High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  A gust of wind kicked up the papery leaves skittering across the concrete. A couple of guards marched by, giving him the fish eye. Yeah, go ahead and look, cocksuckers.

  The fucking guards wouldn’t take him to the infirmary this morning. He’d pleaded, offered everything from cigarettes to a blowjob. Nada. Nix. Nothing. The bastards acted like he’d deserved the assault by that monster. The blood soaking his denim pants had gotten him fresh clothes. No shower, no protective isolation. He’d been tempted to spit on the COs, maybe earn a trip to solitary, but that hadn’t worked in the past.

  He’d counted on Stryker’s agreement to a transfer. Maybe pass along a little more information but hold back Olivetti’s part until the relocation happened. What else could he do to get away from the deathmonger sharing his cell? There had to be a way out of here, an escape route of some kind.

  Other than a body bag.

  * * * *

  “Let me get this straight. Someone shot at you?” McManus paced in front of his desk.

  Zach winced. It looked like McManus might detonate. The captain and Regional Director Sands seemed to have a lot in common—like chronic gut problems and stress management via letting go of the safety valve. Heaven help the hapless individuals in the way.

  Beside Zach, Beck’s rigid posture gave away his tension. “Yes, sir.”

  A sheriff’s deputy occupied a third chair, hat held on his lap, arms crossed as if to ward off fallout. “We combed the area. An SUV had recently driven through the trees in the vicinity where the shot originated. No shells.”

  McManus paused in front of Beck. “And you saw no one?”

  Beck’s throat moved as he swallowed. “It was pitch-black. The round came from behind and exited the front window—had a lot of velocity left and would’ve traveled a long way.”

  The deputy spoke up. “Not likely we’ll recover the round, Captain. A rifle capable of that shot, plus the penetration, skew—”

  “I’m aware of the ballistics issues, Deputy.”

  The deputy continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “We can narrow down the vehicle based on tread, but I’d say it’s unlikely we’ll find something.”

  McManus’s face darkened, and a muscle worked in his jaw. Didn’t the deputy have any sense of self-preservation? In Zach’s opinion, this was the point to say “yes, sir” and shut up. For his part, Beck winced. No doubt he’d seen the captain’s temper firsthand.

  The deputy ran a hand across the brim of his hat. “Of course—”

  “I want an investigative report on my desk by five o’clock tonight.” The pitch had gone dangerously low, and McManus’s eyebrows suggested a shit storm was coming. “Stay away from the house, gentlemen.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beck and Zach said together.

  “Do my best,” said the deputy.

  The color in McManus’s cheeks increased. “Dismissed.”

  DEFCON upgrade imminent. Zach and Beck jumped up and made a hasty exit. Zach left the door open for the deputy.

  “I THINK YOUR boss is about to be on the phone to my boss, the sheriff, and anyone else remotely involved with that little episode,” Zach murmured.

  Too true. Beck nodded. “Let’s get out of sight.” Before heading for the safety of the conference room, they paused at Beck’s desk to retrieve their coffees. Unlike when they’d entered McManus’s office, no one stared—all attention seemed to be centered on the other side of the room.

  A group clustered around Katie’s desk, chatting. Van sat on the opposite side, grinning and talking. Something was up. Maybe they’d wrapped up their copycat homicide. Huh. Celebrations usually took place at the bar over beers and shots; this appeared to be something different. Members of other departments were here, along with a couple of secretaries.

  McManus would go nuclear if he saw this right now. Detectives shooting the bull in the office equated to unsolved cases not getting worked.

  Zach raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

  “Hell if I know. Even solving the home invasions wouldn’t be cause for a party at the office.”

  “Somebody’s birthday?”

  Beck snorted. “Have a lot of singing and birthday cake over at the bureau, do you?”

  “Very funny.” Sipping at his coffee, Zach ambled toward the conference room.

  Glancing from Zach to the activity around Van and Katie, Beck paused. Tempting to walk over, see what’d happened. Whatever it was must be positive. He stalked to the conference room. The rumor mill would deliver the news soon enough.

