High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “Detective.”

  The first time Beck had seen Granita Torres, she’d been in the kitchen of the Olivetti house, hysterical after finding the bodies. In the four months since then, she’d aged ten years: hair gray, dark circles under her eyes, sallow complexion. She’d lost enough weight that “gaunt” would be a generous description. Jesus—the Grim Reaper might appear over her shoulder at any moment. “Hello, Ms. Torres. This is Special Agent Littman from the FBI.”

  Her tight-lipped expression belied any social pleasantry about the visit. She stood back and gestured for them to enter. “Come in.”

  The marble foyer gave off the scent of lemon cleanser mingled with the heavier fragrance of flowers. A spindly table with a floral centerpiece dominated the space. Straight ahead, a wide staircase curved to an open second-floor landing.

  “We can speak in the living room.” She tipped her head toward the right and shuffled in that direction, crepe-soled shoes silent on the spotless floor.

  The living room held an assortment of couches and chairs upholstered in pale fabric, and the walls had a faint rosy cast, as if the room had blushed upon their entry. In the center of one wall, a carved stone mantel surrounded a fireplace that held a sterile-looking grate, bereft of logs. It didn’t appear that a fire had ever warmed this space. Above the hearth, the portrait of a stern woman cast a disapproving expression at them. And Beck thought his apartment hadn’t seemed very cozy.

  Beck took a seat on one of the couches, and Zach sank down next to him. The stiff cushions testified the furniture had been selected for looks, not comfort. Ms. Torres perched on a chair, hands knotted in her lap.

  “I can’t talk long, Detective. I’m working.”

  “I understand. This won’t take long. Do you know a man named Ferris Riggs?”

  Confusion clouded her expression. “No. Is he—was he involved with the Olivettis?”

  So far, the connection didn’t look likely. “Have you had occasion to visit anyone at the Colorado State Penitentiary?”

  She drew in a sharp breath. The woman’s complexion turned the color of skim milk, and she swallowed. “No.”

  “Do you know anyone incarcerated at the prison?”

  Her gaze darted to the left, scanned the floor, and returned to focus on a spot somewhere over Beck’s shoulder. One look at her face and he knew: she had some sort of connection.

  Zach leaned forward. “Who is it, Ms. Torres?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head. The woman looked physically ill, like she might vomit.

  It must feel like betrayal to give up the name of someone she cared about, but Beck had had enough loss and betrayal to last him a lifetime. He tried a little kindness. “We’re not accusing you of anything. Please. If you know someone, tell us. He won’t need to know where the information came from.”

  The bitter smile she gave him spoke volumes, revealing a cynicism born of years of enduring prejudice. “I have a second cousin there. Julio Fox. I have nothing to do with him.”

  “Would he have had access to the keys to the Olivettis’ house?” Beck asked.

  “I would never hurt Mrs. Olivetti or Jen like that. I haven’t seen Julio in years, or spoken with him.” Ms. Torres stood, chin up. “You can go now, Detective.”

  She marched out to the foyer and yanked the door open, fingers blanched white as she gripped the heavy wood. In silence, Beck stepped out with Zach behind him.

  * * * *

  Zach sighed. Not a very productive interview. In front of the car, he met Beck’s gaze. The scowl on his face matched the blustery weather. The wind had taken on a biting chill. They slid into the car in silence. In the distance, the Rockies wore a cap of snow. Winter couldn’t be far off. Beck started the motor, negotiated the driveway, and headed for the street.

  “So Julio Fox.” Beck tapped long fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s a new name, but he doesn’t sound like a promising suspect.”

  “We’ll check him out, see where it leads. Exclude him at the very least.”

  “If the warden would grant Riggs’s transfer, we might actually get somewhere.”

  “Beck—”

  Beck stopped the car and slammed it into park. “This isn’t a pissing contest. This is four murders. Five if you count Danny’s.”

  “Hey, I’m not the enemy here,” Zach said, voice full of reproach.

  Beck huffed out a breath. “Sorry.” Rubbing his palm over his left shoulder, he grimaced before yanking his hand away midmassage. His face rearranged into the forced relaxation of a man hiding pain. With a glance in the mirror, Beck shifted into drive and turned toward the main road.

