by Whitley Gray
Typical of Dean to break out the old pet name, conjuring the past; guilt left Zach vulnerable to manipulation. “And now we’re friends.” Only friends. “I can’t tell you. And don’t call me Z.”
“Just a hint?”
“Can’t.” Zach stalked to the window in the efficiency kitchen. A fabulous view of the garbage-strewn alley, complete with stray cats. With all the dark corners, the place was a crime scene in the making. He whooshed out a breath.
Another silence, then, “You okay?” A pensive note crept into the question.
“Yeah.” A little lonely, but it took a while to settle in to a new place. And it was temporary, thank God. He unwrapped a plastic-encased glass and filled it under the faucet. Particles swirled through the liquid. Note to self: buy bottled water. “You wouldn’t believe this place—it’s like something out of a Far Side cartoon.”
“Yeah?”
“Up here on the third level, the floor vibrated when I walked along the outside walkway. And the number six on my door is missing a nail and flipped upside down, so it looks like a nine. I had to look twice for the right room.” That was what he got when the FBI went with a rent-by-the-week motel. Half the residents lived here full-time, using the room as an efficiency apartment.
“Is there an Elvis painting on black velvet above the bed?”
That’d be an improvement. “No, it’s a scary clown painting. Like Stephen King’s It.”
“Luxury all the way, huh?” Dean chuckled. “How about Magic Fingers?”
“Nope. I wish.” He sat on the edge of the bed. A little wider than the typical single, not quite a double. The mattress had a firm feel, anyway. Might not be too bad. After a couple of bounces, he stood.
“Pay-per-view?” A pause, then Dean whispered, “Porn?”
Vintage Dean. “No and no.”
“Don’t sound so sad.” A chair scraped in the background. “Would a little phone sex cheer you up?”
“No on that count too.” It never stopped. And that hopeful tone… Jesus. Shaking his head, Zach pivoted and took the seven steps to the window beside the front door. The curtain smelled of smoke, even though no one had lit up recently, according to the toothless guy at the front desk. The tobacco stench had bonded to the material. He’d have to get some fabric deodorizer. “You have plans for tonight?”
With one finger he twitched aside the eggplant-colored drape. Beyond the chipped paint on the iron railing the damp asphalt of the parking lot gleamed in the glow of a flickering security light. Rain dimpled the puddles. A decrepit ice machine crouched next to the Dumpster, shedding metal scraps from its ruined exterior. Zach’s rental was the nicest car in the lot. A break-in would be—
“—get high.”
His focus snapped to the phone. “What?”
“Love the way the words ‘get high’ grab your attention.”
“Uh, sorry. Got distracted.” Zach dropped the curtain. “You’re…not, are you?”
“No.” Icicles hung off the word.
“Okay. Well, I better go get unpacked. Get some sleep.”
“All right. Talk to you later. Peace.”
“Peace.” Clicking off, Zach sighed and pocketed the phone.
A thunderous boom shook the windows, plunging him into darkness. Zach whipped his sidearm from its shoulder holster and flattened his back against the wall. Holding the weapon pointed at the floor, he edged toward the door and swung it open. Nothing. He risked a glance each way down the walkway. Empty. He stepped outside.
In the parking lot, the remains of the ice machine flamed in colors ranging from scarlet to saffron, belching smoke. A piece of metal fell off with a clang, hissing in the rain. Pops and crackles emanated from the wreckage. Acrid smoke assaulted his nostrils. What the hell? Lightning strike?
“I called 911.” The comment came from a few feet away. Zach spun, gun in hand. The tiny wizened woman raised her hands, a cigarette between two fingers scattering ash. “Ya gonna shoot an old granny, sonny boy?” The voice creaked like old leather.
Jesus Christ. Heat boiled into Zach’s cheeks, and he holstered his SIG. “Sorry. Didn’t know what’d happened.” He gestured toward the parking lot. A horn blasted a warning as the wail of sirens built in the distance.
“You that cop? Vic said you was comin’.”
Who knew he was staying here? “Who’s Vic?”
“The manager.” She waved a gnarled hand in the air. A whiff of tobacco smoke drifted over.
“I’m not a cop.” Not in the conventional sense, anyway. “Just visiting.” So much for staying under the radar.
