Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Rachel’s heels clickety-clacked away.

  Automatically, Beck dropped into the spot he’d occupied last time. Van settled beside him. Somewhere a clock ticked away the seconds, and Beck fought the urge to loosen his tie. This sucked.

  Tandem footsteps headed their way. Matt Unger entered the room, his mouth set in a grim line, one arm wrapped around his wife. He guided her to the second couch, and they sat.

  “Detectives,” Unger said. “What can you tell us?”

  Next to him, Mrs. Unger shuddered. Her eyes were huge in the pale oval of her face.

  This is going to be bad. Beck settled his hands on his knees. “We have the lab results. The DNA from the skeleton matches the sample from Annika’s toothbrush.”

  Mrs. Unger’s mouth opened. For a moment there was nothing. Then she crumpled, and silent sobs shook her slender body. Unger gathered her close. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Beck said. It was paltry comfort, those diplomatic words.

  In a broken voice, Mrs. Unger said, “I need to lie down.”

  “We need to hear what they have to say.” Unger watched Beck. The dark eyes burned with anger and frustration.

  “No.” She lurched to her feet. “My baby is gone.”

  Unger stood up. “Teresa, please.”

  “No.” She swayed toward the doorway, Unger dogging her.

  Crap. One parent in agony, the other ready to break something.

  Rachel materialized. “I’ll help.”

  The two were the same size, but Rachel seemed vivid compared to Mrs. Unger’s almost ethereal pallor. Unger gave a curt nod. Rachel responded in kind and guided the grieving mother away.

  Unger returned to the sofa. “I’ve got some questions.”

  Beck tensed. Here it comes.

  “Who killed my daughter, and how?”

  “We believe the man responsible is dead,” Van said. “He—”

  Unger leaned forward, knees nearly touching the coffee table. “Who is he?”

  Van glanced at Beck. “We have circumstantial evidence tying him to the case.”

  “Who?” Cold fury frosted the syllable. The former linebacker’s face suffused with blood, and his eyes glittered.

  After a weighty pause, Van tried again. “He’s dead, Mr. Unger. It’s useless to—”

  “Who the fuck killed my little girl?” Unger roared.

  Van jerked back as if slapped. Eyes wide, he shot Beck an SOS.

  Jesus Christ. Couldn’t Van see he’d poked the bear? Glaring at Van, Unger looked ready to commit homicide himself.

  There was no point in withholding information. Unger reputedly had sources within the department and might unknowingly have facts that could help sort out what had happened. Perny’s tracks could lead to the Follower. They’d crossed paths somewhere. In an even tone, Beck said, “The evidence points to a man named Nathan Perny. He was a law student here in Denver. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  Unger frowned. “No. Did he live in this area?”

  “No.” The apartment in Sunnyside was a far cry from the manicured lawns and personal assistants of the Country Club neighborhood.

  “Then how did he run across Annika?”

  “We don’t know.” Or…did they? Perny had been a law student. Maybe he’d visited a law professor nearby. “Are any of your neighbors attorneys?”

  Unger’s gaze unfocused. “No one close, at least that I know of…” His eyes sharpened and locked on to Beck. “There’s a neighborhood association. I can check with the president. She might have some ideas. If there’s some sort of roster, I can cross-reference it with local attorneys.”

  The last thing Beck wanted was a grieving father mucking around in the residual case, possibly giving a heads-up to the Follower. “Please leave the investigation up to us.”

  “My child is dead,” Unger said through his teeth. “I will damn well investigate if I want to.”

  Beck held back a wince. SJ wouldn’t appreciate a broadcast journalist conducting an inquiry. Chances were Unger would unearth evidence of the Follower in short order. They didn’t need the media getting wind of a possible serial killer operating in the Denver metro area.

  “Okay. See if you can turn up any lawyers in your neighborhood. Then let me know.” Beck reached inside his jacket and pulled out a business card. He laid it on the table.

  Unger stared at the card for what seemed like an eternity. Beck stood. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “How did she die?” Pain wove through the words.

