Part One

Sean Murphy smiled and removed his feet from the office chair they had been resting on, and stretched dramatically. "Hey, where did ya go to get that coffee? Columbia? You were gone for so long that even Howell was starting to get *concerned*."

Howell, who was busy reading the latest issue of Vogue, laughed sarcastically and continued to read the newspaper. " Yeah, I was worried sick...about my iced coffee. Did you remember to get me an éclair too, Cristoooopher?"

An aggrieved blue gaze settled on Sean --the kind of look that would usually scare a suspect into confessing about the crime they had committed and sometimes how often they masturbated in junior high. But three years of friendship had made Murphy immune to the Keller "eat shit and die slowly' patented glare.

Keller had his hands full and was trying to keep the door ajar so that he and the cardboard box full of Styrofoam cups could fit through the heavy office door. "Fanks," he mumbled around the keys that were dangling from his teeth. With the agility of a feline, Chris maneuvered away from the door, placed the box on a nearby desk , and caught the keys in his left hand as they fell from his unclenched teeth. He slid them into one of the large pockets of his gray trench coat and collapsed into the chair that his partner's feet had just vacated. "It's raining like hell out there, and I think everyone and their grandmother decided to get an early start on their vacation!"

"Yeah, but I'm not complaining. With everyone scrambling to get out of Manhattan, this place has been as quiet as a church. Um, did you get me the *diet* Coke?" Tim McManis glanced up from the keyboard he had been staring blankly at. "Shit, I have been looking for five minutes and I can't find the any key!!"

Chris and Sean exchanged amused glances, just as the phone rang. Chris slithered out of the chair and handed his partner an iced coffee; Sean nodded an acknowledgement as he reached for a pen. Chris swiveled around dramatically, and grabbed another cup and placed it on Howell's desk, which was in the left corner of the room. "So, how's the love life , Claire?" Chris inquired as he leaned against her desk. "Fuck off!" Howell murmured without lowering the magazine.

A devilish smirk appeared on Keller's handsome face as he casually wiped the raindrops off of his coat. "I can feel the love. Thanks, babe." It was not a secret in the department that Keller didn't like Howell. She had gotten to her position through her family's political connections and she wouldn't hesitate to use them if she was pissed about something. She was also chronically allergic to hard work. Chris had achieved his position in the department through his hard work and intelligence and he had no patience for this woman.

When the coat looked clean and the area around Howell's desk had acquired a small puddle of water, Chris got up and walked toward the man still staring at the computer screen like it was a scary insect about to bite him He slid another cup onto McManus's desk with his left hand as he leaned over the frustrated man's shoulder and hit the C key on the keyboard with his right hand. "They meant that you can hit any key, idiot." Chris gripped as he sauntered back to his seat again.

"Pfft! Takes one to know one. Who's still a diehard Sox fan? I think that makes you a bigger idiot than Tim could ever dream of being, Keller." Howell mumbled as she continued to avidly read the magazine.

"Yeah, Keller!", Tim answered distractedly as he used two fingers to slowly finish typing out the report that he had been working on for the last two hours. "Anyone who is stupid enough to bet against the Yankees in a home game is definitely two sandwiches short of a picnic, Skippy. I mean, you've had to buy everyone coffee all month, Keller, and you still haven't given up on those losers. The curse of the Bambino ring any bells?"

Chris leaned back in his chair and grinned at Tim, "Injuries. Who knew Nomar was gonna hurt his wrist? But this is gonna be the year, I can feel it!"

"People" a voice called from the doorway. "Coffee break time is over, get busy." The dark skinned man strolled into the office and proceeded over to Keller's desk to snatch the last cruller, which was hidden under a pile of folded napkins and bit into it with gusto. "If the brass happened to walk in here, they'd think that the homicide division are a bunch of slackers" Leo scanned the room before he made eye contact with Keller. "I've heard your finally off the hook, and the bets finally over."

Chris nodded as he opened a desk drawer to retrieve a file that he needed. "Yep, today's the last day I have to shell out my hard earned cash for these ungrateful creeps--and I say that with love." Sapphire eyes glowed with satisfaction when he managed to extract the thick folder from the disorganized contents of the drawer. He placed it on his desk as he reached for a pen. He threw it into the air and caught it, before he settled into the seat and opened the file.

"Well, next time you have a hunch about a baseball game...I'm in!" Leo Glynn, the captain of the homicide Division patted Chris on the shoulder walked out of the office as swiftly and silently as he had appeared.

After several minutes, Chris stood up and was getting ready to slide his coat off when he glanced toward his partner, who had hung up the phone and was staring glumly down at the yellow, legal pad he had been furiously writing on. "Why do I have the distinct impression I should just leave this damn coat on? Please don't tell me I'm gonna have to go out into that mess, again, please."

