Chapter 21

ZACHARY ARRIVED at Sam’s apartment that evening with a bit of a headache. After his sleepless night, he couldn’t get the call with Thomas out of his mind. Was it really possible a killer had been that close to them in Mata Hari? And Thomas’s words—what had all that meant? About his being damaged?

When Thomas called him “Zach,” he felt it in his chest—that recollection of a few nights of intimacy that would never be repeated. It was shitty for him to even think about Thomas and how he had pined for something that could never be.

His guilt persuaded him not to mention to Sam anything about his conversation with Thomas. Even the most innocuous comment about the killer would lead to a discussion that Zachary wasn’t ready to have. He wanted to focus on Sam and not get bogged down in something stupid and pointless that had gotten up his hopes, once upon a time.

Sam kissed him hello at the apartment door and held on a little longer than usual as he tightened his hands a bit around Zachary’s waist. Despite Zachary’s resolve to move things forward, he suddenly felt a flash of nerves and broke the kiss to press a bottle of wine into Sam’s hands.

“Oh, thanks. I missed you,” Sam said, and Zachary felt bad all over again. “You look tired. Bad day at the office?”

“Yeah. Just some tough personnel issues I’m working through with one of the field offices.” Zachary hung his jacket in Sam’s coat closet and said, “Sorry. I’ll shake it off in a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry about it. Fix yourself a drink and have a seat while I work on dinner.”

Zachary smiled wanly at Sam. “Thanks for the free pass. You’re a prince among men.”

Sam laughed. “No, I’m selfish. I want you to have a chance to unwind so we can enjoy our evening together.” He pushed Zachary toward the living room and said again, “Have a drink, and I’ll join you in a few.”

Zachary poured himself a vodka tonic from the mirrored bar cart at the side of the living room and sank onto the sofa to enjoy the view. The National Gallery was gorgeous in the twilight and glowed in its uplights against the backdrop of a sapphire-and-amethyst sky. Sam bustled around in the kitchen. The sound of him chopping vegetables on a cutting board helped Zachary relax as he nursed his drink.

AT MATA Hari, Randy’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He signaled for Malcolm to take some customers. Then he turned around as he retrieved the phone and saw Torres’s number flash up. “Evening, Detective,” he answered. “Any information?”

“Just Torres is fine. Yeah, I have some intel,” she said. “I got off the phone with the Seattle police officer who annotated the Rumson file. His best recollection is that First Washington identified a large transfer of funds from Rumson’s account after his date of death. But when he called Rumson’s mother, she told him it was just part of dealing with his estate and not to worry about it. He wouldn’t have remembered, except we’re talking about more than six million dollars.”

Randy whistled. “I’d remember that too. But why would First Washington contact the police? An executor transferring funds would have to use letters testamentary, which would be registered first with the bank.”

“Good point. I don’t know if I can get anywhere with the bank, but I’ll give it a try tomorrow.”

“It’s three hours earlier in Seattle,” Randy commented wryly, and Torres grunted.

“You sound like my captain, Randy. Okay. I’ll give it a shot now. Hey, one other thing came up. The officer I talked to pulled up his own notes to help me out with Rumson. He was the one who called Mrs. Rumson because he had met her when she came to the morgue to claim Charles’s body. She had been almost panicked, he said, when she came to the station. She swung around her husband’s name like a club to get the body released to her and out of there as quickly as possible. The commissioner was a personal friend, so things happened a lot faster than was usual, and Rumson’s body was released and cremated before the day was out.”

“I suppose, at the time, it would have just seemed like grief.”

“Agreed, so what stood out to this officer was that, when he got hold of Mrs. Rumson to ask about the money, he was all prepared for a big emotional scene again. Instead she was calm and matter-of-fact about the whole thing, like it was just a business transaction. This is less than six weeks after Rumson’s death, remember, which seems like a short time to get over the suicide of your child.”

Randy asked flatly, “Do you think there was a cover-up?”

“I don’t know exactly what I’m thinking, Randy,” Torres confessed. “We have a man who was obsessed with Scarborough to the point of breaking into his apartment and contacting him relentlessly at work. This same stalker broke a restraining order but apparently never attempted to harm or threaten Scarborough. We have a very public series of attention-grabbing displays before Rumson’s car plunges off a cliff. We have a mother who sweeps in and pulls strings to arrange the immediate release and cremation of her son’s body before an autopsy can be performed. And then we have six million dollars that apparently moved after Rumson’s death, but his mother waves it off calmly as no big deal.

“And then, two years later, we have a sadistic killer torturing young gay men, one of whom had sex with Scarborough. We have two photos of a man who has some resemblance to Rumson but whom Scarborough doesn’t ID or rule out as his stalker. I’m not saying I’m not suspicious, but there’s not enough here to take to my captain, let alone to a DA. And even if I did, what would I be asking for?”

