by Max Hudson
“The Art of Love”
M/M Gay Romance
Max Hudson
© 2017
Max Hudson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received it directly from the author you are reading a pirated copy. If you have downloaded an illegal copy of this book and enjoyed it, please consider purchasing a legal copy. Your respect and support encourages me to continue writing and producing high quality books for you.
This book is intended for adults (18+) only. The contents may be offensive to some readers. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations. Please do not read this book if you are offended by such content or if you are under the age of 18. All sexually active characters are 18+.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Products or brand names mentioned are trademarks of their respective holders or companies. Cover images are licensed stock photos, images shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are models.
Edition v1.00 (2017.04.25)
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Chapter One
Every morning, it was the same.
At six a.m., my alarm went off. I got up, got dressed, grabbed my jacket and threw it on top of my T-shirt and sweats, and walked out for my shoes. I’d slip them on, go out the door and jog for an hour.
Once back home, I would grab a shower, have some coffee and a quick breakfast, listen to the news, then head to the station. Every time I walked in, my partner Basil Zabrowski said, “Mornin’ Mark! How’d you sleep?”
“Really well. You?”
“I woke up with no memory of my dreams. That’s all I can ask for.” Then he laughs as if this is the first time he’s ever said this cheesy joke. I’d heard it so often that my laugh became automatic, like a robot. Ha, ha, ha.
Then we went to work and the day would take on its usual rhythm. Meeting with the captain, chatting with fellow detectives, watching the jerks from Major Crimes and Internal Affairs strut by the windows like they’re something special. Sometimes suspects or witnesses needed to be interviewed and sometimes there was no one. Paperwork got assigned, turned in and filed away where we didn’t have to think about it anymore.
I could do all of this on a kind of autopilot. The sensation was like being outside of my own body watching myself drink a third cup of coffee in the break room, take down a statement, question a suspect. The other part of me, the aware and attentive half, seemed to be waiting for something to happen. The only problem was, I didn’t know what it was that I was waiting for. Every day, it felt like something was just around the corner, just over the horizon, but it never quite arrived. I would ask myself what I could do to help it get here, but the only answer I ever received was, “Just wait.”
So, my fifth year as a detective was extremely standard. There were some days I envied other members of the squad who got injured or who were suspended for being too hot-headed. I felt like their experiences were somehow more real than mine, more intense. What did I have to do to get there?
“Got a case for you, Detective Upton.” Captain Diaz held out a file for me, her engagement ring flashing in my eyes. “A robbery down at an art gallery on Fifth and Ale. I want you to work it with Zabrowski.”
“Who else would I work it with? He’s my partner.”
“I know, but a lot of the detectives have tried to go it alone lately. So I’m after everyone to use the team and take advantage of their partnerships. You’re a great detective but don’t get cocky. This guy is a little bit of a celebrity.”
“Ooh, a celebrity?” I took the file from her and nodded at the rock on her finger. “Hey, when is the big day?”
She beamed. “We got the date we wanted, June 24th. I’ll be sending out Save the Date cards soon. Do not schedule anything else on that day.”
“Well,” I said, “I always make my plans at least a year in advance, so I will try to restrain myself.” I smiled at her and recited the date to myself, completely unaware of just how special it would turn out to be.
Aris Kahn’s gallery was a modest one with a little studio work space at the top where he created his masterpieces. He was a painter and a successful one. He had come into his own not long after graduating from a fine arts school and had people buying his stuff before he even threw his black cap in the air.
I had never met someone who made their living in the arts before and I remember being surprised to see how rough around the edges he looked. In my mind, artists wore bizarre outfits, moved in packs of eccentric hangers-on and poets, and refused to live normally in any way. Instead, Aris looked like an employee at a hardware store. He had some scruff on his face, nice shoulders, and well-toned arms. He was wearing stained jeans and a torn T-shirt with a plaid button-up thrown over it.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, rubbing his face. The three of us stood in his studio while random people wandered in and out, some with paintings and others with phones. “You’ll have to excuse me. I didn’t sleep all night. I’m very upset about all of this.”
“No need to apologize,” I said, taking out my notepad. “Just tell me what happened, starting from the beginning.”
He put his hands on the back of his neck, stretched back into an arch and then sighed long and hard. “Well,” he started, “the three pieces were very important pieces of art. They were going to be displayed in City Hall at the beginning of Pride, which is in a couple weeks, and be up for the next few months. The mayor himself contacted me. This was no small project.”
“Okay. So, the paintings were complete and ready to go?”
