Die for Me (31 page)

Together they pulled the plastic apart and Vito had to swallow back bile. “Oh my God.” He dropped the plastic back down and turned his face away.

“Branded,” Nick said.

“And hanged,” Jen added. “Look at the ligature marks on his throat.”

Vito looked down. Jen still held her side of the plastic, exposing the left side of the victim’s body and face where the left cheek bore a brand of the letter T. Steeling himself, he pulled his side of the plastic back all the away, exposing the right side.

“His hand,” was all he could mutter.
Or the lack thereof.

“Oh, my . . . Oh . . .” Jen sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth.

“Shit.” Nick lurched to his feet. “What the fuck is with this guy?”

Vito pursed his lips and glanced down the length of the bag, knowing it would get worse. “Cut the lower bag away, Jen. All the way down to his feet.”

She did, and then she and Vito stood up, each holding a piece of the plastic in one hand. “He cut off his foot, too,” she said quietly.

“Right hand, left foot.” Vito carefully lowered the bag. “It means something.”

She nodded. “Just like E. Munch means something.”

Sonny Holloman, Jen’s photographer, came skidding down the slope. “Hell.”

“Yeah, we got that,” she said wearily. “Get him from all angles, Sonny.”

For a few minutes the only sound was the clicking of Sonny’s shutter.

Jen turned her gaze to the dead man’s face. “Vito, I know this guy. I know I do.”

Vito squinted, concentrating. “So do I. Shit. It’s right there, on the edge of my mind.”

Sonny lowered his camera. “Shit,” he repeated hollowly. “Sanders Sewer Service. It’s the Sanders kid. The oldest one, who stood at the end looking miserable.”

Jen’s eyes widened with the horrified realization she was looking at someone she knew. “You’re right.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Nick said but Jen shushed him.

“Let me think. Sid Sanders’s sewer service sucks septic systems—”

“Spankin’ spotless,” Vito and Sonny said together, grimly.

“What the
hell
are you
talking
about?” Nick demanded.

“You didn’t grow up around here,” Vito said, “so you wouldn’t know. This guy was in a commercial.”

Jen shook her head. “Not just any commercial. This was a . . .”

“Pop culture phenomenon,” Vito supplied. “Nick, didn’t you have a commercial that was so bad that everybody in your town knew it, remembered it?”

“Made fun of it?” Sonny added.

“Yeah. We had Crazy Phil who sold cars like a hillbilly auctioneer on crack.” Nick frowned. “Turns out he
was
on crack. So this guy is your Crazy Phil?”

“No, this guy had the bad fortune to be Crazy Phil’s son,” Vito said. “Sanders had a septic cleaning service and wanted to advertise, but was too cheap to hire models.”

“So he lined up all six of his sons.” Jen sighed. “They had to say the slogan and pretend to be happy about it. I always felt sorry for them. Especially the oldest one. He was a really cute guy and could’ve had any girl he wanted except for that stupid commercial . . . wait. This guy isn’t old enough to be the oldest Sanders kid. The oldest one’s our age. He’s got to be one of the younger kids.”

“Well, they all did look alike,” Sonny said. “Like the Osmonds.” He looked down, pity etched into his face. “Six Sanders sons. Sid really went in for the alliteration.”

“Did you actually know these kids?” Nick asked and Jen shook her head.

“Hell, no. A lot of people on the outskirts had septic systems. Sid Sanders made a lot of money. They lived in the pricey district, and the boys went to prep schools and everything. The Sanders slogan became this huge deal and people were seeing how fast they could say it. Young, old, in restaurants and the grocery store . . .”

“Especially at keg parties,” Sonny said, then shrugged. “Hey, I got an older brother who was in a fraternity at the time. I just listened to the war stories afterward.”

“I wonder if our guy knew this was one of the Sanders kids,” Nick said thoughtfully. “I mean, would he have killed him and left him out here if he thought he’d be so easily recognized? It took the three of you less than ten minutes to ID him.”

Jen’s eyes gleamed. “So E. Munch may be an out-of-towner.”