  Zach looked up as Beck came in. “Ready to tackle the case?”

  “Ready to solve the case.” Where were they at in this investigation? Nowhere. Beck pulled out a penknife and unsealed the box of case materials. The two murder books lay on top, and he let out a heavy sigh. “More paper to dig through.”

  “Back to the drawing board.” Zach grinned, tossed the dry-erase marker into the air, and caught it.

  “More like back to square one. Why are you in such a good mood? The barista spike your coffee?”

  “You know why I’m in a good mood.”

  Beck shut the door and shot him a look. “Zach—”

  “Pleasure releases endorphins.” A sultry look, eyes full of promises.

  The thought of Zach’s hands on him… Beck stifled a groan and plopped the murder books on the table. “Let’s work.”

  “Endorphins improve mood.”

  “The case,” Beck said through his teeth. “McManus will have our heads on pikes if we don’t make some real progress today.”

  Zach laughed. “Okay. The case.”

  * * * *

  By midmorning, they hadn’t heard anything about fingerprints on the money from Weaver’s safe deposit box, and they’d concluded the best option was the one they couldn’t force—the unknown informant at the Colorado State Pen. Beck gritted his teeth. Maybe the guy would call back.

  “Did he say anything that’d narrow it down?” Zach tapped his finger on the legal pad.

  “Not that I recall. We didn’t get to archive the conversation. If he phones again, they’ll record it.”

  “An accent? Speech pattern?”

  “Midwestern, I’d say. He didn’t know what the word ‘pertain’ meant.”

  “Low educational level.”

  “Most of the inmates have low educational levels. A lot of high school dropouts.” Beck drew a circle on his notepad. “Can you profile him?”

  “Beyond Midwestern and low academic achievement? Unfortunately, no.” Zach grimaced.

  “Let’s say the accomplice is an inmate at the Colorado State Penitentiary and associates with the informant.”

  “Okay…”

  “There are roughly seven hundred fifty prisoners. Half are violent offenders. That leaves nearly four hundred possibilities in the general population.” Beck splayed his hands on the desktop.

  “The informant could be anyone—violent or otherwise.”

  “How’re we going to locate him and get the information?”

  “He wants the transfer bad enough to risk calling you.” Zach picked up his coffee cup, frowned, and tossed it in the trash can. “Trust me, he’ll call back.”

  “Think so?”

  “Know so.” Zach pushed back from the desk. “In the meantime, I need a fresh caffeine infusion.”

  “I’ll wait in the conference room in case he calls back.”

  Once Zach left to acquire coffee, Beck retreated to the privacy of the restroom and took ibuprofen. God, his shoulder throbbed today; even the scars ached in concert with the joint. Must’ve been all the bedroom calisthenics. Mission accomplished, he made his way to the conference room and pushed open the door.

  Zach gave him a heartbreaking smile. “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” Stiffness had settled in his shoulder, and Beck resisted the urge to massage it. “Ready to attack the case.”

  “Katie’s gotten engaged.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

&nb
sp; “I asked about their case, and she volunteered it.”

  Beck grinned. She wasn’t a bad sort, even though she had Van for a partner—and apparently liked him. Little did she know what an asshole he could be. “Did she say who?”

  “Van.”

  A cold lump froze Beck’s vocal cords. Heat born of temper ignited in his chest and rolled upward, thawing his voice. He glared out the door, across the division, willing Van to look at him. “Are…are you kidding? He can’t do that.”

  “Apparently he is.” Zach closed the door.

  “He’s gay,” Beck said through his teeth, not caring that he’d outed Van to Zach.

  Zach raised an eyebrow but otherwise appeared unfazed. “So are you. So am I. But it’s no one’s business.”

  Charming, handsome, cock-loving Van, desperate enough to fake a heterosexual marriage? Beck couldn’t imagine him playing straight and faithful. Van would require dick on the side. How could the bastard fuck up Katie’s life like that? How could he do it to himself? “Doesn’t it bother you that he’s marrying a woman?”

