• • •
On Sunday Randy puttered around his house in the Maywood section of Arlington, Virginia, handling the chores he tended to ignore during the week. He stuffed too much laundry in the washer and had to stop what he was doing to mop up suds that spilled over. Clothes left in the dryer the previous week were wrinkled, and even when he cycled them through again with a wet washcloth, everything still ended up looking like shit. Disgusted, he abandoned housework and took himself off to the gym.
As Randy hefted the barbell for his bench presses, he wondered if he’d see Fraser again. The man obviously had something going on in connection with Randy’s painting that was deeply important to him. Not that Randy would give in, but he didn’t mind the prospect of admiring those expressive brown eyes again.
He breathed rhythmically as he pressed the bar—loaded to two hundred and forty-five pounds—through his warm-up set and wondered what it would be like to paint Fraser. He racked the bar and added another twenty pounds as he thought about the portrait he might attempt.
It would have to be a nude, he realized. Fraser reclining on a sofa, maybe, with one knee raised to hide his genitals and leave some mystery. Holding something back. A secret known only to him. In the imagined canvas, Fraser would probably be peering over the artist’s shoulder so those remarkable eyes would be in clear view.
By the time Randy finished his chest presses, he had a fairly clear image in mind of the painting he’d like to attempt. Only when he was putting away the metal plates did he remember that Jack Fraser was an asshole and Randy certainly wouldn’t be sitting down to sketch him in any case, let alone nude. A small pang of regret made him wince.
When Randy returned to his bungalow after his workout, though, he decided to do some digging for himself. Maybe see if he could understand Fraser’s angle, or his interest in the unsigned painting. He’d take the letter to the bar, and if there was any time before opening, he’d noodle around a bit on the internet. Instead of going right into the house he veered toward the garage at the end of his driveway that he’d converted into a studio; his pickup wouldn’t fit in it anyway.
The door was unlocked, which wasn’t that surprising since he sometimes crawled out of his studio exhausted and forgetful. He recalled tossing the letter on his workbench the Tuesday night he’d read it in the bar and then ended up sketching in his studio until early in the morning. It wasn’t there now, though. He moved some things around, lifted a few sketch pads and a stray art book on post-impressionists, but he couldn’t find the letter.
Oh well, he’d probably thrown it away. The bitch of turning fifty-one was that his memory wasn’t what it used to be. That and all the extra work he had to do in order to keep his belly flat.
• • •
At work later, Randy was grateful for a quiet Sunday evening. Malcolm had the bar traffic covered, so Randy checked in with his piano player. Ethel Jonson was an African-American woman in her sixties who told all the patrons to call her Miss Ethel. She attracted a loyal following for her Nina Simone repertoire and Broadway songbook. Her customary white suit, chunky jewelry, and gray hair, straightened and arranged in waves to her neck, classed up the bar.
“You doing all right tonight, Miss Ethel?” Randy asked as he rested a hand on her shoulder. She just gave him a little wink as she started in on “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.”
Randy’d felt no more of the odd tension that had plagued him on Tuesday, and there seemed to be nothing that needed his attention, so he sat in his office and keyed awkwardly at his old computer. Since he had misplaced Fraser’s letter, he opened a search engine and tried remembering the name of Fraser’s employer. When he searched for “Jack Fraser London Museum,” he found dozens of names and images but none that seemed right. With “Jack Fraser Brousseau,” however, his browser brought up a picture of the correct man. He leaned back in his creaky leather desk chair to begin his investigation.
Several press releases addressed Fraser’s promotion to a vice president role at a major auction house, Valcoates, based in London. He had apparently graduated twelve years earlier magna cum laude from the University of St. Andrews in Scotland with a graduate diploma in museum and gallery studies. Huh. So he’s probably more like thirty-five. Three years previously, Fraser left the auction house and joined the Kensington Museum of European Art (Of course. That was the name from the letter) as their expert on Brousseau and other post-impressionist artists.
Since then, he’d apparently published a few monographs and several articles. In particular, he seemed interested in a transition period when Brousseau resided near the town of Fontaine-Chaalis in France.
