by Whitley Gray
Zach glanced at his watch. Eight thirty. God, this day was endless. It had been worth it to stay and interview the hiker, though. It was a good lead—despite Beck’s attitude. That could be fixed. Beck would feel better after a bite to eat, a massage, and a good night’s sleep. “What are you thinking?”
Beck shot him a quizzical look. “Nothing.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“I thought you wanted to talk case strategy.”
“It’s turned into a monologue.” Zach watched the hailstorm.
“Look. Can we just leave it for tonight? I know I said we could discuss it, but I’m all in. It’s been a long, difficult day.”
“Okay.”
“You sure?”
“I said okay. I mean okay. End of discussion.”
“Sorry. I need what little mental energy I have left to drive.” Beck waved at the hail-peppered gridlock in front of them. “I don’t want to have an accident, or we’ll never get home.”
A valid consideration. Some people would still drive like maniacs, despite the road conditions.
“Use the lights,” Zach said.
“It’s not an emergency.”
“After the day you’ve had, I say it qualifies. In my medical opinion, it definitely qualifies.”
Beck mulled it over. “Doctor’s orders?”
“Absolutely.”
“Just this once.”
“Sure.” Zach hid a grin.
“Because it has been a bad day.” Beck tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “An exceptionally bad day.”
“Amen, brother.” Now all they needed were grill lights, and they’d be home free.
“Here we go.” Beck flipped the flashers. Red and blue washed over the slick bodies of cars and the blacktop. With a bit of whoop-whoop from the siren, cars moved left, freeing a passage on the right. Beck nosed the car into the free space and up the ramp. “We have liftoff.”
“Hallelujah, Houston. Let’s go home.”
* * * *
The bed felt like a welcoming cocoon. Beck stretched out on his back, enjoying the patter of rain and the cool breeze coming in. Then Zach slipped under the covers, and it got…uncomfortable.
Not because of lack of desire, although they were both too tired to get up to tricks. Not because Zach wanted pillow talk and Beck wanted silence. And not because of arguing, unless Beck counted the one he was having with himself inside his head.
It was because of the damn boxes. Boxes, boxes, boxes. In nearly every room. Tonight was supposed to have been the night Beck brought up the boxes and Zach’s mysterious opportunity, and random chance had thrown a nasty wrench into the works.
Who wanted to discuss a hot-button topic after a seventeen-hour day? When this fatigued, Beck wasn’t sure he could leash temper well enough to have a conversation. He might wreck their fragile truce. It was better to keep his mouth shut.
As usual, Zach wanted to talk. He was too canny. Too intuitive with that psychiatric sixth sense of his. He knew something was wrong, despite Beck’s denials.
Tonight Beck wasn’t up for pillow talk. Bedtime chatter might include jewels like, By the way, I’m accepting a promotion and moving back to Minneapolis. Just the thought made his chest ache. He rolled away onto his side. With a sigh, Zach spooned against his back, a solid warmth.
“Last question,” Zach whispered, heated breath against Beck’s ear making him shiver. “You okay?”
Christ. Beck squeezed his eyes shut. Why couldn’t he have fallen for an accountant? Or a cashier or a computer geek or the guy who made your morning coffee? Someone—anyone—who couldn’t read people, let alone did it for a living.
Someone who would stay put and nurture a relationship instead of conducting it across hundreds of miles.
“I’m fine, Zach. Just drained.” Mentally and physically. And suppressing the question of whether you’re staying long-term or just until Jay returns.
Zach pushed up on one arm and stared down at him. Beck dropped his lashes. The conflict might show. Warm fingers turned his chin, and Zach pressed his lips to Beck’s. The kiss was soft and declared understanding and…well, love. An I-love-you kiss.
I love you too. So much it’ll tear me apart if you don’t stay.
Beck’s heart swelled with a helpless surge of affection, and it was so hard not to spill everything inside him…every hope and fear.
