The Element Case Page 6

  "Caught me," Quint replied with a laugh. "And on that note, I'll call you as soon as I find out anything." Then, much to Clay's surprise, Quint gave him a fast kiss before striding down the hallway to the elevator.

  * * * *

  "I was just kidding," Clay told the painting of Quint as he began working on the eyes. "That would be like something out of a thriller. Cop falls for artist, cop starts killing off the competition. Cop pretends he needs the artist to help him stop the killer, giving said cop the chance to work his way into the artist's life." He snickered. "Watch too many TV detective shows?"

  He continued working, and eventually the eyes looked the way he wanted them to—like Quint's knowing, understanding ones.

  As he moved on to the mouth, beneath the well-trimmed mustache, he smiled wryly. Of course, as he pointed out at one point, I could be the killer. But why? To eliminate men I'd been intimate with? Somehow that doesn't work since one of them was homeless and one was straight. To take out my anger that Travis broke up with me by killing other men in his stead? That might work, if he'd walked away from me, rather than my ending things. He added a stroke to the full lips in the picture. "Maybe I should give up painting and take up writing instead. Naw. I'll stick with what I do best and leave the stories to someone like Connelly or Highsmith."

  * * * *

  "You know," Lieutenant Harber said when Quint finished telling him about the discovery of Travis Nelson's body, "his death doesn't rule out Mr Richardson as the killer."

  "I thought we decided he wasn't," Quint replied tautly.

  "In theory, yes. But until we know otherwise, he should still be on the suspect list. Perhaps Mr Nelson knew something about Richardson and threatened to reveal it. Richardson finds him, kills him, and finds he likes the thrill he gets from that. He manages to restrain himself, though, until just recently then…" Harber made a gun with his fingers and fired.

  "I don't believe he's capable of that."

  "You said he's a loner. Has few friends, if any, and his only connection with people since Nelson's disappearance is when he draws them, requiring him to be out in public. Except," Harber added, "for the few times he brings a man home with him."

  Quint sighed. "You're painting the picture of a psychopath. He doesn't strike me as one, and I've talked with him several times. Right now I'm doing as we planned, making it seem as if I'm his new boyfriend. Last night we ran into a man at the club who had bothered Richardson a couple of times when he was there before. Okay, not ran into. He saw us together, was not at all happy from the look of it, and left quickly."

  "Do you have a name for him?"

  "Just Matty at this point, but I have a sketch Richardson did of him. I'm making photocopies of it as soon as we're finished here. I'll send a couple of officers to the club to see if anyone who works there recognizes him and knows who he is."

  "All right. Do that, and run checks on that artist you mentioned. If Mr Nelson's killing has nothing to do with Richardson, then this Lamberton guy might be a good suspect as well. Have you asked Richardson about anyone in his past who might have it in for him?"

  "I asked. He said there wasn't anyone he could think of, but I didn't push it at the time. I was focusing on Travis Nelson at that point."

  "Then ask him again. This could go way back to someone he knew—and discarded—well before he opened the gallery."

  "Will do." When the lieutenant nodded but said nothing more, Quint took it as his dismissal and left the office.

  An hour later, after taking care of some other things on his calendar and getting copies of Clay's sketch of Matty, Quint went in search of some officers he could send to Toppers to see if anyone there could identify the man. Then he went back to the other cases he was involved with. But all the while, he wondered if the lieutenant might be correct. Could I be so off-base that I can't see what's right in front of my nose? Could Clay be the killer? I don't think so. In fact, I'm sure he's not. But…

  * * * *

  Clay stepped back to look at his painting of Quint. It had taken all day but he was satisfied with what he'd accomplished so far. It still needed work, mostly on the details, but he thought it would definitely become one of the Element series—not because of the plans he and Quint had made to use it to catch the killer. No. I wouldn't put it into the series if I didn't think it was good enough to belong there, plans or no plans.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall, saw it was close to five, and decided to stop for now and maybe fix supper. As he began cleaning up, his cordless phone rang. He snagged it from the stand, hoping that it was Quint calling. He figured it had to be, unless it was Amanda. They were the only two he thought would call his home phone, since they both knew he turned off his cell when he was working. He pressed the Talk button while collecting his brushes, tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder, and said, "Clay here."

