by Whitley Gray
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Loose Id Titles by Whitley Gray
Whitley Gray
Concepts 2:
COLD-HEARTED CONCEPT
Whitley Gray
www.loose-id.com
Concepts 2: Cold-Hearted Concept
Copyright © December 2015 by Whitley Gray
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eISBN 9781682520475
Editor: Venessa Giunta
Cover Artist: Mina Carter
Published in the United States of America
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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning
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Dedication
This book wouldn't have been possible without Susan Sorrentino, who hung in there through long months and many e-mails to get this manuscript submission ready. Thanks for reading, editing, and commenting, Susan. You rock.
Venessa and Serena worked their usual magic, getting the project polished. You two make me look better than I am.
~Whitley
Chapter One
In Beck’s opinion, the only thing worse than investigating the homicide of an unidentified victim was working it with the guy who had dumped him last summer.
The dumping part didn’t matter; Beck had gotten over that long ago. What did matter was deeply closeted Van’s attitude about his upcoming marriage—to a woman. In a matter of weeks he’d say I do, and the closer the nuptials got, the surlier Van became. On top of that, Van seemed determined to have one last man-on-man fling, and his wandering eye had settled on Beck.
Major denial and a major pain in the ass. And Beck was stuck collaborating with him on a case.
“So…” Van leaned toward Beck across their facing desks in Denver’s robbery/homicide department.
Here we go. “So?”
“It’s getting late. Maybe we could break for dinner and then work on the case some more at my place. Alone.”
What a complete ass. Van knew about Beck’s relationship with Zach, knew it was serious, and knew Beck was aware of Van’s engagement to Vice Detective Katie Coleman. None of that seemed to matter; the guy’s dick appeared to be in charge these days, and it was flying the rainbow flag. Come one, come all, Van needs a good hard man.
Work had become an exercise in endurance. The week had passed with glacial slowness. Thirty minutes to go; five o’clock couldn’t arrive fast enough. Thank God there was a moratorium on overtime.
Beck kept his expression neutral. “I have plans for this evening. And I’d prefer to work on the case here.”
“A drink, then?” Van’s attention wandered to Beck’s mouth.
Did the guy not listen? “No.”
Despite Van’s straight-guy charade, he let the innuendos flow thick and fast every time they were alone, which was too often lately. It’d be laughable if it weren’t so slimy.
“You sure? We could do whatever you want.”
Count to ten…
“No. Thanks. I need to head home right after work.” Beck waved a hand at the missing-persons folders. “Let’s get through these and then work up an interview list.”
“From a pile of bones? Good luck.”
Beck gritted his teeth. Twenty-five minutes until he could leave. The question was whether he’d strangle Van before then.
Two weeks ago, a hiker had shown up with a bone that turned out to a human humerus. A week later another man brought in a tibia, stating his dog had retrieved it on a walk through the woods. The shaft of each discovery bore multiple marks. Two bones constituted a problem to the higher-ups, and Beck had found himself assigned a homicide case consisting of a tibia and a humerus.
Combing the area had yielded nothing: no more bones, no bodies. Beck had concluded nothing would develop, but he’d started a murder book anyway. The file was exceptionally thin.
In the meantime, Van had caught a case, a skeletonized body. The clothing had suffered from exposure to the elements. Animals had scattered the bones, and they’d discovered a pair of eyeglasses nearby—with an unidentified fingerprint. Scouring the woods with dogs and ground-penetrating radar came up empty.
Then the medical examiner had called on Monday to report he was confident Beck’s bones went with Van’s skeleton. Sara Jane Fisk, their new captain, had combined the cases, assigning Beck to toil alongside Van. And voilà. Working as a team for the past five…endless…days.
Voice low and suggestive, Van said, “Why don’t we wait until we get the report back on the glasses? It might help narrow it down. In the meantime we could…relax.”
Beck stared. What had he done to offend the homicide gods enough to get saddled with Van? “We can’t wait to see if an optometrist calls us with an ID.” The faster they cleared the case, the sooner Beck would be free of Van’s seduction attempts. Beck tapped a stack of papers. “We’ve got enough information to cull cases from missing persons.”
“We don’t know anything—”
“We’ve got Elmo’s report.�
�
Elmo was Elmo Quick, the chief medical examiner. Beck and Van had spent part of Monday with him, getting briefed about their skeletonized victim and the distinct lack of evidence.
