by Whitley Gray
* * * *
Seven out of ten.
Beck’s shoulder had ached for ninety minutes, working its way up the pain scale toward double digits. The sucker edged up each time he moved, but he hadn’t left the conference room for three hours.
The elevator doors closed in front of Zach, and Beck sighed in relief. Finally. Of all the profilers who could’ve shown up, Littman was the last person Beck had expected. After the shrink’s fabled encounter with Xavier Darling eighteen months ago, Beck wouldn’t have thought Littman would’ve returned to work in any capacity, let alone work for the FBI. Yet here he was. Littman drank so damn much coffee, how could he not have needed a break since lunchtime? Must have a bladder the size of a beach ball. At least they’d called it a day and Beck could take some ibuprofen. After hours of pain, he might need something stronger soon, in the privacy of his own home.
Taking a deep breath, Beck gritted his teeth and stretched. The ache bypassed eight and ramped up to a nine. Analgesics now, for chrissake. A couple of hours in a hot shower sounded great, but he wouldn’t have the energy to do it after he got home. Not at this rate.
Beck pivoted from the doorway and view of the elevators and walked across the division. Gates and Coleman were still at it, working on something. She leaned into his personal space, tucking her hair behind one ear and smiling. He returned the smile and didn’t back away. Pretend heterosexual much, Van? Beck avoided muttering “asshole” by the smallest of margins. What were those two up to?
Thank God McManus had left earlier than usual; probably off to the hospital to see his wife. Still, not good form to leave before the Man, especially with the FBI reviewing the case. But hey, Beck had played nice, up to and including an offer of dinner and a drink. That ought to have shown the boss that Beck could work with the FBI. Beck loosened his tie and headed back to the conference room.
What was Zach’s “prior engagement”? The guy didn’t live locally. Maybe he knew some feebs here in Denver. In the conference room, Beck piled the files into a banker’s box and sealed the lid with tangerine evidence tape. Nothing to do about the dry-erase board other than keep the window blinds closed and the door locked.
Several empty coffee cups and a pop can littered the tabletop. Beck tossed these in the trash and set the wastebasket in the hall for dumping. A note for the custodial staff would let them skip cleaning the conference room; Beck wrote the request and taped it to the door. He ripped another piece of tape from the roll, exited the room, and locked up. He stuck the tape across the doorjamb and door and initialed it. That ought to do it.
In the bull pen, Van and Katie had departed, leaving the space empty. Someone had switched off every other overhead light. Yeah, Go Green, Denver. Too bad they couldn’t get a handle on the smog. Now there was something that could use greening up. No way they’d ban every other car from the roads.
He pushed through the glass door. The elevator lobby echoed with silence. Beck ducked into the stairwell and descended one flight, emerging on the second floor. No one in the hall. With quick steps, he made it to Jay’s office, hurrying without rushing. Other departments were on this level—he could be down here for any number of reasons.
Other than seeing a psychologist.
* * * *
Ah, quiet. For a moment, Olivetti stood motionless and drank in the stillness.
A soundless void filled the condo, the pristine silence unbroken by a whining child or a bossy wife. Nothing like before, at the mansion in the country. Beautiful, musical silence.
Olivetti tossed his keys on the table by the door. The warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the crisp fall evening as October faded toward winter. Denver might get snow on Halloween this year. As he walked to the kitchen, Olivetti smiled. No matter. The high-end SUV could go just about anywhere in any weather condition. Plus, he’d have no trick-or-treaters. He could use the time to participate in the charity trick-or-treat event downtown, taking advantage of the media coverage to advance his campaign. Every minute of exposure meant potential votes.
The kitchen greeted him with the mouthwatering aroma of a gourmet dinner; he could almost taste it in the air. Not at all like the odor of the cream soup and canned beans of his childhood. The smell of poverty. How fortunate the new housekeeper could cook, unlike her predecessor. Not unexpected that the previous maid had quit in June. Finding Olivetti tied up in the basement and Lara and Jen dead had been too much for her.