Zach’s arm wrapped around Beck’s waist. There was a series of tender kisses to the scars on the back of Beck’s shoulder, and then the gradual deepening of Zach’s breaths as he slid into sleep. Beck closed his eyes.
Please don’t leave.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They had breakfast on the patio at Simple. The blue-and-white-striped umbrella offered shade, and the corner table a modicum of privacy; at present they shared the area with a solitary man reading the newspaper on the opposite side of the patio.
Zach wanted to talk, but Beck seemed reticent. Zach turned the white stoneware mug counterclockwise, then back. “The more we uncover, the less we know.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Beck speared a fork into his meal. He’d opted for a skillet heaped with diced potatoes, veggies, and cheese, topped with a sunny-side-up egg. Zach had gone with an egg-white omelet and a side of grilled tomatoes.
Breakfast had been Zach’s suggestion. He wanted to talk shop without the task force around. Beck seemed more interested in eating than discussion.
“What do you make of the hiker’s story?” Zach sipped his coffee. “With respect to the skeleton locator and the other bone finder.”
“Those people have nothing to do with it.”
“After hearing about the second hiker, that’s your conclusion?”
“Yes.”
“You think the Follower was the other guy? That he’d risk being seen?”
“It wasn’t a risk.” Beck waved his fork and spoke with frustration. “He’s a chameleon. We’re not going to get a true visual ID no matter how many people see him, and he knows it. An artist’s rendition on the evening news is not how we’re going to catch him. Hell, we may never catch him.”
That was one possibility Zach didn’t want to ponder. “Let’s consider the evidence, then. What about trace?”
“Hightower and Perny were killed elsewhere and left outside. Omaha has a lot of material, but nothing unique—not like a fiber. No rope or tape. No clothing to examine.”
Zach sat back in his seat. “Any idea where they were killed?”
“Presumably in Omaha. No idea about location.”
“Wexler was an indoor scene. She was killed in the same place she was left,” Zach said slowly. “Why?”
Beck set the fork on his plate. “The message on the ceiling is the reason. By writing, ‘Hello, Dr. Littman. Welcome to the game,’ he’d done something showy to get your attention—an enormous note. By killing someone you’d met in person, he upped the stakes. Doing it in Perny’s place was one more way to attach meaning. It was all a big bloody invitation to get you involved.”
And it had worked. Ruskin’s injury had made Zach’s involvement official, but admittedly, he’d been involved one way or another since the start. “Our best chance of finding trace is there.”
“The scene’s been released. It must’ve been cleaned by now.”
“Still. Would you be okay with the FBI lab looking over the collected trace?”
Beck frowned. “I’ll have to run it by SJ.”
“I’m not criticizing the DPD lab. I’m just looking for a lead—”
“I know. You’ll have to approach Hogan about the evidence Omaha PD collected.”
Hogan might be amenable to that. “We’ve got written messages.”
“They’re generic paper, generic ink, and no prints. We’re guessing what the poetry means. The one-liner he wrote for Unger to read on the air went nowhere. No one called up with an aha moment about their neighbor or boss or someone they follow on Facebook.”
Tru
e. Zach hadn’t been able to parse a clear message from any of the writings. “Why did he have Unger read it on the air? What was so important that the Follower would risk entering Unger’s house and stealing the photo as a threat?”
“Good question.” Beck’s tone was becoming gloomy. “And I don’t have an answer.”
“Why does any psychopath want their manifesto read on TV or published in a major paper?”
“Attention.”
“Precisely. But why not go big when using that attention? Why such a short piece?” Zach pulled the Unger note up on his phone. “‘I give my heart to my work, my work gives its heart to me. / It’s nearly time for number three.’”
“The first part could be a reference to taking the heart. ‘Time for number three’ is the attack on Van.” Beck lifted his mug, swirled the coffee, and drained the remainder. “As for why he opted for something so short…who knows?”
Zach had a theory about that. “I think it was a message meant for a particular individual. A code telling them what was going on.”
