Zach began to pace around the room. “But wait. I come to a bar one night with a date, and there he is again. I leave alone, and he follows me. He brings me back to his apartment, and the frustration and the lust and the—okay, goddammit—the overwhelming, impossible desire to have this man for my own just consumes me. Again we have the most explosive sex I ever dreamed of. Richter scale. And then it’s over again. And I’m supposed to be his friend. Again.”
Guilt roiled Thomas’s stomach. It was all true. He had pushed Zach away and then pulled him back in when he felt lonely, knowing he could count on Zach’s obvious feelings for him. God, he really was a bastard.
Zach came to a stop in front of Thomas, his eyes wide as he asked incredulously, “Be your friend? I get it, Thomas, honestly. Sex is easy for you, but I think it’s a friend you really need. I want to be your friend, so much, because you’re one of the most astonishing people I’ve ever known. But Jesus Christ, how can I? Am I a bad person because I can’t be around you without thinking how good we could be together? Am I a loser because I wish you’d just cut the crap and let yourself get to know me? Am I a failure because I don’t know how to pretend you mean nothing more to me than a buddy?”
Thomas shook his head urgently. “Of course you aren’t a loser or any of those terrible things you said, Zach. Please believe me. I’m the broken one. I know that already.”
“But why, Thomas? It’s so easy to hide behind these dramatic statements and give me nothing of substance to explain it. Why are you broken, and why won’t you take a chance to see if maybe I could actually help you heal?”
“I just… I can’t, Zach.” He pleaded with his eyes for Zach to believe him, to understand there was nothing here for him. After the havoc Rumson wrought in his life, Thomas was sure he was beyond repair.
Zach searched his face, and his eyes darted back and forth as he looked for some reason to hope. Thomas schooled his features carefully to give nothing away. It would be cruel to give Zach any reason to hang on. After a minute Zach dropped his chin and turned away, defeated. He sat on the bed to tie his shoes, clearly unable to look Thomas in the face any longer.
“Let me call you a cab, at least. There’s still a maniac out there somewhere,” Thomas said. Zach nodded but kept his gaze on the ground.
At the apartment door, before Zach left, Thomas took him in his arms, forced him to turn around, and hugged him hard. “Good night, Zach. Be well.”
Zach hugged him back and rested his face against Thomas’s neck for a moment before he pulled away. “You too, Thomas.” And then he was gone.
Thomas closed the front door and sagged against it for a moment. He leaned his forehead against the painted wood. His ass ached in a way that reminded him of how he had been filled for a brief time, and then of his solitude. His heart hurt from the things Zach had said and the painful questions he asked. In minutes Zach stripped away Thomas’s self-deceptions that he was just someone who liked sex with lots of different men and exposed instead a manipulative asshole who used his looks to draw in an endless stream of casual partners to fill an emptiness he hadn’t acknowledged. But Zach wasn’t trying to be cruel. Thomas doubted he even had that capacity. No. Zach cared about him despite the whipsawing and genuinely wanted Thomas to let someone get close to him. To be a friend.
Thomas whispered into the dark, empty apartment, “If I could let anyone in, Zach, it would be you.”
THE MAN in the silver-framed glasses stabbed at the replay button over and over. His blood pounded in his ears, louder with each repetition, and his hands shook as he worked his equipment. The camera angle showed nothing but the darkened apartment, yet he could hear his Beloved say, “If I could let anyone in, Zach, it would be you.”
He had been so close to snatching the creature earlier in the parking lot, risky as he knew it was with the police sniffing around—but his Beloved came out of the bar and they went off together in a cab. To hear his Beloved give those words to his latest toy—words He had denied to all others—was more than anyone could bear. Zachary Hall deserved a very special punishment for his… violation.
He opened the box that had arrived in the mail that day and removed an exceptionally large and thick rubber phallus. It was fifteen inches in length and nine inches around. He admired its thickness and contemplated the protests and cries of anguish he would hear as he forced it inside the creature. Cries that would turn into ecstasy as he made his lesson clear.
