A Deadly Game Page 10

  “Certainly. May I congratulate you on your choice? It’s also one of my favorites.”

  The man calling himself Gonzales nodded. “Mr. Brandon has a unique flair, a cunning use of the cerulean blue makes all the difference, no?”

  Eric was impressed as he nodded his agreement. This man was obviously not one who chose a painting as a décor accent. Nor did he balk at the price, but apologized for not bringing his checkbook with him.

  “I can pick it up when I deliver the painting,” Eric said. “If I can just have your address…?”

  “I’m renting a home on Mystic Hills for a short time. I will be there tonight after seven. Is that convenient?”

  “Sure.” Eric wrote down the address and phone number then smiled as the man held out his hand. “I’ll let Peter know this one has gone to a man with great taste,” he said as they shook hands. “See you at seven, then.”

  “I will look forward to it,” Gonzales said with a slight bow. He turned to go, then paused as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. Please call me when you arrive. I have trouble hearing the doorbell sometimes.”

  “No problem,” Eric assured him as they walked to the door. “See you later, sir.”

  Eric almost skipped back into the gallery. Oh boy, he thought, Peter for sure will be delighted with this news when he calls next time. He just had to remember to let Nick know he’d be home late. He hurried to his desk as the phone rang. Speak of the devil, he thought, glancing at the caller ID screen.

  “Hello, gorgeous!”

  “You’re in a good mood,” Nick said, a smile in his voice.

  “Aren’t I always?”

  “Yeah, amazingly when I think of all you have to put up with.”

  “Nick, would you please stop putting yourself down?”

  “Who says I was talking about me?”

  They laughed together. “Hey, I just sold one of Peter’s landscapes.”

  “Fantastic. Who to?”

  “Don’t you mean, ‘to whom’?”

  “Smart-ass,” Nick chuckled. “So, to whom?”

  “Some guy living up on Mystic Hills, a Mr. Gonzales. Which reminds me, I have to go deliver it after seven tonight, so I’ll be a bit late getting home.”

  “Okay. I won’t start anything without you.”

  “You’d better not,” Eric chuckled. “See you later, honey. Love you.”

  “Love you too.” Nick smiled as he put the phone down. God, I’m a lucky so-and-so, he thought. He had relaxed considerably since returning to Laguna. There had been no sign of Garcia. He seemed to have dropped out of sight, and the word was that he had somehow been successful in his attempts to get back to Puerto Rico. If that were so, then he must have given up on his plan of vengeance. As sure as Tom Carradine and Fitzpatrick had been about this, a modicum of doubt had lingered in Nick’s mind, but as the days went by, the likelihood that they were correct grew stronger. He was glad he had given in to Eric’s insistence that he come back to the apartment.

  “Andrew’s getting sick of me hanging around anyway,” Eric had said with a smile. Nick knew that wasn’t so, still it was good to have Eric close to him. Their few days apart, and the element of danger that had suddenly enveloped them, seemed to have strengthened their already deep bond and love for each other.

  If any one thing bothered him since his return, it was the conversation he’d had with Dr. Norman Phelps the day before he left Pittsburgh. During and after their talk, Nick had been gripped by an uneasy sense of guilt. Should he have been more aware of the doctor’s feelings for him? Had he been an insensitive ass by avoiding the subject?

  After they’d had lunch that day, Norman and he had driven back to the doctor’s office, and once alone with Norman, Nick had sidestepped the issue as subtly as he was able. He had felt Norman’s sadness when eventually he told him he had to go. They had hugged goodbye, but Nick had gently resisted Norman’s attempt to kiss him on the lips. He had left the office feeling like a heel, yet what was the point in raising Norman’s hopes? He loved Eric, and there was no room in his life for another romance—long distance or otherwise. Nick hated cheaters. During his career with the police force, he had seen too many marriages and relationships ruined by the inability of some guys to keep their zippers closed. He had listened to the whining and the self-justification when things fell apart, and he’d had to force himself to keep his mouth shut instead of telling them how he really felt.

  Norman was an attractive guy, Nick thought, and maybe if he’d never met Eric, and maybe if he’d gone back to Pittsburgh and maybe if they’d picked up their friendship—who knows? But that’s not the way things worked out. He had met Eric, and had fallen in love with him—end of story. Or rather, the beginning. But still, Norman was hurting, and what kind of friend would just ignore that? He was about to reach for the phone when Monica buzzed in.

  “Jeff’s on line one, Nick.”

  “Thanks, Monica.” He grabbed the phone. “Hey, partner. How’s it going in sunny France?”

  “We’re actually in Switzerland,” Jeff chuckled. “But it’s just great. They’ve had the first snowfall of the season, so we’re going to take advantage of it and get some skiing in. How’re things going with you?”

  “Just dandy. Well, there’s been a couple of incidents, but nothing that won’t keep ’til you’re back.”

  “Nothing serious I hope.”

  “Like I said, it’ll keep, Jeff.”

