Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Read online

  In hindsight, the following morning, when Marshall had to reconstruct what he'd witnessed later that night from his hotel windows, he couldn't estimate with much accuracy how long he'd been glued to the scene in a trance-like state. Half an hour? An hour? Marshall just knew at some point he heard men's voices from the direction of the alley, then moved to the windows facing the alley out of curiosity.

  The men's voices and appearances were unfamiliar to him. These two men were just inside the alley, near the back corner of the old hotel. They didn't speak for long. The one with the shaggy beard, wearing a bomber jacket and boots, cupped the crotch of his blue jeans. That lone signal was all it took for the clean-cut young man in khaki slacks and a rugby shirt to plop down to his knees and look upward at the bearded man with a pleading expression, offering his mouth to take his load.

  The lights in Marshall's room were off. His eyes had adjusted to the dark. The men's faces were mostly concealed in the dark, but the glimpses he got of their profiles didn't trigger any sense of familiarity. The bearded man stood with a wide stance, hands resting at his belt loop, his hips thrust forward to the kneeling man's mouth.

  Marshall pulled back a few inches from the window to ensure they didn't see him being a voyeur. The men in the alley didn't seem concerned with getting caught, which intrigued Marshall. Neither of them looked about at all. Their sole focus was the pleasure at hand.

  Marshall kept watching. He'd fantasized before about messing around with a mysterious stranger in an alley like this, but it was just that—a fantasy. In real life, anonymous sex didn't hold any compelling appeal. The best he could tell, these two men hadn't even done the usual song and dance of flirting before crossing paths and getting down to immediate action.

  When the titillation wore off and the kneeling man's bobbing head just became monotonous, Marshall's eyes strayed. That's when he noticed the Mini Cooper parked near the alleyway corner on Nicholas Street.

  The sight of Kenneth Blakely's car was a bit of a surprise, until Marshall remembered that Kenneth had mentioned he planned on meeting up with Flora Miles and her husband downtown after dropping Marshall off at the hotel. Kenneth must still be lingering around here, Marshall thought, despite being fairly certain that Kenneth was neither of the two men getting their rocks off in the alley.

  The next morning, to organize his observations for the police, Marshall reconstructed the rest of what he witnessed that night with the following notes:

  "I got bored watching the men in the alley, then spotted Kenneth Blakely's Mini Cooper. Back at the north window, I noticed one of the floodlights on the Sylvia Bridge was out. I could no longer see the closest Redfern sculpture on that bridge."

  "Sometime later, when I peeked out again of the windows facing the alley, the two men were gone. The Mini Cooper was in the same parking space."

  "I tried to read myself to sleep in the hotel bed. Just as I was finally getting sleepy I received a text message from Kenneth. It said, 'Are you still awake?' I didn't respond to him."

  "Minutes later I got out of bed and looked for Kenneth's car. The Mini Cooper was gone. The parking space it had been in was empty."

  "I returned to bed to read. It was very late now. I heard a car door shut and the sound seemed to come from the direction of the alley. I went back to the windows and saw Kenneth's Mini Cooper back in the same parking spot by the corner, this time a little further away from the curb."

  "Finally, I fell asleep for good. I didn't wake again until the next morning, when I looked out the north window while brushing my teeth and saw that the nearest Redfern sculpture was gone."

  Chapter 13

  Rodney Riggs Redfern was trimming his beard with clippers when he found out what had happened from his manager, Patrick Castle.

  "Rodney, I've got terrible news this morning." Patrick's voice was unusually grim. "I'm with the police on Sylvia Bridge. A vandal did a number on one of your new sculptures."

  Instantly alarmed, Rodney dropped the clippers into his sink. "What!"

  "I'm so sorry to say it's gone—broken off from it's foundation—either stolen or in the river."

  "No! Which one?"

  "Um, the one closest to the plaza. The one on the southern side, heading northbound on the bridge."

  "Tell me this isn't happening!"

  "It definitely happened, sometime last night."

  "But I was out there last night," Rodney said. "Everything was perfect."

  "When was this?"

  "Like nine or ten. I had Dennis and Christine with me."

  Patrick said, "Come on out here as soon as you can. Just brace yourself."

  "Who did this?"

  "The police are working on it now. I'm afraid nobody knows anything yet."

  A SMALL CROWD FORMED near the southern approach to the Sylvia Bridge. The police roped off an area around the concrete base where the statue had been. Two divers in full-body wetsuits and goggles were searching the river channel.

  Rodney approached the scene with disbelief and found Patrick by the rope line.

  "It didn't even get twenty-four hours out here," Rodney said. "I don't understand why this happened."

  "Everybody's shocked," Patrick said. "The police assume it's in the river, because of the size and difficulty of moving it on land, but the divers haven't found it yet."

  "Shit."

  "The local press is already here and requesting interviews with you. How do you feel about it? I already told them you'll be speaking to the detective on scene before making any possible responses."

  "What do you recommend, Patrick?"

  "I don't think you should take any interviews or even release a statement right now. These were the city's sculptures. They paid you for them. Let's not encourage anyone to twist what happened into being anything about you. Best case scenario, a nearby government or business cam, and some witnesses, captured everything in a recording and the police department can announce an arrest sometime today."

