Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “You’ve been staring at that report for the past hour,” Ruskin said. “Thought you were out of here this weekend. Denver?”

  “Change of plans. A callout to a small town in Nebraska.”

  Ruskin grunted and rocked back in his seat. “Something on a case?”

  Wasn’t it always? Zach pushed away from his desk. “Yeah.”

  “I’ve got your files pretty well memorized at this point. Anything I can do?”

  “No. Sands wanted me to take a look. But thanks.” Zach had discussed his open cases with Ruskin weeks ago, back when disengaging from the FBI had seemed plausible.

  “Zach…” Ruskin looked away, then back. “I know you haven’t asked for advice, but as someone who’s been there, I’m going to give it to you anyway. There’s more to life than profiling. Sands won’t let you go without a fight, but you’re not legally obligated to stay. Every time you give in, it’s easier for him to hang on. And it seems to me you’ve got something important with Beck. Don’t throw it away.”

  Despite knowing next to nothing about Ruskin’s personal life, Zach could hear the unspoken like I did loud and clear. “Don’t throw it away.” Was that what Zach was doing? Beck was frustrated—hell, they both were—but would it reach a point where Beck didn’t think the wait for Zach was worth it and would move on?

  Maybe it was time to throw away his pride and get his ass to Colorado.

  Right after this case.

  Chapter Two

  Beck sat in Friday night rush-hour traffic on I-25, sandwiched between an out-of-state RV and a pair of motorcycles. Despite the rolled-up windows, the cosmopolitan aroma of exhaust and hot asphalt slithered into the car. The usual commuter traffic had swelled with the addition of individuals headed somewhere for the weekend: out to the bars in LoDo, off to a mountain retreat, a trip to another town.

  Ordinarily the delay wasn’t more than mildly frustrating, but tonight he wanted to get home. He had things to do.

  It had been over a month since he’d seen Zach, and after three reschedules, they’d finally managed to set up a badly needed weekend together. Not that Beck had anything against the Twin Cities per se. Or the FBI. Or profiling. It was the logistics; all three meant literal distance. Phone calls instead of physical contact. Virtual visits.

  Ever since he and Zach got together the past October during the Olivetti homicides case, Beck had been impatient to have Zach to himself. Seven months later, Olivetti was in jail and Zach was still based in Minneapolis, flying hither and yon working cases for the FBI. There had been too many aborted visits, too many interrupted phone calls. Nights alone hadn’t bothered Beck before he’d had the luxury of someone to spend them with. Now he craved Zach’s companionship.

  The RV came to a halt and put on its right-hand blinker. Really? They were in the far-left lane. Three queues of vehicles sat between the camper and the highway exit a quarter of a mile down the road. Denverites weren’t likely to take pity on the tourist and let him cross.

  “Damn it.” Beck hit the brakes as cars coasted by on his right. “Just ease over, guy.”

  The RV continued to sit like a metallic beached whale. Beck snapped on the radio to Denver’s Eye in the Sky.

  “—accident on southbound I-25 at Alameda blocking two lanes. Police and an ambulance at the site. Southbound Broadway off-ramp traffic is backed up into the I-25 exit lane.”

  Beck hit Off. No point in getting mad. Zach’s flight wasn’t due until ten, and that left plenty of time to get things settled at home before leaving for the airport. Zach would walk off the train from the concourse, blond hair too long, golden scruff on his jaw. His blue eyes would light up, and he’d melt Beck with one of those heartbreaking smiles. They’d indulge in a one-armed bro hug in public, and a more intimate lovers’ kiss in the car.

  His lover…yeah. He liked the sound of that. Beck grinned.

  They had a lot of making up to do. Beck had anticipated this reunion all week. In front of him, the motionless RV’s taillights glowed like red eyes.

  Enough. Beck flicked on the grill flashers, and the red-and-blue lights reflected off the RV’s silver skin. He nosed his unmarked into the next lane and stopped, motioning the RV over. After a confused second, the driver steered the beast to the right and managed two lanes before forward-rolling traffic swept it away.

