Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  On the walkway, Beck nodded toward the cemetery beyond them. “Look at that.”

  On an ocean of lush grass, the two-dozen-odd grievers stood in a circle around Mrs. Unger, who held a bunch of hot-pink balloons tied with silver ribbons. Beck smiled. Judging by Annika’s bedroom, she would have loved the color.

  Mrs. Unger said something unintelligible, which drew an “Aww…” from her miniature crowd.

  A pleasant soprano, pure and sweet, sent notes into the air—maybe a ballad Annika had favored? Mrs. Unger glanced at her husband, who nodded.

  The fuchsia balloons lifted into the cloudless blue sky.

  * * * *

  After they reached the car, Van’s chattiness evaporated. These days they had little in common other than the case, and Beck didn’t want to discuss the nuances of the Follower or Perny. But what else was there?

  Van asked, “Were you feeling okay back at the chapel?”

  “What do you mean?” Beck’s gut knotted.

  “It seemed like you zoned out during the service. I could see your carotid pounding in your neck, and your breathing was irregular.”

  Fuck. Beck aimed for nonchalant. “Just some bad memories. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  For half a block, Van seemed to digest that. “Sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Okay.”

  For minutes, they rode in silence.

  Out of nowhere, Van said, “The wedding’s off.”

  Whoa. Maybe Van was serious about being true to himself. “Off, off? Not delayed?”

  “Yeah. Off, off. Permanently off.”

  “Did you come out to her?”

  “No. Like I told you before, I’m not ready to tell anyone except you. And the gay thing isn’t the only reason I put a stop to it.”

  Beck waited.

  “It should have been us.”

  Beck almost steered into a parked car. Jesus Christ. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Last summer. I was an asshole when you got…hurt. I should’ve been there for you.”

  Now he wanted to talk about it? Beck gripped the wheel and concentrated on driving.

  “I was more worried about being outed than I was about helping you.”

  So much for a voyage of self-discovery. It was too little, too late. No good could come of this conversation. “It’s all in the past, Van. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “No, hear me out. I was a first-class bastard, and I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Thanks.” Van grinned. “Am I forgiven?”

  Did he— No. No way. No frickin’ way was Van trying to get back together with that little mea culpa. No way. “You know we’re done.”

  “I know.”

  “Permanently.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” Regret tinged the words.

  “So…is this conversation leading up to something?” Like coming out?

  “Sort of.” Van gave the scenery out his window close scrutiny.

  Beck waited. Must have to work up to it, whatever it is.

  “I need you to help me figure out a way to tell my dad and my brother.”

  * * * *

  Zach couldn’t understand it. He’d been through his FBI computer files twice and hadn’t scored a match to Jane Doe’s modified picture. In Omaha, Hogan had looked at the revised image and hadn’t made an ID. Ernie had e-mailed the photo to the task force members to no avail. The answer was close—tantalizingly close.

  Somehow this girl had a connection. He scrutinized the photo. “I know you.”

  Maybe she’d been one of Ruskin’s cases. Zach grabbed his cell.

  “Ruskin residence,” said a deep voice with a slight English accent—not Ruskin’s voice.

  Ruskin had company? But he’d only left the hospital a couple of days ago. A male nurse? Physical therapist? “This is Zach Littman, a colleague of Rus—uh, Krell’s.” Call him Krell, not Ruskin. “Is he available?”

  “A moment, please.” Crisp, like a military salute. The receiver clunked on a hard surface. Obviously Ruskin wasn’t convalescing alone. Zach felt guilty. He hadn’t called the hospital to check on Ruskin or to offer support.

  Nice friend, Littman.

  It was a sure bet the doctors had proscribed casework, yet Zach was about to drag Ruskin in. Muffled voices came through the phone, along with a distant eruption of canned laughter.

  “Zach?” Ruskin’s voice creaked like the tin woodsman—old and rusty.

  Crap. The shooting had taken a lot out of the man. “How’s it going?”