  Beck grimaced. No way in hell he was telling the man his daughter had been the victim of torture. “Strangled.”

  Unger flinched. “Was she…hurt before she died?”

  No father truly wanted to know about possible sexual assault. There hadn’t been any soft tissue left to evaluate for that possibility. “There was no way to tell. I’m sorry about your daughter, Mr. Unger.”

  Unger stood and drew himself up to his full height. “It’s a good thing he’s already dead, Detective. Because if I ever got hold of him, I’d rip him apart with my bare hands.”

  That, Beck believed.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Procedure finished.” Beetle stepped back from the cuffed hands protruding through the slot in the steel door and noted the prisoner’s finger-stick blood-sugar value on the log.

  The muscle-bound guard came forward, twisted the key in the handcuffs, freed the prisoner, and said, “Step away.”

  The man did as ordered and turned. Through the eighteen-inch square window in the steel door, he scowled. Behind him the horizontal bars of the sally port door made a tiny room of the vestibule between the main door and the walls.

  A second guard, beefier than the first, slid a lunch tray through the slot. As soon as the tray disappeared inside, the CO locked the slot door and called the control room via his shoulder mic. Behind the convict, the sally port door slid open; the convict carried his meal to the cast-concrete desk.

  “Next,” Beetle said.

  Two doors down, the guard summoned the next prisoner. Forward, sally port closed, slot door unlocked, hands out, and cuffed. The convict hadn’t showered, and his garlicky reek turned Beetle’s stomach. Filthy animal.

  Beetle cleaned one of the man’s fingers with a swab. The bright tang of rubbing alcohol obscured the BO.

  “Poke.” He jabbed the razor-sharp stylet into the pad of the finger. The hand jerked. Beetle said, “Don’t move.”

  A single ruby drop welled in the wound, bright and beautiful. Beetle scooped it up with a test strip and slid the strip into the glucometer. Twenty seconds…

  Beetle pulled out a cotton ball and pressed it to the prisoner’s finger. “Hold that with your thumb.”

  Ten seconds…

  The beefy CO stepped forward with the tray.

  Beeeeeep.

  “One forty.” Beetle charted it on the daily-rounds form. “Drop the cotton ball.”

  The bit of white fell to floor. Beetle collected it in the red medical-waste sack. “Finished.”

  The guards went through their unlock-and-feed routine.

  Almost there. Beetle said, “Next.”

  The door of the next cell had a steel ring welded above the slot. None of the others had this feature. Of course, none of the other cells contained a man of such notoriety.

  The first guard called the prisoner. The second guard stood by, and a third jailer—a woman with a horsey countenance—joined them with Taser at the ready.

  An enormous pair of dark hands extended through the slot in the steel door. The first guard cuffed the wrists, and then the second CO stepped up, utilizing a second pair of cuffs to shackle the wrist cuffs to the steel ring.

  “Make a fist with your right hand.” The first guard pulled out a specially made mitt constructed of Kevlar. When the prisoner complied, the guard slid the mitt on and secured it at the wrist with a ratchet lock.

/>   “Which finger?” The guard looked at Beetle.

  “Index.”

  The CO produced a second glove. “Index finger extended. Others flexed.”

  The huge man did as directed. The guard slid on the Kevlar sack, threading the index finger through a reinforced hole. He secured the ratchet on the wrist.

  “Proceed,” the guard said.

  Quite a fire drill for one little test. But the mentor’s reputation was such that it was necessary. Beetle stepped up, cleaned the exposed finger. “Ready?”

  There was a deep grunt of assent. This was the only prisoner Beetle ever asked. Stylet poised, he murmured, “Poke.”

  The man didn’t move as the blade bit into the tender pulp of his finger. As the garnet-colored bead grew, Beetle savored the sweet metallic aroma and fancied he could smell the syrupy scent of blood glucose. Was there anything better? Some said the human nose couldn’t detect differences between blood samples, but that wasn’t true. The mentor’s always smelled delightful—like copper and honey.

