Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “What if the Follower found the body and took trophies?”

  “So you’re saying the Follower discovered a body buried in a shallow grave in a remote area and covered with snow and took his favorite token?” Zach hated the thought of the Follower taking a souvenir.

  The doorbell rang. “Hold that thought.” Beck headed for the front door and returned a minute later with a pizza and a container of salad. The mouthwatering scents of Canadian bacon, garlic, and Italian cheese filled the air. Lunch seemed like a distant memory. Zach’s stomach growled.

  Beck chuckled as he opened the box and set it on the table. “Hungry?”

  “Hungry was two hours ago. I’m ravenous.”

  “Dig in.” Beck found bowls for the greens while Zach used his fingers to pull out a slice for each of them, ropes of cheese stretching from box to plate.

  “Looks great.” He forced himself to wait.

  Beck took a seat. “Let’s eat.”

  Between them they demolished a quart of salad and the pizza. Beck stayed away from further conjectures about the Follower, and Zach avoided the issue of the packing boxes. It was nice to have a seminormal dinner and shoot the breeze about nothing in particular.

  “Forgot to tell you. Marybeth called.” Beck sounded defeated. “Artie’s best friend? His dads were threatened. That’s why they’re moving.”

  “That’s horrible. Any leads?”

  “No.” Beck twisted his bottle on the table, leaving a pattern of wet rings. “I hate that they’re moving because of harassment, but I get it.”

  “I hope it’s better for them in California.”

  “Me too. You want another water?” Beck asked.

  They’d each had one beer and then switched to water. If they were called out for the case, clearheaded and stone-cold sober were both expected and necessary. “Coffee?”

  “I’ll be up all night if I drink coffee this late.”

  “Up all night, huh?” Zach gave his best salacious grin.

  Beck snorted. A bit of pink moved into his cheeks. “Up long enough to give you what you need.”

  That intuitive assessment was a bit daunting. While Beck had loads of experience in the bedroom, Zach had richer romantic experience, born of long-term relationships.

  Still, having a man who could anticipate your every desire in bed was thrilling. In a husky voice, Zach asked, “You know what I need, huh?”

  Beck got up and came around the table to stand behind Zach’s chair. He rubbed the tense muscles between Zach’s shoulder and neck and whispered in his ear, “Haven’t had any complaints.”

  Heart happily skipping along in anticipation, Zach shivered. “You want to talk some more about your third-killer theory?”

  “I’d like to let it percolate for a while.”

  “So instead of talking…”

  “I want to use my mouth for something else.”

  * * * *

  God, it was good to be home. Beetle sighed. He parked under the widespread branches of a huge tree. In the dark, the leaves looked like hands waiting to grab unsuspecting individuals. Beetle climbed out of the car and walked to the building. It smelled of rain and damp earth; the cracked cement had puddles here and there.

  It had been a long day. The plan was going well. Unger had read the message. Surely Littman had figured it out by now.

  In the building foyer, he stopped in front of the array of diminutive brass doors set into the wall. Mail. He unlocked the box and pulled out three business-sized envelopes. Bill, bill…jackpot. A reply from a big comic book publisher—one not afraid of avant-garde material. His heart danced. This could be the one. He squeezed his eyes shut and held the letter to his chest. Count to three. Please, please, please.

  Okay.

  He tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet:

  Dear Sir,

  Thank you for your recent submission of the graphic novel Quetzal. The illustrations are high quality. The birdlike hero, although atypical, was well drawn. The storyline was unique, but far removed from our current offerings.

  After serious consideration, we feel Quetzal does not meet our needs at this time. However, the drawings show excellent potential. We would welcome further submissions from you with a more typical hero and plotline.

  Signed—

  Who cared who had signed it? Tears pricked his eyes as he took a shuddering breath. Again the answer was no. No, no, no, all the time. He could draw. He could. Hadn’t his mother told him so time and again? Why couldn’t he get anywhere with the big graphic novel companies? They didn’t get it.

  Birdlike hero. Feathers didn’t automatically mean avian.