Randy tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking. Nothing in his research suggested why Fraser would have gone to all the trouble of filing a FOIA request to track down a painting in Washington, DC. On the other hand, nothing about his research indicated a particularly sterling or noteworthy career. Fraser apparently had held a modest but not executive position at the auction house, and then at the museum he was still an assistant curator rather than a full curator or director. His writings appeared in standard journals but didn’t rate notice on the covers.
Still, Randy couldn’t help a twinge of jealousy. The life of an art historian, immersed in the world of famous paintings and important works—that was the path he’d chosen for himself before Uncle Kevin’s death, before the Secret Service and everything that had followed.
Randy had no regrets about his career in law enforcement, and he’d done a lot of good over the years. But the luxury of hour upon hour to study the great masters, to ferret out their influences and their mark on further developments, would have satisfied something deep in his soul that protecting political figures could never supply.
Malcolm poked his head through the office door just then. “Uh, boss? There’s a guy out front asking if he can talk to you.”
“Medium height, dark hair, full beard?” he asked, and Malcolm nodded. Think of the devil, and the devil, he appears.
Randy put his hands on his desk and pushed himself up, steeling for another confrontation with Fraser. Perhaps he should bring him back to his office? No, that implied a level of intimacy Randy did not want. Or more accurately, would not admit he wanted.
He followed Malcolm out to the front of the house and found Fraser in a side room, facing away from the entrance as he studied one of the paintings. Dressed more casually this time, he almost slouched in his navy blazer and dark jeans. The blazer was tailored to hint at broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and strong arms. The tail of it curved over the seat of his jeans, and Randy couldn’t help but appreciate the glimpse of a denim-covered ass and of straight, slim legs that ended in black leather loafers.
“Okay, Mr. Fraser,” Randy said in a put-upon tone. “You asked to see me.”
Fraser turned away from the small framed portrait of a handsome man with bright blue eyes and dark, wavy hair. The subject wore a white shirt, opened at the throat to reveal a glimpse of lightly haired torso. Thomas had sat for the painting a year earlier; Randy had deliberately left it unsigned to avoid comments from his bar’s patrons. The figure of Thomas was stylized enough to prevent casual viewers from recognizing the model. Randy had no illusions that the work was anything but amateurish, but he braced himself nonetheless for a sharp comment.
“This is quite good,” Fraser opined. “I don’t recognize the artist.” Surprisingly, his eyes and expression were bright and friendly, and he made no further remark on the painting. Still, Randy sensed an act. Fraser’s need leeched from his skin into the room, and it set Randy on edge.
Fraser stepped toward him and held out his hand. “Mr. Vaughan, thank you for seeing me. I fear I made a poor impression on you yesterday, and I’d like to try again.”
Randy ignored the hand a second time, but gestured for Fraser to sit in one of the wingback chairs in the small room. He took the one opposite, leaving a cocktail table between them, and let the silence build rather than help Fraser out.
Fraser eventually leaned forward in his chair. “Look, I realize I was a tactless arse yesterday. You neither requested nor needed my opinion on your collection or its arrangement, and I apologize for insulting both.”
Randy tilted his head in acknowledgment of the apology. Acknowledgment, but not acceptance.
“Your collection is intriguing, Mr. Vaughan,” Fraser said earnestly. “I won’t pretend I care for every work, but that would be true of virtually any assemblage of paintings. You obviously chose pieces that moved you, and a great many of them also speak to me.”
Randy grunted. “My ego isn’t so fragile that I need your approval. Cut the crap and move on.”
Fraser’s eyebrows rose and he blinked, but then cleared his throat nervously. He leaned even farther toward Randy and dropped his voice slightly. “Here’s the thing. I’ve invested a great deal of time in researching rumors of a particular work of art. If it even exists, I believe I’ve narrowed it down to three or four likely possibilities. The painting you imported from England a few years ago is one of those possibilities. Another is in Philadelphia and one in New York. Therefore, I decided to fly over to America to attempt to examine them for myself, in order to narrow down the candidates.”