  A hoarse laugh was followed by a bout of coughing ending in a groan. “Swimmingly. Just…swimmingly.”

  In Zach’s opinion, Ruskin sounded like shit. “How long have you been home?”

  “This is day two.”

  “Sooner than I thought you’d be released.”

  “I’ve got help. Hang on, let me get settled.” Springs squeaked; the laugh track cut off. Fabric ruffled, and then Ruskin groaned. “Okay. Ready. Everything takes ten times as long as it did.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “It is what it is.” Ruskin coughed. “This is the longest I’ve been off work in years. Involuntary leave.”

  The guy had to get shot before he’d take time off? “You have enough help?”

  “Yeah. Oscar’s here.” There was almost a smile in the words.

  “Oh.” Ruskin had never mentioned an Oscar. “He’s…family?”

  The silence stretched. “Sort of.”

  Shit. Maybe Ruskin didn’t have anyone; he’d never mentioned relatives. Oscar could be some hired paramedical person. “Look, I didn’t mean to pry—”

  “It’s fine, Zach. Oscar is my… Let’s put it this way. We’re close.”

  Zach straightened. That could mean a brother or a buddy. Or…a boyfriend. “Are you saying…?”

  “I’m saying you and I have something in common beyond the FBI, Littman. You know what it is.”

  Zach considered himself to have decent gaydar. Evidently there had been a major fail. “I never would’ve guessed.”

  “I’m not out. Neither is he.” Ruskin cleared his throat. “I know you can understand the reasons for keeping it private.”

  “Absolutely.” Over time, Zach had examined all those reasons and discarded them one by one. Out was liberating. Ruskin had known about Zach, yet he’d never admitted to that commonality. “Why are you telling me now?”

  “There’s something about coming close to dying that makes a man reexamine his priorities—like secrets and relationships. I threw away the best thing I had. Thank God he’s giving me another chance.”

  Despite the distance, Zach found himself blushing. “I’m happy for you, Krell.”

  “Hold on.” In a muffled voice Krell asked for water. Footsteps moved away. “I’m guessing this isn’t a purely social call.”

  “I wish it was. Sands has me back on active duty, and I’m working the Follower case here in Denver.”

  “Active duty? After only a week off?”

  Zach sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a long story.”

  “So what’s going on? Catch the Follower yet?” The voice had a bit more enthusiasm.

  “No. And I’d like to run something by you.”

  “Shoot,” Ruskin said. There were footfalls and harsh English-accented muttering in the background. “I mean, go ahead.”

  “The Follower’s first victim in Omaha last October—the unidentified girl labeled Jane Doe 114? She looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her with any of my cases. I had our computer expert modify her photo. That brought it closer, but it’s still out of reach.”

  “And you think I might recognize her?”

  “It’s possible. Perny is connected to the Follower somehow. Jane Doe might be tied in with the Crossroads cases or with some other aspect of the Follower. We’re not having much luck identifying suspects by looking at the Follower’s other victims.”


  “Do you think he’s choosing them that way? Isolated, with few social contacts?”

  “I don’t know. With this girl, we need an ID to get anywhere.” Zach tapped the keys of his laptop and brought up JD 114’s photo. “Would you take a look?”

  “Sure. E-mail me the picture.”

  Ten minutes later Ruskin called. “She does seem vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.”

  Another dead end. Short of an epiphany, Zach wouldn’t make an ID. “Thanks for taking a look.”

  “No problem. I’ll call if anything strikes me.” Ruskin sounded worn-out. Oscar was back, saying it was time for a dressing change.

  “Listen, I better let you go. Feel better, Krell.”

  “Thanks.” Ruskin gave a wheezy chuckle. “And Zach, nobody calls me Krell. Call me Ruskin.”

  * * * *

  Beetle shaded his eyes with his hand. The balloons were specks of pink, nearly invisible in the sky. Fifteen years old, fifteen balloons. That had been a nice touch, a bit festive, yet dignified. After the release, Annika’s casket had been loaded into a cream-colored hearse, which now glided away from the chapel.

