High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “Hopefully my knock won’t wake the baby.” Zach tapped on the wood. Flakes of white paint fell to the ground. The house was old enough to have lead-based paint. Had Ms. Jenkins thought to—

  The door swung open a few inches, revealing a stout chain and a small woman. “Help you?”

  “Yeah.” Zach tilted his head. She looked to be in her early twenties. About the right age. “Are you Candy Jenkins?”

  A stony-faced silence replied. Seemed this lady had a negative opinion of law enforcement. “You cops?”

  Zach pulled out his badge wallet. “I’m Special Agent Littman, FBI, and this is Detective Stryker. We’d like to talk to you about Sylvester Weaver.”

  The chain stayed in place. The woman jerked her chin at Beck. “Where’s his ID?”

  Beck reached inside his jacket and pulled out his badge. She scrutinized his credentials and gave him a long look. The chain rattled, and the door swung open. The distinct scent of bleach-based cleanser drifted out.

  “Are you Ms. Jenkins?” Zach asked.

  “Yeah.” The small woman didn’t smile.

  “We’d like to come in, if that’s okay.” Zach stayed put. These were the situations that made him appreciate the concealed carry permit for his gun.

  “You’ll have to be quiet.” Candy stood aside.

  Crossing the threshold dialed back the decades. It was like stepping into a well-kept seventies diorama. Fake wood paneling, harvest-gold drapes, tired shag carpet in a shade of burnt orange. Rabbit ears sat on the TV, and above it a starburst clock ticked; Zach’s grandmother had had something similar. A baby monitor perched on the coffee table, and an oxygen tank rested beside the sole armchair. Oxygen? Who else lived here?

  “Have a seat.” Candy pointed at a sofa with wagon-wheel arms. Faded Western scenes covered the gold upholstery. As he eased onto the couch, Zach hoped the springs stayed where they belonged. Beck sat a good heterosexual-male distance away.

  Candy sank into a wooden rocker. “Slick—Sylvester—he’s dead, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Please accept our condolences,” Zach said, then gave Beck a sideways glance. His color had faded a few shades. Why wasn’t he pulling out his notebook, asking the questions they’d worked out? Following Beck’s line of sight, Zach noticed a photo of Weaver. He held a little girl wearing an oxygen mask, and in the background, a hospital bed.

  Oh shit. Zach coughed. “Ma’am? Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  Candy shot him a curious look, but she hopped up and disappeared around the corner.

  “Beck,” he murmured. “Can you do this, or do you want to wait in the car?”

  “I can do it.” He gulped. “We need this information.”

  Leaning toward him, Zach said, “I can get it.”

  “I have to be part of this.”

  Candy came into the room carrying a tray with three glasses of water. She set the tray on the coffee table. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Zach took a glass and an obligatory sip before pulling out a notebook. He flipped it open. “When was the last time you saw Sylvester?”

  “’Bout the end of May, before Memorial Day.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Mmm, no. He had a guy with him.”

  “Did you recognize the guy?”

  “No. He said his name was Ferris. Slick came to borrow my car. He’d gotten some sort of a job and needed a way to get there.”

  Beck shot Zach a look and spoke up. “Did you loan it to him?”

  “Yep. For a weekend. Then about two, three weeks later, he wanted to borrow it again. He came alone that time.”

  The dates would fit the first two home invasions. “You let him borrow it a second time?” Zach asked.

  “Sure. He brought it back filled with gas.” She glanced toward the hallway as she rocked in the chair.

  “Was that the last time you spoke with him?”

  Candy tapped her lower lip with her index finger. “No. He called a couple of weeks later. He didn’t sound right. Said he did something bad.”

  The supernova clock ticked off the seconds as Zach waited for her to fill the silence.

  After the second hand completed a full circuit, Beck leaned forward. “Did he say what he’d done?”

  “No.” She turned her gaze toward the floor. “After that, he came by to see Emma. Gave me five hundred dollars. Said he’d help her as soon as he got the rest.”

  “Emma?” Beck raised his eyebrows.

  “My little girl. She’s sick. Needs heart surgery. Slick took whatever jobs he could get to help pay for it.”