  Damn it all. Despite the lateness of the hour, he thundered up the steps. A turn of the key and he was in the gloom of the apartment. The door closed with a soft click.

  Dodo lounged on the couch, wearing only briefs. “I waited up for you,” he said, one hand going to his groin.

  Beetle reined in a red-hot wave of anger. “No. I told you I don’t want…that.”

  “You used to.” Dodo sat up, hurt in his dark eyes. “You used to want me all the time.”

  “That’s over.” That had been before the transition began, before fear and blood became a better aphrodisiac, the way to the most intense release.

  “Please. You’ll like it. I’ll do anything you want. Anything.”

  Not anything, my dear Dodo. Not anything. Beetle thought of the knives, of red rivers running from the cuts. “Go to bed.”

  Dodo gave a shuddering sigh; his eyes were too shiny. Tears would be next, and Beetle didn’t want to see that. Dodo was not one of the chosen; his tears didn’t excite. Beetle walked away, headed for the kitchen.

  Seconds later Dodo’s door closed. A roommate was a pain in the ass, but it kept Beetle off the radar. Dodo was simple, loyal. When you didn’t make much, cohabitation helped. But that was the extent of it now. Beetle had put a kibosh on any further fooling around. No matter what he looked like, he was a man. A conqueror. Dominant. In charge. Male.

  “Pansy boy,” his father’s voice whispered. “Girlie boy.”

  No. A man. On his way to becoming oh so much more.

  The tiny kitchen smelled of mac and cheese; he opened the fridge and surveyed the contents. He pulled out the quart of milk, started to bring it to his mouth, and paused. Dodo might have done the same and left his germs. Beetle couldn’t get sick before the transition. He exchanged the carton for a single-serving bottle of cranberry juice. It had a seal—no germs. He twisted it open.

  A cool breeze came through the open window above the sink. Hard to believe it was nearly summer. Hard to believe Littman was so slow on the uptake. Beetle needed to discern the identity of Littman’s watchdog, the blond one with the sharp gray eyes.

  He headed to his bedroom, flipped on the light, and locked the door. No point in trying to sleep; better to sketch and relax. He pulled the flat box from under the bed and unlocked it.

  Necklace first. The bones clicked as he looped it over his head.

  Two-hundred-weight paper, a number 4 pencil, and a kneadable eraser. First the face: strong, stubbled jaw; hollowed cheeks; deep-set eyes. The hair he drew as shaggy.

  Beetle moved on to the hero’s body: torn work shirt rolled up to expose well-developed forearms, belted jeans generously filled at the groin and straining over superhuman thighs.

  He should have boots. The tip of Beetle’s tongue sneaked out as he drew. Next was an environment.

  Altar.

  No. That feature might have gotten him the rejection with Quetzal.

  Temple?

  No. Start simple. “Okay. You live in a humble cottage. You’re…a worker at a wood mill.” Beetle’s pencil flew across the paper. This was good stuff. A tall building, a river… “You’re Joe Average until one day at home you’re chopping firewood. It’s raining. Lightning strikes the ax, and suddenly you’re…who?”

  A name. A good character name. Eric morphing into the ghost hero Eidolon
hadn’t worked; neither had Quint becoming Quetzal, Aztec hero. Both rejected. Beetle chewed on his pencil. Maybe a name that had something to do with rain? Lightning?

  He opened the window and caught a whiff of tobacco smoke. Must be the upstairs neighbor. Filthy habit, impaired the lungs. Weakened the heart.

  The heart was everything.

  A yawn caught him by surprise. Tomorrow, he’d think about names. He slipped the necklace and drawing materials into the flat box, locked it, and slid it under the bed. Soon it would be time for number three.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You’re sure this is how we should start the day.” Beck rubbed his eyes against the glare of unimpeded sunlight off morning rush-hour traffic. Bright and early, they were on the way to Perny’s law school. Too bright and too early for Beck’s taste.

  “Yeah. This could be the big break.” Fueled by coffee, Zach sounded chipper for eight a.m. “I’m looking forward to doing some sleuthing with you.”

