by Whitley Gray
What if the killer came after Beck?
Zach kissed Beck’s shoulder. I’d take out anyone who tried to hurt you. But he couldn’t guard Beck 24-7. Life had to go on, regardless of what had happened. It wouldn’t take the sender long to figure out Zach hadn’t received the package. Hell, the maniac could have been watching in Minneapolis to see Zach’s reaction. Without the gratification of Zach’s response, the one who had sent the heart might do something more outrageous to get Zach’s attention. His stomach clenched.
Dr. Littman, your heart belongs to me.
Not as long as he could draw breath.
Zach shifted to his back and studied the shadows cast by trees in the moonlight. Nothing very relaxing about that. The knot in his gut made it hard to settle down.
Quit thinking about the case.
Yeah, right.
How ridiculous. He had to work tomorrow, and part of that would include investigation related to Perny. Sighing, he slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom for a drink. In the quiet, the faucet sounded like a waterfall as he filled the glass. The cool water didn’t ease his stomach. He trudged back to bed.
“You okay?” Beck’s voice was husky with sleep.
“Yeah. Sorry I woke you.”
“’S all right.” Beck rolled toward him as Zach slid between the sheets. “Bad dream?”
Both of them had had problems with nightmares secondary to past traumas. Beck’s tended to be about the incident that had killed his then-detective-partner Dan and left Beck with a shattered shoulder. Zach’s showcased the attack by Xav-D and transient blindness nearly three years ago. They’d gotten into the habit of asking, saying everything was fine, and then trying to get back to sleep. “Nope. Just have a lot on my mind.”
Beck seemed to mull that over. “Anything I can do?”
“Nah.” Zach kissed him and lay down. In the dark, Zach could feel the concern coming off Beck, the unspoken questions.
“Sure?”
“Sleep.”
With a sigh, Beck flipped onto his stomach. “G’night.”
“Night.”
After a couple of minutes, Beck’s breathing resumed the cadence of sleep. Zach folded his arms behind his head and contemplated the ceiling.
By five, Zach couldn’t stand lying there. Beck slumbered on, face smooth, mouth soft-looking.
At least one of us can snooze. The coming dawn had lightened the window to a square of gray in the midst of the darkness. Might as well make coffee and get the day underway. Zach got out of bed. In silence, he pulled on a T-shirt and sweatpants, detoured to the bathroom, and then headed for the kitchen.
The faint morning light showed the appliances in shades of silver and slate. Zach went about making coffee. It would be a busy day: tracking down Perny’s law school, his employer, and any family. Ruskin should arrive sometime today with news about the heart and the letter enclosed with it. If the cardiac tissue matched Perny, that would suggest the killer wanted to draw Zach out.
But why?
While he waited, Zach pulled up the autopsy report from the North Platte, Nebraska, victim, Perny’s seventh known kill. The cold winter had kept her in better shape than her predecessors, and the most detailed information about the Crossroads Killer might come from her.
Annika Unger had disappeared from a Denver suburb four days before the Nebraska victim. The acidic soil of her grave had hastened decomposition, as had the warm spring. Was she Perny’s? There were differences, but Perny might not have had everything he needed. Possibly he took the girl while he was still in the process of moving from Omaha to Denver? He’d had a tie handy but not a bathtub and a sheet?
But four days later he did his usual thing in North Platte, and he didn’t live there.
The Denver ME’s report might help. They might have found some trace suggesting where she’d been killed. Zach needed to get Annika’s autopsy.
The aroma of coffee curled through the air, and Zach took in a lungful. Just smelling it had a relaxing effect. He closed the laptop. Maybe he could have a cup of coffee and unwind enough to go back to bed until seven.
While he waited, he opened a random cardboard box and searched for the toaster. He’d seen it in one of the cartons last night before Dean opened that damnable package.