  When the caller didn't reply, he reiterated, "This is Clay."

  Again there was silence before whoever was on the other end hung up. He quickly checked the Caller ID, only to see that it said Anonymous.

  "Very weird," he grumbled, setting it back in the stand. "Probably a wrong number and they didn't want to admit it. Dolt."

  Less then ten minutes later the phone rang again. This time he checked the ID first and smiled when he saw the call was from Quint.

  "Any news?" Clay asked when Quint said hello.

  "Nothing so far. I sent officers to Toppers with the picture, but it still too early for them to have talked to everyone who works there. How's the painting coming along?"

  "It's close to finished. Do you want to come see?" Clay wondered if he was being too…he didn't know quite what. Presumptuous, eager, obvious about his wanting to see Quint again.

  "You bet," Quint replied. "I can pick up dinner again on the way."

  "No, no," Clay said quickly. "I actually can cook and have stuff to do it with."

  Quint chuckled. "I didn't figure otherwise. I'll be there in… Is half an hour too soon?"

  "Not at all. I'll see you then."

  They hung up and Clay went into the kitchen to see if he really did have something to make a real meal. He generally just fixed a sandwich—or a burger if he felt like cooking. Not sure that constitutes cooking in the real world.

  After considering the contents of the fridge and the cupboards, he decided to whip up hamburger stroganoff since it didn't take a French chef to toss together noodles, mushroom soup, hamburger, and sour cream. He wasn't sure why he had the sour cream. Probably some bright idea the last time I went shopping.

  Just as he had everything put together and the noodles ready to put in the pot to cook, he heard the buzzer. Going to the door, he checked to be certain it was Quint and a couple of minutes later let him into the loft.

  The first words out of Quint's mouth were, "Something smells good. Stroganoff?"

  "You have a good nose. It's not the fancy kind with real meat but…"

  "There's fake meat?" Quint asked, chuckling.

  "Actually I'm sure there is, but what I meant was it's just made with hamburger, not steak or what have you."

  "Nothing wrong with that." Quint opened the bag he was carrying, taking out a bottle of red wine. "This should go well with it."

  "Thanks. Yeah, it should." Clay took it over to the dining room area, putting it on the table, which was already set for two. "Now, where did I put the wine glasses?"

  Quint laughed. "You're asking me?"

  With a shake of his head, muttering, "Rhetorical question," Clay opened the doors on the tall oak hutch that served to partially divide the dining and living room areas. "Got them," he said, triumphantly holding up two glasses. He had just put them on the table when the phone in the living room rang. He went to answer, checked the Caller ID, frowned, and set it back in the stand.

  "Someone you don't want to talk to," Quint asked with amusement.

  "No, a call listed as anonymous. The second one in the last forty-five minutes or so. Undoubtedly s
ome idiot who can't dial right. "

  "Has this happened before?" Quint asked with a worried frown, following Clay into the kitchen.

  "Everyone gets wrong number calls sometimes."

  "But usually not two in such a short time frame."

  "Like I said, just an idiot being stupid."

  "Mind if I check your phone?"

  Clay gave him the go-ahead and Quint went into the phone's log, telling Clay he was making note of the exact time he received the calls. "Hopefully the phone company can find out where they came from."

  "Like who owns the phone and their address?" Clay found this interesting, even though he was certain what he'd told Quint was what had happened. Just some schmuck who kept dialing the wrong number.

  "Yes, if it wasn't from a throwaway."

