Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  I need you. “See you soon.”

  * * * *

  Over the intercom, the morgue receptionist said, “Dr. Littman is on his way back.”

  Beck’s chest loosened. He left the suite and waited in the hall. The air was a shade warmer and didn’t smell as strongly of blood and disinfectant.

  Zach rounded the corner, looking tired. He stopped in front of Beck. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Beck managed a smile. “No problems?”

  “None.” Zach pulled on disposable bootees and a waterproof paper gown. “How bad is it?”

  Bad. “It’s him. No doubt about that.”

  “Have you made a positive ID?”

  “Yeah. The guy was in the system.” This new twist made it worse.

  “Who is he?”

  There was no good way to say it. Between the body and the gravestone, there wasn’t much doubt about the message. “The victim’s prints came back as a Zachary Aren Littman.”

  Zach froze. Naked fear fleeted across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by a frown. “W-what?”

  Beck sighed. “Yeah. Zachary A. Littman. He was a small-time burglar. Lung disease put him out of business, and he was living on disability. The neighbors said he liked beer when he could afford it. He may have been out drinking. Of course, nobody saw anything.”

  “How did the Follower find him?”

  “Phone book? Search engine? If he could find Hightower, this guy wasn’t much of a challenge.” Watching Zach’s face, Beck added, “The grave site where we found the victim was marked ‘Littman.’”

  Zach swallowed hard. “Family plot?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “The note?”

  “It’s not a rhyme. Looks like black marker on plain white copier paper. It says, ‘You may be smart, but I am smarter. Next time it won’t be a substitute, My Dearest Doctor Littman.’”

  More straightforward than his previous poetry, but still hair-raising.

  Zach nodded. “I want to see it.”

  The thing had been literally soaked in blood. “Sure about that?”

  “Yes. It’s important.” Zach pushed through the door and into the autopsy suite. Beck followed.

  The body lay arranged on the table, water rushing through the gutters. Elmo stood over the victim; behind his face mask he wore half-moon glasses. “Afternoon, Dr. Littman.”

  “I hear you’ve been busy.” Zach’s calm tone was at odds with his colorless face. “I’d like to see the note.”

  “Middle pan on the counter.”

  Beck tried not to hover as Zach read the message. Few words, but definitely a threat. There was no teasing rhyme in the communication.

  After an eternity Zach drew back. “Okay. The incised number?”

  “Here.” Elmo beckoned.

  Beck watched Zach walk over to the table and absorb the pattern of slashes and cuts forming the number three, and the missing genitalia. Zach grimaced. “Did you find the…parts?”

  Elmo jerked his chin. “In the rectal vault. Pan two.”

  The morgue attendant gestured to a stainless-steel tray. Beck had already viewed the grisly contents but went along. Zach looked inside and gripped the edge of the counter.

  Yep, it was bad. One glance was enough to make a man wince. Elmo had said the guy was alive when he’d had his package lopped off with a very sharp blade.

  Zach’s jaw tightened as he inspected the victim’s castrated penis and testicles.

  “That’s it for now,” Elmo said. “I’ll call with anything else.”

  “Thanks.” Beck tipped his head toward the door. They stripped off their protective clothing and left.

  Outside, it was a warm, optimistic spring day. A chamber-of-commerce kind of day—the kind that made it hard to believe a man had been murdered, mutilated, and left on a grave site.

  While they walked, Beck brought him up to date on the parking tickets, the blue car, and the mysterious fingerprint match to Annika’s glasses. “Hard to know if any of it will go anywhere.”

  Like clockwork, Zach paused for coffee at Ivan’s kiosk and then accompanied Beck to the task force room. On the table there was a fax from the FBI forensics lab. Zach sank into a chair and slid off the paper clip.

  Good news? Bad news? No news? Beck took a chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Pressure was building behind his eyes. Lack of sleep, stress, poor diet, and ka-pow. Headache.

  The day’s developments made things worse. Should they warn every man named Zachary Littman in a five-state area? Should they stake out graves by that name? Or was it a one-shot deal with the Follower?

