Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  He tried for a matter-of-fact tone. “Perny’s killer left a note taunting me. I don’t want Beck in the line of fire if…something should come of it.”

  “Does Beck know about this note?”

  “Yes, he’s aware.”

  “Can you share the contents with me?”

  “It said, ‘Dr. Littman, your heart belongs to me.’”

  SJ steepled her index fingers in front of her lips and studied him. “Reminds me of the Xavier Darling case.”

  It seemed that everyone in Colorado law enforcement knew about the state’s most infamous serial killer—and Zach’s near miss with the monster. “It’s hard to know if the note has anything to do with what might be found at Perny’s apartment.” The killer’s lair might contain a whole lot of nothing. Or it could be a crime scene, concealing horrors. After all, Perny’s body was missing the heart.

  “Do you believe the killer wants you to investigate the residence?”

  “I don’t know, honestly.” Zach studied the painting of Pikes Peak behind the desk. Majestic calm—blues, violets, and grays capped with a smear of white snow. “Perny’s a victim, not a suspect. It’s unlikely he was killed here and taken to Omaha. If I was working the case for the FBI, I’d check out Perny’s place.”

  “But you’re not working the case for the FBI.”

  Zach’s stomach hollowed. “No.”

  “Then I see no conflict with Beck assisting Detective Hogan.”

  It was a problem if Beck drew the killer’s attention. But Beck would be pissed if Zach interfered with an assignment. “Thanks for your time, SJ.”

  * * * *

  Was there anything worse than waiting on hold? Beck wanted to hold the phone away from his ear. The easy-listening version of Led Zeppelin was a travesty. On the other side of their apposed desks, Van gave him a lingering look. Beck frowned; Van resumed sorting files.

  Beck fought the temptation to put the phone on speaker and peruse files while on hold. Van was ten kinds of curious about Beck’s assignment. SJ had given Beck the task of coordinating the search of Perny’s residence with Hogan, but so far Beck had gotten nothing but transfers and an earful of annoying music for his trouble.

  Where is Hogan? Is he even reachable? SJ had spoken with the head of Omaha’s homicide unit before asking Beck to contact Hogan, but the Omaha switchboard was taking their own sweet time tracking down the detective. Beck drummed his fingers and stared at the computer.

  Nathan Perny, age thirty-three. No record or prints on file. No car, no guns, no wants or warrants. Residence in the Sunnyside neighborhood of Denver, near downtown. Google Maps showed what looked like an old house.

  The Colorado DMV had issued a driver’s license six months ago. Perny was an average-looking guy with shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, and a neutral expression. Height five feet ten inches, weight one sixty-five, and a restriction for corrective lenses.

  Not an organ donor. Ironic, since the guy was missing his heart.

  The receiver clicked in Beck’s ear. There was an unintelligible mutter, then, “Hogan.” The voice was low and scratchy, as if the guy had talked himself hoarse.

  “This is Detective Beck Stryker with Denver Robbery/Homicide, calling about your victim Perny.”

  “Sure. Here’s the situation.” Springs squeaked in the background. “Perny’s from your neck of the woods. Don’t know what he was doing over here, but there could be something useful at his residence. Toward that end, I want to search his place, and I’d like Denver PD’s help.”

  “We can assist with that. It’ll take a warrant, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” As far as Beck was concerned, the killer’s note to Zach constituted an engraved invitation to keep tabs on the investigation. Those words were a threat, whether Zach acknowledged it or not. Hogan wasn’t around to protect Zach from a killer. Beck was.

  “I’m driving to Denver this afternoon,” Hogan said. “Should be there by ten o’clock tonight your time. Can we meet at your shop in the morning, say around eight?”

  “That will work. Here’s my direct contact number.” Beck gave him his personal cell.

  “Sounds good. Here’s mine.” Hogan rattled off the digits. “Thanks. I know this isn’t the way you’d choose to spend your time.”

  At least it would get him away from Van for a while. “Not a problem. Looking forward to working with you.”

  “Talk to you soon.” Hogan disconnected.

  Across from Beck, Van paused in paging through reports. “Something interesting?”

  “Nah. A detective coming from out of town for a residence search.”

