by Whitley Gray
Something thumped on the front porch. The image of a box containing a heart leaped into his brain. Fuck. His gun was in the bedroom. He spun and took two steps in that direction and stopped. Oh.
The newspaper.
Christ. Get a grip, Stryker.
All this talk of the Follower had him jumping at shadows. Pretty early for their neighborhood carrier to be delivering, but the weather was nice and the boy’s dad drove the route. A kid about Artie’s age.
Artie…
That had been one crazy dream. What the hell was all that about? It had been months since he dreamed about being shot, and now Artie and Nance had joined the cast of characters. Nance was a piece of work, but he’d never hurt Artie.
Right?
Rubbing his eyes, Beck went back to bed.
Chapter Ten
“You ready for coffee?” Zach held up the pot. The whiskey had left a low-grade headache behind. Or maybe that was the result of having his brains fucked out last night. They’d gotten their groove back and managed to wake up in mutual good moods. Beck seemed tired, though.
“Go ahead and fix me a cup. I’m going to grab the paper.” Buttoning his shirt, Beck headed for the front of the house.
Zach poured coffee and popped English muffins in the toaster. His car should be ready today, and then they’d each have transportation instead of carpooling.
The screen banged shut, followed by, “Aw, fuck.”
Grinning, Zach pulled margarine and blackberry preserves from the fridge. The paperboy must have hit the bushes fronting the house. Beck truly hated digging in the shrubbery for the news.
Determined footsteps approached. Beck’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I need tongs.”
“If you don’t want to step in mud, I’ll get it.”
“That’s not it.” Beck whipped open a drawer, grabbed the tongs, and marched toward the porch.
Zach trailed after him. “Then what is it?”
Beck pushed the screen door open and pointed.
The air left Zach as if he’d been sucker punched. The newspaper rested on the porch. No mud. Worse than mud. Much worse. Under the rubber band binding the paper was a heart made of torn red construction paper. Black letters read:
Your move, Dr. Littman.
No. No. He’d left that behind, along with the FBI. Xavier Darling had no idea where to send his foul valentines now.
But Xav-D hadn’t delivered today’s message, had he?
“—take some pictures and get it bagged before it gets any more contaminated,” Beck was saying. “Zach?”
“Oh. Right.” He pulled out his cell phone and clicked off a few photos.
Beck handed him the tongs. “I’ll get an evidence bag from my trunk. You want to call it in?”
Automatically, Zach nodded and took the utensil as he stared at the paper. Your move, Dr. Littman.
Bad news, to be sure.
* * * *
Beck and Zach met Ruskin in the foyer outside robbery/homicide. The profiler had a caddy with tall paper coffee cups. Beck wished that were enough to banish the jumpiness plaguing him since he’d discovered the newspaper.
“So…” Ruskin’s expression was unreadable. “Want to fill me in?”
“We’re back here.” Zach led the way to the conference room. They settled at the table; Beck listened as Zach updated Ruskin about the morning’s events.
“It’s like the ones you received in Minneapolis,” Ruskin said.
“Wait a minute.” Beck’s gut clenched. What postcards? “What do you mean, like the others?”
“I’ve received similar notes related to a previous case.” Zach looked away and swallowed. Hard.
A previous case… “The Valentine Killer case? Xavier Darling sent you something like this?”
“On occasion. To taunt me. It hasn’t happened since they moved him to Supermax last fall.”
Underneath the table, Beck made a fist on his thigh. Taunt, my ass. It was a bona fide threat. “But Darling couldn’t have done this.”
“No.” Zach met Beck’s stare with a level one of his own. “This has to be the Follower.”
“Why? Why would the Follower do that?”
For a moment Zach gazed into his cup. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
Ruskin’s phone rang—the Mission: Impossible theme—and he checked the screen. After a minute he looked up. “That was the lab. The DNA on the heart matches Perny’s.”
Beck wasn’t surprised or pleased. Zach didn’t react.
