Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Zach asked Beck, “What’s good?”

  “They’re pretty savory. Sour cream makes a nice contrast with the spiciness.”

  Zach nodded. “Let’s go with that, then.”

  Humming, Ivan lifted a metal door, and steam rolled out. Using tongs, he loaded stuffed half-moon-shaped pockets into cartons and added a dollop of sour cream.

  Two bottles of iced tea completed their lunch. They carried their food toward the park. When they’d moved out of earshot, Zach said, “Ivan is Russian, da?”

  “Yep.” Beck’s mouth watered at the heavenly scent coming from the takeout.

  “Ivan sounds like a Russian name, but what about Cherry?”

  “Back in the old country it was something like Cherinabokov. Something long and complicated.” Beck stopped at the street corner and waited for the light to change. Lunchtime traffic clogged the downtown area.

  “How was your morning?” Zach asked.

  There was no way in hell Beck was recounting the conversation with Van, at least the part where Van had come on to him. Talking about the visit to the Ungers had about as much appeal. “Unger took it hard. His wife fell apart.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah.” The light changed. Beck headed for the opposite sidewalk.

  “Your case is over, then?”

  Something twisted in Beck’s stomach. Is it? “I think so.”

  The park offered an oasis of green dotted with leafy trees and metal-and-concrete seats. Beck chose a bench in the shade. If they were going to talk shop, they’d need privacy.

  It was late enough that most of the pedestrian lunch crowd had returned to work. Beck settled on the scrollwork seat and put the bag containing their lunch between them. He opened a carton and handed it to Zach before pulling his container from the bag.

  Zach speared a pelmeni. “These look like something my grandmother used to make. A Czechoslovakian recipe she got from my great-grandmother.”

  Beck offered a smile. He’d never known his grandparents. Hell, he had no memories of his father, the man he was named after. The Stryker family didn’t hand down recipes generation to generation.

  “My grandmother used to let me help her in the kitchen. I think that’s where I got my love of cooking.” Zach bit into the dumpling. Eyes closed, he moaned around a mouthful. “Good.”

  “Glad you like it.” Beck dug into his container. The dough was fried to a golden brown. The first bite was a profusion of peppery beef, sweet onion, and celery. The cumin and turmeric hit, and then the sour cream smoothed everything out. A little bit of heaven.

  Zach studied the dumplings. “Think Ivan’s uncle would give me the recipe?”

  “And sacrifice business? Not likely. Ivan’s job is to get you hooked on them so you can’t resist.”

  “I’ll do a little reconnaissance online.” Zach licked his fork, selected another dumpling, and waved it at Beck. “Prepare to be a pelmeni guinea pig.”

  “Bring it on.” In the seven months of their acquaintance, Beck had yet to eat a bad meal prepared by Zach. All kitchen experiments to date had been delicious.

  A spoke of sunlight slipped through the clouds, gilding Zach’s hair and the stubble along his jaw. So gorgeous, but not a bit of conceit. Something swelled inside Beck’s chest. It was humbling when someone had that effect on you. Beck wanted to reach out and run his fingers across that whiskery cheek. But this was a public area. Too public.

  Baby steps, Stryker. You’re out, you’re proud. No need to drive the point home for everyone.

  Zach sipped his tea. “Did you tell Unger about Perny?”

  “Yeah. He would have found out eventually, and it was easier to control the situation by telling him in private.” Assuming Perny did it.

  “What did SJ say?”

  “Sign off on the case and tell the ME’s office to release the body.”

  Zach nodded. “So what’s bothering you?”

  Shit. Why did Zach have to be so damn intuitive? “Our entire case is circumstantial. We have her barrette in Perny’s apartment, but nothing of him with the girl. She doesn’t match Perny’s other victims. If we were going to trial, the defense would make mincemeat out of our case.”

  “The FBI evidence would support your case.”

  “Sort of.” Beck twisted the lid off his tea and took a long swallow.

  Zach put his empty carton in the sack. “Ruskin is trying to pull all the Crossroads cases together. He’s worried the silk around Annika’s neck may not be a proven match to a Tarka tie, and he wanted to know if the ties on the other victims had labels. I told him I wasn’t sure.”

