by Whitley Gray
“It’s not that bad.”
A frown darkened Beck’s features. “It’s not that good, either.”
“Might be worthwhile to talk with Olivetti’s campaign manager.”
“Jeremy Levin? We talked to him after the Olivetti home invasion.”
“Things have changed. Maybe he’s seen or heard something since then, or maybe remembered an event or a threat.” Zach raised an eyebrow.
“Okay. I’ll set it up.”
“No, let’s surprise Mr. Levin. Off balance tends to work better.”
Beck grinned. “Then by all means. Make a right at the light.”
* * * *
The headquarters of the Isaac Olivetti for Governor Campaign occupied three storefronts in a strip mall near the university. A holistic health practitioner and an insurance salesman comprised the other tenants. Most of the cars in the lot were newer, American-made, and had an Olivetti for Governor sticker in the rear window.
Zach parked his older, foreign-made, and stickerless rental in an open spot. From the car, he squinted at the office. So this was the nerve center, the place where it all happened. Levin had made a thoughtful choice, keeping the campaign home base grassroots and unpretentious. Olivetti made the money, did the appearances, and his manager ran the campaign. A fair amount of mind manipulation went into politics, and Levin had quite a reputation. No doubt Olivetti had chosen Levin for his experience and ruthlessness.
The windows of Olivetti’s offices sparkled like a subliminal message: Look how clean and clear our candidate is. Nothing clouding the glass—all the better to show off campaign posters. Zach said, “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
They exited the car and approached the building. A bell chimed an old-fashioned ding-dong as they came through the door.
A few volunteers worked at folding tables, stuffing envelopes. Campaign buttons populated horizontal surfaces like mushrooms, ranging from thumbnail to badge size. Zach picked up a couple and inspected the artwork. All had a black-and-white picture of the candidate underlined with red and white. The larger ones had Olivetti for Governor around the circumference.
A girl with a ponytail bounced up to them, one of the bigger campaign buttons displayed on her shirt. “Hello. Welcome to the Olivetti Campaign. I’m Tracy. How can I help you?”
Zach couldn’t help but smile. No wonder Olivetti had chosen an office near a university campus; all those poli-sci majors, eager to dip a toe into the political pool. “We’re here to see Mr. Levin.”
Tracy’s eyes widened. “To make a contribution? Or—”
“To have a private discussion,” Beck said, reaching inside his coat.
Zach hoped Beck was going for his badge wallet and not the gun. “Please let Mr. Levin know that Littman and Stryker are here.” Zach gave Tracy a disarming smile. Beck pulled his empty hand from his jacket.
With a nod and a flip of the ponytail, she wheeled around and marched to a door in the back of the room, apparently Levin’s office.
She knocked on the door frame and announced, “Mr. Levin, Littman and Skywalker are here to see you.”
Oh, brother. Was she really that ditzy, or getting in a dig? Should’ve let Beck show the shield. Or maybe the gun. That’d put some respect in her. Next to Zach, Beck studied a campaign brochure, but the flexed muscle in his jaw indicated he hadn’t missed the girl’s announcement.
Levin mumbled something, and Tracy waved them over. Zach tipped his head in the direction of the office. Beck pocketed the brochure, and they navigated toward Tracy. The wattage on her smile increased as they drew closer. “Here you go. Have a nice day.”
Zach edged past her, and she seemed to get the hint and stepped back. Beck smirked and closed the door on a surprised Tracy. Zach took in the man behind the desk.
Where Olivetti had stage presence, Jeremy Levin had none. Short, pudgy, and bald, forgettable features and doughy skin. Wireless round glasses that hid the color of his eyes and made them look small. A perfectly invisible manager. He wore no jacket, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. A thin band circled his left ring finger.
Zach ran his gaze over the desk. No pictures of family, no personal items. The coffee cup in front of him broadcast the party line for Olivetti. A work space for Levin, nothing more.
“Mr. Levin? I’m Special Agent Zach Littman from the FBI, and this is Detective Stryker of the Denver Police Department.”
