* * * *
The moment they stepped off the elevator, Quint gripped Clay's arm, telling him, barely above a whisper, to remain where he was. It only took Clay a second to realize why. The door to his loft stood open, light spilling out into the hallway.
"How—" Clay started to ask, stopping instantly when Quint shook his head while pulling out his gun.
Clay watched in fear as, inch by inch, Quint made his way down to the door. Quint stood to one side of it for a long moment, then vanished inside. From Quint's shadow, Clay knew he'd dropped down to one knee and envisioned every cop movie he'd seen where the officers entered a room knowing there was the possibility the villain was waiting for them.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding when Quint reappeared, telling him it was safe to come inside.
"You're not going to like this," Quint said when Clay joined him, pointing to the studio.
"God damned, mother-fucking son-of-a-bitch," Clay spat out angrily, looking at what had once been his painting of Quint. Now it was shredded, pieces hanging down like so many dead leaves on a plant.
"He's taken it to the next level," was Quint's taut reply.
"How…?" Clay looked at the alarm box beside the door. Or what had been the alarm box. Now it was just shattered plastic and metal.
"They call it crash and smash," Quint said. "The perp kicks in the door then has thirty to sixty seconds to destroy the box. If he's in time, it doesn't send an alarm to the monitoring company or the cops."
"But wouldn't it know the door had been kicked in?"
"It's a piece of machinery. All it knows is that you've set a certain length of time to get to it and shut it off before it goes ballistic, so to speak. Your security company was negligent, in my opinion, because they didn't set up protection against that happening."
"Meaning?" Clay asked, planning on having a few choice words with the company in question.
"A system where, as soon as the door is opened, the box lets them know to stand by for disarm confirmation. If they don't get that, they call in the police or send one of their people."
"Too late now, but by all that's holy, they're going to set me up with one tomorrow."
"Good," Quint said, finally going over to close the door, using only the tip of one finger. When Clay asked why, Quint told him he was calling in to get the CSI team out to go over the place, looking for clues to who had broken in. "I know my prints are all over, but the perps should be on top of them, if he was stupid enough not to wear gloves."
"You know he wasn't."
"Yeah, but I live in hope," Quint replied with a wry smile before placing the call.
Then Quint told Clay to wait in the living room while he canvassed the other loft owners to see if any of them had buzzed someone into the building without checking who they were or if they had noticed anything unusual.
After Quint left, Clay paced the room, feeling vulnerable now that the security system was non-viable. Needing something to take his mind off of that, he went into the studio, planning on… On what? I can't touch the painting. There's no other damage and even if there was, I can't do anything until after that CSI people go over everything.
When he looked at the ruined painting, his stomach clenched with fear and anger. "Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this to me?" He pounded his fist on the table, wincing in pain, both physical and emotional.
The sound of the door buzzer made him jump, fear coursing through him. He almost didn't answer then realized it could be the police crew. Instead of buzzing to let them in, he went down to the lobby and, despite the fact that he could see the well-marked van outside on the street, he made the two-man team show him ID before letting them in. Once he was certain they were legitimate, he took them up to his loft. By the time they got there, Quint, looking very worried, had returned from interviewing Clay's neighbors.
"Are you trying to scare the shit out of me," Quint grumbled after setting the team to work.
"Sorry," Clay replied. "But there was no way I was going to let them in until I knew who they were."
"A smarter move than the guy on the second floor pulled. He said someone buzzed, saying they had a pizza delivery. Instead of telling them they had the wrong place, he let them in. You'd think, in a building with as much security as this one has, he'd have known better. His answer, when I told him that, was that he was just being helpful."
"How long ago was that?" Clay asked.
"According to him, as best as he could remember, it happened about twenty minutes after we left." Quint went over to the cordless phone in the living room. After checking the log entries, he said, "There were two more calls from anonymous. One was about five minutes after we took off and another just before the break-in. He was being very careful to be sure we weren't here."
"So he wasn't watching the building."
"Apparently not or he'd have seen us leave. Unless, of course, he was watching the parking garage, figuring you, or we, would take your car."
Clay nodded, knowing that the exit from the garage led to the street behind the building. "Is it okay if I make coffee?"
"Sure. I could use some too. I have a feeling it's going to be a long night."
"It's not going to take them that long to do whatever they do, is it?" Clay asked, glancing toward the studio where the team was working at the moment.
"An hour or so, probably, but I'm not leaving you unprotected. I doubt the killer will come back tonight, but I'm not taking any chances. So I'll sleep on the floor in front of the door."
"You have to be kidding."
"Yeah, I am," Quint replied with a grin. "We will, however, move the sofa in front of it. I can sleep on that."
Hoping Quint was still joking, Clay huffed before going into the kitchen. He knew he wasn't as calm as he tried to make out when he sloshed some of the water onto the counter while filling the coffee-maker. Suddenly Quint took the pot from his hand, saying gently, "Let me do that before the rest of it ends up on the floor."
"I didn't realize…"
"That this had gotten to you so bad? Delayed reaction, Clay." Quint hugged him momentarily then told him to sit down. "The coffee will get made faster if I do the honors," he said with a quick smile of commiseration.
