by Whitley Gray
“Good enough.” Hogan hung up.
Abrupt. But Beck was getting used to it.
“What’s going on?” Van frowned.
“Our victim could be one of the Crossroads Killer cases.”
“Are…are you kidding me?”
Beck explained the knife marks and the scarf, and then the possibility of a DNA match between the skeleton and the hair caught in the barrette.
“What barrette?”
“The killer had a trophy box. There was a heart-shaped barrette with the letter A on it. Didn’t match any of the other victims.”
“Holy fuck.” Van shuffled through a pile of folders.
“Does that mean something to you?”
“Hang on.” Van sifted through another stack and then plucked out a file and handed it to Beck. “This one. Look at the photo.”
The folder had what resembled a school picture pinned to the front. The girl wore glasses and had the left side of her pale hair pulled back with some type of clip. Beck flipped the file open. He registered the name, and his gut turned to ice. Jesus. “Annika Unger? As in Channel Nine anchor, Matt Unger? His kid?”
“Yeah. Her name starts with A. Annika. She’s got glasses and braces. The barrette could be hers. She’s the best match I’ve seen so far.”
She was the most politically charged possibility, no question. And if they were wrong…
Former Denver Bronco Matt Unger had utilized his undergraduate degree in mass communications to become a high-profile newscaster—and not in sports. The story of corrupt businessman Isaac Olivetti had vaulted Unger into the upper echelons of investigative broadcast journalism.
Beck skimmed the pages. “It says she has health issues and takes meds. She had heart surgery.” Huh. He hadn’t heard that about Unger’s kid. “Under identifying marks is a surgical scar between the ribs on her left side.”
“Yep. Daddy’s pretty involved with fund-raising for heart research.”
Annika Unger. “You have a magnifying glass?”
“Maybe.” Van opened the pencil drawer and rummaged around, then came up with a lens shaped like a snow globe. “Try this.”
Beck placed the lens over the picture and squinted. The oblique angle of the pose made it hard to identify what was in her hair. A pin? A barrette?
Van rolled his chair around to Beck’s side. “See anything?”
“Can’t tell.” Beck slid the picture over. “Take a look.”
For long moments, Van squinted through the magnifier. “Could be. The clip doesn’t come through very well. Besides, she could’ve had something else in her hair that day.”
“The parents could tell us about the glasses.” Beck scanned down the report. Missing since last December. It would fit. But if they were wrong, there could be hellacious fallout. Unger had condemned DPD’s treatment of the case as a missing person and not kidnapping. “We need to talk with SJ.”
* * * *
“We have to be sure,” SJ said.
“I know.” God, do I know. Beck fought the urge to loosen his tie. Having Van and Zach on either side of him and his boss sitting across the conference table did nothing to relax Beck. Unger had used his public platform to criticize the investigation of his daughter’s disappearance and DPD. He’d been frightening and unforgiving.
“You’re sure it’s her?” SJ tapped a finger on the table.
“Everything fits,” Beck said. “Fifteen years old, disappeared before last Christmas while walking home from a friend’s house. Glasses, braces, and possibly the barrette.”
“Missing persons had no leads and declared her a possible runaway,” Van said. “The case had a ton of phoned-in leads because of Unger, but none went anywhere.”
SJ pushed her glasses up. “What ties her to the Crossroads cases?”
“It’s possible some of the marks on the bones could be from tools, not animals, and the silk around her neck could be a necktie. The big thing is the barrette with the Crossroads trophies. It’s tentative.” But Beck’s gut told him it was a match.
“Tentative isn’t good enough.” SJ’s tone had a touch of frost.
Under the table, Zach’s leg pressed against Beck’s. Zach said, “If the silk turns out to be Tarka neckwear, that will link her. Blade marks on the bones would fit. She’s younger than the usual victim, but it was Christmas break and she looked old enough to be in college.”
Beck could feel the electric buzz of Zach’s excitement about the case.
“What about the bathing and wrapping before burial?” Van challenged.
“He may not have had time. Or maybe he was interrupted during his ritual.”