  Would they ever be free of the Crossroads case? “Do labels matter?”

  “They might, if all the victims except Annika have one.” Zach studied the ground. “He’s checking with Omaha PD.”

  “Good.” Beck gave Zach an encouraging glance. Maybe he was leaving the Crossroads wrap-up to Ruskin.

  “Have you heard anything from forensics about the newspaper from this morning?”

  “No.” Beck should have checked. In a way it didn’t matter—whatever forensics had discovered, Zach wasn’t the investigator.

  But was it the Follower at work here?

  If the heart had some tangible connection to Xav-D, what would that say about the Follower?

  Had Xav contracted with someone to visit horrors on Zach?

  * * * *

  Beck scrolled through the online directory until he found the number of Bellwether, Fontana, and Day. Taking a deep breath, he punched in the digits. Somewhere in a high-rise downtown, the phone rang.

  “Bellwether, Fontana, and Day,” a woman said. “How may I direct your call?”

  “This is Detective Stryker at the Denver Police Department. I need to speak to the person who supervises law student internships.”

  “One moment.” Music played on the line, some highbrow classical tune Beck didn’t recognize. Very…proper.

  Given the sensitive nature of the situation, it was possible the attorney might refuse to speak with Beck. Then again, the firm had a vested interest in keeping their affiliation with Perny under wraps.

  “Mr. York’s office. How may I help you?” Another woman, this time with a trace of an English accent.

  “This is Detective Stryker with the Denver Police Department. I’m calling for the attorney who supervises the student internship program.”

  “I’m sorry. The summer internship applications are closed.”

  Really? “I don’t want to apply. This is a police matter. I need to speak with the supervising attorney. Is that Mr. York?”

  “One moment, please.” More classical music.

  Beck sighed. SJ wouldn’t like it if she knew about this.

  “Detective? This is Moses York.” The man’s voice was smooth and low, the sort of soothing tone that could lull a jury into believing whatever he said. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m calling with regard to one of your interns, Nathan Perny.”

  “Mr. Perny isn’t with us right now,” York said. “He’s due to begin a summer internship in June.”

  So BFD didn’t know about Perny’s death. “About that. Mr. Perny died last week.”

  There was a pregnant pause. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Beck held back a snort. If you only knew what he’d been up to before his demise. “Did you know him well?”

  “I didn’t know him at all, Detective.”

  “He didn’t work with you?”

  “No.”

  Aw, hell. “Who did Mr. Perny work with?”

  “Why?” The tone had become guarded. “Is there an issue that involves the firm?”

  Careful, Stryker. “It’s possible, because Mr. Perny was murdered.”

  There was an intake of breath. “I see.”

  What in the hell does that mean? “Look, Mr. York. There are some sensitive issues here. I’d like to meet with you in person and discuss this in more detail.”

  “Yes,
well. On behalf of Bellwether, Fontana, and Day, I respectfully decline to answer your questions. The firm has nothing further to say. Good day, Detective.” York rang off.

  Nothing like a legal stonewall to stymie an investigation. Perny wasn’t at BFD; therefore a warrant would be useless for evidence-gathering. So much for progress. Hogan would be thrilled.

  * * * *

  Zach pulled off his glasses and tossed them on the desk. God, he needed something to distract himself from the poem. He’d made no progress after lunch and had the makings of a bad headache.

  It was after four, and it was Friday. Maybe Beck could knock off a little early and take Zach to pick up his car. Carpooling bothered him. Too many awkward silences.

  If Beck couldn’t take him, he’d get a cab. He stuck the poem, his laptop, and his notes into his briefcase. If insomnia struck, he’d have something to do besides pace.

  Someone tapped on the door.

  After everything that had happened with the Follower, Zach had kept it locked. Bracing his foot against the door, he opened it a crack.

  “Expecting someone else?” Ruskin smiled wryly.

  The Follower. Zach let the door swing wide. “C’mon in.”

