“Yeah. I think that would have been a good idea,” Zachary said, but his voice was less harsh. He was silent for a moment and then said in a softer voice, “Do you know how many times I hoped I’d hear from you, Thomas? How many times I went to Mata Hari, or specifically avoided it, just because you were on my mind? And then to have you finally call about this shit….” Thomas squeezed his eyes shut at the anguish he heard. “Fuck, Thomas. Just—fuck.”
“I know.” Thomas paused. “Zach, I’m damaged. I wish I had explained to you why I am the way I am, but there’s no point now. You’re better off with someone who understands how special you are. Even if it isn’t possible for us to be friends—and I’d completely get that—I want you to be happy.”
“I can’t do this anymore tonight. I’m sorry,” Zach said. “Can you have Randy call me if there’s anything else I should know?”
“I will,” Thomas said softly, and Zach hung up without saying good-bye. Thomas stared at Randy’s desk for a long time and tried to reconcile himself to the understanding that he would probably never see Zachary again.
THE MAN with the silver-framed glasses seethed at the call logs. The Beloved had called that creature Hall—that cretin—again. Weeks of no contact, and now an infuriating development. He hadn’t managed a way to hack the calls themselves, and the e-mail records from his Beloved’s phone contained no insight into what was discussed. He was in the dark. But his Beloved had initiated the phone call, had reached out. Why?
He checked the video footage of Mata Hari to search for guidance. He watched the police detective head into the back with the bartender and the Beloved and emerge twenty minutes later with just the bartender. With no audio and no way to install a camera in the bartender’s office, he was just speculating, but perhaps he had not been as successful as he had hoped at laying the false trail.
The boy he’d killed across town, the one the papers named Daniel Owen, was a mere means to an end. He helped lead attention away from the Beloved. There was the added bonus of getting to work with his special toys and the satisfaction of work well done, but he took no special enjoyment in killing that boy.
Not like the slow, careful pleasure he would take in chastising Zachary Hall.
Chapter 20
ZACHARY SPENT a sleepless night thrashing in his sheets. Fuck Thomas Scarborough and his beautiful face and his perfect body.
He drove his fist into the down pillow and then turned it over, looking for a cool spot. He was flushed with anger and frustration. Maybe Thomas owed him no explanations, but this was huge. The times they had spent together, both in and out of the bedroom, the moments of intimacy real or imagined, yet Thomas hadn’t so much as hinted he might be putting Zachary in harm’s way. Who did that? Maybe Thomas the Asshole wasn’t as much of an act as Zachary had convinced himself.
Despite his anger Zachary couldn’t believe himself to be in any danger, not really. To learn that Thomas had sex with that poor man, Brian Gallagher, before he died, that was painful at a level Zachary never even imagined. But even worse was to recall those halting phrases from Thomas. His concern. His suggestions that he had wanted something more.
Goddammit. Zachary was seeing Sam. Even if it was going slower than he might have liked, they had a good time together. Sam was kind and sweet and not afraid to show his feelings. He was perfect for Zachary.
So why was he awake at three a.m.? Why was he remembering Thomas’s body under him as he drove his cock inside and made Thomas moan and come apart? He found no answers, or at least none he could live with.
Zachary did finally manage a few hours of sleep and woke to a text message from Sam, which immediately made him feel guilty for his nighttime struggles.
Hey, Z. Got back on red-eye. I missed you. Can we have dinner?
Yes. That was what he needed—to spend some time with Sam and get fucking Thomas out of his head and out of his heart.
Great. Where and when?
He figured Sam was probably asleep after his late-night flight home from wherever, but by the time he got out of the shower, Sam had invited him to his apartment that evening for dinner in and a movie. Zachary confirmed, and during his commute to work, he thought about pushing the relationship to a more physical one. Frankly he was horny after all that reminiscing about Thomas, and he felt he and Sam were ready for the next step.