Olivetti pulled a covered dish out of the refrigerator and sniffed. Mmm. And still warm. The chicken marsala smelled like heaven: decadent, rich. When Lara had controlled the menu, she hadn’t made an effort to cook, and he’d gotten sick of takeout—never wanted to see another chicken nugget for the rest of his life. On the lid of the dish, the housekeeper had left a note:
Mr. Olivetti,
Heat in oven for thirty minutes at 200 degrees. Roasted potatoes in the blue container, green beans in the yellow one. Cheesecake on the top shelf. The coffeemaker is loaded to go, for tonight or in the morning. Have a good evening.
Milia
Oven nothing. A minute in the microwave and it’d be piping hot. He dished out the chicken and potatoes, ladled them with the aromatic brown sauce, and filled the rest of the plate with green beans. A balanced meal—perfect. Not that he had to worry, but healthy habits now would reap benefits in the future. The public wanted their government leaders physically fit.
After popping the plate in the microwave, he opened a bottle of red from a local vintner. A lovely cabernet the color of garnets. He filled a glass, swirled it, and inhaled. Fruity, but a trace of wood. He took a sip, swished, and pressed it to his palate. Shades of apple with a hint of oak. Tasted like October. Much better than the mass-produced crap Lara used to buy. Good wine never came in cardboard boxes.
The microwave dinged. He pulled out his dinner, set it on the counter, and sat on a stool. Might be able to catch part of his interview on Rocky Mountain Politics. He aimed the remote at the built-in TV.
“…a man with experience running a successful business is what’s best for Colorado. The voters will decide in November.” The on-screen version of Olivetti smiled at the reporter.
The reporter smiled back. “With your personal financial situation, do you feel that you can relate to the average man on the street?”
The navy suit set off with a white shirt and red tie gave off a pro-American vibe. Just the right touch of gray in his hair. He looked like a man in charge. The virtual Olivetti crossed his legs. “I can relate. I grew up in a poor household, started out with nothing. I lost my mother in a fire when I was fifteen. Everything I have, everything I’ve accomplished is due to hard work and perseverance. That’s the work ethic I’ll bring to the governorship.”
Perfect. The picture of a leader. A man with real power, someone who would change the political landscape. Someone who garnered respect. The typical man on the street wanted someone to look up to in the governor’s mansion, not some Joe Average. How Olivetti got there was no one’s business.
Music rose in the background. “Thank you for taking time to appear on Rocky Mountain Politics.” The woman swung to face a different camera. “And we’ll be back after the break.”
Olivetti hit Mute as a commercial for a local car dealership took over the screen. Raising his glass toward the TV, Olivetti smiled. “A toast. To the future governor.”
Chapter Eight
Talking to Jay hadn’t improved Beck’s mood. As he took the stairs to the third floor, he wanted to thunk himself in the head for talking with Jay those first days at the hospital. After the shooting he’d been in ten kinds of pain. Under the influence of narcotics and a broken heart, Beck’s usual reticence had dissolved, and he’d confessed way too much about Zach and Van. Christ, what an idiot he’d been.
He emerged from the stairwell and crossed the threshold into the division. Silence declared robbery/homicide closed for the evening. The energy had dissipated, leaving behind a lethargic emptiness. Was it
the space or him? Once upon a time, he’d have left the workday behind with gusto, anticipating a night of company and sex. He snorted and shook his head. These days, he sure as hell didn’t have the enthusiasm to contemplate going out, and company wasn’t beating his door down.
Near his desk, the janitor—Moe? Mac?—emptied a trash can into a large bin. Rumpled and bald, Mac glowered at Beck and mumbled to himself, then trundled his cart to the next desk and dumped the garbage.
Beck raised a hand. “Evening. Just going to grab my stuff.”
The custodian’s face folded into a bulldog of a frown, negating the polite nod he directed at Beck.
If that didn’t say “it’s after hours, get the hell out,” Beck didn’t know what would. He crossed the room to his desk, picking up a hint of burned coffee; a half-empty paper cup sat next to his computer terminal. Grabbing the cup, he came around the desk, aimed for the trash can, and paused. Why was his computer on? He’d shut it down earlier. The gold-detective-shield screen saver rotated and froze, rotated and froze.
