High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Coleman and Gates stalked out of the office. In tandem, they favored Beck with tight lips and narrowed eyes as they passed. Their corrosive “it’s your fault” looks peppered him like buckshot. What in the hell had he done to piss them off? He’d completed their damn computer search. So what if he’d kept a copy for himself?

  Holding his breath, Beck splinted his left arm against his side as the muscles in his shoulder spasmed, stealing his breath; he pushed himself to his feet, careful to use his right palm on the arm of the chair. Okay. Nothing a little ibuprofen wouldn’t cover later. Willing himself forward, he headed toward the office.

  McManus watched with narrowed eyes. “Inside.”

  Beck edged past the captain into the glass-walled office, and the Man closed the door, banging the window shade against the inset glass. “Sit down, Stryker.”

  Taking a chair in front of the desk, Beck studied the photos on the wall, gold frames contrasting with the indigo paint: the boss with the mayor, with the police commissioner, with John Elway. Somehow, the photo with the retired quarterback looked out of place, too casual for an office where discussions of homicide happened on a regular basis.

  The Man strode around the desk and dropped into his chair. A bottle of antacid sat front and center on the blotter. He pushed it aside, along with a cracked coffee cup and the remains of a sandwich. Beck caught a whiff of pastrami and Swiss. The worse Mrs. McManus’s cancer got, the worse McManus’s ulcer seemed to get, and a bad ulcer day upped the chances of the Man launching into a dressing-down.

  The murder books from the two home invasions Beck had worked with Danny sat on the desk. McManus opened a drawer, and a third binder joined the other two. Beck held back a wince as he recognized it. Shit. The binder holding his personal copy of Gates’s home invasion case. The three-ring binders formed a triptych across the surface. He fought the urge to loosen his tie.

  “You’ve been working Coleman and Gates’s case.”

  “I looked it over, did a computer search—”

  “You did a hell of a lot more than that.” McManus flipped open Beck’s three-ring binder. “Forensics.” He flipped a divider. “Autopsy results.” Flip. “Scene photos.”

  Busted. What could he say? No explanation would satisfy the Man. “It’s the third home invasion in the last few months.”

  “You telling me what’s going on in my own division, Stryker?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I assigned this case to a team.” The Man slapped the binder shut and tossed it on the desk. “Right now, you’re flying solo and on desk duty.”

  “I’m ready to get back into the field. I can work this case—”

  “There’s no way you’re working this case with Gates.” McManus’s frosty gaze challenged him to disagree.

  Beck absorbed that. On occasion, he’d wondered if the boss had known about Beck’s failed relationship with Van. If McManus did, he’d kept it to himself. The Officers’ GBLT Alliance meant nothing to an old-school cop like McManus. The unspoken attitude he conveyed in robbery/homicide had a don’t-ask-don’t-tell flavor. Plus, McManus wouldn’t break up Gates and Coleman.

  But maybe the Man would give the case to Beck. He shifted in his seat. “I thought the case might be linked to the others.”

  “The suspect in your investigation is dead, and you have no leads.”

  The air went out of Beck as if he’d been gut-punched, and he slouched in the chair. How was he supposed to respond to that? “There were tips we never got to follow up. I want to close those cases.” At the very least, Danny deserved that. Beck owed him, owed Marybeth and the boys. “I can do it, Captain.”

  “Look, Stryker. It’s a damn shame about Dan. Losing a partner is tough. No one has forgotten his sacrifice.” McManus grimaced, and Beck had to wonder if the Man was thinking about when he’d lose his wife to cancer. “But we have to get past it and provide quality law enforcement for the citizens of Denver. If you can’t do that, you’re not ready to be back out on the street.”

  “I’m ready.” He had to get back out there, clean up that niggling doubt that something hadn’t checked out on those home invasions.

  The Man stood and walked around his desk. “I’m putting you on a special assignment.”

  Beck shot out of his chair. What the hell did that mean? “What special assignment?”

  “Settle down, or your ass is out of here on administrative leave.” The Man’s eyebrows met in a thunderous line.

