by Josh Lanyon
“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Kennedy stared out the windshield. “I think we should stay in Boston tonight.”
“Boston? Why?”
“A couple of reasons. I want to go over some things regarding the case, and I’d prefer to do that without any audience.”
“Okay.”
It was true their presence generated a lot of attention in Kingsfield. Not so much that Jason would have thought they couldn’t speak freely, certainly in private, but if Kennedy thought they needed a few hours off-site, okay. Jason was in no rush to return.
His puzzlement must have shown.
Kennedy said, “It hasn’t hit you yet, has it?”
Jason said warily, “What hasn’t hit me?”
“If Pink is telling the truth, then there’s a strong possibility this copycat is someone involved in the original investigation.”
Jason said, “You’re suggesting local law enforcement? Yes, the thought had occurred.”
Kennedy’s expression was noncommittal. “That’s one possibility and, believe me, I like that thought as little as you do. However, that was a big taskforce. We had hundreds of people including crime scene technicians and state police working to break the case.”
“Okay, but we also have to consider Pink may be lying about sharing that information. Or he may have shared the information and not remembered.”
“Given the fact he has almost zero contact with the outside world and the contact that he does have is screened…”
Jason said, “Yeah, I think someone should conduct another check into this fiancée of his, for starters.”
Kennedy nodded. “Also the doctor. Kyser. The desire to impress a doctor, let alone a doctor writing a book on serial killers, would be exactly the kind of impetus that might lead Pink to share that critical piece of information.”
“The fact remains he could have talked prior to his arrest. You said he used his brother’s van. Maybe his brother was more involved than anyone realized. Maybe someone else was involved. It’s possible Pink has an apprentice without realizing he has an apprentice.”
“Pink’s brother is dead.”
“I know, but he could have talked before he died. People do talk.”
“That they do.”
Jason said suddenly, “Both Boxner and Pink used the word disciple.”
“It’s not an unusual word. In fact, it’s a word that crops up a lot in copycat cases.”
“Maybe. Boxner was there that night, and he had access to those old files. He admitted looking through Honey’s file. That’s how he knew I was considered a suspect.”
Kennedy frowned. “Rebecca returned safely back to the party after speaking to Boxner. Are you suggesting…what? Boxner arranged to meet her later? Arranged to meet her in the woods?”
“The case he tried to build against me works just as well for him. You brought up the possibility of local law enforcement being involved. I don’t think Chief Gervase is a serial killer.”
Kennedy answered seriously, “No. Gervase is not remotely the right psychological profile. Neither does Boxner fit the profile. You don’t just suddenly turn into a serial killer because a mermaid sticks her tongue out at you.”
“Okay, but does the original profile fit this profile?”
Kennedy frowned. “We’re not dealing with the same offender.”
“But if we’re dealing with an apprentice or a former accomplice…shouldn’t the profile dovetail in certain ways?”
“It does in certain ways, and those are the ways that eliminate Gervase and Boxner both.”
It probably was pretty far-fetched as theories went. Jason said, “How about George Simpson? Was he part of the original investigation?”
“No. He’d been recently injured in the line of duty and had retired on a disability pension. Which is how he came to be running a gift shop and motel.”
“I bet he still had plenty of friends on the force. Cops are as chatty as everyone else when they’re among friends.”
Kennedy leaned forward and started the engine. “Let’s talk it over at dinner. I want to make some phone calls.”
* * * * *
Travel was a big part of the job. Jason was used to it, though he did not particularly enjoy it. The hotel was small and clean, and the adjacent restaurant had a bar, so he had no complaints with Kennedy’s choice.
He took a shower and then stretched out on the bed to do a little of his own reconnaissance. The only thing he was able to find out by browsing the FBI’s intranet personnel pages was that Kennedy was originally from Wyoming and he had a Masters in Criminal Psychology. He had a number of commendations, which Jason already knew. Kennedy did not share trivial info such as hobbies, marital status, or professional affiliations. He did not take part in any of the employee forums. His unsmiling profile photo was several years old, but Kennedy looked virtually the same, just a little sharper, harder around the edges.
“Wyoming,” Jason said. Which probably explained the occasional hint of a drawl in Kennedy’s voice. Also the Lone Ranger attitude.
Kennedy must have had a number of calls to make because it was after eight when he phoned and told Jason to meet him downstairs.
Kennedy had already been seated and was studying the wall décor—vintage advertising recommending cocaine tooth drops, canned milk, and Hudson automobiles—with an ironic eye as Jason walked in.
“How’d your phone calls go?” Jason picked up the menu. The food was old-school coffee shop. Soups, hot and cold sandwiches, and a few classics like pot roast and meat loaf.
“Productive.” Kennedy added, “The food’s decent. I’ve stayed here before.”
Jason glanced up from his menu. “It sounds like you’re on the road a lot. I thought that wasn’t standard procedure for the Behavioral Analysis Units.”
“It’s not.” That sounded like a full stop, but Kennedy lowered his menu. Cast Jason a direct look. “I’m a skin-in-the-game kind of guy.”