Red and blue beams flashed in an arc down the street. The sirens gave a couple of last whoops and went still as a fire truck steered into the lot. A riot of light bounced off the building, coloring the woman in alternating shades of cobalt and crimson. Men leaped off the truck and grabbed hoses.
“’S okay. My lips is zipped.” She rubbed the cigarette out on a post and pocketed the butt. Her faced creased with a toothless grin, and she offered a bony hand. “I’m Velma Anderson. Apartment nine.”
“Zach Littman.” He shook, careful not to squeeze the old bones. God, she couldn’t be over four feet tall. “Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine.” Squinting one eye, she cocked her head and pursed her lips. “You a single man, is ya?”
“Single? Um, yeah.” Why would she care one way or another?
The toothless grin reappeared.
The fire hose inflated with a rush, and firefighters blasted the ice machine. Steam puffed into the cool night air. Velma wrapped her sweater around her and crossed her arms. The cold registered, and Zach shivered. “I’m going back inside. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Anderson.”
“Velma.” She winked at him.
“Velma.” Zach tried for a genuine smile.
The solemn notes of a dirge rang in his pocket. Oh shit. With a nod to his neighbor, Zach backed into his room and closed the door. He pulled out the phone and peered at the glowing screen. “Littman. Are you on the ground in Denver?” Sands asked.
“Yes. Just arrived at the motel.”
“Satisfactory?”
Obviously the boss wasn’t acquainted with the Stardust. “Good enough.”
“When do you meet with Denver Homicide?”
“First thing in the morning, sir.”
“Keep me updated.”
“Absolutely.”
Sands grunted and hung up.
For a moment, Zach stared at the phone. Shaking his head, he opened his travel case, pulled out a compact gun-cleaning kit. He spread a cloth on the table and freed the SIG from its waist holster, broke it down, and began the ritual.
The familiar smell of cleaning solvent soothed him. He’d been raised with guns: hunting, target shooting. Keeping his personal weapon clean was a pleasure.
When the SIG was spotless, he tucked it into the holster and stowed the cleaning kit. Yawning, he headed for the bathroom with his shaving bag. A good night’s sleep—at least as good as the Stardust’s luxury accommodations could provide—and in the morning get psyched up for the meeting with Detective Stryker.
Gird your loins, Littman. Gird your loins.
* * * *
Beck balanced his late-night takeout and briefcase in one hand and jiggled the key in his front-door lock with the other. Damn tumblers were so worn they didn’t want to turn. The building seemed to be having a midlife crisis, with everything unraveling at once, an environment as tired as he was.
The key caught, and Beck pushed the door open to silence and the lingering aroma of leftover pizza. He kicked a rubber-banded newspaper into the apartment, following it inside. After locating the wall switch, he flipped on the overhead light. Spiky shadows cast by dead bugs in the fixture hindered the illumination. Home, sweet home, dust and all. White walls, a flat screen TV, and Chinese takeout. What else could a guy ask for?
Company.
No, that was the fatigue talking. Christ, he’d passed tir
ed hours ago, and his shoulder throbbed. He shrugged out of his coat and plodded to the kitchen. Inside the fridge, the choices included two beers and condiments. A beer would go well with the food, but alcohol and prescription pain meds didn’t mix, and tonight had the feel of a narcotic analgesic night. With a sigh, he left the two beers to keep company with the ketchup in the cold and dark.
He headed to the bedroom and pulled the prescription from the bedside table, poured a couple of tabs into his palm, and rolled them around. One ought to do it. He kept one and dropped the other back in the vial, deposited the meds in the drawer. If that didn’t cut it, adding ibuprofen took the edge off enough that he could sleep most nights. Hell, as tired as he was, insomnia wasn’t possible, pain or not.
Beck returned to the kitchen, swallowed the tablet, chasing the bitter taste with water. Relief on the way in fifteen to twenty minutes. He pulled a plate from the cupboard and loaded it with food.
Ginger and red pepper-bathed beef scented the air, and his stomach growled. As he carried dinner to the living room, he eyed the couch with its bloodstain the size of his palm and shaped like Texas. At least it sort of blended in with the dark upholstery. It had taken some time to get the hang of doing the dressing changes solo. Not exactly something he would’ve invited a casual acquaintance to do.
