by Whitley Gray
“Uh-huh.”
“Really.” Beck made himself hold eye contact. “Everything is messed up since Aubrey came on board.”
“Sounds like he’s being off-loaded.”
Beck grunted and pictured Art’s desperate expression earlier—the fear for the cat, the misery of feeling like an outsider in his own family.
A little too close to home.
“Now what’s really bothering you?”
“The case.” Beck sat up. “We’re missing something. I can feel it, but I can’t put my finger on it yet, you know?”
“It’s a lot more complicated than the usual.” Zach shifted upright.
Beck snorted. “The ‘usual’ serial killer is simple?”
“Not at all. But we’re dealing with two interconnected killers. Maybe one somehow inspired the other.”
“It’s not that. Or it’s more than that. Hell, I don’t know.” Beck ran a hand through his hair. Talking about the case wasn’t much better than admitting to what was really bothering him.
For long seconds they sat in silence. Zach slid a hand over and took Beck’s, twining their fingers. Softly Zach said, “You know I love you.”
How did he sense what was wrong? Beck looked into those amazing blues. Nothing but tenderness and acceptance there. That’s what’s making this so damn hard. “I love you too.”
“Round two or sleep?”
Beck groaned. “Better make it sleep.”
They snapped off the lamps and slid down under the covers. Zach settled his head on Beck’s good shoulder. Beck wrapped his arms around Zach and nuzzled the silk of his hair, warm and smelling of herbal soap.
Zach tilted his head back. “Night.”
“Good night.” Beck kissed him, gently and a bit wistful.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.” So much it hurts. For a long time, Beck lay still, listening to Zach’s slow, even breaths until sleep pulled him under.
Chapter Nineteen
Zach awoke to sunshine and the fragrance of coffee. Judging by the clatter in the kitchen, Beck was cooking breakfast.
An expletive was followed by the clink of glassware. It was lovely waking up to Beck making a meal. Very domestic, or at least as much as it got with Beck.
Zach tucked his hands behind his head. If he left the FBI for good after this assignment, he could have this every day, instead of once in a while. And then what? Outpatient psychiatry? Consulting forensic psychiatrist? Teaching? On the other hand, if he stayed with the unit, it would be back to an unpredictable schedule, frequent travel, and a long-distance relationship. But the FBI had fascinating cases.
Intellectual stimulation.
Loss of Beck.
Rock, meet hard place.
He threw off the covers, tugged on a pair of jeans, and went to the kitchen. The sound was muted on the small countertop TV. Torso bare, Beck wore gray sweatpants. He stood at the stove, muttering encouragement at whatever he had in the skillet.
Zach suppressed a laugh, came up behind him, and kissed his shoulder. He smelled warm and clean. “Morning.”
“Morning.” Beck teased the egg mixture with a spatula. “C’mon. Slide over.”
Zach poured himself a cup of coffee. “You harassing those eggs into an omelet?”
“I’d Mirandize ’em if it would help. Can you toss the vegetables and cheese in here?”
After Zach added the fixings, Beck folded the omelet. Zach got another spatula. “I’ll help you get it onto the plate. If you get the bottom, I’ll get the top.”
Beck grinned as they eased the omelet out of the pan. “That’s not what you said last night.”
“Funny.” Zach set the table. Last night had melted away stress, and sex had segued into restful sleep.
“Get it while it’s hot.” Beck delivered the omelet, now split between two plates.
“Yours is bigger than mine.”
“Aw, thanks, Littman.” Beck chuckled. “Yours is nice too.”
“You’re such a comedian.” Zach speared a bite of omelet.
Behind Beck, a swirling logo on a field of red announced a special report. Matt Unger came on-screen; beside him was a graphic of the house in Sunnyside, cordoned off with crime-scene tape.
“Turn it up.” Zach pointed at the TV.
Beck reached over and hit a button.
“—learning about the man the police have dubbed the Follower. This reporter has now received a message from the killer.”
