High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  It was one thing to talk to him about the case, about the deaths of Lara and Jen, but to drag Levin into it—unacceptable. How dare the cops go after his campaign manager? Levin hadn’t been there the night of the attack. He knew nothing of importance about the killings and had shown nothing but support for Olivetti.

  But they did work together every day, and Levin had attended the fundraisers where problems arose with Lara. He’d never voiced any suspicions about the murders, but one never knew. Plus, Levin had a vulnerable spot in his otherwise hard-nosed personality. Fortunately, Olivetti had that covered; Levin cared about his drug-addicted delinquent daughter, and Olivetti provided the connections to keep her in rehab instead of jail. The alarm panel beside the front door beeped a warning to enter the code within fifteen seconds, and Olivetti jabbed at the buttons to shut the thing up.

  Stryker and Littman had started this new investigation at the beginning, just like Halliday and Stryker had last summer. Interrogating Olivetti first and then going after the people around him. How could he focus on the campaign with cops pawing through his life?

  Next they’d be out at the previous house, dragging through the scene, looking for evidence. Another chance to uncover some obscure proof that Weaver hadn’t acted alone. Obviously they’d already come to that conclusion after this third home invasion—why else would they have shown up at his office, poking and prodding in their search for information—but they’d seek out physical evidence.

  When the police had finally finished with the country house last June, professional cleaners had removed every trace of blood and filtered the odor of death out of the air, but the sense of tragedy hadn’t dissipated. Several Realtors had informed him the place wouldn’t sell. The Olivettis were too well-known, and the case too well publicized. Olivetti refused to live there. How would it look to the voters if he remained in a place that should hold terrible memories? Christ, he should have given the house away to someone with kids and dogs—a family whose detritus would blanket any remaining evidence like nuclear fallout on a fertile field.

  Olivetti stomped up the staircase, pounding the banister with his fist. Those idiots who’d taken it upon themselves to emulate the home invasions—they were responsible. They’d set this in motion, brought this shit down on Olivetti’s head. His perfectly conceived plan, his high concept, endangered by imbecile copycats. If Olivetti knew who they were, he’d take care of them himself.

  In the meantime, he had to protect his investment. Something had to be done.

  He strode into the master bedroom, stripped off his corporate attire, and threw on workout gear. He stalked past oil paintings of the Rockies to the spare bedroom. Inside, professional gym equipment gleamed in the overhead light. The minibar next to the weight machine was stocked with water, and Olivetti grabbed a bottle and the TV remote from the countertop. The stair stepper might be the best choice for burning off his anger and settling down to think.

  No. Not the right choice for strategizing his next move.

  The treadmill. Ten miles. That would help. He set the water on the counter and opened the cupboards. A movie would level him out as he exercised. A film about succeeding against the odds. He browsed through the titles and picked a suitable story. He clicked on the TV, teed up the disc, and retrieved his water and a towel. The governor should be in peak physical condition, not tubby like Richards. Olivetti hit the treadmill’s On switch. The machine’s electronic voice greeted him by name and asked him to choose a workout. Olivetti chose obstacles.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Beck tried to focus on the first two home invasions. The only connection appeared to be Olivetti—he and his family in the first case and the elderly parents of a disgruntled former employee in the second. A coincidence? An attempt to frame the former employee? A way to disguise two murders by committing two more interrelated murders? A clue had to be somewhere in this godforsaken pile of paperwork.

  “Look at this.” Zach slid a report across the conference room table. “Witness report from Olivetti’s housekeeper. Footprints in the blood trail. Did you find the shoes?”

  “The shoes? No.” Beck turned toward him and took the paper. The words blurred. How long had they been at this new assessment? Three hours? Four? The day had been exhausting, and so far no epiphanies had emerged from the plethora of paper. They hadn’t eaten since lunch. Beck’s stomach clamored for food, and his concentration had waned right along with his blood sugar. Hell, with this much fatigue he might not register something important, wouldn’t see it due to starvation. Zach had to be hungry at this point too, right? But acknowledging weakness—not possible. Hunger was okay. He’d live.

  Beck’s stomach protested, growling its disagreement. Say something. “Maybe we should knock off for a while. Get some dinner.”

