And wouldn’t they like to get their hands on me?
That cop Ciccotelli was smarter than Simon had thought. And more ruthless. The cops had used Van Zandt as a pawn… to try to draw me out. Had it not been so close, Simon would have found that brazen ruthlessness an admirable quality.
It had been too close. But in the grand scheme, a mere skirmish. The cops only knew of Frasier Lewis. The only people who knew he wasn’t really dead, were dead.
Except the blackmailer whose amateurish tactics had drawn his parents to him. He needed to find that blackmailer and make that person pay, whoever he or she was. Then on to Susannah and Daniel. Miss and Mister Goody Two-Shoes.
That each of his siblings had two shoes was reason enough to hate them both. That they’d both become vanguards of justice made them dangerous foes.
It would soon become impossible to continue the charade that Arthur and Carol Vartanian were only on vacation, that they were indeed missing. Daniel and Susannah would never let it go. They’d dig until they found where their parents had gone. They were certainly smart enough to make the connections. And if they dug deep enough, they just might find that someone else lay under Simon’s tombstone.
Simon had often wondered who inhabited that plot, who his father had found to take his place, so to speak. He’d been tempted to check for himself when he’d gone back to Dutton for the first time in twelve years, to set up his parents’ little vacation and to fix their computer so that he would have ultimate access.
His father had come to him, but he’d have to go get Daniel and Susannah. He knew exactly where to find them. Daniel had a little house in Atlanta, while Susannah had an apartment in SoHo. Daniel was the “Law,” and little Susannah was the “Order.”
Artie should have been proud. But he hadn’t been. Because underneath that judge’s robe, Arthur Vartanian was as rotten as me. Daniel and Susannah would have to go. But first there was a little matter of payback. Because as he’d fled from the police like a common street criminal, it had registered that they’d recognized him-not as Frasier Lewis, but as the old man. And the only person who’d seen him as the old man and lived was… Dr. Sophie Johannsen. His eyes narrowed. Everywhere he turned, he ran into that woman’s interference.
Everything had been progressing according to plan until Sophie Johannsen began asking questions about black market artifacts. It had all unraveled from there. She knew far too much, and he wouldn’t rest until she was silenced.
He cocked his jaw. Besides, she had a great face, such expression. She should have been an actress or model herself. Soon, she would be.
That he would hurt that cop Ciccotelli in the process was… He smiled. Bonus points.
I might even earn an extra life. Simon chuckled. His internal balance restored, he got out of his vehicle and walked into the nursing home.
Saturday, January 20, 4:15
P.M.
Liz winced when Vito and Nick came into the bullpen. “Oh… guys.”
“Just some minor burns,” Vito said. “We were lucky. The only people hurt were Van Zandt’s lawyer, two pedestrians, and us. The pedestrians were treated and released.”
“The lawyer?” Liz asked.
“He’ll be okay,” Nick said. “He was twenty feet behind Van Zandt when he blew.”
Vito sat down at his desk. “We just got grazed by a few pieces of flying shrapnel.”
“I’ve got Bev and Tim and a half-dozen others beating the bushes,” Liz said, “but…”
Nick shook his head. “That sucker could run on that prosthetic leg, Liz. Surprised the hell outta me. Then Van Zandt blew. That surprised me a little more.”
“What the hell happened? You were supposed to be watching him.” ADA Maggy Lopez rushed in and stopped short when she saw them. “Good God.”
“Simon was waiting for Van Zandt.” Vito massaged the back of his neck. “He dropped a grenade in the pocket of Van Zandt’s overcoat. CSU’s got the fragments. We’re betting it matches the shrapnel we took from the kid we haven’t yet identified.”
Nick sank into his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Maggy.”
Lopez gave both of them a once-over. “Nothing to feel sorry about. Van Zandt probably would’ve gotten bail regardless of our plan. We didn’t have enough to get remand. Not with all the other factors. So now what?”
Nick looked at Vito. “Plan B? Stacy Savard.”
Vito scoffed. “Shit. We don’t even know where Savard is.”
Liz smiled. “Yes, we do. You were at the hospital when we brought her in.”
Vito straightened in his chair. “We have Stacy Savard? Here?”
“Yep. We found her parking her car at the airport. Apparently she was going to take whichever flight left the country first. When you’re up to it, she’s all yours.”
Vito smiled grimly. “Oh, we’re up to it. I can’t wait to talk to that cold bitch.”
Saturday, January 20, 4:50
P.M.
Taking out Van Zandt had been harder than he’d planned, but now that he knew his adversary, taking Johannsen would be easier. He’d planned for every contingency, from a uniformed police escort to the detectives who’d stuck to her like glue. He was ready.
Simon’s mouth curved. Soon a nurse would be changing Grandma’s IV. Bells would ring, alarms would clang. Sweet Sophie would get a frantic phone call. A frantic authentic phone call. One thing he’d always admired about Johannsen was her passion for authenticity. There was a certain… symmetry in Sophie’s fate.
Grandma was dying, so she’d come home. Because she was home, he’d met her. Because he’d met her, studied under her, he’d gained superior knowledge of the medieval world, and because of that knowledge, he’d created one hell of an authentic game. But because of the game and because of Johannsen’s involvement, the police were entirely too close. He’d always planned to eliminate her when the time was right, but the proximity of the police had forced him to play his hand sooner than he’d planned, and because of that… He checked his watch. It was time. Because of that, Grandma was dying. Authentically.
It was one big, beautiful circle. It was fate.
He straightened abruptly. There she was, coming into the lobby from the Great Hall, dressed in a suit of armor. He hoped she’d take it off before making what would certainly be a mad dash. She was a tall woman. It would take a great deal of strength to move her in regular clothes. The armor would be an unwelcome impediment, but he would deal with it if he must. He moved a little closer to the window. Soon there would be no glass between them to denigrate his entertainment experience. Soon, he’d have her in his possession, in his dungeon, where there were cameras and lights. The better to see you die, my dear.
Saturday, January 20, 5:00
P.M.
Stacy Savard sat at the interrogation table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared ahead sullenly until Vito and Nick came in, then looked at them with eyes dripping with pathetic despair. “What’s happened? Why have you brought me here?”
“Cut the drama, Stacy.” Vito took the chair next to hers. “We know what you’ve done. We have your laptop and Claire’s laptop. We know about Claire and Arthur Vartanian, and we found your fat little bank account.” He made his expression puzzled. “What I don’t get is how you could have betrayed Claire like that. You loved her.”
Stacy’s face was impassive for a long moment, then she shrugged. “I didn’t love Claire. Nobody loved Claire except her parents, and that’s only because they didn’t know who she really was. Claire was mean… and a good lay. That’s all.”