It Takes an Artist

Chapter 1

Chapter 1Quint walked quietly into the bedroom, undressed, then went into the bathroom, closing the door so as not to wake Clay. He took a fast shower, brushed his teeth, then turned out the light before returning to very carefully slide into bed next to Clay. He knew his lover had been up late attending the opening of his latest show at the gallery. Quint would have been there with him if he hadn’t been called in on a new case.

He’d barely closed his eyes when Quint felt Clay turn over and brush a kiss to his temple.

“How bad?” Clay asked.

“Bad.” Quint rolled onto his side, resting his hand on Clay’s chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What time is it?”

“After three. How was the opening?”

“Same as always. A lot of people telling me how great I am and how much they love my work,” Clay grumbled in reply.

“Hopefully you didn’t bite anyone’s head off.”

Clay chuckled. “I was tempted, but I’m getting better about that. Several people were interested in my Element painting of you. Of course, I told them it wasn’t for sale. As a matter of fact, I brought it back home with me.”

“Clay. Damn. It’s just a painting. You have the real thing. If someone wants to buy it, let them.”

“I suppose,” Clay replied, sounding hurt.

“You do realize…” Quint yawned. “Since you’re not selling it, we’ll have to hang it in the living room, and I’m not sure I can stand looking at myself day after day.”

“Or in here,” Clay said, amusement tingeing his words now. “It will fuel my fantasies when you have to work late.”

“Now that could make our s*x life very interesting, if you act on them later.”

Clay huffed. “It’s already—”

“Very interesting. I agree.” Quint unsuccessfully tried to stifle another yawn. “If I wasn’t so tired…”

“I know.” Clay stroked Quint’s beard then tugged it, kissing the detective when he moved within reach. “Go to sleep. What time do you want me to get you up?”

“Depends how you mean that,” Quint replied, returning the kiss.

“When do you need to be at work?”

Quint sighed. “Too soon.” Pulling Clay into a tight embrace against his chest, Quint muttered, “Way too soon.”

* * * *

Trev Eldridge opened his eyes then looked around, trying to figure out where he was. Not at the apartment. Not at my folks’. Not…In the dim light he could make out a window along one pale beige wall and a closed door a few feet from the end of the bed. Whose bed? And why am I in it?

He got an answer seconds later when the door opened and a woman in a nurse’s uniform came into the room.

“You’re awake. How are we feeling this morning, Mr. Eldridge?”

“Confused,” Trev replied groggily. “Where am I? Okay, I guess since you’re a nurse, this must be a hospital. Why am I here? What’s wrong with me?”

Before the woman could reply, a man entered the room. He was tall, with dark hair, a trim beard, and a mustache. Coming over to the bed, he studied Trev while asking, obviously having overheard Trev’s question, “You don’t remember being brought here?”

Trev frowned. “No. The last thing I remember is…” His eyes widened. “There were two men. They…they broke through the door. They had guns and—” Trev tried to touch his shoulder. Something tugged and stung when he moved his hand. The nurse gripped his wrist, telling him he’d pull out the IVs. Focusing his attention on the man, Trev said, “They shot me?”

“Yes. You sustained a shoulder wound.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No. I’m Detective Quinton Hawk.” He touched the badge pinned to his jacket pocket. “If you don’t mind, I have to ask you some questions.”

Trev attempted to shrug and realized that his shoulder was heavily bandaged. “I guess it’s okay.” Then it hit him. “John. Is he…?”

“I’m sorry. He’s dead.” Detective Hawk pulled up a chair and sat, looking hard at Trev. “The gun that killed him was on the floor between the two of you.”

As a wave of sadness washed over him, Trev tried to process what the detective had said. “He’s…They killed him? God damn it! Why?” He gulped, trying to will back tears, because he had to know. “Why would they leave the gun?”

“That’s what I’d like to know, Mr. Eldridge, especially since the only prints on it belonged to you and John Pierce.”

“That’s impossible! I don’t own a gun and neither did John. He hated them.”

The door to the room opened again before Quint could respond, and a man in a white jacket came over to the bed. “I doubt that you remember me,” the man said. “I’m Doctor Kendall.”

As the doctor stopped beside the bed, Detective Hawk asked Trev, “What was your relationship with Mr. Pierce, Mr. Eldridge?”

“We were roommates.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s it. What else would it have been?” Then Trev understood the implication behind the question. “Damn. John was totally straight, if that’s what you’re trying to find out. Why the hell do people presume because two guys are rooming together that they automatically have to be gay?”

After a pause, during which the detective studied Trev, he said, “But you are.”

“Yeah. So? John knew, and it didn’t bother him. We’ve been friends since we were kids. When I moved out here, he offered to let me share the apartment until I found one of my own.”

“That was how long ago?”

“Maybe three months.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Eldridge?

“At the moment, I’m a waiter, if you can call that a living.”

“Detective Hawk,” the doctor broke in. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside while I examine Mr. Eldridge.”

The detective nodded, got up, then left, much to Trev’s relief. Though he knew the man would be back soon enough, it gave him time to sort out his feelings, to try to come to grips with John’s death and the not-so-subtle accusations the detective had made.

As the doctor—with the nurse’s assistance—removed the covering over his wound, Trev asked, “How long have I been here?”

“You were brought in, unconscious, around eight last night. You are a very lucky man, Mr. Eldridge. As it turned out, the bullet passed millimeters above the clavicle, so what you have is your basic flesh wound—painful, but not life-threatening. You also sustained a blow to the side of your head that didn’t break the skin, although—” he smiled, “—there’s a nice lump and an abrasion. I suspect it was the result of falling after you were shot and hitting your head on something. You’ll be glad to know it didn’t cause a concussion. The attending in the ER cleaned both wounds then ordered a CAT scan, just to be certain there was no damage to the clavicle or your skull. There wasn’t, so he sutured the shoulder wound. You’ll stay here until we’re sure there won’t be any infection, something that can happen with a bullet wound, no matter how minor. You’re on a morphine drip for the pain and an antibiotic IV.”

