Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Page 9

  They'd nearly finished breakfast when the conversation returned to present day concerns.

  "All right, the suspense is killing me. Did you see who destroyed my sculpture?"

  "No, but the abridged version of events from last night may lead the detective to a suspect and a timeline for when the criminal did the deed."

  "Who's the suspect?" Rodney asked.

  "Your competitor, Kenneth Blakely."

  "Whoa!" Rodney rubbed his bearded jaw and stared up at the tent.

  "You're that surprised?"

  "Yes, I don't think he's capable of doing something like this."

  "Kenneth's plenty strong," Marshall said. "His biceps are huge. He's capable of more than enough force to break the sculpture stand with a hard instrument."

  "If I pay for the next round of mimosas, can I get the unabridged version of events?"

  Marshall signaled the waitress and ordered more champagne with orange juice, then said to Rodney, "Sure, against my better judgement, I'll give you the play by play, the best I can remember it. It starts at a whiskey bar and meeting Kenneth, and includes noticing two blokes having a quickie in an alley and the presence of a Mini Cooper on Nicholas Street around the time all of this unfolded."

  Rodney sunk back in his chair and lowered his voice. "I'm all ears. Tell me everything."

  THERE WAS ONE FACT Marshall left out of his account. He didn't disclose to Rodney that he was aware his father had previously owned Sigaro. Marshall believed he couldn't disclose this without unnecessarily raising more questions in Rodney's mind about whether he was obsessed or fixated on him. Otherwise, Marshall was completely candid, even relaying the conversation he'd had with Kenneth Blakely at the bar, word for word.

  Marshall paid the bill at Maggie's Trattoria and added a generous tip for their waitress. He felt breezy and uninhibited from the champagne in the mimosas, and wondered if Rodney had the same sensation or if he was more accustomed to alcohol so early in the day. Marshall wasn't a big drinker. Alcohol tended to go right to his head and two drinks was his limit.

  The men exited the restaurant and crossed the downtown square. Marshall expected they'd part ways once they reached Bigbury Plaza.

  "I wouldn't mind scoping this out further," Rodney said. "Can you show me where you saw Kenneth's car last night?"

  "Yeah, no problem."

  Marshall noticed he and Rodney matched strides as they strolled together toward Nicholas Street, which was parallel to the river channel. They could see that a crowd was still gathered near Sylvia Bridge and two television news trucks with extended antennas were parked close by, presumably to do live feed broadcasts from the scene.

  "If Kenneth did it, his actions may have backfired," Marshall said. "This has really created a ruckus, and you may benefit in the end."

  "What I can't get over is that the piece didn't even get a full day on the bridge," Rodney replied. "And it wasn't easy to make! I had to painfully weigh and arrange the elements with precision for the whole effects to work."

  "I realized that about them yesterday once they were installed. Your bridge sculptures are far more complex than I'd given you credit for, after only seeing the computer models at the ceremony."

  "Thank you. What if another one gets ruined tonight? What if this doesn't stop?"

  "The city will have the others under full camera surveillance now," Marshall said, trying to reassure him, and fairly confident he was correct. "Kenneth, or whoever did it, struck early before more proper protections could be in put in place by the city."

  "I sure hope you're right."

  They reached the back of Horace Hotel where the alleyway was perpendicular to Nicholas Street. Marshall indicated the parking spot the Mini Cooper had been in, which was now occupied by a new Range Rover.

  "This is it," Marshall said.

  Rodney put his hand on Marshall's shoulder, and said, "How certain are you that Kenneth left and came back?"

  "Well, to be precise, I didn't see Kenneth again after he dropped me off in front of the hotel. Was it his car in this parking spot? Yes. Do I know his car left last night and came back? Yes. Could there be an innocent explanation for this? Of course. He'd even told me he was meeting with Flora Miles and her husband. If Kenneth was trying to hide his presence in downtown Doyle last night, he wasn't doing a good job of it."

  "So maybe it was a spur of the moment thing? An impulsive act of rage or jealousy?"

