High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “…to create jobs in this state?” came an off-camera question.

  “Coloradans needs jobs. And small companies need employees. It’s uncertainty driving them apart. If employers are confident their taxes won’t go up, that their goods have a strong market, they’ll feel comfortable employing more people—”

  Olivetti hit Mute. Rhetoric. Consolidation was the name of the game in this economy.

  The camera panned over the vigorously clapping crowd, REELECT BILL RICHARDS signs bobbing among them. The view switched back to the candidate.

  Olivetti tapped the remote until the words became audible while studying his opponent. What did Bill Richards have that he didn’t? The incumbent was ripe for the ousting, considering his dismal performance the past two years. Why did the constituents like him? Hadn’t they had enough? Didn’t they want fresh ideas? Olivetti had positioned himself to provide those fresh ideas. He’d sacrificed his family for the opportunity, damn it.

  With the best campaign manager money could buy, he’d expected to be way ahead by now. Levin at the helm should guarantee a win. Between his salary and Olivetti’s legal leverage over Levin’s daughter, they should be winning. Other than incumbency, what advantage did Richards have?

  Richards had kept to the straight and narrow, not falling into the political traps of mistresses, illegitimate children, or lascivious photos gone viral. He’d laid his tax returns out for everyone to see. No ill-gotten campaign funds, no nefarious financial gains.

  Olivetti likewise had none of these issues. That wasn’t it.

  Mrs. Richards moved into the frame next to her husband and waved. Forty-something Ellie Richards had a plump motherly appearance, homeschooled her children, and did a lot of volunteer charity work. At thirty, Lara had been fifteen years younger than Olivetti. A beautiful wife should never be a liability, but according to Levin, the voters favored matronly over model-perfect. Lara had hated public appearances, had hated wearing the modest fashions recommended by Levin, had hated giving up champagne at fundraising events.

  The audience laughed—no doubt Richards had made one of his corny campaign jokes. Olivetti snorted. The candidate turned and beckoned to the right, and his children stepped into view. Two teenagers, one boy, one girl. The all-American family. The two kids had unblemished records. Levin hadn’t dug up any evidence of drug abuse, drunk driving, or teenage pregnancy. The kids campaigned for their father, gave talks at the high schools against drinking and drugs. Assets, both of them.

  Jen had been five; in the way typical of small children, she’d lived in an egocentric universe. Jen’s meltdown at a big-box store and the resultant spanking Lara had administered had been splashed across the tabloids and YouTube. Privileged childhood, everything a kid could want, and the only media coverage of Olivetti’s offspring…an unmitigated disaster. Too bad he couldn’t adopt a couple of perfect adolescents.

  Olivetti spun his chair away from the TV and gazed across the canyons between the downtown skyscrapers. He’d never wanted children. Before their marriage, Lara had understood and agreed—a luxury lifestyle, but no kids. The “accidental” pregnancy had infuriated him but had occurred during Olivetti’s tenure in the Colorado State legislature. He’d been on his way to a bright political future. Abortion would have been a huge mistake.

  So he’d gone along, smiled, called Jen his midlife blessing, made sure he was seen as a doting father by the cameras. Five long years of hiding his irritation. He’d spent his own childhood having the humanity beaten out of him by his mother’s boyfriends, powerless. By the time he was sixteen, he’d engineered his escape via fire and learned to depend on himself, first on the streets and then in the army. Knowledge and money equaled power, but political office would get him the respect he deserved, not just lip service because of his cash flow.

  Jen and Lara hadn’t given him what he wanted—a lead in the polls. They’d been a liability, an obstacle. But he’d been able to turn that to his advantage. It had just been a matter of having the vision to come up with the right high concept and the intestinal fortitude to bring it off, and he’d succeeded. The results were underwhelming thus far, but he’d change that.

  He studied the traffic thirty-five stories below. Focused determination could succeed. He’d done it as an abused kid, as a young man in the military, as a businessman. Overcoming obstacles. Winning in the face of great odds. Perseverance and bravery.