  Beetle pulled out a test strip and went through the procedure: scoop, slide, cotton ball. As the mentor’s thumbs were restrained, Beetle held the compress. Twenty seconds…

  “Need to talk to the doc alone,” the prisoner said, voice low.

  Ten seconds…

  The first guard crossed his arms. “What’s wrong? Sick?”

  “Confidential.”

  The guard didn’t seem impressed.

  Beeeeeep.

  “One thirteen.” Beetle wrote it down. He wasn’t a doctor, but short of a disaster, he was the only medical personnel allowed in this part of the facility. “I’ll listen to the problem and pass it along.”

  The guards knew protocol for a trip to the infirmary with this particular prisoner made managing Hannibal Lecter look like a breeze. Between guards and shackles and face mask, it was worse than dealing with the terrorists over in H Unit.

  Beetle gave an encouraging smile. “Just give us a minute.”

  The CO frowned, but he nodded to the other two and the trio strolled off to the other end of the corridor. Beetle would have maybe thirty seconds of auditory privacy before a guard returned.

  The mentor rumbled, “The doctor?”

  “Is paged.” That was their code for delivering a message to Littman, like the red paper heart. “In Denver.”

  A chuckle turned into a cough. “Number two?”

  The victim number two would have to wait until Beetle had a day off. “Soon. And I’ll arrange aspirin for you.”

  Aspirin meant batter-fried bits of human heart. The mentor smacked his lips, and Beetle suppressed a giggle. Unseemly, to laugh while engaged in a health conversation. He took the cotton ball off the man’s finger and tucked it in the unseen bag in the pocket of his white coat.

  A deep cough distracted him. Was the mentor actually ill? “Okay?”

  “I am now.”

  Frowning, Muscle-bound made his way to the cell, boots ringing on the concrete. He narrowed his eyes. “Done?”

  If he only knew who he was talking to.

  “Yes.” Beetle smiled.

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

  * * * *

  “God, that was horrible.” Van slouched in the passenger seat.

  Notifications always are. Beck closed his eyes and let out a breath. “He took it better than I expected.”

  Somehow they’d gotten away without revealing too much. If Unger could come up with a couple of lawyers in the neighborhood, maybe they’d have something to go on. The more they learned about Perny, the more data they’d have to analyze how he’d crossed paths with his killer.

  “At least we can sign out the case.” Van’s tone was a mixture of relief and resignation. “It’s over.”

  The uneasiness stirred in Beck’s gut. Was it over? He started the car and drove.

  “Want to go somewhere and have a relaxing lunch?” Van asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Want to go somewhere and relax?”

  That was Van-speak for Let’s fuck. Just when Beck thought the insinuations had stopped. Would this never end? “Let me be clear. No.”

  “C’mon. I know what you like.” Van grinned. “It’s not like you’re married.”

  What a dick wad. Beck rolled to a stop at the end of the block and glared at Van’s lecherous smile. “It’s exactly like that. Exclusive. Committed. In love.”

  This last brought heat to Beck’s face, but damn it, Van had to get this through his thick skull. If they were going to survive working together, he had to get it.

  Van laughed. “Love? Don’t you mean lust?”

  Sure, lust was involved when it came to Zach, but the relationship went far beyond getting off. It was companionship. It was shared victories and defeats. It was putting someone else’s needs above your own, being there through thick and thin.

  Being there when the going got tough.

  When Beck had been shot in the line of duty, Van had run like a scalded dog; he’d left Beck rudderless, lying in a hospital bed with a shattered shoulder and devastated over Dan’s death. Van had worried more about someone discovering their relationship than the fact Beck had desperately needed his support. Van’s departure at that critical time had wrecked him.

  Zach would step in front of a bullet for him. He’d do it without thinking. Beck knew it, because he felt the same way. No sacrifice too great. Soul mate before self.