  Okay. He’d leave the flashers on and exit the highway. Perk of the job, right? Home for a shave, a shower, and clean sheets on the bed for his lover.

  * * * *

  “I’m not going to make it this weekend,” Zach said.

  The pleasant expectation Beck had built all week collapsed into a black hole of disappointment. Not again, damn it.

  A month of relative solitary confinement—thirty days without a visit. Beck stalked through the warren of packed boxes cluttering the house. Damn it to hell. He struggled to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice. “This is the fourth weekend in a row you’ve canceled.”

  “I know.” Instead of an explanation, there was silence.

  This could only be… Aw, fuck. “Don’t tell me it’s a callout case.”

  “ViCAP got a hit matching one of my assignments.” The words were filled with apology.

  Beck felt the need to punch something. He tried to avoid sounding pissed off. “Christ, they’ve got other profilers. Can’t Ruskin handle it?”

  Zach heaved a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry. I did the original profile, and Sands is insisting. It’s just one more case.”

  One more case. The same refrain, fracturing their time together.

  In the first four months of their relationship, Sands had canceled Zach’s leave half a dozen times; a handful of stolen weekends was all they’d managed. Zach had discussed leaving with Sands but decided to continue with the FBI until his Colorado medical license came through—and it was taking forever. No letting Beck support him, uh-uh, no way. Damn bullheaded shrink.

  In response to Zach’s announced plans to leave the bureau, Director Sands had come up with a strategy Beck called “one more.” One more profile. One more case. One more murder that no one but Zach could manage. “One more” had now added up to six.

  It was always one…more…fucking…case.

  It had worn on Beck. He was lonely, irritable, and horny, not to mention tired of making do with phone sex. Hell, they’d spent more time together on the notorious Olivetti murder case than they had since.

  Beck held back the urge to spill that into the conversation. Instead he adopted a reasonable tone. “Why don’t you say no? You quit. End of story. If you keep giving in, he’ll never let you go.”

  “I’m obligated to work on any of my previous cases while I’m still with the bureau.”

  “That’s a load right there. I know at least two of those cases had never involved you originally. He dragged you in to help and then used that ‘previous case’ bullshit to keep you tied up.”

  “I can’t practice in Colorado—”

  “Without a medical license. I know. Quit anyway and enjoy some time off. God knows you’ve got enough unused leave built up.”

  “We’re shorthanded.”

  “What law enforcement agency isn’t? They’ll manage.”

  “Sands needs me.”

  Jesus Christ. For a psychiatrist, Zach sucked at self-examination. Couldn’t he see the manipulation at work here? “Fuck him. I need you.”

  “I know. I need you too.”

  Beck was tired of diplomacy. “Then don’t put up with this bullshit. Just walk away, damn it. Please.”

  The silence said everything Zach didn’t. All the usual gibberish about I owe him and continuity of case had already been said when they discussed the previous delays. Yeah, the FBI had their claws in deep.

  But underneath it all, Beck wondered if the real issue might be that Zach couldn’t give up profiling. “Your Colorado medical license should come through anytime. You can start work here as soon as it does. And Jay is counting on you to be here by June first.”


  Jay Armentrout was a twenty-five-year veteran of the DPD who had gotten a PhD in psychology. For the past three years, he’d spent his days as the department’s sole mental-health provider, counseling Denver’s finest. Through his efforts, DPD had a better retention rate and a reduction in job-related divorce and disability. Zach had committed months ago to cover all psych duties while Jay attended a two-week forensic psychiatry seminar in London.

  “I’ll be there.” Zach’s promise sounded heartfelt.

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Sweetheart…”

  A garbled mix of anger, disappointment, and longing churned in Beck’s gut. “Please. I miss you. I need you here. Just get on the plane and fly to Denver.”

  “This should wrap up over the weekend,” Zach said. “I’ll disengage, fly to Denver, and stay for good. I swear, no more cases after this.”

  The promise was as tangible as the breath that formed the words. Zach sounded sincere. Hell, he was sincere. Beck was the cynic. For once, he wanted Zach to tell Sands where to stick it.