  A lovely service by all accounts. Dr. Littman hadn’t attended, but his watchdog had, along with another law enforcement type with dark hair and eyes. They’d had the authority to enter the chapel; Beetle had mimicked a reporter and mingled with the press outside.

  It wasn’t the sort of setting where pulling out a sketch pad was appropriate, but he’d gotten some good ideas. Tonight’s drawings would benefit. The new character was the one that would get him an acceptance. And Annika had played a small part.

  Over the winter it had been fascinating to observe the process of decay, the gradual unveiling of the skeleton like a rare piece of art.

  Lovely Annika, off to become ashes.

  It didn’t matter. He would see her again, just like the others.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “So we’re no closer.” SJ studied Beck from behind her desk. She’d worn an eggplant-colored suit that contrasted with her locks. Not everyone could pull off authoritative in that suit, but SJ did it with flair. “No promising leads.”

  “Not many leads of any kind.” Beck forced himself to meet her gaze head-on. Permitting Matt Unger to read the Follower’s note on the air had only brought out the crazies. “No serious candidates among the friends and family of the victims.”

  “Four victims, no leads.” SJ shook her head. “Has Detective Hogan had any luck in Omaha?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, no.” Hogan’s department had allotted little time for participation on the task force.

  “And Dr. Littman?”

  “He had a couple of theories in the works. I haven’t caught up with him yet.”

  “Annika Unger’s service went well?”

  As well as a funeral can. “Yes, ma’am. Detective Gates and I both attended.”

  “Good. The videographers have turned everything over to Ernie.”

  “That’s my understanding. He’ll get to it after he combs through more footage from the night of Annika Unger’s disappearance.”

  She frowned. “They already reviewed video at the time of her abduction.”

  “They did—looking for Annika. Now we’re looking at cars, trying to find duplicates between the abduction, the memorial service, and the Follower.”

  “We need better leads, Beck. Come up with a way to get around the roadblocks.”

  “Will do.” Beck escaped from the office.

  At least SJ hadn’t yelled about the meager progress. The cost of not catching the Follower would be paid in lives. Soon they’d have another victim on their hands. Beck opened the conference room door.

  In the airless space, Zach had propped his feet on the table and closed his eyes. In repose his mouth seemed soft and younger; a trace of golden scruff edged his jaw. Weird head shots of a strange dark-haired girl littered the table like a peculiar Andy Warhol rendering.

  Zach’s eyes flew open, and he dropped his feet to the floor. “Hey.”

  “What’s going on?” Beck waved a hand at the photos.

  “This is Jane Doe 114 after modification.” Zach shuffled the images, pulled out the original, and held it next to the doctored photo. “I’m trying to make her look more like she would have in life.”

  Seemed like a waste of time. Or maybe something Hogan should show on the news in Omaha, where someone might recognize her. “Okay. Why?”

  “She looks familiar to me.”

  Beck held back a groan. “You’re sure you know her?”

  “Positive. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the answer is there. I was trying to relax and open my mind when you came in.”

  “Sorry.” Beck took a chair. “Hogan might have some luck with it.”

  “I sent it to him. He doesn’t know her, and the brass down there has to approve approaching the TV stations and newspaper.” Zach stood and stretched. “I need caffeine. Want to come?”

  “It’s only ten minutes until the task force meeting. I better stay.” SJ might disapprove if Beck was late due to taking a coffee break with his boyfriend. Funny, he never thought he’d miss McManus’s yelling, but at least it had been easy to know what the boss was thinking. It was trickier with SJ.

  Zach turned his chair backward and straddled it. “What’s wrong?”

  Here we go with the shrink routine. “Nothing.”

  “Try again.” Zach sounded sure.

  “Seriously, I’m fine. Fine and dandy.”

  “Is SJ mad?”

  How in the hell did he do that? It was almost a psychic sense. “No. At least I don’t think so. The case is going cold for lack of leads.”