He heard a low roar come out of his own chest as he began to hammer nails all around the head.
Chapter 12
“MR. SCARBOROUGH, can you meet me today?” Torres said with no preliminaries. Her voice on Thomas’s cell phone was deadly serious, and Thomas felt his testicles shrivel as fear crawled in his stomach. “I need to show you some pictures.”
“Is it another killing?” he gasped. Not someone else I knew, please. Not Zach….
“I’m afraid so,” Torres answered. “MO appears to be consistent, along with some other similarities. I need to know if the victim had a connection to you or to Mata Hari. I’m going to see Mr. Vaughan this afternoon as well. Perhaps you can join us?”
He couldn’t wait that long to know. “Please, can you tell me his name?” Thomas could hear the tremor in his own voice, the slight begging.
Torres sounded apologetic. “I can’t do that until my department is ready to make a statement. But I can show you the pictures….”
“Where do I find you?” he asked immediately.
“It takes too long to get through security and into any of the Senate office buildings. Can you meet me at the fountain in front of the Capitol? I can be there in ten minutes.”
“Anne, I’m running an errand,” Thomas called to his secretary as he grabbed his coat and then hurried as fast as he could to meet Torres. It was a cold, cloudy day with a threat of snow, but that wasn’t why his hands were trembling. It had been two weeks since he’d seen or heard from Zach. It couldn’t be him.
Please….
He hurried across the plaza to where the detective waited, dressed in a gray wool coat. With no greeting she handed him a manila envelope.
“They aren’t crime scene photos. They’re recent pictures of the victim that we got from his mother. I need to know if you recognize him.”
Thomas nearly dropped the envelope, but he managed to slide the photos out and stare at the array. He almost sagged in relief. It wasn’t Zachary or anyone else he recognized.
Torres watched him closely, though, and he shuffled again through the four photos of a nice-looking young man, probably college age, sporting a trendy haircut. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him before,” Thomas said at last as he glanced at the detective. “You think it’s the same killer, though?”
“You’re sure you don’t know him?” Torres asked. “Please take another look.”
He went through the array again but then shook his head. “I’m sure I’ve never talked to this kid, and I definitely didn’t take him home. I think that’s really what you’re asking.” Thomas slid the photos back into the envelope. “Is there a connection to Mata Hari, like with Brian Gallagher?”
Torres hesitated but then said, “Actually not that we’ve found yet. I’ll ask Mr. Vaughan to look at the pictures too, but the night this man was killed, he had been at a dance club in Southeast DC.”
“And you won’t tell me why you think it’s the same killer?”
“I can’t release that kind of detail. Let’s just say there was a particularly brutal element here that mirrors what was done to Gallagher and makes a coincidence unlikely.”
“I’d like to say I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Detective, but the truth is I’m relieved,” Thomas admitted. “Whatever is going on, it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with me after all.”
TORRES GOT back to the station later that afternoon and was frustrated as she reported to her captain. “Neither Scarborough nor Vaughan recognized the victim, Daniel Owen.”
She ticked off th
e points from her notes. “He was found in his own apartment, front door unlocked but no sign of forcible entry. Nothing was stolen, as far as his mother can tell. He was strangled, a foreign object had been forced into his rectum, and the cause of death was from something that shredded his colon and bowels from the inside. All of those details are highly similar to the Gallagher case. Yet so far I’ve turned up no connection to Mata Hari, to Thomas Scarborough, or to the Dupont neighborhood where Gallagher was killed. Maybe that will change when we’ve gone over the footage from the security cameras at the dance club… umm….” She checked her notes. “Horizons.”
Captain Nelson looked at the scene photos from Forensics and fought back a wince. “I agree this isn’t a coincidence, even though the murders are almost two months apart. We may have a serial killer going after young, white, gay men after they leave bars alone.” He tapped the end of a pen against the photos as he thought. Then he sighed and closed the case file. “Maybe it’s one of those moon things where the bastard kills under a certain phase each time.”