Vito sighed. “At least we know where to go to notify this guy’s folks.”

Nick met his eyes. “What about the brand? And the hand and foot?”

Vito nodded. Sophie would know what it meant. “I know where to go for that, too.”

Wednesday, January 17, 2:30
P.M.

Sid Sanders sat holding his wife’s hand. “You’re sure?” Sid asked hoarsely.

“We’ll need you to make a formal ID, but we’re pretty sure,” Vito murmured.

“We know this is difficult,” Nick added quietly, “but we need to see his computer.”

Sid shook his head. “It’s not here.”

His wife lifted her face. “He probably hocked his computer a long time ago.”

Her voice was bleak, but underneath Vito also heard guilt. “Why?” Purposely he looked around the lavish living room. “Did he need money?”

Sid’s jaw tightened. “We’d cut him off. Gregory was an addict. Booze, drugs, gambling. We helped him as long as we could, got him out of more scrapes than we should’ve. Finally we had to cut him loose. It was the worst day of our lives. Until today.”

“So where was he living?” Nick asked.

“He had a girlfriend,” Mrs. Sanders murmured. “She threw him out too, but called me a month ago to say she’d taken him in until he could dry himself out. She didn’t want us to worry.”

Vito noted her name on his pad. “So you liked his girlfriend?”

Mrs. Sanders’s eyes filled. “We still do. Jill would have made a good daughter-in-law, and even though we were sad when she broke it off, we knew it was the best thing for her. Gregory was pulling her down.”

“We gave that boy everything, but he always wanted more.” Sid closed his eyes. “Now he’s got nothing.”

Wednesday, January 17, 3:25
P.M.

Nick stood in the middle of Jill Ellis’s living room, taking in the destruction. “Looks like a hurricane tore through here.”

Vito slipped his phone into his pocket. “Jen’s sending a CSU team.” He looked at the landlord, who’d let them in with his master key. “Have you seen Miss Ellis recently?”

“Not since last week. She kept this place neat as a pin. This ain’t good, Detective.”

“Can you get us her rental app?” Nick asked. “Maybe there’s a number we can call.”

“Sure. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” He stopped at the door, his eyes angry. “It was that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers. Richie Rich.”

Vito met the man’s eye. “You mean Gregory Sanders?”

The landlord scoffed. “Yeah. Spoiled rich kid. Jill worked hard, and once she even tossed him out on his ass. But he came back, begging her for another chance. I told her to slam the door in his face, but she said she felt sorry for him.”

“You say ‘worked.’ Do you think she’s come to harm?” Vito asked.

The man hesitated. “Don’t you?”

Vito studied his face. “What do you know, sir?”

“I saw some guys leaving here yesterday, about three. I was outside putting kitty litter on the sidewalk. Didn’t want anyone slipping on the ice and suing me.”

“So these guys?” Nick prodded gently and the landlord sighed.

“There were two of them. They got into a car that was all pimped up—neon, hydraulic shocks. I started to go up, to check on Jill, but I got a call from Mrs. Coburn in 6-B. She’s old and she’d fallen down, hurt her hip. By the time I got home from getting her to the emergency room, it was late.” He looked away. “I forgot about Jill.”

“You sound like you take pretty good care of your tenants,” Vito said kindly.

The landlord eyes were full of guilt. “Not as well as I should have. I’ll get that app.”

When the landlord was gone, Nick sat down at Jill Ellis’s computer. “This day just keeps gettin’ better.” He clicked the mouse. “Wiped clean as a baby’s butt.”

“I didn’t expect anything else. Looks like she got a phone call yesterday afternoon. Her answering machine’s blinking.” Vito hit play. Then frowned. “Come here, Nick.”

Nick was halfway back to the woman’s bedroom, but came back. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Vito rewound, then hit play again, turning up the volume to full. “It’s a man talking, but it’s muffled.”

“That sounded like a moan.” Nick rewound, this time putting his ear to the speaker before hitting play. “Sounds like he’s saying, ‘Terrible, terrible things.’”

