High Concept
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Loose Id Titles by Whitley Gray
Whitley Gray
HIGH CONCEPT
Whitley Gray
www.loose-id.com
High Concept
Copyright © September 2013 by Whitley Gray
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
eISBN 9781623003128
Editor: Venessa Giunta
Cover Artist: Mina Carter
Published in the United States of America
Loose Id LLC
PO Box 809
San Francisco CA 94104-0809
www.loose-id.com
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter One
A warning tingle levered the hairs on the back of Beck’s neck as he fastened the last screw on the doorplate. Something thwacked into the front door. A child screamed. Visions of slugs slamming into the door frame sent his pulse into the stratosphere.
Shit.
Still in his crouch he spun around, reaching for his shoulder holster. Which wasn’t there. His vision coned down as PTSD engulfed him, and the street held emergency vehicles and sirens and Dan lying in a spreading pool of—
No. Beck squeezed his eyes shut and forced a deep breath in through his nose. The new month had broken crisp and clear, carrying the aroma of damp leaves and wood smoke. October. Safe. The tool in his fist was a screwdriver, not a .357. Shades of Halloween, not summer.
He opened his eyes. Only a football, rocking on the porch at his feet. God, one of these days he had to figure out how to go off-line when he wasn’t at work. The yard was empty. The next-door neighbor raked leaves in his front yard, ignoring the activity going on at Marybeth’s. What was the guy’s name? Nunn? Nance? At any rate, he didn’t like Beck, which was fine, because Beck didn’t like Nance’s overtures toward Marybeth. She’d only been a widow for three months, for God’s sake.
Marybeth’s boys swung into the driveway on their bikes.
“Sorry, Beck.” Artie turned to his brother. “Told you not to do that, asshole.”
“Hey, hey.” Beck scooped up the ball and stood. “That’s no way to talk to Pete.”
Artie stuck out his lower lip in a nine-year-old pout. “He’s a stupid kindergartner. Can’t even throw while he rides.”
Yeah, because that was so easy. Artie had the effortless grace of a born athlete, and his involvement in sports had given him an outlet to deal with grief. Pete’s small size and preference for books made it hard for him to physically keep up. Beck ran a hand over the crisp waves of his hair as he stepped off the porch and strolled toward the boys. “Your dad wouldn’t like you cussing and calling your brother names.”
“He can’t catch.” A flush rose under Artie’s freckles, and he smirked. “Maybe you can toss the ball with me.”
Just the thought sent a twinge through Beck’s shoulder. He resisted the urge to stretch the muscles. Maybe he should move up his physical therapy appointment. And after the little episode on the porch, his next appointment with the shrink. Beck rested a hand on Pete’s slender shoulder. “Kiddo—”
The front door opened. Marybeth grinned at him, blue eyes squinting in the afternoon sun. Easy to see where Artie got his copper-colored hair and freckles—the boy was a miniature masculine version of his mother. Pete, on the other hand, was a tiny copy of his father, with Danny’s dark eyes and hair.
Marybeth stepped onto the porch. “Ready for a snack, guys?”
“Yeah.” Artie dumped his bike on the concrete sidewalk at Beck’s feet and tugged the football away from Beck.
“Don’t leave the bike there, Art,” Marybeth called from the porch.
The mulish expression made a comeback. “No one’s gonna run it over.”
Beck sighed and pulled the football out of the boy’s grip. She had her hands full with this one.
“Listen to your mother. Park the bike on the lawn.”
A pout of distaste shaped the kid’s red lips, but he bent to pick up the bike. “Fine.”
After Artie situated the bike on the grass, Beck extended the football. “Thanks, kiddo.”
Like the miniature quarterback he was, Art snatched the football, tucked it under his arm, and charged toward the house. Pete gazed up at Beck with soulful eyes. “I don’t wanna play anymore. I can’t catch.”
“It’s okay, buddy. You’ll get better.” Would he? Not like Beck had a lot of experience with kids. He had no paternal instinct, regardless of what Marybeth said. Recollection of his own childhood represented his main source of information for dealing with the boys. This immersion in child rearing had been quite an education. After this, having kids wasn’t on his radar. “Let’s get a snack.”
“’Kay.” Pete curled his small hand into Beck’s.
The kid didn’t move until Beck started for the house. In the last few weeks, Pete had glommed on to Beck like a con on a cover story, as had Marybeth. Fulfilling the promise to watch over the family resulted in repercussions Danny would never have anticipated.
Marybeth waited on the porch until Beck and her son were up the steps. The scent of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies drifted from the house, and Beck’s stomach rumbled.