  “Everything good with you and Eric?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Hey, tell Peter he sold a painting.” He listened while Jeff passed on the news.

  “He wants to know which one.”

  “A landscape, that’s all I know. Eric said it was a favorite of his if that’s any help.”

  “Yeah, Peter says he thinks he knows which one. Okay Nick, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to check in. We’ll be back next week.”

  “Great. Look forward to seeing you. Hey, don’t go breakin’ a leg or anything on those slopes, will you?”

  Jeff laughed. “I’ll try to stay upright. Take it easy. Bye.”

  “Bye, Jeff.” He put the phone down with some reluctance. A part of him had wanted to tell Jeff just what had been happening the last few days, but he didn’t want to put a damper on his friend’s enjoyment. There would be plenty time for talk when Jeff and Peter got back.

  § § § §

  Eric, humming “Come Away with Me” along with Norah Jones, drove his Mustang convertible up the steep inclines that led to the prestigious area of Laguna Beach, known as Mystic Hills. Despite the chill in the early evening air, he’d had to take the convertible top down so as to accommodate the large framed landscape painting that now sat propped up on the back seat. He had wrapped it in thick brown paper to avoid any scratches on the glass or frame.

  Several years before, Mystic Hills had suffered a devastating hillside fire that had destroyed many of the town’s most expensive and luxurious homes. Now the homes had been rebuilt, the natural greenery had, for the most part, overtaken the once blackened hills, and the lush landscaping that fronted many of the homes Eric passed lent an air of serene and permanent beauty.

  Eric parked his car outside the house Mr. Gonzales had said he was renting. From the street, all one could see was a high adobe wall, broken only by a solid oak door. He flipped open his cell and dialed the number he’d been given earlier in the day.

  “Mr. Gonzales? It’s Eric Jamieson from the gallery. I have the painting with me.”

  “Ah, yes. I have unlocked the gate. Please come down. I will be waiting on the terrace.”

  Eric pocketed his cell and heaved the heavy painting out of his car. He pushed the door open and walked carefully down the long flight of tiled steps, balancing the painting in both hands. The house, like so many in the area, was built into the side of the hill that overlooked the town. As he reached the terraced courtyard at the foot
of the steps, he could see the house boasted an incredible view of downtown Laguna and the ocean beyond, with just a glimpse of Catalina Island made visible by the rays of the setting sun.

  “Nice,” he muttered, panting slightly from the effort of carrying the awkward package. He put the painting down and looked about him. “Mr. Gonzales?” he called. He sensed rather than heard the man behind him. He turned quickly and caught Gonzales studying him, a faint sneer on his lips. Eric felt a shiver ripple up his spine as he saw hostility in those cold glittering eyes. Then a smile flickered across the man’s face as he gestured toward the house.

  “Good evening, Mr. Jamieson. Let us go in, shall we? I do appreciate you going out of your way to deliver this to me.” He now seemed the epitome of the gracious host, his hand on Eric’s shoulder, steering him toward the massive front door. They stepped into the hall that led to an enormous living room with beamed cathedral ceilings. The room was made even more cavernous by the fact it was almost totally devoid of any furnishings. “Just put the painting down, anywhere will do.”

  Eric propped the painting against a wall. “The owners didn’t leave you much, Mr. Gonzales,” he remarked, staring at the bare walls and floor.

  “It suits me for the moment. I am here for only a short time.” He walked over to a small table and picked up a bottle of wine. “I would like to seal our contract with a toast.”

  “Uh… I really should be getting home, Mr. Gonzales.”

  “But I insist.” Eric watched him pour the wine into two crystal glasses. “In my country,” Gonzales continued, “the purchase of something of value is always celebrated with a good wine.” He held out one of the glasses to Eric.

  “Okay, just one.” Eric took the proffered glass. “I am driving.”

  “Of course. Salud.” Gonzales raised his glass and then slowly sipped the wine, his eyes never leaving Eric’s as he too, lifted his glass to his lips.

  “A fine wine, yes?”

  “Very nice,” Eric agreed, though it was not really to his taste. A bit bitter, he thought.

  “So, Mr. Jamieson…” Gonzales smiled as Eric finished his wine. “How long have you been employed in the gallery?”

  “Just under a year. Peter Brandon, the owner, is a friend of mine and was good enough to give me the chance to—”

  “How interesting,” Gonzales interrupted. “Tell me, is Mr. Brandon a faggot like yourself?”

  Eric frowned. For a moment, he thought he had misheard what the man had just said. “Excuse me?”

  “You are what we call—a maricón—a queer, a pervert.”

  Eric felt his face flush. “I really don’t know what that has to do with our business transaction, sir,” he replied with a hint of anger. “My personal life should be of no concern to you.”

  “But, as you will see, it has everything to do with me.” Gonzales gave him a wicked smile. “Now, I suggest you sit down on that small chair there. In a moment you are going to feel very tired indeed. You will not be able to stand, and I would not want you to crack your head when you fall.”

