High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “On your back. Want to see your face.”

  Beck.

  The bottle made a lewd noise as he squeezed conditioner into his palm. And just like that, he was erect and ready to go. Well, his aching cock wasn’t in charge—not anymore. Time to think with the big head, not the little one. Instead of reaching for himself, he washed the conditioner down the drain and dialed the water to cold, standing under the icy stream until his erection had shriveled to nothing.

  From here on out, the big head was in charge.

  * * * *

  Beck hesitated outside the unfamiliar front door. It was damn late for a social call. He’d interrupted Jay’s evening. Before he could turn away, the door swung open.

  “Hey.” Jay’s eyebrows popped up, and he peered over his glasses at Beck. Pure inquiry, that look.

  “Sorry.” Coming here had been a bad decision. “I shouldn’t be here—”

  “No, it’s fine. C’mon in.” Jay smiled and made a sweeping gesture. “Just doing paperwork.”

  Beck slipped past him into the house. Inside, a table lamp cast a golden nimbus of light, diffusing warmth throughout the room. A breath of vanilla permeated the air here, reminding Beck of Jay’s office. Piano music issued from a CD player on the bookshelf. Two overstuffed chairs angled toward each other in companionable silence, waiting for occupants.

  “Have a seat, Beck.”

  “I shouldn’t stay. You’re busy.”

  “Considering you look like someone broke your favorite toy, you should stay.” Jay closed the door, set the lock as if this were a formal session. “Would you like coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thanks.” Beck sank into one of the chairs and rubbed his hands on his thighs. What was the protocol for impulsive nocturnal visits to a shrink? Should he start talking or wait for Jay to begin the conversation?

  Jay turned off the music and took the other chair, settled and crossed his legs. A setup similar to the office, but something was missing.

  “You’re not going to take notes?” Beck squeezed his palms together.

  “I get the impression this isn’t a formal visit. Thought you’d be more comfortable if I didn’t.”

  Nothing would make him comfortable. But who else could he talk to? Some stranger in a bar? Since the shooting, he hadn’t made much of an attempt to socialize. With effort, Beck forced his hands apart and onto the arms of the chair.

  “Beck.” Jay uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “How about with what happened?” Jay straightened his glasses. “The problem that brought you here.”

  “Zach.” Another failed relationship, and he’d run straight to his shrink. When had he gotten to be such a head case?

  “What about Zach?”

  “I fucked it up.” The words squeezed out like a bullet through a silencer, and his eyes burned. He sucked in a shuddering breath and furiously blinked back the moisture threatening to spill over. Through all this, he hadn’t cried: not when he was shot, not when he woke up in ICU, not when they told him Danny died, not when Van departed. Swearing—a lot of that—but no tears. Now he might break down and fucking sob.

  “What happened?”

  The kindness in the tone nearly broke Beck’s control. The surroundings blurred; he looked away and swiped at his eyes. “He found my pain pills, my Tylenol number three. I’d moved half of it to a different bottle, thrown it in my duffel bag. Hell, up until a couple of days ago, I haven’t taken any for a while, but I banged my shoulder earlier this week. Thought I might need something stronger than ibuprofen to stay active.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Repositioning his glasses on his nose, Jay waited.

  “Zach found the script, saw it was only two days old, but half the pills were missing. He…he thinks I’m an addict. Like his ex-boyfriend.”

  “Did you explain? Show him the rest of the script?”

  “No. He was alone in my apartment when he found the meds. Told me over the phone that we were done. Wouldn’t listen.”

  “Mmm.” Jay looked at the ceiling. “You realize the ex-boyfriend probably fed Zach a lot of rationalizing and lies? That’d be typical addict behavior.”

  This possibility hadn’t occurred to him. But what the hell? Zach knew about the shooting. A swirl of anger kicked up. “I’m not him.”

  “But Zach can’t be sure. He may not trust his own judgment about this.”

  “He’s a shrink, for chrissake.” Beck jumped up and paced. “How can you guys help someone else if you don’t understand yourselves?”

  “That’s why shrinks have shrinks.” A wry smile crossed Jay’s face. “Look. Consider giving him some space.”