Levin reached across the desk and shook Beck’s hand, and then took Zach’s. A clammy palm pressed to his. Nerves? Or normal?
The three of them sat down. Levin folded his hands on the blotter and fixed them with a cool gaze. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
Compared to Olivetti’s office, this was a hovel. Detailed maps of Colorado counties and dry-erase sheets covered the walls of the room. Behind the desk, a large calendar crammed with handwritten messages and sticky notes testified to what went on in here. Despite the clutter, there was a sense of organization, a very “common man” appearance, relatable for the average constituent who might wander in.
“We have some questions about the campaign.” Zach kept his voice neutral.
“Oh?”
“As it relates to the home invasion last summer.”
Levin frowned, and his glasses shifted on his nose. “That had nothing to do with the campaign. A personal tragedy for Mr. Olivetti, but not related to politics.”
Beck pulled out a small notepad. “Has Mr. Olivetti received any threatening communications? Letters, calls, e-mails?”
“The usual assortment of malcontents. None seemed serious.”
To Zach’s surprise, something about the response had Beck’s attention riveted on the campaign manager. “Have you kept track of these since last summer, Mr. Levin?” A matter-of-fact tone, but Beck’s gaze didn’t waver.
Taking in the exchange, Zach noted Levin’s calm expression and steady hands.
“Sure.” Levin scooted back in his desk chair, swiveled, and opened a file cabinet. He came up with an expandable file and a manila folder. He rotated around and put them near the front of his desk. “The written ones and e-mails are in the file, and the phone log is in the folder. Feel free to take them with you if you think it’ll help.”
Zach nodded. “Thanks. Do you recall hearing any threats against Mr. Olivetti’s family? Maybe at a rally or a news conference?”
Levin narrowed his eyes. “No. Only what’s in there.” He waved a hand at the folder and file.
“What about something that wouldn’t have made the file, like an incident at a fundraiser?” Beck tapped the file with his pen.
“We have security—”
“No. Not anything overt. Something more subtle.”
Levin folded his arms over his chest and rocked back to study the acoustic ceiling tiles.
Defensive. Something had occurred to Levin. Zach threw a warning glance at Beck, who leaned back in his chair. Silence built, hanging in the air like a bad smell.
“Not that I can recall.” Levin shook his head.
More like not that he’d admit. Zach tried another approach. “No out-of-control protesters?”
Levin gave a tight smile. “Mr. Olivetti hasn’t been the target of an unruly mob.”
No one said anything. Beck’s expression remained neutral. The wall clock’s minute hand traveled a full circle.
“If that’s all, gentlemen.” Levin rose and walked around the desk.
“Thanks for your time.” Zach stood and placed a business card on Levin’s blotter. “Let me know if you think of anything.”
“Of course.” Levin gave a perfunctory nod.
“We’ll be in touch,” Beck added and opened the office door. Cool air flowed in.
As they crossed the front room, Tracy popped up from unloading a box of brochures. “Bye now.”
Outside, fingerprints at small-child level dotted the glass. Despite the chilly air, another Olivetti volunteer squirted glass cleaner on th
e smears and scrubbed them away. More clouds crowded the sky, and the temperature had dropped. Zach unlocked the car doors with the remote.
Someone had tucked a flyer under the windshield wiper. Tracy, you little minx.
Beck leered across the roof of the car. “Your girlfriend leave you something, Jedi Littman?”
“You should talk, Skywalker.” Zach pulled the paper loose and examined it. Campaign propaganda.
As soon as they slid into their seats, Beck thrust a brochure into his hand. “Look at this. Look at the picture.”
Printed in color was a photo of Lara and Jennifer Olivetti, laughing together on a swing. The verdant background suggested spring. “He’s using them to draw in voters.”
“It says they’d want him to continue the campaign, and to fight for stricter handgun laws,” Beck said. “Wouldn’t having your wife die from a gunshot wound prove your point?”
* * * *
A shadow fell across the conference room table. Beck looked up. Van stood framed in the doorway with Katie Coleman hovering behind him. Why were these two here?
