Sunday, January 14, 2:00
P.M.
He sat back in his chair and nodded at his computer screen, his lips curving in a satisfied smile. It was good. Very, very good. If I do say so myself. Which he did.
He raised his eyes to the still photos he’d taken from the video of Warren Keyes. He’d chosen his quarry well-height, weight, musculature. The young man’s tattoo had been Fate sealing the deal. Warren was meant to be his victim. He’d suffered brilliantly. The camera had captured the exquisite agony on his face. But his screams…
He clicked on an audio file and a chilling scream blasted from the speakers with crystal clarity, sending a shiver of pleasure racing down his back. Warren’s screams had been perfect. Perfect pitch, perfect intensity. Perfect inspiration.
His eyes moved to the canvases he’d hung next to the stills. This series of paintings might be his best work yet. He’d titled the series Warren Dies. It was done in oil, of course. He’d found oil the best medium for capturing the intensity of expression, the victim’s mouth stretching open on one of those perfect screams of excruciating pain.
And the eyes. He’d learned there were stages to death by torture. All were most clearly seen through the victim’s eyes. The first stage was fear, followed by defiance, then despair as the victim realized there was truly no escape. The fourth stage, hope, depended entirely on the victim’s tolerance for pain. If the victim persisted through the first wave, he might give them respite, just long enough to allow hope to surface. Warren Keyes had had a remarkable tolerance for pain.
Then, when all hope was gone, there was the fifth stage-the plea, the pitiful appeal for death, for release. Toward the end, there was stage six, the final surge of defiance, a primitive fight for survival that predated modern man.
But the seventh stage was the best and most elusive-the instant of death itself. The burst… the flash of energy as the corporeal yielded its essence. It was a moment so brief that even the camera lens was incapable of complete capture, so fleeting that the human eye would miss it if one weren’t expressly watching. He had been watching.
And he’d been rewarded. His eyes lingered on the seventh painting. Although last in the series, he’d painted it first, rushing to his easel while Warren’s released energy still vibrated along every nerve and Warren’s final, perfect scream still rang in his ears.
He saw it there, in Warren’s eyes. That indefinable something he alone had found in the instant of death. He’d first achieved it with Claire Dies more than a year ago. Had it really been that long? Time did fly when you were having fun. And he was finally having fun. He’d been chasing that indefinable something his entire life. He’d found it now.
Genius. That’s what Jager Van Zandt called it. He’d first gained the entertainment mogul’s attention with Claire, and although he personally considered his Zachary and Jared series to be superior, Claire remained VZ’s favorite.
Of course, Van Zandt had never seen his paintings, only his computer animations in which he’d transformed Claire into “Clothilde,” a World War II Vichy French whore strangled to death by a soldier who’d been betrayed by her treachery. A crowd pleaser wherever the clip was shown, Clothilde had become the star of Behind Enemy Lines, Van Zandt’s latest “entertainment venture.”
Most people called them video games. Van Zandt liked to think he was building an entertainment empire. Before Behind Enemy Lines, VZ’s empire existed only in the man’s dreams. But VZ’s dreams had come true-Behind Enemy Lines had flown off the shelves-a runaway success thanks to Clothilde and the rest of his animations. My art.
Van Zandt understood that as well and had chosen Clothilde, caught in her moment of death, to adorn the Behind Enemy Lines box. It always gave him a rush to see it, to know that the hands gripping “Clothilde’s” throat were his own.
VZ clearly recognized his genius, but he wasn’t sure the man could handle the reality of his art. So he’d go on letting VZ believe what he wanted to-that Clothilde was a fictional character and that his own name was Frasier Lewis. In the end both he and Van Zandt would get what they wanted. VZ would get a best-selling “entertainment venture” and make his millions. And millions will see my art.
Which was the ultimate goal. He had a gift. VZ’s video game was merely the most efficient way to showcase that gift to the most people in the shortest time. Once he was established he wouldn’t need the animations. His paintings would be in demand on their own. But for now, he needed Van Zandt and Van Zandt needed him.