“And what is it you’re trying to discover, that you need to see this painting in person?” Randy asked. The friendly eyes immediately shuttered, and once more Randy was presented with a stony glare.
“I’d prefer not to say yet, Mr. Vaughan. You must understand. If my research is validated, there could be a great deal of attention. I simply can’t risk someone stealing my work. Not when I’m this close.”
“Well, that’s very interesting, Mr. Fraser—”
“Jack. Please.”
“That’s interesting, but I don’t particularly want attention. You may have noticed this is a bar that caters to gay men and women.” A flicker of need escaped the set of Jack’s eyes, and Randy had to fight the urge to smile. Or growl. “I think my business could suffer, in fact, if I got publicity for a painting in my collection.”
Fraser clasped his hands as if in prayer. “You obviously have a passion for art, Mr. Vaughan. Doesn’t the possibility that something you collected could clarify a mystery about Jean-Pierre Brousseau excite you?”
“Maybe.” Fraser’s eyes lit up, but Randy continued. “If I knew what the mystery was.”
At those words, he stiffened and fear crept back into his face. “I can’t…” he said feebly.
“Then my answer remains the same. If you can’t explain to me, I don’t believe we have anything else to discuss.”
He stood and turned to leave, but Fraser called out, “Please, Mr. Vaughan. I have to travel to New York tomorrow, and then Philadelphia at the end of the week. My time in this country is short. If you don’t let me look at your painting, I… I likely will not have another chance to see it in person.”
Though he’d turned away from Fraser, Randy closed his eyes. Of course he would be leaving soon. Randy had been foolish to daydream about painting him, spending time with him, seeing what was behind that glint of desire and the need that leaked through cracks in the polished façade. Despite himself, Randy faced Fraser.
“Whatever you’re refusing to tell me is obviously very important to you, but it also makes you desperate and fearful.” The dismay and consternation that mingled with disappointment in Fraser’s face was almost painful to see. Yet Randy refused to cave. “Trust is a two-way street.”
Fraser also stood and approached Randy, holding out a business card between his thumb and forefinger. He met Randy’s eyes, swallowed, and took another step closer. Randy could smell his cologne, something like dark fruit, earthy yet tart. In a near whisper, Fraser said, “Please take my card. In case you change your mind. I’m staying at the W Hotel, near Pennsylvania Avenue. I’ll be back in Washington Wednesday, and then I’m to take the train to Philadelphia later in the week.”
Randy almost forgot he was in his own bar. Seconds ticked by. The handsome face was tipped up toward him, with dark eyes blown wide and sensuous lips slightly parted. Heat came off Fraser—Jack—through his expensive clothes. The hair of his beard was glossy and Randy wanted very much to run his hands over that pelt, to feel it under his fingers, to have it brush against his own face. Christ, when did I develop a fetish for beards?
He licked his lips, and when Fraser’s eyes tracked the tip of his tongue, Randy’s rod began to swell down the leg of his pants. Again Jack’s shoulders sloped down, and his eyes softened while he watched Randy.
He knew the signs. Jack was hungry for a man like Randy to take charge of him and bring him the joy of submission. All Randy had to do was touch his hair, tighten his fingers in the dark locks, press downward on his shoulder, and Jack would be his. For an hour or so, anyway.
Two men wandered into the room, and the connection between Randy and Jack shattered and fell away. He plucked the business card from Jack’s fingers and said, “I’ll consider it.”
Jack glanced nervously at the newcomers and then hurried away, leaving Randy with his card and regret for a missed chance.
Chapter Four
The rest of Sunday evening passed smoothly, with only occasional flurries of customers. Several times Randy’s eye was drawn to the landscape that had caused Fraser to shoot off his mouth. He gritted his teeth each time, and once murmured, “asshole.” Malcolm was walking by just then and chuckled.
On Mondays Randy kept Mata Hari closed. Usually he reserved that night to go out and seek a little action of his own, but he found to his surprise he wasn’t in the mood. Instead he met Thomas and Zachary for dinner at a new restaurant in the Shaw area of DC. The food was fancier than he liked, but he enjoyed the chance to hang out and bullshit with his friends over a nice bottle of red. Thomas had superb taste in wine and he loved to treat Randy and Zachary to fine dinners.