  Oh, yes. It is a lot more than lust. A horn honked behind him, and Beck hit the accelerator and made tracks for downtown. “You’re getting married in less than two weeks. Why bother if all you can think about is getting in bed with another guy?”

  “I like women too.” The defensive tone revealed the lie.

  What the hell? “So you consider yourself bisexual?”

  “I consider myself to have no choice. I have to get married.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “Not always. My father and brother are on the force, and my grandfather is retired state patrol. There are expectations.” Van drummed his fingers on the armrest. “I’ve put off settling down as long as possible.”

  “Have you thought about coming out? Telling them who you really are?”

  Van snorted. “Right. And start wearing rainbow panties like you? You’re insane.”

  Fucker. “No, you’re the one who’s out of his mind, marrying a woman when you’re clearly—”

  “You don’t know the first thing about what it’s like to grow up in the blue brotherhood,” Van said through his teeth. “No homos allowed. The Gates men do not date other men. They don’t fuck other men. And they certainly don’t marry other men.” Van had previously done two out of three with Beck.

  “Does anyone know you prefer men?”

  “Yeah. The guys I’ve picked up at bars out of town.” Van’s voice softened. “And you.”

  This was beyond ridiculous. “I’m not available.”

  Moody, Van looked out the window.

  Sullen silence filled the car. Maybe Van had finally accepted Beck was serious when he said no. Van had a messy problem, but he’d done this to himself. And it wasn’t like he wanted help from Beck. Soon they’d be back at the precinct, and Beck could find Zach, take him to lunch—

  “If you’d never gotten shot, we could’ve continued seeing each other.”

  Beck snapped a look at Van. Is he saying I’m to blame? “What?”

  “Things were good before that.”

  Christ. “Are you crazy? Things were not good.” Things had been in the closet by mutual agreement, but even then Van had exhibited a degree of paranoia that had dwarfed Beck’s own concerns. Beck had valued the relationship with Van and read something deeper there, but the way Van had dumped him after the shooting…it couldn’t have meant more than sex to Van.

  Right?

  It didn’t matter. Any relationship they’d had was long dead and buried; Van had chosen secrecy over him. Beck kept his tone
neutral. “It’s over, Van. It’s been over for a long time. And there’s no chance of one last hurrah. If you want to get laid, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Van grunted.

  * * * *

  The poem was driving Zach nuts. The thing was much longer and much less straightforward than the other communications to date. He’d tried literally reading between the lines and come up with nothing. Vertical columns—no go. Maybe check individual lines against poetry databases—

  There was a tap on the door.

  Zach jumped up, peeked out, and swung the door wide. “Hey.”

  Beck entered and closed them in. “What’re you working on?”

  “Research stuff.” Zach shuffled the papers into a pile, shoved them inside a folder, and dropped the file in the bottom drawer of his desk. He locked the drawer. “Confidential.”

  “Sure.” Beck had an odd expression. “Want to get lunch?”

  “Sounds good.” He came around the desk and stopped in front of Beck.

  “But first…”

  Then Beck was in his arms, and Beck’s hungry mouth covered Zach’s. For a moment Zach had a twinge of guilt—this was work. But no one could see them. He went with it until they broke for breath.

  Beck gave the grin that made Zach want to take the afternoon off and spend it in bed. Zach asked, “Where are you taking me for lunch?”

  “I thought we’d get something from Ivan and head for the park.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  * * * *

  Outside, the sun played hide-and-seek among the clouds. A warm breeze skipped through the plaza. Cheerful—Beck decided it was cheerful as he led the way to Ivan’s cart. The fragrance of meat cooked with onions and spices wafted toward them.

  Zach sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  “Pelmeni. Russian dumplings.” Beck had tried them before, marveling at the mix of textures and flavors. “Ivan’s uncle makes them.”

  Ivan grinned as they approached. “Good afternoon, Detective. And Doctor. What can I get you?”

  “Pelmeni.” Beck held up two fingers.

  Ivan pulled out a couple of takeout cartons. “Sour cream or vinegar?”