VZ was going to be very pleased with his latest work. He clicked his mouse and once again watched his animation of Warren Keyes. It was perfect. Every muscle and sinew rippled as the man struggled against his bonds, arching and writhing in pain as his bones were slowly pulled from their sockets. The blood looked good, too. Not too red. Very authentic. Careful study of the video had enabled him to duplicate every aspect of Warren’s body, down to the simplest twitch.
He’d done an especially skillful job with Warren’s face, capturing the fear and the defiance as Warren resisted the demands of his captor. Which would be me. The Inquisitor. He’d depicted himself as the old man who’d lured Warren to his dungeon.
Speaking of such, now that Warren Dies was complete it was time to lure his next victim. He opened UCanModel, the delightful little website with which he’d had such success in locating the perfect faces for his work. For a modest fee, actors and models could post their portfolios on UCanModel so that any Hollywood director had only to click on their picture to launch them to instant stardom.
Actors and models made the perfect subjects. They had beauty, the ability to emote, and their faces translated well to film and canvas. They also were so eager for fame and so poor that they’d take just about any job. Luring them with a part in a documentary had worked every time and allowed him to purport himself as the nonthreatening old history professor named Ed Munch. He was getting tired of being Edvard Munch, though. Maybe he’d be Hieronymus Bosch next time. Now, there was artistic genius.
He perused the lineup his current search had produced. He’d identified fifteen prospects, but he’d already eliminated all but five. The others weren’t nearly poor enough to be easily hooked. Of the five, only three were truly destitute. His financial checks had shown them all to be in or on the verge of bankruptcy.
He’d shadowed these three prospects for a week and found only one to be solitary and secretive enough not to be missed afterward. That was an important component. His victims must not have anyone to look for them. They were runaways like pretty Brittany with her folded hands. Or, like Warren and Billy before him, they had to be so secretive that no one would know they’d been contacted.
Of all the current candidates, Gregory Sanders was the perfect choice. Rejected and cast out by his family, Sanders was alone. This he’d found the night before when he’d followed Sanders to his favorite bar. Disguised as an out-of-town businessman, he’d bought Sanders a few drinks and waited until the man blubbered his sad tale. Sanders had no one. So he was perfect.
Clicking Gregory’s contact button, he zipped off his standard e-mail, confident in the steps he’d taken to mask his own identity, both physical and electronic. By tomorrow, Greg would accept his offer. By Tuesday, he’d have a new victim. And a new scream.
He pushed away from his desk and stiffly came to his feet, rubbing his right thigh. Damn these Philly winters. The pain was bad today. Apart from the sheer thrill, his art accomplished another important benefit-while he painted, he could forget about the phantom pains for which there was no treatment. No cure. No goddamn relief.
He’d reached the door of his studio when he remembered. Tuesday. The old man’s bills were due on Tuesday. Paying them was a necessity. As long as the mortgage and utilities were paid on time, no one would wonder where the old man and his wife had gone. No one would look for them, which was the way he wanted it. He walked back to his computer. He’d be busy with his new victim on Tuesday, so he’d pay the bills now.
Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 2:15
P.M.
“I appreciate you coming so quick, Daniel.” Sheriff Frank Loomis threw a glance over his shoulder before turning to unlock the front door. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
Daniel Vartanian knew the observation was fair. “He’s still my father, Frank.”
“Uh-huh.” Frank frowned when the lock didn’t budge. “I was sure that was the one. I’ve had this key since the last time your folks took a long vacation.”
Daniel watched Frank try five different keys, the feeling of apprehension in his gut swelling to dark dread. “I’ve got a key.”
Frank stepped back with a glare. “Then why the hell didn’t you say so, boy?”
Daniel lifted a brow. “Wouldn’t want to go steppin’ on toes,” he said sarcastically. “‘Jurisdictions bein’ what they are.’” The words had been Frank’s own, uttered just last night when he’d called to say Daniel’s parents might be missing.
“Pull that GBI stick outta your ass, Special Agent Vartanian, or I will, and then I’ll whip you with it.” The threat was not an idle one. Frank had tanned Daniel’s hide more than once for one prank or another. But it was because Frank cared, which was more than he could say for his father. Judge Arthur Vartanian had been too busy to care.
