Chapter 22

THOMAS’S FOREHEAD glistened with a sheen of sweat when Randy finished explaining what he and Detective Torres had learned. He tossed back the scotch that Randy had pressed into his hand right before he dragged Thomas into his office.

The terror of those weeks in Seattle, when Charles was absolutely everywhere, poured through him. The helplessness he felt when no one would listen or, even worse, blamed him for somehow leading Charles on. The panic when he found Charles naked in his bedroom. In his own bedroom, goddammit.

Thomas turned and hurled his glass against the wall of Randy’s office. “Jesus Christ, Randy. How can this be happening to me again?”

Randy held up his hands as he tried to calm Thomas down. “Look. I’m telling you what we’re investigating. I’m not telling you it’s Rumson for sure or even that you’re somehow connected to the murders. I just think you need to know. That glass is coming out of your profits, by the way.”

Thomas glared at him. “Don’t make jokes, Randy. You’re trying to handle me, and that isn’t what I need.”

“What do you need?” Randy asked gently.

“I—I don’t know.” Thomas ran his hands through his hair and then tugged until his scalp hurt. “No, that’s not true. I need to know Charles Rumson is burning in hell now, not going after people just because I fucked them.”

“Is there any chance that his mother would tell you the truth or that you’d believe her if she said Charles was dead?” Randy asked.

Thomas looked at him, wide-eyed. “I… doubt it. I never had any contact with her or Charles’s father after he killed himself. Not much before either. They were acquaintances of my parents—business or country club associates at best.”

“Well, what about your father? Could he press the issue?”

Thomas grimaced and clenched his jaw. Mason Scarborough had done everything he could to drive the embarrassment that was his son out of Seattle and away from lucrative development deals with Rumson Global. “No. He won’t so much as make a call about this if I ask him.”

“Okay. We’ll have to leave that to Torres and see what she can do through official channels.” Randy called up the two images of the shaggy-haired man on his computer and positioned them side by side. “I dunno, Thomas. This was my idea, but if this is Rumson, why has it been so long since he did anything violent?”

“Oh God. Zach was right,” Thomas moaned.

“About what?”

“I called him yesterday to let him know, just about the possibility that this had to do with someone targeting people around me. He said it was like I’d given him an STD and made him a victim because he slept with me.” Thomas turned green and swallowed hard. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Randy pushed him into his small private bathroom just in time. Thomas heaved up the scotch and everything he’d eaten that day. Randy rubbed his shoulder awkwardly until the retching stopped. When Thomas dropped to the bathroom floor and leaned against the wall, Randy handed him some paper towels and a cup of water and flushed the mess away.

When Thomas had calmed a bit, Randy said, “Thomas, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Zachary, but I know it’s different than anything you’ve had since I met you. I already know that you slept together more than once, but it’s not even just that. The look in your eyes when his name comes up, the fact that you haven’t pulled any playmates since you met him…. You’ve got it bad for him.”

Thomas didn’t try to deny it, but he hung his head. “It doesn’t matter. I waited too long, and Zachary moved on. And he’s right. I may have put him in danger as surely as if I’d given him a disease.”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Thomas. Yeah, he’s seeing someone—this guy named Sam I guess, but he’s got it as bad as you do. Talk to him, Thomas. Help him be safe, at least. We’ll talk to Torres if we get confirmation of any of this shit, and we’ll arrange a protective watch for him. Just in case Rumson knows who he is and is following him.”

ZACHARY’S HEART was pounding, and he tried to calm down and tell himself he was being an idiot. “Hey, Sam,” he called out.

“Yeah?” he heard from the kitchen.

“Can I grab some aspirin or something? This headache still won’t go away.”

“Sure. You know where the bathroom is. There should be a bottle of Advil in the medicine cabinet.” Zachary heard Sam close up the dishwasher. He made his way down the hall, arguing with himself.

This is ridiculous. Sam had nothing to do with two murders or what’s going on with Thomas. It’s just a stupid coincidence, both of them being in Geneva at the same time.

It occurred to him that, although he’d been to Sam’s apartment four or five times, they’d never really moved beyond the living room. He’d never been shown around, except for a quick trip to point him to the hall bath. So he didn’t know which door led to Sam’s bedroom, how many rooms the place had—nothing.

He ignored the hall bathroom and tried the next door he came to. It was locked.

Why would you lock a door inside your apartment?

He listened and could still hear Sam in the kitchen as he ground coffee beans. His heart was in his throat, but he moved down the hallway to the next door, which seemed to be on the same side of the hallway as the living room. He carefully turned the knob.

That one opened into a large bedroom. It had to be Sam’s, he figured, because of the king-size bed and the row of windows facing the National Gallery. A low lamp burned on the bedside table. He could see a bathroom, and he headed that way. If Sam came in, he could always say he was searching for aspirin and thought this was the bathroom Sam meant.

He slipped across the room quickly, but he had no idea what he was looking for. What would show him he was wrong? The chest of drawers along one wall called to him.

He listened again. A cabinet door closed, and he heard the clink of china. Sam was still preparing the coffee. He began pulling drawers open quickly and shutting them again as quietly as he could. Underwear, socks, T-shirts, polos…. He paused and listened. He heard no sound from the kitchen.

Shit.

He hurriedly slid open a final drawer on the bottom right of the dresser, and he gasped. A blond wig lay nestled on top of a pair of glasses with silver frames. And was that a prosthetic nose?

The man from the bar had hair and glasses exactly like those in his pictures. But even more than that….

He remembered sitting outside the National Gallery of Art weeks earlier, when a man passed by and looked at him too long—a man with the same hair and glasses.

It was Sam. It had always been Sam.

Zachary was on his knees, stunned, and he sat back on his heels. Behind him he heard, “Well, shit. Time for Plan B.”

Before he could turn, something smashed into his head, and everything went black.