  Great personal sacrifice, beginning with the fire that killed his incompetent mother.

  He was alone, a widower and bereaved father. The voters must care about how much he’d endured. Anytime now the new campaign commercial would generate a bump in the polls. He spun toward the TV, raised the volume.

  Chapter Eighteen

  While Zach called Sands, Beck waited at his desk and fiddled with the computer. Sands could’ve said no to the request for Riggs’s army records. Then where would they be?

  Zach walked by, rounded Danny’s old desk, and sank into the seat.

  “What’d he say?” Beck asked, trying to restrain hope.

  “That the army isn’t a branch of the FBI, but he’ll try.”

  “Okay. In the meantime—”

  “Stryker.” McManus poked his head out of his office. “Need you in here. You too, Dr. Littman.”

  Not good. The boss’s tone sounded…off. Like the shit had hit the fan. Half-pissed, half-worried. Hope it’s not his wife.

  Beck pushed back from the computer terminal on his desk and grimaced at Zach. They stood, and Beck led the way into the Man’s office. They took the straight chairs in front of the desk. The photos stared down from their gold frames. No one said anything.

  Had to be something bad. Another home invasion? Beck took a deep breath. “Captain? What’s up?”

  “We have a lead on the person who hired the hit on Ferris Riggs.” The tone didn’t sound like it was a positive development.

  At last, they’d caught a break. “Who is it?”

  The Man’s expression smoothed into an unreadable mask. “You.”

  Beck stared. What the hell? The boss must be kidding. “Nice joke, boss. For a minute there I thought you were serious.”

  The corners of the Man’s eyes tightened. “I am serious.”

  “No— What are you talking about? You honestly think—”

  “No, I don’t. But you’re accused of solicitation of murder.”

  The words hovered between them and sucked the air out of the room. Beck couldn’t breathe. Murder? Why would he kill the one lead they had in these godforsaken cases? Sweat bloomed on his skin. “Captain.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Zach sounded pissed. He leaned forward and gazed at Beck. “There’s no way—”

  “Just listen.” The Man crossed his arms. “The DA got a call from the warden at the prison. She got a tip that you’d hired one Jedidiah Brown, a lifer in for murder, to take out Riggs. Payback for killing Danny.”

  Beck squeezed the arms of the chair. “And she believed him? A con with no hope of parole?”

  “No. But she believed the bank account. This con’s account went from fifteen dollars to five thousand overnight. A felon with no means of income suddenly has that kind of money, it grabs her attention. Money transferred there from your bank account.”

  “Five thou— What do you mean?” Barbwire twisted in his gut. What was going on? For the last few months, the only money going into Beck’s account had been disability checks. Hell, he hadn’t been back at work long enough to generate a regular paycheck. He couldn’t pay anyone five thousand bucks. An invisible fist clutched his chest. “There must be some mistake. I can’t pay money I don’t have.”

  “The money was electronically transferred into your account from savings, then into Brown’s account.” He jabbed a finger at a sheaf of papers on his desk. “You talk to Riggs. The next morning, Brown’s prison account magically gains five thousand dollars. He shanks Riggs.”

  Beck swallowed against the lump in his throat. “You
have my bank records?” There might’ve been debits for items Beck didn’t want seen by his heterosexual boss. He hoped to God they hadn’t gone back more than a couple of months.

  “Why didn’t you come to me before subpoenaing my records?”

  “The DA did it. She’s the one who called me about the whole damn mess.” McManus’s pale gaze locked on Beck. “The warden flew up here this morning, and the DA rushed through a subpoena. It’s a big deal, Beck. A serious accusation.”

  “I didn’t pay anyone. Why would I?” Beck shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. “I had every reason to want Riggs alive. He had information crucial to the case.”

  McManus held Beck with a steady gaze. “Brown said it was revenge because of Danny.”

  Now that was going too far. Beck jumped up. “You know me better than that.”

