The Element Case Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Blurb

  Fireborn Publishing Copyright Statement

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About the Author

  Titles by Edward Kendrick

  BLURB

  Clay Richardson is a well-known artist who owns his own gallery.

  Quint Hawk, a police detective, makes contact with Clay when he sees a portrait Clay has painted in the window of the gallery—a portrait of a homeless young man who was murdered just days before. Unfortunately, Clay has no idea who the subject was.

  Several months later, Quint contacts Clay to again ask about one of Clay's paintings. The subject has been murdered, as has a third man in another of his paintings.

  The reclusive artist and the handsome detective are drawn to each other as they try to determine what is happening and why. They come up with a plan to catch the killer—a plan that could end up in their deaths before they can decide if there is more to their feelings than a couple of very good nights in Clay's bed.

  FIREBORN PUBLISHING COPYRIGHT STATEMENT

  The Element Case

  Copyright © 2015 by Edward Kendrick

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-943528-46-2

  First eBook Publication: January 2016

  Cover Artist: Allison Cassatta

  Photo Credit: 123rf/Dollar Photos

  Editor: Jamie D. Rose

  Logo copyright © 2014 by Fireborn Publishing and Allison Cassatta

  Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED UNDER INTERNATIONAL AND PAN-AMERICAN COPYRIGHT CONVENTIONS: Payment for this title grants the purchaser the right to download and read this file on any/all personal electronic devices personally owned by the purchaser, now or in the future, and to maintain backup copies of the file for the purchaser's personal use. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or electronic storage and retrieval, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. File sharing, with or without payment, is an international crime, prosecuted by the United States DoJ, Division of Cyber Crimes, in partnership with Interpol. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by seizure of computers, up to five years in federal prison, and a fine of $250,000 per offense.

  Please remember that authors are paid per legal purchase. We thank you for your support of author’s rights and their earnings. If you spot illegal cut-rate or free copies of this work being passed on peer-to-peer or other pirate sites, even those masquerading as legitimate retailers, please let us know at [email protected] or via the author’s personal email.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  This book is written in US English.

  PUBLISHER

  DEDICATION

  For Jimi and his-soon-to-be wife, Kyle

  TRADEMARKS ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Corvette: General Motors LLC

  LoDo: LoDo District, Inc.

  McCormick's (restaurant): McCormick & Schmick's Inc.

  Realtor: National Association of Realtor's Corporation

  Techniques of Crime Scene Investigation: Barry AJ Fisher & David R Fisher

  Brown Palace Hotel: CH Realty Vi/H Denver Brown Palace L.P. / Marriott International, Inc.

  The Hardy Boys: Franklin W. Dixon

  The Old Spaghetti Factory: OSF International, Inc.

  CHAPTER ONE

  "What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" Clay replied scathingly.

  "Sketching."

  "Score one for the home team."

  "You're very good," the young man commented, peering down at the drawing Clay was doing of one of the men on the dance floor.

  Disgusted by the interference, Clay snapped the sketchpad closed, put it on the bar, and took a long pull on his beer.

  "Prick," the guy muttered as he walked away.

  Ignoring the comment, Clay opened the pad again and, after resting his feet on the rungs of the empty stool next to him, went back to what he was doing. He had a concept for his next painting that required dancing bodies in motion, and where better to find them than here at a club where he was a fairly regular patron.

  He finished two sketches and was starting on a third when, again, someone tried to interrupt him.

  "I know you," a deep voice said from behind him.

  "Well, I don't know you," Clay replied after taking a quick look at the man, "and I'd like to keep it that way."

  There was a low chuckle then the man said, "The kid was right. You are a prick."

  "So I've been told more than once."

  "Not the best way to win friends and influence potential buyers."

  "Since you're neither, I'm not too worried about it."

  Again the man chuckled. "Now how do you know that, Mr Richardson? Perhaps I'm interested in purchasing one of the paintings that I saw at your gallery."

  "Then talk to the manager, Amanda Dane. She handles that." Clay finally turned to face the man, who looked about his age, if a bit older—a man who sported a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache. "Why the hell are you bothering me here?"

  "Because I can?" The man smiled, holding out his hand. "I'm Quinton Hawk. Quint for short."

  "Apparently you know who I am, so I'll forego introducing myself in return," Clay said, ignoring Quint's outstretched hand. "Now if you don't mind, scram. I have better things to do than try to make nice at the moment."

  Instead of leaving, Quint pulled out the stool Clay was using as a footrest—forcing Clay to move his feet—and sat down. "Buy you a drink?" Quint asked.

  Clay's mouth tightened angrily as he held up his half-empty bottle. "I have one."

  Quint glanced at it then ordered water with a lemon twist. "You have a good eye," he said after taking a drink.

