Chapter 2

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Two weeks had passed since he’d met Detective Hawk at the club, and Clay had pretty much forgotten about the encounter. Although occasionally he did wonder if the police had found out who murdered the boy who had been the subject of Element of Woe

Clay threw himself into his next painting, using all the sketches he’d made at the club as starting points. When he wasn’t working—which was rarely—he spent his time outside, looking for new subjects that might inspire him.

Late one afternoon, needing a break, Clay left his loft and headed through downtown to the creek. As he lived not too far from it, in an older building that he’d bought into when it had been turned into lofts several years ago, it wasn’t much of a hike. It was late spring, the day was warm, the sky bright blue, and there was a light breeze that made the walk pleasant.

He found a vacant bench along the bike path, took out his sketchpad, and then looked for a likely subject or two. On the other side of the creek, along the pedestrian path, he saw a young couple sitting on the concrete bank at the edge of the water. From the way they were dressed, he figured they had just gotten off work and were enjoying the weather before going home. If he had to guess, he’d have said they were, if not married, at least in a relationship, from the way they smiled at each other as they talked.

After doing several sketches of them, he turned his attention to an older man walking with a child who must have been his grandson. The boy kept darting to the edge of the creek, only to be called back by the man. Clay caught the man’s worried expression in one sketch; and in another one, the boy’s delight at seeing a duck floating on the water.

When he’d finished, he closed the pad, put it back in his messenger bag along with his pencils, and walked to the 16th Street Mall, intent on finding somewhere to eat before going home. Of course, being him, he chose a restaurant with a patio and managed to do a few more sketches of the patrons and the people sitting on the benches on the pedestrian promenade.

One young man in particular caught his eye. Slender, with shoulder-length black hair, he was sitting on the low wall in front of a building opposite Clay. The young man’s face was alight with happiness as he leaned back, staring up at the darkening sky. Quickly, Clay did several sketches, catching the play of light and shadow on his subject’s face and body. My next painting, once I’ve finished Bodies in MotionHe wasn’t certain what he’d title it, but he knew it would come to him as he worked. 2

September arrived and with it, Clay’s newest show at his gallery. The opening was in two hours and Clay was, as always, ruing the day he’d agreed with Amanda that it behooved him to show up dressed for the occasion. He was a jeans and T-shirt—or sweatshirt when cooler weather arrived—kind of guy. He had no use for suits and ties. “And for damned sure not tuxes,” he grumbled, checking his image in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. “Hair combed? Check.” He ran his fingers through his longish brown hair, undoing most of what the comb had put in place. “Better. I don’t want people thinking I’m a businessman instead of an eccentric artist.” His hazel eyes seemed more green than otherwise at the moment but he knew that was only because of the lighting. At the gallery they’d definitely be amber.

After straightening his bowtie one more time, he checked his pockets to be certain he had everything, picked up the car keys from the dresser, then walked to the front door. He heaved a sigh as he locked up since he’d much rather have been in the studio at the far end of the loft working on his next painting, but that wasn’t an option. He took the elevator down to the garage, waved at Joey, the attendant, then got into his ‘64, silver-gray Corvette coupe. The car had been his grandfather’s, purchased just prior the man’s death at the age of seventy. Clay always figured it was Grandpa’s one last grab at life before the cancer ended it.

Ten minutes later, Clay was getting out of his car in the parking garage next to his gallery in the Golden Triangle. Once on the sidewalk, he stopped momentarily to look at the stone-slab front of the gallery with the red awnings over the windows. Then, priming himself, he walked inside.

“About time you got here,” Amanda said, coming up to give him a hug. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d decided that this time you were going to be a no-show.”

“Now would I do that?” Clay responded with a smile.