  Zach’s gaze flicked to his. “Dinner?”

  “Yeah. Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Sure, now that you mention it.” Zach quirked a smile. “What did you have in mind?”

  If it was digestible, he’d go along with just about anything. Beck had a cast-iron stomach. But Zach might be more of a connoisseur. “There’s a wide variety of ethnic food available downtown.”

  “What’s close by?”

  “Thai, Indian, Italian. Any of that sound good?”

  “Sounds spicy. Any good American cuisine nearby?”

  Beck had heard of some good places, but hoity-toity didn’t do it for him. He wanted to see measurable quantities, not a plate with a tablespoon of fancy food dribbled with peculiar sauce. “You mean like fusion cuisine?”

  “Nah. Like burgers.”

  “Um. I know a couple of places.”

  “What’s the best grill in the area?”

  Beck grinned. Now that was something he could sink his teeth into.

  * * * *

  They went to Beck’s favorite grill. Zach took a sniff, and his stomach woke with a vengeance. This was the kind of place that didn’t do a five-course meal with soup, salad, and sides. Inside, the fragrance of the wood-fire grill had seeped into the walls and complemented the aroma of steak and spices, giving the place a cozy atmosphere. Booths ringed the walls and tables queued up in the center. The hostess seated them in a booth for two and left menus. A hanging fixture spread golden light over the table, giving off enough illumination that Zach could see. Conversation and laughter rippled around them. A waiter breezed by, carrying a tray laden with sizzling platters, savory scents wafting behind him. Food sounded fabulous.

  They placed orders for burgers and sweet potato fries and settled in to discuss the case. After two days of hacking through the jungle of information, they were still left with the ultimate problem of who and why.

  Zach sampled his fries. “It comes down to suspects other than Weaver, and the reason behind the home invasions. Why these particular victims?”

  Nodding, Beck pounded on the ketchup bottle until it gave up a blob on his plate. “Okay. Robbery isn’t the motive. Revenge could be, but there’s no visible connection to suggest that. If the key isn’t in the victims, we’re left with the scenes. Plain murder.”

  “But not just murder. The survivor has to fit in there somewhere.”

  Beck grinned. “A new profile in the making.”

  “More like modifying the previous one. We need to get through all the files.” This was the way profiling worked: a lot of paperwork, a little fieldwork. Tedious, but it produced results.

  “So we’re working until we get through all the data?”

  “Yeah, but we won’t get through it all tonight.”

  Beck’s gray-eyed gaze met and held his, and Zach swallowed. A heated gaze, despite the cool crystalline color. When one side of Beck’s mouth lifted in a smile, the temperature at the table shot up. Zach reached for his water.

  The conversation turned to lighter topics. Beck told a story about a suspect holding his girlfriend in a choke hold. “The guy said, ‘Bites, doesn’t it, cop?’ Th
e girl went limp, dropped to the ground, and sank her teeth into his leg. She yelled, ‘It bites, huh?’ and the guy screamed like a little kid. We had to pull her off him.”

  Zach laughed. This was the most relaxed he’d seen Beck since the case started. When Beck smiled, attraction tugged at Zach, made him acutely conscious of the desire to reach out and run his thumb over the back of Beck’s hand. But the touch might not be welcome. Not here in a public place and not after what’d happened two years ago. Getting along as colleagues wasn’t the same as the spark of romance. Still, tempting to see what might happen. In his pocket, Zach’s phone buzzed, and he jumped. One glance at the screen and he sent Dean’s call to voice mail.

  Beck leaned back and pulled his hand off the table. “I can make myself scarce if you need to take a call.”

  “It’ll wait.” After dinner he’d call Dean back while alone in the car, driving to the Stardust. Make sure work and leisure were going okay. The thought of his ex-lover without support if something went haywire… But Zach wasn’t Dean’s keeper, and at some point the man had to let go of hope that they’d get back together.

  “Really, go ahead. I know you’re in demand.” Beck winked.

  Now that couldn’t be construed as anything but flirting. Beck hadn’t had a drop to drink, either. Zach cleared his throat. “It’s okay. It’s a personal call. A…a friend. Not work.”

