Vito felt a strange reluctance to hand it over. “We’re depending on your discretion.”
Pfeiffer just nodded. “I understand the rules of the game, Detective.”
Vito sensed Nick stiffen next to him and knew his instinct was shared. Nevertheless, he had to get the records, so he handed the court order over the desk.
Pfeiffer stared at the names on the court order for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
When he was gone, Nick folded his arms over his chest. “Rules of the game?”
“I know,” Vito said. “When we get back, let’s check him out.”
A minute later Pfeiffer was back. “Here is Mr. Lewis’s file. We took a picture of each patient for the study. I included the photo, as well.”
Vito took the file and flipped it opened and found himself looking at yet a different view of Simon Vartanian. It was a candid photo, taken as Simon sat in Pfeiffer’s waiting room. His jaw was softer, his nose less sharp than in the picture Tino had drawn of Frasier Lewis. He passed the file to Nick.
“You didn’t seem surprised, Doctor,” Vito commented blandly.
“You know how somebody shoots up his family and all the neighbors say, ‘He was so nice. We’re so shocked.’ Well, Frasier wasn’t nice. He had a coldness that made me nervous. Kind of like I’d walked into a cage with a cobra. And that hair is a wig.”
Vito blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. I came back after an exam and his wig had gone askew. I closed the door, then knocked and waited for him to tell me to come in. He’d fixed the wig by then.”
“What color was his hair underneath?” Nick asked.
“He’d shaved his head bald. In fact, Frasier Lewis had no body hair at all.”
“You didn’t think that was odd?” Vito asked.
“Not especially. Frasier was an athlete. Lots of athletes wax their body hair.”
Nick closed the file. “Thank you, Dr. Pfeiffer. We’ll see ourselves out.”
They were in Nick’s car when Vito’s cell began to ring. It was Liz.
“Get back here,” Liz said, excited. “Christmas just came all over again.”
Friday, January 19, 1:35
P.M.
They’d found Van Zandt through an “anonymous” tip. Vito and Nick took some time to get their evidence ducks in a row with Jen before meeting Liz in the interrogation room. They found her studying Van Zandt through the one-way glass.
Vito’s smile had claws as he looked at Van Zandt through the glass. Van Zandt looked annoyed but crisp in his three-piece suit. His attorney was a thin man, who looked just as annoyed, but not nearly as crisp. “I’m looking forward to this.”
One side of Liz’s mouth lifted. “Me, too. The tip was called in to 911 from an untraceable cell. The caller told us we could find Van Zandt at his hotel, gave us the room number, then called back when we’d brought him in, this time to my private line.”
“He was watching to be sure we picked him up,” Nick said. “Simon’s still in Philly.”
“Yep. He sounded just like the voice on the tape. Gave me a damn shiver.”
“What did you say to him?” Vito asked.
“I asked him who he was and he just laughed. Van Zandt’s car was missing from the hotel parking lot when they picked him up. Van Zandt claimed it wasn’t where he’d parked when he went to leave this morning.” She held out a piece of paper. “When Simon called me, he told us where to find Van Zandt’s car, then suggested we look in the trunk and asked me to pass on that message to ‘VZ.’” She punctuated the air. “Normally I wouldn’t play messenger for a killer, but under the circumstances…”
Vito already knew what Jen’s CSU team had found in Van Zandt’s trunk, and he and Nick had come heavily armed, so to speak. Vito took the paper Liz offered and laughed grimly. “Van Zandt didn’t know who he was dealing with.”
“Neither does Simon Vartanian,” Liz said, just as grimly. “Get in there and let that arrogant bastard know he’s fucked.”
Van Zandt looked up when Vito and Nick entered the interrogation room. His eyes were cold, his mouth a thin line. He stayed seated and said nothing.
His attorney came to his feet. “I’m Doug Musgrove. You have nothing with which to hold my client. Let him go or I’m filing formal charges against the Philadelphia PD.”
“You do that,” Vito said. “Jager, if this suit is your contracts attorney, you might want to get out the old phone book and hire a criminal defense attorney.”
Van Zandt just glared.
Musgrove bristled. “Arrest him, or let him go,” he said, and Vito shrugged.
“Okay. Jager Van Zandt, you’re under arrest for the murder of Derek Harrington.”
Van Zandt surged to his feet, unholy rage on face. “What?” He looked at his attorney. “What the fuck is this?”
“Oh, let me finish,” Vito said. “It’s not official if I don’t finish.” He quoted the rest of Miranda, then sat down and stretched out his legs. “I’m done. Your turn to play.”
“I did not kill anybody,” Van Zandt gritted. “Musgrote, get me out of here.”
Musgrote sat down. “They’ve arrested you, Jager. We’ll get you out on bail.”
Jager sneered. “I didn’t kill Derek. You have nothing.”
“We have your car,” Nick said and Van Zandt blinked.
“It was stolen,” he said stiffly. “That was why I was still at my hotel.”
Vito scratched his chin. “Uh-huh. Did you report it stolen?”
“No.”
“Three-month-old Porsche. I’d have reported it the second it was stolen.”
“Well, you know what they say about rich boys and their toys,” Nick drawled.
Van Zandt pounded the table. “I did not kill Derek. I don’t even know where he is.”
“That’s okay. We do,” Vito said. “He’s in the trunk of your Porsche. At least he was. Now he’s in the morgue.”
Van Zandt’s eyes flickered. “He’s dead? He’s really dead?”
“A bullet from a 1943 German Luger between the eyes tends to have that effect.” Nick’s voice was harsh. “The same gun we found hidden with your tire-changing kit. The same gun that killed Zachary Webber.”
“Oh,” Vito added, “and Kyle Lombard and Clint Shafer. Mustn’t forget about them.”
They had the pleasure of seeing Van Zandt pale. “The gun was planted,” he hissed furiously. “And I’ve never even heard of those other two men.”
“Jager, be quiet,” Musgrove said.
Van Zandt shot him a contemptuous glare. “Go get me a criminal attorney. I did not kill Derek or anyone else. I didn’t even know Derek was missing.”
“Of course you could tell the jury you shot him to put him out of his misery,” Nick said, stone-faced. “He’d suffered enough, what with having his feet burned and his intestines ripped out.”
Van Zandt stiffened. “What?”
“And his hands broken and his tongue cut out.” Nick sat down. “Then again, I can’t imagine any jury seeing you as merciful, Mr. Van Zandt.”
Van Zandt’s swallow was the only indication he was affected by the torture of the man he’d once called his friend. “I didn’t do any of those things.”
“The gun was with these,” Vito said. He laid a picture on the table and had the further pleasure of seeing Van Zandt flinch. “That’s Derek Harrington’s car and your chief of security peeking in the window. And that’s your reflection in the window. You were standing behind him.” Vito leaned back in his chair. “You knew Derek was missing yesterday when you gave us his home address.”
“I did not.” Van Zandt spat the words from behind tightly clenched teeth.
“Derek confronted you with pictures of Zachary Webber,” Nick continued, “the boy in your game who got shot with a German Luger. You had Derek followed. Then you took him and you killed him and you stuck him in your trunk and left it at a rest stop.”