High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Beck pinched the “now serving” number in his hand and shuffled forward. Lucky number thirteen; two people to go before his turn to order and get going. Someone jostled him from behind and mumbled an apology. A glance at his watch said Beck had fifteen minutes before he needed to call in about his tardiness. Zach might be there by now.

  “Thirteen.”

  Beck’s cell buzzed in his pocket, and he ignored it in favor of placing his order. He stepped up to the glass counter. “Two large French-roast coffees and a half-dozen powdered sugar doughnuts.”

  The woman nodded, turned, and yelled into the back room. “Need more powdered out here.”

  A guy in a paper hat carried out a tray, and Beck did a double take, holding back a grin.

  Enzo stared at him with wide eyes, looking all the world like a man about to be caught out. He slid the tray into the case and backed away. Enzo might not be out, and Beck offered relief in the form of a polite smile before turning his attention to the woman assembling his order.

  On the way out the door, he juggled the doughnuts and coffee, fumbled his phone out of his pocket, and checked the screen: Missed call. Beck thumbed Check Messages, and Zach’s number came up. Ten minutes and Beck’d see Zach in person and present him with this peace offering. Hopefully it’d buy enough time to explain, because he wasn’t letting Zach out of the room until the whole story came out. Beck had a pair of handcuffs tucked in a case on his belt, and he intended to use force if necessary. No way he’d let Zach go without a fight. Life didn’t provide that many opportunities for love.

  * * * *

  Zach drummed his fingers on the stack of tip sheets. No point in leaving a second message for Beck. If he didn’t get here in the next five minutes, Zach would go alone to speak with Olivetti. The man could’ve kidnapped Levin. Damn it, he needed Beck for an arrest warrant if they expected to grab Olivetti. Once he was in custody, the FBI computer crimes section could follow the money trail, discover if campaign funds had been misappropriated for murder.

  Across the room, Van was on the phone. He darted a glance at Zach and away. Did Olivetti have an informant inside the department? If so, he could wriggle out of the noose. Zach checked the clock. Fuck it. He’d call Beck along the way and ask him to meet at Olivetti’s office. In the meantime, dispatch could send a squad car to back him up. At least he’d know where Olivetti was if he tried to run.

  As he exited the room, Zach looked for someone to leave a message with. McManus’s office was dark; he’d ream Beck a new one if he knew about the unanswered calls. Angry as Zach was, he wouldn’t wish McManus’s wrath on anyone. Van—he could get a message to Beck. Zach strode across the room.

  “Detective Gates.”

  Van’s head whipped around, and his expression settled into polite neutral. “What can I do for you, Dr. Littman?”

  “I have a witness coming in, name of Jarvis. Can you let Detective Stryker know and have him call me? Looks like his cell phone is dead.”

  Van’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? Is it about those records?”

  What if Van was Olivetti’s man? “I have an appointment. Please have Detective Stryker call me.”

  For a moment, Van’s gaze slid away and then returned to meet Zach’s. “Okay.”

  Zach nodded and moved toward the door.

  * * * *

  As soon as he settled in the car, Beck grabbed the phone and retrieved the voice mail.

  “This is Zach. I’ve got a workable tip. Call me.”

  Other than using “Zach” instead of “Agent Littman,” a terse message delivered in a neutral tone, one that discounted any affection between them. Beck cringed. Pretty much said the conversation was over.

  Beck gripped the phone; they needed to discuss this tip face-to-face, and he’d be at the precinct in less than ten minutes. He shoved the phone in his pocket and started the car.

  * * * *

  “Where is he?” Zach wanted to vault the mirrorlike countertop and strangle Yancy.

  “I’m not authorized—”

  “Who is?” Zach asked. Next to him, the spicy scent of carnations in today’s bouquet overwhelmed the area, riled his stomach. “Who is authorized?”

  Beside Zach, the team of patrol officers exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Yancy gazed down his sharp nose at Zach. “Ms. Sweet.”

  “Call Ms. Sweet.” Zach fisted both hands on the counter.

  “She’s not in today.” The twink yawned and studied his fingernails.

  Had something happened to Olivetti’s assistant? “This is FBI business, an emergency.”