Torres said, “Already checked. Two nights ago, when Owen was killed, was a first-quarter moon, whatever the hell that means. Gallagher’s murder was just past the new moon. Plus we don’t know of anyone he killed in March, so he’d be skipping a cycle.”
“Okay. That doesn’t sound like the right track.” Nelson frowned as he continued tapping his pen against the closed folder and finally tossed it aside. “Shit. We have to go public, but the reaction is going to be bad.” He sighed and said, “Let me get the LGBT Liaison Unit involved with a press conference and making the rounds of the bars to spread a warning.”
“Yes, sir. That makes sense. I’ll prepare a list of talking points.”
“I need something solid, Torres.” Nelson scowled and said, “If we really do have a serial killer….”
“I know, sir, and I’m working on it. Maybe something on the security tapes will help or we’ll turn up a connection to Scarborough. If the perp strikes again, well, maybe the details from a third murder will reveal more of a pattern.”
“Torres, I don’t want there to be a third victim,” Captain Nelson stated in his most withering voice. “Get this wrapped. Now.”
“HERE YA go, Maria. Just arrived.” A secretary handed Torres a thick manila envelope that afternoon as she was writing out the press notes Nelson wanted. The envelope was from the general manager of Horizons and contained security footage for the night Daniel Owen had been murdered.
She looked at the discs stacked on her desk and sighed. Three cameras in the club to check, and she needed to go over at least an hour on either side of Owen’s exit—maybe more. His friends reported he had been with them at the club until about eleven thirty, when he said he was tired and wanted to head home. They never saw him alive again.
She grabbed more coffee and picked up her cell. “Ramon, hey. I won’t be there in time for dinner. I’ve gotta shit ton of work to do.” She rolled her eyes as her boyfriend bitched. “Don’t be that way, baby. It’s work. I told you…. Well, then, go see a movie with your brother or something…. Baby, I need to go. I gotta get started watching footage.” She disconnected the call while Ramon was still complaining.
Torres wasn’t sure why she even kept him around. He wanted a girl who made dinner for him and was waiting when he got home from his job. That was not her. No way, no how. Full of dark thoughts and grumblings, not to mention bad coffee from the precinct machine, Torres cued up the first CD.
Two hours later she sat up straight in her chair. She backed up the footage and replayed the sequence again. Someone was there that she would not have expected. The image quality wasn’t that good, but she had talked to that man not too long ago, when she was checking Scarborough’s alibi.
She picked up her phone and called Captain Nelson. “Sir, you wanted to know anything I found. This may be just a coincidence, but I have a connection between Horizon and Mata Hari. It’s a guy named Terry Krasnopoler.”
THAT EVENING Thomas slid onto his usual stool at Mata Hari. Randy poured them each a shot without asking and said, “Helluva business,” obviously referring to the second dead man. “The police put out his picture this afternoon and asked for information. Kid’s name was Daniel Owen.”
Thomas tossed back the contents of his glass. When he had set it on the counter, he said quietly, “I nearly shit my pants when Torres called. I thought it was going to be someone else I had fucked around with.”
Randy filled his shot glass again. “I know, buddy. But now I think it really was just a coincidence that you took Gallagher home.”
“What do you suppose is the common element she’s talking about to connect the murders?” Thomas asked.
Randy shook his head. “It could be anything, though Torres said it’s sexual. Maybe he marks ’em or something. Frankly this is why I went Secret Service. I don’t think I’d have the stomach to investigate these kinds of crimes.”
Looking over Thomas’s shoulder, Randy’s expression changed. He murmured, “She’s back already.” He straightened up as Torres approached the bar. “Evenin’, Detective. More questions or more bad news?”
“Questions, Mr. Vaughan,” she said and nodded politely toward Thomas. “Mr. Scarborough.”
“More questions for me?” Thomas asked, ready to be annoyed, but she shook her head no.
“Well, maybe,” she amended and added, “But I’d like to talk to you alone, Mr. Vaughan, if possible.”