  "Right out of a spy movie," Clay said as he drained the noodles. He put them in one bowl, the stroganoff in another and carried them to the table, calling over his shoulder, "Could you grab the salad out of the fridge?"

  "This isn't funny, Clay," Quint told him when he came in with the salad. "I don't like that it happened twice in such a short space of time. It's possible someone is trying to find out if you're home or out."

  "Then they probably think I've left, since I didn't answer the second call."

  "In which case, they may call again when they get close to here, just to confirm that."

  "Why would someone want to break in? Because I'm presuming that's what you're suggesting."

  "They might not plan on doing that. They could be waiting to see if you come home alone or with me."

  "Oh. That sort of puts a different light on things. But for now, can we eat?"

  "Of course." Quint opened the wine, pouring them each a glass. Then he lifted his with a grin. "To the successful end to our case."

  "That works," Clay replied, but he couldn't help wishing that Quint had said To us. Like that's going to happen. And would I even want it to? Other than Travis, and… He quickly pushed the and to the back of his mind. I suppose if we both want it, there would be nothing wrong with our spending time together when this is over, as long as we don't do more than share our beds from time to time. I will not put myself in the position I was in with Travis. I will not let someone try to run my life. And I have the feeling, given what Quint does, he might try to.

  "Did I lose you?" Quint asked.

  "What? Oh, no. I was just umm…trying to figure out who the caller is. No one has my home number other than you and Amanda." As he spoke, he dished some noodles onto his plate, passed the bowl to Quint, then topped his with the stroganoff.

  "No one?" Quint asked, obviously surprised as he too filled his plate, adding salad on the side.

  "Well my brother does, of course, but he'd have shown up on the ID. Other than that, though, when someone wants my number, I give them the one for the gallery since Amanda handles the business end of things."

  "Even someone like Rivera?"

  "I never give out my number to men I meet at the clubs."

  "That's good to know. Safer that way. Although anyone who came home with you, like Rivera, could get the number off the phone."

  "I suppose." Clay finally took a bite of his dinner, wanting to get off the subject of the phone calls for now. "This didn't turn out too bad."

  "Not at all," Quint agreed after trying it. "Definitely better than takeaway."

  "The food you brought over… Damn, was it just last night?"

  "Yep," Quint replied. "A night that involved food, talk, club, talk. Hmm, I seem to be forgetting something." His eyes glinted with amusement.

  "If you forgot, then I guess I wasn't as good as I thought," Clay replied, faking hurt because he knew Quint was teasing him.

  Laughing, Quint told him, "You were damned good. Good enough we should try it again sometime."

  "I have no objection to that." Clay gazed at Quint for a brief moment before he returned his attention to his meal.

  "I hoped you wouldn't," Quint replied quietly.

  After that, they concentrated on eating until Quint said, "If that was the killer calling, let's give him another push and go out somewhere."

  "But if you're right about the second call, he must think I'm not home now, so if we leave together…"

  "He'll figure, because I'm here you didn't want to answer, and hopefully put his own spin on why."

  Clay nodded. "You really do want to push his buttons."

  "It's the only way to get him to show his face. And when he does, I'll be ready."

  "All right." Clay ate the last bit of his stroganoff, followed by the last of his wine, and started to clear the table. Quint helped and ten minutes later the dishes were in the washer and they were ready to leave.

  "You want to go to a club or somewhere else?" Quint asked.

  "Why don't we walk over to LoDo and check out my competition? I haven't actually done that in a while."

  "Sounds…interesting."

  Clay laughed. "Such enthusiasm. Come on. You'll have fun. If nothing else, you can join me in making scathing comments about some of the paintings—but under our breath."

  "You really do that?"

  "Quint, you have no idea about what sort of dreck passes for art these days," Clay told him as they left his loft. "Of course some people probably feel that way about what I do."

  * * * *

  Quint shook his head as he stared at a painting of a fish. "I never did get why people would even consider owning something like this."