“Shit.” Beck grabbed his phone and furiously punched numbers.
Heart slugging against his ribs, Zach slopped coffee on the table. The Follower was upping the ante. The press conference had whetted his appetite.
“I don’t care if he’s on air,” Beck snarled. “Get him off the air now, or I’m placing him under arrest. Get him. Now.”
On the screen, Matt Unger glanced off camera and then said, “Details to follow shortly.” The swirling logo and red screen came up, followed by the national morning show.
A moment later Unger’s voice poured from Beck’s cell, staccato and sharp.
“I ought to arrest you for impeding an investigation, Unger,” Beck said. “Anything that maniac sent to you is evidence. You’re feeding his ego by following his instructions.”
Unintelligible low-pitched squawking came from the phone.
“You want my badge? You can try—” Beck glared at the TV. “Downtown. Eight o’clock. Bring everything.”
As he listened, Beck turned toward Zach. “Yeah, he’ll be there.”
Beck rang off and leaned against the counter. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah.” Zach rubbed his eyes. “How bad is it?”
“Unger didn’t read the statement. But the station is only willing to hold off for so long. They see a big-money exclusive.”
“Why didn’t he call Denver PD first? Or you directly?”
“Who knows? He’s thinking exclusive story versus helping us.” Beck took a sip of coffee. “He doesn’t know that we believe the Follower may have killed Annika and that Perny wasn’t responsible.”
Zach didn’t like withholding information from a grieving parent. It seemed almost dishonest. But presently, there was nothing conclusive tying the Follower to Annika Unger. A weak case—one a DA wouldn’t take without more evidence. “What is this message from the Follower?”
“He wouldn’t say. Just that we’ll see it soon.”
* * * *
The interrogation room held a table, four chairs, and a feeling of frustration. One of the fluorescent lights flickered an SOS. It was too warm for Beck’s taste, and the coffee left a lot to be desired. Of course they weren’t there for the coffee. He and Zach were there to debrief Matt Unger.
“He threatened to kill more people if I didn’t read it on the broadcast.” Matt Unger shoved a hand through his perfect hair and paced like a caged animal.
True. The note written on the outside of the standard envelope delivered to Channel Nine said simply,
Matt Unger:
Read this on the morning broadcast or another one dies.
“What was I supposed to do?” Unger’s voice boomed in the small space.
Beck wanted to smack some sense into the man. “You should have called me. We would have had a chance to control this.”
“Yeah? I didn’t get as far as reading anything.”
“Your director knows, along with a dozen others at the station. The entire Denver metro area knows you’ve received something from a killer. You’ve given this guy a pulpit for his bizarre propaganda.”
Unger snorted and jabbed a finger at the table. “Who is going to understand that gobbledygook?”
On the tabletop, the missive lay inside a protective sheath: a single trifolded sheet of plain white paper with block lettering in black marker—probably untraceable.
I give my heart to my work, my work gives its heart to me.
It’s nearly time for number three.
Beck asked Unge
r, “Those words mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Then why would he single you out? Why not an anchor at another station? Or a field reporter?”
“I don’t know, Stryker. He didn’t say.” Unger glowered and paced.
There had to be more to it than that. Unger was holding something back. He might be the most famous newsman in town, but Channel Nine hadn’t carried any extra coverage of India’s murder or the press conference. Nothing had been said about Annika in the context of the investigation.
Quietly Zach said, “What else was in that envelope, Mr. Unger?”
The ex-lineman whipped around. “What? Nothing.”
Beck straightened. Unger was holding back. Without full disclosure, they couldn’t understand the situation.
“Did he send a token?” Zach eased to his feet. “Something only you would recognize?”
God. Had the Follower kept a souvenir from Annika? “We need to know.”
“My baby is gone.” Unger retreated, put the table between himself and the law. “You said the bastard who took her from me is dead.”
“What did he send you?” Zach leaned on the table. “It’s important.”
Unger shook his head.
