"A couple of years. We talk on the phone, but I haven't been home since the last time all the family was together for my folks' thirtieth anniversary."
"How big a family?"
"Two younger brothers, an older sister, more aunts and uncles and cousins than I can count, three nephews, two nieces, plus the requisite grandparents."
"Now that's a tribe."
"Tell me about it. How about you?"
"My father, Eric. My brother, Tom, and his father, Brian."
"Umm. Okay. Care to explain that?"
Zack laughed. "My father was married. They had me, then they divorced. He got custody, because my mother wanted her freedom, as she put it. The same with Tom's dad, only he had joint custody. Our fathers met when I was ten, fell in love, ergo, I have two fathers." Grinning, he added, "Tom's the only straight one in the family. My dad is bi. Tom's dad is gay, but it took him some time to come to terms with it."
"And you're gay? Or bi, like your dad?"
"Gay, like you."
"How did you—? Oh yeah, you were there when I told Detective Hawk."
"I was. Does your family know?"
"My immediate family does, and they're fairly okay with it. The relatives don't, which is fine with me. I don't know if they'd accept it, but from some of the stuff I've heard come out of my grandparents' mouths, I have the feeling I'd just as soon they don't know. And since they raised my aunts and uncles—well, half of them anyway—I suspect they might feel the same way about gays, that we're something that exists, but they'd rather not have anything to do with us if they can help it."
"Like a lot of people, unfortunately. Ah well, that's changing, slowly but surely."
"Yeah." Trev eased one of the pillows out from behind him so he could lie down. The movement hurt his shoulder, and he grimaced in pain.
"Time for your pills," Zack said, reaching over to press the call button. When the nurse arrived, she seemed surprised to see him there, but nodded when he told her what was needed. She left, coming back with a small paper cup containing two pain pills and a glass of water. Trev took the pills, then with her help, sat up enough to wash them down.
"Be sure to note the changes on the chart." she told Zack, winking at Trev when she did. "Since he's off duty, he might forget. A bad habit of his."
"Is not," Zack protested.
She grinned, said, "I know. I was just teasing you," then left.
"Everyone here is nice," Trev said sleepily.
"You expected ogres?" Zack asked with amusement.
"Nurse Ratched maybe? Or Annie Wilkes?"
"Those are movie nurses."
"From books, actually. Never saw the movies. Not big"—Trev yawned—"on movies from…books…so…" The last thing Trev heard as he fell asleep was Zack saying, "Me neither."
*****
"You're home almost on time," Clay said, after greeting Quint with a kiss when the detective joined him in the studio.
"Meaning it's not midnight?"
"Nope. Meaning dinner is ready, and you get to eat it hot, not reheated." Clay began cleaning his brushes and the glass palette he was using. "Go change, and I'll put it on the table."
Quint headed to the bedroom, flipping on the TV on the way by. He came back to the living room, dressed in sweats, just in time to catch the updated report about John Pierce's murder on the only local channel that carried news at seven pm, as well as at five.
Standing in front of the set, he listened while the reporter recapped the killing before she said, "The police have determined that Trevor Eldridge, the victim's roommate, was not the shooter. Therefore, he is no longer a person of interest in the murder. Mr Eldridge is due to be released from the hospital within the next twenty-four hours, as his wounds were not life-threatening."
"Your case?" Clay asked, coming to stand beside Quint.
"Yep. The one that kept me gone so late last night."
Clay looked at him in question. "Isn't letting that story out to the news media going to make Eldridge a sitting duck for the killers?"
Quint smiled grimly. "That's the plan, with his permission. We're going to have him under surveillance for the next week. With luck, they'll try again, since he can identify them, and they know it."
"Let's eat while you fill me in."
Quint had no problem doing that, both the eating and talking to Clay about his work. He often shared what he was doing with his lover. Clay had a good mind and, on occasion, had seen something Quint had overlooked.