  "Have you told Christine yet?"

  "I called her just after I called you. She's too upset to come down here."

  Rodney began looking at the assembled cops. "Which one's the detective?" Before he finished his question, Rodney spotted Marshall Clay speaking with a uniformed officer away from the group, standing beside the bridge's parapet. "Patrick, that's the reporter who tried to ruin my career."

  Patrick cursed. "That's why he looks familiar. I knew I recognized that arrogant asshole. He's been with the detective for a good stretch now. I can't believe he hustled his way into getting quotes from the police for a story before there's been much time for an investigation."

  "Maybe he's about to get arrested." Rodney told Patrick how he'd received flowers from Marshall the day before, just hours after the bridge installations were completed. At the time Rodney didn't think Marshall was in Doyle. He'd figured Marshall was still in Port Cole and had used a local delivery service to bring him the congratulatory bouquet. However, Rodney left out of his account any mention of Marshall ever visiting him in person or going with him to Hamilton Mill & Arboretum.

  "It sure begs the question why he's here," Patrick said. "You think the reporter has a grudge intense enough to result in criminal behavior?"

  "Maybe. I don't know what he's capable of yet."

  MARSHALL CLAY WAS NOT arrested. Unknown to Rodney or Patrick, Marshall had provided police with some potentially useful information based on what he'd witnessed the previous night from his second floor room at the Horace Hotel.

  From a distance Rodney and Marshall locked eyes. Neither man reacted.

  Leaving Marshall on the bridge parapet, where he was free to leave the area when he pleased, Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon approached Rodney and requested some minutes of his time. Rodney followed him into the plaza, away from the crowd, and the sergeant introduced himself. Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon was only a few years older than Rodney and classically handsome with soft brown eyes and a cleft chin. Rodney noticed he had a go
ld wedding band on his left ring finger.

  "I'm sure disappointed your artwork was stolen or mangled, Mr. Redfern," Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon said.

  "Are my five other sculptures on the bridges damaged in any way?" Rodney asked.

  "No, we don't believe so. I'll have you go inspect them as soon as we're done here so you confirm this for me."

  "Absolutely, I'll do that."

  "Very well. Let's start with the obvious." Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon pulled a small spiral notepad from his pocket, slid his pen out of the binding, and opened the pad to a blank page. "Do you have any reason to believe this act resulted from a personal or business vendetta?"

  "Sure, I might." Rodney fidgeted for a beat. "Is what I say to you going to be confidential?"

  "I need full disclosure from you so I can track leads. I can't guarantee you that anything I learn will stay out of the public record. On the other hand, I have no intention of broadcasting anything you tell me and I don't leak information to the media."

  Rodney liked the sergeant's manner and professionalism. These qualities put him at ease. He said, "The person who immediately comes to mind is the reporter you were just speaking with on the bridge—Marshall Clay."

  "Mr. Clay is not a journalist at present."

  "I didn't know that. Is he a prime suspect?"

  "No, not at this time. All I'm prepared to say is that he provided information that may be helpful to the case."

  "Hmm," Rodney hummed. "I don't know him well, but I believe he could be involved in this." Rodney proceeded to tell Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon about some of his basic contact with Marshall Clay. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone about Clay's newspaper column and how he'd later taken pictures of Clay making out with him near Hamilton Mill to try and neutralize any further stories. The sergeant listened, took notes, and clarified a few points without offering any judgment about Rodney's behavior.

  "Has Mr. Clay threatened you in either a specific or general sense?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Has Mr. Clay claimed he'd do you some type of harm in revenge, or told you to watch your back?"

  "No. He's not that type."

  "What type of person do you think he is?"

  Rodney shrugged. "Clay seems like the kind of guy who'd lop your head off before he ever told you he was pissed off."

  THE QUESTIONING BY the detective sergeant was more extensive than Rodney expected. After sharing his opinions on Clay, the detective sergeant wanted to know about his recent business dealings. While relaying his answers, Rodney alluded to being on the downtown bridges the night before with Dennis Petersen, the owner of an art supply store, and Christine Blatt, his assistant, sometime around nine o'clock.

  "Dennis is an exceptional photographer, a part time pro, and Christine runs my web site and social media accounts," Rodney added. "They were collecting video clips and still pictures of me standing near my sculptures."

  "How long were the three of you here?"

  "At most, I'd say an hour. We were on all three bridges, photographing the six sculptures. It was pretty simple and straightforward."

  "So you're reasonably confident you finished and left the area by ten o'clock?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you notice anything suspicious? Anyone lingering about?"

  "There were pockets of people stopping to look at the pieces and take pictures of them. The best I could tell, nobody recognized me. I don't recall anyone acting odd."

  "Let's talk about the floodlights at the base of your works. Were all six fully lit the entire time you and your photographers were on the bridges?"

  "Definitely, yes," Rodney answered. "Dennis and Christine even took some shots as we left that included all three bridges in the background."

  Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon mentioned those images might be timestamped and asked for contact information for Dennis and Christine so he could pursue this matter further.