  Zach bit back the urge to ask if Beck needed medication, if he’d let Zach drive. Negotiating the twists and turns of Beck’s psyche had Zach on a course of constant reassessment, which took a toll on his patience. He’d be willing to bet money that Beck hadn’t taken anything for pain in hours, and that he wouldn’t take it with an audience. The man’s ego could be as touchy as a rattlesnake if he interpreted Zach’s concern as a challenge of fitness for duty.

  * * * *

  Beck gritted his teeth as they crawled north on Interstate 25. Rush-hour traffic sucked. He needed ibuprofen. Now. By the time they made it back to the precinct his shoulder would hurt like fuck and he’d need something stronger. Any extracurricular activities would be out of the question if he couldn’t get some relief, and he really wanted to blow off some steam in bed tonight. A glance at the fuel gauge showed he could stop for gas and gulp down an ibuprofen or five in the restroom.

  In the passenger seat, Zach drummed his fingers on the armrest, apparently lost in thought. The late-afternoon sun had turned his hair gold and showed off the bronze stubble on his jaw. A rougher, sexier look than the first-thing-in-the-morning FBI-agent version. A more mouthwatering version. Beck’s cock stirred, ready for action, and he willed it to settle down. Now wasn’t the time. “Damn Riggs. We’re no further along than before we saw Torres. The whole thing’s a circle jerk.”

  Zach’s gaze flicked to his. “Let’s look at other avenues to get the information.”

  “Such as?”

  “Assuming Julio Fox doesn’t pan out, Weaver and Riggs must have people in common. Maybe Riggs got the information secondhand.”

  Beck shook his head. “We checked all known associates.”

  “I’m not talking about partners in crime. Prisoners incarcerated at the state prison. Someone Weaver could have told, who in turn told Riggs. Cell mates, coworkers, cronies. People inside.”

  “Going through those records will take a long time.”

  “I’m not proposing we sit around waiting.” Shifting toward him, Zach pulled out a pocket-sized notebook and a pen. “Since Riggs came forward with this information, we’ll start with his current cell mate.”

  “And what if he has demands? This could go on indefinitely.”

  “It’s one possibility. We’ll still pursue other leads.” Zach scribbled notes.

  They fell silent, cruising past the occasional semi when traffic eased. In the fade of the day, the mountain peaks fractured the sunlight into tangerine rays. Oncoming headlights flared, and taillights glowed in a crimson chain.

  Every time they got a break, a wall slammed down in front of them. Would it be such a big deal to give Riggs his transfer? The guy wasn’t asking for clemency. Something had scared the hell out of him. He talked a tough game, but the distress broke through in his words.

  Strategizing by giving away too much could end in disaster. For God’s sake, the guy could have a heart attack and die while they unsnarled lengths of red tape.

  Zach broke into his reverie. “Want to grab some dinner later?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  Traffic slowed to a meager flow. Up ahead, a police officer in a blaze-orange vest directed traffic away from the inside lane, and a kaleidoscope of blue and red lights lit up the dusk. Great. An accident. They’d be late getting back to the precinct, even if Beck exited the interst
ate and took the surface roads.

  After a few minutes, they negotiated the single lane past the wreckage. Firemen cut into a car on its side while a couple of paramedics tended to a victim on a stretcher. Streaks of dull red marked the white sheets.

  Blood. The shooting. On cue, his heartbeat thudded in his ears. The heat of that night, the stinging sweat beneath his bulletproof vest, the scent of freshly mown grass. The paradoxical pastoral setting of tragedy in a residential neighborhood. Nightmares…

  God, he couldn’t think about that, about Danny. If the PTSD took over, he needed to be in the breakdown lane, not driving. Slow breaths. See what’s around you. Taillights. The highway. Zach.

  “Beck. You okay?”

  Beck shivered, but the flashback didn’t take over. Steering his mental energy away from the past, Beck cleared his throat. “Fine. What are you up for? Food-wise, that is?”

  Zach looked up with a smile.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “He made contact with Stryker.” The female voice on the phone was long familiar, a pleasant alto roughened with bourbon. “I got a call from a Captain McManus at DPD.”