Sean continued to stare down at the pad, which contained writing that only he could ever read. He sighed and rubbed at an ache that was beginning to form on his forehead. Sean loved his job. Playing a small part in maintaining justice and peace had always made him feel that his life was important; that he hadn't made a huge mistake when he'd turned down the chance to go into private practice with his psychology degree. But, some days, he hated this job. This feeling usually occurred when he got calls like the one that he had just answered. Sean looked up and noticed that perceptive blue eyes were studying him.

"What a fuckin' waste." he whispered in disgust. "Yeah, we got a doozy on our hands." Sean accepted the jacket that his partner handed him and gestured in the direction of the door. One of the things he liked about working with Keller was the nonverbal communication that the two men had achieved over the years. Sean knew that Chris would not press him for details about the case, he'd give him the chance to share the information from the phone call when he felt ready. To look at the man, someone might think that his partner was a hothead, but Sean had come to realize that the confident and somewhat cocky demeanor hid the empathetic nature that made his partner so clever at solving crimes of passion.

As Sean slid into the passenger seat of the car, he flipped opened the pad and read off the address. Dark eyebrows raised to express surprise when Chris heard the Central Park West address. Murphy didn't need to consult the pad now laying beside him on the seat. "The feds are already on this one, but they have graciously invited us to participate too, bless their hearts. Basically, a guy got shot in the face with a rifle blast when he answered his door." Sean ran a distracted hand through his hair. "How's that for a firework display!"

Chris winced, "Gees, someone hated that poor schmuck. Did this poor jerk have a name?"

"Yup. You may have heard of the family. This guy was a Beecher--Tobias Beecher to be exact. His father's a judge now, so you can bet the brass will be breathing down our necks to get this one solved. Pronto!"

"Oh, joy" Chris groused as he pulled out into the midtown traffic.


I have better pictures on my fridge that my nephew drew.

Chris stepped back and tilted his head. Nope. That didn't help. It still looked like scribbles to him. I guess I just don't have an *appreciation* for art.

When the detectives had arrived at the crime scene, they had only gotten as far as the foyer. The forensic and crime scene investigators were still scrambling around the apartment, searching for evidence and snapping pictures, while some FBI agents were busy consoling some family members in the living room.

Chris appreciated the thoughtfulness of the person that had covered the body with a tarp. Blood was splattered all over the walls and it was congealed around the body on the marble floor. Losing someone to violence was difficult enough to bear. Seeing the carnage inflicted on a loved one was something that no one should have to see. They were better off remembering him the way he was.

Sean had spotted an old acquaintance, a beat cop who had been one of the first law enforcement agents called to the scene. Sean had pulled the man aside to confer with him, which allowed Chris the time to do what he did best--to develop conclusions based on the evidence at the crime scene.

Chris was a people watcher by nature and had an innate understanding of human nature. No one in his family had been surprised when he decided to study psychology and criminal law in college. The surprise had come when he used his BA to apply for a position on the New York Police Department. At first, he'd been a traffic cop. Seven years of hard work and a driving ambition had led him to his current position-- in the specialized unit of the homicide division, responsible for creating profiles of the victims and criminals that the detectives used to solve the crimes.

Chris slid his hands into some plastic gloves before he crouched down and slowly lifted the tarp. He winced when he examined the body. The victim was dressed in a bathrobe and had a towel still wrapped around his head. Several pathetic looking strands of blond hair had escaped from the towel and were matted down with dry blood and tissue. It was difficult to look at the man's face, or what was left of it. The detective lowered the tarp and sighed in disgust.

He reached into one of his pockets and extracted a small tape recorder, which he turned on. "Two close-range shots had obscured most of our victim's facial features. Based on the victim's attire, he must have been taking a shower before he answered the door." Chris glanced up at a chandelier hanging from an ornate ceiling which was turned off. "The lights weren't on, he must have been in a hurry and was using the lights from the other room to illuminate the hall. He seems to have had the towel obscuring most of his face.

The way the victim fell suggests that he was still in the process of opening the door when the shots were fired. Therefore, the killer had to have taken the shots without really getting a good look at the victim. His hands weren't in any defensive position which suggests that he never saw it coming. Thank god!" Chris clicked off the microphone as he assessed the scene a final time while the fingernails of his left hand were tapping on the hard plastic of the recorder restlessly.

A beautiful table with a mirror over it was to the left of the door, beside an archway that led into the living room. On the right side of the foyer, a small Chippendale chair stood beside a closed door.

With a soft groan, Chris stood up and stretched before he walked over to the door and slowly opened it. Several coats were hanging up neatly in the closet. He pulled one off a hanger and glanced at the tag inside--Armani. As he was putting the coat back, he noticed several pairs of shoes lying neatly at the bottom of the closet-- Prada.