"He's insane," Clay spat out.
"No kidding. Now if we only knew which man on the list is doing this."
"I think you can finally cross me off of it," Clay told him dryly.
Quint had the good grace to look a bit abashed as he said, "In my mind, you were already. My lieutenant wasn't quite so sure. I think this will convince him once and for all."
When the coffee was ready, Quint poured them each a cup then joined Clay at the table. They both remained silent, lost in their own thoughts, as they drank and waited for the CSI team to leave. Before the team did, one of the men came into the kitchen, saying, "I'll need prints from both of you, for elimination purposes." When Quint cocked an eyebrow, the man said, "Yeah, yours are on file, detective, but it'll save me time if I take new ones now."
Once that was taken care of, the team left. As soon as they had, Quint headed to the living room. "Want to help me with this?" he called out to Clay.
"You were serious," Clay said when he joined him, seeing that Quint was at one end of the long sofa.
"About putting it in front of the door? Yeah. The lock is shattered. The alarm box is useless. This should at least deter our friend if he decides to pay you another visit tonight. And no, I'm not really going to sleep on it."
They got it moved then Quint said, "I've arranged for an officer to watch the building tonight for added protection. Tomorrow I'll decide whether to let you stay here or move you to somewhere safer."
"Pardon me? You'll do what? I think that's my choice and, for your information, I am not leaving. I'll get the security company out here first thing in the morning but this is my home and I will not let this bastard run me out of it. Got that?"
"Got it. And I figured that would be your response.
Moving you was just an option."
"One that is off the table."
"Okay. For now, though, we should probably try to get some sleep."
"Lots of luck with that," Clay muttered.
Slinging an arm around Clay's shoulders, Quint replied, "We'll try my patented sleep aid and when we're finished, I guarantee you'll sleep like—"
"A baby?" Clay said, his libido going into overdrive from what Quint was suggesting. Something he wouldn't have thought possible considering the last hour they'd gone through.
"Like a well-sated man who's been drained of his last drop of"—Quint winked—"energy."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Quint's patented sleep aid did as promised and Clay actually awoke feeling rested. Then everything that had happened hit him again, not the least of which was the fact that Quint wasn't in bed with him. One deep breath told him why. After hitting up the bathroom, Clay wandered into the kitchen.
"You keep this up," Clay said, eyeing the eggs and sausage Quint was fixing, "and I might just rethink my dislike of roommates."
Quint cocked an eyebrow. "Because I cook a mean breakfast?"
"That and the fact that, despite everything that's happening, you manage to keep me centered and reasonably calm."
"Calm is good." Quint put down the spatula, walked to where Clay was standing, and gave him a hearty kiss. "Keep that in mind after I've left. And get on the phone now and call the security company." When Clay scowled at him, Quint added, "Please? I don't want to leave you here unprotected."
"Okay." Clay brought up the phone list on his cell, found the number he needed, and made the call. After explaining what had happened, he asked about the kind of alarm box Quint had mentioned the previous evening and was told they could install one. The man he talked to said, given the circumstances, they'd have a technician out within the hour.
With that settled, he and Quint sat down to eat.
"What's on your agenda for the day?" Quint asked when they'd made inroads on their meal.
"Starting a new portrait of you. No way in hell am I going to let that bastard think he's winning."
"Good. Look, do me a favor? Don't answer your landline today if anyone calls. And keep your cell on. As far as I can figure, whoever the killer is, he doesn't have your cell number or he'd have used it."
"I hadn't thought of that, but you're right."
"I usually am," Quint replied with a smirk.
Clay just shook his head before getting back to his meal. When they had finished and cleaned up, Clay took a deep breath before going into the studio. The damage to the painting was just a bad as he remembered.
"You'll do the new one and it'll be twice as good," Quint told him, clapping one hand on Clay's shoulder.
"You better believe it." Clay almost grinned. "Maybe this time it should be a nude."
Quint sputtered. "Don't even think it. That would not go over well with the department."
"Probably not, but it would be a great painting."
"Clayton…" Quint muttered.
The sound of the buzzer had them both heading to the door as Quint pointed out that they'd better move the sofa if it was the security technician downstairs. It was, they did, and the man appeared two minutes later.
"With him here, I'll get going," Quint said once the man started to work. "Remember what I told you."
Clay nodded. "Don't answer the landline, don't let anyone in except you or Amanda once he leaves, and keep the door locked and the alarm set."
"Got it." Quint took a step toward the door, turned, and added, "And no nude picture."
"We'll see," Clay replied, laughing when Quint scowled before exiting the loft.
* * * *
"Detective Hawk?"
Quint turned to look at Officer Greene—one of the men Quint had sent to Toppers with Clay's sketch of Matty.
"Sir," the officer said, "I think we have a name for this Matty person. According to two of the bartenders, he's a semi-regular and pays for his drinks with a credit card in the name of Vincent Mathew Nelson. He told them to call him Matty because he hated his first name."
