High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “You find him when he gets to five.”

  Useless. Xav had killed five victims before they’d caught him. If the monster sitting there knew anything about the killer in Omaha, he wasn’t giving it up. With effort, Zach forced his body language to stay calm and relaxed, and he waited.

  Xav-D raised an eyebrow in a “your turn” fashion.

  A fishing trip. He wanted something on which to base a credible lie. Not going to happen. Gathering the pen and notepad, Zach pivoted away.

  “He tol’ me about her,” Xav growled behind him, shackles rattling. An odd note had crept into his voice, a cross between cajoling and restrained anger. The psychopath couldn’t resist trying to prolong the interview, couldn’t give up his chance to push Zach’s buttons. Zach held back a shiver. Damn, it was cold in here.

  In slow motion, he rotated to face Xav. “Such as?”

  Xav’s gaze cut to the left. “He made him a necklace.”

  Ah. Lying. Xav had done that, but not his acolyte in Omaha. Xav knew only what had been leaked to the media. “We’re done.”

  Xav’s eyebrows drew down. “We not done.”

  “We are.” Zach stepped back.

  “We not,” Xav yelled, straining against his bonds as the veins bulged in his neck, and he spit on the barrier.

  Don’t hyperventilate. No matter what psychology dictated, no matter how thick the acrylic and how strong the restraints, he couldn’t take his eyes off this monster while they were in the same room.

  “You come back.” Savagery bled through, and Xav pounded his head on the divider with a muffled thunk. A red smear appeared on the surface as he slammed his forehead into the barrier in a rhythmic assault. Somehow the tang of copper seemed to project invisible tendrils, to reach through the barrier, through the voice communicator, but the smell of blood couldn’t travel that fast. “He kill four more before he done, fucker.”

  Backing away, Zach felt behind him for the wall and the doorway and stepped through to the hall. When he could no longer see Xav, he let out a breath.

  “You okay, Doc?” one of the guards asked, cocking his head.

  “Fine. We’re done.”

  * * * *

  Zach barreled into the check-in area. Had to get out. Now.

  The guard handed over Zach’s weapon, belt, tie, and coat. Zach didn’t stop to put on anything, just grabbed the pile and marched to the door. Dirty. Skin tight and damp as if encased in plastic. Inside his head, gory images fought to be front and center, a slideshow of past investigations and autopsy pictures. Of amputated digits. Of trophy necklaces composed of bone, and heart-shaped calling cards stained with blood.

  Fuck. Get to Beck. He strode down the front walkway to the parking lot, sucking in free air as his heart punched his ribs.

  By the time he’d made it to the car, the October cold had layered its chill on top of the icy cold from inside the prison. Beck threw open the door and jumped out of the driver’s seat, worry lining his forehead. “Zach, everything—”

  “Let’s go. Now.” Zach opened the door behind the passenger seat and tossed in his suit jacket and tie, slammed it shut, and handed his SIG to Beck. In jerky moves, Zach got his belt threaded through the loops and shrugged into his trench coat. In silence Beck handed over the SIG. Zach snapped the holster to his belt before sliding into the passenger seat. “I need you to get us out of here.”

  Beck nodded and closed the door, walked around the car, and slipped behind the wheel. Without a word, he started the engine and steered for the exit, beyond the hum of the razor wire.

  On the highway, Zach concentrated on the scenery, his breathing, the scent of Beck’s aftershave. The dull whoosh of the tires on the asphalt. Anything but the horror show in his head. The sensation of shrink-wrap binding his skin increased. There was no way in hell he’d make it to Denver like this. “Beck, I need…I need to stop.”

  “Are you going to be sick?” Beck shot him a worried glance.

  “No. I… God. I just have to get clean.” He jabbed a finger at the window, pointing out a motel. “There. Stop there.”

  “Anything you need.” Beck took the next exit and pulled in at one of the motels along the highway catering to travelers. While Zach waited in the car, Beck got a key card and drove around to the back of the building. In two minutes they were inside, down the hall, and standing in front of a nondescript door, unique only for the number posted beside it.