  "Maybe."

  Rodney looked up at the hotel room windows. "Which is yours?"

  "The second floor," Marshall said, pointing at the corner room window.

  "That's not far at all, so you probably could see pretty clearly, even at night. Can I get a better look from that vantage point?"

  "You're asking to go inside my hotel room?" Marshall was surprised that Rodney seemed to want to play Sherlock Holmes and piece together clues.

  "Please, yes. Just for a minute."

  Chapter 15

  Rodney didn't really think that being inside Marshall's hotel room would advance his understanding of who had destroyed his sculpture. He knew it was unlikely to further any notions of who the vandal was or how the vandal had done it and gotten away with it, at least so far.

  The truth was, Rodney wanted to learn more about Marshall Clay.

  Marshall had been far more forthcoming during breakfast than Rodney'd expected. He'd even been to Sigaro, and admitted it, and Rodney didn't for a second believe that was accidental.

  Whether Marshall's obvious interest in him was benign or savage, he didn't know. And Rodney wanted that answer.

  Throughout their breakfast Rodney couldn't help but fantasize about pulling Marshall under the table and groping him again. Being together another fifteen minutes, or half hour, wouldn't hurt anything, and Rodney guessed that the trauma from having his art damaged precluded him from getting any creative work done for the rest of the day anyway.

  Yes, maybe a few more minutes would be all it took to get a good reading on whether Marshall Clay was a man of decency, as he'd portrayed himself through breakfast, or a cad without scruples—or something in between.

  Following Marshall up the flight of stairs from the Horace Hotel lobby to the second floor landing, Rodney was able to closely appraise his backside. He thought Marshall had the body type of a tennis player. Lean and firm, a strong physique unburdened by undue musculature. Squared shoulders. Narrow waist and hips, yet his ass was nice and round, and Rodney resisted the urge to reach out and squeeze or pinch it. Marshall's movements, too, were naturally alluring. He possessed a very masculine and confident gait. He was surefooted and bold in temperament, and this reflected in his walk and other body motions.

  They headed to the right, down the full extent of the old hallway, turned left, and arrived at Marshall's door. The sign identified the room as "212" in brass numerals. Marshall unlocked the door and flicked on the lights.

  Stepping inside, Rodney caught a whiff of clean scents, including soap, aftershave, and something resembling baby powder. It was easy for him to imagine the narrow room and high ceiling as it might've looked a century ago. He watched Marshall pick some worn clothing off his bedspread—sweatpants, cotton socks, boxer briefs—and noticed the bottled water and John Le Carré novel—The Spy Who Came In From The Cold—on the bedside table. Marshall's room was mostly orderly, with no sign of luggage, and the curtains had been drawn fully back to let in the most possible light.

  Marshall moved near the corner of the room and pointed to the windows on each side of him. "These windows overlook the alley behind the hotel and this one faces the river and the bridges."

  Rodney strode to the north window first, confirmed the Sylvia Bridge was quite visible, and then moved to the windows over the alley. Rodney laid his arm across Marshall's back as they both looked outward and down.

  "So the frisky dudes were where?" Rodney asked.

  "Right about there." Marshall pointed at the spot. "Right where it was easy to see if anybody had walk
ed by."

  Rodney chuckled and shot him a mischievous look. "Did you consider heading down there to join them?"

  Marshall winced. "You think I made the story up?"

  "No, I believe you. I'm just curious if peeking turned you on."

  Marshall stepped back and Rodney's hand slid down his back and away. Marshall said, "Is there a reason you'd care or need to know that?"

  Rodney left the window, sat on Marshall's bed, and leaned back on his elbows. He wasn't surprised when Marshall didn't hesitate to sit down beside him.

  "In light of what happened at the mill, I'm not too keen on giving you another opportunity to make a fool out of me," Marshall said.

  "I regret some of what I did out there."

  "What don't you regret?"

  "Kissing you." Rodney stretched toward Marshall, who leaned out of his reach. "You're still sore about it, huh?"