  Heading down the hall to the bedroom they were supposed to be sharing, Beck said, “After the case you can come straight here. Don’t tell Sands you’re leaving, or he’ll dredge up something. When I get my hands on you, I ain’t letting go. Possession is nine-tenths, Littman.”

  Springs squeaked, and Zach chuckled. “Trust me, I’m not going to jeopardize my escape. I’m sick of sleeping on a mattress that feels like cement.”

  “You have options other than that boardinghouse for wayward boys.” In Beck’s opinion, the FBI’s so-called temporary housing sucked. It was more like a series of dorm rooms with a common bath and kitchen. The place was a health hazard.

  “I don’t want to impose on Dean.”

  In mid-February, Zach had rented his Minneapolis house to his ex-boyfriend Dean, who was a cute blond nurse. In a way, Beck was pleased Zach had refused Dean’s houseguest invitation. Beck felt uneasy just contemplating Zach sleeping under the same roof as Dean.

  “There’s a perfectly comfortable bed waiting right here for you. Comes equipped with a hot guy and everything.” Beck leaned against the doorjamb and pinched the bridge of his nose. Evening sunlight fell in blocks of brightness across the king-size bed, rumpled on one side. Only on one side.

  “I’m frustrated too,” Zach said, voice full of sympathy. “I know it’s been a long haul.”

  Long? Spring had sprung. April showers had brought May flowers but not Zach. Beck still rattled around the half-unpacked house on his own. Zach had wanted this, and he wasn’t here.

  Beck had pictured camaraderie over yard work, cozy dinners for two discussing their days, and nights full of marathon sex. All the perks of partnership.

  Instead, they’d become mired in a long-term long-distance relationship, minus any of that. Beck had unpacked most of his stuff, but Zach hadn’t. There was no feeling of permanency here. He rubbed at the scar on his left shoulder. “I’ll come out there this weekend.”

  “The case is a callout.”

  The words dropped like rocks on Beck’s already precarious mood. Wasn’t it always? Sands never assigned Zach a case requiring only a profile—no, that would mean Zach could work the case from Minneapolis. The director knew if Beck had Zach in person, the FBI would lose him for good. It was like playing a game of chess. Did Zach even want the move to Denver? “What is it this time?”

  “A body with an MO matching one of my open cases. I can’t—”

  “Talk about it. Protocol and all that.” Beck couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I realize this has been tough, but it’s almost over. I can’t wait to get to Denver and settle in.” Softly Zach said, “I miss you so damn much.”

  That bedroom-rough voice made Beck’s heart give an optimistic surge. Another part of him gave a hopeful twitch as well. He crossed the room and sat on the end of the bed. If he squeezed his eyes shut, he could pretend Zach was here in person. “Just get it over with and come home.”

  “I love you, Beck.”

  “Love you too.”

  Chapter Three

  Zach tossed aside the crime photos and lay back on the generic bed in his generic motel room. How in the hell had he ended up spending his Saturday night like this? If he never saw another ruined body, it would be too soon.

  The reality of what could happen between exiting a mall at Christmastime and a car a hundred feet away…horrifying. A beloved daughter and sister unaccounted for, the family left hanging for months, trapped between hope and dread as the case went cold. Now she was found, and their worst fears had been confirmed. It made Zach sick.

  The victim had been kidnapped last December in North Platte, Nebraska, a town two hundred eighty miles west of Omaha. A farmer had found the body in a rural area twenty miles farther west. The coroner had apprised the state police of his suspicion that the girl was the one missing since last winter. North Platte confirmed her ID and wanted the case. It was a jurisdictional nightmare, with both state and local authorities laying claim.

  The girl’s father was a Nebraska state legislator, and he’d insisted on FBI involvement. After Quantico made the connection with the Crossroads Killer, one of Zach’s open cases, he had been tapped.

