Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Temporary licenses… Beck closed his eyes for a moment. Hogan had said Perny’s car in Omaha had temporary plates. And Kurzweiler had said Perny drove a series of dark-colored beaters.

  Beck dialed Ernie. “Can you get a list of vehicles registered to Perny in Colorado? Include everything bought and sold. We’ll need the same for Nebraska. Cross-reference those with what you’ve got from the video.”

  “I’ll get on it.” Ernie rang off.

  “What are you thinking?” Zach asked.

  “The Follower might be driving one of Perny’s cars.”

  * * * *

  The hospital was no different than it had been in the morning, still giving off the bracing smell of antiseptic and fraught with white-coat-wearing personnel and the squeak of wheelchairs. Van had been transferred to a regular floor, so there was no who goes there at a locked door.

  As Beck exited his elevator, he caught a glimpse of Katie Coleman stepping onto a different one. She must love the guy a lot; visiting Van after he’d called off the wedding had to be painful. Probably made Van feel like crap.

  Frowning, Beck made his way down the mile of tiled corridor and paused outside Van’s doorway. He rearranged his features into cheerful and walked in.

  Van was slumped in a recliner next to the bed. The contusions were more obvious, and he seemed exhausted. Maybe that was because Katie had just left.

  “Hey,” Beck said.

  “Hi. Didn’t expect you.”

  “I tried this morning, but they told me I was persona non grata.”

  Van gave a slight smile. “Sorry. ICU has more visitation rules than a jail.”

  “You up for some company?”

  Van nodded.

  Beck came around the footboard and pulled up a chair. The room smelled of overcooked spinach and iodine. Van’s lunch was half-eaten and featured said spinach, green gelatin, and a potato-chip-shaped hunk of meat splashed with gravy. The lunch of hospital inmates everywhere. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’ve been better. My head feels like a bass drum, and there are people in and out of the room constantly. There’s no way to rest. The lab guy has been here so many times I think he’s got a crush on me.”

  Beck raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m kidding. There was some critical value with my potassium, and the doc had it redrawn twice.”

  “You’re okay?” A critical value sounded bad.

  “Fine. They said it was some glitch in the machine.” Van let out a deep breath. “How’s the case?”

  Beck filled him in about Unger’s possible identification of JD 114 and the suggestion Darling might have had a hand in the death. “Otherwise, no major breakthroughs. We didn’t find anything in the alley at your place.”

  “You get fibers from under my nails?” Van lifted a palm. “DNA?”

  “Nothing.” The crime techs had found no transference to Van’s clothing of any trace or fiber, other than the contents of the alley. “Whatever that suit of his is made of, it doesn’t shed fibers.”

  “Must be some sort of space fabric. Teflon?” Van shifted in the chair, grimaced, and resettled. “What about the smell?”

  “We came up with a list of possible sources: abattoir workers, highway cleaners, morticians and morgue attendants.”

  “Better add zombies.” Van wheezed a laugh. “Turn up any suspects?”

  “There are hundreds of possibilities. It’s unmanageable without some other factor to whittle it down, so it’s on the back burner. Right now we’re looking at video from last Christmas and the memorial service, trying to find commonalities.” Beck studied Van’s profile. “When are you getting out of here?”

  “Tonight. Come hell or high water, tonight. Even if I have to sign out AMA.” Van pushed away the tray table with his meal. “No one can get well eating this stuff.”

  Yeah, Beck remembered thinking the same thing when he’d been in. “You have a ride?”

  “I’ve got it handled.”

  Okaay. “I saw Katie outside.”

  Van’s gaze slid away. “Yeah. She was here.”

  “I thought that was finished.”

  Other than the muffled sounds of the ward, it was silent.

  “Van?”

  “Katie’s pregnant.”

  The words shocked him into silence. How could Van have been so careless? “When did you find out?”

  “Today during lunch.” Van sounded like a man on his way to the gallows. He kept his eyes down and picked at the tape on his IV.

