High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  He’d bought a cutting board, knives and utensils, and the best sauté pan the grocery store carried. The stuff supplied by the Stardust had stains of unknown origin and weren’t worth the risk of poisoning. Thank God he found cooking relaxing. After dealing with Beck, he could use some stress relief. Zach pulled out an assortment of lightbulbs and stored them in a cupboard. The melon rolled from the bag and into the sink. Zach picked it up and inhaled. Round and sweet as a lover’s ass.

  All right, Doctor, stop right there.

  He made quick work of dinner—salad, chicken, fresh fruit—and flopped on the bed. A brief check reassured him the flashlight on the bedside table worked. After eating, he pulled over his briefcase, got out the case files, and set them on the snagged multicolored bedspread. A lot of material to get through tonight. He toed off his shoes and swung his feet up on the mattress, relaxing against the pillows. The bedsprings creaked in displeasure.

  Nice. Old springs, thin walls. Anyone next door would treat him to the auditory delights of their amorous machinations tonight. And every night. Hell of a lullaby.

  When he’d worked with Beck and Dan two years ago, he’d still been in private practice and had chosen better accommodations. The government nickel went for economy, not comfort, but Zach doubted he’d be in town long. The case would either wrap in a few days or remain stymied and unsolvable. Of course, Beck’s initial attitude had made for a slow start, but after he’d gotten past the resentment of the FBI intrusion and the more personal intrusion of Zach, Beck had settled in, and the day had unfurled in a productive manner.

  Beck had looked good—gray eyes clear, blond hair now short on the sides and longer on top, waves gelled into place. Time had added a few lines to his face, but they didn’t detract from the whole. Still had that devastating smile—not that he’d favored Zach with it much.

  Gone was the cocky cop of the past. Beck had mellowed, acquired a vulnerability not there previously. The choice of clothes had remained high-end, tailored to accommodate the shoulder holster and show off Beck’s assets. Zach grinned. Overall, an attractive package.

  For all he knew, Beck had someone at home. Still, that kiss last time…

  Zach could almost feel the heat of Beck’s lips on his. And this time Zach was available. Working the case together could get complicated.

  A TV blared next door, followed by a muffled shout before waning into monotonous background noise. Walls thinner than a poor man’s wallet. Might as well get some work done before the neighbors worked out the bed.

  Zach pulled the first folder onto his lap, flipped it open to Sylvester Weaver. Twenty-two. So young. How desperate must this kid’ve been to shoot Beck and kill Danny? Zach had never lost a teammate to a suspect, but the closeness between Beck and Dan had imprinted itself in Zach’s memory. No wonder Beck blanched with the mention of the incident. Living through it must’ve left emotional scars as well as physical ones.

  Tipping his head back, Zach studied the concentric rusty rings of the water stains on the ceiling. The official account of the shooting had contained nothing unexpected, but those fifteen minutes had changed Beck.

  He could almost like the guy.

  * * * *

  Beck pulled into Marybeth’s driveway and shifted into park. The sun silhouetted the sinuous horizon of the Rockies, leaving indigo light that declared the day done. Next door, Nance trundled his twin garbage cans to the curb, the wheels grinding on the concrete—one blue for garbage, one green for recyclables. Marybeth hadn’t set out her cans. Well, Beck could do that before he left.

  He stepped out of the car and then closed the door with a clunk. Nance gave him the once-over, and Beck raised a hand in greeting. The neighbor scowled and didn’t return the gesture. What an asshole. Wonder if the guy has any outstanding tickets? An arrest might teach him some manners. Beck held back a grin.

  As he climbed the front steps, the front door flew open. Without thinking, he shoved his hand beneath his trench coat. Marybeth’s eyes widened. “Beck?”

  What the hell was he thinking? Someday he had to work on blunting that reflex. He let his hand drop. “Hey, Marybeth.”

  Swinging the door wide, she moved aside to let him in. Beck stepped into the foyer as Marybeth waved. Beck turned in time to see the neighbor smile and wave back.

  Asshole.

  Marybeth closed the door and tilted her head toward the kitchen. “Come on back.”

  Beck followed her through the house, smelling clean laundry and macaroni with cheese, familiar and poignant. In a back room, high-pitched shrieks from the boys punctuated the rise and fall of canned laughter from the TV. A typical suburban family night in the old homestead.