“I’m probably going to regret this, but I’ll bite. Who?”
“Xavier Darling.”
The look on Beck’s face wasn’t encouraging. “Because the Follower can’t get inside the prison, and Darling has TV privileges and would see it.”
“Yes. It could mean, I did two, and I’m ready to do a third.”
“You’re all over the map here, Littman. First it’s someone associated with Perny. Then it’s Hightower is the key. Now it’s back to the Darling as the director theory—”
“Now wait—”
“Let’s say it is Darling behind this. What then? You think he’s going to talk to you? You think he’s going to give you a name? If this is some sort of hideous game he’s playing, why would he let you interfere? He will not help us. And what’s to say he won’t attract some other psychopath who will in turn take out the Follower?” Barely restrained anger vibrated in his voice. “I’m in charge of a serial-murder task force, and I have nothing but fucking phantoms, games, and bad poetry. I need something real. Something credible.” Beck jabbed a finger at the tabletop.
The aggravation hit Zach like a hammer. This was more than frustration over the task force, or Zach’s sense of Darling’s involvement. It felt deeper. Personal. Separation had been the main difficulty these past seven months, but the separation was over. Beck didn’t know about the ASAC offer. Yet. They needed to talk—privately, at length, and without interruption. In the meantime, work. “We’ll get something real.”
* * * *
The morning task force meeting was running late, and Beck couldn’t bring himself to care. Relaying their discussion with the hiker had worsened the funk he’d slid into at breakfast.
After SJ approved the FBI lab looking at their evidence, Ernie gave his report. “I compared license plates from the Christmastime security videos with the cemetery footage. There were no matches or partial matches for vehicles at both places. I ran ’em through the database and discovered two of the cars from the cemetery recordings had received parking tickets within the past twelve months.”
“Local?” Van looked rakish with his blue stitches, grimacing as he took notes. Richfield kept glancing at him, as if Van were a new species.
“Both Colorado vehicles. Neither more than five years old. Both high-end—not beaters. Both with permanent plates, not temporary.”
“Can you check for any parking violations within a six-block radius of the Wexler girl’s residence?” Zach asked.
“Sure,” Ernie said. “But they have pretty liberal on-street parking in that neighborhood because of students. Patrol asked about strange vehicles when they canvassed after the murder.”
“Thanks.” Beck glanced around the room. “Anyone have anything else?”
Silence.
“We’re on borrowed time here.” Beck tried to reinforce how dangerous that was. “If anyone has any ideas, let’s have them.”
“Draw him out,” Zach said.
Beck crossed his arms. “How?”
“False news report. Relay his work is sloppy, for example. Or it indicates impotence. Or he lacks intelligence.” Zach nodded at Van. “Or he smells bad.”
Beck didn’t like the sound of that plan. At all. “Won’t that set him off?”
“It’s impossible to know. If the information came from a specific individual, he might direct attention at that person. A TV interview would be the ideal format—a lot of bang for the buck.”
“Like Dr. Vieth?”
Zach gave a slow smile. “No, like me.”
The Wexler scene played in Beck’s mind: blood everywhere, the gruesome invitation on the ceiling, the body tethered to the floor. Before he could stop himself, Beck blurted out, “No fucking way.”
SJ gave him a sharp look.
“Sorry.” Heat move into Beck’s face. He gave Zach a hard stare. “It’s a bad idea.”
“Why? The Follower is a knife man. He’d have to get up close and personal. In the meantime, I’d be surrounded by Denver’s finest. I can wear a GPS marker in case he manages to grab me.”
“He could kill you outright before anyone could get to you.”
Zach shook his head. “He wouldn’t enjoy that.”
“There has to be a way to catch him that doesn’t involve you—or anyone—acting as a decoy.” Beck wished like hell he could clear the room and yell at Zach privately about the boneheaded idea.
“We’ll take it under consideration and talk after lunch,” SJ said. “Say at one o’clock.”
“Okay. Anyone else?” Beck wanted to get Zach alone and talk some sense into him.