Jason nodded. He could see that. Kennedy was not someone to stand on the sidelines. He would not be content with reading over other people’s reports, but being on the scene must make it harder to stay completely impersonal, which was one of the keys to successful behavioral analysis. On the other hand, remaining completely impersonal was the challenge for all law enforcement.
The waitress arrived, and Kennedy ordered a whisky sour and the grilled salmon. Jason ordered the fried chicken salad and a kamikaze.
“Kamikaze?” Kennedy asked as the waitress moved off. “Planning on drowning your troubles tonight?”
“I had a rough day.”
He was sort of joking, sort of not, but the level look Kennedy directed at him made Jason feel self-conscious.
He was disconcerted when Kennedy said, “I know you did. That was good work this afternoon.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Kennedy smiled faintly. He was still studying Jason with that steady blue regard that was just a little…unsettling. Yes, it was unsettling to have Kennedy’s complete and unwavering attention.
Jesus, his eyes were blue.
Happily their drinks arrived, and Jason was able to break free of the tractor beam.
“Why the Art Crime Team?” Kennedy asked.
It took Jason a second to collect his thoughts. “Because I had a Masters in Art History and I realized I didn’t want to teach. I wanted action and adventure.” He grinned with self-mockery. “I wanted to be Indiana Jones.”
“I thought Indiana Jones was an archeologist?”
“By then it was too late to change my major.”
Kennedy snorted. “So you decided to join the FBI.”
“Hey, people come to the FBI from all kinds of professional and academic backgrounds. It’s not just law enforcement or military.”
“I know.”
“Did you know the original FBI agents were all accountants and bookkeepers?”
“Yes. Everyone who’s made it through the academy knows that.” Kennedy gave Jas
on another of those concentrated stares. “You’re the youngest member of the Art Crimes Team. Agents have to have at least five years field experience to be considered for ACT. You had three when you were assigned.”
Jason shrugged. “Maybe I have connections.”
Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?”
Once again it was almost impossible to drag his gaze away from Kennedy’s. Why did he feel like Kennedy was probing for more than just the obvious answer?
Jason replied, “I earned my position on the team.”
“Hm.” Kennedy said with a hint of mockery, “People certainly seem to hold high hopes for you.”
“And I have every intention of living up to those expectations.”
Kennedy raised his brows but did not comment. Instead he beckoned to the waitress for another round.
Their meals came before the drinks, which was probably a good thing, though Jason realized he should have ordered more than salad. It was hard to eat right on the road. Too many skipped meals or eating late at night or ransacking vending machines because that was all that was handy. So he ate salads for dinner when he could, but he usually wasn’t drinking more than a beer or two.
Kennedy lived out of his suitcase though, and he sure as hell seemed fit, so whatever he was doing seemed to be paying off.
“Something wrong?” Kennedy asked.
“Why?”
“You’re scowling at me.”
“Er, no. I was just thinking.”
“I could tell from the look of pain.” Kennedy grinned. Jason had been treated to that very white, dangerous flash of teeth before. It still made him blink. “So what do you like best about ACT?”
Jason digested the fact that Kennedy was joking with him. He was bothering to make normal conversation with him. In fact, he was actually showing an interest in Jason. Interest in Jason personally. It was flattering. Hell, it was liable to go to his head. Or maybe that was the second kamikaze.
“Like best? Well, I like the feeling I’m doing something that might have long-term, lasting ramifications. There’s a lot of misconceptions about what we do. We don’t only recover stolen art or lecture museums on how to protect their collections. Not that that wouldn’t be important enough. You solve a murder, and there’s another murder tomorrow. You save the Mona Lisa, and you’ve saved something that will move and inspire and delight generations of people.”
“You don’t think it’s important to solve homicides?” Kennedy said.
“Of course I think it’s important. That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that…people keep killing other people. That’s the worst of humanity. Art is the other side of the coin. It represents the best of humanity. And what I’m here for is to try and protect that…legacy. Our cultural heritage. And by our, I mean everybody. Our global cultural heritage. I mean the world. Art is the world. It’s history. It’s culture. It’s spirituality. It’s…everything that sets us apart from animals.”
“It’s the other side of the coin,” Kennedy quoted gravely.
Jason mentally replayed the last fifty-eight seconds of their conversation and winced. “I think two kamikazes on an empty stomach was not such a great idea. Did I just imply I believe what I do is somehow more important than human life? Because that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, I couldn’t do what you do. I would…lose hope.”
Kennedy’s brows drew together. He said after a moment, “I meant what I said a little while ago. You did good work today.”
Jason looked up in surprise.
“I know you didn’t want to go in there. I know it wasn’t easy for you. We needed to know what we were dealing with, and you got that intel.” Kennedy was making an observation not offering sympathy.
“He’s in better shape than I expected from someone kept in solitary confinement for that long.” Jason couldn’t hide his bitterness.
“He’s a survivor.”
“I never believed in the death penalty until I joined the Bureau. Even after Honey, I used to think there was probably something salvageable in everyone.” Jason’s smile was twisted. He hid it behind his glass.
“No,” Kennedy said. “Unfortunately not.”
“Is it true the number of serial killings have increased over the years?”