  “What?” Eric gasped as the glass was removed from his hand. “But you drank the wine too,” he said as cold realization swept over him.

  “But not from the same glass. An old trick, I’m afraid, but of course, you are naïve in the ways of drugging your opponent.”

  “God…” Eric staggered back as a wave of nausea washed over him. He tried to make his way to the door.

  “Sit down, Mr. Jamieson.” Eric seemed to hear the voice from far away. “Sit down, I implore you. You will only hurt yourself.”

  Eric thought he felt a hand on his shoulder, and then the floor beneath him disappeared and he was falling into space. Francisco Garcia smiled down at Eric’s inert form slumped in the chair he had guided him to. Reaching inside Eric’s jacket pocket, he removed Eric’s cell phone and tossed it lightly in the palm of his hand.

  “Now, Detective Fallon,” he murmured. “I will wait to hear from you.”

  § § § §

  Nick, pulling on a pair of sweatpants after his shower, glanced at his watch, a slight frown creasing his forehead. Eight o’clock. Didn’t think he’d be this late, he groused to himself. Should he call Eric on his cell phone? No, he might be in the middle of a conversation with his client. That might be kinda rude. Besides, he’ll probably call when he’s on his way.

  He found a sweat top, slipped it on, then ambled into the living room and flung himself down on the couch to watch TV. After some channel surfing he settled on a news program, but after a few minutes he became restless. Something didn’t feel right. He glanced at his watch again. Ten after eight.

  “Cut it out,” he muttered to himself.

  He rose, walked into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. He peered at the array of packaged food that Eric had no doubt planned on using to fix them a meal when he got home. With a sigh, Nick pulled out a beer then searched one of the cabinets until he found a box of crackers.

  “This’ll do…”

  He settled down in front of the TV again and waited. Sometime later, he realized he must have dozed off, for when he awoke and looked at his watch, it was almost nine. He jumped to his feet.

  “Damn…what the heck is he doing?” he said aloud. Okay, so now he was worried. Shit, what if he’d had an accident or something? He grabbed his cell phone and punched in Eric’s speed dial number.

  “Good evening, Detective Fallon.”

  The voice that answered sent a chill over Nick’s skin. “Who the hell is this?” he rasped.

  “You do not remember me, Detective?”

  “Garcia—”

  “That is correct, Detective Fallon.”

  Garcia answering Eric’s cell phone! He had Eric. The painting—having it delivered—it had all been a goddamn set-up!

  “Eric…” The involuntary moan that escaped his lips was met with a snigger on the other end of the line.

  “Indeed, Detective, your little friend is here. Not very good company, I’m afraid. Not very talkative at all.”

  Nick shuddered at the thought of Eric alone somewhere with this madman. “Garcia, please. Your beef is with me. Let him go.”

  “My beef?” Garcia’s voice was filled with hatred. “You killed my son. My son—and you make it sound like it is nothing more than a passing nuisance.”

  “No, believe me. I know it’s more than that. I understand how you must feel. Joseph was a good—”

  “Silence,” Garcia hissed. “You will not speak of him—ever. How could you know what my son was? If you wish to save your friend, you will come here and face me man-to-man. Or at least as much of a man as you can be.”

  Nick felt a cold anger build inside him. “You mean the same way you faced Andy Hawkins, man-to-man, by creeping up behind him, and never giving him a chance to defend himself—is that the kind of man you are Garcia? What are you going to do, shoot me in the back, like you killed so many other men? You’re not a man, Garcia. You’re a sniveling coward.”

  “You are in no position to insult me, Detective Fallon. I have what you love, remember, and whether he lives or dies depends solely on your cooperation, and my whim.”

  “If you hurt him, I swear—”

  “Nor are you in a position to threaten me, Detective. Come to the house where your pretty friend sleeps, oh so soundly, and then we shall see who is the better man. Of course,” he added with a chuckle, “you will come unarmed, and alone. If you call for assistance, Mr. Jamieson will die immediately.”

  “I’ll be there—alone,” Nick told him. “What’s the address?”

  On his way up to Mystic Hills, Nick mulled over his options. He could try to get into the house unseen and take Garcia by surprise, but as he didn’t know the layout, that might prove difficult. One mistake on his part and Eric’s life would be forfeit. He could call Louis McKenna, a detective with the Orange County Police Department. Jeff had worked with McKenna on a couple of occasions and spoke well of him. Only prob
lem with that, he’d want to send in backup and that would put Eric’s life in even more danger. Garcia would surely kill him if he thought he’d been double-crossed.

  He could meet him face-to-face as Garcia wanted. That of course would most likely be suicide, but at that moment Nick felt he had no choice. He had lived on his wits and gut instincts for years, and he had survived, just barely, a couple of times, he thought with a rueful grimace, but he just might be able to pull something off this time too. First thing was to make sure Eric was unharmed, and somehow get him out of there.