The Colors of Hate - 51

Dean looked at the tall condo complex when Kirby told him it was where he’d be staying for the foreseeable future. “The police have a safe-house in there?”

Kirby just nodded as he drove around to the lot at one side of the building and pulled the car into a parking space. He got out, waited for Dean to join him, and they walked to the front entrance.

“Good evening Mr Lasiter,” the guard at the front desk said. “This is the man you mentioned?”

“He is.” Kirby introduced Dean to the guard before heading to the elevators.

When they got off on the seventh floor, Dean followed Kirby down a long, carpeted hallway. Kirby took out some keys and opened the door at the end.

“Wow, not quite what I was expecting,” Dean said when they were inside. There was a small entryway that opened onto a large, well furnished living room. Off to one side was a alcove that was the dining area. Next to it was a door he presumed led to the kitchen. On the other wall, an arch opened on to a hallway. Large picture windows filled the wall opposite the entry.

“It serves its purpose,” Kirby replied with a smile. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”

It took a second for Kirby’s words to sink in. Dean looked at him, unsure if he was really all that surprised when it came right down to it. “You own this place? I thought…”

“I do. I keep the apartment because it’s close to work and handy when either Reid or I need somewhere to crash for a few hours, but this is my home.”

“Don’t you think you could have said something?”

“And have you tell me ‘no’?”

“I still can.”

Kirby nodded. “True. And then I’d have to take you to a hotel where your father’s people would undoubtedly find you and do… whatever they do.”

Dean thought about it. “Okay, lead on Macduff.”

A moment later he was looking around a small, but comfortable bedroom with an en suite bathroom. “Not too bad,” he commented, tossing his bag on the bed.

“I’m glad you approve,” Kirby replied somewhat sardonically. “Ready to eat?”

“Sure, I guess. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Then it’s a good thing I did. Supper should be here any minute now.” Almost as the words were out of his mouth the buzzer rang. He went to answer and a couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door.

The Colors of Hate - 50

“Where the hell have you been?” Carrie said the moment she saw Dean walking down the hallway to his office.

“Having a not so nice conversation with dad—in person.”

“Oh shit. Seriously? That must have sucked.”

Dean smiled at her. “You could say that. I either got him off my back or he’s going to send his CVA enforcers after me. It’s probably fifty-fifty which.”

“Then you better call Kirby to let him know, and,” she waggled a finger at him, “to tell him you’re still among the uninjured living. He’s already called here two or three times, as well as calling me personally.”

Dean nodded, wincing inwardly. Kirby would undoubtedly read him the riot act, on several levels. Might as well bite the bullet he thought as he went into his office. Too tense to sit, he set the phone to speaker and dialed Kirby’s private number.

“Where the hell have you been?” Kirby asked without preamble.

“I went home to change clothes.”

“You fucking what? Do you know how stupid that was? At least tell me you went in the back way.”

Dean chuckled. “I went in the back way.”

“This isn’t funny, Dean.”

“Yeah I know. I, umm, had a visitor when I got into my place.”

There was a long silence before Kirby said slowly, “Do I want to know who?”

“No, probably not, but in the interests of being open and aboveboard, it was my father.”

“Well that’s the frosting on the cake, isn’t it? Tell me.”

Dean did. When he finished he heard Kirby sigh.

“You are to stay at the theater until I pick you up, which won’t be for a while. We’re in the middle of something. And please make certain there are people around you even if you have to…well whatever you have to do.”

“All right, but Kirby, I think in the end this was the best thing that could have happened.”

“We will talk about it when I see you. I have to go. Be there when I get there.”

Dean shook his head and walked back to the desk to hang up the phone. “If you weren’t a cop…” he muttered as he took out his drawings and tools and went down to the scene shop where he knew there would be people.

* * * *

“Kirby, I am not a fool, your opinion to the contrary,” Dean said tightly. “You said yourself no one would actually take shots at me. That means I’m perfectly safe so long as I don’t go wandering down deserted alleys, or walk the streets at two in the morning. And would you please stop pacing and land somewhere?”

Kirby replied, still pacing, “I said that when it was just Jones we were worried about. Damn it, Dean, your father threatened you. What part of that isn’t getting through your thick skull?”

“They were just threats to scare me into not going on television or giving interviews. He wouldn’t really carry through on them.”

“You’re ready to bet your life on it?”

“Well…”

“Yeah, exactly.” Kirby finally sat down, at the other end of the sofa in Dean’s apartment. “Go pack.”

“No. I’m tired of hiding because of my father. It’s exactly what he wants. For me to shut up and vanish.”

“And I want you safe.” Kirby moved next to him. “Does that count for anything?”

“It… Well…” Dean studied him, seeing the worry and something more in his eyes. “It counts for a lot,” he replied quietly.

“Then please do as I ask.”

“Where are you planning on stashing me this time? You do realize I have a job. One I’m not going to avoid going to, no matter what else your have in mind for me.”

“I’m aware of that. I’ll talk to Mr Nester in the morning and get him to call the security company he uses. If they add a couple more guards I’ll feel more comfortable with your being there.”

“Oh Frank’s going to love that.”