  "It's called 'to each his own'," Clay told him. "I feel the same way about people who buy framed photos of the mountains like those in the last gallery we were at. Why pay the inflated price for them when they could just grab their camera, go up there, and take their own."

  "That would mean they'd have to get up off their duffs and do something."

  Clay grinned as they left the gallery. "Too true. Okay, where to next?"

  "Let's get off our feet. Have you ever been to the Blake Street Vault? It's got some great history behind it. And, it's supposed to be haunted."

  "So I was told, by the woman who owned the place back when it was a costume shop. Damn, that was years ago."

  "Now why would you have needed a costume, Mr Unsociable?"

  Clay shrugged. "Back in my callow youth I was going with a guy who thought it would be fun to cruise the streets in costume for Halloween."

  "Who?" Quint asked, suddenly all business. "I thought Travis was the only man you hooked up with long term."

  "His name was Kevin. Kevin Reed. We met right after I graduated from DU." Clay stared off into space. "We were together for two years before I broke up with him."

  Feeling a flash of what he knew was misplaced jealousy, Quint said, "You seem to have a habit of doing that."

  "He kept pushing for us to move in together. I wasn't ready for that. I was just starting to make a name for myself and wanted to concentrate all my time on my painting." Clay smiled ruefully. "I guess that's when I began being a loner. I told him my reasons. He tried to convince me he'd give me all the space I needed. I knew that wouldn't happen if we lived together so—"

  "How did he react?"

  "He wasn't exactly thrilled. Neither was I on some level. I did care for him. I just wasn't ready to deal with all the possible consequences if we tried it. The last I heard, he'd found someone else and they moved to…somewhere out east. Chicago maybe?"

  "Then along came Travis and you tried it for real."

  "Living with someone? Yeah. You know how that worked out," Clay said sourly.

  By then they were standing in front of the Vault. Quint looked up at the brick front of the building as he often had when he'd stopped by for a drink after work. "It started out as a saloon in the mid-eighteen hundreds," he said, wanting to get Clay's mind off his past for a while. "Then it was a liquor distribution business, a cigar factory, a machine company, the costume shop, and now it's back to being a saloon."

  Clay looked at him in surprise. "Why do you know a
ll that?"

  "A chatty bartender who works here told me." He opened the door, and they went in. The place was crowded but they managed to find booth along the long brick wall that made up one side of the room. When the waitress came over, they ordered beer.

  "This is a nice place," Quint said after she left, leaning forward with his elbows on the table so Clay could hear him above the din.

  "Definitely different from the clubs I normally hang out at. I wish I'd brought my sketchpad with me."

  Quint shook his head. "I think you need the time away from all that. And before you get pissed, I get how important it is to you but… Okay, I bet I'm beginning to sound just like Travis and that Kevin guy. Right?"

  "Sort of," Clay agreed. "But coming from you it doesn't seem so bad. Maybe because you understand how important work can be to a person. I bet you don't just turn it off as soon as you're off-duty."

  "Nope. It's part of being a cop. You always have one eye open for possible trouble."

  Clay's lips quirked up. "While I have mine open for possible subjects."

  "Exactly." Quint, looking over the other customers, leaned back when the waitress returned with their beers.

  "Do you see him?" Clay asked with a worried frown.

  "I don't see anyone who's looks familiar or who's overly interested in us. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean he's not here somewhere."

  Clay took a quick look around. "Me neither. Still…"

  "Relax, Clay. Even if he is here and keeping a low profile, he wouldn't try anything. That's not his style. So let's stop talking about this and just enjoy being out together. Okay?"

  "Okay." Clay took a long pull on his beer then said, "Do you think the ghosts hang out up there"—he pointed to the balcony at the far end of the bar—"making snide comments about the class of people who hang out here compared to when they were alive?"

  Quint laughed. "Probably. I would if I were them."

  After that, they talked and drank, until half an hour later Quint suggested they head back to the loft.