  Ruskin stepped in and pulled the door shut. “Just wanted to drop by and let you know I’m heading out. SJ and Beck were both away from their desks.”

  “Back to Minneapolis?”

  “For now. I’ll wrap up the Crossroads case and see where Sands wants to go regarding the Follower.” Ruskin’s brow creased. “Do not engage with this guy.”

  “I’m not.” Hell, he hadn’t even figured out what the Follower wanted. The paper heart inside Perny’s chest had been straightforward, as had the one banded to the newspaper. “I haven’t responded to his overtures.”

  “He’s an unknown factor, and he’s dangerous.”

  “I know that.” As if I’m some civilian. “Christ, Ruskin. I’ve only been out of profiling for a week.”

  “Sorry.” And Ruskin truly did appear chastised. “Just…watch your six, okay?”

  Zach deflated. “I’ll be careful. You’ll call with updates?”

  Ruskin shifted his attention to the floor. “I shouldn’t. You’re off the case.”

  And I’m out of behavioral and the FBI. “But I’m in the Follower’s sights. What you know could help me avoid big trouble.”

  Beck wouldn’t appreciate how proprietary Zach felt about the situation.

  “I’ll keep you in the loop. But you’re not playing an active role. And you’ll let me know immediately if there’s further contact. Agreed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Beck’s a good guy, Zach. Someone worth keeping in your life. You’ve got a chance for a normal life, know what I mean?” The words were soft, but Ruskin’s eyes were serious.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  Ruskin nodded. “Talk to you soon.”

  “Have a good flight.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Annika Unger’s funeral is on Wednesday.” Beck tapped the steering wheel while stopped at a red light. The death of a child was a horrible thing. And knowing how she’d probably died… Yeesh.

  “Are you going?” Zach sounded melancholy.

  “I might. It’s family only, but SJ thinks there’s a chance the Follower might put in an appearance.” Beck hesitated. “What do you think?”

  “Me?” Zach sounded faintly amused.

  “Yeah, you.”

  “If the Follower didn’t kill her—and we have nothing to suggest he did—I see no reason why the funeral would interest him. Perny is dead, so he won’t be attending—at least not corporeally.”

  “Funny.” The light turned green, and Beck got underway. His phone rang, and he passed it to Zach. “Check that for me, will you?”

  Zach glanced at the screen. “It’s Marybeth. You want me to answer?”

  “Yeah. Might be important.”

  “Hello? …No, it’s Zach. Beck’s driving… Hang on.” Zach covered the phone with his palm. “It’s about Artie.”

  “Hold on.” Beck turned into a dry cleaner’s lot, parked, and took the phone. “Marybeth? What’s going on?”

  “Art just found out his best friend is moving away at the end of May, and he’s devastated.” Marybeth sounded a bit distressed herself. “They’ve been friends since they could walk, and…he wants a man to talk to.”

  Aubrey must not count as a man. “Where are they moving?”

  “California. It might as well be the moon when you’re ten. They live behind us, through the trees. Joe and Artie have a clubhouse back there.”

  The Halliday home backed up on a forested section. When water was plentiful, a small stream ran in a valley parallel to the houses, bisecting the trees. A boy’s paradise for climbing and frogs.

  “Marybeth—”

  “Artie’s closed himself in his room.” Marybeth lowered her voice. “He’s missing his dad.”

  Crap. First the engagement and the confiscated football, and then losing a best friend. “You want me to talk to him?”

  “You probably have plans…”

  “It’s early. Zach and I don’t have plans till later.”

  “Why don’t you bring Zach with you? We haven’t seen him for ages.”

  “I’ll ask. In any case, I’ll see you soon.”

  “She took a shuddering breath. “Thanks, Beck.”

  “No problem. See you soon.” He rang off and turned to Zach. “Do you mind coming with me to see Marybeth and the boys after we pick up your car? They’d like to see you.”

  “Sounds good.” Zach pointed his arm like a sword. “Onward, my captain.”

  * * * *

  Zach followed Beck through the warren of streets. Zach had met Marybeth and the kids previously, but there had been snow on the ground last time.

