High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  A sardonic smile crossed Beck’s face. “Well, let’s discuss the case, then.”

  Zach bit back the first response that came to mind. He was here to work, not to spar with Beck, tempting as it was. “How about you fill me in?”

  “Fine.” Beck jerked out a chair and sat. He flipped open the murder book and perused the first entry. After a few seconds, he turned to the next page.

  With effort, Zach forced his impatience down. This was for piss-off value. Beck had a mind like a computer when it came to his cases. No way did he need to review the file. Zach lined up his notepad with the edge of the table, clicked his pen: open, closed. Open, closed. Anytime now.

  Beck’s gaze flicked to his, one eyebrow raised. “Got a problem?”

  “I’d like to hear about the case.”

  “My case.”

  “Whatever.” A hint of anger leaked through. Great. The man could still push his buttons.

  Beck had the grace to flush. He cleared his throat. “Three home invasions. The first one eighteen weeks ago on the night of June first. The family of Isaac Olivetti, a local businessman. Wife shot, five-year-old daughter suffocated, Olivetti himself beaten. Two weeks later, an elderly couple, the Greers. Both shot at close range as they lay in bed. No sexual assault, no robbery in either case. None of the neighbors saw or heard a thing. No witnesses, other than Olivetti, and he couldn’t give us much. One of the suspects vomited into the toilet at the second crime scene, left a thumbprint on the flusher. We got a hit on the prints.” Beck ran a finger down the labeled dividers in the binder and flipped to a mug shot. He tapped the page with a pen. “Prints belonged to an ex-con named Sylvester Weaver, who had a previous conviction for burglary. Danny and I tracked him down.”

  Beck’s throat moved in a hard swallow as his gaze focused on something Zach couldn’t see. A memory? So the guy wasn’t a hard-ass in all areas. Quietly, Zach said, “The suspect who died.” Along with Dan and their case.

  After a deep breath, Beck seemed to drag himself back from an unseen edge and nodded.

  With Danny’s death, no wonder Beck wanted the case to himself. A touch of survivor’s guilt, it seemed. Zach leaned forward. “I’m sorry about Dan. He was a good man.”

  “Yeah.” Beck slapped the binder closed. “Then last week, a third case. Two healthy adult males, ages thirty-eight and forty. Shot at close range, but a different weapon. A shotgun. No suspects, no witnesses, and not much in the way of forensics. Items were taken this time.”

  Zach mulled this over. “So there had to be two perpetrators at the start.”

  “A minimum of two.”

  “Anything linking the victims?”

  “Nothing obvious. Large secluded homes. Two deaths at each site. Ages ranged from five to seventy-five. Three females, three males. The five adults were shot, the child suffocated.”

  “No victimology, but able to handle two grown men.” The kid didn’t fit with the others. Zach jotted a couple of notes. “Forced entry?”

  “No.”

  “Did the suspects hang around, maybe eat?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, they’re not comfortable, even in a secluded environment. Didn’t know the area.” Frowning, Zach moved to his next scribble. “Positioning of the bodies?”

  “No.” Beck rocked back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “No signature.”

  “Okay.” Zach raised an eyebrow. Beck had done his homework. “No robbery in the first two, but a robbery in the third?”

  “Only in the third incident.”

  “Ballistics?”

  “The same handgun on the first two cases. Shotgun on the third one.” Beck flattened his palms on the table. “It’s not the work of serial killers.”

  “I think we need to consider the possibility of a killer whose weaker associate is now dead, a killer who’s devolving—”

  “Really? Because you haven’t even reviewed everything yet, Doctor Littman. Or does this voodoo not require that?”

  “Is it me you’re pissed at? Or the situation?” This time an edge crept into Zach’s tone. The bastard was determined to make this partnership as unpleasant as possible. Swimming in the scummy pool of the apartment building had more appeal. Hell, water ballet with Velma and the other peculiar tenants had more appeal. But Zach was a professional, and Beck’s defensiveness was no big surprise. Maybe he’d settle down after a little chest beating.

  Beck opened his mouth and seemed to think the better of it. After a few seconds, he tried words. “I’m fine with cooperating. As long as you don’t grab my case.” He dropped a proprietary hand on the binder.