“Yes. I had a dinner planned with some friends at Le Flor, the little French place downtown. We were all going to meet at around eight, but everyone’s always late so I didn’t even leave here until eight fifteen. I was the last one here, and I clearly remember locking up.” He paused and pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I know because as I walked to the restaurant I was swinging my keys around like this.” He twirled his keys one direction and then the other, the way I constantly did when I was bored. I stared at his hands. They were broad and strong. After the key demonstration, I kept glancing at them over and over.
“Is there any chance that isn’t really the case? Can anyone else attest that you definitely locked up at that time?”
He shook his head and grimaced. “I don’t usually leave alone because my stuff has been valued pretty highly. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but things were going so well. My project was finished, the mayor was thrilled, and I had friends waiting to celebrate with me. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“Did you notice anyone as you went out?”
“No one. This block and the next were very quiet. There are several street lights along the way, so I defin
itely would have seen anyone headed my direction.”
“Hmm.” I glanced over at my partner Basil who gave me a nod. We were both thinking the same thing—inside job. Someone Aris trusted had turned on him. It was the unfortunate but obvious solution to the mystery. Basil crossed his arms over his bulging gut and took over the questioning.
“Mr. Kahn, is there anyone you can think of that might have a reason to take these paintings? Anyone who could benefit from them, or who may be holding a grudge against you, that sort of thing?”
“Please call me Aris.” He looked over his shoulder as a young employee came in and raised her eyebrows at him questioningly, “Need anything?” He responded with a quick wave. He waited for her to leave, then turned back to us. “Honestly, I really trust the people around me. Even my ex-boyfriend wouldn’t be likely to have done this. He’s having a lot of success of his own. He’s with someone else, and we get along well. All my employees and I are on good terms. I have a lot of friends. I can’t imagine who would do this.”
Basil turned to me and we exchanged a look. “Can I ask,” I interjected, “were the paintings controversial in any way? Could someone have wanted to stop them from being displayed?”
He shrugged. “I mean, they were a triptych of different kinds of love. They portray heterosexual, homosexual and transgender people in couples. They’re nudes, but I didn’t paint them in a realistic style. They have a kind of cubist twist to them, but you can tell what they are. That may have been too much for someone.”
Basil frowned. “This is for City Hall, you say?”
He nodded. “I think Mayor Goodman wants some extra press. He’s up for reelection in a bit, and this would be a curve ball. He saw the work, and he’s on board.”
I took notes and we all stood and thought for a moment. I exchanged a look with Basil and he raised an eyebrow slightly. Without a word, I knew we were both thinking the same thing.
“We need to get to City Hall.”
Out loud, I addressed Aris. “Thank you so much for your time, Aris.” I took a business card from my pocket and handed it to him. His hand was rough and warm and made my heart jump as I touched it. He looked at my card and then smiled at me.
“Call me,” I said before quickly adding, “If you have any more information. Please be in touch.”
He nodded, blushing again. “I will. Thanks. Please keep me updated. Those paintings are worth quite a bit.”
We turned to go and Basil turned back. “Hey,” he said, “just so we know—did you have any kind of insurance policy on those paintings?”
“Sure.” He pulled out his phone and opened his email to show us a quick message for Schulman and Schulman, his insurance company. “It’s a standard Personal Articles Floater for my paintings. I also have renter’s insurance for the gallery in case of a break-in. Do you need to talk to my rep?”
“Can’t hurt. We’ll be in touch. Please don’t go on any trips, Aris.” He turned away and sent me yet another silent message.
“Insurance fraud.”
I had no response. I just prayed he was wrong. We walked out and got in the car.
“So,” Basil started, “what do you think?”
“You know I don’t like to make assumptions. Let’s just work the case until it’s done and see what we get.”
He snorted at me. “You just don’t want to admit that pretty boy back there is working his insurance company.” He reached over and turned on the scanner. “Just because someone is attractive doesn’t mean you should trust him.”
“You find him attractive?”
“Hey,” Basil said, a hand to his chest in feigned hurt, “I’m secure enough in my own heterosexuality to admit when another man is handsome. And an artist, too? Come on, any nice guy would be thrilled to go out with him.” He started the car and we pulled out of the parking lot. “You genuinely aren’t attracted to him?”
“Basil, stop pestering me and focus on the case. We need to find these paintings before someone ships them to a secret warehouse in South America or wherever stolen paintings end up.”
“Hmm... no answer. That must mean yes.”
I stayed silent the rest of the way to City Hall. Maybe Aris had a sweet face and an adorable twinkle in his blue eyes, but that didn’t mean anything was going to happen between us. After all, the guy could be a criminal.
Chapter Two
The mayor beamed at us as we walked in, gave us the usual overly strong handshake, and called us both by our first names.
“Detectives! Good to see you, Basil. And you, Mark. Please, please have a seat.Iassume you’re here about the art robbery.”