Well, ya can't take it with you fella, Chris concluded as he put the shoe back into place. A mental image of his own closet, which was always a disaster area, drifted into his mind. The investigators still hadn't found the murder weapon, yet. Well, it obviously wasn't in there.

There was something disturbing about going through someone's personal positions that way that his job required him to but experience made the task commonplace. He would do more than search through this guy's closet before his job was complete. He'd read his mail, look through his phone records, discover what he ate for breakfast and try to piece all of that information together to discover why someone would want to kill this man. Chris quietly closed the door and turned to study the only other piece of furniture left--a large, delicate looking grandfather clock that stood facing the door.

Chris turned back toward where the body lay and clicked on the microphone again. "One of the shots hit the most *fugly* clocks that I have ever seen. The time on the clock is one-thirty--which coincides with the time the crime occurred. Now, I'd have to say that the victim must have known the person at the door, or he was completely wasted, cause no one would just answer a door in the dark. Dressed in a bathrobe. In the middle of the night--unless he knew the person on the other side of the door." With a flick of his thumb, Keller turned off the recorder and slid it back into the pocket of his coat He walked closer to the archway and peered inside for a moment.

He could see the profiles of several people, including the FBI agents talking to a distinguished older man, who was sitting on a large couch. The man was trying to answer questions in a soft voice as tears streamed down his face.

Insensitive pricks. They should lay off the old geezer a bit; he looks like he's ready to come unglued, Chris concluded as he shook his head in disgust.

Chris's unquenchable curiosity began to focus on the décor of the penthouse. Years of experience had taught him that the way a person decorated their house and the innocuous detritus of daily living could give him insight into a person's personality.

I could get very comfy in this place, Chris decided. The living room was decorated in a style that denoted wealth, of course, but it also looked comfortable and homey. There were antiques scattered throughout the room, along with framed pictures and artwork placed on tables and bookshelves. The furniture, grouped in front of a large marble fireplace included two expensive looking couches, a loveseat and several overstuffed chairs was tastefully coordinated in shades of green. A cherry wood grand piano sat in front of a large picture window that afforded a spectacular view of Central Park.

Chris rubbed his chin with his gloved hand. This guy had great taste, Chris concluded as he finished looking around the room and returned to the foyer to wait for Murphy. He found himself staring at the drawing framed on the wall again. That ugly abstract painting was the only piece that seemed incongruous with the interior of the apartment. Chris' curious gaze kept returning to it as he tried to figure out what the hell it was supposed to represent.

Well, whatever it's supposed to convey it is sure to be an original, he decided as Murphy and a uniformed cop came to usher him into a corridor that led away from the living room.

"These rooms have all been checked out, detectives. Feel fee to study them, but stay close. The victim's father is in the next room and we'll call you when he is calm enough to issue a statement."

"Thanks"

Chris wandered down the dark hallway. There were two doors on each side of the long passage. Chris pointed toward the door on the left and Murphy nodded and headed toward a closed door on the right. When Chris cautiously opened the door, he found himself in a room that looked like some sort of library or a study. The walls of the room had bookshelves on three sides and a large desk sat in front of a set of French doors that led out onto a terrace. A laptop computer sat atop an old desk, along with several sheets of stationery. Chris walked around the desk and rolled out the chair. He leaned down and turned on the computer, which booted up.

That looks like a good place to start, Chris decided.

Before he could sit down on the soft leather chair, he glanced up and noticed that he was looking into eyes as blue as a summer sky. He remained standing, transfixed, for several minutes. When the detective realized what he was doing, he noticed that his senses felt numb as he stared up at a large portrait that was hanging on a wall, facing the desk.

"Now, this artist is a fuckin' genius," Chris whispered as he felt himself pierced through the gut by a penetrating gaze emminating from the canvas. Intelligence and humor radiated out of the man's startlingly blue eyes as sunlight caressed curly, strawberry-blond hair that looked as soft as silk.

The fair-haired man's body was turned to face a stormy ocean, while his face was turned to look over his shoulder. An errant wind was tussling the man's hair, and turning his cheeks a subtle pink hue. The portrayal was so lifelike and animated that Chris almost expected the young man to breathe or blink, as he stood proudly on the bow of some kind of ship. A smile seemed ready to emerge on the fair-haired man's handsome face and the pouty lips looked soft and utterly kissable. Chris found himself being drawn closer to the portrait, like a moth being attracted to a glowing light.

Noticed that breathing now took conscious effort, he studied the flawless skin and the lithe body. Broad shoulders tapered down to softly curving hips and a pert ass. Dressed in an oversized, blue sweater and navy blue pants the guy looked like he should be the model for an LL Bean ad.