  Beck snorted. “Okay, Nancy Drew. Help me out here. Which street is the law school administration building on?”

  Zach checked out the window. “Take the next right.”

  Today the lot was packed. After circling twice, Beck pulled into a visitor slot near the front. They climbed out of the car and headed for the entrance. Drops from the sprinkler beaded the grass and dampened the sidewalk.

  Inside, they located the fabled bulletin board. Empty—nary a list or announcement to be had.

  “Damn it,” Beck muttered under his breath. He parked his hands on his hips. “Now what, Watson?”

  Zach turned and nodded at the door designated ADMINISTRATION. “That’s what.”

  The law school administration’s outer office was a large open space smelling pleasantly of coffee. Along the wall to the right hung an oversize clock; below the clock rested a huge rectangular desk at which a lovely woman sat. She had dark skin, a cap of white hair, and a welcoming smile framed in red lipstick.

  “That’s who we need,” Zach said in a low voice. A nameplate on the desk identified her as Mrs. Jones.

  Thrilled to entertain two law enforcement types, the woman invited them in a Georgia accent to take seats next to her desk and proceeded to ply them with coffee and conversation.

  Beck watched as Zach charmed the daylights out of the secretary. Mrs. Jones had been with the school for thirty years. She knew the students by name and made it her business to get acquainted with all of them. Perny’s murder horrified her; he’d been number two in his class. No romantic interests or friends, just studious.

  Mrs. Jones knew the members of Perny’s study group and printed them a list, including names, addresses, and contact numbers. When Zach asked about Perny’s clerkship, Mrs. Jones stated he’d been headed back to BFD and would have worked with Edward Day.

  Last summer, Perny had worked with Mr. Day as well—on Xavier Darling’s appeal.

  THE WAY BECK kept sneaking glances at him, Zach was sure the nausea was plain on his face. And it wasn’t the coffee; talk of Darling was enough to sour anyone’s stomach.

  “Thanks for your help,” Beck said to Mrs. Jones.

  “My pleasure.”

  After turning down more coffee, they headed for the car.

  “You okay?” Beck muttered.

  “Fine.” The last thing Zach wanted was to discuss his feelings about Xav-D. The nightmares made them pretty damn clear.

  They got into the car. Beck started the motor and exited the lot. “The study-group students all live within a mile of campus. As long as we’re out here, let’s see who we can catch at home.”

  “Sure.” At this point, Zach wasn’t convinced they’d turn up any friends for Perny. “The guy seems like a loner.”

  “True. But he knew the Follower somehow, and it could have been through school.”

  Or through an internship.

  “We now know Perny was in the same room as Darling,” Zach said. Two psychos face-to-face. Had they compared notes? “Perny could have sneaked those valentines out of the prison and mailed them for Darling.”

  “Whoa. Are you saying the stuff you got from the Follower came from Darling?”

  “No. I’m certain he made his own.” Zach was thinking aloud, trying to suppress emotion and sound logical. “While Darling was at the Colorado State pen, he sent me valentines every once in a while—hearts pasted to postcards. Reminders.”

  “The hearts you were talking about with Ruskin.”

  “Right. I was on the list of people to whom Darling could not send mail, but it still happened. It had to have been someone on the inside at CSP, before he went to Supermax. By using an intermediary like Perny, Darling could have conveyed messages to all sorts of people, not just me.” A sociopathic law student as courier and perhaps distributor of illicit material? It was plausible. But how had Perny taken possession? Surely not in front of Day…

  “Have you received anything since Darling went to Supermax?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” Thanks to travel and moving out of his house, dates on Zach’s mail had become nebulous things.

  “What about since Perny died?”

  “Same story. Regardless, the two have been in close proximity.”

  “So we now have Darling tied to Perny.” Beck’s tone was careful. “But that doesn’t necessarily tie Darling to the Follower case.”

  Yes, it does. Pissing off Beck would be a mistake. “I’m only saying it’s a possible route previously utilized by Darling to send the valentines to me.”