“Yeah,” I started, getting out my notes. “Aris tells us this was a, what’s it called, a triptych?”
“Yes. Gorgeous. I was so excited to have the unveiling. It’s scheduled to be the first day of Pride week right before the parade.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on top of his desk. “I’m sure you recall my predecessor,” he said, continuing in a whisper, “He was a bit homophobic.” He leaned back and went back to his normal tone of voice to add, “I want to change the image of our local politics. Show that we’re a safe, diverse city for anyone.”
“Lovely.” I gave him a little nod and smile, the nonverbal recognition of his open-mindedness that I knew he was waiting for. He beamed again and sat back.
“So,” he said, addressing us both, “what do you boys need to know?”
“Well,” I started, “can you think of anything strange in the past few days? Maybe someone asking too many questions, hanging around Aris a bit too much, maybe here at City Hall? Aris says you visited the studio too.”
“I did. I have always been a patron of the arts.” Mayor Goodman screwed up his face as he spoke to show us he was thinking, and Basil and I glanced at one another. For some reason, whoever had the office of Mayor always had to act as if their emotions were programmed, their expressions predetermined.
“I can’t say that I saw anything strange there. In fact, what I noticed was how quiet and calm it was. I thought a bunch of crazy artists would be throwing paint around in there, but it was a group of young people hard at work.”
Basil jumped in. “How about here at City Hall? I understand the pieces are a bit controversial. Anyone object to them?”
“Oh, sure.” Goodman nodded energetically. “I had to fight tooth and nail to get these paintings displayed. Even after several meetings, I still had a lot of resistance, most of it from people who consider themselves quite liberal. It was very surprising.” He shook his head. “I kept explaining that a big change is exactly what we need. And art is powerful stuff. People shouldn’t underestimate it.”
I chewed my bottom lip a little. “Mayor, we’ll need the names of everyone who attended those meetings. Even if someone was in favor of hanging the work, I’d still like to talk to him or her.”
“Yes, of course. Whatever you need.”
We got the minutes of five different meetings during which the art was discussed and then split up the attendees between us. We spent the rest of the afternoon talking to different local politicians about their statements, asking for alibis, all the usual.
To our surprise, we had a possible thief by the time we were done.
“Okay,” Basil said to me in the car, “who do you like for this?”
“Well, I’m almost certain it was Mrs. Albright, the Madame Treasurer.”
“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”
I checked my notes to see where I had circled a few things. “She knew the exact date and time of the theft and the others didn’t. She was extremely agitated during our meeting, and she made that kind of a face every time I talked about the subject of the paintings. She kept cutting me off, saying, ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ She claims she was out for dinner with a friend at the time of the robbery, but I think she could have easily hired someone to break into the gallery. All the details about their location, the artist; it was all discussed in those meetings.”
“You ready for this?” Basil pulled out his own notebook. “I think I know who she hired.”
We talked a bit more, agreed on our suspect, and went back to the precinct to have a talk with our captain and told tell her who we liked.
“Well look at you two,” Captain Diaz said, shaking her head. “Only you jaded flatfoots could be this calm about solving one of our biggest cases to date. You’ll be heroes! Smile and go slap some cuffs on these schemers. Basil,” she indicated the door, “you’re dismissed. Mark, talk to me a second.”
Surprised, I stayed behind and turned to face Captain Diaz. “Captain?”
“Hey,” she said, “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine. No need to concern yourself.”
“Mark,” she said, leaning back in her big, squeaky chair, “I disagree. You’re walking around my station like a zombie. I heard you have the same exact conversation with Detective Wright three days in a row. Look,” she said, lowering her chin to her chest, “you’re a great detective. I like having you here. You take the job seriously and you bring in the bad guys. But, I must warn you, you’re on the verge of burning out on this job. I’ve seen it before.”
I crossed an ankle over my knee, put my hands on my shin, and gave it a squeeze. I barely felt it. “With all due respect, Captain Diaz,” I said, “police work is the only thing I’ve known. Even if I do lose a bit of passion for the job, which I may have, I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She looked over my shoulder out the window at the bullpen. “You see Pinkerton out there? Just behind you?”
I turned and saw Pink. He was drinking what would have been his fourth or fifth soda of the day. His gut was even bigger than I remembered and he had a pile of paperwork towering next to him on his desk. He smiled and nodded to anyone who walked by, but then quickly returned to his computer.
“I see him. Let me guess,” I turned back to Captain Diaz, “you’re afraid that’s where I’m headed. That I’ll be the next desk jockey locked into a position thanks to our union, and you won’t be able to replace me with a detective who actually gets up and solves cases.”