  Was there any way to put a positive spin on the situation? Kids were a blessing, if you wanted them. Beck leaned forward, forearms on thighs. “Lots of gay men are dads. You can share custody. You can make it work.”

  “Katie and I are getting married.” Van’s face was the color of milk. “My kid needs a real father. He deserves a set of married parents.”

  Oh my God. A marriage would compound the problem, not solve it. Quietly Beck said, “I thought you were going to come out.”

  “Yeah, well. Things change.”

  “Did…did you tell Katie about your orientation?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. I’m straight.”

  “Van—”

  “I’m straight, got it? That’s what my family knows; that’s what Katie knows. I got cold feet about the wedding, that’s all. I made a mistake, and now everything is back on. We’re getting married.” Van’s eyes glowed with a fevered desperation. “Everything you and I talked about before is null and void. Everything. Okay?”

  Beck reached out and squeezed Van’s hand. “Okay.”

  What a shitty situation. No coming out, no living an authentic life. Only a deeper closet, this time with the shackles of marriage and fatherhood.

  “I’m going to be a dad.” Van gave a lopsided grin.

  Beck tried for an answering smile. “Congratulations.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Lemme see, lemme see!” The six-year-old squeaked as he pushed his wheelchair closer to the drawing in progress, bumping against the overstuffed purple chair.

  Beetle laughed. “Hang on. I’m almost done.”

  Sunlight poured through the windows of the pediatric oncology playroom, forming a pale hopscotch on the rainbow-patterned carpet. Medical equipment bore banners and bows to match the cheerful colors. A gaggle of kids hauling IV poles crowded around, jostling to get closer.

  A few more strokes with the orange crayon, and the dinosaur was complete. Beetle drew a smiley face in the lower right corner and handed the sketch to the boy.

  “Wow. This is the best one ever!” The kid wore a green knit cap over his bald pate. He gave Beetle a toothy grin. “This one for sure can fight ’kemia.”

  “He can cheer you up.” The standard answer. The approved answer, via administration. Beetle wasn’t supposed to make promises of cancer-fighting abilities when he drew for the patients in peds—they were too suggestible. Nevertheless, leukemia-fighting dinosaurs were in high demand, along with heart-repairing unicorns and cystic-fibrosis-fighting wolves. Beetle drew as many as possible under the guise of cheering up the kids.

  In Beetle’s view, positive thinking assisted in conquering any foe, cancer and congenital heart disease included. He gathered his drawing pad and crayons and stuffed them into a soft-sided portfolio. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  “Bye, Mr. Smiley Face,” the group yelled. Grinning, Beetle waved and walked off the ward.

  It was gratifying to have such an appreciative audience clamoring for his work. The pediatric oncology and cardiology nurses were low-key, but they’d handed out praise on occasion. Not many personnel would volunteer their lunchtime to entertain the kids, they said.

  True. Beetle had never encountered another volunteer when he’d arrived to draw for the patients. It was a good way to keep his mind off what came next.

  At the start, the mentor had posed a question: what causes more pain than a terrible death? Beetle had guessed a prolonged, torturous demise. The mentor ha
d laughed and given him partial credit. For a normal person, he’d said, the suffering of someone close to them will hurt more than if the pain had been inflicted directly.

  Seek out the dying and watch those around them.

  Observation had proved that to be true. The parents of the oncology patients appeared to suffer right along with their offspring. Sometimes, their anguish outstripped that of their children. Certainly the death of a child devastated the parents.

  What would cause Dr. Littman profound pain before his turn came? Whose suffering would wound him the deepest? Seek out the ones he loves and inflict agony.

  * * * *

  For the fourth time, Zach went over the file on Vicki Hightower. There had to be something useful—some obscure fact that could generate a lead. Parents Eva and Rain Hightower had emigrated from England. Vicki was their only child, born and raised in Denver. Unremarkable childhood. Never married, always lived at home. No extended family. If any existed, they’d likely be in England. Would working on that yield anything? Zach wrote it down.