  Increasingly, Beck felt uncomfortable with Zach as a lure. The Follower wasn’t predictable. No one could have foreseen what he’d do after the TV interview. His latest note seemed to indicate he intended to go after Zach—but when? They couldn’t stake out Zach indefinitely.

  If Zach went back to Minneapolis, the Follower would probably track him there. Seeing the name Littman on that headstone… God, it had hit Beck like a bucket of ice water. He and Zach might have their problems, but Beck didn’t want to lose him—even if it meant resuming a long-distance relationship. It would have to be enough until—

  “Beck?”

  He straightened. “Yeah.”

  “The FBI found identical fibers at the Wexler and Gates crime scenes, and there were some sort of microscopic black paint splatters on these fibers—like you’d find with a fine mist.”

  “Did they get a match on the fibers?”

  “Metro gold 66 nylon with delustrant, otherwise known as pre-1980 dull gold industrial carpet. Two hits. The first is a gold 1976 Olds Cutlass Supreme 442.”

  A boat of a car. The Follower could carry a body in the trunk without difficulty. “We can do a computer search. Anything else?”

  “A 1978 RV by Wind Runner.” Zach dropped the report on the table. “The company closed in 1985, but it could be something.”

  “You’re thinking the Sunnyside RV parking ticket could have been for a 1978 Wind Runner?”

  Zach shrugged. “It’s worth checking.”

  It seemed unlikely the Follower was driving a behemoth RV. He’d want something generic—something that blended in, like Perny’s beaters. “On the RV citation, Richfield turned up a name and registration for a woman in Iowa. The tags were current, but there was no one by that name in Iowa or Colorado.”

  “Maybe it’s not hers anymore.”

  “Someone paid to keep the tags current in her name.” Beck flipped to the printout from the citation. “The officer noted it as a black-and-white RV and the plate number. No make or model. The violation was parking too close to a driveway. Paid in cash by mail-in envelope.”

  “And then the RV disappeared from that location.”

  “As far as we know. I sent Owen out to do a canvass where the blue car was found. I’ll ask him to look around for the RV.”

  Zach nodded. “Good. What else?”

  Beck glanced at the clock. Almost four thirty. “I need to run home and get clean clothes. I’m moving to a new place for tonight.”

  Zach smirked. “The no-tell motel not swanky enough for you?”

  “Not private enough for me and not swanky enough for you.”

  “Hey, you don’t need to take me into consideration. I’m staying at home.”

  It was Beck’s turn to grin. “Correction: you’re sleeping at home. You don’t have to be there until ten. We can do other things at my new place.”

  “Sounds very…how you say…naughty,” Zach said in a breathy French-accented voice.

  “You bet your britches, Littman.”

  * * * *

  The RV angle was dead, Zach concluded. There were over two hundred 1978 model RVs registered in the Denver area. Of those, three were Wind Runners; all were beige with dark markings and could be considered black and white.

  None had a previous registration in Iowa. Hogan had promised to take on the Iowa DMV and get back to them. Beck was now on th
e phone debriefing Richfield.

  Zach was mentally reviewing the conversation with Darling.

  Over the rim of his coffee cup, Zach surveyed the second dry-erase board, the one with Darling on the left, the Follower in the middle, and Perny on the right.

  “He sees these offerings as part of a transition,” Darling had said. “God made the world in five.”

  “Our agreement is for helpful information.”

  “It is helpful. You not understanding it is on you, not me.”

  How was that helpful? Then, “You’re close to finding him. Closer than you think. You’ll find him when he gets to five.”

  Closer…than…you…think. Huh. Could Darling have meant “close” as in physically nearby? “Close” as in a prison worker? A guard?

  A corrupt guard. Zach’s heart sped up. It made sense. They were the only ones who had direct contact with Darling. A corrections officer could sneak things in and out, would know how to avoid detection. The best way to handle that possibility would be for Zach to check it out through FBI channels and pass along anything relevant.

  But it was Beck’s task force; he deserved to hear the theory.

  Phone to his ear, Beck was pacing the conference room. Judging by his expression, Richfield’s canvass hadn’t yielded much.

