Chapter 19

RANDY HEARD heavy silence over the phone. When Torres finally spoke, her voice was flat. “They remind you of Charles Rumson. The Charles Rumson you assured me died two years ago.”

“I stand by our investigation. Every fact we had available at the time showed an open-and-shut suicide. Still there’s something familiar in the face, at least what I can see of it. Maybe a brother?”

“Okay. Forward the photos to me, and I’ll see what we can do. Maybe the forensics team can enhance the image. Anything else, Mr. Vaughan?”

“No, that’s it. I’ll send ’em as soon as we hang up.” He did so, and then he debated whether to mention anything to Thomas. But he didn’t want to stir that particular shit pot unless he had a good reason.

THREE DAYS later Torres took the question of whether to talk to Thomas out of Randy’s hands. She came into the bar at seven thirty on Sunday when Thomas happened to be in. Randy tensed when he saw her approach the bar holding a large envelope.

“Mal, can you cover for fifteen?” he asked his bar back.

“Sure, boss. It’s slow so far,” Malcolm answered.

“Thomas, I have a feeling you might want to be part of this,” he said as he nodded in Torres’s direction. He signaled her to come to his office, and Thomas joined them, mystified.

When Randy had closed his office door, he crossed his arms and let Torres speak. “Our forensics people did what they could with the images, but since they were taken with an older model cell phone camera in poor lighting conditions, there wasn’t a lot of enhancement they could bring in. But see if you recognize him,” she instructed as she pulled two eight-by-ten pictures out of the envelope.

“What’s going on, Randy?” Thomas asked. “Who took the pictures?”

As he handled the photos, Randy grunted, “Zachary Hall. These were on his phone, and I asked Detective Torres to see if she could make them clearer.” He looked at the two images, one in each hand, and offered them to Thomas. “Here. See what you think.”

Thomas accepted the pictures. In each he could see part of his own face. The images were centered on a man with shaggy blond hair and glasses. Because of the magnification, the man’s face and features were blurry, and the light that reflected off his lenses obscured his eyes. The fact that Torres and Randy were both staring at Thomas clued him in, and his heart began to pound. He looked from the photos up to Randy’s face.

“You think this is Charles Rumson?”

“Question is, what do you think, Thomas?” Randy answered. “I never met the guy. I only saw file photos and blurry videos.”

Thomas looked again and tried to superimpose the hated memory on what he saw printed in his hands. He slowly shook his head, and Torres exhaled heavily. Thomas glanced at her and said, “I see what Randy is talking about, but it just doesn’t seem quite right. The hair is wrong, and I remember Charles with a thinner nose, kind of sharp and pointed. He was sort of, I don’t know, gaunt. This person has a rounder face. It’s been two years, though, so… maybe?”

Randy asked, “Did Charles have a brother?”

“No. He was an only child, like me.”

Torres took the photos back, and her shoulders slumped. “Damn. That was looking to be the first real lead we’ve turned up.”

Randy said to her, “Set aside for a minute whether this is Rumson back from the grave. Something is off about this guy staring at Thomas… or at Zachary.”

“Wait. Do you think this guy was involved with what happened to Brian Gallagher?” Thomas asked, and his jaw dropped at the implications.

“I remember noticing this guy not long before Gallagher was killed. The hair, mainly. From these pictures he was in the bar at least twice after that too.”

“The time-stamp on the second picture is about three weeks before Daniel Owen was killed,” Torres observed. “But you say you don’t recall seeing this man in here since around then?”

Randy nodded.

“I thought there was no connection to me or to Mata Hari,” Thomas directed at Torres.

“No connection we know of besides you and Mr. Krasnopoler having sex with Gallagher,” Torres said. “The second vic has no ties here that we can find. But we don’t have enough information to rule out that the killer started here.”

Randy added, “Or could come back.”

“Do you think Zachary is in danger?” Thomas heard the raw fear in his own voice.

“I don’t see how that could be.” Randy shook his head carefully. “Zachary took the second picture, what? Seven weeks ago? And I haven’t seen this guy around in a long time. Maybe since that night, even.”

“We have to tell him,” Thomas said. “If there’s the slightest chance—shit.”

“Do you have his number? I should interview Mr. Hall,” Torres observed.

Thomas nodded and reached for his phone. As he read the digits to Torres, his hands started to tremble. “Randy, I can’t have another stalker. I just can’t. And Charles is dead.”

“Buddy, I don’t know what to tell ya. The odds are astronomically against it, but my instincts tell me this guy”—Randy tapped the photos—“is wrong. Now it could be a complete coincidence he shows up in two photos of you, weeks apart.”

“Or it could mean something,” Torres finished. “Mr. Scarborough, can you give me anything to work with here? I can arrange for a police escort or a protective detail if you have anything that supports Mr. Vaughan’s concerns.”