“Don’t knock those GBI sticks,” Daniel said mildly, though his heart had begun to pound. “They’re the latest technology, like all our toys. Even you might be impressed.”
“Damn bureaucrats,” Frank muttered. “Offer ‘technology’ and ‘expertise,’ but only if they run the show. Give ’em an inch and pretty soon they’ve descended like locusts.”
That, too, was a fair observation, although Daniel doubted his superiors at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation would see it as such. He’d found the key, but now had to focus on steadying his trembling hand. “I’m one of those locusts, Frank,” he said.
Frank huffed, irritated. “Dammit, Daniel, you know what I meant. Art and Carol are your parents. I called you, not the GBI. I don’t want my county overrun by bureaucrats.”
Daniel’s key didn’t fit the lock either. But it had been a long time, so that in and of itself was not a cause for alarm. “When was the last time you saw them?”
“November. About two weeks before Thanksgivin’. Your mama was headed in to Angie’s and your daddy was down at the courthouse.”
“Then it was a Wednesday,” Daniel said and Frank nodded. Angie’s was the town’s beauty shop where his mother had kept a standing Wednesday appointment since before he was born. “But why was Dad at the courthouse?”
“Retirement was hard on your father. He missed the work. The people.”
Arthur Vartanian missed the power of being the circuit court judge in a little Georgia town, Daniel thought, but kept it to himself. “You said my mother’s doctor called you.”
“Yes. That’s when I realized how long it had been since I’d seen either of them.” Frank sighed. “I’m sorry, son. I assumed she’d at least told you and Susannah.”
That his mother had kept such a thing from her own children had been hard to accept. Breast cancer. She’d had surgery and chemo and had never said a word.
“Yeah, well, things haven’t been so good between any of us for a while.”
“Your mama missed several appointments, so the nurse got worried and called me. I checked around and found your mother told Angie she and your father were going to visit your grandma in Memphis the day she canceled her December hair appointments.”
“But they didn’t go to Memphis.”
“No. Your grandma said that your mother told her that they were spending the holidays with your sister, but when I called Susannah she said she hadn’t heard from your parents in more than a year. That’s when I called you.”
“That’s just too many lies, Frank,” Daniel said. “We’re going in.” He shattered the small windowpane to the side of the door with his elbow, reached in and unlocked the door. The house was quiet as a tomb and smelled musty.
Stepping over the threshold was like stepping back in time. In his mind Daniel saw his father standing at the foot of the stairs, his knuckles battered and bloody. Mama stood at his father’s side, tears running down her face. Susannah stood alone, a desperate plea on her face for him to abandon the confrontation that she didn’t understand. It would be easier on Susannah if she never knew, so he’d never told her.
He’d walked away, planning never to return. The best-laid plans… “You take the upstairs, Frank. I’ll take this level and the basement.”
Daniel’s first look confirmed his parents had gone on a trip. The water was off and every appliance unplugged. His mother had a fear of fire by toaster oven, he recalled.
He cleared the first floor and heart pounding, descended into the basement, visions of bodies he’d found throughout his years as a cop bombarding his mind. But there was no smell of death and the basement was as orderly as it had always been. He climbed the stairs to find Frank waiting in the hall by the front door.
“They took lots of clothes,” Frank said. “Their suitcases are gone.”
“This doesn’t make a lick of sense.” Daniel walked into each room again, pausing in his father’s office. “He was a judge for twenty years, Frank. He made enemies.”
“I considered that. I asked Wanda to pull records of his old cases.”
Surprised and comforted, Daniel gave Frank a weary smile. “Thanks.”
Frank shrugged. “Wanda will be thankful for the overtime. Come on, Daniel. Let’s go back to town, get something to eat and figure out what to do next.”
“In a minute. Let me check his desk.” He pulled on the drawer, surprised when it slid right open. Staring up at him was a brochure for the Grand Canyon and his throat tightened. His mother had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, but his father was always too busy and they never went. It looked like he’d finally made the time to go.