  The dishwasher chugged along in a soothing rhythm. At the end of the table lay a colorful crayon picture of a dog and two boys, labeled To Mom. Beck hid a smile. Those two were persistent. Marybeth hadn’t given in on adopting a pound puppy, despite the number of hints the kids had dropped. He took a seat at the kitchen table. “How are you and the boys getting along?”

  Leaning back on the kitchen counter, Marybeth gazed at him. “As well as can be expected. One day at a time. How are you getting along?”

  “Me? Fine.” No way would he discuss the load of regret that weighed him down, or the nightmares that invaded his sleep. Elephantine footsteps pounded down the hall, and a living tornado of arms and legs and Spider-Man pajamas engulfed him. Childish voices swirled around his head.

  “I got here first.” Artie’s petulant tone warned his brother of consequences.

  “So? I got here second. I can still say hi.” Pete’s dark-eyed gaze landed on Beck. “Right, Beck?”

  Lord. Beck untangled the pile of sweet-smelling boys and set one kid on each knee. “You can both say hi. Just don’t maul me to death.”

  “But we’re not at the mall.” Artie’s freckles stood out on his nose.

  “I mean ‘maul’ as in throwing me around like a tiger.” Beck roared, showed his teeth. The brothers screeched in appreciation and resumed their assault. Laughing, Beck tucked a boy under each arm and set them on the floor.

  “Okay, guys. Say good night and leave Beck in peace.” Marybeth’s mouth twitched as she folded her arms, and her voice held nothing but amusement.

  “G’night, Beck.” Artie did a fist bump with Beck and ran off.

  Pete slid to his feet, eyebrows slanted up. “’Night, Beck.”

  The little boy threw his arms around Beck’s waist. A ball of emotion clogged his throat. My God, my God. So not right that Dan wasn’t here. These boys needed their dad, not a wounded cop with issues. Beck managed a husky, “’Night, Petey,” before the boy flew after his brother.

  “You want coffee?” Marybeth shifted from one foot to the other.

  “No, that’s okay. I can’t stay. Just wanted to see if you guys needed anything.”

  “Hot date?”

  If she only knew. “No. Just working. An FBI profiler is here helping with the cases. I’m the assigned liaison officer.”

  “Ah.” She pulled out a chair and took a seat to Beck’s left. “So what’s going on with the cases?”

  “We’re pursuing a couple of new leads.”

  “About Danny’s shooting?” A mix of hope and horror filled her tone. Tight lines framed her mouth.

  “No, honey.” Beck reached out and squeezed her hand. “The original cases.”

  “Oh.” She ducked her head, and the auburn hair swung forward, hiding her face.

  “Sorry.” The investigation had no bearing on her life, so why was he telling her this? Guilt. Guilt flogged him, drove him to make this frequent pilgrimage to the Halliday household. He hadn’t protected Dan that day, and now he needed to feel like he was doing something—anything—to make up for losing Danny. Beck patted her hand and withdrew.

  “Well, I’m glad you have some help.” A tremulous smile rippled across her face. “Are we still on for the Policeman’s Ball?”

  Shit. He’d forgotten all about it. “Ye
ah. You didn’t change your mind, did you?”

  “No, I just thought if you’re busy with the case… The FBI being here and all.”

  “The guy can manage by himself for a few hours.” Beck pulled up a smile, and Marybeth nodded.

  “Did you get dinner?”

  “Nah. But I’m fine. I’ll grab something later.” Reheated Chinese was on the menu at home. He got to his feet. “I better get going. I’ll take your garbage cans out for you, how about?”

  “That’d be great. They’re against the side of the house.”

  “Okay.” Beck headed for the front door. Behind him, Marybeth’s quiet footsteps silenced as they crossed the carpet.

  He pulled open the front door and stepped outside. “Lock up after me, okay?”

  “Yes, sir, Detective.” She saluted and patted him on the shoulder. A hint of familiar perfume drifted over.

  “Good night, Marybeth. You call me if you need anything.”

  “’Night, Beck. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Yeah.”