  Clenching his teeth, Beck slapped a restraint on his reaction and sat down. A chaperone detail for some bigwig would bug him more than desk work. “What’s the special assignment, sir?”

  McManus’s brow cleared. “I agree the three cases constitute a pattern, and I’ve requested outside help.”

  “From what department?”

  “The FBI.”

  Beck bit down on his first response and squeezed the arms of the chair. The FB fucking I? That was worse than a new partner. Worse than a chaperone detail. “I could work the cases while we wait for their assessment.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “But sir, it could take a while to get their report—”

  “Their man will be here in the morning.”

  Fuckity fuck fuck. Now he had to babysit some attorney with a shield and no law enforcement experience. “Is that necessary? Sir?” The words were out before he could censor them.

  A fresh storm brewed on McManus’s forehead. “Yeah. It is. And if you can’t work with him, you can damn well clean out your desk.”

  * * * *

  “Littman.”

  One eyebrow raised, Zach turned toward his boss. The behavioral unit’s regional director beckoned to him. A discussion before morning coffee? Never a good sign. Zach parked his briefcase on his desk, shrugged out of his coat, and draped it on the back of the desk chair.

  Thin as a rail, Warren Sands stood well over six feet. He kept his hair short, his jaw clean-shaven, and his posture straight as the trajectory of a bullet. A career’s worth of stress and cigarettes had etched deep lines into his forehead and left him twice divorced. Directing the Minnesota Regional Office required dedication to the exclusion of a personal life, and he pushed his agents as hard as himself.

  Sands had been willing to take a chance on Zach as a profiler when other FBI agents scoffed, and Zach owed him for that. Providing accurate profiles of monsters minimized casualties, and Sands insisted on expeditious results. He turned and ambled into his office, and Zach followed him into the windowless room. “Close the door and have a seat, Littman.” The boss faced Zach and studied him.

  A ghost of claustrophobia wafted over Zach, raising the hair on his forearms. The deep breath he pulled in did little to settle his nerves.

  “Got another case for you.”

  Five other guys in this office, and he was up for a case? He’d expected a break after wrapping up the Crossroads Killer profile in Omaha, even if the cops hadn’t yet caught the culprit. Maybe this new case needed only a review of the requesting department’s file—no on-site visit with its attendant problems. “A profile?”

  “A callout.”

  Zach bit back a groan. “Where?”

  “Denver.”

  “Look, Warren—”

  “This is a high-profile case.”

  Translation: political nightmare. Great. Zach looked at the ceiling and waited.

  “The captain of the Denver Homicide section wants an opinion.” Sands held Zach’s gaze.

  “Ruskin has experience with high-profile cases.”

  Sands’s glittering eyes froze Zach in place. “Not your call.”

  Who had he pissed off to draw this assignment? Zach sighed. “What’s the case?”

  “Home invasions. The first two were fifteen days apart last summer. Then nothing for four months. Now they’ve got a third case.”

  “No chance of reviewing the materials here and forming a profile for them?”

  “No. You’ll be working there with the
detective in charge.” The director flipped through a sheaf of papers. “A Detective Stryker.”

  Zach swallowed. “Beck Stryker?”

  Adjusting his glasses, Sands studied the paperwork. “Says John B. Stryker. You know him?”

  Well, there was a loaded question. “I— We worked together on a case a couple of years ago. When I was still in private practice.”

  The boss leaned back in his chair and picked up a pen, turning it end to end. “Good. Should go smoothly since you’re already acquainted.”

  Zach bit back on his response. Smooth? About as smooth as petting a porcupine and twice as painful.

  * * * *

  The house. Thank God.

  Beck pulled into Marybeth’s driveway. As soon as the vehicle halted, the boys tumbled out and ran for the front door, taking their shouts and shoves with them. He shook his head and smiled. “Never get tired, do they?”

  “Nope.” Marybeth turned toward him. Faint light from the front porch diffused through the windshield, and shadows hid her face. “They have to be in constant motion. Danny used to say they were born without Off switches.”