  “Need some help?”

  “I’ve got it covered.” Beck had adopted a cagey attitude about the Omaha case. Keeping an inside track was vital to protecting Zach’s interests, and it didn’t take two homicide detectives to manage Hogan’s request. A thorough search would take more than Beck, though. A couple of uniforms, anyway.

  Van crossed his arms. “We still have over a hundred missing-persons reports to wade through.”

  “I know. And we will get it done.”

  SJ leaned out of her office. “Beck? A minute, please?”

  Another errand? Beck pushed back his chair.

  Van said, “Call me if you need me.”

  “Sure.” Beck headed inside the office and closed the door.

  SJ gave him a smile. “Have a seat. I wanted to talk to you about coordinating with Omaha.”

  “I just got off the phone with their point man, Hogan. He’s driving up tonight, and we’re meeting first thing in the morning.”

  “Good. This will be an excellent experience for Detective Richfield. I’d like you to team up with him.”

  Shit. With everything else going on right now, Beck wasn’t up to schooling a rookie; plus, Richfield didn’t epitomize a great homicide detective. Letting him muck around in front of Hogan wouldn’t give a good impression of DPD.

  “Working the skeleton case with Van would be a good experience too,” Beck offered. And would keep Van in line and Richfield out of trouble.

  “I’m not suggesting Owen lead with Detective Hogan. Merely that he comes along.”

  “Rich—uh, Owen may not be ready to collaborate on this sort of situation.” Hogan didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be forgiving about compromised evidence.

  “Then you’ll show him how it’s done.” SJ raised her chin. Behind the glasses her eyes glittered, and her smile hardened. “That’s all, Beck.”

  Yikes. “Thanks, Captain. Uh, SJ.”

  * * * *

  Zach moseyed across the plaza to the coffee cart. A midafternoon slump had hit, leaving him worn-out. He’d allowed his caffeine titer to get too low. Maybe a single-cup machine in his office would be the way to go. Running upstairs to homicide for their rotgut brew wasn’t a good option, and in time he might have patients and not be able to run out for coffee.

  His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. Ruskin. It has to be about Omaha.

  Zach took a look around. There was no one close by. “Hey, Ruskin.”

  “Hello, Zach. Sorry to bug you on your second day out of the pressure cooker. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m in Omaha about this second heartless murder, the male.”

  “Yes. Perny.” The guy with the threatening note inside his chest.

  “That’s the one. Nathan Perny. They got a CODIS hit.”

  “You already ID’d his killer?”

  “The match wasn’t for foreign DNA on Perny.”

  “You’ve lost me. What two samples matched?”

  “You remember the sixth Crossroads Killer victim had some sort of body fluid on her forehead? The medical examiner sent that DNA off to CODIS last fall, but they never got a hit.”

  A common occurrence. The Combined DNA Index System contained thousands of genetic profiles, but millions of people had no profile in the system to generate a match. “What does that have to do with Pe
rny?”

  “The pathologist who did the post on Perny sent in DNA samples to CODIS. The match is between Perny and the saliva on the sixth Crossroads victim. It was his DNA on her forehead.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying Perny knew the victim?” Jesus. Squeezing his phone, Zach went to a bench and sat down.

  “Well enough to leave a trace of saliva on her forehead. It could have been a kiss. None of the other victims had any foreign fluids.”

  This makes no sense. “Perny is the second target of a killer who takes hearts as souvenirs.”

  “Correct.”

  “And somehow last fall Perny came into contact with the sixth Crossroads victim near the time of death.”

  “Yes.” Ruskin blew out a breath. “He might be the one, Zach. Perny might be the Crossroads Killer.”

  * * * *

  “I need to be there tomorrow when you search Perny’s place.” Tossing it out there before bed might not be the best idea, but Zach didn’t want to wait until morning. He hung his towel on the rack, retreated to the bedroom, and threw himself on the king-size mattress. The sheets were cool and smooth.

  Beck didn’t answer. He finished in the bathroom and walked to the foot of the bed. “Why?”

  “Because DNA from the sixth Crossroads Killer victim matches Perny’s DNA. They’re connected.”