  As if it belonged to him personally. Grabbing the case was the last thing Zach wanted. He hadn’t wanted the damn thing in the first place. “I’m here to assist on your case. You’re law enforcement. You’re point.” Gratifying as it would be, he didn’t tack on satisfied?

  Silence echoed louder than a gunshot. For a moment, they locked gazes. As if nothing had happened, Beck pulled a pack of gum out of his pocket and offered it across the table. The Stryker version of an olive branch.

  Zach’s nostrils flared at the fragrance of mint. Didn’t mix with coffee. “No, thanks.”

  Beck unwrapped a piece and folded the stick into his mouth. For a man, he had full lips. The taste of that mouth two years ago, the heat, the pressure… Zach moistened his lips. Are you out of your ever-loving mind, Littman? Focus on the case, damn it.

  After chewing the gum, Beck settled. “Want to see the crime scene photos?”

  “Not now.” Those were the stuff of nightmares. The key was in the scene, but discussion had to precede photos. After Dan’s death, it couldn’t be easy for Beck to deal with them either. Zach grabbed a marker and divided the dry-erase board into a grid. “Let’s start with sorting out the connections.”

  Beck let out a groan. “Do you know how many possibilities we’re talking? Hundreds.”

  “But some are meaningless in the context of these cases. We’ll start with the scenes and work our way out to the possible suspects.” Zach tapped the board with a marker. “There may be possibilities that you and Danny hadn’t addressed.”

  Beck leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Are you saying we were sloppy?”

  With effort, Zach held back his temper. Couldn’t the guy quit marking his territory? Arguing would get them nowhere. He stared at Beck. “No. I’m saying a fresh approach may help.”

  For a moment, Beck glared. “Okay, how do you want to approach it?”

  “The victims.”

  Silence. Then, “Danny and I knew everything about the victims, within a gnat’s ass of one hundred percent.”

  Vintage Beck—always the poet. Sipping his coffee, Zach studied the other man. “Let’s look at the gnat’s ass.”

  Beck rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  “The most important information is in the crime scenes. The victims.” The chemical scent of the marker hit Zach’s nostrils as he wrote the word Factor in the first column on the left-hand side of the board, and the names of the injured and the dead across the top in a horizontal row, one to a box, starting with Isaac Olivetti and ending with the second victim in the third home invasion. In the first column, beneath Factor he printed deceased and added a check mark below each name but Olivetti. “Okay. Seven people. Six dead, one alive.”

  A muscle jumped in Beck’s jaw, but he didn’t speak. Something on the blank wall across the room held his attention, as if he had withdrawn a mental distance from Zach.

  A rap of the marker on the board snapped the cop’s trance. “In the context of the scenes, what do the victims have in common?”

  Beck lifted a shoulder. “Gunshot wounds and death. That’s it.”

  “These were planned crimes, not crimes of opportunity. They came prepared, brought a gun—”

  “Not the same gun.”

  Zach had met attorneys who were less argumentative. He shook his head. Below deceased in the factor column, he wrote GSW and put a
check under all but Mr. Olivetti. “Now—”

  “The kid wasn’t shot. She was suffocated with a pillow”—Beck mimed holding a cushion down—“and left in her bed. Her face was covered, and she had a teddy bear tucked in the crook of her arm.”

  Interesting. Zach erased the GSW mark. “Regret, or the suspect knew the victim. Some compassion in not shooting her.”

  “Sure as hell didn’t have any compunction about shooting the rest of them.”

  “A different suspect may have carried out the shootings. What else?”

  Beck tapped his pen on his lower lip. “None of the victims were moved except Mr. Olivetti, and he was the only one restrained. They tied him up in the furnace room with a string of Christmas lights and crammed a cleaning rag in his mouth. The lights and rag were in the basement. They didn’t bring them.”

  “Could he have killed his wife and kid and then tied himself up?”

  “Not likely. The restraints were tight, and he’d been thoroughly beaten.” Beck squinted at the board. “He was the only one assaulted.”

  “All right.” Zach added assault to the factor column, checked off Mr. Olivetti, and left the others blank. “Disposal—none. No positioning, no mutilation, all three private residences, and the suspects didn’t stick around.”