  “Have a seat, Stryker.” The Man’s brows veed down. “I’m not the one making the accusation. I’m on your side.”

  “I’ll talk to the warden,” Zach said. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “Fine.” The Man focused on Beck. “I’m going to need your gun and badge until we get this straightened out.”

  Was there anything about this case that made sense? Struggling to control his expression, Beck slid the Glock from the holster, checked the safety, ejected the chambered round and the magazine, and laid them on the desk. Without his gun, a sense of vulnerability settled around him. The gold shield in its pocket case hurt more. His hand shook, but he managed to get the wallet out and passed it to McManus.

  Grimacing, the captain opened a desk drawer and deposited the weapon and badge, pulled a set of keys from his pocket, and locked the drawer. “Okay. Let’s go. A union rep is ready to meet with you. Hang in there, Stryker.”

  The Man opened the office door and ushered Zach and Beck out. “Elevator.”

  The DA occupied a chair outside the office, designer charcoal suit pristine, hose-clad legs crossed.

  “Don’t speak,” McManus muttered to Beck. “Talk to the union rep.”

  Beck took a look at the DA, who revealed a sharklike smile framed in red lipstick. Ookaay. The DA was on their side, right?

  She waved a couple of uniformed officers toward Beck. Both guys looked distinctly uncomfortable. “We can make this easy, or you can make it hard,” she said. “John Stryker, you are under arrest for solicitation of murder.”

  Beck swallowed hard. This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t be fucking real.

  “I’ll arrange for him to turn himself in this evening,” McManus said to the DA, voice dangerously low. A palpable wave of relief came off the uniforms.

  “Not acceptable.” The barracuda grin came out. The lipstick resembled blood.

  “Yeah? Well, we’re not on your side of the judicial system right now, counselor, so I call the shots.” The Man had never looked so fierce. “If necessary, my detective will present within twenty-four hours, along with representation.”

  Beck breathed in through his nose. Thank God. At least the boss didn’t believe this bullshit. Zach’s tight-lipped expression mirrored McManus’s. The temperature in the room might as well be volcanic, tempers flaring all around.

  The wicked smile fell into a narrow-eyed glare. “This isn’t over, Captain.”

  McManus glared back. “No doubt.”

  The DA stalked away, muttering about dirty cops.

  McManus nudged Beck. “Fuck her. Union rep. Now.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Beck headed for the door. Next to him, Zach stayed a platonic distance away, but Beck had support. The scrutiny of the whole detective squad dragged across Beck as he tried to keep it together and adopt a casual gait to the exit.

  “Get to work.” McManus’s voice boomed through the space.

  Every head ducked. Beck resisted the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants. Zach moved closer for a moment at the door and backed off as they crossed the threshold after McManus.

  In the elevator lobby, Zach leaned toward Beck. “I’ll track down the warden and speak with her while you talk to the rep. Okay?”

  Was that a good idea? Maybe Zach could get some insight into the case. “Yeah. Fine.”

  “I’ll call you when I’m done. Or you call when you finish. Whichever.”

  The bell dinged, and the polished doors opened, disbursing passengers. Beck nodded at Zach and followed McManus onto the elevator.

  What a fucking bad day.

  * * * *

  In the second-floor conference room borrowed from patrol, Zach fought for objectivity as he met with the head of the prison. He’d met criminals he liked better.

  A piece of work, Zenobia Miller. Severe clothing without adornment. Inky black hair, fathomless eyes, and no makeup, making her full mouth look like an oasis in a desert of dull, dry skin. A build like a Russian power lifter. The warden had all the warmth of a Doberman pinscher and a personality to match. Anyone running afoul of her no doubt paid with consequences.

  Zach would make damn sure Beck wasn’t one of those people. Per the DPD’s file, the convict carrying out Riggs’s murder, Jedidiah Brown, didn’t have the intelligence to recall what he’d had for breakfast; the man was clay waiting for a sculptor. Anyone could manipulate him.