  “Yeah. But it happens, and it’s none of my business.” Zach turned his attention back to the reports in front of him.

  “It’ll be a sham marriage.”

  “Not every marriage is made in heaven.”

  Yeah. Well, this one was made in hell. Beck lowered into a chair. On some level—hell, every level—Van wasn’t comfortable in his own skin. Having a father and a brother involved in law enforcement added pressure. The longing to fit in, blend in, drove him.

  It doesn’t concern you.

  So why did he care?

  “If you don’t watch out, your eyebrows will freeze in that position.” Zach grinned.

  “So what’s he going to do? Fuck guys behind her back?”

  Zach’s gaze met his. “It’s not worth driving yourself crazy. Let it go.”

  “I will—I have, but…shit.” Beck snorted. There wasn’t any point in pursuing this. After all, he hadn’t contemplated throwing caution to the wind and planting a rainbow flag on his desk. “You’re the psychiatrist. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m better off keeping my opinion out of it.” Zach reached for his coffee and took a sip.

  “Are you out?”

  “I don’t run around announcing it, but I don’t hide it. And if asked, I don’t lie.”

  “Did you take a lot of crap for it at the bureau?”

  Zach pushed aside the reports. “Not the in-your-face kind. Sideways looks and snide comments from some. There are assholes in every profession. Most have no problem with it. I do the job just as well as they do, and who I choose to be with doesn’t impact that.”

  Beck shook his head. “I can’t see doing that, being that open.”

  “Look, it’s not an easy decision.” Zach held Beck’s gaze. “But it’s not easy to deny who you are, either. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Beck had rolled the idea around and always came to the same conclusion: he wasn’t ready.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Stryker.” Beck juggled the phone receiver.

  “Hello, Detective.” The distinctive voice of the prison informant grated on Beck’s ear.

  Beck tapped Zach on the shoulder and mouthed, It’s him. Beck spoke to the man on the other end of the line. “Got something for me?”

  “Maybe.”

  A game, seeing who could outmaneuver the other player. Beck pulled over a notepad. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

  A whoosh like wind blowing across the receiver but no words.

  “Hello?” Beck said.

  “How do I know you won’t turn me in to the warden?”

  “Hey. You called me. For all I know, you’re a lifer with no real information. Plus, I can’t go to the warden asking for a transfer for inmate X. I need a name.”

  Swearing. “Riggs.”

  “Riggs what?”

  “Riggs is my last name. First name’s Ferris.”

  An excited tingle went up his spine, that sensation of making a connection in the case. Beck wrote the name in bold strokes, showed it to Zach. “Okay, Mr. Riggs. Who was hired to carry out the Olivetti home invasion, and who hired it done?”

  “Not just the Olivetti one. Both of ’em.” He coughed. “Let’s just say I got my sources.”

  The hair stood up on Beck’s neck. “Who’s your source?”

  “Uh-uh. You’re dealing with me. Now you got my name. You can talk to the warden. If I find myself in solitary, this is the last conversation we’ll have, so be convincing with the old biddy.”

  “Come on, Riggs. You know how this goes. You give me something. I give you something.” Beck leaned back and crossed his legs. “I’m wondering if you know anything besides that little deal about the Christmas lights. For all I know, that’s it.”

  “Olivetti had a greasy red rag in his mouth.”

  Beck narrowed his eyes. A lot of detail for hearsay. “Were you there?”

  “No.” Emphatic, without hesitation. “I’m your best shot at solving this thing, Stryker. You get my transfer. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Who hired the hit?”

  Bells went off in the background. “Later, Stryker.”

  And he was gone.

  Beck groaned and set the phone on the table. “At least we’ve got a name.” He spun the notepad toward Zach. “He’s still pushing for a transfer before he’ll talk.”

  “Even if the information pans out, the warden wouldn’t necessarily agree to move him.”