  College-educated in Denver and a degree in library sciences, which took five years instead of the usual four. Was there a reason for the extra time? No job, but she’d been taken shortly after college graduation in May. Not enough time to find a position? Zach made a note to check.

  At any rate, she’d been on the cusp of a new life as an independent adult.

  Until she’d run across Xavier Darling.

  She’d lived through the ordeal and testified in court. Major intestinal fortitude there; surviving capture and having the will to escape instead of bowing to Darling took backbone. It was a small club, individuals who had evaded death at Darling’s hands. Zach was the sole remaining member. He shivered. Would Darling reach out through the Follower and attempt to claim him as well?

  You’ll be my number five.

  Just focus on the information, Littman. According to the file, both parents had been alive at the time of the trial but had died in a car accident shortly after the conviction. They were buried in Denver. If Vicki had moved away, she might have visited. Perhaps the cemetery knew? Zach jotted a note.

  Her last listed address was the home where she’d grown up. The file suggested she’d never ventured out on her own. A neighbor might have known her well enough to have some insight about friends. Zach added that to the list.

  No boyfriend. By all accounts she’d been introverted, maybe naive before her abduction. After what she’d suffered at Xav’s hands, acquiring a boyfriend wouldn’t have been high on her list of priorities.

  And then she’d simply disappeared. Did you want to disappear, Vicki? Or did something spook you?

  Zach took a mouthful of coffee and reviewed his paltry notes. Thinner than air. Via Internet, he located the Hightower parents’ obituaries and references to the cemetery. A phone call to Memorial Acres went unanswered, and he left a message.

  The Hightower house was in south Denver. Zach plugged the address into Google Maps. No…really? It was gone. Totally gone. At some point a developer had bought up the block and put in condos. There goes the neighborhood.

  What about the DA’s office? They’d retain files. Perny had worked with Edward Day on Darling’s appeal. Zach called the DA’s office and was told an ADA would call him back about Darling’s prosecution.

  They disconnected. Zach glanced at his watch. Calling England was out. He could have Ernie dig up photos and film from the trial. Someone might have been with Vicki.

  It was past lunchtime, and there was no sign of Beck. Perhaps Van had recalled something important or had taken a turn for the worse. Surely Beck would have called if that were the case. Zach pulled out his phone and sent him a text. Everything okay?

  Zach’s cell buzzed with Beck’s response. All okay. Be there soon.

  Zach’s shoulders relaxed. Good. Meet me at Ivan’s for lunch?

  Be there in ten. Go ahead and order.

  And voilà! A lunch date. Grinning, Zach slid on sunglasses and headed outside.

  * * * *

  Thirty minutes after lunch they were back at it, this time in the bull pen at Beck’s desk. While Zach worked the phone, Beck sorted through the material in box number 10. He wanted to have something to show SJ by tonight, but it wasn’t looking good.

  To Beck, the information Zach had pulled from Hightower’s file regarding the DA’s office sounded like their best bet. Doubtful the girl would have run to relatives in England.

  Zach was on the phone with the cemetery’s office. By the set of his shoulders, it wasn’t going well.

  Why had Hightower left Denver? Why would anyone leave? Beck started a list.

  A job. That could have been it, but there was no way of knowing where that job might have been.

  A relationship. But wouldn’t that person have reported her missing?

  Education. An advanced degree in library science?

  A fresh start. After the ordeal with Darling and the deaths of her parents, leaving town might have sounded good.

  To hide. That one was obvious. Dyed hair and no trail suggested she hadn’t wanted to be found. How in the hell had the Follower found her?

  Maybe that’s how she left—the Follower took her.

  Transporting her all the way to Omaha, risking a potential traffic stop and a possible search? Risking her escaping? It didn’t make a lot of sense, but it had to be on the list: abduction. Or maybe it was none of the above.

  Zach disconnected. “No visitors noted. He doesn’t recall any flowers at the grave sites.”

  Figured. “The name and address on the purchase of the plots?”