  Zach held back his excitement. This fit with the profile. Weaver had needed money—a motive. He’d cared for Candy’s little girl, who was about the same age as Olivetti’s daughter. Killing Jen Olivetti would’ve brought remorse.

  “Did he get the rest of the money?” Beck asked.

  Candy looked away. “He didn’t say. Just said he was in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Just big trouble. He didn’t want to go back to jail.” She faced Beck. “He talked about committing suicide by cop if they came to arrest him.”

  My God. Weaver must’ve been desperate if he’d resorted to luring Danny and Beck into a no-win situation to solve the problem.

  On the other end of the couch, Beck straightened and squeezed his hands together. He gave an audible gulp. Zach sneaked a look at him. Shit. A flashback would be a bitch right now. Candy cocked her head to the side and studied Beck. No way were they doing this with an audience. Zach closed the notebook. Abort the interview. Get Beck out of here.

  Beck reached for his water and slugged it down. He took a couple of deep breaths, and the color came back into his face.

  Good. Beck’d fought it off. Zach relaxed and turned his attention to Candy. “Do you still drive the car?”

  “No. It quit running after Slick brought it back.”

  Well, it’d been worth a shot. The car could’ve helped their case. Zach exchanged looks with Beck. “Thanks—”

  “It’s in the carport out back.”

  “Mind if we take a look?” Beck asked.

  “Help yourselves.” She pointed them out the back door. Zach followed Beck as they approached a three-sided shed beyond the chain-link fence. Excitement sent a shiver of anticipation up Zach’s spine. The vehicle could be a cornucopia of trace evidence.

  They rounded the corner of the shed, and an ancient Ford Pinto came into view. Exposure to the elements had oxidized the onyx paint to a dull slate, and lacy rust edged the wheel wells. A crack bisected the windshield like a lightning bolt. One rear tire had flattened into a licorice-colored horseshoe. The odor of burned motor oil and disintegrating rubber surrounded the vehicle.

  Beck whistled. “Wow. Didn’t know there were any of these left.”

  “It’s a rolling crime scene.” Squinting in the driver’s door window, Zach saw no obvious blood, but an empty drink container rested in the foot well. “We need to get it to the lab.”

  * * * *

  Beck watched as a winch pulled the Pinto onto the flatbed wrecker. The spidery trees cast lavender shadows as the sun migrated toward the horizon. A couple of uniformed officers observed, leaning against their cruiser. Candy peered from the back door, a small child wearing an oxygen mask propped on one hip. The kid had the pinched pallor of the chronically ill. Somehow it made Weaver seem less deranged to learn he’d cared for this family.

  Beck had come up with and cast aside half a dozen ideas for identifying the man who had hired Weaver and Riggs. As soon as the evidence wagon departed, he and Zach could get back to the precinct and find out what the warden told McManus about the mysterious Clive Peck. All afternoon, Beck had avoided the topic of Xav-D, wanting to keep Zach engaged in the new direction their case had taken.

  As the Pinto clanked into place, the winch whined and cut off. The grizzled tow truck driver clumped over and handed Beck a clipboard; he sig
ned for the chain of custody, then returned it to the driver. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll take good care of ’er, Detective.” The man tucked the clipboard under his arm. He pivoted and climbed into the truck. The engine started, and diesel exhaust erupted in a dirty cloud. In tandem, the two uniforms nodded at Beck before sliding into their car, preparing to follow.

  Beck turned to Zach and said, “Let’s go.”

  Zach stared into the distance and didn’t respond.

  “Zach?” Beck resisted the urge to reach for him. “Let’s get the paperwork wrapped up and talk to the boss.”

  * * * *

  In the too-warm diner, Zach pinched the bridge of his nose. Around him, utensils clinked against plates, punctuating the hum of conversation as other patrons ate. The cloying smell of maple syrup overrode those of the other food offerings, and grease appeared to be the special of the day.

  A conference with McManus and two hours of paperwork had brought them up against the dinner hour, and Beck had suggested what he’d referred to as “the best greasy spoon in the city.” At least the place had decent coffee.