A real heart. Possibly human. If the heart belonged to one of the Follower’s victims, Zach’s money was on Perny. It had been a devastating death from what Hogan had said, and delivering the heart to Zach would tie in with the note left inside Perny’s chest cavity. The only hitch in the killer’s plan was not knowing where Zach currently lived.
Yet.
Zach poured a mug of coffee and sipped. Ah…the best part of the morning. Amazing, the way coffee stimulated and calmed at the same time. Today he’d need all the help he could get.
Mentally, psychologically—hell, emotionally—the Follower belonged to Zach; Zach’s name was literally on the case. There would be no bowing out when Ruskin arrived. The revelation wouldn’t go over well with Beck, but what choice was there? If Zach had drawn the attention of a serial killer, Beck could be in danger as well.
Protecting those Zach loved required inside knowledge.
In the yard, the sun had limned the trees and tulips with gold. Nothing stirred. The day was new, untested. He might as well enjoy the time before work. Zach finished his coffee and headed back to the bedroom.
Chapter Eight
Beck pulled into the garage downtown and parked. Beside him, Zach stared out the window, seemingly oblivious they’d arrived.
This morning when Beck had asked, “How did you sleep last night?” Zach had given a sickly smile and replied, “Fine.”
Yeah, right. Beck knew he hadn’t slept; the pallor and the sleepless shiners beneath Zach’s eyes gave it away. The man was exhausted.
Zach had awakened him at dawn, tasting of coffee and urgency. After they’d made love, Beck had dozed off. When he’d surfaced thirty minutes later, Zach had already shaved, showered, and dressed. No postcoital nap for him.
Beck asked, “You want to stop for coffee before we go upstairs?”
“Sure.”
They climbed out of the car and headed outside. Colorado had anted up one of those crystal clear days, the kind that made Denver a great place to live. A spring breeze had cleared the smog, and the richness of coffee filled the air.
Weekdays, Ivan Cherry parked his food cart on the plaza. Zach had become addicted to Ivan’s brew, and Beck had to admit it was much better than the oily stuff that passed for coffee in robbery/homicide.
“You want your usual?” Beck tipped his head at the menu.
“Yeah.” Zach stared into the distance.
“Doughnut?” Ivan raised a bushy brow. “They’re from Zimmerman’s.”
Food of the gods. Beck could eat them every day. “Zach?”
“Not today.”
Oookay. Beck ordered two large coffees, black, and two powdered sugar doughnuts.
Coffee might bring Zach back to life. Or maybe he would let Beck in on exactly what was bothering him; it might be more than the heart delivery. Zach was dealing with major life changes, what with the move to Denver and leaving the FBI. The Crossroads case was solved, even if Zach hadn’t been the one to do it directly. Perny was dead; case closed.
Right?
But now the Follower was out there and seemed hell-bent on involving Zach.
Ivan set two steaming cups and a white paper bag on the counter. Beck gave Ivan a twenty and received the change. “Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
Beck passed a cup to Zach. “Ready for the day?”
“Absolutely.” Zach’s inflection was flatter than his expression.
Beck held back a sigh and angled for the entrance. It wasn’t going to be a good day.
* * * *
“I have some information,” Ruskin said.
A thrill went through Zach. Clutching the phone, he closed his office door. “What’ve you got?”
“Is it red construction paper?” Please say no. Xav-D had reveled in sending Zach that sort of nasty valentine. When the state moved Xav to Supermax, the valentines stopped—until the one left inside Perny’s chest cavity.
“No. Black marker on plain white copy paper.”
“Another ‘Your heart belongs to me’ type of thing?”
“It’s a poem.”
That was unexpected. Some serial killers became enamored of famous writers—the creepier, the better. “Interesting. Poe, or something like that?”
“We think it’s original. I can’t find it in any poetry data bank.”
Ah. The Follower fancied himself a bard. “What does it say?”
“The gist is he’s a ghost, and he’s challenging you. Sort of a riddle.” Ruskin sounded matter-of-fact.
“Read it to me, would you?”
