High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Dean met Zach’s gaze. “You have to go?”

  After telling Sands Zach would return in the morning, he’d better make good on the promise. “Yeah. But I’ll see you tomorrow before I go.”

  Gif stuck out a hand. “Nice meeting you.”

  Zach shook. “Likewise.”

  “Good night.” Dean held out his free hand, and Zach squeezed it. “See ya mañana.”

  Zach mustered a smile. “Yep. Mañana.”

  On the way out the door, Zach caught a glimpse of Gif’s hand on Dean’s shoulder. The guy seemed capable, and Dean ate up the attention. Maybe something positive would come out of this for Dean.

  * * * *

  The light in the outside stairwell was out. Beck groaned, his breath puffing out in a white cloud as he strolled from the apartment’s dark parking lot toward the building, hefting a bag of Italian takeout. Everything was falling apart at Chez Stryker. Maybe it was time to consider moving. If he and Zach pursued this, a two-bedroom place would be nice. And that was putting the apartment before the relationship.

  A hint of moonlight poked through, throwing faint illumination on the upper landing as he entered the gloom of the stairway. Halfway up the steps, the light disappeared and morphed into a body. Danger.

  “Police!” Beck dropped the takeout. In a rush he reached for his Glock, but before he could draw his weapon, the bulk leaped down the steps and shoved Beck backward. As he lost the fight with gravity he grabbed the railing with his left hand and twisted, landing on his back. Fuck. The traction on his shoulder erupted in a white-hot wave, stealing his breath as the edge of the concrete step hit his ribs like a sledgehammer. Then the attacker was on him, reeking of unwashed body and concrete dust, pummeling his midsection, nauseating blows that stung and stole his breath. Beck brought his right arm up to protect his head and landed a kick to the man’s groin. With a groan, the man stumbled away and down the stairs, footsteps receding through the parking lot.

  For a minute, all Beck could do was lie there, sucking in frigid air as he held down the bile rising in his throat. He rolled to a sitting position, his heart slamming against the confines of his ribs. What the fuck was that? Who the fuck was that?

  After struggling to his feet, he retrieved the food and managed to climb the remaining stairs, white stars dotting his vision. He glanced around, then let himself inside the apartment, locking the dead bolt behind him. Another attack related to the case, or a random attempt at a mugging?

  In the end, it seemed unlikely Beck’s involvement in the case could have anything to do with it. If the guy had been serious about putting Beck out of commission, the goon could have brought a weapon. Calling it in seemed pointless… Maybe in the morning. Right now Beck hurt like hell.

  Muscle spasms radiated from his shoulder into the left pec and the side of his neck as if talons had plunged into the muscles. The majority of the pain centered in his back and shoulder. Fuck. Gingerly he shed his trench coat and jacket and gasped as he slid out of the shoulder holster. Wincing, he pulled off his shirt and shuffled to the bathroom to check out the damage in the mirror. A red line angled across his back from between his shoulder blades to the lower margin of his ribs. The edge of the step had bitten into his flesh. Damn. It’d been a couple of months since he’d had this much discomfort.

  In the bedroom, he opened the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out the narcotic painkiller. Two tabs remained in the three-month-old prescription. Much as he didn’t want the stuff, there was no denying the agony would be worse by morning. If he took them now and then stood in a hot shower, things would be better in twenty minutes; he’d be able to sleep.

  He shuffled to the bathroom, filled a cup at the tap, and tossed back the pills. Tomorrow he’d refill the prescription and call his physical therapist. In the shower, he cranked the water as hot as he could tolerate and let the spray work on the spasms.

  Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the steam, muscles considerably more relaxed. A deep breath wasn’t pleasant but didn’t carry the remembered agony of broken ribs like last summer. In the bedroom he pulled on old sweats and a zip-up sweatshirt and padded out to the kitchen to see about salvaging his dinner.

  * * * *

  Fresh out of the shower at home, Zach wrapped a towel around his hips and settled on the bed. The smell of the hospital had worked into his clothes, seeped through to his skin. Hot water and soap had left him rejuvenated. He retrieved his phone from the bedside table and punched in Beck’s number. Eight o’clock in Denver.