  “How in the hell am I supposed to give him space? The fucking case isn’t over. We have to work together.”

  “Then he’ll be available after he settles down. If he feels as strongly as you do, he’ll listen.”

  Absorbing that, Beck groaned. “I wish I could believe it.”

  * * * *

  Zach punched the pillow.

  Why couldn’t he sleep? This was luxury. A cushiony mattress, frothy pillows, and sheets smelling of lavender. Flat screen TV with dozens of channels. New furniture and plenty of light.

  Who’d have thought he’d miss Beck’s place? Something about this hotel made him want to be lying in that bed instead, enjoying a hot body drawn up tight against his.

  This hotel was too damn comfortable and too damn quiet.

  This bed was too damn cold.

  Might as well try to get some work done. He snapped on the light, reached for his laptop, powered it up, and rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb. A glasses night. He pulled them out and squinted at the screen, clicked on the Omaha case. Missing heart. Jesus, not tonight. He shifted the computer to the nightstand. Maybe it was time to consider some other line of work. The pursuit of killers had left him jaded and chronically exhausted.

  The Denver Police Department’s psychologist saw a lot of pathology but did a lot of good. Officer suicides were down, and cops like Beck were back to work. The DPD guy didn’t have to travel the country assisting other jurisdictions. A stationary job meant a stable foundation. He and Beck might have a chance.

  Right. But he and Beck and narcotics—that threesome had no chance at all.

  Sure about that? Beck wanted to explain. Considering it had been a short relationship—more like a fling—why did everything come back to Beck? He groaned as he clicked off the light and then slid down in the bed. Had he become that attached in this brief visit?

  It was going to be a long and lonely night, and tomorrow he faced a shitload of old leads. And Beck.

  * * * *

  The bar traffic ebbed and flowed, along with the smell of sweat and sex. Beck rested his elbows on the bar top, surveying the scene. Low light, loud music, lecherous grins. Men of all shapes and sizes—twinks to bears and everything in between—packed the tables and the dance floor. There must be someone he’d respond to, right? Beck gazed into the interior of his beer bottle. The imported brew had no more taste than water. Mixing booze and pain meds wasn’t a good idea, but he was past caring. Besides, he hadn’t taken the pain meds yet. Beer might be enough to numb the heartbreak.

  “Hey.”

  He looked up into dark eyes. The guy was a wet dream, young and gorgeous with chin-length black hair and the bone structure of a model. Full lips. Once upon a time, Beck would have loved to have that mouth wrapped around his cock, but he felt…nothing. Might as well have been a woman standing there. “Hey.”

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  Beck shrugged and got a twinge. This’d take more beer.

  The guy took the stool next to him and set his drink on the bar. A great build. He wore a fitted T-shirt, and his jeans were skintight, molded over muscular thighs and a full bulge beneath the zipper. Terrific. Beck cataloged the guy’s assets with detached interest, and his cock took even less notice.


  “You here alone?” A low murmur, a hint of a foreign lilt. Maybe a faked accent.

  Beck nodded. He should say no, but it was pretty obvious he was solo.

  The guy leaned in. A whiff of exotic cologne came with him. “I’m Enzo.”

  A younger, hotter version of Van. Just one more bad memory to keep him company. “That Italian?”

  “Yeah.”

  Beck drained the beer and waved the empty at the bartender. “So what are you drinking, Enzo?”

  “Screwdriver.”

  A game. Beck could almost smile if it didn’t hurt so much.

  The bartender flicked his gaze at Enzo, then back before leaning on the bar and addressing Beck. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have another of these”—Beck tapped the beer bottle—“and he’ll have a screwdriver.”

  The bartender got Beck’s beer and made Enzo’s drink. Beck slid a twenty onto the bar. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” The bartender threw a frown at Enzo before striding toward another patron.

  The Italian rotated to face Beck, knees grazing Beck’s thigh. With his middle finger, Enzo stirred his drink and made a production of licking it off.

  Not very subtle, are you, kid? Beck gripped the frosty beer bottle. He’d gotten out of practice with the bar scene.