“Uh, wanted to talk to you guys. For a minute.” Van looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“C’mon in.” Scooting over, Beck made room at the table. “You’ve met Special Agent Dr. Zach Littman?”
The smile on Van’s face didn’t quite achieve friendly. “Yeah.”
Katie squeezed past Van and held out her hand toward Zach. “I’m Katie Coleman. Van’s partner.”
Zach stood and shook her hand. “What can we do for you, Detectives?”
Katie slid into a chair. “It’s about the third home invasion.”
“What about it?” Beck gripped his pen and tapped it on the table.
“We’ve got a confession.”
An invisible fist punched Beck in the gut. For a moment he couldn’t speak, a mix of relief and disappointment roiling in his stomach. He coughed. “What do you mean, a confession?”
Van’s brows dived into a dark V. “The wife.”
What the fuck was going on? Beck whipped the murder book open to the list of interviews. Van had eliminated the wife as a suspect before turning over the case.
“The wife had an alibi. It checked out.” Beck shot a glare at Van. “You cleared her.”
“We cleared her.” Katie’s voice had an edge to it. “She walked into the department, wanted a word. Before we could send her your way, she started talking, said her husband’s best friend did the killings.”
“Why?”
Van planted his fists on the tabletop and leaned forward. “The wife was having an affair with the friend. She convinced him that she couldn’t ask for a divorce, and they decided to kill her husband and make it look like a home invasion. Basically take advantage of the other crimes to deflect attention. She’s guilty as an accessory.”
Beck rolled that around. Made sense, but why confess now? Guilty conscience? Doing his best to keep the frustration out of his voice, he said, “Okay, I can understand doing the husband, but what about the other guy?”
“Wrong place, wrong time.” Katie turned toward Zach, apparently deciding he was the more reasonable one. “The wife’s in room two.”
“Thanks,” Zach said. Beck threw him a sharp look. He and Zach had put a decent amount of time into analyzing the data. Plus, the man who had shot this woman’s husband remained at large. Beck palmed the back of his neck. “What about the other suspect?”
“A team of uniforms is out arresting him,” Van said. “You want him? Then ask McManus.”
The tension in the room ratcheted up. Beck stood and looked Van in the eye. “Does McManus know?”
Van didn’t speak. His answering glare seemed full of hostility on multiple levels.
“Yes.” Katie shrugged off diplomacy and drilled a steely gaze into Beck’s. “He’ll be in shortly.”
“All right.” Beck closed the binder. Civil. Be civil. “Thanks.”
Pushing to her feet, Katie ignored him. “Good luck with your case.”
Van held the door for her, and she stalked out. With a final scathing look at Beck, he closed the door.
One eyebrow arched, Zach settled in a chair. “That went well. Some history between you and Gates?”
Beck opened his mouth, then closed it. How was he supposed to answer that? Had Zach deduced Beck’s past with Van from one heated conversation? Of course Zach knew about Beck’s preference—that kiss two years ago couldn’t be taken any other way—but the history with Van didn’t have to be romantic, right? Better watch yourself around this guy, Stryker. He’s a shrink.
McManus’s voice rumbled outside, followed by Van’s low tones. A few seconds later, the door flew open. The Man’s expression threatened bad weather ahead. “What the hell is going on with your third case?”
Beck tried to swallow and failed. He shot a desperate look at Zach.
“We spoke with Detectives Gates and Coleman.” Zach’s reasonable tone belied the conflict that had taken place. Thank God one of them could speak. “The third case isn’t related.”
“As it’s not part of this series, I’m transferring it back to Gates and Coleman.” It wasn’t a request for permission. “They’ve talked to the wife, and they’ll handle her and the boyfriend. Does that work for you, Dr. Littman?”
“I think that’s appropriate, Captain. We’ll get the new data into the murder book for that case and turn it over to them.”
Beck took a deep breath. This was a good thing; it wasn’t a statement about his abilities. They’d invested a lot of time and thought into the third case, but having it off their plate meant more time to focus on the others. The first two were related, no question about it. The evidence held them together, and the similarities lined up nicely without the confounding features of the third case.