Sinking onto the sofa, he groaned and closed his eyes. Dinner, and then bed. He shrugged his left shoulder and winced. Time to set up an appointment with the physical therapist.
At the end of a long day, the Man had accused Beck of overdoing it and ordered him home for the night. McManus might be a hard-ass, but he cared. The stress of having a wife with cancer had worn McManus thin over the last year, but Beck could’ve done a lot worse for a captain; Beck could deal with the occasional show of temper. Now if the Man would allow him to work alone. A feeb. Beck snorted and took a sip of water. At least he’d be back in the field.
The electronic investigation assignment bored him to tears. Who became a cop to sit behind a desk and tap computer keys all day? Grimacing, he slid off the Glock in its shoulder holster. A spike of pain interrupted the low ache in the joint, and he sucked in a breath. Jesus, it hurt like a mother tonight. Maybe he should switch to a belt holster until he’d healed.
Just eat and go to bed, Stryker.
He pulled off his tie and clicked on the TV with the remote. Video of Isaac Olivetti’s campaign speech of the day played across the screen. The businessman stood at a podium, dressed in millionaire casual: pristine golf shirt, perfect hair, and dentistry-enhanced smile. Typical politician. Beck grunted and ate a forkful of the beef.
“Let’s resurrect Colorado’s Old West values,” Olivetti said, pounding a fist on the wood as he spoke to a thin crowd outdoors. The mercy applause accented exactly how thin. No overflowing auditoriums as Olivetti attempted to woo followers in a rural county.
“You have a history of buying companies and shutting them down,” said a man clad in jeans and a flannel shirt. “People have lost jobs. What are your plans for job creation?”
“That’s an excellent question. Right now I’m looking at buying a farm implements company right here in Colorado. No jobs will be lost. Small employers are the backbone—”
Beck hit Mute. The guy came off like a disingenuous shark. Hell, Beck wouldn’t have voted for him before the events of the summer, let alone now. He finished his dinner while flipping through a few channels, taking in some sports scores as the throb encompassing his shoulder dialed down to a dull ache. Between fatigue and the meds, tonight looked promising for uninterrupted rest; that’d put him on his a-game when he met with the FBI’s profiler in the morning.
He shut off the flat screen and carried his dishes into the kitchen before trudging to the bedroom. In the closet he stripped to his boxers, taking time to hang up his slacks and tie and throw the shirt onto the growing pile. Yet another to-do: make a trip to the cleaners, or he’d be shirtless. The apartment might be a mess, but wardrobe had an important function. Clothes made the man, especially if the man wanted to get laid.
Of course to get laid, the man would have to generate enough enthusiasm to leave the apartment, and club hopping sounded exhausting. Sex sounded exhausting. Someday, he’d like to have it again with someone besides himself.
While he brushed his teeth, he caught a glimpse of his bare chest. Like horror makeup on Halloween, a series of shiny lands and grooves marked his left shoulder and pectoral. Yeah, that ought to scare away any potential lovers. He ripped his gaze away from the reflection and finished his nighttime routine.
The unmade bed didn’t look inviting, but who cared? It wasn’t like there was anyone sharing the sheets to complain. Beck slid into the chilly bed, inhaling a trace of familiar aftershave—his own. It’d been a long time since he’d had someone else leaving his scent on the linens. For a few minutes he stared at the ceiling. The shoulder discomfort backed off to the point he could relax, and he closed his eyes. Tomorrow he’d be in the field.
Please, God, no nightmares.
Chapter Six
Enemy territory.
The facade of the Denver station house hadn’t changed in two years. Under the cloudless October sky, Zach crossed the plaza to the main door.
Inside it had been updated, but the aura of the institution remained, despite the chic celery-colored paint and Berber carpet. The desk sergeant directed him to the robbery/homicide division on the third floor. The elevator doors opened on an empty car, and Zach stepped on, sweat dampening his shirt. Had someone warned Beck the BSU had sent Zach as the profiler? He entered the homicide department and absorbed the curious gazes of the detectives in the bull pen. He gave them a perfunctory nod and a smile. On his left, a glass door flew open, metal shade clanking. A man who reminded Zach of Sands strode over.