RANDY WAS awake at what was—for him, since his retirement—an ungodly hour. He had carried the file on Rumson home from the bar after closing and spread it on his dining room table. It took him hours to go through the materials and check the details against his recollection of the investigation when his team vetted Thomas. After all that, only one item puzzled him. He wanted to talk to his former deputy at the Secret Service to discuss it. That was why he was up again at eight to call his buddy. He hoped to catch her on her way to DC before the day got crazy.
Lily Woods picked up right away. “Randy. This is a surprise. How’s the bar doing?”
Randy chuckled, “Off to a good start. No bar fights, no crazy agents to corral. I shoulda done this a long time ago.”
“Don’t bullshit me, RV. You’re bored, aren’t you?” she asked. Randy smiled at the old nickname, which was based on his initials and a memorable training exercise involving a Winnebago at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center a few years earlier.
“No way. Being a bar owner may not come with the thrills of tailing a protectee, but I don’t have to wear a black suit every day. That’s gotta count for something.”
“If you say so. Don was just asking about you yesterday. We should all get together for lunch soon.”
“That’d be good. Or you can all come by the bar. Drinks on me.” As soon as he said it, Randy knew it was a bad idea. Secret Service agents in his gay piano bar. Yeah, no. It was their discovery he was gay and that he kept that secret from his team and the agency for years that drove the final spike into his career. And let’s not forget Trevor and his contribution to my early retirement. Randy shook his head to clear it. Another day.
Lily laughed nervously and changed the subject. “Why are you calling so early, RV? I figured retirement at least meant sleeping in.”
“Do you remember about two years back, when we vetted Jason Scarborough for Senator Gilbert’s staff?” he asked.
“The good-looking guy with the stalker? Sure, I remember.”
“Do you recall anything odd about that investigation? Anything that didn’t add up?” he asked.
“What’s this about, Randy?” Lily asked, and he could picture her frown.
“I’m not asking about anything classified. Something has come up. It’s nothing to do with Service business, but I had a reason to look back at the Seattle PD file on the stalker, Charles Rumson.”
“And you want to know if we missed anything?” Lily prompted.
“Not exactly. Well, maybe. If you think I’m out of line, I’ll drop it, Lily. It’s just… I saw a picture recently of a guy who reminds me too much of Rumson. I need to know if there’s a possibility he faked his death.”
Shit. There it was, out in the open. Lily might refuse to answer him. She might even report that he was nosing around old files and draw attention he didn’t care to have anymore.
The silence stretched, and Lily finally said, “There was one thing that bothered me. Rumson’s mother… she came to the morgue alone to identify the body a few hours after it was brought in. I had given birth to Kirstin a few months earlier, so I was only just back from maternity leave when this happened. I remember thinking, if that were my child, I could never deal with it by myself, or so efficiently.”
“Huh. I never thought about it that way,” Randy said. “The guy was all over the news before the actual crash, so I just assumed that was why she was there so quickly.”
“That may be right. We interviewed her, of course, and I think she said something like that. Once Mrs. Rumson ID’d her son, the family refused to authorize an autopsy. They had the body out of the morgue a
nd to the funeral home that same day. Nothing improper about that, of course. It just struck me as unusually cold.”
“Do you recall anything about Rumson’s finances?” Randy asked.
“Hmm. No, nothing special comes to mind. He was rich, I recall. A trust-fund guy. But that’s it. What have you got?”
“The Seattle PD file contains a note about the First Washington Bank trust department calling to report a financial red flag after Rumson’s death, but then there’s a follow-up note less than two hours later that says the issue was resolved with the family. No specific details.”
Lily apparently thought about it and then said, “That doesn’t ring a bell at all. Not saying I would have done anything more with it if the family reported no issue, but I would have remembered that. When was this?”
Randy checked the case file. “June first.”
“We wrapped our report in May. I think May twentieth.” She always remembered dates, so Randy took her recollection at face value.
“So this was something that turned up after we vetted Scarborough, and it wasn’t significant enough for anyone to bring it to our attention,” Randy summarized.