  “Want to get out of here?” Enzo shook back his hair, and it shone in the lights above the bar.

  “No.” Beck focused on his beer. Enzo needed to find someone else to play hide-the-cock.

  “Then in the back, maybe?” Enzo licked his lips and tilted his head toward the restrooms.

  A quick fuck in a bathroom stall? Not in this lifetime, Enzo. “Not interested.”

  Without a word, the man took his drink and disappeared back into the seething mass of bodies. No doubt Enzo would find company in short order.

  Beck picked at the label on his beer. Why had he thought going out would ease the sadness? Only one person would do, and Zach had dumped Beck’s ass like yesterday’s newspapers.

  Make him listen, damn it. Don’t throw this away over a misunderstanding. This is worth fighting for.

  His cell buzzed in his pocket, and he checked the screen: unknown caller. He hit End. The only people who mattered were programmed into the phone, Zach included. And there was no one else Beck wanted to talk to. This had to be done in person. Zach would cool off overnight. In the morning, he had to show up at the precinct—a captive audience. And Beck would tell the whole story, show Zach that all the pills were accounted for. Hell, if handcuffing him to a chair became necessary, Beck’d do it. These feelings weren’t one-sided—they had something good here.

  Beck pushed away from the bar and strode toward the door. Tomorrow, in person, he’d make Zach listen. In the meantime, sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  This was rookie work.

  Only eight o’clock in the morning, and the day stretched out like a marathon. Zach resisted the urge to go outside for coffee. Running down old tips belonged to the Denver Police Department. The FBI didn’t need to supervise the tedium, let alone do it. This was Sands asserting his authority. And where the hell was Beck? Not that Zach looked forward to seeing him, but the chore would go faster with two people working on it.

  Zach gritted his teeth, grabbed another sheaf of tips, and dialed the first one.

  “Yee-ello.” A deep and distinct twang, like a Texas transplant.

  “Mr. Payne?”

  “Speakin’.”

  “This is FBI Agent Zach Littman, working with the Denver Police Department. I’m calling to follow up the tip you called in about the Olivetti case.”

  “You’re just now followin’ up? I called the tip line in June.”

  “Mr. Payne, I’m sorry no one returned your call.”

  “You care more about them tips from rich people, don’tcha?”

  “Not at all. It’s a matter of manpower.” Zach bit back on his frustration. “I have a few questions.”

  “Is there a ree-ward?” The man stretched the word like chewing gum.

  “What?” Zach shuffled the phone to his other ear and clicked the pen.

  “A ree…ward. For the information.”

  As if he didn’t have enough to do, chasing down these old leads. “Sir, that’s up to the DPD’s crime stoppers program. I’ll pass along your information to them.”

  A satisfied grunt. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  “Agent.”

  “What?”

  Hell. “Never mind. You reported information about Mr. Olivetti”—he consulted his notes—“and the Greers?”

  “Hell, yeah. Those Greers, they were plannin’ a takeover of Mr. Olivetti’s company.”

  This was like pulling teeth. “Okay…”

  “Their boy, he worked for Mr. Olivetti.”

  “Yes, we have that information, sir.” Payne was a pain in the—

  “Their boy, he was an Iralian.”

  What the hell was an Iralian? “An Iranian?”

  “No. Eye-RAIL-ee-an. They’re aliens from the galaxy Irali.”

  Did this guy have tinfoil on his windows to shield his thoughts? Zach rolled his eyes heavenward. “Okay. Thanks for the information. Bye now.”

  Much more of this and Zach would have his own personal psychosis to deal with. Bunch of Rocky Mountain crazies. He shook his head and pulled the next tip sheet. Lorraine Jarvis, age sixty-two. Okay, Lorraine, what tidbits do you have in store for me?

  The phone rang and clattered as if dropped. Muffled words. “Yeah?”

  “Mrs. Jarvis? This is FBI Agent Zach Littman at the Denver Police Department. I’m following up a lead you called in on the Olivetti case.”

  “In June.” The woman’s voice rattled with the gravel of too many cigarettes. “You’re just getting around to checking it out?”