She chuckled. “Hungry?”
“Yeah. Sure.” With a gentle push, Beck urged Pete though the doorway, and ushered Marybeth in after. He squatted, piled the tools back in the box, and set it next to the hay bale and gourds Marybeth had arranged on the front porch for fall.
Once inside, he closed the door
and flipped the new lock, then tried the handle. Secure—much better than the flimsy spring lock. Along with the dead bolt, the solid wood door made for adequate protection. He pivoted to face the security panel on the wall and reset the alarm. The lights glowed a continuous green.
“Thanks.” Marybeth reached out and patted his arm.
He gazed at his dead partner’s wife. The intent behind these little gestures…affection, or something more? That was never going to happen, even if he had played for that team. Danny would’ve found that unforgivable, and Beck carried enough guilt without piling on more. “You’re welcome.”
She headed for the kitchen. “Can you stay for dinner?”
Not again. “Marybeth—”
“I told you, it’s MB.” Another thing that’d never happen. No way he’d use Danny’s pet name, no matter how many times she reminded him. The days of Marybeth setting Beck up with her female friends made pleasant memories compared to this subtle but confusing pressure.
Maybe he should just tell her.
No. No, his private life was his own business, a confidence he’d shared with Danny, who had kept it from his wife and the force. Returning while recovering from an injury made his fellow officers nervous enough. The thought of revealing that little jewel made him cringe.
“The boys’d love it if you stayed.” She turned, and her gaze burned into him with an unspoken message.
God, she’d gotten good at pouring on the guilt. “Thanks, but I can’t stay tonight.”
“Please?”
Sounds of squabbling came from the kitchen, and he pictured cookies flying like Frisbees as the boys argued. Single parenthood had to be a challenge, but Beck wasn’t their father. He forced a smile. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I can’t.”
“Another time, then. But you can’t say no to cookies.”
“Sure.”
“See how they are?” She whirled around and strode toward the ruckus. “Boys, I’m going to count to three.”
Three. Three seconds, and three gunshots left a family of three.
Beck hated three.
Chapter Two
Victims three, four, and five…
The words blurred. Zach leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.
The unforgiving fluorescent lights of the Minneapolis district office and the backlit computer screen did nothing for his ocular comfort. The material itself was hard on the eyes.
God, he hated doing these summary reports. These girls weren’t numbers. They were daughters, sisters, girlfriends. Real people who’d had the bad luck to run afoul of the Crossroads Killer in Omaha, Nebraska.
At least most of the cases didn’t involve site visits. When seen firsthand, some horrors were more prescient than others. After sixteen months with the FBI, the ugliness of what people were capable of had begun to wear on him.
On the desk, his phone buzzed and jiggled across the metal. Squinting, Zach eyed the device, following its vibrating journey until it stilled. These days, phone calls tended to mean trouble, not pleasure. For a moment he hesitated. Maybe he should check the message and see who had called.
No. He was running late as it was.
This report wouldn’t write itself, and he couldn’t get out of here until the summary was on Director Sands’s desk. Zach held back a cynical smile. Warren Sands had the prematurely aged face of a man who had seen too much, but otherwise bore a striking resemblance to Steve Martin. The boss, however, had little sense of humor. The white hair and dazzling smile hid a personality that was all about results in the field—check emotions at the door. No gallows humor for Sands, let alone empathy for the victims or their families.
The FBI called it distance. Zach called it unnatural.
Okay. The composite profile suggested the killer had detailed knowledge of the area, as all victims attended the university. The burial field revealed evidence of multiple victims, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-two, all strangled with neckties.
The scene manifested in his mind. Night, flashlights stabbing into the dark as they made their way through deciduous forest and dense underbrush. Spotlights illuminating a patch of ground excavated into a series of six rectangular holes. Tarps covering remains as the medical examiner directed the crime scene techs and sheriff’s department. Toward midnight, glinting needles of rain slicing through the bare tree limbs, as if the night sky had shed tears for half a dozen girls who would never grow older.
Zach picked up his coffee, took a sip of the tepid brew. Private practice looked better all the time.
The phone hummed a second time, stuttered across the desk, and halted up against the stapler. A chime indicated a text.
Two messages this close together? No one called except his boss, his psychotherapist, and Dean. Oh hell—Dean. Zach noted the time and groaned. Almost seven. He’d totally lost track of time, and now he was late for the restaurant.
Scooping up the phone, he glanced at the photo. Yep, Dean.
The text message read, Remember dinner, oh Great Profiler?
Zach smirked and hit Dial.
