Nick shrugged. “Maybe recommend a good deli where we can get lunch?”
Philadelphia, Thursday, January 18, 2:15
P.M.
“Can I help you?” The boy behind the counter looked barely old enough to shave.
I certainly hope so, Daniel thought. The address his mother had left on the hotel stationery was a mailbox store on the other side of town.
He’d sat outside for some time, debating whether he should call his boss and make this an official investigation. But “I know what your son did” continued to haunt him. So here he was, about to use his badge to bypass the law again. “I need to check a box.”
The boy nodded professionally. “Can I see your ID?”
Daniel handed him his shield and watched the boy’s eyes grow wide.
“I’ll look it up… Special Agent Vartanian.”
The boy was so impressed with his being an agent he didn’t wait to see which box Daniel wanted. The kid typed in his name, then looked up. “Just a minute, sir.”
Wait was on Daniel’s lips, but he bit it back. His name was in their computer. He’d never set foot in this city before this week. Heart pounding, he waited. In a minute the boy returned with a thick manila envelope that had been folded sideways.
“Just this, sir,” the kid said.
“Thank you,” Daniel managed. “But that’s not the only reason I came in. I’m working a case and one of the leads is a box here at this store. I took the responsibility for following up since I had to come by anyway. Can you tell me who owns box 115?”
It was way too easy. Both to utter the lie and to fool the boy. But he got what he needed. “It’s registered to Claire Reynolds. Do you need her address?”
“Please.”
The boy wrote it down, and Daniel once again went out to his car with an envelope in his hand. He carefully sliced the top with his pen knife, then drew out the contents.
For a moment he could only stare in horror and total disbelief. Then the years yanked him back like a riptide. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Dad, what did you do?”
This was worse than his worst fear. I know what your son did. Now Daniel knew what his father had done as well. He wasn’t sure he could ask why.
When he could breathe again he called Susannah.
“Did you find them?” she asked without preamble.
He forced his mouth to speak the words. “You need to come.”
“Daniel, I can’t…”
“Please, Susannah.” His voice was harsh. “I need you to come. Please.” He waited, his heart stuck in his throat.
Finally she sighed. “All right. I’ll take the train. I’ll be there in three hours.”
“I’ll pick you up at the station.”
“Daniel, are you all right?”
He stared at the papers he held. “No. I’m not.”
New York City, Thursday, January 18, 2:45
P.M.
“Harrington’s either gone under or he’s dead,” Vito told Liz on the phone. “We checked his office, his apartment, and his wife’s apartment. Nobody’s seen him. His car isn’t in its space. We visited his wife who says she hasn’t seen him in six months. They have a daughter at Columbia University who said she hasn’t seen him either.”
“Why do he and his wife have separate apartments?”
“She said they’d separated. He’d become increasingly depressed and ‘melancholy’ she said, but never violent. NYPD’s put out an APB and now we’re sitting in front of oRo eating lunch. We’re about to go back up to see if we can get an employee list from Van Zandt, or hang outside until one of the employees talks to us. Brent said Harrington didn’t do the art, but somebody there did. We just need one person willing to finger him.”
“Good. Stick with it. I have some news on the Vartanians. I called the sheriff in Dutton, Georgia. The Vartanians haven’t been seen since before Thanksgiving.”
“That’s consistent with what Yuri said last night.”
“I know. There’s more. The sheriff informed the Vartanians’ son that his parents might be missing last weekend. The son is with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, and the daughter is with the New York DA’s office. Neither of them is in their office. Daniel, the GBI guy, has been on leave since Monday. His sister, Susannah, just took leave this afternoon. I’ve left word with their supervisors to have them call me.”
But there was more, Vito could tell, and it was worse. “Just tell me, Liz.”
“The police in White Plains, New York, found Kyle Lombard in his antique store.”
Vito’s heart skipped a beat. “Dead?”
“Bullet between his eyes. Looks like it came from a German weapon, vintage. They’re sending the bullet to us so we can match it against the one from the kid on the first row. The local police searched his store and found all kinds of illegally obtained medieval goodies hidden under his floor. Your Sophie would have a field day.”
Vito’s willed his stomach to settle. His Sophie was now officially in danger. “What about the other two. Shafer and Brewster?”
“Shafer was riding shotgun with Lombard. So to speak. Also had a bullet between the eyes. Both were tied to chairs and shot there in the store. Brewster’s still missing.”
“If Lombard was dealing, let’s see if we can check his sales records. Maybe we can find a tie to our guy.”
“Not gonna happen. Lombard’s computer was wiped and his paper files were strewn all over the office. And to wrap it in pretty red tape, the store and Lombard’s inventory have been seized by the Feds. Even though they were sixty to six hundred years old, Lombard was smuggling weapons. I expect we’re going to get leaned on to hand this case over to the Feds sooner or later.”
Vito frowned. “You won’t let that happen, right?”
“To the extent of my authority, no. But were I your boss, and I am, I’d be telling you to get back here and wrap this one up quick or you’ll be getting help you don’t want.”
“Fuck.” Vito drew a breath. “Does Sophie know about Lombard and Shafer?”
“I called and told her. She’s a smart woman, Vito. She said she wouldn’t go out alone and would call one of us to pick her up when she’s done for the day.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
“Are you okay?” Liz asked.
“No. Not really. But if she’s careful… we just have to catch this guy.”
“So do it. See you soon.”
Scowling, Vito hung up and stared up at the building that housed oRo. “Lombard and Clint Shafer. Luger, between the eyes.”
“Shit,” Nick muttered. “I guess that snips off those loose ends.”
Vito started to get out of the car. “Let’s go have another little talk with Van Zandt.”
But Nick stopped him. “First, you need to eat. Second, you need to calm down. If you spook him, we’ll lose him, and like I said before-I ain’t takin’ your whoopin’.”
“Fine.”
“Maybe I should do the talking this time,” Nick said.
Vito ripped the plastic wrap from his sandwich angrily. “Fine.”
New York City, Thursday, January 18, 3:05
P.M.
“Mr. Van Zandt isn’t here.”
Vito gaped at the prune-mouthed secretary. “What?”
Nick cleared his throat. “Mr. Van Zandt said he’d be available this afternoon.”
“He had an unexpected call from a client. He had to leave.”
“So… what time was this?” Nick asked.
“About noon.”
Nick nodded. “I see. Well then, could you provide us with a list of your employees?”
Vito was biting his tongue. He knew neither of them thought the envelope she handed them with such nasty satisfaction would have the information they wanted.
Nick pulled out a letter on oRo letterhead, its message short and sweet. “‘Get a warrant,’” Nick read. “Signed ‘Jager A. Van Zandt.’ Well, then, that’s what we’ll do.” He pulled a sheet of blank paper from her printer. “Could you write your name for me please? I want to be sure we spell it correctly on the warrant. Then sign it.”