  Beck disconnected. “Nothing on the car, other than it was driven at night by a nondescript guy. No RVs are parked in the area. Most people are still at work and not available to interview. We’ll try again later, but it’s basically a bust.”

  Might as well throw the latest theory out there. “I think it has to be someone at the prison.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Follower might be a corrections officer, or a CO is the go-between.”

  Beck’s smoke-colored eyes didn’t waver, but he didn’t look angry. Not yet.

  “No one else could interact with Darling,” Zach continued. “Day isn’t the type to play minion for a serial killer, and he hasn’t had anyone else along on these jaunts other than Perny. Darling doesn’t have face-to-face contact visits with his attorneys since going into Supermax. He can’t physically pass anything to anyone. That leaves the guards.”

  “So we’re looking for an off-duty Supermax guard with surgical training and the freedom to move around undetected between the prison and Denver.” The frustration in Beck’s voice was unmistakable. “He has the ability to find someone in hiding, plus locate an individual and a grave site named Littman. Somehow he either knew or knew of Perny, and he may own—or borrow—the beat-up blue car currently in our possession, or possibly a gold Cutlass.”

  “Or an RV.”

  “Or an RV.” Irritation edged the words. Beck clenched his jaw. “No serial killer in the history of mankind has used an RV, Zach.”

  “It would allow him to take a trip without incurring hotel bills. We know he was in Omaha, and he traveled to wherever Hightower lived.” It wasn’t a stretch for Zach; an RV was plausible. “He could tow a car along.”

  “I suppose.” Beck looked anything but convinced.

  “RV aside, we have to look at the guards.” At least that would be a manageable pool of people.

  “They all had to pass deep federal background checks, including a psychological examination. All of them have their fingerprints in a federal database. What are the chances—”

  “If they’re human, they’re corruptible,” Zach snapped. “They could get around the fingerprints. Anyone in direct contact with Darling could be the Follower. Check the guards.”

  Surprise showed on Beck’s face. “All right. Don’t blow a gasket. We’ll check the guards.” Beck shoved his hands in his pockets. “Can we not argue?”

  “We’re not arguing. It’s just a…spirited discussion.”

  Beck sputtered a laugh. “Right.”

  It hadn’t been fair for Zach to get testy about investigating the corrections officers. Beck was a good cop, and he’d worked his ass off chasing leads and searching for the Follower. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long, stressful day for both of us.”

  “Yeah.” Beck brushed a hand across his neck. “The guards are federal. Can you access that stuff?”

  “Sands would be my choice to deal with the Bureau of Prisons. I’m just a lowly special agent.” Zach tried a grin and got a tentative one in return. It seemed like forever since he’d seen Beck smile. “I’ll call him, and then we can go eat.”

  “I need to fill SJ in before we leave for dinner.” That was Beck, thorough to a fault.

  Zach wanted to get away from the aftermath of the Follower—just for a few hours. They both needed to get away from it. “How about we stop at home for you to grab some fresh clothes? Then we can eat somewhere conducive to personal conversation.”

  “Deal. Let me bring SJ up to speed.”

  “I’ll call Sands.”

  * * * *

  The new hotel wasn’t a hotel; Beck had opted for a quaint bed-and-breakfast operated by a retired gay couple. Shades of celery, cream, and moss highlighted the architecture of the two-story Victorian, and a tower topped by an egg-shaped cupola straddled one corner of the front porch. Trees surrounded the property, offering privacy. It made a nice setting for a romantic interlude.

  Beck had selected a suite with a private entrance on the side of the house. The door was beneath a covered pass-through; the house’s brick drive stretched under the canopy and continued toward the rear of the property, ending at a converted carriage house. The owners had reassured him there were no other guests that evening and there would be no distractions.

  Getting the key in the lock was tricky. Beck felt shaky inside, as if there were great significance to staying at a B and B.

  “Need help?” Zach wasn’t helping by nuzzling Beck’s neck.

  The key slid home. Beck turned the lock and opened the door on a lovely room. He’d checked the place out in the past—mostly for future reference—but it was gorgeous when set up for guests.