  As soon as Beck opened the door, Zach bolted inside, trembling with the need to erase the taint of evil from his skin, only vaguely aware of Beck following him in. Zach shucked his clothes and jumped in the shower, cranking it to hot. The jets hit him in the face, and he soaped up from hair to toes, copious suds to wash away every trace of the encounter with Xav-D.

  After a while, the pictures in his head regressed and calm returned. He shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his hips. As Zach opened the bathroom door, Beck jumped up from a chair situated right outside the door.

  Worry in his eyes, Beck made a quick up-down assessment. “You okay?”

  “Better.” Zach walked to the end of the bed and sat on the mattress.

  “Need anything?”

  One more thing, and his world might right itself. “Yeah.”

  Beck raised his eyebrows. “What do you need?”

  “I want you to fuck me.”

  Beck’s gaze heated. He pulled a foil-wrapped square from his wallet and tossed it on the bed. “How do you want this?”

  Zach stood and pulled the towel loose, spread it on the coverlet, and faced the bed. Leaning forward over the terry cloth, he rested his weight on his hands, holding himself off the mattress.

  Beck’s fingers ran down his spine, and a soft kiss pressed to his nape. “I’m going to grab the lotion out of the bathroom.”

  In a few seconds, Beck returned and dropped the travel-sized bottle on the mattress. Shoes tumbled across the floor to Zach’s right. A belt buckle clinked, followed by the purr of a parting zipper and a soft flump as Beck’s boxers and slacks dropped on top of the shoes. His hand trailed down Zach’s arm before retrieving the lotion and condom. Foil tore, a click and a liquid squirt, and a moment later, cool emulsion stroked his crease. A single finger breached the ring of muscle, pressing, rubbing; another finger slid in, adding to the friction.

  Not enough. Zach squeezed his eyes shut. “Now. Fuck me now.”

  Beck’s fingers withdrew, replaced by the head of his cock. A warm hand gripped Zach’s hip as the fullness as Beck’s cock pushed inside. He took a couple of tentative thrusts.

  “Hard,” Zach rasped, clenching the towel-covered bedspread with both fists. He shoved back against Beck. “Need you to fuck me hard.”

  “Whatever you need, baby.” Beck’s grip tightened. He slammed into Zach, hard, violent thrusts delivering as much pain as pleasure, and fuck, so good. So necessary. Every thrust burned away the feel of uncleanliness.

  Zach panted, eyes watering, arms shaking too much to hold himself up, and he dropped to his elbows. The change in position had Beck’s cock brushing his gland strike after strike as Beck fucked him harder and better than anyone else had before.

  “Like that?” Beck’s voice had gone hoarse.

  There wasn’t enough breath to answer, to tell Beck how perfect this was, how the pounding took Zach to another place. He managed a whimper, and Beck seemed to interpret that as an affirmative, his fingers tightening, powerful strokes accelerating, driving for release.

  Zach’s balls drew up, heavy with impending orgasm. No way could he reach his leaking cock, but it was a moot point. The fucking alone would do it. The room disappeared, coning down to the aching pressure in his cock, the sensation of fullness and friction inside him, and fuck—he surrendered, letting tension explode into orgasm and carry him into oblivion. Behind him, Beck moaned as he drove deep and came.

  The fingers clamped on Zach’s hips let go; Beck sank over him, hands coming down on either side of Zach’s shoulders and dent
ing the bed. They panted, catching their breaths.

  “Better?” Beck whispered next to his ear before kissing his neck.

  Zach closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. “Better.”

  He cleaned up himself with the towel while Beck got rid of the condom. They dressed in solemn silence, Beck eyeing him as if expecting further odd requests. Nothing quite like laying all your shit out for someone to see. Zach said, “About this—”

  “Shh.” Beck stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Zach, holding him.

  For a moment, Zach savored the acceptance and the sweetness of being in Beck’s arms. No questions, no comments, no distancing.

  A span of eternity later, Zach kissed Beck, a soft brush of lips. “Thanks. I have to call Sands.”

  “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

  “No. He’s not a patient man. I’ll call, and then we can go home.”