  The orange glow of firelight cast flickering shadows across Olivetti’s study, a cheery warmth that didn’t touch the ice inside him as he paced back and forth to the agitated notes of a concerto. Night-dark windows reflected the flames like hell framed with velvet curtains. Resonant notes of bassoon broke into the music, heightening the Hades effect. “And what did he want?”

  “Riggs called Stryker.”

  Damn Riggs. Olivetti clenched the phone in his fist. “How did he contact the cop?”

  “There are ways around the phone and mail systems. Happens all the time. Cell phone, letter taken by another prisoner, attorney—”

  “What was said?”

  “Apparently they spoke for a few minutes. Then Riggs called it off. He wants a transfer.” Ice clinked against glass. “In the meantime, he’s offered to blow a couple of the guards to keep from returning to the cell with Brown.”

  Olivetti wrinkled his nose in distaste. Obviously, the man had changed from the take-no-prisoners street brawler he’d once been. The music crescendoed into a clash of cymbals, and he jabbed the remote to turn it down. “You’re sure he hasn’t talked?”

  “According to McManus, Riggs didn’t tell who hired the hit or confess his own involvement.” A smirk curled through the information. “He’s angling to get away from Brown but wouldn’t say anything to Stryker without a guaranteed transfer. Beyond that, I’m not privy to the intimate details.”

  “You damn well could be privy to the whole conversation if you wanted. The police probably recorded it.” Anger boiled up in a hot burst, scorching his stomach.

  A throaty laugh vibrated through the phone. “Suffice it to say they only spoke long enough for a smidgen of information to be exchanged. He can’t talk without implicating himself.”

  Olivetti rolled that around for a moment. True, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. “Did he get an attorney involved?”

  “No.”

  One positive. “And after the visit?”

  “After?” The voice clouded with confusion.

  My God. He was surrounded by idiots. Could no one see the big picture? Olivetti glared at the cell phone before putting it to his ear. “Did you get any calls from the DA? The governor?”

  “None.” Stony now, unfriendly.

  “He could have told another inmate.” Sap crackled and popped in the fireplace, filling the air with the pungent smell of the burning wood. Heat radiated into the room. “We’ll need to tie up the loose end.” Olivetti retrieved his glass of cabernet and took a sip.

  “He hasn’t told anyone, Isaac. If Riggs told another inmate, that one would be trying to exchange the information for a favor. I would know. Why take him out? It’ll generate an inquiry.”

  “Because he’s already opened up a line of inquiry. Because the cops will assume he’s involved somehow.” Why did he have to constantly explain the obvious? If she expected him to appoint her head of the Colorado Correctional System, Olivetti had to be elected first, damn it, and Riggs was a complication.

  “We’ll keep him happy, Isaac. Give him his own cell away from Brown and some privileges. He’ll be happy as a pig in shit, and he’ll shut up. He can’t afford to say anything—the trail leads back to him. Besides, who would believe him?”

  Every day led to more coddling, more convincing. The obvious seemed to elude them, even the intelligent ones. Once elected, mental superiority would be the determining factor for a position in his administration, not political and personal favors. Behind his right eye, a low drumbeat pounded his optic nerve, declaring the migraine sequence had begun. “The FBI might believe him.”

  “Doubtful. I tell you, it’s better to keep him happy than to risk stirring up trouble by eliminating him—especially now that he’s drawn the attention of the FBI.”

  Olivetti lowered his voice, tried for conciliatory. “We have the same agenda here. And protecting that agenda takes cooperation.”

  “The agenda appears to have shifted.” The voice had taken on an edge.

  “We’re on the cusp of attaining our common goals.” He rolled out his smoothest tone. “We’re almost there. A few more weeks—”

  “The latest polls suggest we’re not as close as you believe.”

  “We’ll prevail. I promise you.” They had to. The music transitioned into a mournful trumpet layered with low drums and brushed cymbals, and ended. “Just find me someone to fix the problem. I’ll arrange to have the money forwarded first thing in the morning.”

  Silence.

  Olivetti gritted his teeth. Goddamn it. “Please—”

  “I’ll be in touch.” The clatter of the hang-up spiked through Olivetti’s head.