“Like what?”

Nick looked up. “That’s what he’s saying.” He put his ear back to the speaker. “There’s the moan . . .
Scream all you want. No one can hear you. No one will save you. I’ve killed them all.
” Grim, Nick straightened, just as the voice grew loud enough to be heard on its own. They stared at the machine. Then they heard him.

The voice was sneering but refined. And decidedly southern.

“
They all thought they suffered, but their suffering was nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.
”

There was silence, followed by a slurred voice. The words were hard to understand, but the tone was not. The second man was frantic. Terrified. “
No, please no. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything. Just . . . Oh, God. No.
” There was another moan, then a laugh followed by a dragging sound, and the southern voice became muffled.

Once again Nick put his ear to the speaker. “
Let’s take a ride, Mr. Sanders. I call it my time machine. Now you’ll see what happens to thieves.
”

Nick looked up, his face as stunned as Vito felt. “Meet E. Munch.”

Wednesday, January 17, 3:00
P.M.

Daniel Vartanian had stopped for a Philly cheesesteak for lunch. It would probably be the high point of his day, because he’d had no success in his search. The locals, he’d learned, took their cheesesteak with Cheez Whiz. The food was delicious and steaming hot, which was good because he was starving and freezing cold.

He didn’t think he’d ever been so cold. He didn’t know how Susannah had adapted to winters in the North, but he knew she had. They hadn’t talked in years, but he’d followed her career. She was an up-and-comer in the New York DA’s office. His smile was grim. Together they were Law and Order. It didn’t take a shrink to figure out why.

I know what your son did.
Daniel had dedicated his life to making up for what Arthur Vartanian’s son had done and for what Arthur had not. Susannah had done the same. His mother had been caught in the middle, but she’d made her choices. Wrong ones.

His cell phone rang. It was Chase Wharton. His boss would want an update. He’d be honest. Mostly. “Hey, Chase.”

“Hey. Did you find them?”

“Nope, and Philadelphia has a hell of a lot of hotels.”

“Philadelphia? I thought you were going to the Grand Canyon.”

“My dad’s PC showed he’d searched for oncologists in Philadelphia. I figured they’d come up here to start their vacation.”

“Your sister is only a few hours away,” Chase said quietly.

“I know.” And he knew what Chase was intimating. “And, yes, they’d be two hours away and not drop in on either of us. Like you said, I have a fucked-up family.”

“But no sign of foul play?”

I know what your son did.
“No, Chase, I’ve found no evidence of foul play. If and when I do, I’ll blast my way to the local cops faster’n you can say Cheez Whiz.”

“All right. Be careful, Daniel.”

“I will.” Daniel hung up, sick with himself, sick with this whole situation. Quite possibly he was sick with his whole life. He wrapped his sandwich and tossed it in the paper sack. He’d lost his appetite. He’d never lied to Chase. Never lied to any of his bosses.
I know what your son did.
He’d just never told the whole truth.

And if he found his folks . . . alive . . . well, then, he wouldn’t have to start. He started his car and headed to the next hotel.

New York City, Wednesday, January 17, 3:30
P.M.

Derek Harrington stopped at the steps to his walk-up apartment, miserable. He’d had a life. A career he loved, a wife he adored, a daughter who looked at him with pride in her eyes. Now he couldn’t even look himself in the eye. Today he’d sunk to a new low. He’d walked past the police station five times but hadn’t gone in. According to his contract, Derek would get a settlement should he ever choose to quit. That settlement would pay his daughter’s college tuition. His silence would ensure his daughter’s future.

Lloyd Webber’s son would never have a future. He knew the boy was dead, just as he knew he’d have to tell the police his suspicions about Frasier Lewis. But the power of gold was strong and had him firmly in its grip.
The power of gold.
He started up the stairs. oRo. He and Jager had named their company well. He had his key in the door when he flinched at the sharp jab to his kidney.
A gun.
Jager or Frasier Lewis? Derek didn’t think he wanted to know.