“Please, Matt,” Beck said. “Help us catch him.”
Blowing out a shaky breath, Unger sank onto a chair. He pulled a small, clear plastic envelope from the pocket of his blazer and set it on the table. Inside was a wallet-sized photo of a little blonde girl, wearing glasses and holding a cupcake with two candles.
“I kept this in my dresser drawer.” Unger looked up, eyes haunted. “He’s been inside my house.”
* * * *
After sending Matt Unger off sans evidence and sworn to silence, Zach went for coffee while Beck considered the significance of the photo. Did it mean the Follower killed Annika? Or was it just a convenient way to let Unger know the Follower had been inside his house?
The little niggle in the back of Beck’s mind got louder. Compared to the other victims, Annika was different. She didn’t fit Perny; she didn’t fit the Follower. Connections, Zach always said.
Van stepped in and closed the door. “Can I talk to you?”
Another proposition? “Is it about the case?”
“Uh, not exactly. It’s personal.”
“Van, I’m not—”
“Hear me out.” Van slid into a chair. “I told Katie I wanted to postpone getting married.”
Wow. That was big. And unexpected. “Did you tell her why?”
“I couldn’t.” Color moved into Van’s cheeks. “I… It may be chickenshit, but I couldn’t delay the wedding and tell her at the same time.”
Van had actually considered coming out? “How did she take it?”
“Mad. Then worried. She thinks there’s someone else.”
“Is there someone else?”
“No. Just…” Van hitched a shoulder. “You know.”
Yeah, he knew. “You’re still messing around.” After the multiple propositions Van had laid on him, Beck was pretty sure.
“I’m trying to give it up. Men. I’ve seen a counselor.”
Of all the harebrained schemes… What an idiot. “You do realize preference is hardwired into your brain, right? It’s not some illness to be cured.”
“I want to be straight.” Van looked miserable. “I want to get married and have a family, like my brothers. Instead I’m this, and I hate it.”
Van hadn’t seemed to hate it when they’d been together. “Maybe you’re unhappy because you’re trying to be something you’re not.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t know how to get around my family’s expectations. This delay is only a stay of execution.”
Execution? God, what a mess. Beck leaned forward, forearms on thighs. “If marriage equals the death penalty to you, why do it? It’s your life.”
“I’m not you.”
No, you sure as hell aren’t. “Think about it, Van. Is getting married worth sacrificing your own happiness?”
“Is coming out worth sacrificing my relationship with my entire family?”
Ouch. For as long as Beck had known him, Van had slaved to live up to his law enforcement pedigree. “You’re the only one who can answer that.”
“Yeah.” Van’s gaze flicked to his. “Thanks for listening.”
Beck nodded.
“I’ll be back later for the morning report.” Van got up and left the room.
Zach came through the door, carrying two steaming cups and a bakery sack. He set them on the table. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Beck swung the door closed with his foot. “Just a personal issue—him, not me.”
“Anything I can do?” Zach pulled the lid off his cup and blew on the surface.
“Nah.” Beck peered into the bag. Some type of little pastry knots covered in sugar. “What’re these?”
“Russian doughnuts. They’re filled with raspberry jam. Ivan insisted you try them.”
Beck flipped his tie over his shoulder, out of the way of powdered sugar, and took one. Heaven. Flaky dough, fruity filling. He mumbled, “Good.”
“Ivan scores again.”
Beck popped the last bite into his mouth. “Something’s bothering me about Annika.”
“The photo?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. It’ll come to me.” The door swung open to admit the rest of the task force. Everyone found a seat.
Beck handed out assignments: Van and Richfield would interview the Wexler girl’s roommates and brother. He and Zach would handle Unger’s PA and work on how the Follower had gotten into the Unger residence.
* * * *
Purple-and-gray clouds roiled and rumbled on the horizon. The air smelled of rain as they climbed out of the car. To Zach, the Unger place seemed in mourning. Dark. Drapes drawn, lights off. The house practically yelled, Do not disturb. Zach followed Beck up the steps to a massive front door.