Kennedy took his time answering. “What has increased is the number of random acts of violence. Once upon a time you could almost guarantee that in most homicides the victim knew or was at least acquainted with his or her killer. That’s been changing for a while now.”
“And that’s what I like best about the ACT,” Jason said.
Kennedy raised his glass in salute.
After that the conversation moved into neutral channels. They talked about generalities. Not about the case so much, though ostensibly that was the reason for staying in Boston and meeting for dinner. And Kennedy, as expected, did not reveal much of himself.
Music was always a safe topic of conversation though, and Kennedy admitted he was partial to Mendelssohn.
“Mendelssohn? I thought the serial killers were the ones who were supposed to listen to classical music and swill Chianti.”
“You couldn’t pay me to swill Chianti. Swill is the right word. But I like classical music. Also George Winston. I’ve heard him in concert a few times.”
“George Winston? My parents love George Winston.” What Jason was actually thinking was you go to concerts? He couldn’t picture it.
Maybe some of that showed because Kennedy said dryly, “Yes, I listen to music. And, I know this will amaze you, the pictures hanging on the walls of my apartment are not crime scene photos.”
Jason marveled, “You have an apartment?”
“Smartass.”
Jason laughed. “What kind of art do you like?”
Kennedy looked briefly and uncharacteristically self-conscious. “I’m sure my taste isn’t up to your standards. I collect paintings by an artist by the name of Redmond Granville.”
Jason stared. “Redmond Granville?”
“Yes?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Uh, no.”
“Redmond Granville is a key figure in California Impressionism. I did my thesis on Redmond Granville. I love that guy. In fact, I helped LAPD recover Seascape at Twilight.”
Kennedy looked taken aback. His expression changed to amusement after Jason had babbled on for about twenty minutes about California Impressionism and Granville’s role in establishing the movement, but the fact was Kennedy was very easy to talk to.
Or—Jason remembered the dinner at the Jade Empress—at least he was when he wanted to be. When he wasn’t in the mood to be civil, a glacier was more congenial.
It was getting late and the restaurant had emptied out when Jason, emboldened by a night of locked gazes and quiet conversation—not to mention a couple more drinks—said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Go on.”
“Why is the governor of Wisconsin so mad at you?”
Kennedy smiled, but it was not the smile Jason had been seeing over the past few hours. It was the kind of smile that made your scalp prickle.
“I don’t like incompetence,” Kennedy said. “I especially don’t like it from someone who’s in a position of authority.”
“Right.”
“As you’ve noticed, I don’t get called out to the cases where a happy ending is possible. Not everyone understands that. Including some of the people who ask for my help.”
It was not exactly an answer, but Jason thought maybe he understood what Kennedy was really saying.
“You’re still the one they call for.”
Kennedy gave him a strange look. “Yes,” he said. “However, I can’t afford another Wisconsin. I can’t afford anything but success here.”
The overhead lights flashed once, twice, picking out platinum glints in Kennedy’s pale hair and an enigmatic gleam in his blue eyes.
The waitress appeared. “Last call, gentlemen.”
Kennedy gave Jason an i
nquiring look. Jason shook his head. “I’m good.”
“I’ll have another,” Kennedy said.
Once again, he had guessed wrong where Kennedy was concerned. Jason had figured Kennedy was too controlled to risk going over the legal limit—even if they were only walking back to their hotel. Maybe drinking was a necessity when you had seen the things Kennedy had.
When you gaze long into the abyss…the abyss asks you out for cocktails?
With the arrival of Kennedy’s final whisky sour, the conversation abruptly shriveled and died. Kennedy downed his drink in a couple of grim swallows and looked unsmilingly across the table.
“Ready?”
“Yep.”
They walked out of the restaurant in silence, crossed the parking lot. The night was humid and scented with cooling car engines and warm rubber. In continuing silence, they stepped into the hotel elevator. But then their rooms were on the same floor, so what was there to say?
The elevator rose, and Kennedy stared bleakly at the closed doors. Jason stared at the ceiling. He was going to have a headache in the morning. In fact, he was probably going to have a headache before he finished brushing his teeth. Assuming he bothered to brush his teeth.
The elevator lurched to a stop, the doors slid open, and they started down the hall.
And seriously. What the hell with that black, red, grape, and lime green swirl-pattern carpeting? Maybe art did represent the best of humanity, but the people who came up with hotel décor belonged on Kennedy’s side of the crimes-against-mankind spectrum.
“So are you married or involved or what?” Kennedy asked suddenly, brusquely.
Jason threw him a quick look. Was Kennedy…? Not possible.
He’d asked though. Was it general curiosity, or was he really, truly about to suggest sex?
Now that would be funny, right? Hard-ass Senior Special Agent Sam Kennedy was so drunk he’d propositioned Jason.
Except Jason didn’t feel like laughing. He was ridiculously nervous, his heart pounding so hard he felt like he was going to smother. There was no way Kennedy would—but why else had they both stopped at Kennedy’s room door?
Why else would Kennedy be watching him—his eyes gleaming in the shadows—waiting for Jason to answer?