But, pasting a smile on his face for the benefit of the employees, he accepted a flute of champagne. "We're entering a new phase of 0R0 growth," Jager said, "and to that end, we have some changes to announce. Derek Harrington is being promoted." Stunned, Derek straightened, staring at the smiling Jager. Quickly he re-pasted the smile, unwilling to be seen as out of the loop. "Derek will now be executive art director." There were more cheers and Derek nodded, his smile frozen. He now understood what Jager had done, and his expectation was confirmed with Jager's next words. "And to recognize his incredible contribution to Behind Enemy Lines, Frasier Lewis is promoted to art director." The employees applauded as Derek's heart sank to his toes. "Frasier couldn't be here tonight, but he sends his personal regards and good wishes for the next venture. He asked me to make this toast for him, and I quote: 'Enemy Lines got us into orbit. May The Inquisitor launch 0R0 to the moon!' Jager lifted his glass. "To 0R0 and to success!" His hand shaking, Derek slipped from the room. There was so much cheering that nobody even noticed he'd gone. In the hall he leaned one shoulder against the wall, his stomach churning. The promotion was a lie. Derek hadn't been promoted up. He'd been pushed aside. Frasier Lewis had brought riches and success to 0R0, but his dark methods left Derek afraid. He'd tried to stop Jager, to keep 0R0 on the high road. But now it was too late. He'd just been replaced by Jager's yes-man. 58 KAREN ROSE Philadephia, Sunday, January 14, 5:00 P.M. It was worse than she ever could have imagined. What had been excitement for a hunt when she'd first arrived had abruptly become cold dread when she'd looked on the face of the dead man. Her dread became colder as the afternoon waned. She continued to scan and tried to stop thinking about the markers she'd laid. Or the man they'd found. Someone had tortured and killed him. And others. How many others would there be? Katherine had returned to examine the victim and she and Sophie had exchanged sober nods, but no words. There was an unnatural hush to the site, the small army of cops moving efficiently but quietly as they did their jobs. Sophie tried to focus on recording the objects under the ground. But they weren't objects. They were people, and they were dead. She tried not to think about that, taking refuge in the routine of the scan, of the precise placement of each stake. Until she reached into her pocket and found it empty. She'd grabbed two packs from the equipment room before meeting Vito. A dozen to a pack. Twenty-four stakes. Six graves. She'd located six graves already. The grave the police had located before she got there made seven. And Vm not finished yet. My God. Seven people. Her vision blurred and angrily she rubbed at the tears with the back of her hand. CSU would have something that she could use to mark more graves. She raised her eyes to look for Jen McFain, but a sound behind her made her body freeze. It was a zipper, amplified in the surreal hush. Slowly she met Katherine Bauer's eyes over the body bag she'd just zipped shut, and was hurled back sixteen years. Katherine's hair had been darker then, a little longer. The body bag she'd zipped had been much smaller. DIE FOR ME 59 The hush faded. All Sophie could hear was the drum of her own pulse. Katherine's eyes widened with horrified understanding. She'd looked just like that back then, too. Sophie heard her name, but all she could see was the body on the gurney, as it had been that day. So very small That day she'd been too late and could only stand in shock as they'd rolled her away. A wave of grief surged, powerful and sudden. Anger followed in its wake, bitter and cold. Elle was gone, and nothing could bring her back. "Sophie." Sophie blinked at the sudden pinch on her chin. She focused on Katherine's face, on the lines sixteen years had wrought and let out a shuddering breath. Remembering where she was, she closed her eyes, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she murmured. The pressure on her chin intensified until she opened her eyes. Katherine was frowning up at her. "Go to my car, Sophie. You're white as a sheet." Sophie pulled away. "I'm all right." She glanced up to find Vito Ciccotelli standing next to the very large body bag, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched her. He'd thought her rude and insensitive before. Now he probably thought she was unstable, or even worse, weak. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, meeting his watchful stare with a flash of defiance. She'd rather be considered rude. But he didn't look away, just kept those dark eyes fastened to hers. Unsettled, Sophie shifted her gaze away from Vito and took a step back. "I'm all right. Really." "No," Katherine murmured. "You're not all right. You've done enough for today. I'll have one of the officers drive you home." Sophie's jaw tightened. "I finish what I start." She bent to 60 KAREN ROSE retrieve the GPR's handle which had fallen from her hands as she'd taken her little skip down memory lane. "Unlike some people." She started to turn, but Katherine grabbed her arm. "It was an accident," Katherine whispered, and Sophie knew the woman honestly believed that to be the truth. "I thought after all this time you'd have accepted that." Sophie shook her head. Her anger lingered, bubbling inside her and when she spoke, her voice was cold. "You were always too soft on her. I'm afraid I'm not that—" "Forgiving?" Katherine interrupted sharply. Sophie huffed a laugh, utterly mirthless. "Blind. I'll finish the job you asked me to do." She pulled away from Kath-erine's grasp and shoved her hand in her empty pocket, then remembered. Stakes. She searched for Jen only to find the small army had gone largely still, watching with blatant curiosity as the scene between her and Katherine unfolded. She wanted to scream for them to mind their own damn business, but controlled the impulse. She looked for Jen, but it was Vito Ciccotelli's dark eyes she met once again. He'd never looked away. "I've run out of stakes. Do you have any markers?" "I'll find something." He gave her another long look of speculation before turning for the CSU van. When he was no longer watching her, she felt the air leave her lungs in a long sigh and realized she'd been holding her breath for a long time. As the sigh left her body, so did her temper. Now all she felt was weary regret and shame. "I'm sorry, Katherine. I shouldn't have lost my temper." She stopped just short of saying she'd been wrong. She'd never lied to Katherine and wasn't about to start now. The corners of Katherine's mouth lifted in wry acceptance of what Sophie had left unsaid. "I know. Seeing the DIE FOR ME 61 victim would have been bad enough, but you had a shock on top of that. I never meant for you to see any bodies. I thought you'd do the scan, then go home. I guess I didn't think that through very well." "It's okay. I'm glad you asked me to help." Sophie squeezed Katherine's arm and knew the air was clear between them again. It's a good thing Katherine's more forgiving than me, she thought ruefully. Then again, it was easier to forgive when one felt the loss less keenly. Elle had not been Katherine's child. She was mine. Sophie cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was brusque. "Now let me get to work so all the cops will stop looking at us." Katherine looked over her shoulder, as if realizing for the first time they had an audience. With a single lifted brow, the little woman sent everyone back to their business. "Cops are the nosiest," she whispered. "Worse gossips than girls." "Now, that's just mean." Sophie's eyes flew up to see Vito standing behind them, clutching a handful of colored flags as if they were flowers. Katherine smiled up at him. "No, that's just true, and you know it." One comer of his mouth lifted. "Replace 'nosy' with 'observant' and we're square." His words were directed to Katherine, but he looked at Sophie, his eyes just as intent as before. He held out the flags. "Your markers," he said. She hesitated before scooping them from his hand, the thought of touching him making her nervous. Ridiculous. She was a professional and she would do the job she'd been brought here to do. She took the flags and shoved them in her pocket. "I hope I don't need this many." 62 KAREN ROSE Vito's slight smile disappeared as his gaze swept the field. "That makes two of us." Katherine sighed. "Amen." Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 9:40 p.m. Daniel Vartanian sat on his hotel bed, rubbing his brow behind which the beginnings of a migraine lurked. "That's the situation," he finished and waited for his boss to speak. Chase Wharton sighed. "You have one fucked-up family. You know that, don't you?" "Believe me, I know. Well, can I have the leave?" "Are you sure they're really traveling? Why all the lies?" "My parents keep up appearances, no matter what." His parents had covered up many family secrets to preserve the family's "good name." If people only knew. "That they didn't want anyone to know about my mother's illness is par for the course." "But it's cancer, Daniel, not some awful secret like pedophilia or something." Or something, Daniel thought. "Cancer would be enough to start tongues wagging. My father wouldn't tolerate that, especially since he'd just agreed to run for Congress." "You never said your father was a politician." "My father was a politician from the day he was born," Daniel said bitterly. "He just did it from the bench. But I didn't know he was running. Apparently he'd just agreed to run before he went away." This he'd heard from Tawny Howard who'd taken his and Frank's dinner order. Tawny had heard it from the secretary of Carl Sargent, the man his father had visited the last time he'd been in town. "I'm sure DIE FOR ME 63 he views my mother's cancer as fodder for the opposition. My mother will go along with whatever he says." Chase was silent and Daniel could imagine his worried expression. "Chase, I just want to find my folks. My mother's sick. I..." Daniel blew out a breath. "I need to see her. I have something to tell her and I don't want her to die before I can. We had an argument and I said some harsh things." He'd actually said them to his father, but the