There was a pause. “You’ve got a fresh start over there. You shouldn’t get involved, Zach.”
“I’m involved whether I want to be or not.”
“There are several stanzas. I’ll e-mail it to you.” Reluctance saturated Ruskin’s words. “Maybe it’ll mean something to you.”
Zach moved to his desk chair. “I’m ready.”
“On the way.”
The e-mail popped into Zach’s inbox, and his heart gave a nauseating skip. Why am I doing this?
To protect Beck. And Dean. And whoever else this maniac might have in his sights. He opened the file.
The Follower had written in block letters on a generic sheet of white.
The numberless one gave her love to show me the way.
In an empty garden laid to rest alone,
Her divine purpose served, b’neath the moon she lay
All blood warmth fled and cold as a stone.
Who was the numberless one? The Jane Doe in Omaha? Was the garden Perny’s graveyard? Gritting his teeth, he scrolled down.
The Crossroads devil has come and gone
Transformed to the ambrosia of worms and wily men.
No more beauties will fall to Satan’s spawn.
No more silk, shampoo, and sheets in the devil’s den.
The death of Perny. A creepy purple-prose-laden description.
Those deserving the blade will cleanse the Other’s sin.
Now the game is afoot, the true numbers begin.
Huh. A two-line stanza for some reason. The capitalized “Other” suggested a proper name. To whom was he referring? True numbers… Xav-D had said Jane Doe’s killer would kill four more. Was she the first?
The heart of the matter is yours to discern.
Read between the lines, my dear Dr. Littman.
Soon it’ll be time for me to take another turn.
Come out and play. Signed, Your biggest fan.
An icy shiver slithered down Zach’s spine. Poetry from a madman. Hell, an invitation from a madman. Come out and play. Play—as if it were a game. Maybe it was a game to—
“Zach? You there?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Does it mean anything to you?”
It means insanity. Danger. “Other than he wants me involved, nothing off the top of my head. Did you get any prints?”
“No. Some powder from plastic exam gloves. That’s it. The paper is common. They’re testing the ink, but I think it’ll be unremarkable too.”
“Any pathology results on the heart?”
“The medical examiner here says it’s human. DNA in process.”
“Probably the Jane Doe from last fall or Perny.” Most likely Perny. “Can they forward the DNA profile to Omaha and Denver? I’ll work on the poem.”
“Don’t play into this guy’s hands, Zach.”
“I’m not. The sooner we catch him, the sooner it’ll be over, right? He’s calling me out, but I’m a professional. I’ll stay out of trouble.”
Silence. Zach pictured Ruskin grimacing, running a hand over his crew cut.
“Seriously, he won’t get the drop on me, Ruskin.”
“I’ll call you when I get into Denver tonight. Watch your six.”
“Absolutely.”
* * * *
“We should bring Littman,” Van muttered, eyeing Beck across the desks. “Unger might be more receptive to speaking with an FBI agent.”
Beck shook his head. Van had swung from Are you giving away our case? to Unger is going to go homicidal. Zach had plenty of crap on his agenda already. Grieving parents facing the reality of death could be worse than frantic parents horrified to discover their child missing. “It’s our case, not his.”
“Still. Littman knows a hell of a lot more about Perny than we do. What’s the point in having an FBI agent around if he doesn’t help with this kind of thing?”
Beck glared. “Knock it off.”
“What?” Van raised his hands. “It’s true.”
God, give me the strength not to kill him. “There’s no reason to involve him in this interview. You and I have worked the skeleton case. It’s our job to ask questions and make the notification.”
“Unger will ask about Perny.”
“And we’ll tell him that part of the case is ongoing.”
“He’s already dragged DPD through the mud when his kid went missing. I don’t want to be in the crosshairs.”
“Van—”
“I’m serious. He’s a huge guy with a bad temper. We should bring him down here to talk.”
Beck squared his shoulders and fought the urge to deck him. “No. We go to the residence, just like any other case.”