  “Stryker.”

  “Hey. It’s me.” Zach swung his feet up on the bed. “You still at work?”

  “Nah. Just fixing supper.” A clatter, and the microwave hummed in the background. “You still at the hospital?”

  “No, home. Dean’s better. Awake.”

  “Did they find out anything about the case?” Interest, delivered in Beck’s cop voice.

  “Not yet. Dean’s statement pretty much boiled down to ‘I don’t know’ and the fact he was supposed to meet a friend for dinner miles from that club.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I believe him, but I can’t reconcile it.”

  “Someone after him?”

  Zach looked at the ceiling. He knew pretty much everything there was to know about Dean. “No. Not that he’s talked about.”

  “Huh.” The microwave dinged. More clattering.

  “No home cooking tonight?”

  “The cook’s out of town.” A smile wove through Beck’s reply. “I have to eat alone, sleep alone. It sucks.”

  “It does.” Zach palmed himself through the terry cloth. “And here I am wearing nothing but a towel.”

  Beck groaned deep in his throat. “That’s not fair. Fuck.”

  “Can’t do that, but we can talk.” Zach opened the towel and lay back, hand moving on his hard shaft with just the right pressure. “I’m naked now. Say something.”

  In a sultry voice, Beck asked, “Is this…what I think it is?”

  Zach laughed. “Yeah.” With his free hand, he rubbed over the head of his cock.

  “Wait for me.” The phone crackled, followed by muffled footsteps. A door closed. The soft parting of a zipper, the faint squeak of bedsprings.

  Zach added a twist on the upstroke and teased beneath the head with his thumb as he moved his other hand down to roll his balls. Precum leaked from the slit, and he slicked it down his dick. A pleasant tension built in his cock. Picturing Beck reclining on the bed, Zach summoned a seductive voice. “Want to touch you, run my mouth over your skin. Kiss you till you beg.”

  Beck huffed out a breath. “Damn.”

  “Love that hot drag when I push inside, the look on your face as you take all of me.” Zach increased the tension and pace on his shaft, heated friction heightening his arousal. He bent his knees, moved his other hand to his taint, and gently pinched. His hole gave a sweet clench. Tingling in his spine moved lower, a gathering storm needing release. “So silky and tight inside you.”

  “Fuuuck.” The moan that came out of Beck nearly pushed Zach over the edge.

  Zach squeezed, thrust into his fist, and panted. Tomorrow, this would be Beck’s hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I don’t understand.” Dean pushed aside his partially eaten breakfast. The words hung in air scented with rubbing alcohol and institutional oatmeal.

  “You do. You may not want to accept it, but you do understand.” Zach kept his voice level, kept the “we” in the conversation to avoid accusation. “We aren’t a couple anymore.”

  A bitter smile crossed Dean’s face, and he shifted on the bed to meet Zach’s gaze. “Yeah. That’s why we have dinner as a couple, go to movies as a couple, talk on the phone every day.”

  Zach leaned back in the hard plastic chair. Of course Dean had interpreted that as some sort of laid-back romantic relationship. “All that was meant as friendship, Dean. We’re friends. Nothing more.”

  “It meant more tha
n that to me.” Dean fisted the sheets with one battered hand. “I’d hoped you might start to see us like we’d been before.”

  Repositioning his chair, Zach gazed out the window. In all honesty, he’d known that but had lacked the balls to have an open discussion. Until now, guilt had kept him from having a frank conversation. Dean seemed so…vulnerable. “That isn’t going to happen.”

  “But we were good together, weren’t we?” Dean mumbled as he stared at the ceiling.

  “That’s in the past.” Zach fought the urge to reach for Dean’s hand. “Don’t spoil those memories by trying to get that time back.”

  “It’s hard, Zach. I miss us so fucking much.” Dean heaved a sigh and threw an arm over his eyes. “I…I don’t like thinking about not having you in my life.”

  “I am in your life. You’re in mine, and I’d like it to stay that way. I don’t want to worry about you getting into trouble if I’m out of town.” God, he felt like an asshole saying that. But he had to be clear. “I care about what happens to you, and this scared me shitless.”