“But redressing?” Crossing his arms, Van leaned back. “That’s pretty far off course, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily.” Zach’s serene tone belied irritation.
That makes one of us. Beck had enough frustration with Van to supply everyone in the room. “We’re checking the fingerprint on the glasses against Perny’s exemplars. If the parents have a ten-print card on Annika, that would help.”
“If she fits with the other Crossroads cases, I need to let the FBI behavioral unit know about it,” Zach said. “It’ll be a multijurisdictional case crossing state lines.”
“But you’ve got your killer,” Van said. “The girl is our case.”
Zach said, “So far we’ve only got circumstantial evidence tying Perny to the Crossroads victims—”
“I thought you were sure.” To Beck, the conversation had suggested a lock. Now they were back to circumstantial?
Calm filled Zach’s blue eyes. “We need to put him with the victims. The FBI can take on the DNA work to see if the DNA trapped in the barrette matches your skeleton, and the expense involved with matching the silk fibers to the brand of tie. All this data will be useful for a case study of Perny as the Crossroads Killer.”
Beck tensed. And who the hell would be doing that case study? Would Zach leave to run around the country, writing a case study?
“I see.” SJ pursed her lips. “Are you planning to handle this yourself, Zach?”
“No. Agent Ruskin from Minneapolis. He’s in Omaha checking into…other aspects of the case.”
Aspects like who killed the Jane Doe missing her heart and then took out Perny, no doubt. Aspects like the Follower.
“I appreciate your help,” SJ said. “I’d like it if you could assist until Agent Ruskin is able to take over in person.”
Zach said, “I’m happy to help.”
Aw, shit. He did sound happy. Too happy. Getting him to disengage might be hard. At least the case was in Denver.
“Will Ruskin be here today?” Beck hated the hopeful note in his voice.
“Most likely tonight,” Zach said. “Hogan updated him.”
“What about Unger?” Van slanted a look at Beck.
SJ said, “You have enough to contact the family. The first order of business is making a positive ID on the victim, not tying our case to this Crossroads Killer.”
“Unger is going to jump straight from an ID to a ‘who did this.’” Beck did not want to be the one broaching that topic.
“For now, I want to see more evidence before anyone discusses possible suspects with Mr. Unger.” SJ flattened her palms on the table. “We have to have more of a connection than this.”
Zach nodded. “If DNA from the barrette matches Annika Unger, we’ve linked Perny to her. The rest of the medical examiner’s findings support that connection.”
We? Zach had that go-to expression: eyes shining, alert, ready for action. Zach saw himself as part of the investigation, and SJ wasn’t saying anything to the contrary.
* * * *
“Hey, Dean.”
“Hola.”
“Hola to you too.” Zach propped the phone between his shoulder and ear as he dug through a box in the kitchen. Dean’s contented tone was nice to hear. None of the old longing. Things must be going well with Gif. “What’s up?”
“You got a package to
day.”
“A package? Everyone should have my forwarding address by now.” The post office usually sent Zach’s mail on to his FBI location. Over the past five months he’d been there more than anywhere else.
“You must’ve missed someone, because this has the correct street address but your name.”
“What is it?”
“I didn’t open it.” Dean sounded a bit miffed. “It’s not addressed to me.”
“Who is it from?” Abandoning the first box, Zach moved on to another, looking for a skillet. Most of the kitchen stuff wasn’t unpacked, and none of the boxes were labeled. Beck had apparently been living on takeout and frozen pizza.
“It’s from Omaha Steaks and marked ‘perishable, refrigerate immediately.’ Says there’s dry ice inside. The sender’s name must be inside the box too.”
Hogan? Maybe a gift sent before he knew Zach had relocated to Denver. “Not very practical to forward. You better open it and enjoy the contents.”
“It’s for you, though.”
“Dean, spoiled steaks do no one any good. I’ll send a thank-you note to the sender. Just open it.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hold on.” The device clanked onto a hard surface.
Zach put his phone on speaker and set it on the counter. He extracted wadded-up newspaper from the box and unearthed a set of bakeware. Where had all the cookware gone? After the day they’d had, Zach wanted to make an intimate dinner for two and then relax privately for the rest of the evening.