Randy gestured for his assistant to keep an eye on the bar and signaled Torres to follow him to his office. Thomas stayed on his stool, burning with curiosity, though he knew Randy would tell him everything she said anyway.
He looked around the room out of habit. Many of the faces he saw were regulars. Good for Randy for building a steady clientele already. He met the eyes of someone he was pretty sure he had fucked a few months before and quickly turned his head away and prayed the man wouldn’t come over. He saw some new faces too. One man stood by the piano and another leaned against a wall.
The one by the wall was a good height, lean, and wore his hair long. He was probably in his early twenties—maybe a college kid from Georgetown or George Washington University. His tight jeans showed narrow hips and quite a package. He looked back at Thomas, and his lips curved into a slight smile. Yes, he was interested. Thomas could have him in the back of a cab in ten minutes and stretched out on his bed in twenty.
But the hair wasn’t quite the right color, the eyes were too dark, the shoulders too narrow, and Thomas abruptly realized he was doing it again. He was comparing the stranger to Zachary, and he found the stranger wanting.
He sighed and turned back to the bar. As he lifted his drink, he heard a low voice at his elbow.
“Hey, sexy. Remember me?” He turned, and the guy he had fucked previously stood at his side. Thomas had no idea of his name.
“Hey, you,” he said carefully. “How’ve you been?”
The man licked his lips. “Well, much better since I saw you sitting here. I still think about that time.”
Glenn? Ken? Thomas tried desperately to recall a name. He didn’t know why he should bother, except suddenly he didn’t want to be the asshole who fucked guys and forgot them. “Sure. That was fun,” he said. He had a vague recollection that the guy was really flexible.
The man reached out his hand and lightly brushed his fingers over Thomas’s forearm. “So much fun,” he agreed. “You had me twisted up like a pretzel.”
Thomas turned his body slightly as he moved his arm away and said, “Well, it’s nice you stopped by.”
The man—Denny?—didn’t take the hint. He leaned closer to Thomas and cooed, “I could really go for a rematch tonight. The things you did with my body were just amazing.”
Thomas felt his stomach tighten and sweat dampened his palms. He kept a light voice as he said, “I’m flattered, but I’m sure I told you I don’t do repeats.”
“Hmm… what if we change it up a bit?” the man
pressed again. “The hot number by the door I saw you eye-fucking. I bet he’d be up for a little three-way with you and me. That wouldn’t exactly be a repeat.”
Thomas started to get annoyed. “Then you should go talk to him, but leave me out of your plans. I’m not interested.”
The man stepped back and gave a snort of disgust. “Fine. You’re too old for me anyway. I was just going to throw a pity fuck your way.” He turned and left, thankfully without throwing a glass at Thomas’s head.
Thomas sighed and took a sip of his drink. He heard Torres say, “For all this game you supposedly have, you sure do piss off a lot of people.”
Thomas whirled, ready to snipe back, but Torres had a look on her face that was more amused than condescending. Randy was behind the bar again, his face slightly white and his jaw set. Thomas asked a question with his eyes, and Randy mouthed the word Later.
He forced himself to relax, turned back to Torres, and said with a shrug, “Like I told you, everyone gets the memo, but some forget.”
“It must be lonely, though,” she said, looking Thomas in the eye. “Did you ever want to break your own rule?”
I already did with Zach.
“Are we continuing the interrogation now, Detective?” Thomas asked, though he tried to keep his tone light.
She glanced around. No one other than Randy was near the two of them at the moment, and she asked in a soft voice, “What is your relationship with Terry Krasnopoler?”
Thomas nearly reeled back in surprise. “With Terry? What are you talking about? We’re just friends.”
Randy said nearby, “Maybe you want to talk in one of the other rooms where it’s quieter. Or use my office. I don’t care.”
Torres stepped back, checked to see if Thomas was following, and led the way to Randy’s office, for all the world like it was her own.
In Randy’s office Torres closed the door behind them and sat in one of Randy’s visitor chairs. Thomas took the other one. “What’s this about Terry, Detective?”
Every Breath You Take Page 12