“Special Agent Littman?” The man came to a halt in front of Zach.
Zach cocked his head. “Yes, but I prefer Dr. Littman.”
“Captain McManus.” He stuck out his hand and engulfed Zach’s in a crushing grip. “Let me point you where to get a cup of coffee, and then I’ll show you to the conference room.” McManus pivoted and headed toward a corner table occupied by a coffeemaker and fixings. By the time Zach caught up, the captain had poured a cup. He thrust it into Zach’s hand.
“Thanks.” Zach squinted at the oily brew and took a cautious sip. Somehow he held back a wince. Pity the poor coffee beans that had been mistreated to make this stuff.
“This way to the conference room.” McManus took off at a brisk pace, bypassing a row of desks and stopping in front of a nearly closed door marked 3A. “I’ll leave you here, Doctor. Detective Stryker will fill you in.”
“Thanks, Captain.” Zach raised the hand holding the coffee cup.
A curt nod and McManus was gone. Zach turned his attention to the room. No light came through the frosted glass window in the door. Well, Zach’d arrived first. Might be a good thing. A psychological advantage.
With a deep breath, Zach pushed open the door to a dark, stuffy chamber. He flipped the wall switch, and gray light flooded the space. A table, two chairs, a dry-erase board, and pastel paint, all the better to relax the detainees. Functional and fabulous. Inside, he set his briefcase on the table and closed the door.
Forensic psychiatry was a small club, and its members were in demand. Before going to work for the FBI, Zach had done competency examinations all over the United States. Every conference room looked the same. The odor of stale air, burned coffee, and institutional cleaner didn’t change. If he closed his eyes, he could be in Colorado or California.
The room lacked circulation and windows to the outdoors. One of the fluorescent bulbs buzzed, flickered, and went out. Zach’s heart rate kicked up. He loosened his tie, took a deep breath, and resisted the urge to prop the door open. Everything was fine. Broad daylight, safe inside a police precinct.
No bars, no locks, no monsters in the room.
He sipped at his police station coffee and groaned
. The stuff had all the flavor of crude oil poured over ashes. If he hadn’t worried about fitting in, he could’ve brought a nice drinkable latte. Who was he kidding? Drinking the coffee here wouldn’t gain him acceptance. Over the last eighteen months, he’d heard every permutation of the acronym FBI. The letters stood for Fucking Butt-in Idiots to most cops. No doubt the man he had to work with would see it that way.
The last time he and Beck had parted company, civility had hung on a frayed thread between them, and only Dan Halliday’s presence had kept the situation from exploding. Now there wouldn’t be another cop to act as a buffer zone.
This was just a routine assignment, like at any other precinct. It wasn’t like he and Beck’d had anything between them. Hell, they’d worked together for a couple of weeks, been nothing more than casual acquaintances. The time was too short for them to find out if they had anything in common, to learn each other’s likes and dislikes. It wasn’t as if they’d had sex.
But not like they couldn’t have.
That heated mouth working against Zach’s as Beck ground their bodies together…
A twinge of guilt hit. And what was that about? He hadn’t been unfaithful to Dean; Zach’d shut Beck’s overture down in short order. Shit. Why was he doing this to himself, right before they met face-to-face? Zach shook his head. He was here to do a job—nothing more.
The door opened, and his nemesis stepped in.
Forcing himself to relax, Zach stood. “Hello, Beck.”
The cop’s head snapped around. His eyes narrowed, only a slit of pewter gray visible. “You’re the profiler?”
Asshole. “I am.”
Beck turned and closed the door. When he faced Zach, the glacial look had vanished, leaving a shuttered expression that gave away nothing. “Nice to see you again, Dr. Littman.”
So that was how they were playing it. This was going to be more fun than a root canal. “You too, Detective Stryker.” Brilliant comeback, Littman.
Lobbing him a stony stare, Beck circled to the other side of the table and smacked a set of three-ring binders down. “BSU sent…you.”
More like commanded against his will. Hadn’t they just covered this? God, the guy was such a dick. As if Zach had been the one to step out of line last time. “I’m the one they sent.”