  Police and politics had collided head-on. The teams of law enforcement officers opposed involving a profiler. Neither group had been happy to see Zach, but this wasn’t an isolated crime. ViCAP, the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, had scored a hit, tying the murder to Omaha’s Crossroads Killer victims uncovered the past September. After six women had been discovered buried in a wooded area, Zach had been called in to help. Despite his detailed profile, the killer still remained unidentified eight months later. It was beyond frustrating, and Zach had spent many hours going over the case, searching for the key to the unsub’s identity. No more bodies had been found—until now.

  The current victim had been discovered on a riverbank. Her strangulation by necktie fit with the Omaha cases. The peculiar knot in the silk was the same; the expensive brand of tie was the same; and the vestiges of the elaborate design cut into the bathed, wrapped, and nude body were the same.

  Victim number seven of the Crossroads Killer. Other than locale, the main difference was that the killer had buried this girl close to a river. The snowmelt had led to particularly heavy spring runoff. Nature had uncovered the killer’s handiwork.

  It was hard to know what else might come to light as the floodwaters continued to recede. A search for others wasn’t feasible.

  Yet.

  Zach shuddered. First Omaha, and now this western Nebraska college town. The monster could have traveled all over the Midwest. Or maybe he’d stuck to towns dotting the East-West Highway along the Platte River. In September, Zach had been certain the killer was associated with the University of Nebraska at Omaha. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Where are you, you son of a bitch?

  If they pinpointed a new mass-burial site, Zach would be mired in a case that straddled several jurisdictions. Who knew where it might end? The only hope was to catch the predator. The profile needed a relook, and—

  A couple of sharp raps on the door brought Zach upright. What the hell? He wasn’t expecting company. Quietly, he gripped his SIG, approached the door, and glanced through the fish-eye.

  A man. Dark clothes, porkpie hat, head tilted down. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. It was impossible to tell if the stranger had a weapon. Standing to the side of the door, Zach rested his thumb over the safety. “Yeah?”

  “Zach?”

  No way. Zach whipped around and took another look through the lens. The stranger pulled off his hat and grinned.

  Zach slid the chain free, snapped open the dead bolt, and swung the door wide. “My God. What—”

  Then Beck had him in a clinch, mouth crushed to Zach’s in a ruthless attack. Zach kissed him back, forgetting about the lack of privacy and the SIG still clutched in h
is hand.

  When they broke for air, Beck nodded at the gun. “You going to shoot me?”

  “No.” Zach flicked on the safety. “Just wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  “I wasn’t going to miss another weekend.” Beck bent and grabbed a duffel bag. “I missed you too much.”

  Pleasurable warmth washed over Zach. He tugged Beck inside the room, closed the door and locked it. “I can’t believe you’re here. How did you find me?”

  “Ruskin. He gave me your top secret location.”

  Zach laid the gun on the nightstand. He’d have to buy Ruskin a bottle of good whiskey.

  Beck’s brows drew together as he nodded at the photos scattered across the bed. “I know I’m interrupting—”

  “In the best possible way.” Zach scooped up the pictures and dropped them facedown on the desk. “I can’t believe you came.”

  “I haven’t yet, but it’s looking good.”

  * * * *

  Beck savored the sight as a naked Zach climbed onto the bed and stretched out on his stomach, the springs gently squeaking beneath him. If Beck got a lifetime with Zach, he’d never tire of that view: broad shoulders, trim waist, long legs. An ass you could bounce a quarter off. Beautiful.

  Mine. All mine.

  He trailed his tongue down Zach’s spine. Goose bumps rose along the path. It had been long enough that Beck couldn’t remember who had topped last time, but it didn’t matter. Fucking Zach was a pleasure; being fucked by him was every bit as desirable.

  No one had taken Beck face-to-face except Zach. No one else had kissed Beck on the mouth while he came, or made receiving an act to be anticipated instead of tolerated.

  For now, it was Zach’s wish to let Beck do the claiming. Beck picked up the little bottle of lube and spread some on his fingers. Much as he wanted to rush, prep had been erotic foreplay for them since the beginning, and building the need made the payoff all that much sweeter.

  Beck stroked a hand over the rise of Zach’s ass, and Zach moved his legs apart. Beck ran his fingers down the crease, letting the change in texture tell him when he’d reached the opening to Zach’s body.