  Beck gave him a brief look before drowning a fry in ketchup. “The guy you were with two years ago?”

  A casual question, but Zach tensed. Why was he defensive about the situation? This avenue of discussion couldn’t end well. He and Dean weren’t involved, and admitting the uneasy need to check on him didn’t say “available.” But what would be the point of lying? “We’re not together now. Not for over a year.”

  Beck nodded, chewed, waited. Licked a dab of ketchup from the corner of his mouth.

  God, don’t do that. “He’s had some problems.”

  “No explanation necessary.” Beck crumpled his napkin and tossed it on the table. “I check on Danny’s widow and help her out.”

  Not exactly the same when the person in need of support was an ex-lover. “I’ll give him a call after dinner.”

  “How about dessert?” Beck leaned both elbows on the table and shifted forward. His gaze dropped to Zach’s lips and back. “They make a mean chocolate cheesecake.”

  Enticing. For a moment, Zach stared. It’d be easy to say yes, let a bit more intimacy develop. “No, thanks. Think we’d better call it a night.”

  An easy excuse. Or was he worried that cheesecake and Beck might make an irresistible combination?

  * * * *

  Outside the restaurant, Beck drew in a lungful of cold air. After a couple of deep breaths, he started down the block, walking alone toward the parking lot. The chill had a bracing effect, loosening his chest and cooling his overheated skin. And what a blessing; he couldn’t have lasted much longer without spontaneously combusting.

  The comfortable warmth inside the restaurant fit with the season, but their booth had taken on a much more intimate heat. Stone-cold sober, Beck didn’t think he’d imagined the connection, the undercurrent of attraction there. Some of the looks Zach had sent his way burned with lust, and gulping ice water hadn’t quenched Beck’s answering fire. By the end of dinner, hiding the effect that close proximity had on his body had become difficult. Thank God for screening tabletops and napkins.

  In the end, it was just as well they’d called it a night. The rarefied air in Zach’s vicinity made Beck light-headed; he kept forgetting how to breathe. A few more veiled looks and Beck would’ve come across the table. Good thing they hadn’t stayed for coffee and dessert. Good thing they’d driven separate cars, and that Zach had a phone call to return. Yeah, a good thing. Still, leaving hadn’t been easy. A deep breath centered him, and he lingered in front of a couple of window displays, darting a look at the restaurant. Knock it off. He resumed walking.

  In the parking lot, Beck pulled out his keys and unlocked the car door with the remote. Against his better judgment, he glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Zach. Must still be on the phone with the guy back home.

  The letdown caught him by surprise. What had he expected? Zach striding across the parking lot, inviting him back to his place for a hot night between the sheets? Beck shook his head. Wishing wouldn’t make it so, and starting something in the middle of a case—not to mention with a coinvestigator—bad idea.

  He rested his hands on the top of the car. Time to go home, Stryker.

  “Beck.” Zach’s voice came from behind him, putting all his senses on alert. Beck pivoted, hope rising before he shoved it down. Zach wove through the dimly lit parking area, closing the distance between them. It seemed to take forever before he stood in front of Beck. “Didn’t get to thank you for dinner. I enjoyed it.”

  Did that mean something more than gratitude?

  “You’re welcome.” Resisting the temptation to shuffle his feet, Beck gazed at the ground.

  A charged silence hung between them. Dinner seemed light-years ago. When Zach didn’t reply, Beck looked up. In the warm glow of the parking lot lights, Zach’s gaze met his.

  “I wondered if you wanted to get a cup of coffee.” Zach shoved his hands into his pockets. “If you want to. I know it’s been a long day.”

  Oh, man. Not fair. “Uh, sure. You probably didn’t get enough today.” God, that sounded bad. “Coffee, I mean.”

  “Yeah.” Zach chuckled. “If it won’t keep you up.”

  A sudden image of erect anatomy blasted into Beck’s head—Zach lying naked on his bed, all cut muscles and smooth skin, stroking himself as Beck stripped for his viewing pleasure. His cock twitched. “Caffeine doesn’t bother me. Does it make it hard for you to sleep?” Hard. Warmth suffused his cheeks. Had he really just said that?