“He’ll deal. Now will you please go toss some clothes in a bag so we can get out of here?”

The Colors of Hate - 49

Dean stared at his father in shock. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Pastor Lou Travers nodded towards the man standing a few feet away. “He knows his job and does it well.”

“Yeah, well tell you what, you and he can leave now. I want nothing to do with you so get out!”

Pastor Travers remained seated as he told his companion to go wait in the hallway. When the man did as ordered, Dean’s father turned his gaze back to his son. “I don’t know why I bothered to come out here. Some sort of perverse need to see the creature I spawned, I suppose.”

“So says the homophobic bastard who spawned me. Have your say and vanish. I never want to see you again.”

“Believe me, Dean, the feeling is mutual.” He steepled his fingers as he stared at him. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Dean smiled. “Hopefully I’ve damaged you and the CVA. Although I’m sure you’ll find some way to blame what I am on someone else. Hell, maybe you’ll tell the world I was seduced and turned gay when I was too young to resist. That would be your style in spades. Well have at it. But if you try, I’ll be right there on every talk show that will have me, explaining the real facts of life—and going into details on how you tried to brainwash me into believing your fanatically bigoted falsehoods.”  

Pastor Travers shook his head. “That will not happen.”

Dean’s eyebrows arched up. “I doubt you could stop me.”

“Oh I wouldn’t, not personally, but the true believers will. You can count on that.”

“Threats, father?”

“Promises.”

“So be it. Trust me, if anything happens to me the world will blame you first. The father who could not accept his son as he is and set his minions to deal with the ‘abomination’.”

“You are an abomination, you and all of your kind,” Pastor Travers spat out, his voice full of vitriol. “The world, as you put it, would be happy to know there is at least one less of you to spread your perverted ways to the innocent children.”

“Get. Out. Now,” Dean said between clenched teeth.

“Afraid of the truth of my words,” his father said as he stood.

“There is no truth in anything that comes out of your mouth. You are a hateful old man who wouldn’t know the truth if it came down on the wings of angels.”

“Do not blaspheme!”

“Father, you are the blasphemer, not me.” Dean threw open the door to his apartment. “As Troy Perry once said, ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, and he knows I’m gay’. Think about that the next time you stand in your pulpit to preach your bigoted words against us.”

Without another word, his hatred for Dean filling his countenance, Pastor Travers stalked out of the apartment.

Dean closed the door and collapsed against it. Well if I hadn’t alienated him before, for sure I have now. He chuckled softly. And damned if I don’t feel good about it.

Out today. 'It Takes an Archaeologist'!

It Takes an Archaeologist

Quint and Clay Art Crimes Book #4

http://firebornpublishing.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_bookx_info&products_id=250

 

Gideon Monahan is a man dedicated to what he does--recovering stolen art--to the exclusion of anything else, including a personal life. There's a reason for that, something that happened in his past that he can't forget.

Cole Newell is an archaeologist with a problem. He needs to find out who looted a dig he worked the previous summer. When an artifact from that dig shows up at his gallery, Cole calls on Gideon to lend his expertise.

One of the looters is murdered, so they set out to find answers with the help of Detective Quint Hawk. In the process, Cole realizes he's attracted to Gideon, even though he's certain the man is straight--but is he?

Cole helps Gideon open up about--and accept--his past. But once they overcome the myriad of problems facing them, can the two men become more than friends?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Gideon congratulated Lou and Rory one more time, said his goodbyes to them and to Quint and Clay, then left the restaurant. As he walked to where he'd parked his car, he turned up his coat collar against the chilly, late February weather, before turning his phone back on. Seeing he had some voicemails, he decided to put off checking them until he returned to the hotel.

 

I'll be glad to get back home, back to work. Not that I wasn't working while I was here, but I need to get away from...from all the happy couples. Back to concentrating on what I do best.

What he did best was recovering stolen art. It was his passion--the one thing that had made his life bearable since... No. I'm not going there. Not again. It happened twenty years ago. Robin died because of me. He clenched his jaw against the soul-numbing pain, trying to push the memories away.

His phone rang, which helped. Checking the caller ID, he saw his assistant's name come up.

"Evening, Alex. You're up late," Gideon said. It was the truth, as it was almost eight, Denver time, making it ten in New York City where his business was headquartered.

"If you'd keep your phone on..."

"Sorry. I was attending Rory's wedding, so--"

"I can't believe he actually found someone who'd put up with him," Alex replied with a laugh. "However, that's not why I'm calling. We received an email from a Doctor Colten Newell. He's an archaeologist based out of Denver, where he also owns an antiquities gallery. He asked for our help, and since you're still in the city--"

"With a ticket to fly home in the morning," Gideon replied tartly.

"I know. Still... Gideon, since you're there, why don't you reschedule and talk with him?"

"Did he say what he wants?"

"Something to do with thefts from a dig he was working and wanting to find out who was responsible, as well as locating the people selling and buying the artifacts. He didn't go into details."

"That does not come under our--" Gideon started to reply.

"It's art, Gideon. Sure...not canvases or what have you, but Native American artifacts are still art, and you know it."