Once they were seated and had made inroads into the chicken parmesan and noodles, Clay asked for details on the case. Quint gave him a brief recap, finishing by explaining how they knew Trev Eldridge was also a victim, not the killer.
"Those men must have been awfully stupid," Clay said with a shake of his head.
"That, or they were in too much of a hurry to set it up right. At least, that's the conclusion I came to after thinking about it—after my talk with Trev. The apartment is at the end of the hall, with only one neighbor close to it. But, between the noise they made kicking the door in and the shots, they had to figure someone would call 9-1-1. So, they arranged the prints on the gun, Trev's covering Mr Pierce's. At least they did that right."
"Other than that they weren't smudged, you said."
"Yep. They did knock Trev out, but the blow could have been put down to his hitting his head when he fell after he shot himself. Probably would have been if they hadn't screwed up the fingerprints."
"Is Eldridge—Trev—going back to his apartment when he's released from the hospital?"
Quint nodded then snapped his fingers. "The door. If we're going to keep him safe, the lock needs to be repaired."
"You might want to suggest that to him before he goes home."
"On my to-do list." Quint tapped his forehead then, at Clay's suggestion, also made a note on his phone to remind him.
"Who called it in?" Clay asked.
"There were actually two calls. One was from someone in the building. With the other one, which came a few minutes later, the caller refused to give their name. When we checked, we found out the call came from a throwaway phone." Quint shook his head. "I swear, whoever came up with those should be castrated."
"It was probably someone with a criminal bent who realized they could be tracked with a regular cell phone. After all"—Clay patted Quint's hand—"tracking my phone was how you found me the first time we met."
"Well, it didn't work with the guy who called 9-1-1. The system recorded the phone number and location, which was at—or outside of—the building. That's all."
"So presumably it came from one of the killers, which makes sense," Clay said. "They wanted the body discovered as soon as possible, before Eldridge regained consciousness and could do something to mess up their plans."
"Yeah. Now we just have to hope they try to get to Trev, because, so far, we have no idea who they are or who sent them."
"They wore gloves?"
"Yes, from what Trev said. That's undoubtedly the reason the CSI team didn't find any fresh prints other than Trev's and Pierce's in the apartment."
"No trace evidence?"
Quint chuckled. "You've been hanging around me too long. Nope, nothing that tells us who they were. Although once they're caught, what was found will prove they were in the apartment."
"That's a start." Clay looked at his empty plate, frowning. "I don't remember eating."
"You did, between questions. We both did, so what's for dessert?"
"Apple pie and ice cream."
"Great. Let's take it into the living room and actually eat it without talking, so we can enjoy it."
"You didn't like dinner?" Clay said, looking upset. "After I slaved all day over a hot stove to make it."
Quint pointed to the crockpot sitting on the kitchen counter. "It may have slaved. You? No way."
Clay grinned. "Caught me."
"That's why I'm the detective, and you're just a well-known artist."
"Just?"
Clay smacked his arm as he got up to clear the table. "Just?"
"Okay, okay, the most famous one I know," Quint replied, helping him carry the dishes to the kitchen.
Then, desserts in hand, they settled on the sofa to watch TV, Quint's case put aside for the moment.
CHAPTER THREE
Monday morning, Zack walked into Trev's hospital room to find the younger man half-dressed and frowning. Unexpectedly, Zack's pulse quickened. Enough. Damn. I've seen him like this before. Several times yesterday, actually. Why this reaction now?
Willing himself to remain completely professional, Zack asked, "What's the matter?"
Trev's frown deepened. "I don't have a shirt, thanks to the docs or someone cutting my tank off me when they brought me in here. And for damned sure I'm not wearing this"—he pointed disparagingly at the hospital gown—"tucked into my jeans. At least I have them, thanks to whoever put them in the closet."
"They could hardly have worked on your shoulder if they hadn't removed your shirt."
"Okay. Good point, I guess, but still…"
"Give me a minute and I'll find a scrub shirt you can use. Meanwhile, lie down. I need to check you out before I sign the release papers."
