by Whitley Gray
The Glimmer occupied a garden-level space downtown, beneath a flower shop. An outside stairwell guarded by a pipe railing led to the entrance, and a basket hanging near the door was bereft of flowers, prepared for winter. A neon-blue sign in the window declared OPEN. Unassuming on the outside, cozy on the inside, the perfect place for an intimate conversation. The ideal preface for an intimate encounter. A shiver went through Beck, unrelated to the weather.
Beck marched ten steps down the sidewalk, paused and pivoted, marched ten steps up the sidewalk, hands buried in the pockets of his trench coat. Had Zach gotten lost? All the one-way streets downtown—
“Beck,” Zach called and waved from the end of the block as he strode toward the café.
Thank God. Beck raised a hand in reply and wet his lips, catching the lingering taste of their kiss, and another shiver made its presence known. Christ, he wasn’t some teenager. Get it together. Grown men don’t go gaga over a date.
This wasn’t a date.
Then why did it feel like one? Every step Zach took upped the anticipation.
All in your mind, Stryker. All in your mind.
Zach stepped close but didn’t lean in. No kiss hello. “Hey. Sorry. Couldn’t find a spot on the street and had to park in a lot.”
Nodding, Beck motioned toward the steps and stood aside. “After you.” Zach grinned, descended, and pulled the door open for Beck. Warm, fragrant air puffed out, and he inhaled through his nose. A smell he’d recognize anywhere—that trademark combination of rich coffee and fresh-baked treats declared “Glimmer Café.” Zach would think he’d died and gone to heaven.
A waitress seated them in a booth and poured coffee, and they ordered the signature apple pie. Quite a few people for this time of night. Beck folded his arms on the table, and Zach did the same; he licked his lips, and Zach followed suit. The temperature shot up between them. Why were they sitting here instead of taking things further in private?
Because Zach should lead. The last thing Beck wanted was to screw this up, and aggression could derail their progress. Assertive, fine. Aggressive, no. He was sure Zach sensed how he felt. Pie arrived, and the tension diffused into casual conversation.
Over dessert, they avoided any mention of the parking lot and stuck to safer topics: Beck’s interest in pulp fiction novels and Zach’s collection of vintage watches, one of which he sported on his wrist.
“So where do you find them? EBay?”
“I’ve looked at them on auction sites, but I prefer to poke around pawnshops and antique stores. Thrill of the hunt.”
He grinned, and Beck laughed. “I’ve done that for books, but it’s challenging to find a good one. Every once in a while, I come across one at an estate sale. Stuff that Great Aunt Bessie had in her attic.”
“Great Aunt Bessie?” Zach’s eyebrows lifted.
“Or Great Uncle Billy, depending on the subject matter.” He winked.
Shaking his head, Zach chuckled.
Afterward, Beck drove Zach to his car. What was the best way to end the evening? An affectionate kiss? An invitation to spend the night? Pulling up to Zach’s car, he said, “Thanks for dessert. And coffee.”
“Thanks for dinner.” In the orange illumination of the streetlights, Zach’s eyes were dark, his smile white. He leaned in, and Beck’s heart jumped.
This kiss had none of the initial hesitancy of the one in the restaurant parking lot. Zach’s warm lips landed on Beck’s in a sweet kiss that went straight to a deep exploration of mouths and tongues, heating Beck’s skin and driving want through him in a hot river.
Let Zach lead. Let him lead, Stryker. Don’t fuck this up.
Panting, they separated, and all Beck could do was take an unsteady breath as his equally unsteady hand smoothed the hair off Zach’s forehead. Jesus Christ. With a different guy, Beck would’ve issued a proposition involving blistering-hot sex, but he’d bet Zach didn’t jump into bed on the first date. Not that this was a date. Zach kissed Beck’s jaw and the corner of his mouth before drawing back and opening the car door.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Zach said as he climbed out, and Beck was gratified to hear a bit of unsteadiness in his voice.