  “Mmm. Sorry.” Yancy’s voice sounded anything but.

  Zach leaned over the counter, getting in Yancy’s face. “Get someone. Now. Or I’ll make sure you face charges of federal obstruction of justice.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Zach had the address of Olivetti’s hunting cabin. As Zach and the two cops arrived at street level, one of the red-faced patrol officers said, “Uh, Agent? We have no jurisdiction outside the city limits.”

  “I realize that, Officer,” Zach snapped. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Turning a deeper shade of crimson, the cop nodded. He and his partner slid into their cruiser and were gone.

  In his car, Zach sat for a minute. Now for backup. He contemplated going back to the precinct or calling Van or McManus. Instead, he punched in Beck’s number and got an invitation to leave a message. Scowling, he texted: Suspect Olivetti hired the killings. Gone to his cabin at Orion Lake.

  That ought to get Beck’s attention. Next, he attempted to enlist the Park County Sheriff’s Office. Not unexpectedly, they were reluctant to proceed on Zach’s say-so.

  “He’s a prominent man, Agent Littman,” Sheriff Rafferty stated. “Don’t want to be going off on a wild-goose chase.” The “Fucking Butt-in Idiots” was left unspoken but came through loud and clear. “Better have McManus call me.”

  Zach was so sick of these jurisdictional issues, everyone getting their dicks stepped on at the mention of the FBI. Nothing was smooth about this. Zach squeezed the phone until the plastic protested before dialing. “Call me, Beck, goddamn it.”

  With the GPS teed up and spouting directions, Zach threw the car in gear and headed out west of Denver on Highway 285 alone.

  * * * *

  The moment Beck crossed the threshold into robbery/homicide, Van charged over.

  “A witness came in to give a statement about your case,” Van said, tipping his head in the direction of a woman slumped in a chair next to Katie. “A Mrs. Jarvis.”

  An oxygen tank pumped the vital gas through a tube running under her nose, hissing each time she inhaled. The woman looked like she had an appointment with the Grim Reaper and didn’t want to be late. A paroxysm of coughing hit, and Katie winced, pushing a box of tissues toward her. The woman held a tissue to her mouth and spit, and pink bloomed through the white.

  “Dr. Littman said to tell you she was coming in.”

  “Where’s Littman?”

  “Left for an appointment.” Van parked his fists on his hips. “Apparently couldn’t stay to do the interview.”

  Why hadn’t Zach waited for him? Beck wanted to be involved in tracking down the lead, not hear about it later. “Where’d he go?”

  “Wouldn’t say. I gave him a fax from the army. Two minutes later, he suddenly had somewhere to be.”

  Unease tiptoed up Beck’s spine. He plopped the olive-branch doughnuts and coffee on the desk. “Where are the records?”

  Van pointed at Beck’s desk.

  Beck grabbed the reports and skimmed them. Holy shit. Olivetti had to be behind the killings, and Zach must’ve gone to his office. But they’d need an arrest warrant. Surely Zach wouldn’t go after him alone. He yanked out his phone, hit speed dial. Zach’s phone rang once, twice. “C’mon, c’mon.”

  “You’ve reached Zach Littman. Leave a message.” Beck ended the call, and a message popped up: Tex
t from Zach. Beck opened the message.

  Suspect Olivetti hired the killings. Gone to his cabin at Orion Lake. In pursuit. Call me.

  In pursuit. Zach had gone alone after a cold-blooded killer. Fear rippled through Beck, stole his breath. He didn’t need to make a phone call. He needed a car, needed a location, and needed to be in time.

  “Gates. Need some help over here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As Zach wound into the hills, the mapped roads on the GPS became fewer and farther between. He might end up having to do this off a print map. The directions didn’t account for Zach’s unfamiliarity with the area.

  Zach stabbed at the buttons on his phone. “Goddamn it, Beck. Pick up.”

  After four rings, Beck’s voice answered. “Leave a message” and the phone beeped. Zach hung up. Beck would see the missed calls and know who’d sent them. Maybe if he saw a dozen messages, he’d get his head out of his ass and figure out that something had happened.

  Zach pounded out a terse text message:

  On the way to Olivetti cabin on Orion Lake near Devil’s Folly mine. Call me.