Mumbling something under his breath that Zack couldn't make out, Trev did. Zack left, returning shortly with two shirts, setting them on the end of the bed. One of the nurses joined him, chuckling when Zack told Trev to sit up, and Trev grumbled, "Lie down, sit up—make up your mind."
After the dressing was removed, Zack checked Trev's shoulder then told him it looked fine, "Considering it's a bullet wound."
"If it had been a knife wound, it would look bad?" Trev replied snidely, as the nurse put on new dressing.
Zack waited until she left before asking, "What's got you in such a foul mood? You're being sprung."
Reaching for one of the shirts, Trev took a deep breath. "Sorry. I guess I should be happy about that, but it means I need to go back to the apartment. And Detective Hawk called to remind me that the door lock would need fixing. Luckily, when I called the building manager, he said he could do it this morning, so I won't be there totally unprotected."
The door opened at that moment and a burly policeman came in. "I'm Officer Paxton, Mr Eldridge," he said. "I'm your ride back to your apartment. How soon can you be ready?"
Trev looked at Zack in question.
"I have to sign him out and write him a couple of prescriptions. You can fill them downstairs at the pharmacy, Trev."
"Another arm-and-a-leg," Trev grumbled.
"I'm afraid so, at the moment. Stop on your way out and make an appointment to talk to a counselor about getting financial aid."
"Damned good thing I still have my tip money from before this happened," Trev said, after checking the contents of his wallet.
As he wrote out the prescriptions, Zack told Trev that he was making them for generics, which would be cheaper. From the look on Trev's face, that at least eased his worries. When he handed them to Trev, Zack asked, much to his own surprise, "Do you mind if I call later to see how you're doing?"
"Umm, no." Trev actually smiled for the first time that morning. "I'd appreciate that."
Not exactly the enthusiastic reply I hoped for, but then what did I expect? "You should probably get going. Your trusty bodyguard looks like he's getting impatient."
Officer Paxton shook his head. "Not really. My partner might be, though. He's waiting in the car."
"Then I'm…we're out of here. I'd say it's been fun, but…"
Zack laughed. "I know. Okay. We'll talk later."
*****
Trev sucked in a breath as he opened the door to the apartment. The building manager had done what he'd promised, so at least the door was locked. Pocketing the new key for the moment, Trev looked around. His gaze immediately lit on the bloodstained carpet. Two stains actually, a large one where John had lain, dying. And my little, insignificant one. At least compared to…
"Do you want us to stick around for a few minutes?" Officer Paxton's partner, Officer Robins, asked.
Trev wanted to say yes, but he knew they had to get back to their job. He did wonder if they were part of the team supposedly protecting him. When he asked, Robins said they weren't. "Although we will be stepping up our drive-bys."
Trev shuddered. "Isn't there some other way to put that?"
Robins chuckled. "Sorry. We'll be coming by the building more often on our rounds."
"Thanks."
"Don't forget to turn on the security when we leave."
"Believe me, I won't. I'm never going to turn it off."
"You might want to, coming and going."
"Okay. Yeah," Trev agreed with a tiny smile.
As the two officers left, Paxton said, "If you even think something's wrong, call 9-1-1. Better to be wrong and feel silly than to have something happen."
Trev just nodded as he closed, locked, and bolted the door then switched on the security.
He was about to sit on the sofa, realized that if he did, he'd be staring at the blood stains, so he went directly into his bedroom. Setting the two bottles of pills on the nightstand, and his phone on the charger, he undressed then went into the bathroom. He really wanted a long, hot shower but was afraid of getting the dressing on his shoulder wet. So, he settled for a bath instead.
I don't think I've done this since I was a kid, not since everyone was old enough that bathroom time was at a premium.