  "That's why I draw and you…don't."

  "Presumptuous, but true. An artist I'm not."

  "But you know what you like," Clay retorted with a sneer.

  "Yep. I wasn't kidding when I said there's a painting of yours at the gallery I'm interested in—Element of Woe."

  Clay shrugged, going back to his sketching.

  "All right, cards on the table, something I should have done to begin with. But after watching you put that kid down, I couldn't help yanking your chain a bit to see if you were an ass with everyone."

  "Now you know that I am." Clay wanted to get up and walk away but what Quint had said piqued his interest. "What cards?"

  Before replying, Quint took out his wallet, opening it to show Clay his badge. "I'm a detective with the DPD."

  "Okay. And that concerns me why?"

  "Because I need to know who the young man in Element of Woe is."

  "I'm sorry. I don't know his name. I did a couple of sketches of him when I saw him in a park and turned them into that painting."

  "Damn."

  "Why the interest in him?"

  "A man was murdered a week ago, on May eighth. I passed you
r gallery this morning, saw the painting, and realized the guy in it was the spitting image of the murder victim. When I asked the woman at the desk how to get in contact with you, she gave me your phone number. I tried calling you but…"

  Clay nodded. "I don't answer it unless I'm in the mood. How did you manage to track me down here?"

  "Triangulation. Not an exact science but it got me in the neighborhood and from there it was just footwork."

  "You must have been pretty desperate."

  "The young man who was murdered died hard."

  "I'm sorry. I wish I could help you, but as I said, I only saw him in the park."

  "Which one?"

  "Skyline. Downtown."

  "I know where it is. Was he alone?"

  "He seemed to be. That's why he caught my attention. There were a lot of people around but he was sitting by himself on Block Fountain." Clay snorted. "Why they call it a fountain when there's no water… But that's beside the point. He was sort of curled up against one of the blocks, looking like he'd lost his last friend. He caught my eye. I sketched him and he became the centerpiece of the painting."

  Quint nodded. "At least that gives us a starting point, presuming that wasn't the first time he was there. Given that he seems to have been homeless, I suspect he hung around that area, at least sometimes."

  "Where was he—? Where did you find his body?"

  "Down by Cherry Creek. Not all that far from Skyline."

  Clay shook his head. "I wish I could have been more help."

  "Not your fault." Quint stood, started to leave, then said, "There are times I wish I had the guts to be as cantankerous as you."

  "It's all in the attitude. Act like an ass in public and people leave you alone."

  "Not an option in my case, considering what I do. As my mother used to say, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar." Quint chuckled. "I never did figure out why you'd want to catch flies. Anyway, thanks for your help. At least it sort of pinpoints the area he probably hung out at."

  "Welcome," Clay replied. He watched the detective walk away, grabbed his pencil, and did a quick sketch from memory of Quint's face. He'd be a good subject for a painting. He shook his head. Not like he'd be willing, I'm sure. Getting back to what he'd been doing before the detective had interrupted him, he focused in on a pair of young men on the dance floor and knocked out some rapid sketches.

  * * * *

  Two weeks had passed since he'd met Detective Hawk at the club, and Clay had pretty much forgotten about the encounter. Although occasionally he did wonder if the police had found out who murdered the boy who had been the subject of Element of Woe.

  Clay threw himself into his next painting, using all the sketches he'd made at the club as starting points. When he wasn't working—which was rarely—he spent his time outside, looking for new subjects that might inspire him.

  Late one afternoon, needing a break, Clay left his loft and headed through downtown to the creek. As he lived not too far from it, in an older building that he'd bought into when it had been turned into lofts several years ago, it wasn't much of a hike. It was late spring, the day was warm, the sky bright blue, and there was a light breeze that made the walk pleasant.

  He found a vacant bench along the bike path, took out his sketchpad then looked for a likely subject or two. On the other side of the creek, along the pedestrian path, he saw a young couple sitting on the concrete bank at the edge of the water. From the way they were dressed, he figured they had just gotten off work and were enjoying the weather before going home. If he had to guess, he'd have said they were, if not married, at least in a relationship, from the way they smiled at each other as they talked.

  After doing several sketches of them, he turned his attention to an older man walking with a child who must have been his grandson. The boy kept darting to the edge of the creek, only to be called back by the man. Clay caught the man's worried expression in one sketch; and in another one, the boy's delight at seeing a duck floating on the water.

  When he'd finished, he closed the pad, put it back in his messenger bag along with his pencils, and walked to the 16th Street Mall, intent on finding somewhere to eat before going home. Of course, being him, he chose a restaurant with a patio and managed to do a few more sketches of the patrons and the people sitting on the benches on the pedestrian promenade.

