Karen Rose - Die for Me

“Where would someone get such a chair?” Vito repeated. “Please, Sophie.”

The reality of their request began to sink in and a sense of panic began to crowd the horror. They were depending on her knowledge to find a killer and suddenly she felt totally inadequate. “Look, guys, my specialty is medieval fortifications and strategic warfare. My knowledge of inquisitional hardware is very basic at best. Why don’t I call an expert? Dr. Fournier at the Sorbonne is world renowned.”

Both men shook their heads. “Maybe,” Vito said, “if we absolutely have to, but we want to keep this limited to as few people as possible. Your basic knowledge may be enough for now.” He fixed his eyes on hers, and the tumult inside her began to calm. “Just tell us what you know.”

She nodded, forcing her brain to think beyond the rote knowledge they could get off any website. She pressed her fingers to her temples. “Okay. Let me think. He either made his instruments, or he obtained them already made. If they were already made, they could be crude copies all the way up to original artifacts. What are you thinking?”

“We don’t know,” Nick said. “Keep talking.”

“How even was the pattern of nail punctures?”

“Damn even,” Vito said grimly.

“So he’s careful. If he made them, he’d pay attention to detail. Maybe he’d want drawings or even blueprints.”

Nick looked as revolted as she felt. “There are blueprints?”

Vito leaned forward, his brows crunched. “Where would he get these blueprints?”

He was so close that the scent of his aftershave tickled her nose and she could see the thick black lashes that rimmed his eyes. Then his eyes narrowed, his gaze growing more intense and she realized she’d leaned toward him, drawn like a moth to a flame. Embarrassed and disgusted with herself, she jerked backward, putting more space between them. “You said to keep talking. I never promised to say anything worthwhile.”

“I’m sorry,” Vito murmured, leaning back. “Where would he find blueprints?”

Sophie made herself breathe. “On the Internet, maybe. I’ve never looked. The museums with the chairs might have documented the design somehow. Or… I suppose he could have used the old texts. There are a few journals kept by inquisitors. They might have drawings. He’d need access to the old texts, though.”

“And he’d get this access how?” Nick asked.

“Rare book collections. And he’d have to be able to read them. Most were written in medieval Latin. A few in Old French or Occitan.”

Nick noted them on his pad. “You can read these languages?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course,” Nick muttered.

Vito still watched her, more intensely than before. “And if he bought them?”

“If he bought them, he either bought copies or real artifacts. You see copies of armor and other weapons for sale on re-creationist websites all the time. Medieval festivals often have booths where weapons of varying quality are sold. Some are handmade and others are mass manufactured, but all are copies.”

“What kind of weapons?” Nick asked.

“Daggers, swords. Flails and axes. But I’ve never seen torture weapons sold. Now if they were authentic artifacts…” She shrugged. “You’d be talking private collectors.”

Nick nodded. “What do you know about them?”

“Like with everything else there are good and bad ones. Legitimate collectors purchase their artifacts privately from other collectors or from auction houses like Christie’s. Sometimes ‘new’ old stuff appears on the legitimate market, but that’s rare.”

“Like?” Nick prompted.

“Like the Dordogne swords. In 1977, six fifteenth-century swords that had been previously unknown came up for auction at Christie’s. Turns out they came from a rare find-eighty fifteenth-century swords were discovered at the bottom of the Dordogne River in France in the mid-1970s. They’d been on a barge headed for troops fighting the Hundred Years’ War. The barge sank and the swords lay buried for five hundred years. But that kind of find is very rare. Normally, catalogued artifacts change hands. Most of our exhibits come from the private collection of Theodore Albright the First.”

Nick frowned. “The father of the guy we talked to in there?”

“Grandfather. Ted the First was one of the more famous archeologists of the twentieth century. He got a lot of his items from other collectors, but…” She lifted a shoulder. “Ted the First was digging in the teens and early twenties. Nobody knows for sure, but I’d bet some of the items in his collection are artifacts he uncovered on his digs. If it could be proven, the Albrights might be forced to give them back.”

Nick nodded again. “So he wasn’t always a legitimate collector.”

“No, Albright the First was a good guy. See, that’s how it was done back then. You came, you saw, you dug, you carted home your loot. Reality is, museums have artifacts because someone brought them home… back then.”

“And now?” Nick prodded.

“Today, most governments have seriously cracked down on artifacts being removed from their countries. It’s considered theft and they prosecute.”

“So now they go through the black market,” Vito said.

“There’s always been a black market. It’s just that the prices have been going up since the crackdowns started. I’ve heard of private collectors buying art and pottery and documents. Roman mosaic floors, even. But not instruments of torture.”

“But it could be happening,” Vito pushed.

“Of course it could. I don’t travel in those circles, so I wouldn’t know.” She thought about some of the shadier archeologists she’d known. “But I could ask around.”

Vito shook his head. “We’ll ask the questions,” he said firmly, then lifted his hand when she lifted her chin with a jerk. “It’s procedure, Sophie,” he sighed wearily, “just like not telling you about the graves yesterday before you found them.”

“But that was to prevent bias,” she pointed out. “I know the details now.”

“This is to prevent harm,” Vito returned. “To you. This isn’t some academic project for a thesis. This is a multiple homicide in which the killer dug seven extra graves. I don’t want to see you in one of them.”

Sophie shuddered out a breath. “Good point. I’ll make you a list.”

One corner of Vito’s mouth lifted and his dark eyes warmed. “Thank you.”

She found herself smiling back before she realized that once again he’d reeled her in like a fish on a hook. I’m as gullible as a trout. Wiping the smile from her face, she dropped her eyes to her watch. “I really need to go.”

She got out of the car, then stuck her head in the open door. Vito was watching her again, his eyes slightly narrowed and… hurt. Her heart pricked, but she hardened it. Deliberately she turned to Nick. “I’ll e-mail you a list of any sources I can come up with. Good luck.” She was halfway to the museum’s front door when she heard a car door slam, then Vito calling her name. She kept walking, hoping he’d take the hint and leave her alone, but his footsteps grew louder as he closed the distance between them.

“Sophie. Wait.” He gripped her arm and pulled until she stopped.

“What more do you want, Detective?”

He tugged on her arm. “I want you to turn around and look at me.”

She complied. His face was inches away, his brows furrowed in a confused frown. From the corner of her eye she saw Nick leaning against his car wearing a similar look of confusion and she felt a spurt of indecision, but the words on the card she’d found with the roses echoed in her mind. A-I’ll always love you. V. “Let go of my arm.” He released her but didn’t move back, so she did. “What do you want from me, Detective?”