  Zach leaned a hip against the car and rested one arm on the roof. “Nope.”

  The air crackled with tension. Zach had nice eyes. Very blue, the bottomless kind of blue that sucked a guy in. Beck ran his tongue inside his upper lip. He itched to run a finger down Zach’s cheek, trace the golden stubble along his jaw. Taste his skin. This continual want drove him crazy. “So, then, coffee?”

  Zach’s gaze dropped to his mouth and dragged up. In slow motion, Zach leaned in. A hesitant brush of lips over Beck’s. Scared to break the spell, Beck froze. An honest-to-God kiss. Initiated by Zach.

  Another brush, and the heat of Zach’s hungry mouth closed over his in a hard, masculine kiss.

  Oh, damn.

  Memory of their kiss two years ago avalanched him, the kiss he’d forced on Zach in a haze of alcoholic disinhibition. But this time, Zach wasn’t pulling away. In fact, he was angling for more, pulling Beck in with a firm hand on his shoulder.

  The pressure and sweetness of this kiss stole his breath. A hot tongue invaded his mouth, bringing with it the familiar taste of after-dinner mint and the more exotic flavor of Zach’s desire. Beck hooked his hand around Zach’s neck. God, the pleasure of soft hair and warm skin.

  And oh this was good. Bumping noses, sharing each other’s breath, fitting their mouths together. Zach’s fingers played over Beck’s hair, tickling his scalp. A shock wave of arousal lit up nerve endings from his mouth to his groin.

  More. He slid his arm around Zach’s waist, leaving a tantalizing space between them.

  Bang.

  He jerked back, heart taking off like a bullet. Panic erupted in a jittery tide. He forced himself to look around. Parking lot. No guns. No people, in fact. On the street, a car backfired once again and roared away. Heat filled his cheeks. “Jesus. Sorry.”

  Zach gazed at him, panting, and rubbed his thumb across Beck’s lower lip. “It’s okay. Just a car.”

  Beck nodded and forced his hand to release the death grip on Zach’s coat, willed his heart to put on the brakes. Hell of an overreaction. Zach would think he was a head case, first succumbing to flashbacks and then jumping at phantoms—too
damaged for…anything.

  “Maybe we should call it a night.” Zach’s hand dropped away, and he stepped back.

  No. They’d just made that crucial connection, that first delicate thread of attachment. To snuff it out now… Hell. He reminded himself to breathe. “How about that coffee?”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “Sure you want to?”

  “What do you want?” he whispered.

  For the space of a heartbeat, Zach studied him. “Coffee at your place?”

  A golden opportunity, but his place hadn’t seen the business side of a broom in weeks, and the sheets weren’t fresh. “Um, I ran out. How about your place?”

  Zach gave him a grin. “Probably safer to go out than to trust the coffeemaker at the cosmic dust bowl.”

  “Cosmic dust bowl?”

  “Yeah—the Stardust Motel on Colfax.”

  Beck raised an eyebrow. “Wow. The bureau puts you up in first-class accommodations, huh?”

  “By the day or by the week, your tax dollars at work.”

  “How about the Glimmer Cafe?” Good coffee and ambience—not like the harsh light and plastic atmosphere of a pancake house. A couple turned into the parking lot, laughing as they made their way, and Beck moved back a step. This might be twenty-first-century Denver, but not everyone had an open mind.

  Zach said, “Let’s get out of here. I’ll follow you.”

  “Sure. It’s not far.”

  Zach nodded and ambled away. The man walked with an easy gait—confident, athletic. Sexy as hell. Beck bit back on a groan and buttoned his coat in front of his fly.

  He tugged open the car door, winced at the jab of pain in his deltoid, and rolled his shoulder, trying to be subtle about it. Somewhere between here and the Glimmer he’d need to pop a couple of ibuprofen. If he waited too long, he’d need something stronger. This might go beyond coffee. Might.

  Mind out of the bedroom, Stryker. It was just a kiss.

  It was more than a kiss. It was a start.

  * * * *

  For the hundredth time, Beck checked his watch; impatience reared its unpleasant facade as he paced outside the cafe. Ten minutes since Zach had driven past him and waved as he looked for a parking spot.