"Hold on. Are they certain?" Quint asked, getting a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Yes, sir. The one bartender, Ted, told me he always asks for ID from someone he doesn't recognize. When Matty came in the first time, Ted checked the guy's driver's license. It agreed with the card. Ted says the name stuck in his head because his brother's name is Vincent and he's a blond too."
"I don't suppose you asked Ted if he remembered anything else, like an address? And was it a Colorado license?"
"No, sir. He—"
"Damn it, just call me Quint," Quint grumbled.
Officer Greene nodded. "It was a Texas license. When Ted commented on that, Mr Nelson said he'd just moved to Denver a month before and hadn't gotten around to changing it."
"Does Ted remember approximately when this happened?"
"He said it was April tenth. He remembers because it was his wife's birthday. The club wasn't too busy so he was hoping to get away early. Since it was slow, he had some time to chat with Mr Nelson."
"Was there anything else Ted remembered about Nelson?"
"Not that he said, but the other bartender told me that Nelson was always watching people whenever he came in, like maybe he was looking for someone."
Maybe Clay, if Matty is related to Travis? But why Toppers specifically?
"Not much info, but it helps," Quint told Officer Greene. "Thank you."
The moment the officer left, Quint called Clay. The first thing he said when Clay answered was, "Did Travis have any brothers?"
* * * *
Clay frowned at the abruptness of the question. "He had two, one older, one younger."
"Names?"
"Umm, Patrick and…Vince."
"You're don't sound too sure."
"Well he rarely talked about his family but I'm pretty certain those are their names. It has been over three years so… Why?"
Obviously ignoring Clay's question, Quint said, "You told me at one point the first time you first met Travis was at Toppers. Right?"
"Yeah."
"It's beginning to come together," Quint muttered, sounding distracted.
"Quint? What's coming together?"
"Huh? Oh. Unless I'm way off base, your Matty is Vincent Mathew Nelson."
"He's not my…" Clay started to say before what Quint had said sank in. "Nelson?"
"Yeah, Nelson. And, he's from Texas, according to his driver's license."
"You have him in custody?"
"I wish."
"Then how do you know?" Clay listened while Quint explained about what they'd found out from the bartenders at Toppers. "But why did he show up there? I mean…at Toppers?"
"I don't know if I told you or not, but when they uncovered Travis's bones there was a driver's license with them—from Texas—in the name of Gerald Franks. Franks turned out to be Travis. So…perhaps after you and Travis broke up he went down to Texas, maybe to stay with his brother. He gets a Texas license but under a different name. Maybe he didn't want you to find him. Maybe there was something else going on. Anyway, for whatever reason he takes off for Oregon, where he was subsequently murdered."
"I guess that makes sense except how could he get a license using another name?"
"If you know the right people, you can get almost any form of ID to back up your claim that you're who you say you are."
"Then why not just get a fake driver's license to begin with?"
"I have no idea," Quint replied, sounding somewhat exasperated.
"Sorry. But why would Matty, Vince, whichever, be coming after me?"
"That, Clay, is the question of the hour."
"He couldn't have known Travis was dead. Travis's body was found only a few days ago."
"Yep."
"So something else set him off. I mean…if Matty really is the killer." Clay heard someone say Quint's name in the background.
&nb
sp; "Gotta, go," Quint said. "We'll talk more about this when I get ho—over there this evening."
Clay hung up, muttering, "Do not even go there, Quint." And yet the idea that for even one second, and probably subconsciously, the man had thought of the loft as home didn't upset Clay nearly as much as it would have even a day ago.
Tense because of what Quint had told him, Clay found it difficult to get back to his painting. He was hyper-aware of every noise he heard outside of the loft—the soft rumble of the elevator moving up and down the shaft next to the studio, muted footsteps above him that he knew had to be caused by tenants using the rooftop patio, even the sound of a car door slamming on the street five stories below him.
"Get a grip," he told himself. "No one can get in here without my knowing it." That didn't stop him from getting a butcher knife from the kitchen, setting it close at hand on his work table.
Eventually he unwound enough to get into what he was doing. He stretched a new canvas after throwing the old one in the trash and drew out the basics. Soon he was deeply involved in catching the Quint he now knew much more intimately than he had when he'd started the first portrait.
It was well past three when he finally came up for air and realized he was hungry. Stepping back from the canvas, he studied what he'd accomplished so far and deemed it much better than the original painting had been. After cleaning up, he crossed the loft to the kitchen and opened the fridge, in search of something that would tide him over until Quint showed up. Not that he'll necessarily stay for dinner, but there's no sense in totally killing my appetite in case he does.
He ended up making a ham and cheese sandwich that he took into the living room with him to eat, along with a cup of coffee. He'd just settled down and found the TV remote when the landline phone rang.
"Damn, not again," he muttered angrily when the ID came up as Anonymous. He was sorely tempted to answer and tell Matty off, as he was more than certain that's who was calling. But he remembered his promise to Quint and refrained, wondering if the detective had been able to track down the phone Matty was using. If he's smart, which he is given that he's managed to kill three people without getting caught, it probably is a throwaway. "Or four," he murmured, "if he killed Travis too. But why would he? Then again, why would anyone kill him, but someone did."
The Element Case Page 7