Beck thumbed the bell; chimes sounded and died away. They waited.
“Not home?” Zach peered at the sky.
“She knew we were coming.” Beck rang again.
A short blonde opened the door. Witkowski, I presume.
“Hello, Detective Stryker.”
Beck nodded. “This is Special Agent Zach Littman from the FBI. He’s assisting.”
“Of course.” She motioned them inside.
Zach looked around. Oak, crystal, brass. The house was a gorgeous example of early-twentieth-century architecture. Zach smelled lemon furniture polish and old paper—sort of museum-like, especially with the closed drapes.
Ms. Witkowski led them past a grandfather clock, past walls adorned with black-and-white photos of Annika, past an antique mirror. They emerged in a cheerful room with vintage fixtures. “I hope you don’t mind talking in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine,” Beck said.
Someday Zach would like to have such a kitchen. The space had huge windows over an apron sink, a six-burner stove, and an enormous vintage oak refrigerator with glass doors. A tin-topped island was home to cooling cookies—molasses-ginger if his nose hadn’t failed him. They sat at a scarred pine table beneath frosted dome lights.
“I like the kitchen,” Zach said.
She smiled wryly. “Kind of grandmotherly, but Matt didn’t want them to change it.”
Points to Unger on that one. Zach could almost like the guy.
“Coffee?” Rachel held up a pot.
He and Beck both assented. After she’d poured three mugs and distributed plates of cookies, they got down to business.
Beck started. “Do you know why we’re here, Ms. Witkowski?”
“Matt said it was about people who might have been in and out of the premises in the past few weeks. That someone might have been in the house.”
So Unger hadn’t told her about the picture. Zach nodded. “Yes.”
She slid a sheet of paper across the table. “These are the workmen who’ve been on the property in
the past two months.”
Zach scanned the list. A lawn-care outfit, a man to check on the external compressor for the air-conditioning system, a window-glass company. “What window needed replacing?”
“A pane in the garage. A kid hit a home run right through the glass and into Matt’s SUV.” She gave a tiny smile. “The replacement guy was never in the house.”
“Okay.” Zach continued down the list. “Goodwill pickup?”
“Clothing donation.”
Zach’s stomach flipped. “Annika’s things?”
“No, no. Old stuff of Mrs. Unger’s.”
Beck frowned. “Did anyone search pockets?”
“I did.” Ms. Witkowski blushed a bit. “Mrs. Unger hasn’t been feeling well. I didn’t find anything, though.”
Working down the list, Zach sipped his coffee. “What was the furniture delivery?”
“One of those foam-top beds, the kind that molds to your body. Mrs. Unger…has trouble sleeping.”
“So the furniture guys were in the house to set up the bed?” Beck’s voice held a note of excitement.
“They were, but I watched them the whole time.” Rachel gripped her cup. “The housekeeper was here that day and kept an eye on the downstairs.”
“Okay. How about visitors?”
“I log those if I’m here. The doctor visited Mrs. Unger a couple of times.”
Zach raised his eyebrows. “House calls?”
“Yes. If you’re willing to pay, you can get them,” she told him.
“When was the last appointment?” The visit might have been private enough that the doctor could have snooped around a bit.
“After Detective Stryker and his partner were here last.”
“Did he come alone?” Beck asked.
“The doctor’s a she, and yes. Alone. Mr. and Mrs. haven’t entertained since December.”
Somehow the Follower had gotten that picture, whether in person or via another individual. Someone had gotten inside Matt Unger’s bureau. “That’s all?”
“That’s it. All the people who’ve been around or inside.”
“Okay,” Beck said. “Let’s check the house.”
* * * *
The second floor was carpeted in a thick burgundy plush. The door to the room over the kitchen was decorated with teenage-girl trappings: a small dry-erase board, pink streamers, a few photos. Annika’s room.