  Across the table, Beck spoke on the phone. Despite the notebook in front of him, he hadn’t written anything down. With a terse “thanks,” he closed the phone. “Clive’s dead. Three days ago.”

  Zach clenched his hands together. “Murdered?”

  Beck gave a humorless laugh. “By cigarettes. He died of lung cancer.”

  Zach groaned. Once again, nothing. Flat-out nothing. Tomorrow—in less than eighteen hours—he’d be face-to-face with the man who had wanted him dead, and the stress had eroded his temper. Zach clamped down on the string of expletives threatening to erupt. The clock above the diner door clacked off the seconds: Xav-D, Xav-D, Xav-D. Zach’s appetite evaporated.

  “You okay?” Beck dropped the plastic-covered menu on the table and took a gulp of ice water. “We can eat somewhere else if this doesn’t appeal to you.”

  It didn’t matter whether they ate all-day breakfast here or burgers somewhere else. It wouldn’t banish the coming confrontation. Zach’s stomach did a half gainer. “This is fine.”

  Beck nodded. Pushing aside his ceramic coffee cup, he scooted out of the booth. “I’m going to wash up. If the waitress comes for the order, I’ll take the number four with eggs over easy and bacon.”

  “Sure.” There was no getting around the interview with Xavier Darling. No reason to think this time could go as wrong as the last. He stared at the window. The glass wore a slip of condensation halfway up, the upper edge serpentine in a parody of the Rockies. The opacity blurred the outside world into a series of dark and light shapes. Zach rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then blinked.

  He drew his thumb in an arc on the glass, uncovering the view of the October evening. In the illumination of the streetlight, a man panhandled next to a newspaper dispenser, every outline crisp and clear. Zach stared at the smear on the window as the steam condensed, clouding over the clear area.

  Eighteen months ago, Xav-D had stolen the day-to-day details Zach’d taken for granted. It’d been the worst time of his life, all senses on high except one. Images of awakening in the hospital crowded his head. At first, he’d thought he’d died.

  * * * *

  Splotches of light had exploded in Zach’s vision, and soft beeping had filled his ears. He’d needed to rub his eyes. The command from his brain to his hands did nothing. Something held them down. Restraints?

  “Help.” He tried for a yell, but it echoed back as a croak. Swallowing didn’t improve the volume, and the attempt burned like battery acid.

  “Shhh. I’m right here.” A familiar hand closed over his, followed by lips brushing his forehead and a soothing whiff of spicy aftershave.

  “Dean?” Why couldn’t he see? Points of light scintillated on a velvety black field, but no images.

  “Yeah. It’s all right, baby.” Fingers stroked his cheek. “You’re in the hospital. University of Colorado Health Sciences Center.”

  University of Colorado…hospital, okay. He took a shaky breath. “What happened?”

  “You had an accident.” Dean’s hand curled around his face. “You’ve been here five days.”

  Five days? How was that possible? He blinked. God, he needed to rub this stickiness away in order to see. When he lifted his hand, it wouldn’t obey. Straps tethered him to the bed. No. A pitiful mewl was all that came of an attempt to yell.

  “You okay?” An odd tone colored Dean’s voice. Something like forced optimism suppressed by worry.

  “Can you untie me?”

  “Uh, yeah. Yes.”

  Dean’s fingertips stroked his arm. Velcro ripped, and Zach was free. He got his hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes. A burst of scarlet and saffron fireworks filled his vision. They’d put some sort of goop. The junk smelled like horse liniment, and his sight hadn’t cleared. “What is this stuff?”

  “Ointment to keep your corneas moist. Here.” A damp cloth stroked his eyelids.

  Zach wiped away the sticky stuff and flipped his lids up. Like looking at the night sky. “I…I can’t focus. And it’s dark. Is it night?”

  An arm wrapped around his chest, and a deep sigh puffed across his ear. “It’s okay, Z. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here no matter what.”

  A helping of pain in that statement. What the hell was wrong? Anxiety tingled along Zach’s spine. “What’s the matter?”

  “You hit your head. There was some bleeding, and…you had to have surgery. They put in a titanium plate.” Dean guided Zach’s hand to above his ear; Zach ran his fingertips over a corrugated row of staples.