With a sigh, Gideon agreed. "Email him back. Set up an appointment for sometime tomorrow."

"At the hotel?"

"Yes. Let me know when, then have him call me when he gets there."

"Will do."

After hanging up, Gideon headed back to the hotel. He was not at all happy with the turn of events, but business was business, so to speak. He'd hear what Dr Newell had to say, then...

Then what? None of my operatives have any archaeology creds, so turning him over to one of them won't work--if I decide the man has a valid problem that we can help him with. At least I know a little something about the subject. Very little, but... He mentally shrugged, then went up to his room.

*****

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Cole Newell said under his breath as he waited just after nine thirty pm for the elevator at ART hotel. He knew he needed help. He just wasn't certain he'd get it from Gideon Monahan. He recovers stolen art, and while I know what's gone missing is art, he might not agree.

The elevator arrived, Cole stepped in, then pressed the button for Mr Monahan's floor. A few moments later, he rapped on the door to Monahan's suite. When it opened, Cole saw a man who was perhaps six or seven years older than his own thirty-eight. He had dark blond, well-styled hair and light-blue eyes. There was sadness in them, despite the smile on Mr Monahan's face as he said, "Doctor Newell? Welcome. Come in."

"Please call me Cole, Mr Monahan," Cole replied.

"Only if you call me Gideon. Let me take your coat, then have a seat." Gideon gestured toward the sofa and chairs in the suite's living room. "Would you care for something to drink? Coffee? Or something stronger?"

"Coffee would be great," Cole said, handing Gideon his coat. He sat in one of the armchairs, putting his messenger bag down beside it.

Gideon went to the refreshment bar, pouring already brewed coffee for both of them. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Black is fine. Thank you." When Gideon handed him his coffee, Cole tasted it before setting the cup on the side table.

Gideon took the other chair. "Shall we get down to business, Cole?"

"Direct and to the point," Cole said with a small smile. "All right. For starters, I own a gallery here in the city--Newell's Southwest Antiquities. I buy and sell legally acquired Native American collectibles. I also do appraisals on items someone might bring in, wanting to know what they have and if it has any real or historical value."

"Wouldn't that be one in the same?" Gideon asked.

"An item, say an Anasazi bowl, could be a poly-chrome one from around twelve-seventy-five AD, with no restoration, valued at between two-fifty and three-fifty--dollars, that is, not thousands of dollars. Or it could be a poly-chrome bowl from 1400 to 1600 AD that, even with some minimal restoration, is valued at four thousand or more. The rarity of the item counts for more than the condition or age."

"Makes sense. What makes something legally acquired?"

"That's a complicated issue," Cole replied. "Is the item from public lands or private? Are they grave goods or made from an endangered species? Does the seller have good title to the item? Is it stolen?" Cole paused to take a drink of coffee. "When it comes to grave goods--objects from burial sites--or sacred items, then legally the items must be returned to the tribe or Native American group they came from. That's call cultural patrimony."

As he talked, Cole watched Gideon. From his expression, Cole had the distinct feeling Gideon knew most of what he'd told him, so he asked if he did.

 

The Colors of Hate- 48

Dean knew he was tempting fate, but he really wanted to stop by his place to get his own clothes and his car. He told the cabdriver to pull in behind the building to let him off. Everything looked fine, no signs that Jones or any other CVA members had been back there, so he paid the driver then let himself into the building by the back door.

When he got to the lobby one of his neighbors was getting off the elevator. She stopped, looking at him for a second before asking with some concern, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Pissed…” he waved a hand at the front doors which still bore faint traces of spray paint, “but fine.”

“You didn’t deserve that. Honestly, some people need lessons in civility or something. I hope they catch them and string them up by their balls.”

Dean snorted out a laugh, picturing it. “I guess it might be suitable punishment.”

“Just be careful, okay,” she said as she headed out of the building.

“Planning on it,” he told her retreating figure.

He’d just stepped into the elevator when he heard the building manager call his name. He waited until the man came up to him, certain he was going to tell him he had to move out.

“I have a message for you from the building owner. He said, and I sort of quote, ‘Those bastards are not going to drive away one of my tenants’.”

Dean heaved a sigh of relief. “Tell him thank you, and that I’ll pay for the cleanup.”

The manager shook his head. “All ready taken care of. The company I called to clean off the spray paint said they would do it for free. It seems you’ve made a bit of a name for yourself. A good one as far as a lot of people are concerned.” He chuckled. “I also sent a couple of reporters off with a flea in their ear. Told them if they wanted to talk to you, they could make appointments like normal people.”

Dean laughed, looking at the short, white-haired and very feisty manager. “Somehow I’m not at all surprised you did that. Thank you.”

“Any time. Now I’ll let you go. I suspect you have business to take care of. I know I do.”

As the man walked away Dean smiled. No matter what happened in the future, he knew he’d done the right thing by going public on the television show. With that thought he stepped back into the elevator and pushed the button for his floor.

* * * *

Damn it, Dean, where the hell are you? Kirby slammed the receiver down, earning him a startled look from Reid. With a shake of his head he set back to work again. But he couldn’t help worrying. It was noon and Dean still hadn’t shown up at the theater.