  Beck snorted. “True. Our tenderhearted warden would just as soon see the resurgence of dungeons for prisoner management.”

  Eyebrows raised, Zach tapped the legal pad. “Let’s talk to McManus.”

  * * * *

  McManus crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk. “No visit to the prison. Talking to Riggs in person won’t get you a damn thing.”

  Beck had expected as much. He stole a glance at Zach, but the man sat silently in his chair. Could use a little backup here, buddy. “We need that information. If the warden would consider a transfer, we could get a name and make some headway.”

  “Listen to me, Stryker. The warden has to have some incentive for granting the transfer, and that’s not likely to happen just because Riggs might help you out. He’s a three-time recidivist loser. He might be blowing smoke to manipulate the system.”

  “I know she won’t let Riggs dictate the terms, no matter what it might get us. But we have to try.”

  “Miller runs that place with a titanium fist. She isn’t known as the Iron Maiden for nothing.” McManus grabbed the bottle of antacid on his desk and tossed a couple in his mouth.

  Someone had hired a hit on the Olivettis and the Greers. That person had some degree of culpability in Danny’s death, and Beck wasn’t stopping until he found out the bastard’s name. “Captain—”

  “Work your other leads.” McManus circled behind his desk and reached for his coffee cup. “I’ll call Miller, get the lay of the land. Close the door on your way out.”

  The other leads were fragile threads that had been exhausted last summer. Beck stood and held the door open; Zach brushed past, and Beck eased the door shut behind them, muttering, “What other leads?”

  They returned to the conference room, and Zach plopped in a chair, gazing at the ceiling. “The housekeeper found the Olivettis the morning after the crime, correct?”

  “Yeah. She alibied out for the night it happened. She didn’t let the killers in.”

  “Did she have keys to the house?”

  Beck narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. We followed that through. No motive. No problems while working for the Olivettis, no dire financial pressure. No connection between her and Weaver. She quit after the thing went down. Not unexpected since she found the bodies.”

  “Any chance she would’ve had copies made and given them to the intruders?”

  “She denied it, and we couldn’t find evidence to make anyone she knew a suspect
.” Beck swallowed hard as watery visions of the crime scene ran through his head. “Where’re you going with this?”

  “Could she have a connection to Mr. Riggs?”

  Beck sat up. “She didn’t have a record, but beyond that, I don’t know.”

  “Think we’d better find out.”

  * * * *

  In the bull pen, Zach’s eyes ached. Despite wearing his glasses, fatigue blurred the letters on Beck’s computer. The fluorescents buzzing overhead didn’t push back the shadows; it was too dark in here. As he peered at the screen, he caught a whiff of Beck’s leather-and-evergreen scent and stifled an urge to touch him. After all, they weren’t alone.

  Next to him, Beck tapped a couple of keys. “Miss Granita Torres, age forty-five. United States citizen, born here. Never married, no children. Her biggest crime is a couple of parking tickets, both paid. No wants, no warrants.”

  “A connection to Riggs wouldn’t be obvious.” Zach pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “We’re looking for an ex-boyfriend, a brother, a nephew. Someone who could’ve gotten copies of the keys and committed the crime with Weaver, then told Riggs. That person is the second suspect. If Torres was involved, we need to link her with Riggs somehow.”

  “Okay,” Beck replied. “We’re not going to find that kind of connection in this record. Let’s pay Ms. Torres a visit.”

  * * * *

  Man, oh man. Beck whistled as he drove up the circular drive to a house resembling a French château, all white brick, turrets, and a steeply pitched black roof. A swath of dead grass fronted the property, and pruned evergreens guarded the entrance. A Mercedes parked nearby made Beck’s older Chevy look shabby by comparison. By the look of things, Ms. Torres had moved from one wealthy employer to another.

  The rough-hewn door had iron bands, as if designed to keep out invaders. Westminster chimes echoed in the house when Beck rang the bell. The place even sounded like money. Moments later the door swung open on silent hinges, revealing the woman they’d come to see.