Shaking his head, he settled into his chair, shut down the computer, and watched the screen go blank. The slip of paper with Zach’s phone number and temporary address was tucked into a corner of the blotter. He twitched the note loose and stuffed it in his pocket. Not that he would use the information, but leaving it around wasn’t a good idea.
Two desks away, Mac’s cart rumbled as he pushed it forward. With a nod toward the janitor’s bulky figure Beck scooped up his coat and headed for the elevator. Pretty sad when he couldn’t get the opposition to sit down for a beer. He and Danny had gone out for an occasional drink, mostly after a bad day, mostly to unwind. The conversations had avoided whatever unpleasantness had sent them there. Sitting at the bar had meant casual conversation; a corner booth meant one of them wanted privacy.
Dan had hated not telling Marybeth; he’d wanted Beck to meet someone and settle down, worried about Beck’s series of short-lived relationships. Beck had reassured Dan he took precautions on every front—not just the condom kind.
Now the only sex he had was with his right hand, and drinking alone wasn’t a good habit for a cop. With a hard laugh, Beck punched the call button for the elevator until the numbers above the door showed it approaching.
When he’d gotten together with Van, Beck had felt like a traitor hiding the relationship from Danny, but Van’s paranoia had precluded any discussion. Then all hell broke loose, and it hadn’t mattered anymore. Hard to be horny when his shoulder hurt like hell.
The elevator dinged, and Beck stepped into the empty car.
Christ, at this rate, he’d die celibate.
* * * *
“Turn right in two blocks,” said the GPS in Zach’s car.
“You better be right, lady,” Zach muttered. The thing hadn’t given good directions to the grocery store, and Zach’d ended up in the snarled traffic of one-way streets in Cherry Creek. Getting back to the motel with the groceries wasn’t going much better. God only knew whether he’d arrive before breakfast.
Would sharing a meal with Beck have been such a hardship? It wasn’t like Zach hadn’t noticed how good Beck looked. Tonight could’ve been Beck and beer. “What’re you afraid of, Littman? Temptation?”
It’d been two years since Zach had met Beck and Dan while consulting on a case, back when Zach had still been in private practice and doing forensic psychiatry. The three of them had had an easy camaraderie, and after they’d wrapped the case, Beck and Danny had taken Zach out for a drink. After a single beer, Danny had taken off to see the boys and Marybeth.
* * * *
“Time for me to bow out.” Danny slid from the booth and eyed his fellow detective. “Can I trust you?”
“Always.” Beck smirked. “I’ll take good care of our boy here.”
Dan shook hands with Zach and nodded toward Beck. “Don’t let Goofy here talk you into anything.”
“Hey, don’t call me Goofy.” Beck nailed Dan with a pretzel.
“See ya.” Dan grinned and headed for the door. Zach scooted out of Beck’s side of the booth and slid into the place on the other side of the table vacated by Dan.
“Alone at last.” Beck waggled his eyebrows.
“Don’t make me pull out my pepper spray, Detective.”
The song “Relax” interrupted, emanating from Zach’s pocket. Lips pressed together, he yanked the cell out and glanced at the screen. Dean, laughing on their deck. Damn it. Zach had forgotten to change the ringtone. With the punch of a button, he sent the call to voice mail before tucking the phone away.
Beck studied him. “Interesting choice of ringtone.”
“I didn’t choose it. A…a friend programmed it in.” A wave of heat moved from his chest to his cheeks. The tune screamed “gay.” Not that Zach hid his orientation, but broadcasting it wasn’t his style.
Beck eyed him speculatively for a moment and shrugged. “It’s not bad, just…interesting.”
Did Beck mean the ringtone or something else?
They had another drink. Zach switched to diet cola. Beck switched to whiskey and cola. A surprise—Beck seemed too fastidious about appearance to hit the hard stuff. Knowing him for a few days didn’t make Zach an expert in all things Beck, even with his shrink credentials.
Two drinks later came the confession.
“You’re hot.” Beck’s stage whisper brought heat to Zach’s face.
This wasn’t exactly a gay bar. Zach looked around and forced a chuckle. “Time to go, pal.”