  “I agree with that.” He opened the car door and swung out. Wood smoke carried on the night air. Cold for October. Halloween could require winter coats over the boys’ costumes. After popping the trunk, he raised the lid and lifted out the pumpkins the boys had chosen at the pumpkin patch. Straw littered the carpet, and he shook his head. The backseat likely had more. The boys had looked like scarecrows after they’d returned from that damn hayride. But it was tradition, Marybeth had said, and this year the boys needed the security of familiar family rituals.

  Marybeth got out of the car and headed toward the front door. Beck set the pumpkins on the concrete and closed the trunk. The boys were crouched, heads together as they peered into the foliage by the porch, checking on their newfound friend. Beck grinned. Earlier, the kids had introduced him to “Mr. Hair Ball,” the huge spider guarding a web within the spindly branches of the lilac bush. According to Artie, Marybeth hated spiders; if Mr. H. got into the house, he was a goner. Marybeth unlocked the door, and the boys jumped up and zoomed inside.

  Yep, no Off switch sounded about right. Beck picked the pumpkins up by their spiny stems and carried them up the walk.

  They’d done okay without Danny. Marybeth had been quiet at first. As they’d wandered through the pumpkins, her mood lifted like the steam off the hot cider they’d sipped, surveying the boys as they darted from gourd to gourd, each one bigger and better than the last. Artie and Pete had checked out every orange sphere in the considerable acreage before settling on “the perfect ones.” Off to the hayride, and finally home.

  On the front porch, Marybeth waited by the open door. She smiled as he climbed the porch steps. “Want to stay for coffee? I’ll have the boys in bed in a jiff.”

  He set the pumpkins on the side of the porch near Mr. Hair Ball. Artie and Pete would love the thought of the arachnid as a guard, watching over their Halloween treasures. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to get home. Got an early day tomorrow.”

  An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness. Marybeth sighed but didn’t speak.

  God, this was like dropping off a date. No way in hell was he going to kiss her good night. What was he supposed to do with his empty hands? He stuffed them in the front pockets of his jeans.

  A wry smile crossed her face. “Okay. Another time?”

  “Sure.” He stepped off the porch.

  “Thanks for a lovely evening. The boys had a ball.”

  “Very welcome, ma’am.” Beck bowed. “Speaking of balls, tell them to take care of Mr. Hair Ball.”

  Eyes wide, she leaned over, took a look at the spider, and shivered. “You don’t think it’s poisonous, do you?”

  “Nah. But they shouldn’t touch it or the web.” Beck grinned. “They could feed it a fly, if they can find one.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Sheesh. I’ll tell them in the morning. Otherwise they’ll be out here feeding the thing flies with a fork.”

  The visual made him chuckle. “Good night, Marybeth.”

  “Bon voyage.” One last smile and the door closed with a click. The tumblers turned as the new lock shot home.

  Okay. Tucked in for the night. Artie’s bike lay in the front yard. That kid drove Marybeth crazy with his haphazard habit of leaving his stuff everywhere. Boys and their toys. Beck pulled the bike upright, the metal cold against his palms. It wouldn’t be bike-riding weather much longer. He wheeled it to the side of the porch and checked out the lilac bush. Mr. Hair Ball had retreated. Dan would have loved the boys’ enthusiasm about the spider.

  Beck took in a deep breath and headed for the car. The scent of damp leaves and frost sank into his taste buds. He paused and studied the street, the houses. The neighborhood had settled down for the night. Quiet suburbia. Nothing like the young professionals at his apartment building, coming and going at all hours. Neighborhoods were for families.

  Nights like this were bittersweet, filled with memories. Dan in the yard, swinging the boys around in a circle, laughing at their shrieks and giggles. Dan and Marybeth standing on the porch, waving good night to Beck after dinner at their house. Dan buying flowers for Marybeth “just because” while he and Beck went about the business of solving homicides.

  God, Beck missed him like hell, missed him in different ways. He could still hear Dan’s soft baritone harassing him about his love life while they had a beer after work.

  “Beck. I know monogamy isn’t for everybody, but there are a lot of bad people are out there.” Tie loosened, eyes dark and serious, Dan had gazed at him over the top of his beer bottle. “All I’m saying is watch yourself. Be careful.”