  “You don’t know how Perny fits with those victims. Maybe he was dating the sixth one.”

  “She didn’t have a boyfriend.” Zach had memorized the details of the Crossroads victims. “And the killer washed the body after death. None of the other five had DNA. He probably slipped up and kissed her right before he buried her.”

  “That information doesn’t impact the search at Perny’s. The case Hogan is working is Perny’s death. Perny is the victim, not a suspect.”

  “As of today, Perny is a suspect in the Crossroads Killer case. It’s the best lead to date.”

  “Let Ruskin take care of the Crossroads angle. DPD’s only role is to assist with a search of the residence. Perny isn’t DPD’s case.”

  It’s my case. Zach’s gut twisted. If he’d just stuck around behavioral for another week, he would be the one breaking the case, not Ruskin. “Still. I want to be there when you search Perny’s place.”

  “Denver isn’t working the Crossroads homicides. Or the Perny murder, for that matter.” Beck flung himself down beside Zach. “We are help with executing the search warrant. That’s it.”

  “The Crossroads situation is going to heat up because of this DNA match. Perny links the two cases, Beck. You can appreciate that.”

  “I do. But neither case belongs to us.” Beck stared at the ceiling. “Am I missing something here?”

  Zach sat up. Careful. “Now that we know Perny and the Crossroads victims are connected, I think the paper heart was meant as a kind of twisted invitation for me to get involved.”

  “So it is a threat.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Yeah, necessarily.” Beck’s tone hardened. “It’s a reference to what the killer wants.”

  “Whatever it means, the note gives me a personal stake. I need to know what’s going on, Beck.”

  For long moments Beck said nothing. Then the gray eyes locked on to his. “I know you want to solve the Crossroads case. But if you get involved, Sands might try to drag you in.”

  Zach rolled that around. Would that be so bad? It was my case, damn it. It is my case. “Beck…”

  “I get it. You’ve invested a lot of time and energy in that case, and it’s heating up just as you’re leaving the FBI. It’s frustrating, and you want to work it.” Beck gave him a sympathetic look. “But it’s not your case anymore.”

  All he could do was stare. Beck understood but still didn’t want him along on the search. Pushing it wouldn’t be a good idea. Beck could get in trouble, and so could Zach. Much as it galled him for the Crossroads case to get a break right after he’d decided to leave the behavioral unit, he had to focus on the future.

  “All right, Detective. You help Hogan. I’ll stay on vacation. Deal?”

  Beck grunted, but he seemed lost in thought.

  “C’mon.” Zach rolled over and straddled him. Grinning, Zach stroked Beck’s sides and began tickling. “Deal?”

  “No fair.” Beck grabbed Zach’s wrists and bucked up, flipped him flat on his back, and pinned him. The lands and grooves of the scar winding over Beck’s left shoulder and upper chest stood out in the low light. “Not painful,” Beck always said. “Just sensitive.”

  Even with Beck’s surgically reconstructed shoulder, they were pretty evenly matched. Roughhousing turned Zach on. He’d never had that with anyone else.

  “Going to behave?” Beck leaned down and nibbled Zach’s neck, sending a tremor through him.

  “What would be the fun in that?”

  Beck stretched out and settled on top of him, sliding one knee between his thighs. Zach’s cock filled, and he canted his hips against the lovely bulge distending Beck’s boxer briefs.

  “Want you.” Beck’s voice was low and rough.

  Shivering, Zach nodded.

  Chapter Five

  Night. The welcoming dark. For May in Omaha, it was cool and cloudy. Secreted in the grove of birches, Beetle detected a hint of rain riding the breeze, along with the tang of evergreen. All his senses were heightened.

  Through the tree limbs and the brush, the three-man team at the grave site was barely visible. Snatches of conversation drifted over. Beneath the golden rind of the moon, they were discussing him. His work. Every once in a while, a flashlight beam careened past his position in the trees and reflected off the canary-yellow crime-scene tape bracketing the investigators.

  Settled into the carpet of pine needles and spring grass, he waited. The blood seemed to travel through him with an audible whoosh. It was exhilarating, being so close to the opposition. Beetle couldn’t tell if Littman was one of them. Not yet.