  Beck nodded and sat on the bed.

  Taking a deep breath, Zach dialed.

  “Sands.”

  “This is Littman, sir. I met with Xavier Darling.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Not much. He claims there’s a killer in Omaha, and that the guy will do four more before he’s done. There are inconsistencies, though. Darling said the Omaha killer had made a necklace.” Zach swallowed. “The body had no missing fingers, however.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “No. I doubt he knows, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the killer has communicated somehow with Darling.”

  Sands seemed to think that over. “Send me your report. I’ll update Omaha. Good work, Littman.”

  “Thanks.” Zach ended the call and exhaled.

  Beck raised an eyebrow. “Home?”

  “Home.”

  * * * *

  Zach heard the scene before he saw it.

  Sirens whooped a warning. Radios crackled and burped out information. Unmarked sedans and cruisers filled the parking lot. Blue and red bounced off the walls of the Stardust motel like a crazy carnival ride.

  Beck swung the car into a parking space near the burned-out ice machine. “What in the hell happened here?”

  “It’s not a great neighborhood. Drug bust, maybe, or domestic dispute.”

  “Great. So much for privacy.” Beck eyed Zach. “Want to grab some stuff and go? Or just go?”

  “Let’s go up.”

  They stepped out of the car and approached the building. Still smelled like burned metal out here. Zach eyed the shelled-out ice machine. When were they going to haul that thing away?

  A young female officer in a uniform guarded the bottom of the steps. Beck flashed his badge. “Denver PD—homicide. What’s going on?”

  “Got a DB up there.”

  A dead body? No wonder the place looked like a law enforcement convention. Zach let Beck take the lead.

  “Homicide detectives up there?” Beck asked.

  The officer consulted a list. “Yeah. Gates and Coleman.”

  “Okay. We’re going up.” Beck jerked his head at Zach.

  The uniform took down Beck’s name and division. When Zach presented his credentials, the woman got a funny look on her face but wrote it down. She stood aside, and they climbed the stairs. It was a bad neighborhood—no doubt about that. But a murder this close by? Every step increased Zach’s sense of foreboding. Xav’s in prison. It’s not a serial killer.

  Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the stairs to the third level, and they ducked beneath it. On the third-floor walkway, a crowd of law enforcement milled around, including in front of Zach’s door.

  Zach sighed. Not that he and Beck would be staying in his room with all the brethren here, but it made for a big audience when he carried out a duffel bag.

  The door to number six was closed. At least his room wasn’t part of the crime scene. The metal number still hung upside down, suspended by a single nail, imitating a nine. Above it showed a faint six ghosted into the paint. He gazed down the outside walkway. Doors seven and eight were open, as was the door to the real room number nine.

  Velma had probably called it in, the old busybody. Probably heard a disturbance and got on the phone to 911.

  A uniform stepped out of room seven. Beck caught the cop’s eye and flashed his ID. “Hey. Which one’s the crime scene?”

  “Down the walk. Number nine.”

  Horror dumped on Zach like a bucket of ice water, freezing him in place. No. No.

  Beck glanced back. “Hey. Something wrong?”

  Zach forced words past the lump in his throat. “I knew her.”

  “You knew the victim?”

  “Velma Anderson.”

  * * * *

  For the next two hours, Zach sat at the table in his room and answered questions for the police, the sheriff, and assorted ancillary personnel. A patrolman took Zach’s statement. The question of how well he’d known the old lady came up several times.

  “Look. We weren’t well acquainted. I’ve only been here a few days.”

  “Did you and Mrs. Anderson have some sort of disagreement?”

  “No. I hardly knew her. I’ve been out of town all day with Detective Stryker.” Zach glared until the patrolman flipped his notebook closed.

  “Don’t leave town, Dr. Littman. We may have other questions.” He ambled away.

  “Maybe the FBI crime lab should take a look at this,” Zach muttered to Beck.

  “You really want to piss them off? Let DPD handle it. I’ll be right back.” Beck strode across the room and stepped through the wad of bodies milling on the walkway, leaving the door of Zach’s room open.

