High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “I don’t know. Some vendetta, maybe.”

  “Against an old lady?”

  The tension went out of Zach, and his shoulders dropped. He stood and turned away. “I don’t know. Can…can we just forget it? Let the cops investigate?”

  What a crappy day. Beck set his beer down and came around the counter, rested his hands on Zach’s shoulders and squeezed. “Sure.”

  * * * *

  Zach stared at the ceiling, head cradled in the comfortable cool of the pillow on Beck’s bed. It couldn’t be. Had Zach’s investigation gotten Velma killed?

  Beck came in from the bathroom clad in black boxer briefs and paused next to the small TV on the dresser. “You want to watch the news?”

  “No.” He rolled on his side and shut off the light. What he wanted was to turn back the clock four hours, to be at the Stardust when some degenerate had come calling with a makeshift metal scythe and murderous intent. God, he was so fucking sick of the carnage.

  The other lamp turned off, and the covers lifted as Beck slid in next to him, bringing a whiff of mint and a remnant of his cologne but not touching. Zach lay in his self-imposed isolation, conscious of the relaxed rhythm of Beck’s breathing. Fucking wasn’t on the agenda, but Zach could use a little human contact. Asking didn’t seem possible, as he’d been a bit of a bastard to Beck earlier.

  Zach had nearly drifted off when Beck’s arm came around him, warm and sure.

  * * * *

  “You fucked up,” Olivetti snapped at the voice on the phone while he glared at the local news affiliate on the flat screen. The reporter on-site at the Stardust gestured and bobbed her head as she talked, red and blue lights bouncing off the building and the coroner’s van.

  “You gave me the room number,” the assassin said. “It looked like a random robbery to the cops. I’ll get him at a different location.”

  “No. That would draw too much attention.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just what I got. Nothing.”

  “I’m out of it. This is my last contact with you.” A door closed with a hollow whump.

  “Since you haven’t fulfilled your contract, I’m not paying the balance of your fee.”

  “Fuck the money,” the assassin said. “After tonight, you won’t hear from me, won’t be able to contact me.”

  “I’ll find you if I need you.”

  A hard laugh grated in Olivetti’s ear. “To you and your minions, I’m invisible.” A motorcycle revved in the background, and the connection ended with a snap.

  Olivetti stared at the phone. He didn’t give a shit the man had knocked on the wrong door—killing the old woman had been an error. The best assassin money could buy, and he’d screwed it up. Anyone with that much experience—with military training, for fuck’s sake—should be able to think on his feet, avoid drawing attention.

  Doubtful Littman would stay at the Stardust; he’d most likely find other accommodations.

  Now Olivetti would have to take further measures to ensure success. A lot rode on this election. Stryker and Littman needed another diversion to occupy their attention, and Olivetti’s research had yielded a few interesting possibilities.

  Time to take the situation in hand and get results.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Zach’s phone buzzed as he rode the elevator at DPD, morning coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other.

  “Dr. Zachary Littman?”

  “Yes?” Zach juggled the phone and strode off the elevator toward robbery/homicide. “Can I help you?”

  “This is Dr. Morrison at University of Minnesota Hospital.” A female voice with the polite distance of someone speaking with a stranger. “We have you down as next of kin for Dean Tanner.”

  Zach slammed to a halt, his heart seizing up. Oh God. Dean. No. No. Please, no. Words wheezed out past the lump in his throat. “Wh-what? Dean—”

  “Mr. Tanner was injured and brought in early this morning.” The voice was calm, careful.

  Injured? Not dead, thank Christ. The vise around his chest loosened, allowing a breath. The fluorescent lights buzzed, showering him with a harsh illumination that ricocheted off the tile and hurt his eyes. Zach squinted, resisting the urge to lean against the wall, and forced his feet to carry him forward. Shit. Dean had been doing so well. “What happened?”

  “He’s in serious but stable condition.”

  “What happened?”

  The tone shifted to defensive. “He was assaulted. Beaten. He’s in a coma.”

  Shit. What did you do, Dean? Go searching for drugs in an alley? He paced the hall. “Who’s making medical decisions?”