“Hola. Where are you?” Dean’s voice came through distorted, as if the cell tower had bent the tones as they traveled through space. In the background, a woman’s voice taught Spanish via CD. Dean’s lessons hadn’t progressed much beyond “hi” and “bye” so far.
“Hey. Are you at the restaurant?”
“Be there in uno momento.” Cynicism filled the tone, the result of too many times left waiting. “You on the way?”
“Not yet.”
“The Sandman got you tied up?”
Zach looked from his report to the director’s office. “Sort of.”
“You going to make dinner, or should I plan on takeout and a movie by myself?”
Guilt settled like a heavy mantle on Zach’s shoulders. How did the guy always know which buttons to push? “I’ll meet you there at eight.”
A horn honked, and windshield wipers squeaked. “How about I pick up food, and we have a sleepover at my place?”
Not again. “Dean.”
“Christ.” Petulance came through loud and clear. “Kidding.”
Yeah, well, that was the problem. The kidding had a very real element of hope to it. “I’ll meet you at eight. At the restaurant.”
For a moment, silence echoed through the phone, then a sigh. “Okay.”
“Deano?” Oh fuck. He’d used the forbidden nickname without thinking. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Yeah?”
Too much hope in that one little word. “I’ll…talk to you there.”
“Sure. We’ll talk.” The tone had morphed into resignation. “Adios, amigo.”
The picture of Dean blanked out as the call disconnected. A friendly conversation with someone who didn’t work law enforcement sounded good—the cops in Omaha hadn’t appreciated the FBI intruding on their case, regardless of how useful Zach’s input could be. One of the detectives had been receptive, the others not so much. Nothing new. Looking at the data from the perspective of the FBI required horning in on the case the cops had built. Reassuring those cops Zach was on their side took finesse, and some days he was all out.
Private practice had taken on the hue of greener pastures.
Taking another sip of his cold coffee, he focused on reporting murder.
* * * *
The Gold Coast had graced a corner in downtown Minneapolis for over fifty years. Zach parked his sedan on the street and patted his pocket for his penlight. Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he strode down the sidewalk. October had scented the air with a touch of wood smoke. Behind the restaurant, Zach passed the sheltered patio that gave away the fact the building was a restaurant. Metal tables and chairs huddled along one wall beneath the awning, stored for the season and covered against winter snows. The weathered brick walls and high windows of the adjacent building disguised the eatery. The night urged him to hurry around the corner to the front and enter the building, get into the light, and warm up
in front of the restaurant’s enormous wood-burning fireplace.
Inside, dry heat and the rich aromas of grilled steak and fresh bread greeted him. Heavy oak beams supported the ceiling, and tumbled brick walls held the work of local artists, each painting in keeping with the local scenery. Low lighting lent an intimate quality to the atmosphere. He picked out the scent of warm pumpkin and caught an eyeful of a grinning jack-o’-lantern on the hostess stand.
The young woman attending the waiting list looked up, did a double take, and favored him with a too-friendly smile. “Can I help you?”
“I’m meeting someone here. Tanner, party of two?”
Her smile widened. “Tanner? I can help you look for her.”
“Him.”
“Him.” A predatory glint sharpened her gaze. She licked her bottom lip and tossed back her long hair.
Zach grimaced. Never gonna happen, lady. He edged past her. “I’ll find him. Thanks.” Conversation punctuated by occasional laughter came from the bar. But Dean wouldn’t sit in the bar.
A fire blazed in the central hearth, surrounded by white-clothed tables.
From the hostess stand, Zach picked out Dean’s spiky blond hair. Thank God he’d waited. He sat at a table next to a window, sipping a drink. As Zach made his way through the dining room, he could see his ex-lover’s expression reflected in the pane: downcast eyes and unsmiling face. The stood-up-by-my-date look. Zach knew it well.
Dean looked up as Zach slid into a chair. Dean’s pupils were normal in size, blue eyes clear, his color good. Healthy. A high-wattage grin brightened his face. “Hey, you made it.”
“Yeah. Sorry for the wait.” Zach shrugged out of his trench coat and eyed the tumbler in front of Dean. “Did you order?”
“Just a drink.” Dean tapped on the rim of his glass. “Soda and lime.”
Zach held back a sigh of relief. No need to get into it. Dean was an adult and could make his own decisions.
“I like the scruffy look.” Dean took a sip of the soda. “Goes well with your hair. Kind of like a blond Chuck Norris, but you’re cuter.”
“Thanks. I think.” Zach picked up a menu and squinted at the offerings. Why did they keep it so dark in here?