“Okay, I’m back.” Dean’s voice filled the kitchen. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
There was the zzzip of separating tape, followed by the squeak of Styrofoam. “It’s in an insulated foam container. There’s an envelope addressed to you taped to the top.”
“Put it aside for now and open the gift.”
“Just let me cut the tape…”
“Go ahead.” Aha! There was Zach’s favorite nonstick skillet. The panfried chops with fennel and roasted vegetables could proceed. Then—
There was an alarming thud. “Oh…oh, fuck.”
“Dean?” Zach grabbed the phone.
“It’s… My God.”
“It’s what? What’s going on?”
“It’s a heart.”
Another valentine? But Dean had seen several of those cards before, and they had never caused this sort of reaction. Zach pinched the bridge of his nose. This had to stop. “Just forward the damn thing to Ruskin.”
“It’s not a card, Zach. It’s a real flesh-and-blood heart.”
Time stretched, snapped back. “Are you kidding me?”
“I wouldn’t kid about this.” An audible gulp came through the speaker. “It’s a heart.”
Cold dread constricted his chest. No. No. This shit doesn’t happen in real life. The room tilted, and Zach sank to the floor on his knees.
“We’ve got another body missing the heart.”
“Battered and deep-fried. I ate they love.”
“Dr. Littman, your heart belongs to me.”
He’d never be free. No. Leave me the hell alone. The protest caught in the back of his throat. Around the obstruction he managed a faint, “Can’t be. Mistake.”
“It is. Jesus Christ.” Dean’s voice had gone hoarse, miserable. “What do I do?”
White noise filled Zach’s ears, joining the sickening timpani in his chest. Someone—the Follower or Xav-D’s acolyte—was after him. This was so much worse than the red paper hearts—
“Zach! Help me here.”
Get your shit together, Littman. “Hang up and call the cops.” Whoever had done this could be nearby, waiting to see the havoc the gruesome gift had caused. “No. Get out of the house. Lock yourself in the car, hang up, and then call the cops.”
“Just leave it?” Dean’s voice jumped an octave.
“Leave it. Now.” This was crazy. Who had done this? Perny? The Follower?
Xav-D?
Outside, hollow steps sounded on the back porch, and a shadow crossed the opaque curtain. The hair stood up on Zach’s neck. The door wasn’t locked. His gun was in the bedroom, buried in a bureau drawer. He lurched to his feet and raced for his weapon.
BECK TWISTED THE doorknob as he juggled a six-pack, his briefcase, and a takeout bag. Flourless chocolate cake was Zach’s favorite, and—courtesy of the Bluebird Café—Beck had dessert covered. Somewhere in all those boxes was Zach’s springform pan, but who knew when they’d find it?
Despite the easy turn of the knob, the door wasn’t opening. The house had settled over the years, and increased humidity had worsened the alignment. Zach’s crippled car still sat in the driveway. Maybe Beck had beaten him home, but then why was the lock free?
Break-in. The myriad boxes were visible through the windows. Beck set his cargo on the porch, then freed his gun and held it at his side. He turned the knob and put his hip into the door, shoving it open.
The kitchen was empty. Only the lingering fragrance of newsprint. Packing material was scattered on the floor around one of the boxes.
Shit, what if Zach interrupted the robbery? Beck’s heart beat double time. He cleared the kitchen, swung into the vacant dining room, weapon held in front of him.
Clear. Sunlight diffused through the living room shades, casting boxes and furniture in sharp relief. Nothing more sinister than a forgotten mug on the coffee table.
Beck halted. An unintelligible voice emanated from their bedroom. He sneaked down the hall and swung in, weapon raised. The window silhouetted a man. Sun glinted off polished steel.
Gun. Beck aimed the Glock. “Drop it, asshole.”
“It’s me, Beck.”
“Zach?” He lowered the weapon and flicked on the safety. “What are you doing?”
Phone clutched in one hand and gun in the other, Zach dropped his chin to his chest. “Protecting myself.”