“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “In the morning, then.”
Zach smiled and shut the door. Beck gazed after him as Zach jogged to his car, waiting until he slid inside, started the motor, and waved. Beck waved back and watched until the car’s taillights disappeared around the corner. Damn. Beck touched his still-tingling mouth.
* * * *
Zach let himself inside his motel room and shot the dead bolt. For a moment he savored the quiet. This time of night, the low thrum of the occasional car made up the bulk of the noise. Sleeping neighbors, no exploding ice machines. No lingering fragrance of Velma’s menthol cigarettes. He slipped off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door.
On the drive home, Zach had mulled over the day. Beck was different now. More personable. No bold moves or lascivious looks like two years ago. Zach had enjoyed the company over dinner and dessert. Easy conversation, attraction at a slow simmer with the feeling of possibility. Calescent kisses.
No doubt about it, this version of Beck drew him, had him responding mind and body. The decision to catch up with Beck in the parking lot had been an easy one. A smoking-hot kiss, and Beck had seemed surprised. In fact, Beck had seemed hesitant at first. Not reluctant, more like ceding the first move to Zach. Understandable, in light of the past.
Zach had surprised himself by considering extending their evening in private. Shaking his head, he toed off his shoes, stripped down to his boxers, and headed to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth and the sink. There were a million reasons why this was a bad idea.
Asking Beck over would’ve been easy, but a sexual fling wasn’t Zach’s style, had never been his style. The only sex worth having was with someone who meant something to him, not just a convenient encounter.
Was Beck starting to mean something?
Chapter Twelve
It was enough to make a guy give up a life of crime.
Ferris ran a hand across his forehead, sweeping back his sweaty hair. He looked around the laundry. Had to be a hundred degrees in here with the humidity, and the monotonous slosh and clank of the washers made him tired. The damn stitches itched beneath the gauze bandage, and his feet ached.
The pricks running the place hadn’t wasted any time putting him back to work for slave wages. Ferris picked up another load of sheets. Fuck. They reeked, stinky with sour sweat, dried cum, and stale smoke. He stuffed the sheets in the industrial washer, measured detergent, and tossed it in.
With a slam, he closed the glass door of the washer and set the dial to heavy duty. The behemoth growled as it warmed up. Ferris waited until water poured in. Behind the glass, the sheets looked like they were drowning, giving in to the rising water. He moved on to the next machine and loaded more dirty laundry.
Three machines to go and he could take a break. Working fast, Ferris finished loading the washers. He glanced over his shoulder. The guard stood ten feet away. Time to get out of earshot. “Hey, CO.”
The guard folded huge arms across his chest. “What?”
“Need a bathroom break.”
“Later.”
“The washers’re all full. Nothing to do but wait.”
The guard tucked his thumbs in his belt, eyes narrowed.
“You’re not gonna make me shit my pants, are you?” Ferris smirked. “Not humanitarian treatment if that happens.”
The CO focused over Ferris’s shoulder. “Sneed. Take over. Gotta escort this inmate to take a crap.”
“Got it,” the woman yelled.
“Let’s go. No jacking around.” The CO tapped the Taser on his hip.
Ferris raised his hands, palms out. “Whoa. No problem.”
“Go.”
Good. Ferris headed toward the doorway leading to the toilets. Behind him, the guard’s boots rang on the conc
rete, cuffs jangling. Just a few minutes, and it’d be worth it to have laundry detail.
He passed the threshold into the sorting area, and fresh air poured down from the vents, cool and clean. Bonus. A break from the heat while he did his business. Bins of laundry stood lined up for a trip to the washers. Beyond them, an inmate restroom and the privacy of the toilets.
Ferris bypassed the first five doorless stalls and took the one on the end. The guard followed along.
“You gonna watch me shit, CO?”
“You know the rules, Riggs.”
“Wanna see my ass, don’tcha? Wanna piece of that?”
The guard snorted. “Do your business. I’ll give you ten feet.”