Whoever painted this picture was in love with this guy, Chris concluded as he continued to stare up at the handsome face. Ronnie Barlog'99, Chris read. Yup, even he had heard about the young genius who was the talk of the Manhattan art world for his striking portraits. The painter had managed to capture the impish humor that glowed in the blue eyes.

No one could be that gorgeous in real life, could they? Who the hell was this guy and what's his address, cause I know that he needs to be interrogated about this case. A body search might also be required, Chris decided as he felt a wicked grin begin to form on his face.

The thought of touching that flawless skin made Chris's heart rate accelerate even more than it was and he wasn't surprised to feel arousal pulsing through his body as his blood raced downward to his groin.

Christ, if this guy can get my pulse rate elevated just by staring at his picture, imagine what he'll do to me when I meet him, and I do intend to meet him! A trembling hand reached up and softly traced the pouty lips.

"Hey!"

Startled, Chris swung around and saw his partner standing in the doorway. Christ, I have got to buy him a bell, Chris thought as he tried to avoid making eye contact with his partner's intuitive eyes.

"I found his bedroom and some writing pads that look like they could be, I don't know, journals or something." Murphy paused, noticing that Chris's cheeks were flushed, almost as if he were blushing.

Chris Keller blushing--impossible. Yet, there were beads of sweat forming on the high forehead and Chris's eyes looked dazed. He had the silliest grin on his face--if this were one of Murphy's teenage sons, he would have assumed that they had just spotted the latest lust of their life.

But this was Chris. In the three years that Sean had known the man, he had never seen him look this, well, disconcerted seemed to be the apt description.

"How are you doing?", he inquired soothingly.

Closing his eyes for an instant, Chris took a deep breath and tried to calm his shattered nerves as his mind processed Sean's remarks. "The laptop needs a code to get into the files." Chris gestured toward the desk and Murphy nodded.

"Hey, maybe we'll luck out and the password will be mentioned in one of the books that you found."

"Too easy. Wanna come take a look?"

"Yeah, I'll be right over. Hey, any clue who this guy is in this picture. He looks familiar, but I can't place it."

Chris stared down at the toe of his shoe, which he used to rub patterns into the plush carpet. "Um, maybe we could callhiminforquestioning." he blurted out. He felt his cheeks turning more red when he glanced up and noticed Murphy studying him curiously before Sean looked at the portrait.

"Gees, that is an amazing painting. It looks so friggin' realistic looking." Murphy murmured as he stared up at the portrait. "Boy... that guy was a looker." Murphy cleared his throat and he looked into startled sapphire eyes. "Hey, I am secure enough with my masculinity to admit that the guy was pleasant on the eye."

Chris couldn't resist the infectious grin and he found himself chuckling along with his partner, until the words that his partner used registered. "Why, was?" Chris softly inquired, unsure he wanted to hear the answer. "The portrait was only painted a year ago?"

"Well, since that face is now decorating the walls, the floor, and the clock in the foyer, I wouldn't say Tobias--hey, are you all right?" Sean raced over to grab a chair so that his partner could collapse into it.

"Gees, I thought you were gonna pass out for a minute there, partner." Placing a comforting hand on a broad shoulder, he clasped it gently as he asked, "What happened?"

Chris heard the voice, but it sounded distant. His heart seemed to ache with sorrow, which was ridiculous because this was just another case and he didn't even know this guy.

A very rich guy, who was probably as straight as an arrow and would never have considered being friends, never mind being attracted to a working-class mutt like me.

"Who is he?" Chris asked, when he finally felt in control of his tattered nerves. He was very proud that his voice sounded so calm, considering that his heart felt like it had just finished racing in a marathon.

"My buddy Mike told me the victim was Tobias Beecher, of the Long Island Beechers--they've got more money than the federal government." Murphy kneeled down, so that he could look up at his partner. "He was a lawyer. Divorced. Three kids. Last year he had a kinda breakdown and quit the family law firm. He moved into this place and became the campaign manager for James Devlin, who is running for governor."

Sean was stunned by Chris' emotional upheaval. He looks like he's in shock or something, Murphy surmised as he rubbed his friends shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"Did you know him from somewhere, Chris?"

"Nah, Murph. I didn't know him from Adam." He frowned when he noticed that the crease in his pants looked crooked and suddenly it seemed very important that he fix that problem, while he tried to blink away the excess moisture from his eyes.

He rubbed his slim right hand down the crease of his pants and concluded that this case had evolved into something personal in the last hour. Chris knew that his determination could be attributed to his fascination with the complex man revealed in the painting as well as his disgust with the brutality of the crime.

But why did it feel life he'd just lost his best friend?

Go to next part.


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