“Sounds right to me,” Lily said. “Before you ask, RV, I don’t think I could call Seattle for more information without getting an official go-ahead and explaining why to SPD. Is that something you want?”
“No, Lily. Thanks. I’ll let the local police decide if they want to take this further.”
They chatted for a few minutes more, but the gulf between a retired and an active agent meant they had little more of substance they were able to discuss. The call ended with a promise by Lily to stay in touch.
Randy called Detective Torres next and explained what he had found. “Look, it’s not much, I know, and I don’t mean to distract you by pointing at a ghost.”
“I understand, Mr. Vaughan.”
“Randy.”
“Okay. Randy. And if I had anything else to go on, this would get pushed back. But I don’t have another angle, so I’ll call Seattle and see if I can find out anything more about the financial issue. A serial killer rarely stops at two, and there is no doubt in my mind that’s what we’re dealing with—a serial killer preying on gay men. I hear a ticking clock in my head.”
Chapter 21
ZACHARY ARRIVED at Sam’s apartment that evening with a bit of a headache. After his sleepless night, he couldn’t get the call with Thomas out of his mind. Was it really possible a killer had been that close to them in Mata Hari? And Thomas’s words—what had all that meant? About his being damaged?
When Thomas called him “Zach,” he felt it in his chest—that recollection of a few nights of intimacy that would never be repeated. It was shitty for him to even think about Thomas and how he had pined for something that could never be.
His guilt persuaded him not to mention to Sam anything about his conversation with Thomas. Even the most innocuous comment about the killer would lead to a discussion that Zachary wasn’t ready to have. He wanted to focus on Sam and not get bogged down in something stupid and pointless that had gotten up his hopes, once upon a time.
Sam kissed him hello at the apartment door and held on a little longer than usual as he tightened his hands a bit around Zachary’s waist. Despite Zachary’s resolve to move things forward, he suddenly felt a flash of nerves and broke the kiss to press a bottle of wine into Sam’s hands.
“Oh, thanks. I missed you,” Sam said, and Zachary felt bad all over again. “You look tired. Bad day at the office?”
“Yeah. Just some tough personnel issues I’m working through with one of the field offices.” Zachary hung his jacket in Sam’s coat closet and said, “Sorry. I’ll shake it off in a few minutes.”
“Don’t worry about it. Fix yourself a drink and have a seat while I work on dinner.”
Zachary smiled wanly at Sam. “Thanks for the free pass. You’re a prince among men.”
Sam laughed. “No, I’m selfish. I want you to have a chance to unwind so we can enjoy our evening together.” He pushed Zachary toward the living room and said again, “Have a drink, and I’ll join you in a few.”
Zachary poured himself a vodka tonic from the mirrored bar cart at the side of the living room and sank onto the sofa to enjoy the view. The National Gallery was gorgeous in the twilight and glowed in its uplights against the backdrop of a sapphire-and-amethyst sky. Sam bustled around in the kitchen. The sound of him chopping vegetables on a cutting board helped Zachary relax as he nursed his drink.
AT MATA Hari, Randy’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He signaled for Malcolm to take some customers. Then he turned around as he retrieved the phone and saw Torres’s number flash up. “Evening, Detective,” he answered. “Any information?”
“Just Torres is fine. Yeah, I have some intel,” she said. “I got off the phone with the Seattle police officer who annotated the Rumson file. His best recollection is that First Washington identified a large transfer of funds from Rumson’s account after his date of death. But when he called Rumson’s mother, she told him it was just part of dealing with his estate and not to worry about it. He wouldn’t have remembered, except we’re talking about more than six million dollars.”
Randy whistled. “I’d remember that too. But why would First Washington contact the police? An executor transferring funds would have to use letters testamentary, which would be registered first with the bank.”
“Good point. I don’t know if I can get anywhere with the bank, but I’ll give it a try tomorrow.”