Ten feet. Well, it’d have to do. Inside the stall, Ferris lowered his pants and sat. He reached under his shirt and dug beneath the bandage for his newly acquired cell phone. Damn thing had cost a bundle on the prison black market, and it better fucking work.
He dialed from memory.
* * * *
“Call for you, Stryker.” The switchboard operator caressed the words, voice sounding more like a 1-900 number than a public servant. “On the tip line.”
Great. Not even eight o’clock, and more tips. This happened every time the news put on a burst of coverage about the homicides. Now that Van and Katie’s suspects had taken the walk of shame, every crackpot in town would call. Beck huffed.
“Put ’em through.”
“I’ll transfer.” The switchboard operator clicked off, and breathing came through the receiver.
“This is Detective Stryker.”
“Stryker? Handling the Olivetti case?” A low-pitched voice. A man’s voice.
“Yeah. What did you want to report?”
“I have information for you.”
Okay. He’d have to drag it out of the guy. “What does this pertain to?”
“What the fuck is pertain?”
“It means ‘what’s it about?’” Rocket scientist here. Beck rolled his eyes.
“It’s about those murders.”
“Okay, what about them?”
“First, I wanna talk about what I want.”
A reward seeker. Just what he needed. “Sir—”
“This info is hot. You want it, I get something in return.”
“Like?”
“A transfer. To a minimum-security prison.”
“Who is this?” Beck clenched the receiver. The computerized voice announcing “this is a call from the Colorado State Penitentiary” every thirty seconds hadn’t come on the line. Must be a contraband cell phone. This could be the break they’d needed.
“Name’s not important yet.” The voice came through muffled again, and a grunt. Water whooshed in the background. Toilet?
“You think the information is that valuable?”
“I know it is.” The voice dropped an octave.
“You know the warden has to agree to a transfer.” Beck drew a circle on the notepad, wrote CSP inside.
“You can swing it.”
“What do you have?”
“It was a paid hit.”
Beck’s heart thudded, stealing his breath. Jesus. Where the hell did this guy come from? Where did the guy’s information come from?
“You there, Stryker?” the prisoner asked.
Settle down. Say something.
“Paid by whom?” Beck managed to keep his voice level. He covered the receiver and stuck his head out in the hall, stretching the cord to its limit as he frantically waved at Van until he got his attention.
“Uh-uh. Get my transfer.”
“I need more than that before I go to the warden.”
Van appeared in the doorway. “What are you—”
Beck smacked a hand over the receiver. “I need a trace on this call.”
For once, Van did as asked; he nodded and raced toward his desk.
“Check Sylvester’s bank account.” The prisoner’s phone crackled.
“He’s dead. He died indigent.” He killed Danny. Pounding started in Beck’s ears, and he dug his nails into his palm. Do not let PTSD ruin this.
“Not that account. He had another one.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me. I know.” In the background, someone yelled a command to get going.
“Where’s the account?”
“Metro Bank. Five-K deposit in June. That’s a lot for a high school dropout.”
“Give me something to prove this is legit.”
“Olivetti was found in the basement tied up with Christmas lights.”
Shit. That’d been withheld from the public. “Where did you get that information?”
“My informant.” The voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s it for now. You want the name of the guy that bought the hit, you get my transfer.”
“Wait, what’s your name—”
All he got in reply was silence.
* * * *
Zach inhaled the steam spiraling off the large American blend. Nothing like a good cup of coffee. Couldn’t beat freshly ground beans. Even the smell energized him. He leaned against the back of the elevator as it ascended to the robbery/homicide floor and absently patted his penlight. Handy that coffee vendor wheeled his stand over to the police plaza every day. The departmental coffee was a crime. Why drink sludge when quality stuff parked right outside? The bell dinged, and Zach stepped out.
As soon as he opened the door to the division, all eyes turned his way. Ookaay. He’d been here a couple of days. They should’ve been used to him by now.
Van cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Stryker’s looking for you. He’s in with the captain.”