  “Scared me shitless. But I swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t go to that club.”

  “You have a concussion—”

  “I didn’t do this”—Dean pointed at his face—“to get your attention. You heard Gif. We had dinner plans. Someone wanted this to look like a bashing.” Dean jabbed a finger at Zach. “You know me, Zach. I don’t do the club scene.”

  “I know.” Zach took Dean’s hand and squeezed. “I know. And I’m glad you’re spending time with him. You deserve someone who will give you everything you need.”

  “I wanted it to be you.” Dean’s hoarse mutter hurt Zach’s heart.

  “It can’t be me.”

  To Zach’s surprise, Dean pulled away and scrubbed both hands over his cheeks. “I know. And I’m trying. This thing with Gif might go somewhere.” Moisture clung to the golden fringe of Dean’s lashes, and his tremulous smile almost broke Zach’s resolve.

  A knot formed in his chest. “I need you to promise me you’ll be safe.” Zach had to elicit this pledge, the one he’d pulled from depressed patients on numerous occasions.

  The blue gaze swung away, and Dean’s breath hitched. “I’m trying. And I’m so fucking scared of taking pain meds for this.”

  Me too. Zach leaned forward, folded his hands together, and rested his forearms on his thighs. He whispered, “I know.”

  After a few seconds, Dean swung his legs out of bed and sat on the side of the mattress, arms wrapped around himself as he stared into space. The bruises on his face and ribs stood out in sharp contrast.

  Dean looked so closed off, like he had to protect himself. After everything they’d been through, didn’t Zach at least owe him compassion? “Deano…”

  Eyes the color of a summer sky gazed at him. “You can’t call me that. I know you’re not trying to be hurtful, but that nickname belongs with the past too.”

  Zach was an idiot. How many times had he told Dean not to call him Z? “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Old habits and all that.” Dean traced a pattern on the tile floor with a bare toe.

  “Yeah.” Outside, clouds had bunched into steel wool, and a few droplets flecked the windows. The temperature that morning made snow a real possibility, made getting stranded in Minneapolis a real possibility. He needed to update Beck about the arrival time. Getting to his feet, Zach resisted stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Well, I better get going. Can’t miss my flight.”

  “Sure. Anyway, Gif’ll be here in a few minutes, and I still need to clean up.”

  “He seems like a good guy.”

  “He is. A friend, for now.”

  Dean slid off the bed and held out a hand. Zach found himself pulled into a gentle embrace. Not desperate, not clingy, but affectionate.

  Before he considered the mixed message of his actions, Zach carefully wrapped his arms around his ex-lover, mindful of the fractured ribs. The scents of antiseptic and gauze and hospital laundry tickled his nose. Dean’s arms were warm and familiar. Too familiar.

  Damn. Zach squeezed his eyes shut. Next they’d be kissing. What was he doing, confusing Dean like this? So unfair to do this after their conversation. “Dean…”

  The arms about him loosened, and the other man pulled away. Warm hands gripped his shoulders, and a wistful smile curved Dean’s mouth. “Sorry. Just wanted to say good-bye.”

  Zach swallowed his chagrin. “You’re going to be fine. And it’s not good-bye.”

  “Yeah.” Dean ran a hand over his head and looked at the floor. “Okay.”

  Zach bent over and caught his attention. “Be safe. Promise.”

  Too-bright eyes gazed at him. Dean straightened and nodded.

  Time to go, before Zach did something stupid.

  More stupid.

  * * * *

  Olivetti pitched his voice high and adopted a lisp. The operator didn’t know him, didn’t know his voice; it’d be adequate as a disguise. Simple words, short sentences—he’d be fine. He dialed, keeping an eye on the clock. Two minutes—that was what they needed for a trace.

  “Nine one one, what is your emergency?”

  “Uh, I have a tip. About those home invasions.”

  “Stay on the line, please.”

  Olivetti watched the clock: fifteen seconds…twenty seconds…

  “Detective Stryker.”

  Olivetti held back a sardonic smile. “I know who’s behind the home invasions.”

  Muffled tones came through, as if Stryker had covered the receiver with his hand. Then he was back, tension in his tone. “Who is it?”