  “We’ve got a couple of things in the works.” Zach folded his arms along the back of the chair.

  Beck snorted. “Like what? The Perny angle is exhausted. So are leads for Annika Unger and India Wexler. We don’t know who Jane Doe is, and trace and fiber has come up blank. The Follower is very tidy when he kills.”

  “The Jane Doe lead is viable.”

  “It’s not viable. We don’t know who she is or where she’s from—let alone friends and family to ask about motive.” They couldn’t depend on photos jogging Zach’s memory. He might be thinking of someone else.

  “Remember when you said it was as if Jane didn’t belong to the Follower because she had no number?”

  “Yeah. But she’s not Perny’s, and there can’t be a third killer.” It was bad enough they had two murderers to contend with. “That leaves the Follower.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So Jane Doe is the Follower’s, but not numbered…” But why? “Where’s the poem he sent you in Minneapolis?”

  “Hang on.” Zach retrieved his task force binder and flipped to the poem. “Jane Doe was the numberless one in the poem. Then Perny is the Crossroads devil—victim number one on his tally.”

  “What about ‘Those deserving the blade will cleanse the Other’s sin’? Who deserves the blade and why? I don’t see that line representing India Wexler’s murder.”

  “The psychology professor implied India had communications from Xavier Darling. Maybe she stole something from Perny’s mailbox.”

  “Wait a minute. You think Darling mailed a letter to Perny, India stole it, and the Follower decided she deserved ‘the blade’ for that?”

  “She didn’t deserve it at all.”

  “Of course not.” Bad choice of words. “Why would the Follower care? He killed Perny, so why avenge the theft of Perny’s mail?”

  “Good question.” Zach flipped to a clean sheet of paper. “Why would he?”

  “The most obvious answer is the Follower wanted the Darling communication for himself. He killed her to get it.”

  “Why?”

  “The thrill of owning something from Darling? The street value? We could have Ernie check for sites that idolize Darling.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  This was difficult. “H
ard to say. She might have seen something she shouldn’t have, and he wanted to eliminate a witness.”

  “Good. Keep going.” Zach jotted notes. “What might she have seen?”

  “I doubt she saw a murder. I’d say she could have seen the Follower and Perny together or maybe the Follower alone. Maybe she recognized him.”

  “Or the Follower’s car,” Zach said slowly.

  “There was a thorough canvass of the neighborhood after India’s death.” Like any homicide, fresh memories produced the best leads. “Nobody saw a strange vehicle that night. We’ve got reams of reports.”

  “Maybe they missed someone.”

  * * * *

  Zach turned off the light and closed the conference room door. The task force meeting had gone past eight o’clock—sans food—and he was starving. The sunset slanted through the windows, painting rays of orange and gold across the empty desks in the bull pen. Hell of a long day.

  Beck looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and shoulders sagging under the weight of an unproductive investigation. “Ready?”

  “Past ready.”

  That got a bit of a smile.

  They fell into step and headed for the elevator. It had been the sort of day that ended with little to show for it. Annika was buried. Perny was a dead end. Jane Doe’s identity remained a mystery.

  The doors parted, and they stepped inside.

  “There’s nothing at the house for dinner,” Zach said. “You go on home, and I’ll stop and pick up something.”

  “We could order pizza.”

  “Man does not live by pizza alone.” Or burgers or tacos or microwavable meals.

  “Cooking will take forever.” Beck grinned. “Pizza with a side salad?”

  Yeah, no. “I’ll grab us something ready to eat.”

  Beck studied him as though trying to assess the speed of dinner pickup versus delivery. “No hour-long grocery shopping and an hour in the oven?”

  “Scout’s honor. I’m hungry too.”

  The doors opened to the still heat of the parking garage. The yellowish light gave a jaundiced cast to the concrete. It smelled of exhaust and grime and burned rubber. Their footsteps echoed as they made their way to their cars. Few vehicles remained. Here and there sat a solitary set of wheels: the night crew.