No one said a thing.
“Ernie, give me a call when the Sunnyside parking tickets are ready, would you? Thanks, everyone.” Beck stood. “Dismissed.”
When the room emptied, Zach crossed his ankle on the opposite knee and grinned at Beck. “You were absolutely right. Chances are Darling won’t help us. This is something that doesn’t involve him. Something real.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Zach. Baiting a serial killer? Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“Noted. Let’s come up with some interview questions.”
“SJ hasn’t agreed yet.” Hopefully, she’d see it as reckless.
“She will. It’s a good strategy.”
Beck groaned. It was a bad day, and only ten thirty in the morning.
* * * *
The Aztecs fed their gods, appeased their hunger with the sacrifice of human hearts. And with retrieval of the heart came blood. Sweet, salty, smelling of copper, running in rivers from the chosen’s chest. The human body contained ten units of blood. Beetle had seen the bags in the blood bank, right around the corner from his office at the hospital. Carefully labeled, ruby rich, freely given by well-meaning souls.
Beetle had a different kind of donation in mind. Ten units. Five liters. Five slender glass bottles.
Soon.
In the Supermax infirmary, Beetle unlocked the office containing the computer terminal. Denver Health supplied this remote access in order to fulfill the contract with the Bureau of Prisons. Data could be uploaded, downloaded, or searched. Electronic footprints were forever, so it was important not to establish any questionable patterns with searches. Lab work made the perfect camouflage.
Beetle logged on using another tech’s ID and password. Med Tech Black had found himself with a missing alternator this morning and had begged Beetle to take the first half of his shift.
Having stolen the alternator with that precise result in mind, Beetle agreed. The corrections staff knew him well; they took the substitution in stride.
Using the other tech’s name and password, Beetle logged in the morning glucose results. The schedule still showed Black. The computer would show Black. Everything matched, no red flags.
The mentor’s sugar was too high. A physician visit might be necessary. Upon hearing that, the lead corrections officer had asked Beetle if there wasn’t something
he could do. The guards detested the hassle and attendant risk it took to have Darling leave his cell. No matter how much Xav wanted out, the chances of getting a trip to the infirmary were remote—so remote as to be nonexistent.
After the usual I’m-not-a-doctor-but-I’ll-pass-it-along speech, the guards waited ten paces away, congratulating themselves on avoiding a trip to the infirmary while Beetle had had a private tête-à-tête with the mentor. A new heart was coming. Soon. Very soon.
Beetle scanned through the mentor’s demographic data, browsed the recent entries, and then left an electronic message for the physician about Darling’s blood sugar.
It had been easy to locate Pam London, née Vicki Hightower. Her alias had been dutifully entered into Denver Health’s system and linked with her original name. A Podunk hospital in Nebraska had requested records from Denver Health two years ago. The records request—and from whom—resided inside the DH computer. Finding her had been a snap in a town that size.
Perny had been trickier, but he too had visited a Denver Health service site and given away every detail of his life. Well, one or two he had kept secret—like an affinity for ritual murder. A law student should have known better than to become part of an immense data bank.
The vast majority of people had no idea how much personal data was in their health records. They thought credit-card hacking was bad? They didn’t know the half of it.
As soon as Black arrived, Beetle could leave.
It was good to have the rest of the day off to prepare. The trunk of the beater wouldn’t hold everything, and no way was he putting the new equipment on the backseat. The trip wasn’t long, but it could be an issue if he was pulled over. The license was Nebraska, as was the temporary registration sticker and bill of sale. In case of trouble, a simple I’m moving to Colorado, Officer should do it. Excellent camouflage.
Tonight would be his finest work. The third subject ought to cause untold pain and prove how stupid law enforcement was.
* * * *
Zach was convinced his strategy would work.
Beck wasn’t. At lunch he’d come up with a multitude of reasons why Zach’s plan was the worst idea since overcrowded prisons. Beck had left most of his sandwich uneaten.