It had bothered Randy at first, when he and Thomas started to spend time together as friends, long before Zachary was in the picture, that Thomas always picked up the bill. Finally Thomas all but ordered him to shut up and enjoy the good food without worrying about the cost. Randy ceased his protests and just said thank you for the meals.
The evening ended early since Thomas and Zachary both worked normal hours instead of a bartender’s reverse schedule, and Randy had time to sketch some ideas in his studio. Tuesday was again a slow night and he found himself watching the door too closely when it opened sporadically. He finally realized he was hoping for one particular customer to walk in, but then he recalled Fraser was supposed to be in New York.
He shook his head angrily at himself and took a walk around the bar, chatting up customers and trying to be a good host. Mindful of Malcolm’s math that flirting equaled bigger tips for his staff, he smiled more often. Given some of the startled reactions, he must have looked more feral than inviting, so he quickly abandoned the attempt.
After closing up, Randy grabbed the deposit bag with the night’s receipts and stepped out the front door into the parking lot. The neighboring dance club Pyramid was dark on Tuesdays and the lot was mostly empty as Randy headed for his truck. Throwing the bag onto the passenger seat first, he climbed into his pickup and gave the engine a minute to warm up. It was only October, but a cold snap had hit the mid-Atlantic, and his patrons had been complaining all week about the low temps.
Randy put his truck in drive and headed toward the O Street exit from the lot. His headlights swept across a flurry of movement, and in a pounding heartbeat he realized what was illuminated: Three men were holding down a kid and kicking him. A knife flashed.
Randy threw the truck into park and charged into the brawl before he even thought about what he was doing. He catalogued and ranked potential threats as he ran. A tall Hispanic-looking man stood closest, a stocky dark-skinned man was holding the kid down, while a Caucasian guy stood close by with a knife displayed.
Randy’s breathing was disciplined despite the rage that swept through him at the s
ight of the boy on the ground, and every muscle in his big body flexed as he hurtled toward the apparent mugging.
The tallest man’s face whipped toward the sound of approach. He was probably scared shitless as Randy charged, so it was no surprise when he took off running. That left two attackers.
The glint of a blade caught Randy’s eye, and he crashed into the man holding it. Adrenaline pumped, blood rushed and thrummed in his ears, but decades of combat training had Randy’s arms and legs working effortlessly as he grabbed the knife hand. The man grunted in pain as Randy twisted hard at the same time his fist connected with the guy’s gut. He sagged as Randy twisted harder and the knife fell from his hand. Kicking the blade aside, Randy forced the mugger away in the opposite direction, leaving him sprawled on the pavement. One to go.
The asshole with his hands balled in the kid’s sweatshirt recovered from his surprise and shouted, “You’re dead, muh’fucker.” He dropped the boy, then surged up toward Randy, fist back, ready to swing. Randy gave a savage grin as he sidestepped the lunge and shoved the mugger, driving him right onto the hood of his truck. Grabbing the back of the guy’s jacket in both hands, Randy grunted as he hoisted him in the air and threw him like a sack of potatoes toward his cohort sprawled on the ground.
The dickwad who had lost his knife scrambled to his feet as he tugged on his buddy’s arm, and the two of them took off into the darkness after their cowardly friend. Randy snatched up the fallen knife as he caught his breath and waited, still tense, to make sure the muggers were really gone. After a moment he was satisfied, so he tucked the blade into the back of his belt before he crouched to help the kid.
His eyes were closed, but he groaned slightly as Randy leaned over him. Age was tough to tell; Randy figured maybe fifteen. He wore a torn and stained purple sweatshirt and dirty jeans. His sneakers showed gaps between the canvas and the rubber soles. No jacket, despite the cold night air. Under the sodium streetlight, his hair seemed to be red. Blood smeared his mouth where he’d clearly been punched in the face so hard it split his lip.
Lying Eyes Page 3