“Thanks.” Zach set the coffees on Beck’s desk in the bull pen and headed for the glass cubicle. All the blinds were closed, shielding whatever was going on inside. Might be trouble. The surrounding detectives observed in silence as he knocked on the door. “It’s Littman.”
The door swung open, shade clattering against the glass. Beck’s eyes were wide, and excitement radiated off him in waves. “You need to hear this.”
“All right.” Zach hurried into the office, and Beck shut the door behind him.
McManus leaned back on the front of his desk, arms folded and lips pressed into a white line. The air crackled with tension. “Have a seat, Doctor.”
“What’s going on?” Zach dropped into one of the visitor chairs.
“Detective Stryker got a phone call regarding the Olivetti case. Who’s behind it.”
“Like someone who conspired with Weaver?”
“No.” Beck propped his hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward. “Like who hired him to do the job.”
“A paid hit?” Now there was a theory. Strange, but worth exploring. “Who told you this?”
“The guy wouldn’t give his name. He called from the state pen, or so he said.” Beck shook his head. “Not the prison phone system. An illegal phone.”
“How do you know it’s legitimate?”
“He knew about the Christmas lights.” Beck sank into the chair next to Zach’s. “We didn’t release that to the public.”
With that information, the guy knew something. “Who did the hiring?”
“He won’t say until he gets a transfer.”
Zach groaned. Wardens were notorious for not granting those sorts of requests. “You can’t ask the warden without the guy’s name. Assuming he called from the prison.”
“I think he’ll call back. Probably couldn’t stay on the line. Sounded like he was in the can.” Beck’s fingers tensed on the arms of the chair. “If I can get a name, I can approach the warden.”
“No one’s approaching the warden but me,” McManus said. He circled behind the desk and dropped into his chair, which complained with a squeak. “The switchboard’s been notified to record and start a trace on all tip line calls, and they’ll forward to your cell if you’re out of the office. If the guy calls back, we’ll get him.”
“What about Weaver’s ba
nk records?” Muscles tensed in Beck’s jaw.
“Wait.” Zach held up a hand. Something had happened. “What bank records?”
“The guy said Weaver had a second bank account at Metro Bank, and the payoff had been deposited there.” Beck folded his hands and leaned his elbows on his knees. “The account we knew about had less than twenty bucks.”
The Man grabbed his antacid and pushed away from his desk. “Get a subpoena for the bank account, then continue in the direction you’d started.”
“Got it.” Beck straightened and eyed Zach. “Ready to get back to it?”
Zach nodded. A large coffee might not be enough to get through this morning.
* * * *
Beck exited the bank vault, carrying the safe deposit box. The manager continued to hover, despite having seen the subpoena and ID. The FBI shield hadn’t made much of an impression; neither had Beck’s gold detective shield. If he didn’t know better, Beck could swear the warmth on his neck was the man’s coffee breath, not the heat of frustration rising with Beck’s temper. Allowing himself a little internal invective, he pulled up a smile and turned. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Jennings. We’ll take it from here.”
The little man wrung his hands. “Perhaps I should observe.”
What did it take with this guy? “It’s a police matter. Can you unlock a viewing room for us?”
Mr. Jennings inspected the subpoena for the umpteenth time, nose nearly on the paper. Behind him, Zach raised his eyebrows. Beck took a deep breath and waited.
The morning had consisted of getting the subpoena for Weaver’s bank records, followed by a site visit and discussion with the fussy bank manager, who’d capitulated after Zach had mentioned obstruction of justice. They’d discovered that Weaver had a savings account containing six hundred dollars, deposited in one-hundred-dollar increments once a week from the time of the Olivetti crime until Weaver’s death. Then nothing. A bonus had been the revelation that Weaver had a safe deposit box in addition to the savings account.
The manager had refused to open the safe deposit box, resulting in procurement of the second subpoena, which Mr. Jennings was perusing as if searching a diamond for an unrecognized flaw.