“So Derek told you about our Pinnacle opportunity?”
His lip curled. “Yeah.”
Van Zandt’s brow lifted. “You do not like Pinnacle?”
“I do not like Derek.” He spaced each word, mimicking Van Zandt’s heavy speech.
“Derek has served his purpose, but he will not move with us to the next level. You, Frasier, I have high hopes for.” He hadn’t moved his hand. “Give me the rest. Now.”
Cocking his jaw, he slapped another CD into Van Zandt’s hand. “This is King William. When the good knight is defeated, William attempts a final rescue of his queen. But by this point the Inquisitor is a very strong sorcerer. Even the king himself cannot defeat his dark magic and is captured.”
Van Zandt’s smile grew sharp. “And what does the Inquisitor do to King William?”
He thought about Warren Keyes, the way he’d screamed. It still sent shivers down his spine. “He stretches him on the rack, then disembowels him.”
Van Zandt laughed softly. “Remind me never to make you angry, Frasier Lewis.”
Chapter Eleven
Philadephia, Tuesday, January 16, 11:30
A.M.
This still isn’t right,” Vito muttered as he ran his finger over the chain mail Andy had spread out on his counter. It was way too big. Andy’s Attic was an all-purpose costume store. Vito imagined their killer would sneer at such poor re-creations.
“I’ve shown you all the mail I have,” Andy said stiffly. “What are you looking for?”
“Something smaller. About a quarter inch in diameter.”
“You should have said so when you first came in,” Andy grumbled. “I don’t keep that quality here in the store, but I can order it for you.” He thumbed through a catalog. “What you’re talking about is much better quality, but pricier.” He found a picture of a man wearing a mail hood and shirt. “This hauberk-and-coif set runs eighteen hundred.”
Vito blinked. “Dollars?”
Andy looked offended. “Well, yeah. It’s SCA approved. You know, Society for Creative Anachronism. You don’t know anything about this stuff, do you? Is this a gift?”
Vito coughed. “Yeah. So this set is eighteen hundred. How much for just the shirt?”
“The hauberk is twelve-fifty.”
“Do you ever sell these out of your store?”
“Not usually. Usually I sell ’em off my website.”
“Have you sold any recently? Like before Christmas?”
“Yeah. I sold nine hauberks before Christmas. But I sold twenty-five last summer, about a month before the Medieval Festival. Serious jousters like to get the feel of the mail before the event.” Andy closed the catalog and handed it to Vito. “Detective.”
Vito winced. Busted. “I’m sorry.”
Andy’s smile was rueful. “I won’t say anything. I kind of figured it when you first walked in. My uncle was PPD, thirty years. What else are you looking for, Detective…?”
“Ciccotelli. A sword, about this long, with a hilt this big.” Vito gestured. “And a flail.”
Andy’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. Well, let’s see what we can find out.”
Tuesday, January 16, 11:45
A.M.
Van Zandt locked the CDs in his desk drawer. “This is good work, Frasier.”
He stood up. “Since you’re set for Pinnacle, I’ll be leaving. I’ve still got lots to do.”
Van Zandt shook his head. “I have a few more things to discuss. Please sit.”
With a frown, he complied. “Like what?”
“You must learn patience, Frasier. You’re still young. You have lots of time.”
Why did old people always equate youth with the need for patience? Just because he had lots of time didn’t mean he wanted to wait lots of time. “Like what?” he repeated, this time through his teeth. He had Gregory Sanders to meet at three o’clock.
Van Zandt sighed. “Like the queen. Have you designed her face?”
He thought of the old man’s daughter. “Yes.”
“And? What will she look like?”
Her face flashed in his mind. “Pretty. Petite. Brunette. Similar to Bri-Brianna.” Shit. He’d very nearly said Brittany. Focus.
“No, I don’t think that type of character has a dramatic enough beauty. Your queen should be stately. Bigger. Your Brianna looks little more than one and a half meters.”
Brittany Bellamy had been five-two. He’d chosen her because of her small stature. His chair was on the small side and he wanted it to look larger with respect to the woman sitting in it. “You want a different queen?”
“Yes.” Van Zandt had lifted his brows, as if expecting dissent.
He considered it. Van Zandt had an eye for what worked. What sold. He could be right. This was going to be messy. He’d be filling the third row in the field with Gregory Sanders, and the fourth with his resources, and the old man’s spawn still had to die. If he used any more models for this game, he’d need to start another row. Well, the field was big. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do it,” Van Zandt corrected mildly, and although challenge burned his tongue he didn’t oppose him. For now, he still needed him. “Next, the flail scene.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What about it? It’s done.”
“No, it’s not. The scene you have in there is so sedate. He just… falls. It’s anticlimactic. Why not make the basic scene the head-coming-apart scene, then for the hidden scene make it even more exciting? Maybe his head could completely explode, or he could be decapitated entirely. It’s-”
“No. That’s not how it happens. The skull doesn’t explode and the entire head doesn’t come off.” He’d been very disappointed to discover this truth.
Van Zandt’s eyes had narrowed. “How do you know?”
Be careful. “I’ve researched it. Talked to doctors. That’s what they say.”
Van Zandt shrugged. “So what? What does it matter what really happens? It’s all fantasy anyway. Make the base injury more exciting.”
He counted to ten inside his head. Remember, this is a means to an end. It is not forever. Soon you can walk away and not have to think about Van Zandt or oRo Entertainment ever again. “Okay. I’ll spice it up.” He stood up but VZ stopped him.
“Wait. One more thing. I’m thinking about your dungeon. Something’s missing.”
“What?”
“An iron maiden.”
Oh, for God’s sake. How amateurishly trite. His opinion of Van Zandt was rapidly deescalating. “No.”
“For God’s sake, Frasier, why not?” Van Zandt asked, exasperated.
“Because that is not period. Maidens didn’t even appear until the fifteen hundreds. I’m not putting an iron maiden in my dungeon.”
“Every one of our gamers will expect to see a maiden in his dungeon.”
“Do you know how long it’ll take to-” He drew a breath. He’d nearly said ‘build.’ There were no iron maidens to be had. If he wanted one, he’d have to build it himself and there was no way he’d do that. “Jager, I’ll find a new queen. I’ll spice up the flail scene, but I won’t put a fraudulent piece in my dungeon.”
His eyes darkening, Van Zandt leaned to one side and picked a sheet of letterhead out of his inbox. “I see my name on this letterhead as president. I do not see your name, Frasier. Anywhere.” He tossed the sheet back in the inbox. “So just do it.”
Gritting his teeth, he snatched his laptop case from the floor. “Fine.”
Tuesday, January 16, 11:55
A.M.
“Excuse me!”
Derek paused on the steps that led from the street to oRo’s office building, a bag lunch from the deli in his hand. A man was getting out of a taxi with a small suitcase. Although he was well dressed, it looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “Yes?”