“It’s three hours earlier in Seattle,” Randy commented wryly, and Torres grunted.
“You sound like my captain, Randy. Okay. I’ll give it a shot now. Hey, one other thing came up. The officer I talked to pulled up his own notes to help me out with Rumson. He was the one who called Mrs. Rumson because he had met her when she came to the morgue to claim Charles’s body. She had been almost panicked, he said, when she came to the station. She swung around her husband’s name like a club to get the body released to her and out of there as quickly as possible. The commissioner was a personal friend, so things happened a lot faster than was usual, and Rumson’s body was released and cremated before the day was out.”
“I suppose, at the time, it would have just seemed like grief.”
“Agreed, so what stood out to this officer was that, when he got hold of Mrs. Rumson to ask about the money, he was all prepared for a big emotional scene again. Instead she was calm and matter-of-fact about the whole thing, like it was just a business transaction. This is less than six weeks after Rumson’s death, remember, which seems like a short time to get over the suicide of your child.”
Randy asked flatly, “Do you think there was a cover-up?”
“I don’t know exactly what I’m thinking, Randy,” Torres confessed. “We have a man who was obsessed with Scarborough to the point of breaking into his apartment and contacting him relentlessly at work. This same stalker broke a restraining order but apparently never attempted to harm or threaten Scarborough. We have a very public series of attention-grabbing displays before Rumson’s car plunges off a cliff. We have a mother who sweeps in and pulls strings to arrange the immediate release and cremation of her son’s body before an autopsy can be performed. And then we have six million dollars that apparently moved after Rumson’s death, but his mother waves it off calmly as no big deal.
“And then, two years later, we have a sadistic killer torturing young gay men, one of whom had sex with Scarborough. We have two photos of a man who has some resemblance to Rumson but whom Scarborough doesn’t ID or rule out as his stalker. I’m not saying I’m not suspicious, but there’s not enough here to take to my captain, let alone to a DA. And even if I did, what would I be asking for?”
“I hear you, Torres. You need something from the bank or from the mother to connect the dots better.”
“Exactly. I’ll try the bank now, but I have to brief my captain before I reach out to the family.”
“Let
me know if you want to talk more. Maybe bounce ideas off,” Randy said.
“I appreciate that. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Randy stewed about it all evening. Part of it was professional. His team had reviewed that file and told Senator Gilbert the case was pristine. The bigger part of it was personal. Thomas was his friend. He had made up his mind when he saw Thomas walk through the door and into Mata Hari. Thomas needed to know what they had found, as little as it was.
ZACHARY DIDN’T say much through the dinner Sam had prepared for him, except to compliment him on the perfectly done pork chops and to make light conversation. His head ached with the strain Thomas had dropped on him and the lack of sleep, but Sam seemed okay with the low-key evening. They sat side by side at Sam’s glass dining room table, both facing the wall of windows and the evening sky.
“I’m really sorry, Sam,” Zachary said. “I don’t mean to be moody and quiet. It’s just work and stress are getting to me today.”
And guilt.
Sam took his hand and kissed the back of it. “Relax. I’m enjoying your company. We don’t have to sit and gab every evening. Honestly I like just being with you this way too.”
“You’re so sweet,” Zachary said.
“Speaking of sweet, I got you something on my trip. Don’t get nervous. It’s just a little present. I’ll save the big flashy gifts for when we’ve known each other longer.” Sam waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Or maybe biblically.”
Zachary laughed as Sam got up and retrieved a silver-foil box wrapped in a blue ribbon. “It’s some really good Swiss chocolate. I picked it up in Geneva before I came back to the States last night.”
It was on the tip of Zachary’s tongue to comment on the coincidence of Thomas and Sam both being in Geneva at the same time, but he caught himself. Sam didn’t know Thomas, and Zachary certainly didn’t want to explain why he knew where Thomas was traveling. That would open the door to a lengthy conversation Zachary wasn’t prepared for.
Every Breath You Take Page 17