“There are too many possibilities.” Van’s gaze trailed down Beck’s chest.
“Hey.” Beck divided the files on his desk and pushed a stack across to Van. “Let’s work on them separately—it’ll go faster.”
“Suit yourself.” Van opened the top folder and turned toward his computer.
About time. Good thing Beck had a relaxing weekend planned with Zach. Otherwise Van might be on the receiving end of a foot to the ass.
Unfortunately, there were plenty of missing-persons statements for young females over the past year. With the ME’s report, they could eliminate anyone from the most recent four months, but there were still too many. Of those, the ones requiring glasses or contacts might be the best possibilities, but there was no guarantee the glasses belonged to the victim.
The weather hadn’t been kind to the clothing. Elmo had determined she’d worn jeans, a cotton sweater, and some sort of silk scarf—nothing too remarkable there. A lot of the missing girls had on similar items when last seen.
Beck glanced up and caught Van studying him. Frowning, Beck turned his attention to another pile of printouts littering his desk. If Van didn’t watch out, someone would notice him noticing Beck, and Van would give away his hidden proclivities.
Beck was out of the proverbial closet. He and Zach had gotten together while working the Olivetti murders last fall, and they had segued into a long-distance situation. When their relationship moved into deeper waters, Zach had insisted Beck live life in the open. It hadn’t been easy, and it hadn’t been all at once, but he’d managed. By Christmas, everyone who mattered knew. To Beck’s great surprise, the entire robbery/homicide division had taken it in stride, carrying on with business as usual. Van had ignored the declaration—and Beck—until this case threw them together.
On the other side of the bull pen, Richfield’s dark eyes met Beck’s. The rookie detective blushed and looked away. Was he a closet case? Richfield had unruly carrot-colored hair and freckles and possessed no fashion sense. Tall and whip thin, he tripped over his feet as well as his tongue around the more experienced detectives in robbery/homicide.
Some of the cops called him “Glitchfield” due to the guy’s ineptitude at scenes. Smart when it came to books but not so much when it came to the street. The rumor mill claimed Richfield had influential family connections, but no one seemed to know what they were.
So far, they’d all taken turns showing him the ropes, but eventually he’d be partnered with someone for a year. SJ hadn’t made the assignment yet.
The door to the captain’s office opened, and the boss stepped halfway out. Captain Sara Jane “SJ” Fisk’s rust-colored hair fell below her shoulders. She wore stylish glasses and minimal makeup. Like the men in the division, she sported a gun, a badge, and dark dress pants, but that was where the similarity ended. None of the guys paired their slacks with a lavender silk blouse and heels.
In a serene tone of voice, she said, “Beck, Van, can you step in here for a minute?”
No bellowing of Stryker and Gates, get in here, like McManus would have done. Nope, first names and a respectful tone.
Beck pushed away from his desk and headed for the glass cubicle. Since Captain McManus’s heart attack and retirement two months ago, things had been…different. Fisk wasn’t abrasive, but she wasn’t soft. More intuitive, less political, and blind to personal differences—like male versus female or straight versus gay. “We’re all cops,” she’d told the assembled detectives on her first day. “All on the same team.”
Beck let Van enter first and then stepped in and closed the door. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon and vanilla. Gone were the dark paint and framed political photographs that had characterized McManus’s lair. The light-colored walls and framed Colorado landscapes gave the office a more optimistic feel.
“Have a seat, Detectives.” Captain Fisk settled at her desk. On one corner was a picture of her with two young boys in soccer uniforms. There was no Mr. Fisk in the picture. Word was SJ had skipped marriage and gone straight to motherhood.
Beck took a chair. Van did likewise.
“Okay, gentlemen,” SJ said. “Where are you on the skeleton?”
“The ME puts her at somewhere between fourteen and eighteen years old,” Beck offered. “She probably died months ago, maybe around Christmastime.”
“Cause of death was possibly manual strangulation, but the hyoid bone was intact,” Van said. “There was nothing left of the soft tissues to know for sure. There were marks on multiple bones consistent with animal activity.”
SJ steepled her fingers. “Any matches with missing persons?”
“We have too many.” Van straightened the crease on his pants. “Runaways, alleged parental abductions, a few where foul play was suspected but nothing proven.”