  Twin chairs, upholstered in moss-colored velvet, sat in front of a fireplace. Between them was a small table bearing coffee and chocolate. No alcohol. They needed to be ready for anything. To the right, a door opened into a luxurious bath: a huge whirlpool tub, a shower built for two, and stacks of lofty white towels.

  The bed sat on a raised platform; the green velvet comforter had been turned down in invitation. Fine cotton sheets, softer than a feather.

  “Beck…” Zach’s voice was husky, his expression like a kid’s on Christmas morning.

  “Hmm?”

  “This is— I mean— Wow,” Zach whispered. “Just…wow.”

  Beck grinned. It was wow. And worth every penny to see the surprise on Zach’s face. Having pulled out all the stops to make him realize how much Beck cared for him—hell, loved him—Beck hoped it worked.

  They shared the shower without getting too randy—hard to do with all that slippery skin—and lathered up with the citrus soap. Rinse, dry, and off to the bed.

  Beck tried to hold back and make it romantic, but the stress of the case and last night’s loneliness made it impossible. Zach, naked and aroused, was sexy as hell. Beck had him on the bed and prepped in record time; Zach’s body welcomed him without resistance. That hot, satiny squeeze on Beck’s cock never ceased to amaze him.

  The past seven months had been difficult—long stretches without physical contact and lots of making do with his own hand. There had been phone calls, of course. And phone sex, and occasionally toys enjoyed via the airwaves. There had been lonely nights spent in a bed too big for one. There had been waking up alone after a nightmare.

  There had been thoughts of What in the hell are we doing, being apart more than together? and no good answer.

  A chance at the real thing in a romantic setting… That was too much to pass up. Tonight, Beck’s only thought was to push inside and take them both away. Zach’s eyes were full of trust.

  “Okay?” Beck struggled to hold still, to let Zach have a moment to accommoda
te the cock in his ass.

  “Yeah.” Zach sounded a bit winded. “Go.”

  Beck slid back, slid forward. Zach closed his eyes and arched. Another thrust, this time harder.

  “Beck… God. Right there.”

  And we have prostate. Beck took another leisurely stroke. Slow and steady wasn’t going to happen. Not this time. Slower would last longer, but this was more of a claiming than making love. He built up speed, pounding into the fiery flesh. With each thrust, Zach gasped.

  Beck lowered over him and planted an openmouthed kiss on Zach’s shoulder. He tasted of citrus soap and clean skin and something indefinable that was Zach.

  Zach nudged his face and kissed him hard. “More.”

  Hearts banging, skin rubbing, tongues tangling, Beck steered the runaway train. Zach gave a desperate moan, the kind that made Beck want to pound him into the mattress. Control evaporated; fire gathered at the base of Beck’s spine. Zach smothered a cry against Beck’s shoulder; heat spurted between them, salty and sticky.

  Oh my God. The rhythmic contractions on Beck’s dick broke loose the electricity at the small of his back. It tumbled through muscle and nerve. It enveloped his ass, his balls, and his cock. It sent him careening over the edge. With a yell, Beck came, pumping deep into Zach’s body.

  Zach wrapped his arms around him and kissed Beck’s shoulder. “That…was…”

  “Hmm?”

  For a moment Zach stroked Beck’s spine. “Indescribable.”

  “Say what?” Beck rose and caught Zach’s lazy smile. There was a lot of contentment in that smile, along with the teasing.

  Beck withdrew and grabbed a nearby towel, cleaned them up, and pulled Zach against him under the covers.

  “How about a snooze?” Beck kissed him.

  “I have to be home on time or—”

  “Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin? I’ll get you there, Cinderella. I’ll set an alarm. We’ve got enough time for a short nap and round two.”

  Yawning, Zach moved closer. “Don’t you get me in trouble with the fairy godmother.”

  “I’ll tell Lieutenant Evans you called him that.”

  Zach smirked. “For now, we nap.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Talking to Littman had been a mistake. It had awakened something urgent and hungry. Drawing couldn’t slake him; it no longer brought cool relief. Instead, desires prodded from deep inside, hot thorns demanding attention.