  The door closed with a soft thud. Beck stepped off the porch and headed for the side of the house. Gray flannel sky, darker mountains. Warmth had fled with the light—outside the air was as crisp as a McIntosh apple. In front of the house, a streetlight glowed orange and warmed to gold.

  The pair of trash cans hugged the side of the house. Beck rolled his shoulders, got a warning twinge from the left one. Better do these one at a time.

  Gripping the handle of the blue waste container, Beck tugged it onto the sidewalk. Rough plastic wheels scraped on the concrete and grumbled like a garbage disposal as he rolled it toward the curb. He parked the bin, pivoted, and returned for the recyclables can.

  This one didn’t seem as heavy and rolled more easily. The wheels weren’t as worn. Huh. Must not have to dump recyclables as often as garbage. As he eased the can away from the wall of the house, it listed to the side and dumped part of its contents onto the grass. Beck squatted, reached for the trash, and paused. A series of identical clear glass bottles glinted in the illumination of the streetlight. He unscrewed a lid and took a whiff.

  Vodka. And there must be…four? Five? He pulled out a couple more bottles. No way Marybeth would’ve had a party. And these recyclables hadn’t been sitting here for months. Danny didn’t drink the hard stuff, and Marybeth was pretty much a teetotaler. Or had been.

  Please let me be wrong.

  This family couldn’t handle any more casualties. In the gathering gloom, he took pains to replace the glass in the waste can, secured the lid, and hauled it to the curb. What in the hell was he supposed to do now?

  Chapter Nine

  “Hola, Kemosabe.”

  Sunlight glinted off the razor as Zach chuckled at Dean’s greeting. “Hola, Senor Dean. ‘Kemosabe’ isn’t Spanish.”

  “Okay. Hola, Doctore Kemosabe.”

  “At this rate, you’ll be lost in South America with no hope of talking yourself back to where you need to go.” Wiping the last of the shave cream off his face with a towel, Zach walked into the morning sun filling the main room.

  “Yeah, well. Might have to put the mission trip on hold until I spend more time with the CDs.” Hundreds of miles away, Zach’s front door made its signature squeak. Dean must be checking on the house.

  “You doing okay?” Zach couldn’t ask the real questions. Staying clean? Going out? Getting past our previous relationship?

  “Yep. I’m good.” Dean’s cheerfulness seemed a bit forced. “Just watering your plants and picking up mail.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  Muffled footsteps and a deep breath. “There’s one of those.”

  Zach’s stomach clenched. Jesus fucking Christ. “One of those” meant a red paper heart with rough edges, stained with blood and glued to a postcard. A custom-made valentine of the nightmarish sort. For a year and a half Zach had been on the list at the prison forbidding missives from a certain inmate, yet the things kept slithering into his mailbox like rattlesnakes. Personal mail from a madman. Why did this keep happening? How did this keep happening? With the maniac in solitary, someone had to be helping him. The mighty fist of the FBI could squash this like a bug. “Forward it to the detectives on the case or give it to Sands. I don’t want to see it.”

  “Got it.” Dean was brisk and businesslike. “Forwarding, coming up.”

  Pointless to dwell on it. He shook off the lingering irritation. “Anything else going on?”

  “Not unless you want to get personal,” Dean said.

  “Nah. Not in the mood.” Zach forced a teasing note into the comment. Now wasn’t the time for frank discussions about their status. “Gotta go. Thanks for watching over the place.”

  “De nada.”

  “Hey, real Spanish.”

  “Sí, Kemosabe.”

  Zach grinned.

  * * * *

  In the conference room, Beck yawned and flipped through the newspaper. Sleep hadn’t come easily after the discovery in Marybeth’s trash cans. He had no experience with alcohol abuse, didn’t know where to start. But ignoring it wasn’t possible. The boys needed her. The sooner this case wrapped, the sooner he could figure out what to do. If the case didn’t budge, he’d have to do something and work with Zach at the same time.

  What was keeping Zach? Glancing up at the clock, he took a sip of coffee and grimaced. This stuff could eat a hole through cold, hard steel. On top of all the ibuprofen, his stomach didn’t appreciate the added insult of bad coffee.