“I expect a smooth handoff.” McManus glared at Beck.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely. We’ll have the information to them shortly.”
“Glad to hear it.” McManus switched his gaze to Zach. “Dr. Littman, I’m sure you’ll need to update your in-command.”
Gesturing at the binders, Zach said, “As soon as we hand the book on the third case to Detectives Coleman and Gates, I’ll call and let you know what Director Sands has to say.”
“Good.” With a curt nod, the Man spun and exited the room, leaving Beck and Zach exchanging looks.
So much for progress.
* * * *
In less than an hour, they’d assembled all the new information about the third case. Zach did the honors, handing the book to Van.
“Let us know if you have questions,” Beck said. Van glowered, Katie nodded, and Beck called it good enough. Passing off the binder gave him a measure of relief beyond the information in the book. It was like having a fog of confusion lifted, leaving clarity in its wake. He and Zach returned to the conference room.
“Well, we don’t have a serial anymore.” Zach sank into a chair. “Makes sense why parts of the third case didn’t fit.”
“But we still have two cases that have everything in common.” Beck took a seat on the other side of the table.
“Yeah.” Zach looked off in the distance. “But in this case, two is a pattern, not a serial.”
“You’re…you’re not thinking of leaving?”
“I don’t know that the bureau will let me stay.”
“Are you kidding? We’ve got two unsolved cases here. There’s a suspect out there who participated in the deaths of four people and the assault of a fifth.” Beck pushed aside his bottle of water and tapped the edge of the table. “A suspect whose partner killed Danny.”
“The case isn’t about Danny,” Zach said quietly.
Danny’s case was over, gone with Sylvester Weaver. The truth of that hit Beck, stealing his breath. His heart pounded like a drum declaring war. Darkness encroached on his vision. Oh God, no. No. Struggling to stay in the here and now, he clutched at the arms of the chair and locked his gaze on the wall, straining to keep the images of dea
th at bay. As he lost the battle, the room dissolved, replaced by a view of a neighborhood street. In slow motion, the bullet spun Danny and dropped him to the ground. Beck’s shoulder burst into agony as he returned fire. So much blood—
“Beck.” A hand shook him. “Beck. Open your eyes.”
With effort, he dragged his lids up. Zach’s worried frown emerged from the haze. Behind him, the familiar landscape of the conference room came into focus.
“With me now?” Zach’s eyes bored into his, full of concern.
“Yeah.” Beck sat up, scrubbed his hands over his face, and took a shaky breath. Shit.
Zach settled into a chair next to him. “How often does this happen?”
“Not often.” Liar. He looked away, hiding his eyes. Hiding the truth. This was so not a topic he wanted to discuss. With his psychiatry background, Zach had to have recognized what’d happened. Why did these damn spells hit at the most inopportune moments? Beck’s shirt stuck to his back. A warm palm landed between his shoulder blades, a reassuring weight. A tremor went through him.
“It’s okay. No one thinks any less of you.”
“Says the shrink.” God, he was so tired of these fucking flashbacks intruding on his life. He leaned forward, head in hands.
Neither of them said anything. Zach sighed and lifted his hand from Beck’s spine, and Beck shivered at the loss of heat. He felt more than saw Zach stand and step away and cautiously looked up, waiting for Zach’s censure, a statement about why Beck shouldn’t be involved in these cases, why he shouldn’t be at work at all.
At the board, Zach had erased the columns of data for the two victims in the third case. He pushed the bottle of water toward Beck. “Let’s go back to the beginning on the first two incidents.”
Beck stared in disbelief. No threats of telling the Man or calling Jay, or lectures about the dangers of working in the field while having flashbacks about the shooting. Zach went on as if nothing had happened.
At that moment, Beck realized Zach didn’t see him as broken. Zach saw him as whole, as capable. Worthy of his trust. Worthy of Zach.
* * * *
Olivetti stormed into the condo, ripping at his tie, wrenching open the top buttons of his shirt.