Thomas sank into a desk chair. “Honestly nothing. I guess when I heard about Daniel Owen, I convinced myself that it really didn’t have anything to do with me. So maybe I haven’t been as careful or observant as I should be. But I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary that’s happened.” He looked up at Randy. “How could it possibly be Charles? I thought the investigation was conclusive.”

Randy frowned. “We reviewed all available evidence at the time, and the case was neat. It’s just that seeing these images put a funny thought in my head—that maybe it was too neat. Detective, you said you’ve read the Rumson file from Seattle PD, right? Did anything strike you as odd?”

Torres shrugged. “I reviewed it, and I assume it was the same file you saw.” She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a thick folder. “Since you mentioned Rumson when we talked, I brought this along. My captain would have my ass, but if I get it back tomorrow, he doesn’t need to know, does he?”

Randy took the file. “That’s good, Detective. I’ll review this tonight and see if I spot anything that could be useful. I can return it in the morning.”

She nodded. “I’m taking a big risk here, but one sick fucker is still out there. I don’t want him to strike again—not if there’s anything we can do to prevent that.”

Thomas asked Randy, “Is there anything I can do?” He clenched his gut and asked, “Should I look at the file too?”

Randy shook his head. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Let me go through it and see if I have any questions you might be able to help with. Why don’t you focus on talking to Zachary to make sure he keeps his guard up?”

“Good. Yes. Call Zach. I can do that.” Thomas tried to hide his relief at not facing Charles, even on paper, but he knew the other two weren’t fooled.

“I’ve got to get back to the bar. I’ll look this over later,” Randy said, and he slid the folder into his desk and locked it. “Thomas, you can stay in here to call, if you want.” He left to guide Torres back to the front of the house.

Thomas tapped his phone nervously. He hadn’t called Zach since he invited him to the museum, which seemed long ago. He’d fooled himself into thinking they could be friends, but then he fucked up even that by breaking his own rule and bringing Zach home with him a second time. He couldn’t be sorry about it, though.

That night with Zach was one of the most exciting, satisfying experiences of his life. Zach got under his skin like no one else and made Thomas long to set aside the armor and really take a chance on getting to know him. That was probably no longer possible. Zach had moved on, and Thomas had no one but himself to blame.

But reaching out that way, calling him out of the blue… he was afraid of having his words thrown back at him. He was afraid of being rejected.

“Fuck you,” Thomas muttered to himself. “This isn’t about your ego. Be his friend.” He dialed Zach’s number before he could change his mind.

It connected on the third ring. “Hello,” he heard Zach say cautiously.

“Zachary, it’s Thomas Scarborough.” Silence at the other end. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time, but I just need to talk to you for a minute.”

“Umm… this is fine. What can I do for you?” His voice was guarded, a bit distant.

“Look. Randy showed me those two pictures from your phone. This is going to sound odd, and I don’t mean to be an alarmist, but you know about the two gay men who were murdered in the past couple of months? Well, there’s a very small chance that the man in your pictures is involved.”

“What?” Zachary’s shock was palpable, even over the phone. “You think the murderer was in Mata Hari?”

“It’s just something the police are checking into, okay? I don’t want you to panic or do anything about it. I just want you to be careful.”

Silence again for a beat, and then Zachary asked, “Why do I need to be careful?”

Thomas tapped a finger on the desk. “The guy in your pictures seemed strangely focused on you and me. Remember, this is probably nothing at all. But you should know—the first man who was killed, Brian Gallagher? Well, I brought him home with me about a week before he was killed.” Silence again, and he could just imagine the look on Zachary’s face.

Shit.

“It was before I ever met you. And I didn’t know the second guy at all, I swear. It’s just a coincidence that I met Gallagher, and it was just one time.”

“Well, one and done. That’s the rule, right?” Zachary said in a voice grown rough.

“It was the rule….”

“Don’t you dare,” Zachary barked out. “Don’t you dare say anything about that second night or make a joke out of it.”

“I wasn’t going to. I just wanted you to know I never saw Gallagher before that one night, and it never happened again. I didn’t know Owen, the second victim, at all. There is every reason to think this is just a coincidence and the man in the pictures you took has no connection to any of it. I just thought you deserved to know so you can be vigilant.”

“Vigilant.” Zachary sounded disgusted. “It’s like you’re calling to tell me you might have given me an STD, except that instead of Chlamydia, I may be in the crosshairs of a killer. Because we had sex.”

“Oh my God. That’s not what I meant at all.” But he knew that, as harsh as Zachary’s judgment sounded, that was exactly what he was saying.

“Zach, I’m sorry. I didn’t call to upset you or to make you afraid. I wanted to call you before, so many times. I’d pick up the phone and then just stare at it. I didn’t want to crowd you, and I know you’ve started seeing someone. But you needed to know this. Shit, I should have had Randy call.”

“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.