  "Part of me would like nothing more that to mash with you some more," Marshall said. "But I'm snakebitten, at least at the moment, because I'm not sure yet what's real with you—and what's not."

  "Ouch."

  "We've had a rough start."

  Rodney whistled, and said, "I'll say! You're the one who plunged in the first knife."

  "And I asked for your forgiveness."

  "Saying sorry isn't always enough."

  "And I'm helping the police now figure out who decimated your sculpture," Marshall said.

  "I'm not telling you to feel guilty, Marshall, despite us both knowing whoever did this may have been influenced by your column."

  "That was a quite a while ago!"

  "Feelings fester. You might've lit the match for someone who now really has it in for me."

  "Hearing this utter crap makes me want to puke," Marshall said. "One second you're wanting to make out, the next you're blaming me for the destruction of your art. What bullshit!"

  Rodney sat upright and rubbed his bearded jawline. "I confess that my feelings toward you are complicated. I'm really not trying to play games. I was an asshole at the mill, I'll admit that. Now, however, I'm with you in your room because I want to be around you."

  "Is that so?"

  "My attraction to you isn't reciprocated anymore?" Rodney asked. "The signals I'm getting, whether you're conscious of them or not, suggest otherwise."

  "Then you have your answer, Redfern."

  Rodney patted the bedspread beside his hip. "Come closer."

  "Not today," Marshall said. "A moment ago you mentioned complicated feelings. How about we keep our hands off each other until our feelings aren't so complicated?"

  "We can try for that."

  "In the meantime, I want to work on this case. I'd like to know what really happened last night. At breakfast I told you everything I saw here. So what can you tell me? What's your history with Kenneth Blakely and who else might be your enemy?"

  Chapter 16

  As soon as Rodney left his room, Marshall jotted down notes based on what he'd just learned. Rodney seemed to have been forthcoming, telling him about his own time on the bridges the night before while filming web site and social media content.

  Was it coincidence, Marshall wondered, that Rodney's sculpture had been attacked so shortly after he'd been on the scene?

  Rodney was becoming ever more fascinating to Marshall. But that didn't mean he trusted him.

  Marshall didn't believe Rodney broke or removed his own art work from Sylvia Bridge. It was odd that the divers with the police hadn't found it in the river channel. Or maybe they had by now, as he and Rodney were talking in the hotel room. Rodney had painted a picture of himself as being very much a loner, avoiding the politics and gossip of the local and national art scenes. He insisted he didn't have real enemies in the community, attributing this to his lack of jealousy of others.

  Rodney, to his credit, Marshall thought, didn't believe in boosting his career by tearing others down. On the contrary, Rodney had portrayed himself as the kind of artist who depended on the quality of his work in order to rise and thrive, with the added strategy of remaining mysterious and inaccessible so that his personality or image or lifestyle didn't eclipse his creations.

  Based on everything Marshall was piecing together, much of this rang true. He privately questioned the strategy of embracing so much anonymity, which was guidance coming from Patrick Castle, Rodney's manager. It was intriguing to Marshall that Rodney only selectively followed this guidance. For example, Rodney'd decided to make Doyle his home, not the Hawaiian Islands or one of the coastal cities, as Castle had recommended.

  On the personal dynamics evolving between himself and Rodney, Marshall didn't know if his ability to resist the artist much longer could hold. He'd been so tempted to take Rodney in his arms and taste his mouth again and feel his rock hard body. His resolve to protect himself from further exposure or humiliation by Rodney was softening. He just couldn't tell where things with them really stood. Was Rodney playing another game or sincerely and passionately attracted to him?

  Rodney Riggs Redfern could have anyone. Why would he settle for me?

  The painful memory of chasing his cheating ex around the backyard with a fire extinguisher was a split second reminder that insidious betrayal awaited the fool, like himself, who ever dared to grant someone trust before they'd fully earned it.

  Trust. Yeah, sure, Marshall thought to himself, as if that's anywhere on the horizon for a guy like Rodney who'd already dabbled in a scheme against him. Being alone is so much easier.