  One young man in particular caught his eye. Slender, with shoulder-length black hair, he was sitting on the low wall in front of a building opposite Clay. The young man's face was alight with happiness as he leaned back, staring up at the darkening sky. Quickly, Clay did several sketches, catching the play of light and shadow on his subject's face and body. My next painting, once I've finished Bodies in Motion. He wasn't certain what he'd title it, but he knew it would come to him as he worked.

  CHAPTER TWO

  September arrived and with it, Clay's newest show at his gallery. The opening was in two hours and Clay was, as always, ruing the day he'd agreed with Amanda that it behooved him to show up dressed for the occasion. He was a jeans and T-shirt—or sweatshirt when cooler weather arrived—kind of guy. He had no use for suits and ties. "And for damned sure not tuxes," he grumbled, checking his image in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. "Hair combed? Check." He ran his fingers through his longish brown hair, undoing most of what the comb had put in place. "Better. I don't want people thinking I'm a businessman instead of an eccentric artist." His hazel eyes seemed more green than otherwise at the moment but he knew that was only because of the lighting. At the gallery they'd definitely be amber.

  After straightening his bowtie one more time, he checked his pockets to be certain he had everything, picked up the car keys from the dresser, then walked to the front door. He heaved a sigh as he locked up since he'd much rather have been in the studio at the far end of the loft working on his next painting, but that wasn't an option. He took the elevator down to the garage, waved at Joey, the attendant, then got into his '64, silver-gray Corvette coupe. The car had been his grandfather's, purchased just prior the man's death at the age of seventy. Clay always figured it was Grandpa's one last grab at life before the cancer ended it.

  Ten minutes later, Clay was getting out of his car in the parking garage next to his gallery in the Golden Triangle. Once on the sidewalk, he stopped momentarily to look at the stone-slab front of the gallery with the red awnings over the windows. Then, priming himself, he walked inside.

  "About time you got here," Amanda said, coming up to give him a hug. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided that this time you were going to be a no-show."

  "Now would I do that?" Clay responded with a smile.

  "In a heartbeat, if you didn't know I'd get on your ass about it."

  He chuckled. "Too true."

  "And go comb your hair while I open the doors for the throngs of people who want to see your latest works of art."

  "What throngs? When I came in there was no one waiting."

  "There will be in ten, nine, eight…"

  Shaking his head, Clay walked over to the table at one side of the room to get a glass of wine from the server and a couple of canapés off one of the trays. Then he walked slowly around the gallery, studying his paintings. The pièce de résistance was Element of Delight, the painting based on the sketches of a young man he'd seen downtown two months ago.

  "It is a delight," a woman said from beside him.

  Startled, he turned and saw that the gallery was beginning to fill with people. Bowing slightly to the woman, he thanked her. Soon other people joined them, some commenting on the painting, others asking him the usual questions that came up at an opening show: Where did he get his inspiration? How long did it take to do a painting?

  He answered them succinctly, occasionally gritting his teeth and taking a sip of wine to keep from snarling out his reply.

  Apparently Amanda realized, almost too late, that the stress of being polite was getting to him. She came over and suggested, sotto voce, he go into t
he office and take a few deep breaths before he snapped off the head of a potential buyer.

  He did so gladly, closing the door then sitting on the sofa across from their desks. A knock on the door heralded one of the servers with a fresh glass of wine. Clay took it gratefully, tossing back half. After a few minutes of downtime, he returned to the gallery. The crowds had thinned and most of the remaining people were either at the food table or congregated around Amanda at the front desk, waiting to catch her attention so they could pay for their purchases. They wouldn't be able to take them that night. The show would last for another week before Amanda took the sold paintings down, replacing them with some of Clay's other pieces and art work by two artists who also exhibited at the gallery on a regular basis.

  It was almost midnight when the last patron left and Amanda could lock the front door.

  "We made out like bandits," she said, grinning. "Especially on Element of Delight. Three people wanted to buy it, so I let them fight it out between themselves. Frank Miller won out, offering two thousand more than the asking price."

  "He's the man who bought Element of Woe. Right?"

  "Right. He told me he'd be hanging them side-by-side in his living room once we deliver Delight."

  Clay nodded. "I sort of like that idea."

  "I thought you would." She patted his arm. "Okay, you might as well head out. I have to wait until the servers have finished cleaning up then I'm going home for a well-earned rest."

  "Do you need a ride?"

  Amanda shook her head. "Nathan's on his way over to pick me up, so scoot."

  "Scooting," Clay replied with a laugh. "Call me in the morning if you need me for anything."

  "Will do."

  * * * *

  "Clay," Amanda said as soon as he answered the phone a week after the gallery show, "there's a police detective here who says he needs to talk with you. Should I give him your address?"