feelings of anger and disgust... and shame... they'd extended to include his mother as well. "Were you wrong?" Chase asked quietly. "No. But... I shouldn't have let so many years pass with this between us." Take your leave then. But the minute you suspect anything other than an ordinary vacation, you back off and we'll set up a proper investigation. I don't want my ass fried because a retired judge is missing and I didn't follow procedure." Chase hesitated. "Be careful, Daniel. And I'm sorry about your mom." Thanks." Daniel wasn't sure where to begin, but was certain clues resided in his father's computer. Tomorrow a pal from the GBI was coming to help him sort through his father's computer records. Daniel only hoped he could deal with what he found. New York City, Sunday, January 14, 10:00 p.m. From his chair in the darkness of their hotel suite's sitting room, Derek watched Jager stumble through the door. "You're drunk," Derek said with disgust. Jager jerked upright. "Goddamn it, Derek. You scared the shit out of me." 64 KAREN ROSE Then we're even," Derek said bitterly. "Just what the hell was that all about?" "What?" The word was uttered with contempt and Derek felt his temper boil higher. 'You know what. Who the hell gave you the right to make Lewis the art director?" "It's just a title, Derek." Jager shot him a scathing look as he yanked his tie from his collar. "If you'd been in the bar celebrating with us instead of up here in the dark, sulking like a little boy, you would have heard the news firsthand. We got a booth at Pinnacle." "Pinnacle?" Pinnacle, the game convention of the year. On the planet. This was huge. Pinnacle was to game designers what Cannes was to filmmakers. The premier event to see and be seen. To have your art admired by the entire industry. Gamers would stand in line for days for a ticket. Booths were awarded by invitation only. Pinnacle was... the pinnacle. He let out a slow breath, hardly daring to believe it was true. Only in his wildest dreams... "You're kidding." Jager laughed, but it was an ugly sound. "I would never kid about something like that." He walked to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. "Jager, you've had enough," Derek started, but Jager flashed him a furious glare. "Shut up. Just shut up. I'm so fucking tired of you and your 'don't do this' and 'don't do that.''' He tossed back a swallow. "We're going to Pinnacle because / took a risk. Because /had the balls to push the envelope. Because /have what it takes to succeed." Derek cocked his jaw, coldly furious at what had been left unsaid. "And I don't." DIE FOR ME 65 Jager spread his arms wide. "You said it" He looked away. "Partner," he muttered. "I am, you know," Derek said quietly. "What?" "Your partner." Then start acting like one," Jager said flatly. "And stop acting like some religious fanatic. Frasier Lewis's art is entertainment, Derek. Period." Derek shook his head as Jager headed toward his room. "It's indecent. Period " Jager stopped, his hand on the doorknob. "It's what sells." "It's not right, Jager." "I don't see you refusing any paychecks. You act morally repulsed by the violence, but you're in it for the money as much as I am. And if you're not, you need to get out." "Is that a threat?" Derek asked quietly. "No. It's reality. Just contact Frasier and tell him to speed up the fight scenes he's been promising me for a month. I want them by nine Tuesday morning. I need the fight scenes from Inquisitor to show at Pinnacle so he needs to light a fire under his ass." Stunned, Derek could only stare. "You already gave him the new game." Jager turned, his eyes cold. "It's an entertainment venture" he said between his teeth, "and yes, I gave Frasier the design for Inquisitor months ago. If I left it to you, we'd end up with the same sorry washed-out graphics we've had for years. He's been researching and working the design for months while you've been sitting on your ass, doodling cartoons" The last was uttered with contempt. "Face it, Derek, I've moved 0R0 to the next level. Keep up or get out." He shut the door with a snap. Derek stood motionless for a long time, staring at the 66 KAREN ROSE door. Keep up or get out. Get out He couldn't just get out. Where would he go? He'd put all his talent, all his heart into oRo. He couldn't just walk away. He needed his salary. His daughter's college tuition wasn't cheap. / am a hypocrite. He'd disagreed so vehemently with using Frasier Lewis's scenes because the killings were so chillingly real. But Jager was right. / take the money. I like the money. He needed to make a choice. If he planned to continue at oRo, he needed to come to terms with his distaste for Frasier Lewis's "art." Either Vm morally opposed or Vm not. He sighed. Or he needed to decide if Jager had been telling him the truth, hard as it would be to accept. The same sorry washed-out look. That hurt. Am I jealous? Is Lewis the better artist? If so, could he accept that, and, more important, could he work with him? Derek got up and paced the length of the room, stopping at the bar. He poured himself a drink, then sat back down in the dark to consider his options. Chapter Four r