  The urge to giggle rolled through him, and he bit the inside of his cheek. No. No laughter. Silent as the grave. A watcher, the keeper of the secret.

  Oh, yes. Beetle had a secret. It wasn’t that he peered in people’s windows at night, or watched violent porn on the Internet, or had shoved his neighbor down the basement stairs to her death when he was fourteen. He’d done all of those, but his real secret was metamorphosis—changing right in front of those who saw him every day, and they were none the wiser. A Beetle into a butterfly.

  Call me eidolon, ghost, specter, spirit. I am the one.

  They didn’t know about him yet, but they would. Oh, yes. And it would be cataclysmic.

  Beetle’s mentor had recognized the ability in him, the untapped potential to manipulate, dominate, and control others, and harvest joy from doing so. And in gratitude, Beetle had honored him. But Beetle could do more. Much more.

  Under the direction of his mentor, Beetle had watched the Other last summer—the so-called Crossroads Killer. Instructional, but strangling wasn’t his thing; neither was rape.

  The knife he could relate to. There was something arousing about the way it slid into the skin, about the way the blood welled in the cut. The past October, Beetle had completed his trials and reached the point in his metamorphosis where he’d been ready to advance his education.

  The first one had been a novelty, back before he’d known what he was doing. It took time to adjust to the feel of the knife going into a sentient being—so different from carving cold, dead skin. The utter control and domination he’d exerted over the live girl had generated a much more gratifying response.

  The female’s crescendoing screams of pain and terror had aroused him unbearably, as had the naked fear in her eyes. Especially the eyes. The Technicolor contrast of pale skin, silver blade, and crimson blood… Addictive. The work was hard and time-consuming, but ultimately rewarding.

  He’d left that October sacrifice at the Crossroads burial ground, sans heart. The Omaha cops hadn’t known what to make of it and
called the FBI. Littman had gone to see Beetle’s mentor, just as the man had predicted. The plan had worked beautifully.

  This time, Beetle had issued his own well-thought-out invitation to the dear doctor.

  The voices got louder. A woman said, “The site is remote enough he would have had privacy to accomplish the placement.”

  “But the body didn’t bleed out here.” This voice was male, but high-pitched and younger. “This wasn’t the primary crime scene.”

  “I’ve seen enough for tonight,” said the second man. “I’d like to review the files in the morning.”

  “We’ll drop you at the hotel, Agent Ruskin.”

  Ruskin? Who the hell is Ruskin?

  The trio turned away and wove through the woods between the grave site and the parking lot. Beetle lay on his belly and watched them go. Blood thrummed through him, his heart beating with the fury of a war drum.

  Littman hadn’t shown up. He hadn’t arrived to evaluate Beetle’s first real work, his coming-out presentation. Beetle had spent so much time to make it perfect, and the profiler hadn’t come to the party.

  Think you’re not going to play, do you?

  There were ways to make sure Littman would get involved. Oh, yes. There were ways.

  Chapter Six

  Beck followed Zach into the DPD elevator. The hush was about as tense as it could get. Zach hadn’t been his usual jovial self this morning. Dense silence hung between them, too thick to breach with words. Beck wanted to palm Zach’s nape and whisper something filthy that would bring a smile to his face.

  The day was off to a spectacular start. The coffeemaker had refused to perform, depriving them of their morning wake-up. The water heater didn’t have enough water for two showers and had made an ominous thunk when Beck had turned up the temperature dial. Then Zach’s car wouldn’t start. They’d carpooled to work.

  And over the chaos, Zach’s mood hung like a dark cloud. Yeah, altogether, a real winner of a morning. Beck wanted to call a do-over. In the shiny elevator panel, he tried a grin. Zach’s return smile contained all the humor of a man sentenced to death row.

  Beck understood Zach’s attitude. It was about missing the damn search. This morning Zach hadn’t mentioned it, but staying behind must grate on him. It was hard to watch Zach’s attempt to be stoic in the face of disappointment. But it was a premises search—not a profiling visit. Not a hunt for a killer. Civilian psychiatrists didn’t participate in searches.