  “Ma’am, I’m calling about it now.” Zach shuffled papers. “You said you saw Mr. Olivetti talking to a man at a rest stop?”

  “Yeah. Had to be a couple of weeks before his family was killed.” A fit of coughing interrupted, followed by what could only be hacking up sputum and spitting.

  Gross. Zach tried to suppress the mental picture of expectoration. “You’re sure that’s who it was.”

  “Positive. I stopped there ’bout ten, ten thirty at night. They didn’t see me come out of the ladies’ room. They were standing in the lobby area, talking about money.”

  “Did you recognize the other man?”

  “Nope. Not until this week.”

  He tapped the pen on the notepad. “What happened this week?”

  “They had that prison killing on the news.” Mrs. Jarvis wheezed a couple of times.

  “And?”

  “That man who was killed. Riggs. He’s the one Mr. Olivetti was talking to. Sounded like Mr. Olivetti was giving Riggs a job.”

  A zing of excitement went through Zach. “What kind of job?”

  “Don’t know. Just doing some work and getting paid for it.”

  “Would you be willing to give a statement to that effect?”

  “Yeah.” A hiss that couldn’t be anything other than a match flaring in the background, and Mrs. Jarvis sucked in a breath. “But I need to do it before the lung cancer takes me.”

  “Can you do it this morning?”

  Mrs. Jarvis coughed. “Yeah, if you send a cab. I don’t drive.” Between wheezes, she relayed the information.

  “Done. I’ll have a cab there within the hour. Thanks, Mrs. Jarvis. You’ve been a big help.”

  She hung up without further comment.

  Zach called Beck’s cell. The phone went straight to voice mail. Was Beck ignoring him? Regardless of what had happened, they still had to work this case together. “This is Zach. I’ve got a workable tip. Call me.”

  He shuffled through the next ten reports, looking them over and separating them into piles based on likelihood of useful information. One hundred forty-two to go in the June tips. Where was Beck? He needed t
o get his ass in here, join the telethon.

  Across the room, Van took a sheaf of papers from Katie and looked through them, and then looked at Zach. With a word to Katie and a pat on the shoulder, Van headed Zach’s way.

  Great. Probably more tips. No doubt those two were glad they didn’t have the home invasion cases.

  Van stopped in front of Zach, then held out the faxed documents. “More stuff for you guys.”

  Zach sighed and took the bundle. “More tips?”

  Van tilted his head and crossed his arms. “No, it’s some army record search you wanted. Looks like Ferris Riggs and maybe some others. Didn’t really look at it.”

  More work. Better talk to the captain about getting a couple of desk officers in here to help. They’d be drowning in paperwork. “Thanks, Detective.”

  “Sure.” Van’s gaze wandered down Zach’s chest.

  “Okay, I’ll take it from here.” Zach stared into Van’s eyes. Not interested.

  Van nodded, turned on his heel, and stalked toward Katie.

  Zach skimmed the first sheet. Sure enough, Riggs had been in the army for two years after high school. Unit deployed overseas, peacetime, no casualties. A copy of a dishonorable discharge certificate. A court martial. Zach read through the details.

  Invisible fingers lifted the hair on his neck. The murder of a sergeant, occurring in an alley in Thailand. Complete transcripts weren’t included, but the summary report stated the testimony of a Private Olivetti had been pivotal in Riggs’s acquittal. Olivetti had been there in the alley and said Riggs didn’t do it.

  The electric awareness of a gut feeling built to a crescendo. Olivetti’s college roommate died, and he benefited with straight As and a ticket to rubbing shoulders with money. Would voters flock to Olivetti if someone slaughtered his family?

  How big a favor would Riggs owe Olivetti after getting out of a murder charge?

  * * * *

  The line at Zimmerman’s stretched to the front door. The luscious scent of doughnuts and coffee made the wait a bit more tolerable, but Beck needed to get into the division and work on tips. A good cup of coffee and a world-class doughnut might make things better with Zach, at least better enough to get an opportunity to explain about the pain meds. If that chance materialized, Beck wanted Zach in a positive frame of mind. If nothing else, the atmosphere would lighten up and they could get the work done. Tip callbacks were a bitch.