  “A doctor. Not the treating physician.” Polite and careful made an encore appearance.

  “I have Mr. Tanner’s medical proxy. I’ll be there by noon.” It meant deserting his assignment, but hell, what else was he supposed to do? Leave Dean helpless, at the mercy of someone who didn’t know him? This constituted extenuating circumstances.

  He’d deal with the consequences later.

  * * * *

  “Stryker.” Beck spoke into the air, answering the hands-free phone built into his car.

  “Beck.” Zach’s voice filled the space; the words poured from the speakers, coming from all directions at once.

  “Dr. Littman.” He grinned, feeling soreness in all the right places. “I’m on my way to the office.”

  “There’s an emergency at home. I have to leave.” Tension tightened Zach’s voice.

  “What?” Beck watched the traffic on the highway. A soccer mom on a cell phone zoomed past in a minivan and cut him off, and he stomped on the brakes. “What happened?”

  “Dean. My ex. He was seriously injured, and I’m his power of attorney for medical decision-making.”

  Beck chewed this over for a moment. Well, fuck. He wouldn’t wish anyone ill, but Dean got hurt and Zach dropped everything? According to Zach, they’d broken up a year ago. What did it mean for him to continue this attachment to an ex? “You’re leaving? In the middle of a case?”

  A door opened and closed. “He might die, Beck.”

  Grimacing, Beck focused on the I-70 traffic. God, he’d acted like an ass. “I— Sorry. About Dean. Does McManus know?”

  The phone crackled, shifting on Zach’s end. “Yeah.”

  He’d told the Man first? A cold stone settled in the pit of Beck’s stomach. Where did that leave him? Maybe the last few days had been a fling. But Zach didn’t seem like the fling type. The way he’d kissed Beck’s scar… “Are you coming back?”

  “I have to check in with Sands.” Zach’s voice softened. “I want to come back. For now, I need to take care of this, see what’s going on.”

  “All right. I’ll move ahead on the case.” What could he say? Don’t go? With a glance in the rearview mirror, Beck shifted into the far right lane and prepared to exit the highway. A BMW crowded up behind him, the driver’s mouth moving in what had to be a string of expletives. Enough. Beck hit the grill lights, and the mouth stilled. The car backed off.

  Would it be presumptuous to ask for an update? “Will…will you let me know how it’s going? I know he’s important to you.”

  “As soon as I know anything, I’ll call,” Zach said. Footsteps echoed in the background, followed by the murmur of mixed conversation and traffic.

  Beck steered down the off-ramp. “I hope he’s okay. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “Thanks.” Zach’s voice dropped, became gentle. “Beck?”

  Beck didn’t know what to do with that unexpectedly tender tone. He swallowed. “Yeah?”

  “I’m coming back.”

  * * * *

  Such a waste of time.

  Groaning, Beck leaned back in his chair. He’d gotten less than a week in the field, and now here he sat, back doing desk work as he delved into Olivetti’s background. They didn’t have anything to suggest someone in the man’s past had a vendetta against him. Still, judging by the stuff Beck’d uncovered,
a slight possibility existed. Slight.

  So what if Olivetti’s college roommate had committed suicide twenty years ago? It happened. The chance of it being homicide… At his desk, Beck pulled up a screen and made a note of the other police department’s number. He slugged back the rest of his French roast. Zach had spoiled him for department coffee.

  Look what happens when you hang out with the FBI.

  In the last few days, he’d gotten used to working with Zach. Now the hours crawled. No word about Dean, or what the Regional BSU out of Minneapolis intended to do about the case. Maybe Zach’d call tonight. In the meantime, Beck had better look busy. He dialed Omaha’s police department. They’d be thrilled.

  It took fifteen minutes to negotiate through connections before Beck located the detective who’d been in charge of the Olivetti case in Omaha.

  Beck tucked the phone under his chin as he shuffled through papers, searching for printouts of the newspaper articles. “So it was investigated outside of the university?”

  “Yeah.” The detective’s irritation came through. “There was an autopsy. Whole thing was ruled a suicide. No foul play. Olivetti wasn’t there when it happened.”