  “None of this makes sense, Warden Miller.” He crossed his legs and rested one elbow on the arm of his chair. “Detective Stryker had no reason to want Riggs dead. Could the money have come from somewhere else?”

  “No. The banking records are very clear. No one else can access that account. Brown has admitted how he got the money and why.”

  Zach took a breath in through his nose. “With all due respect, Warden, the inmate is lying.”

  The warden jutted her chin out. “The inmate has no motivation to lie.”

  “Things may not be what they seem.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “In the penal system, things are what they are. The inmates don’t run my prison. I do.” The voice was low-pitched for a woman, nearly a tenor. “Monies sent to the offender by individuals who are not friends or family are flagged. In addition, large deposits are flagged. There’s no doubt about the cash. I confirmed the deposit myself before contacting the DA.”

  “I’m not questioning the existence of the deposit. I’m questioning its origin.” Zach forced calm into his voice. “I’d like to interview Brown.”

  “No.” The warden sipped coffee from a paper cup. A pile of pastries made a centerpiece on the table. It appeared the DA had done everything possible to make the visitor comfortable.

  “A conversation would help unravel the mystery.” An untouched cup of departmental coffee sat next to him.

  “No.” This time a glare accompanied the refusal.

  Zach waited, let the silence build.

  Black eyes bored into him. “Why would the prisoner lie, Dr. Littman? Brown’s a lifer. He just added another murder indictment to his résumé. He’ll never qualify for parole, never leave the prison.”

  “Exactly. He’ll be there until he dies. Without the death penalty, further legal consequences won’t affect his living situation.”

  “He has nothing to gain.” She clipped each word off, leaving a sharp edge.

  “Someone promised him five thousand bucks. He had a big reason to go along with someone’s plan.”

  The warden flicked a hand at him. “The money is as good as gone. It’s evidence in a crime.”

  Yeah, Zach agreed with that. Framing Beck for murder constituted a major crime. “I get the impression Brown didn’t count on the discovery of the money.”

  “It was easily discovered. The trail led directly to Detective Stryker.”

  Zach held back a sigh. The warden wouldn’t budge. Somewhere under that severe exterior the woman had a vulnerability, but uncovering it would take more time than Zach had. “A Denver Homicide detective is in trouble here for something he didn’t do. Let me speak with Brown.”

  The warden’s eyebrows slanted down. “You’re not exactly objective about this situation,
are you, Special Agent Littman?”

  This jail keeper thought nothing of making an accusation. In a similar manner, the DA had blindsided Beck. Arrest now, investigate later. Zach’s temper soared, and he shoved it down. Don’t give her an advantage. “No one is exactly objective about this situation, Warden.”

  Raising her chin, Warden Miller said, “I believe we’re through here.”

  Zach stood. “Thank you for your time, Warden.”

  Miller gave a curt nod.

  In the elevator, Zach contemplated the next move. At least Beck had McManus on his side, and Zach had resources at the FBI in computer crimes. The steel doors rolled open, and he stepped out on the third floor. No one looked up as he stalked to the conference room. Once inside, he scrolled through the contacts on his phone and used the secure landline to dial the bureau’s best hacker. After rattling off the required information, Zach extracted a promise to jump the case to the head of the line in exchange for owing a yet-to-be-determined favor. Grinning, Zach agreed and hung up.

  This investigation wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  * * * *

  “Looks like I’m in deep shit.” Beck clenched the phone as he sat in his car. The union rep had used the term “serious accusation.” Few times in his life had Beck felt this powerless, not even waking up in the hospital after being shot. He’d much rather be on the other side of an investigation. “The electronic bank records look authentic.”

  “I have the world’s best hacker looking into it.” Zach’s voice carried determination.

  Beck stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “FBI Computer Crimes. I know a guy. He’s the best at what he does.”

  “It’s not an FBI case.” Beck rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s personal.”

  “You’re right. It is personal, and that’s what this favor is. Personal.”

  “Zach—”