  The door swung open with a rattle of the shade, and Zach stepped into the room, juggling a white bag, two takeout cups, and a briefcase. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”

  Beck nodded and slid the newspaper toward Zach. “Check this out. Our local tycoon, Isaac Olivetti, is pushing ahead in the polls. He’s kissing babies in Colorado Springs, saying how much he misses his family. Wants to reinstate the death penalty. The press is eating it up. His wife and kid are dead, and he’s campaigning, trotting from one county to the next, making a bid for governor.”

  “You voting for him?”

  “Nah. He’s touting Old West values, but he’s fake as a three-dollar bill. I swear people only like him out of sympathy.”

  “Yeah? Interesting campaign strategy.” Zach set the white sack on the table and handed a cup to Beck.

  “You didn’t have to spring for this. We’ve got java here.” Sort of.

  “But this is quality coffee. I guarantee you’ll function better on quality coffee.”

  “Thanks.” Beck pulled off the lid, peered into the cup, and took a sniff. Yep, plain black coffee, but God, did it smell good. No hint of bitter oil like the station concoction. He studied the white bag. “What’s in the sack?”

  A broad grin spread across Zach’s face as he dropped into the chair opposite Beck’s. “Doughnuts. What else?”

  “From Zimmerman’s?”

  “The very same.”

  Oh, man. Beck’s stomach woke up and growled. Mouthwatering morsels. A man who brought Zimmerman’s couldn’t be all bad. But manners first. “Can I?”

  “Yep.” Zach pushed the bag across the table and picked up the newspaper.

  Inside the sack, a half dozen of the best Denver had to offer. The uniforms all wanted to work in the Zimmerman’s sector. The first bite of a honey-glazed could change a man’s day. Beck pulled out a doughnut and took a bite. Melt in your mouth. He finished in four bites and took a gulp of coffee. Next, he pulled out one covered in powdered sugar.

  Zach flipped down the top half of the paper and peered at Beck, raising an eyebrow. “Not feeding you enough, are they?”

  “No breakfast.”

  “Better watch my hands, huh?”

  “Watch your hands do what?” Beck grinned. Must be the doughnuts talking.

  Both eyebrows lifted. “Very funny.” Zach took a sip of coffee and went back to perusing the newspaper.

  Beck took another bite and swiveled toward the bulletin board. Had Olive
tti considered his political views might have drawn the attention of the home invaders? Had he considered his wife and child might still be alive if he hadn’t persisted, pushing his controversial agenda? The possibility existed that he’d made himself a target, but the deadly shots had hit the other two.

  Flakes of sugar dotted the indigo silk of his tie like stars. He leaned forward, shook off the powder, and tucked his tie into his shirt. Three cases, similar, but with distinct differences.

  All these little threads…

  Zach appeared in his peripheral vision, holding a half-eaten doughnut. “What are you thinking?”

  “The Olivetti case. An adult male survivor and a kid. If you were doing a B and E, wouldn’t you take out the biggest threat first?”

  For a moment, Zach contemplated the board. “Makes sense.”

  “What kind of a threat would a five-year-old be? Assuming the suspects wore masks like Olivetti said, the kid couldn’t have ID’d them.” Beck got a shiver. Losing Artie and Pete… It would have broken Danny. “Takes a real bastard to kill a kid.”

  “Agreed. But it happens.” Zach sipped at his coffee. “There was some degree of restraint, though. The girl was suffocated, not shot.”

  Beck swung around. “Why wasn’t Olivetti shot? Why beat him, tie him up, and throw him in the basement? Three victims in that house, all treated differently.”

  “Maybe the motive was to incapacitate Olivetti with grief, get him to drop out of the race.”

  Beck rolled that around. “But why not kill him? That would’ve been more decisive.”

  “Grief would give more gratification to a sadistic killer.”

  “So we’re dealing with a sadistic serial killer, who tortured the survivor but not the others? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Something to think about.” Zach’s tongue came out to lick sugar glaze from his lips. Full, soft-looking lips. Lips that’d felt hot and pliant beneath Beck’s two years ago.

  Suddenly Beck hungered for more than doughnuts. For a moment, Zach’s gaze smoldered and flicked away. Beck swallowed hard. Christ. Many more of those kinds of looks, and he’d have to tackle Zach. Cheeks warm, Beck cleared his throat and spun toward the board, facing away. “Where do we go from here?”