  But he wasn't ready to rule out something spicy with Rodney entirely. Perhaps they'd never have much more to do with one another. Perhaps they'd be friends who lived with the sexual tension. Or perhaps lightning would strike and something miraculous could emerge from such messy and jagged origins.

  Finishing his notes and tucking them away on his desktop under the hotel's framed mirror, Marshall tried phoning Kenneth Blakely. When his call went to voicemail, Marshall disconnected without leaving a message. He sent a text to Kenneth requesting a call back.

  Marshall freshened up with a cap full of mouthwash and a coating of sunscreen, then departed the hotel to catch a water taxi on the Bluestone River back to Rugged Heights. Puffy and ominous clouds were rolling in. Wind gusts exceeding thirty miles an hour whipped against his cheeks as the boat glided downstream without being followed by the gulls and other birds that typically hovered near the craft.

  Instead of exiting at Halo Point and heading north, as he'd done the day before to get to Sigaro, Marshall departed the water taxi on the southern riverbank. A quarter mile trek south, then walking two blocks east, brought him to an unnamed one story building that had once been a 1950s-style diner. The address—900 Diane Boulevard—was surrounded by other dilapidated structures from a bygone era, as Doyle's more affluent commercial districts gradually developed north of the Bluestone River.

  There was no receptionist when Marshall entered the building. A painted sign indicated that "suites" A through G were to the left, while H to N were on the right. Where there had once been booths, there were now cubicles, and Marshall turned left and found Christine Blatt, Rodney's executive assistant, at cubicle C. Marshall introduced himself. Christine stood up to shake his hand without offering much of a grip, pulling away as briskly as she could without being grossly impolite.

  "Rodney told me you were coming this morning," Christine said, "but I didn't expect you so soon."

  "I can come back in an hour to give you more time to get the information together." Marshall had requested material from Rodney to help with the case, including contact details for Patrick Castle and Flora Miles and a full listing of local and regional art galleries displaying Rodney's creations.

  "There's no need for that, Mr. Clay." Christine picked up a manilla envelope from the corner of her desk. "Everything's ready for you."

  "Very good."

  Christine started to hand the envelope to Marshall, but didn't release her hold on it. Marshall let go of the envelope and dropped his h
ands to his sides.

  "Excuse me," Christine said, wearing a sour smile. "This may seem impertinent, but I think you should know something."

  "What should I know?"

  "Your column on Rodney was undeservedly nasty and it hurt him. He'd probably never tell you this. He's got too much pride. For whatever reason that he has faith in you now—which is beyond my comprehension—Rodney is right back in your clutches. If you intend him further harm, I implore you to walk away, get out of his life, and leave this package here with me."

  Marshall's own assistants and interns at the newspaper through the years had also been protective of him. He considered protectiveness to be a natural reaction when personal and professional relationships seemed threatened.

  He couldn't, however, resist some sarcasm. As he looked at his hands, he said, "Clutches? Like claws? Okay, I can see the resemblance."

  Christine maintained her smile. "When a close friend is a smart ass, it can be cute. When a stranger is a smart ass, it's uncouth."

  "Uncouth or not, I intend your boss no harm. He wouldn't be cooperating with me if he believed otherwise."

  "Rodney isn't always the best judge of character. He's got an eye for beauty, not for what might be vile and foul."

  "Mrs. Blatt, do you have any further punches you'd like to swing at me before you hand me that envelope?"

  Christine abruptly gave Marshall the package, swept imaginary dust from her hands, and sat back down in her pristine cubicle as if she'd never been disturbed.

  "Thank you," Marshall said. "I regret this has caused you so much torment."

  Marshall left the building and wandered around until he found a place to get coffee. The best he could do was a fast food restaurant, but it was mostly empty and quiet. He examined the contents of the manilla envelope and sipped his coffee too soon, before it had time to cool, and burned the tip of his tongue. Marshall also checked his phone. No message from Kenneth. He tried phoning Kenneth again and his call went to voicemail.