In a strange way it felt good to just sit, semi-submerged in the hot water and drift, letting it soak all his aches and pains away, both physical and emotional. He knew it wouldn't last. The water would cool and his fears would come to the surface again. But for now…
I wonder if Zack really will call, or if that was just his doctor coming out, trying to make me feel a bit better and more able to face coming back here? Would be nice if he did, even if it's just to see how I'm doing—making sure I'm taking my pills and that my shoulder isn't killing me.
He pictured Zack. He's got nice eyes. Caring eyes. Blue like a calm, deep lake. When he smiles, you know he means it. Nice hands too. Gentle. But then he is a doctor, so I suppose they have to be. I wonder why he spent so much time with me? Maybe he's a frustrated psychiatrist, trying to make sure I'm not cracking up about what…what happened.
Thinking of the attack, Trev's hands balled into fists. I should have… There had to be something I could have done. Screamed for help. Hit one of them with a book. Something. He touched the bandage on his head. Didn't really have a chance to. Thank God they were in a hurry or I'd be sitting in a jail cell right now.
"Okay, off that line of thought," he admonished himself. He washed up quickly, being careful of his bandaged shoulder, then stepped out of the tub, toweled dry and went into the bedroom.
After a moment's thought, he put on an old set of sweats, headed into the kitchen and filled the mop bucket with hot, soapy water. He knew he could call the company Detective Hawk had told him about to clean up the apartment, but that would cost money he could ill afford to spend. Going back to the living room, he set to work on the bloodstains, using a scrub brush and some rags. It only took a couple of minutes for him to realize that using his right arm wasn't a good idea, as his shoulder had begun aching. Switching hands, he settled down to what turned out to be a long, tedious chore that took several changes of water. But in the end, the stains were, if not gone, at least almost invisible.
He emptied the bucket for the last time, tossed the filthy rags into the trash, then got the fan from the hall closet and turned it on, hoping it would dry the carpet quickly. With that finished, he got the hand vac and began sucking up the gray film of fingerprint powder. At least it's only in here, not in the kitchen and… He glanced at the closed door to John's room. His family. I have to call them. And his things. They'll want them, so I'll have to box them up and… Maybe Detective Hawk told them…
Two minutes later he was sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting to be connected with the
detective. When the man finally answered, Trev blurted out, "Do John's parents know?"
"Trev?" When Trev said "Yes", Quint told him, "They do. I notified their local police district, and they sent out an officer. Mr Pierce called me early this morning to get more specific details on what happened and to ask when they could have the body sent to them for burial."
"Shit." Trev sucked in a breath. "I never thought about that."
"At this point, I wouldn't expect you would have."
"Is it okay if…I have to pack up his things."
"If you want to know if you're allowed to, the answer's yes. The CSI people didn't find anything in his belongings that would point to the killers, and they looked."
"Nothing on his laptop? It was—is—in my room right now."
"Damn. That was his? No, leave it out and I'll have someone pick it up."
"All right."
"How are you doing?" Quint asked.
"I'm okay, I guess. I worked out some of my anger by cleaning the carpet." Trev realized as he said that, that it was true. "Now if I could just stop being afraid."
"I have men watching your building, back and front, if that helps."
"Yeah, it does." Trev heard a couple of beeps and said, "I have another call."
"Then answer it. And if you have any other questions, let me know."
"I will." Hanging up, Trev checked the caller ID, hoping it was Zack. Instead he saw it was the Pierce's home number in upstate New York.
When he answered, John's father asked in a taut but concerned voice, "How are you handling everything that happened, Trev? The police told us you were shot too."
"I was but—" Trev tried to rein in his emotions. "How are you and Betty doing? I wish there was something I could say or do that would help."
"Tell me who killed him," Mr Pierce spat out angrily.
"You have no idea how much I wish I could. I never saw them before." Trev took a deep breath. "The cops will find them."
"They better. Okay, sorry. I shouldn't be taking my anger out on you. It wasn't your fault." After a pause, Mr Pierce said, "Will you pack up his things and send them to us? Please, not his clothes or the furniture but his…the personal things?"
It Takes An Artist Page 3