  The vision in his right eye blurred, and he dug in the antique credenza for the vial of pills to head off the migraine. The plan would work, but Ferris Riggs was a defect in the plan, and Olivetti wouldn’t stand for weakness. When Riggs was out of the picture, the police investigation would stall, and the concept would move forward and put Olivetti in the governor’s mansion. He’d sacrificed, made himself a sympathy target. Sympathy created a desire in people to ease pain—it had in college, and it would again. The public would soothe him with a vote.

  * * * *

  Beck grimaced as he sat at his desk. Focus. Focus, focus, focus. On something besides his impatient dick.

  By the time they’d gotten back from dinner, the division had emptied out. No one else plugged away in robbery/homicide. After they ate, Beck had wanted to go straight home and call it a day, work off some nervous energy in bed. Zach possessed better libido control, or at least better work ethic in the face of extreme horniness. They’d logged their interview with Ms. Torres, grinning and eyeing each other like a couple of teenagers with the house to themselves on Saturday night.

  “Fox has been inside for the last year, in administrative segregation. He’d never have a chance to run into Riggs. We’ll have to get the visitor’s log tomorrow.” Beck gave a frustrated sigh. “I’d really like to put off the rest of this computer search.”

  “Nah. Get it over with.” Zach closed the second binder. “I’m going to run by the motel and grab some stuff, call Minneapolis, and update Sands.” He shrugged into his trench coat. “I’ll meet you back here and follow you to your place. Sound good?”

  “Yeah. All except the run by the motel, call Sands, and follow me. The ‘my place’ part sounds good.” Beck leered at him.

  That earned him an eye roll. “See you shortly.”

  “Roger that, Dr. Littman.”

  Grinning, Zach waved and pushed through the glass door to the elevator.

  The quiet of the department settled in a palpable layer. The sound of traffic didn’t reach inside the building. The dark windows reflected the emptiness of the interior, every other row of lights off, complying with the department’s energy-conservation program. Around him, th
e building made its little sounds: the breath of forced air heat, the blink and buzz of an expiring fluorescent bulb, the distant sigh and groan of the elevator.

  Beck cracked his knuckles and sat down at the computer, focused on the screen in front of him. The seal of DPD rotated on the screen saver.

  Okay. Who was Sylvester Weaver? Beck could recite the contents of Weaver’s police record from memory. Lived all his life in Denver. Grew up poor, single mother, absentee father. Abusive childhood, foster care, juvie, graduation to drugs, jail, and prison. At the time of the shooting, he’d been out on parole and living at a halfway house. The guy running the place hadn’t contributed much to the investigation. Two days before the shooting, Danny had tossed Weaver’s room with Beck’s assistance and hadn’t discovered a damn thing. No stolen goods, no weapons, no cash. Then the confrontation that had changed everything.

  Skip that part.

  According to McManus, no one had come to Weaver’s funeral. More cops than mourners in attendance.

  Beck leaned back in his chair. Nothing there with potential for deep dark secrets. But what wasn’t in the police file?

  A Google search produced a couple of Sylvester Weavers in the Denver area: an accountant—definitely not the right Weaver—and a tattoo artist. A couple of clicks brought up the tattoo guy’s Facebook account. Beck rolled his eyes. A man with multiple piercings and more ink than the Illustrated Man. Beck pushed his hands against the edge of the desk. Sylvester “Slick” Weaver’s tats had been of the prison variety, crude lines done with a ballpoint pen and a needle.

  No Facebook account for the right Sylvester Weaver.

  Think like Zach. Connections, connections.

  He snorted. The guy was rubbing off on him.

  Family? Nope. Slick had none. No marriages, girlfriends, lovers. Just foster families. Then the Colorado penal system took over as caretaker. Beck ran his thumb across his lower lip. Huh. They hadn’t explored the possibility of foster family connections. Or kids he’d met in juvie. Weaver could have met another budding felon that way. Two possible avenues. Social Services would have foster records Beck could subpoena. The juvie records would also need a subpoena. Okay. He’d work on that in the morning with the ADA. Beck jotted a note and moved on.