  “I’m careful.” Beck had picked at the label on his bottle. A sports bar was not the ideal location for this type of conversation. It was one thing for Danny to know Beck was gay. Tossing it out there for public consumption could get Beck in deep shit. Or killed. On the other hand, even a gay bar wouldn’t be the ideal location for this discussion. Half-naked bodies writhing on the dance floor, trysts in the bathrooms, lascivious looks. Danny at a gay bar? No way. Behind them, loud voices rose in a chorus of “Aw, no,” in response to some athletic event on TV.

  “Changing boyfriends every month is careful?” Dan shook his head. “C’mon.”

  “I haven’t met Mr. Right.” Beck batted his eyelashes.

  “Knock it off.” The wedding ring on Dan’s left hand flashed as he lifted his beer. “No reason you can’t be monogamous with someone.”

  “The lifestyle is not conducive to monogamy.” Hell, it wasn’t conducive to relationships.

  “The lifestyle? Listen to you.” A cynical smile conveyed Dan’s disapproval of Beck’s perceived promiscuity. Yet Dan never repudiated Beck’s preference for men. “Find a nice boy. Settle down.”

  And Beck had smiled, had no inkling of what was to come.

  Now… Beck rested a hand on top of the car.

  Danny hadn’t known about Van. Beck had run across him at a gay hangout in Colorado Springs, a place he’d felt safe to look for companionship, away from prying eyes. After the “Oh shit, it’s someone from work” reaction, he and Van had talked and then fallen into a regular pattern. From the beginning, Beck had known about Van’s capricious personality. Hell, he’d seen it in action, but he’d convinced himself this was it, that this was the One, despite the depth of the closet Van hid in. Dan hadn’t understood the secrecy, why Beck wouldn’t disclose the identity of his new love. A few months later, a twenty-year-old kid with a gun and no options had changed everything.

  Nearby, the owl hooted, startling Beck out of his reverie. He caught a shifting shadow in one of the tall trees lining the street. He could picture Danny pointing it out to Artie and Pete, knowing the bird’s Latin name and calling it Owlis Hornus or some such thing, passing on his love of nature to the boys. The kids needed their dad.

  Aw, Dan. Too soon.

  Chapter Fiver />
  Hinges screeched as the door swung open.

  Standing on the outside walkway, Zach gazed into the cave-like interior of his motel room. The mixed odors of stale smoke and mildewed carpet rolled out. Maybe he should’ve splurged, paid the difference between his daily stipend and the rate for a nice hotel room.

  He patted the wall inside the door for a light switch and flipped it up. Yellow light filled the room from a table lamp next to the full-size bed. Water dripped like a metronome in the dark bathroom. A shiver tiptoed up his spine, and the reet-reet-reet from Psycho barged into his head. What was this? Serial-killer central?

  No other option right now. Shaking the rain off his trench coat, he trudged into the room and plopped his suitcase and duffel on the bed wide enough for one.

  “Oklahoma” jangled from his pocket. Damn it, Dean had jacked with the ringtones again. He pulled the phone out, registered the picture of the culprit wearing sunglasses and a smile. No surprise there.

  “Hey, Dean.”

  “Thought you were going to call when you got in.”

  All peevish. Here we go. “I just got in. Literally finished dumping my suitcase on the bed fifteen seconds ago.”

  Silence. A deep sigh.

  “The traffic in from the airport was bad.” In his mind, Zach pictured Dean tapping his cheek in that “I’m not sure if I believe you” gesture of his.

  “Oh.” Ice clinked against glass in the background.

  A familiar zing of alert went through Zach. Dean didn’t sound intoxicated. Maybe it was fruit juice. Or water. Or vodka with a side of a schedule II narcotic. Zach shrugged out of his damp trench coat. “I meet with the local precinct tomorrow.”

  “So what’s the case?”

  “It’s a homicide.” It was always a homicide. Multiple homicides.

  “Oooh. Any details?” The words had a voyeuristic bent.

  How in the hell could Dean lust after the details of murder? “No, I can’t give you details. That’s against protocol.”

  “You know you can trust me with pillow talk.” The tone had gone low, sultry. “We were lovers for two years, Z.”