  “Ma and Pa Hightower—bought well in advance of their demise. There’s a plot next to theirs bought for Vicki. The contact address is the same as the one in our file.”

  Beck slid the pen through his fingers, turned it, slid it again. “So we’re back to the starting line.”

  “I prefer to think of it as reorienting and proceeding in a different direction.” Zach stood. “I’m going to get coffee.”

  “As in over in the corner of the bull pen?

  “As in on the plaza from Ivan. You want anything?”

  Beck patted his stomach. “I’m good.”

  “Be back in a flash.” Zach sauntered out the door.

  Boy howdy, does that man look good in khakis. Beck watched until Zach disappeared and then refocused on the list. What else would make Hightower leave behind her parents’ resting spot—and her own—and skip town?

  * * * *

  Zach’s cell buzzed as he reached Beck’s desk. He set down his coffee and dug out his phone. The DA’s office. Finally. “Littman.”

  “Hello, Special Agent. This is Rhys Nementhal, returning your call about Ms. Hightower.” Her voice sounded formal. “What can I help you with?”

  “We think we’ve found Ms. Hightower,” Zach said.

  “Was she lost?” Rhys sounded startled.

  “I’m sorry to say she appears to be the victim of a homicide.”

  For a long moment Rhys said nothing. “Here?”

  “No, in Omaha last October. She’s been a Jane Doe for the past seven months, and we now have a tentative ID.”

  “Tentative. What does that mean?”

  Zach glanced at Beck, who was watching with interest and mimed talking on a phone. “Hang on a minute. Let me switch to another room and put you on speaker. Detective Stryker may have some questions.”

  “Okay.” So far she sounded more curious than suspicious.

  Zach grabbed his coffee and hustled to the task force room with Beck. Inside, Richfield jumped back from the boxes holding the Darling case files, a guilty look on his face.

  “Excuse us,” Beck said. “Urgent phone call.”

  “Private,” Zach added.

  “Sure.” Richfield took a folder and sailed out the door, closing it behind him.

  Zach hit the speaker button on his cell. “Go ahead, Ms. Nementhal. Detective Stryker is here, and you’re on speaker.”
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  “What’s going on with Ms. Hightower?” Rhys’s tone held frustration. “How do you know she’s your Jane Doe?”

  “We have a visual confirmation.” Zach sat down and set the phone on the table. “But we need a more concrete ID.”

  “And if she is dead? Isn’t it up to Omaha PD to confirm the identity? It’s their case, correct?”

  “Not entirely.” Beck settled in the chair next to Zach. “She appears to be the first victim of a serial killer.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  Beck stared at the dry-erase board. “Others have been killed in the same way.”

  “Seriously?” Rhys paused. “And Annika Unger? Did he kill her?”

  Beck winced.

  “We don’t know,” Zach said. More or less true at this juncture. “I’m calling you to request identifying material on Ms. Hightower. Do you have a set of her prints on file?”

  “No. If there are any, they’d be in a police record or an FBI database.”

  And of course, they weren’t. All they had was JD 114’s ten-print card from Hogan. Grabbing the phone, Zach jumped up and paced. “DNA?”

  “No. Again, that would be in a police database or the FBI’s index.”

  One more possibility. “Has the DA’s office stayed in touch with her?”

  “Darling was convicted several years ago. He’ll never be eligible for parole. There’s wasn’t a reason to keep in contact.”

  Worse and worse. “Since Darling’s case is running through appeals, I thought you might touch base every once in a while.” Maybe the DA had some demographic data. “Any contact information you may have—an address, a phone number, a place of employment—could help us locate materials for an ID.”

  Papers rustled. “This is a very…complex situation.”

  Complex? Complex was two murders and one Jane Doe ago. They were now at labyrinthine. Zach had counted on the DA.

  “All we need to establish a positive ID is a set of her fingerprints, a dental chart, or DNA.” Zach raised his eyebrows. Beck mimed brushing his hair. “If we can locate a hairbrush, a toothbrush, something like that, we can retrieve a DNA sample.”