Suddenly the reality of his mother’s cancer hit him square in the face, becoming more than a secret she’d withheld. My mother’s going to die. He cleared his throat harshly. “Look, Frank.” He moved the brochures to the blotter, fanning them out.
“Grand Canyon, Lake Tahoe, Mount Rushmore.” Frank sighed. “I guess your daddy finally took her on that trip he’d been promising all these years.”
“But why not just say that’s where they were going? Why all the lies?”
Frank squeezed his shoulder. “I guess your mama doesn’t want anyone to know she’s sick. For Carol, it’s a pride thing. Let her have her dignity. Let’s go get supper.”
His heart heavy, Daniel started to rise but a noise stopped him. “What was that?”
“What?” Frank asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Daniel listened and heard it again. A high whirring sound. “His computer is running.”
“That’s impossible. It’s turned off.”
The monitor was dark. But Daniel laid his hand on the computer and his breath caught. “It’s warm and it’s running. Somebody is using this computer, right now.” He hit the button on the monitor and together they watched an online banking screen appear. The cursor moved with ghostly precision, untouched by either of them.
“Shit, it’s like watching a Ouija board,” Frank murmured.
“It’s Dad’s online bill pay system. Someone just paid Dad’s mortgage.”
“Your daddy?” Frank asked, confusion obvious in his voice.
“I don’t know.” Daniel’s jaw hardened. “But you can be damn sure I’ll find out.”
Philadelphia, Sunday, January 14, 2:15
P.M.
Vito stared at the “funky ape sculpture” with increasing annoyance. He’d been waiting for more than half an hour but there was no sign of Katherine’s friend. He was frustrated and cold, having rolled down his window for fresh air. The smell of Jane Doe was in his hair and his sinuses and he couldn’t stand himself.
He’d called Katherine a half dozen times with no success. He couldn’t have missed her. He’d been early and the only person he’d seen was a college girl sitting on a bench at the bus stop about fifteen feet behind his truck.
The girl looked about twenty and had long, long blond hair that had to touch her butt when she stood up. A red bandana covered the top of her head and two thin braids hung from her temples, but the rest of her hair fell loose, covering her like a cape. Enormous gold hoops swung from her ears and her face was half-covered by the round frames of her purple sunglasses. And to top it all off, she wore an old army surplus camouflage jacket that looked about four sizes too big.
College kids, he thought, shaking his head. She looked up the street, then down before drawing her knees up under her coat, propping her thick-soled army boots on the bench. She must be freezing. God knew he was and he had the truck’s heater going.
Finally his cell rang. “Dammit, Katherine, where have you been?”
“In the morgue, getting your Jane Doe settled for the night. What do you need?”
“Your friend’s cell number.” He looked up at the knock on the passenger window. It was the college girl. “Hold on, Katherine.” He rolled the far window down. “Yes?”
The girl’s full lips were quivering. “Um… I’m waiting for someone and I think it might be you.”
She was even prettier up close, and asking for trouble approaching men like that. “Hell of a pickup line, but I’m not interested. Go practice on somebody your own age.”
“Wait!” she shouted, but he rolled the window back up.
“Who was that?” Katherine asked, amusement in her voice.
Vito was not amused. “College kid trying for an older guy. Your friend isn’t here.”
“If she said she’d be there, she’s there, Vito. Sophie’s very reliable.”
“And I’m telling you-Goddammit.” It was the girl again, at his window now. “Look here,” he said to the girl, “I said I’m not interested. That means go away.” He started to raise the window, but she slammed her palms on the edge of the glass, curling her fingers into claws as she fought the window’s ascent. The gloves she wore were thin knit and every finger was a different color of the rainbow, clashing with the camouflage.
Vito was reaching for his badge when the girl took off her sunglasses. She rolled eyes that were bright green. “Do you know Katherine?” she demanded and it was then he realized she was no girl. She was at least thirty, maybe a few years older.
He gritted his teeth. “Katherine,” he said slowly. “What does your friend look like?”
“Like the woman standing at your window,” Katherine said, chuckling. “Long hair, blond, thirtyish. Eclectic fashion sense. Sorry, Vito.”