  Beck drummed his fingers on the tabletop and scowled. “We already covered this part.”

  “What did they leave at the scenes?”

  “A blood trail at Olivetti’s leading to the basement. That’s how the housekeeper found him. Weaver left a thumbprint at the second scene, the Greers. That’s how we locked on to him.”

  The suspect who died. Zach paused with the dry-erase marker. “Any other suspects?”

  Beck’s gray gaze held steady as he said, “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  Zach took a deep breath and faced the board. God, this was going to be a long case.

  Chapter Seven

  Ferris Riggs’s life had gotten complicated. A stint in the infirmary couldn’t last forever. He needed a plan. What in the fuck was he supposed to do? He chewed on the inside of his cheek. The Price Is Right blabbered away on TV, urging idiots with giant price tags on their chests to come on down.

  “What’s yer bid, Riggs?”

  Ferris ignored the creaky voice from the next bed and focused on the wall. He took a deep breath of rubbing alcohol-scented air and rolled toward the left, the handcuff on his left wrist clanking on the metal bed rail. He winced as the stitches in his side pulled. Shit. That should be enough to get the bleeding going, and that ought to buy him one more day of comfort and safety.

  Except for the continual chatter of Clive Peck’s stupid game shows, the infirmary had a pleasant feel to it. No grunted threats. No clanging cell doors. No odor of unwashed bodies and fear. The bed in the infirmary was clean and soft and ten times safer than the one in his cell. His cot in cell 31, block F, sure as hell wasn’t safe, not with the current co-occupant.

  A tower of muscle and bad attitude had moved in. If Jedidiah Brown were a canine, he’d be Cujo. Brown made Ferris look like a lapdog and had plans to make Ferris his bitch. “Got the long hair already, don’tcha?” Jed had gloated. “Look more like a Farrah than a Ferris.”

  Well, that fucker had another thing coming. Ferris planned to keep his ass untouched, and that required desperate measures. Stabbing himself with a homemade shank had hurt like hell, but he’d managed to gouge a wound in his side big enough to bleed. Voilà. Free trip to the infirmary.

  A cackle came from the next bed. “Three hunnert and twenny fi’ dollars? Th’ washer’s worth more’n that, ya jackass.”

  That senile geezer better shut his trap, and soon. Ferris had to focus here. “Hush up, old man.”

  The volume cranked up, accompanied by chortling.

  “Turn it down, or I’ll knock your dentures down your throat.”

  “Not with them cuffs on.” Peck sneered and raised the remote, pointing it at the screen until the sound blared. A paroxysm of coughing hit, and the old man spit out a glob of blood-tinged mucus.

  That old bastard. Did they cuff him to the bed? No. Just because Peck had lung cancer. It wasn’t fair. Ferris shifted to his back and peeked under the covers. Dressing was still white. As soon as he got the stitches loose enough to bleed, he’d mark up the sheets and call the orderly. That ought to be good for a doctor call and another day here.

  Gritting his teeth, he turned on his side and stretched his free arm above his head. This time, rips of pain shot through the wound, and he gasped. Sheezus. He shackled his gaze to the caged wall clock: ten seconds, twenty seconds…a minute. Must be bleeding by now. He eased onto his back and peered beneath the sheet. A faint blush had developed on the white dressing. Good. A few more stretches, and he’d be nice and oozy.

  “You okay, Clive?” A feminine voice cut through The Price Is Right, and the volume dropped to a tolerable level. “You must’ve pushed the wrong button.”

  Ferris slid his gaze over. The pretty blonde nurse rearranged Peck’s covers, and the man clasped her hand. “Thank ye, dear.”

  She gave Peck a smile, and Ferris wanted to puke. Two minutes sooner, and she’d have seen what the old bastard was like under that liver-spotted skin. Blondie never helped Ferris. No, he got the chubby kid who reeked of garlic and sweat. Percy. What kind of a name was that for a man? Chubbo should change it. Hell, Stinky would be an improvement. Christ.

  With care, Ferris moved onto his side and gripped the bed rail next to the cuff. Taking a deep breath, he stretched the stitches.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Onions carried on Percy’s breath as he loomed above Ferris. “Roll over.”