Trev sucked in a hard breath. “I’m going be in debt forever to pay for this.”

Doctor Kendall frowned. “You don’t have insurance?”

“As if.” Trev sighed. “How soon can I get out of here?”

“Not until we know there’s no infection. Even when you do leave, regaining use of your shoulder isn’t going to happen overnight.”

“There goes my illustrious career as a waiter and a sculptor.”

“You’re an artist?”

“So I’ve been told.” Trev glanced at his shoulder and grimaced. “Looks like shit.”

The nurse smiled, patting his good shoulder. “Fresh wounds usually do.”

“It actually looks fairly good,” the doctor added, as he began applying a new dressing. “As far as p*****t goes, DH is a teaching hospital. If you meet the criteria, you’ll be eligible for assistance, meaning you’ll only have to make a small co-payment.”

Trev breathed out a heartfelt sigh of relief that ended seconds later when he realized he might end up in jail if the detective really thought he’d killed John and…And what? Shot myself to make it look like we were attacked?

“All right. That should be it for now,” Doctor Kendall said, stepping away from the side of the bed. “I have a feeling the detective is going to want to talk with you some more. I can say you’re not up for it, if you want time to regroup.”

“Thanks, but no. I suppose I might as well face him now as later.”

* * * *

Quint looked up when he heard Doctor Kendall leave Trevor Eldridge’s room, asking when the man approached, “Is he up for more questions?”

The doctor replied dryly, “Physically, yes. He’s on morphine for the pain, so he’ll probably go back to sleep fairly soon, but until then, he’ll be able to answer your questions. Emotionally?” He shrugged. “His friend was murdered. He thinks you believe he did it. Between those two things, he’s probably not in a very good place, if you get my meaning.”

“Damn it, I’m not planning on beating a confession out him. I just need to question him while things are relatively fresh in his mind.”

“Then go ahead. But…Hell, never mind.” The doctor turned and quickly walked away down the corridor.

“I meant it,” Quint said under his breath as he entered Eldridge’s room. The young man eyed him warily when Quint retook the seat he’d used a few minutes earlier. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning. You said you’ve only been in the city for three months. Right?”

“Yes. I was in Cleveland before then, after we graduated. We roomed together there. Then John came out here about a year ago when he got a job offer from an advertising firm.”

“Ultra Ideas,” Quint said, after consulting his notes.

“Yeah.”

“Why did you move here?”

“Denver’s got a thriving art community. I was hoping I’d have better luck here than back east.”

“You’re an artist?”

“A kinetic sculptor.”

“Okay,” Quint said doubtfully.

“You have no idea what that is, do you?”

Quint shook his head. “Kinetic means motion, so I’d presume you do sculptures that move.”

Trev managed a weak smile. “Very good. Mostly mobiles actually.”

“The one in the living room of the apartment is yours?”

“Yes.”

“It’s interesting. Next question. You said two men broke into the apartment. You didn’t have the security turned on?”

“No. When we were both home, the last one to bed did that. I mean, come on. Who’d try to force their way in when all the lights are…” Trev’s voice faded out when he apparently realized that, according to his story, someone had.

“What did these men look like?”

“f*****g scary,” Trev spat out.

Quint smiled dryly. “I need a bit more of a description than that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Trev closed his eyes and for a moment Quint thought he might have zoned out from the morphine. Then the young man said, “One was tall, maybe six-one. He was wearing a beanie and a heavy jacket. Navy blue. Beige or tan slacks. The other guy was shorter, wearing a hoodie. Dark gray. Both of them had on gloves. The shorter guy’s the one who talked.”

“I thought you said they burst in and started shooting.”

“They…” Trev frowned. “They had guns, and I knew they were going to use them, but he said something like, ‘The big man sends his regards.’”

“To you or Mr. Pierce?”

“It had to be to John. I don’t know anyone who’d be called the big man.”

“It sounds like a nickname.”

“I guess. It all happened so fast…”

“But you can still recall what they were wearing?”

“I’m an artist. I have a good eye. But it’s more impressions, not details. He said that, then I kind of remember a noise and pain, and that was it.”

“If what you’re telling me is the truth, how did your fingerprints get on the gun?”

“You’re asking me? I’ve never handled a gun in my life, damn it. Never! Please. I know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t kill John and he didn’t shoot me. I swear!” He started to raise his arm then winced in obvious pain.

“Calm down. I believe you, but I had to push to see what your reaction would be.”

“Bastard,” Trev muttered. “That’s what they wanted it to look like, isn’t it?”

“So it would seem. Luckily for you, they weren’t terribly smart. The fingerprints on the gun were perfect. No smudging, which would have happened from the recoil and from your wrestling the gun away from Pierce. The only thing they did right was put your prints on top of Pierce’s.”

“To make it look like he shot at me, then I got the gun away from him?”

“Yes.”

“I guess I should be glad they were stupid.”

“Yep.” Quint studied Trev, noting that his eyelids were drooping. “I have one more question before you pass out. Do you have any idea why someone would want Mr. Pierce dead?”

“No. He was a good guy and a good friend.”

“All right. I’ll be back later, after you’ve had more rest, probably sometime late this afternoon.”

“I’ll be here,” Trev replied drowsily. “I doubt they’re going to let me go until the doc says I’m ready.”

Quint nodded and left. The next item on his agenda was to find out more about Mr. Pierce. No matter what Trevor Eldridge might believe, someone out there obviously didn’t think Mr. Pierce was a good man. The question was, who and why.