He bit back his smartass retort. “I was looking for someone your age. You said you’d known her for twenty-five years.”
“Twenty-eight, actually. Since I was in kindergarten,” the woman said brusquely and stuck out her multicolored hand. “Sophie Johannsen. Hello, Katherine,” she called into the phone. “You should have given us cell phone numbers,” she added in a tone that was singsong on top, but underneath was taut with impatience.
Katherine sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go, Vito. I have company coming for dinner and I still have to check on Sophie’s grandmother on my way home.”
Vito closed his phone and met the woman’s narrowed green eyes, feeling like a total and complete idiot. “I’m sorry. I thought you were twenty.”
One side of her full mouth lifted in a wry smile and he was struck with the certainty that he’d been wrong yet again. She wasn’t simply pretty up close. She was absolutely beautiful. Vito found his fingers itching to touch her lips. A woman could do amazing things with that mouth. Abruptly he clenched his jaw, both annoyed and shocked at the vividness of the images stampeding through his mind. Rein it in, Chick. Now.
“I guess I’m flattered. It’s been a long time since somebody mistook me for a college coed.” She pointed an electric blue finger at the building. “The equipment we need is just inside. There’s too much for one trip and I didn’t want to leave it on the curb while I went back for the rest of it. It’s pretty expensive. Can you give me a hand?”
Controlling his thoughts with considerable difficulty, he followed her to the building. “We appreciate your help, Dr. Johannsen,” he said as she unlocked the door.
“It’s my pleasure. Katherine’s been there for me more times than I can count. And please, call me Sophie. Nobody calls me Dr. Johannsen. Even my students call me Dr. J-but I think that’s more of a basketball reference, because I’m tall.”
She offered the last line with a self-deprecating smile and Vito couldn’t take his eyes off her face. Devoid of a speck of makeup, she had a natural, wholesome glow despite the hippie earrings and army surplus clothes and rainbow fingers. He was hit with a rush of yearning so keen it nearly stole his breath. Before… that had been lust. This was something different. He searched for a word, but only one came to mind. Home. Looking at her face was like coming home.
Her cheeks grew pink and Vito realized he’d been staring. For three beats of his heart she stared back, then abruptly turned to tug hard on the heavy door, taking a stumbling step back against him when it flew open. His hands gripped her shoulders to hold her upright, bringing her against him. Let her go. But his hands did not obey. Instead they held on and for one moment she seemed to relax, resting against him.
Then she leaped forward as if stung, lunging to catch the door before it closed again, breaking the contact and ending the moment.
He’d held her for only a few seconds, but it was like touching a live wire, and he took a step back, physically and mentally. Shaken and not liking it, he drew a breath. It’s just because it’s today, he told himself. Get a grip, Chick, before you make a fool of yourself. But he blinked in surprise as the next words tumbled from his mouth.
“Call me Vito.” He usually preferred being called “Detective” when he was working. It kept things nice and separate. But it was too late now.
“Okay.” The single word came out on an exhale, as if she’d been holding her breath. “Here are the things we need to take.”
Four suitcases sat by the door and Vito picked up the two largest. She got the other two and pulled the door closed. “I’ll need to get these back to the university tonight,” she said briskly. “One of the professors has the GPR signed out for a field trip tomorrow.”
It seemed she’d shrugged the moment away and Vito decided to do the same, but his eyes had a mind of their own. He couldn’t stop looking at her face, searching her profile as they walked to his truck. Her lips were still quivering from the cold and he felt a pang of guilt. “Why didn’t you just come up to me earlier?” he asked.
“You said to be discreet,” she said, looking straight ahead. “I wasn’t sure you were Katherine’s cop and you weren’t in a police car. I kept thinking that if you weren’t the right one, you might not appreciate me blabbing your name. Katherine didn’t tell me what you looked like and she didn’t give me the secret handshake. So I waited.”
While she froze, he thought, remembering the way she’d drawn her body up under the coat for warmth. He put the two large suitcases in the bed of his truck and secured them. When he reached for the smaller cases she held, she shook her head. “These are delicate. Given a choice, I’d ride in the bed and buckle these in my seat.”