  As an afterthought, he added the GPS coordinates of the cabin and hit Send.

  * * * *

  The road snaked along manmade cutouts in the mountainside, twisted around hairpin turns as Beck ascended the steep grade to the Colorado high country. After another hang-up a few minutes ago, Zach had sent a text message with a destination and appended GPS coordinates.

  Beck pulled over and returned the call. On the other end, the phone rang with a hollow tone, as if in a cave.

  “Littman,” Zach said.

  Thank God. “Where in the hell are you?”

  “It’s Olivetti. He knew Riggs in the army—”

  “I saw the records. Where are you?”

  “On Highway 285, on the way to Olivetti’s cabin. He may have Levin and Ms. Sweet hostage.”

  “He’s a fucking psychopath. You can’t go charging in there without backup.”

  “No one in Denver has authority, and the Park County sheriff wouldn’t help. We can’t let Olivetti get away.”

  “You pull over and wait for me, goddamn it. Where are you?”

  “I’m near the lake—” The call dropped, leaving cellular silence.

  Beck groaned. No big surprise, since cell service could be spotty in the foothills. He tried calling back without success and called Van. “Did you get the warrant?”

  “Working on it. But Park County’ll have to serve it.”

  “You call them?” He might be desperate, but he wasn’t suicidal.

  “Not yet. Hold on.” Muttering interrupted. The phone clanked.

  “What the hell is going on?” McManus blared.

  “Olivetti’s behind the home invasions,” Beck said. “Van’s working on the warrant. Littman went after Olivetti, and I’m going after Littman. The Park County sheriff wouldn’t listen to him, and we’ll need backup. Olivetti may be holding Levin and his personal assistant hostage.”

  “I’ll take care of Sheriff Rafferty,” McManus growled. “Get his elected ass out there. As soon as Judge Gleeson signs the arrest warrant, Gates’ll call you.” The Man paused. “Do not proceed without backup. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  Between the trees, Zach caught glimpses of the lake, water dull as wet newspaper in the weak winter light. No other cars, no sounds of boats. A raft of mailboxes marked the entrance to a private road. He pulled off onto what looked like a four-wheeler trail. Branches scraped the side of the car like spindly arms reaching for him. He pulled over and shifted into park. Noting his current location on the GPS, he texted Beck.

  Parked and waiting at these coordinates.

  No doubt Beck would have had McManus call Sheriff Rafferty. The head of robbery/homicide would have better rapport than the FBI. Get some action. Backup would arrive anytime.

  Hurry up, Beck. Maybe Levin hadn’t disappeared; maybe Olivetti had killed him. Jesus. Hopefully Ms. Sweet wasn’t in mortal danger. If she’d discovered what was going on, she’d be one more loose end. Zach’s nerves jumped with energy, with the thrill of the hunt, of solving the case. He exited the vehicle and stepped into the tree line to stretch his legs. The scent of pine drifted in the crisp mountain air. Every sound seemed magnified; the slither of pine needles beneath his feet registered like the hiss of a snake. Where was Beck?

  * * * *

  Beck gritted his teeth, held the steering wheel in a death grip, and shot a look at the GPS. The map had fewer and fewer roads delineated as he approached the Orion Lake area. Wind had whipped the clouds into a steel-gray froth crowning the Rockies, angry clusters of clouds ready to dump snow. On the seat beside him, the phone beeped a text alert.

  Beck rounded a corner and nosed the car to the side of the road, then peered at the phone. Text from Zach.

  Beck opened the message and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God. Zach was waiting. The man had some sense after all. Despite his FBI agent status, Zach was a shrink, not special ops. And even if he was still pissed, he wouldn’t walk into that situation alone. The Park County sheriff would be familiar with the area, arrive first. Olivetti would be like a cornered grizzly—aggressive and deadly to anyone in his path.

  Beck reset the GPS, which estimated Zach’s location at fifteen miles. He put the car in gear. The engine whined, road noise echoing off the sheer rock face as he took the curves. Too dangerous to speed—the guardrails didn’t look up to the job if the car slid. A few flakes drifted down, and Beck groaned. Snow would slow him down.