* * * *
Beetle sighed as he drove down the dusty road. The trip had been wonderful, but it was a relief to get home. Colorado was pretty in the spring. A hint of green overlay the taupe-colored foothills. Pale blue washed the sky—he could see forever in the clear Rocky Mountain air.
The gratification from the first masterpiece going off successfully had buoyed him, even if Littman hadn’t shown up. By now he should have received Beetle’s gift. The profiler couldn’t turn down that kind of invitation.
It was a brilliant way to bring Littman into the case, and it was Beetle’s own signature, not a play off the mentor’s. The note taped to the foam container had been a risk, but he couldn’t resist. And it wasn’t like they could track him down with it.
He rolled to a stop and parked. Overhead a hawk soared on a thermal, hanging motionless in the sky. Beetle’s boots made their familiar clop as he walked toward the entrance. Inside he showed his ID, went through the scanner, and headed for the clinic. Today he’d let his mentor know about all the happenings of the past week.
It was going to be a great day.
* * * *
At a few minutes before ten, Beck cruised past the stone walls of the Denver Country Club. The institution anchored the neighborhood of the same name, where gates guarded the entrances and mature trees shaded the mansions. In one yard, a man in a khaki uniform mowed the grass while another trimmed the hedges.
The Country Club residential area screamed money: old money, new money, it didn’t matter as long as it was a hell of a lot. Beck appreciated the varied architecture of the genteel homes and the well-kept yards, but the residents he’d dealt with seemed to flaunt an air of superiority.
Crime didn’t respect the boundaries of wealth. Annika Unger had disappeared from the area last December.
After passing through the gates, Beck held his speed to the requisite twenty-five miles per hour while Van kept an eye out for the address.
“Turn in at the next house,” Van said.
Here we go. Beck negotiated the circular drive and parked in front of the Tudor mansion. Matt Unger was rich, famous, and opinionated. “Updating” him about his daughter’s case was the approach SJ had suggested, but the visit would segue into a death notification. At the least, telling the next of kin about the loss of a loved one brought out raw emotion.
What it might bring out in a six-foot-five f
ormer linebacker…
No time like the present. Beck turned to Van. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be. You want to take lead?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve never met him.”
“Neither have I. You have a better handle on the material from Perny’s place.”
True. “Okay. I’ll take lead. Let’s go.”
They climbed out of the car. The air even smelled affluent. A breath of lilac mixed with wet stone and earth, like a castle courtyard. Birds called from the trees. On the walk, a red squirrel paused, twitched its tail, and scampered up a tree, scolding as they approached the house.
A set of brick-faced steps led to a semicircular porch. The door was massive, aged wood with iron straps and hinges. A little too dungeon-like for Beck’s taste.
“Not too late to turn back,” Van said.
Asshole. “Let’s go.” Beck headed up the steps.
* * * *
The more time Zach spent on the poem, the more convinced he became he was missing something. The two-line stanza didn’t fit. The clue must be in there, but what was it?
Those deserving the blade will cleanse the Other’s sin.
Now the game is afoot, the true numbers begin.
Who was the Other? Xav-D? Perny? It was possible they were dealing with vigilante justice. What were the “true numbers”?
He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The window in his office admitted little natural light. Time to take a coffee break. He closed his computer and headed for the plaza.
* * * *
Beck pressed the bell. The door opened to reveal a petite woman dressed in a fuchsia dress and heels. Her blonde hair was cut boyishly short, and she had watchful eyes the color of amber, almost like a lion. Despite her size, she exuded an air of confidence.
She gave him a once-over. “Detective Stryker?”
“Yes. And this is Detective Gates.”
“I’m Rachel Witkowski, the Ungers’ personal assistant. They’re expecting you.” She ushered them inside. Beck caught a whiff of something designer and expensive as he passed.
The foyer floor was inlaid wood in several colors, vintage but well maintained. A staircase swept up on the right, grounded with an enormous newel post. Two stories above them, a crystal chandelier glittered.