Getting Beck to leave wasn’t an issue. Zach supported Beck as he staggered across the parking lot to Zach’s rental. In that dark corner, Beck pressed him against the driver’s door and kissed him. The alcohol-fueled ardor caught Zach by surprise, and for a moment, he responded to the heat, the desire. Beck ground his erection against Zach and reached for Zach’s fly.
Reality intruded with a shock. Jesus. This wasn’t Dean kissing and caressing him.
Zach shoved Beck away. The cop wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sports jacket, stepped back, whirled, and stalked toward the street.
Zach grabbed his sleeve. “Where are you going?”
“To get a cab.” Beck yanked loose.
* * * *
In the morning, Zach had given the wrap-up to Dan and left before Beck had arrived. Danny had narrowed his eyes and leveled a curious look at Zach, but hadn’t asked about the hasty departure. It had taken getting home and fucking Dean senseless to relieve Zach’s unfounded guilt. And now here he was back in Denver, tangled up in another of Beck’s cases, this time without Dan as a buffer. And this time without a boyfriend.
“Destination one hundred yards,” declared the GPS. The mechanical voice jolted Zach out of his reverie. Maybe Beck was the one who needed to watch out this time. At the entrance to the Stardust Motel, Zach turned into the parking lot and pulled up in the spot designated for his room. He grabbed the grocery bags and trudged up the exterior stairs at the Stardust Motel.
As he gained the third floor walkway, curtains twitched three doors down.
The old woman in apartment nine. Velma Anderson. What a character—right out of a pulp novel. Zach grinned. No couples, no kids. Of course, the Stardust pretty much catered to the single and unattached.
He juggled the groceries and an eight-pack of bottled water, digging for his keys. The number six on his door still hung upside down, claiming to be a nine. Fitting. The motel room claimed to be an efficiency apartment. Maybe he should suck up the cost and move to a nicer place. With a sigh, he unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door on an oasis of mildew and dry heat. Could be worse. Could be freezing.
He edged inside, shot the lock, and listened. The light over the sink buzzed a monotonous greeting. A sliver of jaundiced light came from the bathroom and illuminated a wedge of threadbare carpet. Everything the same as when he’d left it this morning, except darker. Lonelier. Zach dragged his hand along the wall until he encountered the switch and flipped on the overhead ligh
t. It hummed, harmonizing with the bulb over sink.
Zach carried the groceries to the minuscule kitchen counter, pulled a bottle of water from the pack, and stuck the others in the under-the-counter refrigerator; its light didn’t buzz—it didn’t work. Home sweet grungy motel-slash-efficiency-apartment. He walked across the room to the lumpy armchair in the corner and clicked on the sixties genre floor lamp, followed by the lamps beside the bed, chasing away the darkness until he could see clearly.
Someone knocked on the door. Zach tensed. No one knew he was here except DPD and the Minneapolis office. Unsnapping his holster, he padded to the door and looked through the fish-eye lens. A fun-house version of Mrs. Anderson stood there, holding a covered plate.
Oh no. Dinner? Zach flipped the lock and opened the door partway; a whiff of stale smoke hit him. “Hello, Mrs. Anderson. What can I do for you?”
“Velma. Brought ya a little something sweet.” Velma gave him a toothless grin and held out the foil-covered plate. “Chocolate-chip cookies. My niece baked ’em.”
“Oh. Um, thank you, Velma.”
“Sure.” Velma thrust the plate into his free hand. “Wanna meet her?”
Not “oh, no.” Oh fuck. “That’s very kind of you, but I don’t live here. I’ll only be in town for a few days.”
Squinting at him with one eye, Velma said, “Worth a try. G’night, Mr. Littman.” She turned and shuffled away toward her room.
“Good night, and thanks again.” Zach waited until she’d gone inside, then closed his door and leaned against it. A little old lady had just tried to set him up. Unbelievable. He peeked under the tinfoil and took a sniff. The cookies smelled good, but he didn’t know Velma’s niece. Could be something strange in there with the chocolate chips. He crossed the room, set the plate on the counter, and began unloading the plastic bags.