“What’s happening?” Zach’s phone squawked.
Oookay. Beck nodded at the phone. “You want to fill me in?”
“Hang on.” Zach then spoke into the phone as he moved to the dresser and set down the SIG. “Dean? Are you in the car?”
“Yeah.” The voice sounded odd on speaker, but Beck recognized the tenor of Zach’s ex. “Cops are coming.”
“Stay there. I’ll call you back.” Zach hit a button, and the cell chimed. He set it down next to the gun and scrubbed his face with his hands.
What…the…hell. “Why are cops en route in Minneapolis?”
“Let’s go sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
* * * *
In the kitchen, Beck popped the tops off two beers. It had been a fucked-up evening. They hadn’t eaten, hadn’t relaxed, hadn’t discussed anything but the issues going on nine hundred miles away at Zach’s former residence, and it was after eight. Day had segued into night.
Beck headed for the living room. Zach had slouched on the sofa, one arm over his eyes. The aftermath of Dean’s discovery had siphoned away all the nervous energy from the debacle.
Dean had given a long-distance blow-by-blow as the Minneapolis police arrived and turned the house into a crime scene. That was followed by Zach giving the cops an hour-long phone interview and then another thirty minutes spent talking to Ruskin.
Yeah, one fucked-up evening. The best thing would be to get some food into Zach, then a hot shower and bed.
“Here.” Beck handed a beer to Zach, who straightened and took the bottle.
“Thanks.”
“It might be a joke.” Unlikely, but Beck hoped it was. A cruel prank. He settled next to Zach.
“No joke.” Zach rolled the bottle between his palms. “The cops sealed off the kitchen and took everything in, including the packaging and the envelope.”
Beck rubbed a hand up and down Zach’s spine. How could someone—even a deranged killer—send a human heart through the mail? A calf’s heart, maybe. Something from a slaughterhouse. But Christ, a human body part? “Whoever sen
t it didn’t know you’d rented the house to Dean.”
“Yeah. He’s pretty freaked out.”
In Beck’s opinion, Zach had been pretty freaked out, and he hadn’t even been there in person. “He’s resilient. And he’s got Gif there with him.”
“Still. This happened because of me. I should be there.”
Beck’s heart dropped into his stomach. And how stupid was insecurity about Dean? Zach had moved to Denver, given up the FBI to be with Beck.
Zach must have felt the sudden tension, because he placed his beer on the table and palmed Beck’s knee. “Not because of Dean. Because of the package. And we don’t know what’s in that envelope.”
Why couldn’t Zach let it go?
Yeah. Like you’d let it go if it was you? Like you’d stand by and let someone else handle the threat? Unravel the mystery?
“There’s nothing you can do. Dean and Gif are safe at a hotel, and Ruskin is on his way to Minneapolis. He’ll straighten things out.”
“I know.” Zach sighed. “Listen, you want some dinner? I’ve got stuff in the fridge.”
“I could eat. But you don’t have to cook.” After the day Zach had had, Beck doubted he wanted to slave over a hot stove. And man did not live by flourless cake alone.
Zach’s eyebrows rose. “No?”
“Nope. I’ve got it handled.”
“What are you going to make?”
“A phone call. What do you want on your pizza?”
* * * *
There was no way he was going to sleep tonight. Zach glanced at the clock: 2:17 a.m. The mattress was comfortable, the sheets cool and soft. And of course there was Beck. But visions of disembodied hearts kept creeping into Zach’s head, playing like a B-movie horror show. A nightmare featuring Xav-D wasn’t far behind if he gave in to unconsciousness.
Beck mumbled something in his sleep, shifted onto his side, and again sank into the slow, even breaths of a deep slumber. Zach curled up against his back and wrapped an arm around him.
The feel of Beck was grounding: warm skin, soft hair smelling of woodsy shampoo. Familiar and comforting. But that kind of security couldn’t erase the nagging images of what was to come. More mutilated bodies. Escalating taunts directed at the investigators. Insomnia and nightmares. Zach shivered. What if the killer came after him?