  “The campaign manager, Jeremy Levin.” Twenty-seven seconds…

  “How do you know—”

  “He moved campaign funds, hired those men.” Thirty seconds. “I gotta go.”

  “Wait. Who is this?” Desperation bled into Stryker’s voice.

  Olivetti hung up. Having Levin move the money had been genius. With his win-at-all-costs reputation, there was motive for him to orchestrate the entire thing. Levin would claim to know nothing about the home invasions, which was true, but the money trail was there, negating those denials. If necessary, Olivetti would say he’d arranged for Levin’s drug-addicted daughter to stay out of jail and in rehab out of kindness, not coercion. When the police came calling, Olivetti would express horror at these senseless crimes. Yes, that was it. Horror. Smiling, he settled back to wait for the TV stations to pick up on the scoop and start reporting.

  * * * *

  Beck shook his head and replaced the receiver. Most of the squad stood around his desk.

  “Well?” McManus asked.

  “He hung up. Said it’s Levin.”

  “The campaign manager?”

  “Yeah.”

  The phone rang, and Beck snatched it off the receiver. “Stryker.”

  “No trace on the call,” said the dispatch officer.

  “Thanks.” He hung up. “Couldn’t get a trace.”

  McManus turned to Van. “Get the voice recording from downstairs.”

  Beck grabbed the phone, placed a call to Olivetti Campaign Headquarters. An enthusiastic Tracy told him Levin wasn’t in.

  “Where is he?” Beck asked.

  “Nothing on his calendar for today.”

  “What’s his number?”

  “He doesn’t have a home phone, but here’s his campaign cell number.” She rattled off a string of digits.

  “What about his personal number?”

  “Oh, we don’t have that. It’s personal.”

  “Thanks.” Beck rolled his eyes as he hung up. Olivetti would have it, no doubt.

  Locking gazes with McManus, Beck said, “He’s not home, not at the office, no known location.”

  “Got the recording,” Van said, holding up a CD.

  They gathered in the Man’s office and replayed the call. Beck closed his eyes, listening to the tone, the words, trying to pick out background noise, any familiarity.

&nb
sp; When the recording ended, McManus asked, “Does Levin make sense as a suspect?”

  For a few seconds, Beck considered. “Maybe. He’d have access to the funds, and I suppose he’d have the connections to hire the killers. None of the threat letters and e-mails he gave us amounted to anything. When Dr. Littman and I interviewed him, he seemed to be hiding something.”

  “Cast suspicion on the other camp?” Van asked.

  “Maybe.” Beck frowned. “Nothing about Richards suggests he’d engineer a murder for reelection. Besides, he’s been ahead in the polls for months.”

  “Get Levin’s address,” McManus said.

  * * * *

  The entry crew staged their entry behind a convenience store two blocks from Levin’s home. The overcast sky brooded above them, morose and gray. A husky lieutenant named Lars Evans on the emergency response team was coordinating. Van, Katie, and Beck stood in the cold along with them, watching the preparation.

  “We’ve got squads forming a perimeter two blocks out,” Evans said. “We’ll go in front and back and pop the place. You guys got vests?”

  “Yeah,” Van said. Katie echoed him.

  Beck nodded and swallowed and, beneath his Kevlar vest, began to sweat. Levin could have a gun. When confronted, who knew what he might do? Try to shoot his way out? Go down in a hail of bullets?

  “We’ll want you to stay back, at the end of the block. Stay behind your car. When we’re in, we’ll call,” Evans said.

  “Sure.” Beck nodded. Just surrender, Levin. Make this easy on yourself.

  “Okay.” Evans turned to his team. “Let’s go.” The ERT moved out.

  Beck slid into the driver’s seat of the unmarked car; Van and Katie took shotgun, crammed side-by-side into the front seat. Beck rolled down the street and parked at the end of the block; Levin’s home was visible three houses down, half-bricked and painted a dull white. Within seconds, black-clothed ERT officers armed with assault rifles emerged from the back and ran along the sides of the house. A team rammed the door, and they were in. Beck tensed for gunfire.

  The radio erupted in shouts, but no shots.

  A few seconds later, Evans called all clear. “No one here.”