“What did you expect him to say? You’d just accused him of murder. Perhaps you expected him to say, ‘You are correct. I kidnapped Zachary Webber, held a gun to his head, blew out his brains, then made him a character in a video game.’” He tilted his head, bemused. “Does that sound sane to you?”
It didn’t, not when explicitly spelled out like that. But there was something wrong. Derek could feel it in his gut. “Then how do you account for this?” He tapped the photo. “This kid is missing, then just happens to show up in Behind Enemy Lines.”
“He saw him somewhere. Hell, Derek, where did you get your inspiration?”
Did. Past tense. Something desperate rose in Derek’s chest. “You don’t even know anything about Lewis. What were his production credits before you hired him at oRo?”
“I know what I need to know.” Jager tossed a paper across his desk.
Derek stared at the picture of a confident Jager with the headline: oRo SCORES A COUP-Up and comer earns a seat at Pinnacle.
“So you’ve arrived,” Derek said dully.
“Yes, I have.”
The personal pronoun had been carefully enunciated. “You want me to quit.”
Jager lifted his brows, maddeningly calm. “I never said that.”
Suddenly the desperation eased and Derek knew what he needed to do. Slowly he stood. “Well, I just did.” He stopped at the door and looked back at the man who he’d once called his closest friend. “Did I ever really know you?”
Jager was calm. “Security will walk you to your desk. You can pack your things.”
“I should say good luck, but I wouldn’t mean it. I hope you get what you deserve.”
Jager’s eyes went cold. “Now that you’re no longer with the company, any move to discredit any of my employees will be considered slander and prosecuted with zeal.”
“In other words, stay away from Frasier Lewis,” Derek said bitterly.
Jager’s smile was a terrible thing to see. “You do know me after all.”
New Jersey, Tuesday, January 16, 2:30
P.M.
Vito drove through the quiet little neighborhood in Jersey, following Tim Riker’s directions. He’d left Andy from Andy’s Attic sorting through receipts of sales of swords and flails to join Tim and Beverly who were waiting for him on the sidewalk.
“Brittany Bellamy’s house?” he asked when he got out and Beverly nodded.
“Her parents live here. The only address Brittany listed with all her jobs was a PO box in Philly. If she doesn’t live here, hopefully her parents can tell us where.”
“Have you talked to her parents?”
“No,” Tim said. “We were waiting for you. One of the photographers on her résumé said he’d hired Brittany to do an ad for a local jewelry store last spring.”
“The ad was for rings.” Beverly’s eyes grew dark. “Only her hands were in the shot.”
“Nick and I think the killer chose Warren for his tattoo. That Brittany was a hand model could have drawn him, since he posed her hands. Was she reported missing?”
“No,” Tim said with a frown. “So this might not be our vic.”
“Then let’s go find out.” Vito led the way to the door and knocked. A minute later a girl opened the front door. She was perhaps fourteen and about the same size as their victim, her hair the same dark brown. In her hand was a box of tissues.
“Yes?” she asked, her nose stuffy, her voice muffled through the storm door glass.
Vito showed her his shield. “I’m Detective Ciccotelli. Are your parents home?”
“No.” She sniffled. “They’re both at work.” Her heavy eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“We’re looking for Brittany Bellamy.”
The girl’s chin came up and she sniffled again. “My sister. What’s she done?”
“Nothing. We’d just like to talk to her. Can you tell us where she lives?”
“Not here. Not anymore.”
Beverly stepped forward. “Can you tell us where she does live then?”
“I don’t know. Look, you should talk to my parents. They’ll be home after six.”
“Then can you give us your parents’ phone number at work?” Beverly pressed.
The sleepy look in her eyes was replaced by fear. “What’s happened to Brittany?”
“We’re not sure,” Vito said. “We really need to talk to your parents.”
“Wait here.” She closed the door and Vito could hear the deadbolt clicking. Two minutes later the door opened again and the girl reappeared with a cordless phone. She handed the phone to Vito. “My mom is on the phone.”
“Is this Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Yes.” The woman’s voice was both frantic and angry. “What’s this about the police? What’s Brittany done?”
“This is Detective Ciccotelli, Philly PD. When was the last time you saw Brittany?”
There was a moment of tense silence. “Oh my God. Is she dead?”
“When was the last time you saw her, Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Oh, God. She is dead.” The woman’s voice was becoming hysterical. “Oh God.”
“Mrs. Bellamy, please. When-?” But the woman was weeping too loudly to hear him. The young girl’s eyes filled with tears and she took the phone from Vito’s hand.
“Ma, come home. I’ll call Pop.” She disconnected and held the phone against her chest with both fists, much like Warren Keyes had held the sword. “It was after Thanksgiving. She and my dad had a big fight because she dropped out of dental school to be an actress.” She blinked, sending the tears down her face. “She left home, said she’d make it on her own. That’s the last time I saw her. She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Vito sighed. “Do you have a computer?”
She frowned. “Yeah, it’s brand-new.”
“How new, honey?” Vito asked.
“A month or so.” She faltered. “Right after Brittany left the old one crashed. My dad was so mad. He didn’t have a backup.”
“We’re going to need to get your parents’ permission to search her room.”
She looked away, lips quivering. “I’ll call my pop.”
Vito turned to Beverly and Tim. “I’ll stay here,” he murmured. “Go back to the precinct and start searching for the third victim in that row on UCanModel dotcom.”
“Flail guy,” Tim said grimly. “But we can’t count on his name being in the missing person reports. Even if Brittany had been reported missing, she might not have ended up in the Philly reports, being way down here in Jersey.”
“The database allows you to search by physical attribute. If you can’t figure it out, call Brent Yelton in IT. Tell him I sent you. Also, see if he can get a listing of everyone who got hits the same days Warren and Brittany’s résumés were viewed. I’m betting this guy didn’t just get lucky with the first model he contacted. Maybe we can find somebody who talked to him that’s still alive and still has their computer intact.”
Bev and Tim nodded. “Will do.”
The girl had come back to the storm door. “My pop’s on his way.”
A Catholic shrine rested against the house. “Do you have a priest?” Vito asked.
She nodded, dully. “I’ll call him, too.”
Tuesday, January 16, 3:20
P.M.
Munch was late. Gregory Sanders glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, feeling way too visible sitting in the bar where Munch had promised to meet him. He knew only to look for an older man who’d be walking with a cane.
The waitress stopped at his table. “You can’t stay here if you don’t order nothin’.”
“I’m waiting for someone. But bring me a G &T.”
She tilted her head, studying him closer. “I’ve seen you before. I know I have.” She snapped her fingers. “Sanders Sewer Service.” She grinned. “I loved that ad.”
He held a polite smile firmly in place as she walked away. He’d done sophisticated ads for national campaigns, but everybody who’d grown up in Philly remembered him in that stupid commercial that his father had forced his six sons to do. He would never be taken seriously by anyone who knew about that commercial. And he needed to be taken seriously. He needed Ed Munch to hire him for this job.