  “Olivetti gain anything by the death?”

  A monumental snort. “Like what? The vic didn’t have life insurance or a Porsche.”

  True. “Can you forward a copy of the case notes?”

  People in the next county probably heard the detective’s sigh. “Sure.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  He got a grunt and a click.

  Nothing like cooperation between law enforcement agencies. Beck leaned back and drummed his fingers on the desktop. Now what? Doubtful the university would be willing to comment, especially in light of Olivetti’s campaign. Hell, they wouldn’t risk endangering a possible bequest from their famous alumnus.

  But they might be willing to discuss general policy regarding unexpected student deaths. Beck Googled the university, got the number for administration, and dialed.

  After three transfers, he got the Office of Student Life. “Who did you say you were?”

  “Detective Beck Stryker. I’m with the Denver Police Department.”

  Muffled noises. The woman had her hand over the receiver. No doubt discussing the problem with a coworker.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’ll call you at the precinct, Detective.”

  Beck held back a sigh and said, “If that makes you more comfortable.”

  “It does. Good-bye, Detective.”

  God, he needed to get some air. He shoved the papers into a file and locked it up in his desk drawer.

  McManus’s door flew open, the metal slats of the shade clanking on the glass. The Man stuck his head out. “I’m transferring a call to you, Stryker.”

  Beck held up his hands. “Sure, boss.”

  The phone jangled, and Beck snatched it up. “Stryker.”

  “Go ahead,” McManus said and hung up.

  “Detective?” the Student Life lady asked, all polite tones.

  “Speaking. Are you comfortable talking to me now?”

  “Now, yes.”

  Beck shook his head. “What can you tell me about university policy in the case of a student suicide?”

  “Oh, I can’t discuss a student.”

  “I’m not asking about a particular student. I’m asking about university policy.”

  Silence.

  Damn it, this was enough. He wasn’t wasting any more time on this twenty-plus-year-old event. How could this have any bearing on the current case? “Can you—”

  “In general, the protocol calls for moving the deceased student’s roommate. Especially if it happened in that room. The student gets a single. No roommate.”

  “Okay.” Was that worth killing over? “Thanks, Ma’am. You’ve been a big help.”

  “One more thing, Detective. If it’s during finals, the dean has the discretion to excuse the student from the exams.”

  Not much gain there. “So what do they do to calculate the GPA? Average the pre-finals grades?”

  “Oh no. The dean awards straight As.”

  “Thanks. You’ve been a big help.” Beck injected as much sincerity into the reply as possible.

  “Good-bye, Detective.”

  Beck hung up and scrubbed at his jaw.

  Straight As. That ought to have opened some doors. Like Olivetti’s acceptance into a prestigious fraternity the following semester. Like acquiring a bunch of well-connected frat brothers, like real-estate heir Tim Miller, whose father had backed Olivetti’s first venture into medical supply. Some guys had all the luck.

  * * * *

  Fifteen hours.

  Zach shifted in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Fifteen hours since Dean had been found beaten and unconscious at midnight. Fifteen hours of coma. Dean lay motionless in the hospital bed, but his chest continued to move up and down. The heart monitor beeped a regular rhythm. Stable, but this had been a narrow escape. The catalog of injuries included multiple cuts and bruises, broken ribs, and a fractured eye socket that had required surgery. Swollen purple raccoon eyes in his otherwise pale face. All that psychiatric nursing experience and Dean had done something this brainless.

  Zach yawned. Christ, this vigil had taken a lot out of him. More coffee or a nap? But who could sleep in this chair? He could move to the recliner, but that seemed too…patient-like.

  Leaving wasn’t an option. Guilt kept Zach glued in the uncomfortable chair, plied with coffee and sympathetic looks from the nurses. When Dean had guessed about Beck, why had Zach admitted anything?

  Because Dean had done so well for the past year. Stayed clean, exercised, ate right. Worked without problems or chemical assistance, didn’t have so much as a sip of beer. Never went out seeking company at a place like Black and Blue. If nothing else, the rough clientele at that particular leather bar should’ve scared away any bashers, but either the guy who’d been with Dean ran, or Dean had been alone.