  Fuck. Better be bleeding by now. In slow motion, he settled on his back. “You wanna step back, son?”

  “You want both hands cuffed?” Percy’s belly poked through the bed rail.

  “No.” But I’d like to poke you like the Pillsbury Doughboy, son. With a knife.

  Percy whipped back the sheet. One look at the dressing, and he got in Ferris’s face, spittle flying from his mouth. “You made that bleed on purpose, you son of a bitch.”

  With his right hand, Ferris wiped off the spit. “Can’t help it if the stitches aren’t any good.”

  The orderly straightened and ripped off the bandage. As his skin seemed to catch fire, Ferris gasped. Had the kid taken skin along with the adhesive tape? “This is abuse, goddamn you.”

  “Audra, call the doc, would you? Shit-for-brains here has pulled his stitches loose.” Percy turned and pitched the dressing into the trash.

  Ferris curled his fist around the bed rail and squeezed. A good pop on that fat nose would feel pretty good, but payback was a bitch when you were cuffed to a bed. Stinky might decide to break out the rectal thermometer.

  Somehow, Ferris needed to get out of this prison before somebody killed him.

  * * * *

  “Mind if we knock off for a while?” Beck tipped back in his chair, stretched his arms down by his sides.

  Zach checked the clock. Jesus. Five thirty, past time for his eye medication. He reached into his pants pocket and came up with lint. Crap. He’d left the vial of drops back at the Bates Motel. “Why don’t we call it a day? I’d like a chance to go over the case files.”

  Zach closed up the folder in front of him, stacked it on the pile of his copies of the case files. He reached under his chair, pulled out his briefcase, and shoved the bound reports inside. A little light reading to relax with back at the Stardust tonight.

  “You’re not going to go interviewing without me, are you?” Beck pushed the DPD’s binders to the side.

  Still marking territory like some canine. “No. I’ll just go over the files. It’ll save time in the morning.”

  Beck sauntered to the door and pulled it open. He motioned Zach forward and followed him out. In the bull pen most of the desks were unoccupied, and the clack of computer keys and low conversation tapered to a pointed silence.

  Acros
s the room, a pair of detectives huddled over their adjacent desks, working on binders. The man had the dark good looks of an Italian model. His partner was a small blonde lady, one of those petite and seemingly sweet women who suspects tended to trust—the kind of female deceptively competent at the job.

  The man shot an appraising look at Zach and leaned over to address her. She gave Zach the once-over and murmured something in response. Zach held back an eye roll. Yeah, step right up and see the real live FBI agent, out of his native habitat and invading forbidden territory. Some things never changed.

  McManus left his office, mackinaw over his arm. “’Evening, Dr. Littman.” The man turned his pale green gaze on Beck. “Making headway on the case?”

  “Working on it, Captain.” Beck shoved his hands in the front pockets of his pants.

  McManus raised an expectant eyebrow. Beck focused on Zach. “Look. My meeting will take about an hour. Why don’t we meet at seven for a beer and some dinner? There’s a great place downtown called the Cherry Cricket.”

  Zach’s stomach growled. Tempting. The sandwiches and coffee they’d grabbed at noon had burned off long ago. After the debacle two years back, no way did Zach want to be alone with Beck and alcohol; no matter how hungry he’d gotten, history didn’t recommend a dinner date. “Thanks, but I have a prior engagement. Some other time?”

  McManus glanced from Zach to Beck.

  Beck’s mouth pressed into a straight line. “Sure.”

  “Good night, gentlemen.” McManus nodded and headed toward the elevator.

  “It’s been a long day.” Zach shrugged into his coat. Well, he’d set the progress with Beck back to zero. “I’ll go over the files tonight and see you in the morning.”

  Beck’s glare could cut steel. “Right. In the morning, then.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Zach noticed the detective’s rigid profile as Beck remained in the same spot, apparently waiting for Zach’s departure. Did the guy think Zach wouldn’t leave without supervision? Finally the elevator arrived; as soon as the doors opened, Zach hefted his briefcase and got aboard, more than ready to descend to the parking garage. Twelve hours until he could once again bask in Beck’s presence. Zach could hardly wait.