  The space seemed to lose oxygen as soon as Beck exited. Zach pulled in a calming breath. Checkout time. Regardless of the FBI’s frugal housing policy, no way he’d stay here after something like this. He pulled out his duffel bag and began to stuff it with underwear and socks.

  A crime scene tech wandered in. “The old lady must’ve let the attacker in. The weapon was a piece of scorched metal from the ice machine.” He nodded toward the parking lot. “A lot of blood.”

  Zach shook his head as he threw his things into the bag. “I don’t want details. I’m getting out of here, staying somewhere else.”

  The tech shrugged and angled for the door, exiting as Beck entered.

  “I talked to Gates and Coleman. They’re going to want a statement from you, but they’ll wait until tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” Zach grimaced. Yet another telling of the story. Congratulations. You have your own chapter in a murder book at the DPD. “Who’d do such a thing?”

  “I don’t think they were after Velma.” Beck put a fingertip on the upside-down metal six on Zach’s door and rotated it until it covered the pale six on the faded paint. “I think they were after you.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Think about it, Littman. We almost get run off the road. I’m nearly arrested for solicitation of murder. Now this. Someone’s gunning for us.”

  “Ridiculous.” A loose nail didn’t lead someone to kill an old lady. Knock on the wrong door, walk away. Or had Velma said something? Screamed?

  “You can’t stay here.” Beck crossed his arms.

  “I’m not staying here.” Zach shook the duffel bag. “I’m moving to a secure location. A hotel.”

  “Where any maid with a passkey can get to you?” Beck leaned in. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Zach whirled and headed for the stairs. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Goddamn it, Zach. Hold up.” Beck’s footsteps pounded down the steps after him, catching up on the ground level where the officer guarded the stairway. “Agent Littman, can I have a word?” Beck said.

  “Later, Detective.” After a cursory checkout in the motel office, Zach marched through the parking lot. Fuck. Beck had driven. Half-chagrined at his lack of transportation, Zach said, “I need a lift.”

  Beck glared across the roof of the car. “Get in.”

  Zach slid into the pa
ssenger seat. Beck got in and slammed the door. “You can stay at my place.”

  “What? No. Not a good idea, Beck.” Living together? They’d be on each other’s nerves within twenty-four hours. No matter how things worked out in the long run, now was way too soon to make that move. Zach needed his own space.

  “Why not? He wouldn’t look for you there.”

  “You’re rationalizing. You’re working this case too. The killer could know where you live.”

  “My place is a lot more secure than this motel.” Beck waved a hand at the Stardust.

  “Maybe.” Probably. Get over yourself, Littman. Zach huffed. “But my car isn’t at your place.”

  “We’ll swing by the station and pick it up.” Beck shifted toward him. “Just for tonight. You’ve done it before.”

  The determined expression got to Zach. Staying alone didn’t have much appeal, and they had planned to spend the night together before the Stardust turned into a murder scene. Zach threw the duffel in the backseat. “One night.”

  * * * *

  “This has to tie in with all the other crap that’s been happening.” Beck popped the caps off a couple of bottles of beer and handed one to Zach. The man hadn’t relaxed since they’d arrived at the Stardust. Zach’s control seemed like a frayed tightrope, liable to come undone at any moment.

  “Not necessarily,” Zach snapped, glaring across the kitchen counter. “Shit happens, Beck. Even to harmless little old ladies.”

  “It’d be one hell of a coincidence.” Beck leaned on his fists. Irritating as hell that Zach couldn’t admit what this murder represented: working this case had resulted in another victim.

  Zach shook his head, leaving his untouched beer on the counter. “This isn’t like someone going after us at Olivetti’s house or at the precinct. There’s no proof that the suspect was after me.”

  “Okay, let’s consider for a moment that the suspect wasn’t after you.” Beck tipped his beer bottle in Zach’s direction. “Why go all the way to the third floor for a robbery? Why not break into a ground-floor room through the alley?”

  Zach’s gaze slid away. “It could’ve been personal.”

  “Agreed. What could’ve brought that on?”