  “My eyes…”

  “Yeah.” In a tone taut as a bowstring, Dean said, “They say it might just be temporary.”

  “What might be temporary?”

  “The problem with your sight. Your visual cortex was injured.” Dean’s voice hitched. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  Adrenaline jacked Zach’s heart rate. Oh God. No. No. He sobbed, and a scream clawed past his vocal cords, filling the space with raw pain.

  Blind.

  * * * *

  The memory still made him shudder. In the diner, Zach gulped ice water. It had been a nightmare of epic proportions. For a while, he’d considered it worse than dying. It’d been worse than the attack, the unreliable darkness alternating with flashes of light, flashes of hope. Fifteen days until the light stayed, another month until objects sharpened enough for him to negotiate without a cane. Not long enough to get used to the idea of a life without sight, to prepare for a new reality. Every day, Zach thanked the deity watching over him. He’d recovered, in mind and body.

  “What can I getcha?”

  Zach snapped to attention. The waitress’s black uniform accentuated hair the color of red usually reserved for lipstick and paper hearts.

  “The number four with eggs over easy and bacon”—Zach nodded at the empty spot across the table—“and I’ll have a garden omelet and wheat toast.”

  “You want ketchup, hon?” She topped up their coffees.

  “No, thanks.”

  She took the menus and traipsed away.

  Zach drummed his thumbs on the tabletop and scanned the room. In the restroom alcove, Beck paced, talking on his phone. Please, not the case. Forcing his gaze away, Zach hooked his fingers into the handle of his mug and took a long swallow.

  “Hey, you order?” Across the table, Beck slid into the booth.

  “Yeah.”

  “So, tonight.” Beck turned toward the foggy window, and his cheeks darkened. “Marybeth called. I need to do something for her.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yep, just the usual. House maintenance. Won’t take long.” A sly grin parted Beck’s lips. “You want to do something afterward?”

  Anything to get his mind off the coming horror. He smirked and bumped Beck’s ankle under the table. “Absolutely.”

  * * * *

  “Just take it.” In
the low light of the parking lot Beck held out a key.

  “I’ll wait for you.” Zach buried his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. This was unnerving, an intimate gesture a little too much like moving in. Zach hadn’t let himself into a lover’s apartment in over two years—not since before he and Dean had set up housekeeping.

  Beck tugged on Zach’s arm until he relented, and pushed the key into Zach’s palm, folding his fingers around the warm metal. “Take it.”

  Damn it, why couldn’t he listen? Beck trusted him, but Zach had no desire to be alone, pacing Beck’s living room until he arrived. Leaning in, Zach whispered, “Look, sweetheart. I’m going to swing by the motel and get a couple of things at the grocery store. I don’t want you to be locked out of your place.” He huffed a breath across Beck’s ear before drawing back.

  Beck closed his eyes. “It’s a spare. Please.”

  Zach exhaled. Somehow it didn’t seem like such a big deal if it wasn’t the only key. “Okay. I’ll see you there.”

  Beck opened his eyes and nodded. “God, I want to kiss you,” he growled.

  “That and more, Detective. That and more.”

  * * * *

  Beck swung into Marybeth’s driveway. The porch light was on, but no light showed through the windows at the front of the house. No FOR SALE sign in the yard, thank God.

  Silence descended as he turned off the motor. Inside his suit coat, the envelope jockeyed for space with his gun. He opened the door to the October cold and the familiar sight of a bike on the sidewalk. Some things never changed.

  Some things will never be the same.

  With one hand, he steered the bike up to the porch and leaned it near the bare-branched lilac bush. The pumpkins still occupied the place of honor next to the door. Beck climbed the steps and knocked.

  Locks slid with a metallic hiss, and the door opened; warm air pushed out like a chinook. Marybeth’s gaze met his for an instant and slid away. “Hey, Beck.”

  Beck tried for humor. “Evenin’, Miz Halliday.”

  “Come on in.” Marybeth stood aside, and Beck edged past into heat and the fragrance of clean laundry. No alcohol. For a moment they stood in awkward silence. Beck frowned. It was never silent in the Halliday household.