  "Now, what can you tell me about Mr. Kenneth Blakely?"

  "Do you think he's involved?" Rodney asked.

  "Please just answer the question." Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon smirked, effectively reminding Rodney that he was the one making the inquiries, not the other way around.

  Rodney explained his familiarity with Kenneth and detailed how he, Kenneth, and Flora Miles were the three finalists for Doyle's bridge art contest. "I'm not close to either one of them. But the fine arts community is a small world. I've respected them for years, and always been cordial to them. I think they probably regard me in the same dispassionate way."

  Detective Sergeant shot Rodney a glance, studying his eyes for any tell-tale signs of deception. Rodney picked up on this and wondered what was behind it.

  "Oh, there's something I must not know . . ."

  "That's always the case, Mr. Redfern. People tend to harbor their secrets like personal treasures."

  Chapter 14

  Marshall Clay had roamed onto the pedestrian walkway on Devon Bridge—the easternmost bridge linking downtown to the islet—when he noticed Rodney Riggs Redfern bounding toward him. His body tightened as he waited for Rodney's arrival.

  "How're you involved in all of this, Clay?"

  Rodney appeared neither gruff nor angry as he stood before him. Instead of rage, Marshall sensed weariness and sadness in the artist's countenance.

  "I'm not here as a reporter," Marshall said. "The newspaper folded. I'm not employed."

  "Please tell me you'd never resort to destroying my art to get personal revenge."

  "I've never wanted revenge, Rodney. That day I went to your place on Hercules Road, I just wanted to offer an apology. You're the one who took me to the mill and turned everything uglier. Still, I let it bounce right off me. Hurting you in any way doesn't begin to interest me."

  "What are you doing back in Doyle?"

  "That's a long story. I'd rather not get into it right now."

  Rodney said, "As my manager pointed out to me, it's a helluva coincidence that the one person who came to my mind as being the most vengeful toward me is the same one who is now somehow involved in my sculpture getting ruined."

  Marshall shook his head. "I'm not involved."

  "The sergeant just told me you provided information to him."

  "That's true. I may have witnessed something last night from my hotel room that could impact the case."

  "Okay," Rodney said. "What did you see?"

  Marshall folded his arms over his chest and smiled. "The sergeant didn't say I had to keep it secret or anything. So I might tell you if you let me buy you breakfast."

  Rodney grimaced and started to say no. Then he shot a glimpse at his watch and sighed. "I don't eat junk. What're we talking about here? A donut shop or something?"

  "Maggie's Trattoria," Marshall said, "by the downtown square."

  "I love that place."

  "I was there yesterday morning. It was the best breakfast I'd had in years."

  "Deal," Rodney said. "Give me twenty minutes and I'll meet you there. I've got to report back to the sergeant on whether any of my other sculptures have been attacked."

  "I just inspected the other five myself. I don't see any damage."

  "Fortunately, with one left to look at closely, that's the conclusion I'm coming to also."

  MAGGIE'S TRATTORIA offered rooftop seating. Marshall requested a corner table for two overlooking the downtown square, shaded under a cotton canvas tent. He ordered two mimosas, a bottle of sparkling water, and fresh buttermilk biscuits with honey butter while he waited.

  When Rodney emerged on the rooftop, Marshall thought he looked calmer than he'd been on Devon Bridge. Rodney even shook hands with him—employing a firm and friendly grip—before sitting down and sipping his mimosa.

  "This is berserk," Rodney said, grinning and slathering honey butter on a biscuit. "You're the last person I expected to be having breakfast with, today or any day."

  "Well, I'm not your enemy." If anything, Marshall thought it
could be the other way around. Rodney had lured him to the mill and arboretum for some strange idea of blackmail, thinking he could rule out having Marshall ever write about him again.

  "As curious as I am about what you saw last night, before we get down to business I'd really like to know what brought you back to Doyle. Do you have family here?"

  "No, my family is still in Iowa, where I grew up," Marshall answered. "I can't say with any degree of rationality why I'm in Doyle right now. After I got laid off, I needed a getaway to regain my balance and clear my head. I went to the passenger train station, reviewed the schedule, and chose a destination that wouldn't require too long of a wait."

  After the waiter took their breakfast orders, Marshall added, "I really like Doyle. I'm glad I came here. It's got enough old charm mixed with modernization—transitioning from an industrial town to a college town and new business startup hub—to offer something rather pleasant for everyone."

  "I agree. Patrick, my agent, used to press me to return to Hawaii, saying it would be a better springboard for an international career. I love the islands, but this is my home. I feel most grounded here, even though I'm not much for going out in public."

  At Marshall's urging, Rodney elaborated on his apprenticeships in Quebec and especially Hawaii, where he frequently traveled with mentors from Oahu to the islands of Lanai and Maui to showcase exhibitions.

  Marshall considered acknowledging to Rodney how remarkable he regarded the bridge installations. He resisted this, however, because he didn't want to change the natural dynamic between them, which at the moment was flowing with great ease. Marshall didn't want to come off sounding like a fan or a condescending art critic who bestows appreciation while expecting accolades for expressing his opinion. It was easier to just stay quiet and listen.