Chapter 20

ZACHARY SPENT a sleepless night thrashing in his sheets. Fuck Thomas Scarborough and his beautiful face and his perfect body.

He drove his fist into the down pillow and then turned it over, looking for a cool spot. He was flushed with anger and frustration. Maybe Thomas owed him no explanations, but this was huge. The times they had spent together, both in and out of the bedroom, the moments of intimacy real or imagined, yet Thomas hadn’t so much as hinted he might be putting Zachary in harm’s way. Who did that? Maybe Thomas the Asshole wasn’t as much of an act as Zachary had convinced himself.

Despite his anger Zachary couldn’t believe himself to be in any danger, not really. To learn that Thomas had sex with that poor man, Brian Gallagher, before he died, that was painful at a level Zachary never even imagined. But even worse was to recall those halting phrases from Thomas. His concern. His suggestions that he had wanted something more.

Goddammit. Zachary was seeing Sam. Even if it was going slower than he might have liked, they had a good time together. Sam was kind and sweet and not afraid to show his feelings. He was perfect for Zachary.

So why was he awake at three a.m.? Why was he remembering Thomas’s body under him as he drove his cock inside and made Thomas moan and come apart? He found no answers, or at least none he could live with.

Zachary did finally manage a few hours of sleep and woke to a text message from Sam, which immediately made him feel guilty for his nighttime struggles.

Hey, Z. Got back on red-eye. I missed you. Can we have dinner?

Yes. That was what he needed—to spend some time with Sam and get fucking Thomas out of his head and out of his heart.

Great. Where and when?

He figured Sam was probably asleep after his late-night flight home from wherever, but by the time he got out of the shower, Sam had invited him to his apartment that evening for dinner in and a movie. Zachary confirmed, and during his commute to work, he thought about pushing the relationship to a more physical one. Frankly he was horny after all that reminiscing about Thomas, and he felt he and Sam were ready for the next step.

RANDY WAS awake at what was—for him, since his retirement—an ungodly hour. He had carried the file on Rumson home from the bar after closing and spread it on his dining room table. It took him hours to go through the materials and check the details against his recollection of the investigation when his team vetted Thomas. After all that, only one item puzzled him. He wanted to talk to his former deputy at the Secret Service to discuss it. That was why he was up again at eight to call his buddy. He hoped to catch her on her way to DC before the day got crazy.

Lily Woods picked up right away. “Randy. This is a surprise. How’s the bar doing?”

Randy chuckled, “Off to a good start. No bar fights, no crazy agents to corral. I shoulda done this a long time ago.”

“Don’t bullshit me, RV. You’re bored, aren’t you?” she asked. Randy smiled at the old nickname, which was based on his initials and a memorable training exercise involving a Winnebago at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center a few years earlier.

“No way. Being a bar owner may not come with the thrills of tailing a protectee, but I don’t have to wear a black suit every day. That’s gotta count for something.”

“If you say so. Don was just asking about you yesterday. We should all get together for lunch soon.”

“That’d be good. Or you can all come by the bar. Drinks on me.” As soon as he said it, Randy knew it was a bad idea. Secret Service agents in his gay piano bar. Yeah, no. It was their discovery he was gay and that he kept that secret from his team and the agency for years that drove the final spike into his career. And let’s not forget Trevor and his contribution to my early retirement. Randy shook his head to clear it. Another day.

Lily laughed nervously and changed the subject. “Why are you calling so early, RV? I figured retirement at least meant sleeping in.”

“Do you remember about two years back, when we vetted Jason Scarborough for Senator Gilbert’s staff?” he asked.

“The good-looking guy with the stalker? Sure, I remember.”

“Do you recall anything odd about that investigation? Anything that didn’t add up?” he asked.

“What’s this about, Randy?” Lily asked, and he could picture her frown.

“I’m not asking about anything classified. Something has come up. It’s nothing to do with Service business, but I had a reason to look back at the Seattle PD file on the stalker, Charles Rumson.”

“And you want to know if we missed anything?” Lily prompted.

“Not exactly. Well, maybe. If you think I’m out of line, I’ll drop it, Lily. It’s just… I saw a picture recently of a guy who reminds me too much of Rumson. I need to know if there’s a possibility he faked his death.”

Shit. There it was, out in the open. Lily might refuse to answer him. She might even report that he was nosing around old files and draw attention he didn’t care to have anymore.

The silence stretched, and Lily finally said, “There was one thing that bothered me. Rumson’s mother… she came to the morgue alone to identify the body a few hours after it was brought in. I had given birth to Kirstin a few months earlier, so I was only just back from maternity leave when this happened. I remember thinking, if that were my child, I could never deal with it by myself, or so efficiently.”

“Huh. I never thought about it that way,” Randy said. “The guy was all over the news before the actual crash, so I just assumed that was why she was there so quickly.”

“That may be right. We interviewed her, of course, and I think she said something like that. Once Mrs. Rumson ID’d her son, the family refused to authorize an autopsy. They had the body out of the morgue and to the funeral home that same day. Nothing improper about that, of course. It just struck me as unusually cold.”

“Do you recall anything about Rumson’s finances?” Randy asked.

“Hmm. No, nothing special comes to mind. He was rich, I recall. A trust-fund guy. But that’s it. What have you got?”

“The Seattle PD file contains a note about the First Washington Bank trust department calling to report a financial red flag after Rumson’s death, but then there’s a follow-up note less than two hours later that says the issue was resolved with the family. No specific details.”

Lily apparently thought about it and then said, “That doesn’t ring a bell at all. Not saying I would have done anything more with it if the family reported no issue, but I would have remembered that. When was this?”

Randy checked the case file. “June first.”

“We wrapped our report in May. I think May twentieth.” She always remembered dates, so Randy took her recollection at face value.

“So this was something that turned up after we vetted Scarborough, and it wasn’t significant enough for anyone to bring it to our attention,” Randy summarized.

“Sounds right to me,” Lily said. “Before you ask, RV, I don’t think I could call Seattle for more information without getting an official go-ahead and explaining why to SPD. Is that something you want?”

“No, Lily. Thanks. I’ll let the local police decide if they want to take this further.”

They chatted for a few minutes more, but the gulf between a retired and an active agent meant they had little more of substance they were able to discuss. The call ended with a promise by Lily to stay in touch.

Randy called Detective Torres next and explained what he had found. “Look, it’s not much, I know, and I don’t mean to distract you by pointing at a ghost.”

“I understand, Mr. Vaughan.”

“Randy.”

“Okay. Randy. And if I had anything else to go on, this would get pushed back. But I don’t have another angle, so I’ll call Seattle and see if I can find out anything more about the financial issue. A serial killer rarely stops at two, and there is no doubt in my mind that’s what we’re dealing with—a serial killer preying on gay men. I hear a ticking clock in my head.”