Ruskin drained his coffee. “I’ve got to check in with Sands this morning, but I need to follow up on a couple of things first. I’ll see you guys later.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Zach led the way out of the room.
Damn that red heart. Beck studied at the evidence bag. He wanted a chance to talk to Zach alone before they got to work.
The paper heart was one more tendril pulling Zach into the case; every new twist enmeshed him further. Zach wasn’t resisting. If anything, he seemed to gravitate toward matching wits with the serial killer. It was one thing to work on a profile, to delineate suspects. It was quite another to have the attention of a murderer focused on the hunter. It wouldn’t—couldn’t—end well.
There must be some way to convince Zach to leave it alone.
* * * *
After the conclave with Ruskin, Beck had an hour before SJ’s meeting to discuss the Follower. It was enough time to discuss the next Unger visit with Van or to check with the lab.
Or make a phone call to Hogan about Perny.
Van was across the room with Katie, his fiancée. The wedding was less than two weeks away. Katie glowed. Van looked grim. Marriage details or misgivings?
At least one half of the couple was happy. As tough as it had been, Beck had no regrets about coming out. Zach was right—it was liberating to live authentically in the open.
How Van would balance a wife against his proclivities was anyone’s guess.
Beck reached for the phone and hesitated. The Follower wasn’t his case. His tenuous claim was the note attached to the morning newspaper, probably from the Follower. And no one had any idea who the bastard was. Right now the best way to ID him was through victimology. Knowing nothing about Jane Doe 114 left whatever Beck could find on Perny. And Perny belonged to Hogan.
Do it now, before Van gets back. Beck dialed.
“Hogan.”
“Clay, this is Beck Stryker in Denver.”
“Morning, Beck. What can I do you for?”
“I need to know what else you’ve got going on Perny.”
Hogan said nothing. There was a pained metallic squeak. “There a reason for that?”
“The Follower has threatened Zach. Dr. Littman.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Beck filled Hogan in about the heart delivery to Zach’s former residence in Minneapolis, including the poem. “The heart DNA matches Perny’s.”
“So Perny’s killer is trying to draw Dr. Littman out.”
“It’s more than that. There was another note rubber banded to the newspaper this morning. Looks like the Follower is now in Denver.” Beck twisted in his chair. Van and Katie had disappeared. “I know Perny’s your case, and the Follower is your suspect, but the guy seems to have it in for Zach. And if the Follower is in Denver, maybe I can help you.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal,” Hogan said. “We checked out the information Dr. Littman got from Perny’s neighbor. She was right. Perny was enrolled at the University of Denver Law School. Before that, he attended the University of Nebraska Law School in Lincoln for a year and a half. He transferred to DU at the end of the fall semester.”
Sounded like a strange thing to do halfway through law school. “Why did he transfer?”
“Apparently Perny was some sort of legal hotshot. Top of his class. He wanted to trade up to a more prestigious school.”
“So he intended to stay in Denver until he finished law school?”
Had Perny met his killer after he’d transferred schools? Hogan added, “Nebraska said he’d done an internship last summer with a Denver law firm.”
“Do you have the name of the firm?”
“Hang on.” Papers rustled. “Bellwether, Fontana, and Day. Heard of ’em?”
“It’s a prominent criminal-defense firm.” Bellwether, Fontana, and Day—BFD—was known as Big Fucking Deal in the law enforcement community, and they didn’t mind the profane play on their corporation’s initials. BFD showcased a bunch of attorneys with expensive, hand-tailored suits, and billables at four hundred an hour. The lawyers had titanium balls the size of coconuts, including the women. In court, they snacked on ill-prepared witnesses. “Do you know who Perny was working with over there?”
“No, but I bet you can help me by finding out.” There was a grin in Hogan’s words. “And if you’d let me know…”
“Sure.” Beck closed his eyes. Great. He’d officially stepped into the case he wanted Zach to stay out of.
“Good enough. See ya, Beck.” Hogan disconnected.