  * * * *

  Through the trees, Zach picked out the brown tin roof of a house. By the secretary’s description, this might be the cabin. Despite the cold, sweat broke out on his back. Zach pulled the SIG and held it down at his side, edged forward, and concentrated on not snapping twigs and branches.

  A silver SUV was parked in front of the cabin. The front door stood open, and Zach made out fluttering shadows inside. A camo-clad Olivetti strode onto the porch carrying an AR-15. Not the type of gun for smaller game such as deer and antelope. More like an elephant gun.

  This criminal had engineered the deaths of at least four people, including his wife and daughter, and might have Levin and Sweet hostage. Olivetti should spend every day stone-cold sober in a cell, serving out consecutive life sentences. For a moment, Zach leveled his weapon and trained the sight on Olivetti’s right shoulder, and then lowered the gun. No heroics, Littman. Beck will be here with backup.

  “Drop it.” The voice came from behind Zach. A female voice.

  The hair stood up on his neck. Zach raised his hands and let the SIG dangle from the trigger guard, reluctantly let it drop into the blanket of needles and leaves on the forest floor.

  “Hands on your head.”

  Zach complied and looked toward the cabin. What the hell had just happened?

  Olivetti’s sharp gaze met his through the trees. The politician slung the weapon over his shoulder and marched up the slope.

  “On your knees,” the woman said. Zach sank down, and she shuffled behind him. The unmistakable cold metal of a gun muzzle pressed against his skull. He tried to breathe around the fear clogging his throat. Where was Beck?

  “He’s alone, Isaac.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar. Something about the cadence, the coarseness. If he could get a look at her, he could place her.

  Glaring, Olivetti snatched the SIG off the ground and stuffed it in his waistband. He circled behind Zach and yanked his arms down, then wound a length of wire around his wrists, binding them together behind his back. Olivetti grabbed Zach by the collar and hauled him to his feet. The woman roughly patted him down from behind. Zach caught a glimpse of a camo hunting hood and deep-set eyes. Who was she? Her aggressive search located his cell phone, and she lobbed it into the trees. “He’s clean.”

  Olivetti gave him a shove toward the cabin. “Walk, Littman.”

  For a moment, Zach contemplated droppi
ng and rolling down the hill, but there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to take cover. For now, compliance represented his best chance for survival. He moved his feet in an awkward shuffle, slipping in the leaves and pine needles as he worked his way down the hill.

  Beneath the leaves, the toe of his boot connected with a rock, and Zach fell to one knee. Pain exploded in the joint, and he sucked in a breath. The surrounding forest blurred. A wave of nausea hit, and he swallowed against it, willing his stomach to behave.

  “Get up,” Olivetti said. A gun barrel prodded Zach between the shoulder blades.

  Biting the inside of his cheek, Zach staggered to his feet, and their little cadre made it to the clearing in front of the cabin. The throb in his knee settled into an ache.

  The woman shoved Zach down on a fallen log. “I’ll get the rope.”

  Suddenly it clicked. Zenobia Miller. The warden was in on this? For a crazy moment he wondered if she’d reappear with a string of Christmas lights. Or a blindfold. The blood pounded in his ears. Calm. Think.

  Olivetti nodded and held his AR-15 waist-high, covering Zach.

  The woman leaned her gun against the porch railing out of Zach’s reach, and then climbed the steps and went inside. Olivetti kept the barrel of his weapon pointed at Zach. The muzzle seemed to grow and dominate the space like a deadly black eye. Zach forced his gaze to meet Olivetti’s.

  “Don’t make this worse by killing a federal agent,” Zach said.

  “They’d have to find a body first, wouldn’t they?” Olivetti gave a nasty laugh.

  Something rustled among the trees, then stilled. A deer? Olivetti swung the AR-15 in that direction.

  This might be the only chance he’d get. Zach stood.

  Olivetti whipped around and raised the assault rifle to his shoulder. “Sit down.”

  Keeping the gun in sight, Zach slumped on the log.

  “Zenobia,” Olivetti yelled. Color suffused his face, giving him an explosive look.

  The warden appeared in the cabin doorway and descended the steps to where Olivetti stood.