“I think I can find room for you both.” He stowed the cases in the back floorboard, then opened her door. “After you…” His mind derailed when she moved past him. She smelled like the roses he’d thrown behind his seat in the truck, fragrant and sweet.
He stood motionless, just breathing in her scent. She looked nothing like his Andrea, who’d been dark and petite. Sophie Johannsen was an Amazon, tall, blond, and… alive. She’s alive, Chick. And today, that’s just enough to get you into trouble. By tomorrow, he’d be blessedly numb once more.
“Sophie,” she said warily. “I’m Sophie.”
“I’m sorry.” Focus, Chick. One unidentified body, perhaps more. That was what should be occupying his thoughts, not Sophie Johannsen’s perfume. He gestured to the front seat, determined to pull their interaction back to the professional level. “Please.”
“Thanks.” She climbed in and he heard the clinking of metal coming from her coat.
“What do you have in your pockets?”
“Oh, all kinds of things. This is my field jacket.” From one of the pockets she pulled a handful of garden stakes. “Markers for what we find.”
I sure as hell hope you brought enough, he thought, remembering the red flags Nick would be removing before they got back. They wanted a clean investigation with no prejudicing the expert before she started her scan. “Let’s go.”
Once they were under way, Sophie held her frozen fingers up to the truck’s heater. Without a word, Vito leaned forward and twisted a knob, turning the temperature up.
When her fingers were warm again, she settled into the seat and studied Vito Ciccotelli. His appearance had come as a surprise. With a name like Vito, she’d expected him to be a brawny thug with a face that had gone too many rounds with the champ. She could not have been more mistaken. Which was why she’d stared. She’d been taken off guard. You go right on thinking that.
He was at least six-two. She’d had to look up to meet his eyes, and at five-eleven herself, that didn’t happen very often. His shoulders were broad in his leather jacket, but there was a lean toughness to him that spoke more of a large cat than a scrappy bulldog. He had the kind of rugged, chiseled face that one saw in fashion magazines. Not that she read fashion magazines herself, of course. That was Aunt Freya’s vice.
Sophie imagined most women would consider Vito Ciccotelli swooningly handsome and fall helplessly at his feet. That was probably why he’d been so quick to rebuff her earlier-women probably hit on him all the time. It was a good thing she wasn’t most women, she thought dryly. Falling helplessly at his feet was the last thing on her mind.
Although that’s very nearly what she’d done. How embarrassing. But for that one moment when he’d held her against him she’d felt comfort and the solidity of welcome. As if she could lay her head back against his shoulder and rest. Don’t be ridiculous, Sophie. Men that looked like Vito were too accustomed to getting exactly what they wanted with the bat of an eyelash. But somehow that assessment felt unfair. As if it mattered. He’d come for her GPR. Nothing more. So focus on what you’re here for. A chance to work again. To do something important. Still, her eyes were drawn to his face.
He was wearing sunglasses, but she could just see the corner of his eye where the darkness of his skin was broken by tiny white lines, as if he was quick to smile. He wasn’t smiling now. At this moment, his expression was sober and brooding which made her feel a little guilty for feeling so excited and energized.
For the first time in months she’d be doing something that got her back into the field. That was what had her heart pumping and goosebumps pebbling her skin. The thrill of the hunt, of finding secrets hidden below the surface of the earth, not the memory of his hands gripping her shoulders. He was just keeping you from falling on your ass. It had been way too long since she’d been touched by a man, for any reason. She frowned and focused. “So Vito, tell me about this gravesite.”
“Who said anything about graves?” he asked, his tone casual.
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m not stupid. An ME and a cop are looking for something under the ground. So how many graves are we talking about?”
He shrugged. “Maybe none.”
“But you’ve found at least one.”
“What makes you say that?”
She wrinkled her nose. “L’odeur de la mort. It’s quite noticeable.”
“You speak French? I took it in high school, but I only learned the swear words.”
Now she did roll her eyes, her temper flaring. “I’m fluent in ten languages, three of them deader than the body you just came from,” she snapped, then instantly wished her words back as he flinched, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw.
“The body I just came from was somebody’s daughter or wife,” he said quietly.