SJ might not like Beck spending time on a case affecting DPD peripherally, but it sure as hell affected him personally. A psychopath had Zach on his radar, and Beck was going to run interference.
It would be nice to have someone to bounce this off. Discussing the case with Zach would encourage him to get more involved, and going over the details with Ruskin might extend to Zach. Van was out.
There had to be a way to check the situation out without drawing Zach into the investigation.
* * * *
Sun slanted through the blinds, striping the robbery/homicide conference room. Air-conditioning gave the space a cold, musty smell, but Beck could still detect the faint scent of Zach’s cologne.
SJ had gathered them for an “exchange of information” meeting: Ruskin, Zach, Van, and Beck. Richfield had been left out, thank God. The situation was bad enough without making it into an educational opportunity.
SJ’s hair was up in a bun; she wore a floral blouse paired with tailored slacks—feminine but professional. “Agent Ruskin, why don’t you start us off with the FBI lab report?”
“The DNA from Annika Unger’s toothbrush is a match to the skeleton, and so is the sample from the barrette.”
“So we have an ID on the skeleton. Thank you.” SJ was infallibly polite.
Beck toyed with the handle on his coffee mug. He couldn’t shake the uneasiness that Annika’s case wasn’t over. Everything tying her death to Perny was circumstantial. “What about the unidentified fingerprint on the lens of her glasses?”
“So far there’s no match.” Van tapped his pen on a notepad. “It may not mean anything.”
Maybe not, but Beck’s gut said the print signified something.
“You’ll notify the parents about the DNA match?” Ruskin asked.
Van nodded. “We’ll head out there this morning.”
The DNA results would confirm the Ungers’ worst fears. At least they’d have their daughter’s remains and some closure. And Beck could tell them the killer was dead. True, if the killer was Perny. If.
“Okay.” SJ adjusted her glasses. To Beck she said, “What’s the story with this note left at your residence?”
He’d explained the basics when he called in earlier, and Zach had forwarded the pictures via his cell phone.
“The crime lab has it.” Beck had dropped off the evidence bag. “We may have something by this afternoon.”
SJ’s attention swung to Zach. “Is it a threat from the Follower?”
Zach looked like a man asked to negotiate quicksand. “At this point I’m more inclined to believe it’s a way to draw me into the case.”
“He’d sent you a message before this, via a delivery to your former residence, correct?” SJ asked.
Zach grimaced. “Yes.”
Ruskin said, “The FBI is involved in the Follower case—the two victims in Omaha as well as the messages he’s sent to Zach. We believe Zach’s FBI affiliation may tie in with why the Follower has contacted him.”
At least Ruskin hadn’t said Zach was involved in the FBI’s investigation.
SJ focused on Ruskin. “Perny’s death continues to be an Omaha PD investigation, correct?”
“Correct. I’d planned to leave for Omaha this morning, but in light of the note, I’m delaying my departure until tomorrow. It’s possible the Follower is still in the area. We’ll know more after the crime lab goes over the note.”
“Do you believe the Follower represents a threat to Zach?”
Ruskin hesitated. “He’s organized, intelligent, and mobile. It’s likely he’s going to continue. Communicating with law enforcement suggests he believes he’s smarter than we are. Beyond that, it’s hard to predict based on his victimology whether he’ll try something with Zach beyond matching wits.”
“We’ve potentially got a serial killer in our jurisdiction, gentlemen.” She made eye contact with each of them before locking gazes with Zach. “If there’s any further communication, I expect to know right away.”
“Absolutely.”
Beck was absolutely skeptical. Zach hadn’t given the whole story about the poem to Beck right away, and the postcard-and-paper-heart business hadn’t come to the forefront until this morning. Why hadn’t Zach said something about Xav-D’s postcard proclivities when the paper heart had been found inside Perny’s chest?
“Anything further?” SJ looked around the room. “Then we’re done.” She and Van left.
“We’ll talk later,” Ruskin said to Zach and exited.
“Maybe we could grab lunch when I get back.” Beck closed the door. “Unless you have something else scheduled.”