Beck added, “It’s possible the clothes might help. The best bet might be the prescription glasses found with the body. Elmo says the lenses are for someone who’s farsighted, which isn’t as common as nearsightedness in kids.”
Pushing up her own glasses, SJ asked, “Anything on the fingerprint?”
“No match in AFIS,” Beck said. “If we can get a lead on a suspect, we can compare. So far, nothing has panned out. No suspects. The hiker, the dog owner, and the woman who found the skeleton all cleared. We need to identify the girl and go from there.”
“Mmm.” SJ said slowly, “ID her and then determine suspects?”
“Yes.” Beck had learned that approach from Zach. It worked. He’d seen it in action.
SJ moved on. “Dental records?”
“Braces,” Van said. “If we have a good candidate for the victim’s ID, it might help. Otherwise, no. There are over two hundred orthodontists in the Denver area. Elmo didn’t turn up evidence of any old fractures or medical appliances, so medical history is probably out as a possible lead.”
“DNA?”
Beck shook his head. “Still waiting on DNA from the clothes and the bones. It could help identify her and/or the one who killed her.”
“Okay.” SJ looked at papers on her desk. “Keep me in the loop.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Beck stood and led the way out of the office.
Van brushed past him. “New aftershave?”
Will it never end? Five more minutes and Van was history until Monday.
Five more minutes.
* * * *
Beck was going to kill him.
It wasn’t like Zach wanted to cancel their meet-up. Again. He’d much rather be with Beck. Murder-scene survey or making love? No contest. But it didn’t matter that Zach wanted no part of another case, or that he’d promised for the past three weekends to be in Denver. Zach’s FBI profiling unit was based in Minneapolis, and it wasn’t a nine-to-five gig. It was too damn bad there was no BSU in Denver. If there were, he’d transfer there in a heartbeat.
The open case file on his screen waited with blinking cursor. Call Beck now or complete the report?
Beck had to understand that disengaging from the FBI wasn’t as simple as handing in a letter of resignation—not when they’d invested time and money to turn Zach into the best profiler in his unit. Cases sometimes remained open and required further attention. It was an ugly fact of Zach’s soon-to-be-former career.
What had started out as “a few more weeks” last December had progressed to months. He’d been working on an exit for the past three of those and kept getting sucked back.
Spears of late-afternoon sunlight poked through the blinds, bisecting the shadows on Zach’s desk and across the floor. He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Tepid.
Zach picked up his phone, set it down. It’d be better to finish up and then call in private.
Across the office, Ruskin muttered something under his breath. Like Zach, the other agent sat at his computer, wo
rking on a narrative summary.
Everyone else had managed to escape for the weekend, including Director Sands, head of the FBI’s Minneapolis unit, who had given Zach a jaunty wave on his way out the door. Despite looking like Steve Martin, Sands was anything but humorous. He considered the solving of serial murder to be a priority over having a personal life. Especially when it came to Zach’s personal life.
That was one of the things about profiling Zach couldn’t deal with any longer. Underneath it all, Zach wasn’t career FBI; in less than two years Zach had had enough of work messing with his personal business. He wanted someone waiting when he got home, wanted a life outside profiling. His coworker, on the other hand…
Krell Ruskin went by his last name. Never Krell, never Rus, always and only Ruskin. At ten paces anyone would peg him as a Fed, with his military-short black hair, white dress shirt, and dark suit.
In contrast to Zach, the man hadn’t tired of serial murder. After five years in behavioral, Ruskin still chased unknown subjects—unsubs—with gusto. Also, Ruskin had done a stint in the marines after graduating college, and then had risen through the ranks of the bureau instead of coming to it after a different career. Zach’s background was forensic psychiatry.
Lastly, Ruskin had no one to go home to. Zach did. That was, he would if he were in Denver. As it was, “home” was currently the spartan Minneapolis apartment the FBI maintained for agents classified as “in transition.”
Zach classified it as “in limbo.”
Not a career profiler, but not out of it. Sands called it “discretionary reserve,” code for “if a previous case heats up, your ass is mine.” Every time Zach had had enough and planned to say adios, Sands found a way to convince him to stay.
And now Sands had once again managed to pull Zach into the vortex of a serial murder. Yep, Beck was going to be furious.
Working for Sands could inspire a sane man to lose it. Zach pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
A chair squeaked across the room. “You about ready to go?”
Hah. If you only knew. “Have to finish this file.”