Her face heated, her annoyance becoming embarrassment and shame. Shoved your foot in your mouth, army boot and all. “I’m sorry,” she said, just as quietly. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. The bodies I come across have been dead several hundred years. But it’s not an excuse. I got a little… jazzed at the prospect of doing something interesting. I let myself get carried away. I apologize. It was insensitive of me.”
He kept his gaze fixed ahead. “It’s all right.”
No, it wasn’t, but she didn’t know what to say to make it right. She pulled off her gloves and began to braid her hair that still hung loose so it would be out of her way when she got to where the detective was taking her. She was almost done when he spoke, startling her.
“So,” he said. “You speak French? I took it in high school, but…”
His mouth turned up in a rueful smile and she smiled back. He’d thrown her a do-over. This time she would keep her feet out of her mouth. “But you only learned the swear words. Yes, I speak French and several other languages. It comes in handy translating old texts and conversing with the locals when I’m working.” She went back to braiding her hair. “I’ll teach you a few swear words in other languages if you want.”
His lips twitched. “It’s a deal. Katherine said you were on sabbatical.”
“Of sorts.” She secured the braid into a tight ball at her nape. “My grandmother had a stroke, so I came back to Philly to help my aunt take care of her.”
“Is she recovering?”
“Some days we think so. Other days…” She sighed. “Other days it’s not so good.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded very sincere.
“Thank you.”
“And where did you come back from?”
“Southern France. We were excavating a thirteenth-century castle.”
He looked impressed. “Like, with a dungeon?”
She chuckled. “At one time, most likely. Now we’ll be lucky to find the outer walls and the foundation of the keep. They’ll be lucky,” she corrected. “Listen, Vito… I’m sorry I was out of line, but it really would help me to know a little more about what you need me to do before I begin.”
He shrugged. “There’s really not much to tell. We found one body.”
Back to square one. “But you think there are more.”
“Maybe.”
Keeping her feet well away from her mouth, she injected a note of lightness into her voice. “If I uncover something, I’ll know your secrets. I hope this isn’t one of those ‘now I’ll have to kill you’ things. That would ruin my day.”
The corners of his mouth quirked. “Killing you would be illegal, Dr. Johannsen.”
They were back to formalities. Too bad. She was still calling him Vito. “Well then, Vito, unless you plan to erase my memory, you’ll have to trust that I won’t blab. You don’t have one of those memory-zapping guns like they used in Men in Black, do you?”
His lips twitched again. “I left it in my other suit.”
“Forewarned is forearmed, they say. Which suit is it? I promise I won’t tell.”
Abruptly he grinned, exposing a deep dimple in his right cheek. Oh, my, she thought. Oh my, oh my. A smile turned Vito Ciccotelli from merely magazine-handsome to movie-star-gorgeous. Aunt Freya’s heart would be going pitter-pat. Just like yours is right now. Then he spoke.
“That information is classified,” he said and Sophie stiffened.
“So much for establishing rapport.”
His grin faded. “Dr. Johannsen, it’s not that I don’t trust you. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Katherine vouches for you and that was enough for me.”
“Then-”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to give you any information that could bias your findings. Go in with a clean slate and tell us what you see. That’s all we want.”
She considered. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“Thank God,” he muttered and she chuckled.
“Can you at least tell me how big this area is?”
“One, two acres tops.”
She winced. “Oh. That’ll take a while.”
His black brows went up. “How long is a while?”
“Four, five hours. Maybe more. Whitman’s ground-penetrating radar is a small unit. We use it for teaching purposes. The biggest plot we ever scan with students is maybe ten meters square. Sorry,” she added when he scowled. “If you need an area that big scanned I can recommend some geophysical survey companies that are really good. They’ll have bigger units they can drag with a tractor.”
“With big price tags,” he said. “We can’t afford to hire a contractor. Our department budgets have been cut so much… We simply don’t have the funds.” He threw her a cautious glance. “Can you give us four or five hours?”
She checked her watch. Her stomach had already started to rumble. “Can your department budget spring for pizza? I didn’t have lunch.”
“That we can do.”