Zach snorted. “No danger of that happening, I’m afraid.”
“The counseling business will pick up.” It better pick up, or Beck would have trouble convincing Zach Denver was a viable career move.
There was a rap on the door. Before Beck could respond, the door opened, and Van stuck his head in. “You about done? We need to make the notification.”
Beck said, “Almost. Can you give us a minute?”
“Sure. Take your time, boys.” Van smirked and withdrew.
Sometimes Beck wanted to smack the guy. To Zach he said, “I’ll call you after we see the Ungers.”
“Sounds good.”
At least lunch with Zach was something to look forward to. They stood at the same time. When Zach did nothing, Beck reached out and took his hand and squeezed gently. What he really wanted was to wrap Zach in a hug and reassure him with a kiss, but with Van hovering nearby, Beck settled for, “See you later.”
“Yep.” Zach returned the hand squeeze and let go. “Good luck with the Ungers.”
“Thanks.”
Zach hesitated a moment and cleared his throat. “Be careful out there.” His eyes voiced what Zach hadn’t: Be careful out there. I love you.
“You too,” he said softly. Then, brisk and businesslike, “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” Zach opened the door, and Beck followed him out.
* * * *
Notifications were the worst.
Beck drove east on Sixth Avenue, heading toward the Ungers and unpleasantness. Traffic was light; the mood was not.
As soon as they informed the Ungers, the paperwork to release Annika’s remains could commence. The case would be off his plate, which was good, because he’d need some time this afternoon to follow up with Bellwether, Fontana, and Day about Perny.
Zach had pulled information from Perny’s downstairs neighbor—Elsa? India?—and might have facts that would delineate Perny’s movements. Wouldn’t asking be like inviting Zach to get involved? Further involved.
There must be a way to—
“Sooo. Things a little twitchy on the home front?” Van asked.
Beck kept his eyes on the road. Perfect. That was all he needed today. “None of your business, is it?”
“Just
an observation. Seems like you were more relaxed before Zach got here.”
Why did Van constantly have to push buttons?
“I know it can’t be easy, between this case and the Follower leaving notes on your doorstep.”
So Van wanted to be all buddy-buddy, huh? After months of silence—and tacit disapproval of Beck’s out-and-proud status—Van had picked a hell of a time to resurrect their friendship. “Can we not do this?”
“Not do what? Talk?”
“Not dissect my personal life.”
“Only trying to help.” Van drummed his fingers below the window. “You seem tense.”
Really? “Christ, Van. We’re on our way to tell the Ungers their kid is dead. Of course I’m tense.”
The Denver Country Club slid by on the right, secure behind its brick walls and white-painted iron. Beck turned onto the Ungers’ street. The overhanging trees filtered the sunlight into dappled green and gold on perfect lawns; it looked idyllic. Murders didn’t happen in such a place. Beck pulled into the drive and parked.
Wordlessly he climbed out of the car and strode up the walkway. The scolding squirrel was nowhere in sight, and the birds were strangely silent, almost as if the property held its breath, waiting for a verdict.
Up the steps to the porch and the door from the Dark Ages. Beck rang the bell. Inside the house, deep-throated chimes sounded. Too funerary—like a dirge. Or maybe it was just the situation.
Van stared at the front yard. He hadn’t spoken after Beck called him out on the tension comment.
The house remained quiet, the door unanswered. Beck had confirmed the meeting with Matt Unger while sidestepping questions. The man was no dumb jock—Unger had made pointed inquiries about what was going on, why the need for another face-to-face. And feeling like a jerk, Beck had evaded those demands for answers, requesting a meeting instead.
Beck pressed the bell a second time. The dirge played, and then footsteps approached. Rachel Witkowski opened the door. One look at their faces and she frowned.
“This way, please.”
She led them into the living room with the yellow sofas and fragile-looking chairs. There were no teacups today and no vases of blooms. Furniture polish scented the air instead of flowers. The room felt like it had lost its floral petticoat.