  He’d damn well been alone when the ambulance had arrived.

  Zach gazed at the familiar profile, platinum hair no longer spiky but plastered down with sweat, golden lashes brushing his bruised cheeks. Mouth-breathing had dried Dean’s lips until they cracked. Next time Zach saw a nurse, he’d ask for lip balm.

  The IV pump beeped, and he jumped. He checked the empty bag and pushed the call button for a nurse.

  Dean hadn’t moved. Goddamn it, when was he going to wake up? Head trauma was difficult to predict. At least there’d been no bleeding inside Dean’s skull.

  A young black woman in scrubs padded in, carrying a cup of coffee and a couple of cookies. “I was just on my way in when you rang. Brought you something to eat.”

  Zach dredged up a smile as she set the snack on the tray table. “Thanks. The IV pump beeped.”

  She peered at the bag and nodded. “I’ll change it out.”

  The nurse switched bags, checked Dean’s blood pressure, and listened to his heart. Zach stood and stretched his legs. He walked to the glass window and gazed at the ICU main desk. Three o’clock in the afternoon. In here, activity buzzed around the clock. Could be day or night.

  “Dr. Littman?”

  Zach spun.

  “Sorry. Are you sure you don’t want a late lunch tray?” The nurse gave him a wry smile. When he shook his head, she asked, “What about the recliner? He could be out for a while.”

  It’d passed “a while” hours ago, in Zach’s opinion. “No, thanks. I’m fine. Cookies and coffee are all I need.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.” With one last sympathetic smile, she slipped past him out of the room.

  Repositioning the bedside chair, Zach settled in. The coffee tasted like instant, but that was better than the tar-like brew he’d had at the airport. On the other hand, the oatmeal cookies melted on his tongue.

  When he finished the snack, he scooted closer to the bed. “You idiot. What were
you thinking?”

  Rhetorical on multiple levels, because Zach knew Dean well enough to guess the answer. He’d gone looking for relief of emotional pain over Zach’s perceived rejection. The doctor had said Dean had no drugs in his system when he’d been brought in, illicit or otherwise. Pure irony that Dean would be on prescription pain meds for the injuries in this debacle.

  Zach slouched in the hard chair and cast his mind back to a year ago. The whole narcotics thing had started innocently enough. Dean had sustained a back injury at work from lifting a patient—not that uncommon among nurses. Pain meds and physical therapy followed. Six weeks later Dean had gone back to light duty. Then the trouble had started.

  The level in the whiskey decanter had dropped two fingerbreadths a day for over a week. By accident, Zach found the pill bottle taped to the back of a drawer in the sideboard. OxyContin. Twenty-eight pills gone in four days. Enough to kill a horse—but not an addict.

  Dean walked in as Zach dumped the pills in the toilet.

  “Hey, Z, what’re you…?” Dean’s words died as Zach turned around.

  “What are you doing, you idiot?” Zach flushed the toilet. “Call your doctor. Now. Or I will.”

  Dean’s brows drew down. “I’m not going to rehab.”

  “You’ll do what I say, or I’ll turn you in to the State Board of Nursing.”

  It’d worked out. Dean had stayed clean for the mandatory eight weeks after rehab, went to Narcotics Anonymous, went back to work. Everything had been better than it had been since before the injury. But it hadn’t lasted.

  In ICU, Zach clutched the bed rail until it creaked. God, he’d been such a bastard to Dean. At the time it’d seemed necessary, but in retrospect, only a bastard would act like that.

  Zach settled back in the chair and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Dean’s recovery a year ago had been an illusion, a gauzy veil ripped away by truth; he’d seemed so stable, fooling them all until Zach had left town to testify in a case.

  A flicker of movement pulled Zach out of his reverie. In the bed, Dean’s hand had curled into a fist, as if he’d heard Zach’s thoughts and wanted a say, wanted to cut off what had happened next a year ago. But the memory wouldn’t be denied. Zach closed his eyes. He’d never forget coming home and unlocking the door.