  Beck shot him a skeptical look. “I think you’re indicating it’s a route previously used by Darling to send all sorts of things.” He pulled to the curb and threw the car into park. “But Darling doesn’t have contact visits at Supermax, does he?”

  “If Darling has something to do with this case, if he’s orchestrating a plan, maybe he’d gotten it all laid out last summer and peddled it to Perny before moving to Supermax.” The tingling on the back of Zach’s neck said Darling’s fingerprints were all over this.

  Beck stared. “If Darling passed a plan along for Perny to execute, then how did Perny end up a victim?”

  “Maybe something went wrong.” It was no good thinking about that right now. “We don’t have all the pieces, and we can’t talk to Perny. For now I’d say we talk to the people in his study group and leave Darling out of it.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n. Let’s talk to some budding attorneys.”

  * * * *

  “I don’t know what to tell you guys.” Kurzweiler ran his fingers through the bright copper of his hair, leaving it in untidy spikes. “I’m sorry he’s dead, but Perny was an enigma.”

  They were sitting in ancient lawn chairs in the shade of a broad-branched maple, holding icy bottles of water; heat shimmered around them. Behind them, amateur carpenters moved between the timbers of a Habitat for Humanity home. The scent of pine sawdust and freshly turned earth reminded Zach of a Minnesota country barn raising. In the background hammers thunked, saws buzzed, and workers laughed.

  Kurzweiler, torn away from the construction, was not laughing. Or smiling. Exertion and the heat of the day had turned his milky complexion red. With his green T-shirt and carpenter’s waist apron, Zach thought he resembled an angry Highlander.

  It had been a morning of ups and downs, and so far, Kurzweiler was a valley, not a peak. The other members of the study group had been either out of town or out of the country; Kurzweiler was the last hurrah. “What do you mean by ‘enigma’?” Beck’s frustration came through loud and clear.

  “He wasn’t very forthcoming. Played everything close to the vest.”

  Zach jumped in. “Why did you invite him to be in your study group?”

  Kurzweiler gave him a stare. “Did you not see his transcripts?”

  “No.” Playing dumb might work. “Did he do well?”

  “He was top of his class at the University of Nebraska and number two here. He did an internship last summer with BFD and was accepted to wo
rk there again this summer. I’m doing this”—Kurzweiler waved behind him—“and volunteering at legal aid.” He reddened a bit more and added, “Not that this is a bad thing. It’s not bad at all. It’s just… I couldn’t land an internship.”

  Zach put out a feeler. “Did Perny ever talk about his internship?”

  Kurzweiler narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t talk about his cases. That’s privileged.”

  Zach could practically feel the walls going up. Apparently law students were versed on cops as opposition rather than part of the law-and-order team. Time for some coaxing. “I don’t mean about his cases. More like, how did he like it? Who did he work with?” Zach leaned forward on the rickety lawn chair, forearms on thighs and hands clasped between his knees. “Friendships.”

  “Perny didn’t really have friends.”

  Nothing new there. Everyone had said as much. “Did he like working at BFD?”

  “I think so. He had them on a short list for a job after graduation.”

  Beck said, “He had them on a short list? Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

  “Yeah. Unless you’re Nap Perny.” Kurzweiler took a slug of water. “Then you can write your own ticket.”

  “Because of the grades?” Beck loosened his tie.

  “Yeah. That and Nap came from money.”

  Zach straightened. India had said something like that. “He was from a wealthy family?”

  “He was the family. Everybody else was dead.”

  Beck shifted forward. “He told you this? When?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime over the last semester, I guess.”

  “So he did talk to you at times?” Beck sounded less grumpy.

  “I suppose.” Kurzweiler took a swipe at his sweaty face with his forearm.

  Hmm… Zach asked, “You saw him outside of the study group?”

  Kurzweiler shot a glance at the construction scene before looking at Zach. The law student’s clear blue eyes begged for discretion. “I was failing Criminal Procedure last semester, and I asked Nap for help. He agreed. It turned into a sort of private-tutoring thing for a couple of months.”