“I hear you, Torres. You need something from the bank or from the mother to connect the dots better.”

“Exactly. I’ll try the bank now, but I have to brief my captain before I reach out to the family.”

“Let me know if you want to talk more. Maybe bounce ideas off,” Randy said.

“I appreciate that. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Randy stewed about it all evening. Part of it was professional. His team had reviewed that file and told Senator Gilbert the case was pristine. The bigger part of it was personal. Thomas was his friend. He had made up his mind when he saw Thomas walk through the door and into Mata Hari. Thomas needed to know what they had found, as little as it was.

ZACHARY DIDN’T say much through the dinner Sam had prepared for him, except to compliment him on the perfectly done pork chops and to make light conversation. His head ached with the strain Thomas had dropped on him and the lack of sleep, but Sam seemed okay with the low-key evening. They sat side by side at Sam’s glass dining room table, both facing the wall of windows and the evening sky.

“I’m really sorry, Sam,” Zachary said. “I don’t mean to be moody and quiet. It’s just work and stress are getting to me today.”

And guilt.

Sam took his hand and kissed the back of it. “Relax. I’m enjoying your company. We don’t have to sit and gab every evening. Honestly I like just being with you this way too.”

“You’re so sweet,” Zachary said.

“Speaking of sweet, I got you something on my trip. Don’t get nervous. It’s just a little present. I’ll save the big flashy gifts for when we’ve known each other longer.” Sam waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “Or maybe biblically.”

Zachary laughed as Sam got up and retrieved a silver-foil box wrapped in a blue ribbon. “It’s some really good Swiss chocolate. I picked it up in Geneva before I came back to the States last night.”

It was on the tip of Zachary’s tongue to comment on the coincidence of Thomas and Sam both being in Geneva at the same time, but he caught himself. Sam didn’t know Thomas, and Zachary certainly didn’t want to explain why he knew where Thomas was traveling. That would open the door to a lengthy conversation Zachary wasn’t prepared for.

“I love chocolate,” he exclaimed instead. “When I was swimming in college, it was always a struggle with my coach. I’d say I was burning enough calories to eat a box at a time, and he’d call me lard ass. We were very close.” He pulled off the bow, opened the box, and helped himself to one of the chocolates inside before he offered the box to Sam. “Oh, that’s so good,” he moaned as the treat melted in his mouth.

“I’m glad you like it,” Sam said, but he declined any chocolate. “Do you feel like some coffee? I can put on a pot while I do the dishes.”

“I should clean up since you cooked for me,” Zachary protested, but Sam shushed him.

“I can tell you’re exhausted and you’ve had a bad day. Let me take care of you tonight. It really won’t take long to load the washer.”

“My grandmother would spank me for my bad manners, but I’ll just say thank you,” Zachary murmured.

“You go sit on the sofa. I’ll put some John Williams on for you, and then I’ll come join you when the coffee is ready.” He kissed Zachary on the top of his head and collected their plates and silverware.

Zachary did as instructed and leaned back into the luxurious sofa to watch traffic move along the Mall. He bit his lip as he considered Thomas’s warning again. It was ridiculous to think he could be a target. He was nobody.

Except that he had had sex with Thomas, and so had one of the two victims. Well, by that measure, probably hundreds of men were targets, and he wished that didn’t still bother him. Thomas was clear from the beginning about his own promiscuity, at least. What he wasn’t clear about was how he was damaged and why. And the mixed messages he sent about his feelings for Zachary—like he wanted him to know something important but couldn’t lower his guard enough to share.

Dammit.

Zachary’s thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Randy and his odd reaction when Zachary had used the word “stalker.” Could Thomas have been the victim of a stalker? That fit the current situation, maybe. Was it recent? No, that didn’t make sense, since Thomas’s one-and-done rule seemed to have been in place for a long time.

He could hear Sam bustling around the kitchen as he loaded the dishwasher. He shouldn’t be thinking about Thomas. He should focus on Sam. Sam just got him, and he liked the same music, the same books, and the same movies.

Zachary frowned. It really was remarkable how much Sam and he had in common. He couldn’t have asked for a man with so many of the same interests and who was always ready to do exactly what Zachary wanted.

Except show up at the shelter. He canceled at the last minute before their Star Trek marathon, then had an excuse why he couldn’t come any other time Zachary asked. Then he thought about the one missing photo from his phone—the selfie he took with Sam when they stood in line for a movie. It was almost like someone deleted that single picture from his phone. Who?

No. Why?

Maybe because that person didn’t want to risk it being seen by someone. But who would know Sam, that he’d even worry about that? He was just a nice, quiet consultant who brought Zachary chocolate. He was Sam, who’d just come back from Geneva.

Thomas had been in Geneva.