  Ahead of him, Beck pulled into a driveway. Zach parked at the curb and joined him on the sidewalk. The air was balmy, fragrant with the scent of spring and neighborhood barbecue. Very suburban.

  A bike lay between them and the stoop. Beck parked it to the side before taking the steps and ringing the bell.

  “No staying for dinner. Okay?” Zach asked under his breath.

  Beck grinned. “Got plans?”

  “Yeah, and—”

  Marybeth opened the door. “Come in, guys. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Happy to do it.” Beck stepped inside and gave Marybeth a half hug.

  Zach followed. “Hey, Marybeth.”

  A dark-haired streak zoomed in and tackle-hugged Beck, making him laugh. “Take it easy, Pete. You’ll knock me over.”

  From his position wrapped around Beck’s legs, Pete looked up and grinned. He had a hole in the front where he’d lost a tooth.

  Zach squatted down. “Hi, Pete.”

  “Hi, Zach.” Pete’s seven-year-old features became serious. “Are you Beck’s husband?”

  Whoa. What’s the protocol here? Zach coughed. “Um, his…boyfriend.”

  The grin returned. “You wanna see my T. rex? It runs on batteries, and it’s really cool.”

  “Absolutely.” Zach stood and turned to Beck. “You want to check on Artie while I visit the Jurassic era?”

  “Sure.” Beck flashed a grin.

  “Okay, Pete. Lead on.”

  BECK FOLLOWED MARYBETH to the kitchen. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah. Coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Already had my allotment for the day. Where’s Art?”

  “On the patio.” Marybeth peeked out the window. “He’s been feeding a stray cat.”

  “I thought you’d decided no pets.”

  “I did. Artie doesn’t think I know about it. I got suspicious when he wanted to drink a glass of milk on the patio every night.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt.” He gave a wry smile.

  “Go ahead. He wants to see you.”

  Beck stepped out on the deck and looked around. Empty. “Art?”

  “Over here.” Artie
’s voice came from behind a chaise.

  Beck picked his way through furniture and toys. On the far side of the deck, Artie sat on the stairs, holding a striped yellow kitten. The thing was scrawny, eyes huge in its tiny face. Beck settled on the step. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Just a cat that hangs around.” Artie smoothed his hand over the shaggy fur.

  Beck tickled the kitten under its chin and felt the rumble of a tiny purr. “Seems friendly.”

  “She is.” Artie snuggled the kitten closer. “Don’t tell Mom, or she’ll freak.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Did Mom tell you about my friend Joe?”

  “She mentioned it.”

  “Mom’s all worried that I’ll get a depression and won’t want to make new friends.”

  Beck folded his arms on top of his knees. “What do you like to do with Joe?”

  “He’s really good at catching a football, and he likes to play motocross on bikes and go off jumps.”

  Beck hid a smile. “Sounds like he’s pretty cool.”

  “He is.” Artie rearranged the kitten, who yawned. “He’s the best friend a guy could ever have.”

  Beck’s heart squeezed. “I bet you’ll make other friends.”

  Artie’s fiery brows came together. “Not like Joe. He gets me, you know?”

  “Yep.” A friend like that was good to have.

  “Sometimes the kids at school were assholes to him because he has two dads.”

  “Hey, hey. Language. What do you mean?”

  “They tease in mean ways.” He made a fist. “I told him to ignore it, that you’re my uncle and you’re gay and have a boyfriend…” His voice wobbled. “And you’re a cop and everything.”

  Emotion clogged Beck’s throat. Hoarsely he managed, “Your mom says you have a clubhouse. Want to show me?”

  Artie settled the snoozing kitten on an old T-shirt under the chaise. “Sure.”

  * * * *

  Beck ducked out of the tree house. It was a perfect boys’ hideout. “You guys did a great job.”

  Artie hopped from the platform to the ground. “Me and Joe did most of it. One of his dads helped ’cause we can’t use power tools.”

  They picked their way through the brush, sheltered by the trees. The air smelled like summer as they crushed leaves and tramped through loamy soil. Bees hummed among the wildflowers.