Ted looked happily puzzled both at the suggestion and the twang she’d borrowed from Nick Lawrence. “Sophie, you always say you’re an archeologist, not an actress.”
Sophie grinned. “But acting is in my blood. My father was an actor, you know.”
Ted nodded. “I know. And your grandmother was an opera diva. I’ve always known.”
Sophie’s grin faded. “You never said anything.”
“I was hoping you would,” Ted said. “It’s nice to finally get to know you, Sophie.”
Sophie felt both welcomed and chastised. “How do you feel about Marie Antoinette?”
Ted smiled at her. “Before or after she lost her head?”
New York City, Thursday, January 18, 9:55
A.M.
“Damn traffic,” Nick grumbled. “I hate New York.”
They were finally moving after having inched their way out of the Holland Tunnel. “This wasn’t the best hour to come,” Vito agreed. “We should have taken the train.”
“Shoulda coulda,” Nick said sourly. “What the hell is that?”
Vito pulled his chirping cell phone from his pocket. “Stop grumbling. It’s just my cell. I have messages.” He looked over his shoulder. “I must have lost the signal in there.” Then he frowned. “Liz called four times in twenty minutes.” He called back, his pulse starting to race. “Liz, it’s Vito. What’s happened? Is it Sophie?”
“No.” Liz sounded exasperated. “I had an officer drive her to her museum and walk her to the door. I have two minutes before my press conference. I need Tino’s number.”
“Why?”
“An hour ago, a woman came to the precinct looking for whoever was leading the Greg Sanders investigation.” Liz was talking fast as she walked. “She said she was a waitress and saw Greg on Tuesday. He was waiting in her bar for a man.”
“Munch. Yes. Did she see the man?”
“She saw a man. She said Greg left without paying for his drink. Then an old man who’d been sitting at the bar followed him. The waitress followed them both, but when she got to the corner, they were driving away in a truck. I called for the department artist but she’s off shift. I don’t want to wait so long this witness forgets the old man’s face. So… damn. I’m late. You call Tino. Ask him to come in as soon as he can.”
Thursday, January 18, 11:15
A.M.
“Mr. Harrington is not here. Mr. Van Zandt is in meetings and can’t be disturbed.”
Vito carefully placed his palms on Van Zandt’s secretary’s desk and leaned forward. “Ma’am, we are homicide detectives. He really does want to see us. Now.”
The woman’s eyes widened, but her chin came up. “Detective…”
“Ciccotelli,” Vito said. “And Lawrence. From Philadephia. Call his office again. Tell him we’ll be knocking in sixty seconds.”
Her lips thinned and she picked up her phone, then bent over it, cupping the receiver, as if at eighteen inches away Vito couldn’t hear every word anyway. “Jager, they say they are police detectives… Yes, homicide. They’re very insistent.” She nodded briskly. “He’ll be out momentarily.”
The door to Van Zandt’s office opened, and out walked the man, looking just like his picture. He was big and brawny and for a moment Vito thought perhaps…
But then he spoke. “I am Jager Van Zandt,” he said and his voice sounded nothing like the voice on the tape. “How can I help you?” He regarded them with a cool detachment that Vito sensed was more defensive than arrogant. But arrogant, too.
“We’re interested in your game, Mr. Van Zandt,” Vito said. “Behind Enemy Lines.”
There was no reaction in the man’s eyes or face as he inclined his head in a nod. “Come into my office.” He closed the door behind them and gestured to two chairs that sat before a huge desk. Vito was reminded of Brewster’s office. “Please, sit.”
Jager sat behind his desk and inclined his head, waiting for them to speak.
By previous agreement, Vito and Nick had decided not to reveal the “No one can hear you” line they’d heard on the tape. Instead Vito showed him a printout of the French woman who’d been strangled in the game.
Van Zandt nodded. “Clothilde.”
“She’s strangled in that scene,” Vito said.
“Yes.” Van Zandt lifted a brow. “You are perhaps offended at the violence? Or that the violence was perpetrated by an American? In the game, of course.”
“Well, yes, we are offended at the violence,” Nick said. “But that’s not why we’re here. Who drew that picture, Mr. Van Zandt?”
Van Zandt remained impassive. “My art director is Derek Harrington. He can give you information on any of the artists.”
“He didn’t come in today,” Vito said. “Your secretary said so. Any idea why?”
“We are business partners, Detective. Nothing more.”
Blessing Brent, Vito smiled. “I read that you’ve been friends since college.”
“D’y’all have a fallin’-out?” Nick drawled, and for the first time Van Zandt showed a flicker of response. Just a small flash of anger in his eyes, extinguished immediately.
“We have not agreed in recent days. Derek’s tastes have become… violent.”
Vito blinked. “Really? He looks so nice in his picture on your website.”
“Appearances can be deceiving, Detective.”
Vito drew another photo from his folder. “Yes, they can. Perhaps you can help us clear something up.” He slid the picture of Claire Reynolds next to the screenshot of Clothilde. But there was nothing. Not even a flicker to indicate Van Zandt was impacted in any way. Surprise would have been the natural response, but there was nothing.
“The resemblance is uncanny, wouldn’t you agree?” Nick asked.
“Yes. But they say everyone looks like someone.” One side of his mouth lifted. “They say I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“It’s just the accent,” Vito said and Van Zandt’s smile disappeared. “We’d like to find Mr. Harrington. Can your secretary give us his address?”
“Of course.” He picked up the phone. “Raynette, please get Derek’s home address for the detectives. Then please show them out.” He said all that while holding Vito’s gaze in defiant coldness. “Is there anything else, Detective?”
“Not right now. Will you be here if we have more questions before we go home?”
He glanced down at the calendar on his desk. “I will be here. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He stood and opened his office door. “My secretary will help you now.”
Vito stood up, intentionally leaving the photo of Claire Reynolds on Van Zandt’s desk. The door closed at their backs with a firm click. Van Zandt’s secretary was glaring at them. “Mr. Harrington’s address.” She held a piece of paper in her hand.
Vito slid the paper in his folder. “When was Mr. Harrington last in the office?”
“Tuesday,” she said stonily. “He left right after lunch and didn’t return.”
Vito said nothing more until he and Nick were out on the sidewalk. “What a snake.”
“Everybody looks like somebody,” Nick mimicked in his best Arnold imitation.
“He was expecting us,” Vito said as they started for Nick’s car.
“You caught that, too? His secretary didn’t say we were homicide when she announced us, just that we were detectives, but then she said ‘Yes, homicide.’”
“Like he’d asked her first,” Vito mused. “I wonder who Van Zandt thinks is dead.”
“First round of drinks when we’re done says we don’t find Derek at that address.”
“Sucker bet, Nick,” Vito said as Nick slid behind the wheel.
“Shit. I was hoping now that you’re blinded by love I could slide that one right past.”
Vito chuckled. “Just drive, okay?”