by Josh Lanyon
“I think you sincerely try.”
“Thanks for giving me that much,” Jason said shortly.
“It’s human nature,” Kennedy said. “You have cause for not liking Boxner. There’s considerable antipathy between you. It’s reasonable that you believe he’s capable of these other acts. He believes you’re capable of these other acts. You’re going to have to trust me on this. He’s not our guy. He doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Which profile? The original profile is irrelevant.”
“It’s not irrelevant.” That was the old Kennedy. Short and sharp.
“Maybe not irrelevant, but this profile, the profile you’re working on now, is largely composed of someone trying to copy the earlier profile. Right?”
Kennedy didn’t miss a beat. “That’s not Boxner. Right there, that is not in his psychological makeup. And secondly, that’s one theory. Yours. I’m not convinced.”
Jason stared. “You don’t think there’s a copycat killer out there?” That was news. When had Kennedy made that deduction? And why wasn’t he sharing his theories with his partner? Okay, temporary partner.
As though reading Jason’s mind, Kennedy said—his tone almost placating, “I think that it’s too soon to draw any conclusions. Look, this kind of investigation takes time. We’ll know more after we talk to the Davies girl. Meantime, will you at least try to keep an open mind? You’ve got a promising line of investigation in tracking down the artist of the mermaid charms. That’s what you need to focus on.”
In other words, stay out of my way.
Oh, but hey. They had definitely made progress in the area of interpersonal relationships because Kennedy didn’t say it aloud. In fact, he was making an obvious effort not to say anything offensive or dismissive.
“All right,” Jason said curtly.
Kennedy looked relieved, but Jason too had made progress. Kennedy was the senior on this, after all, and the guy Jason was currently sleeping with. Jason could also be courteous and considerate—and keep his own counsel and follow his own line of inquiry.
* * * * *
Manning phoned on the short drive to the police station.
Jason saw the SAC’s ID flash up and threw Kennedy a quick look. He let the call go to message. A moment later, Manning phoned again.
“Answer it,” Kennedy said. “He’s not going to give up.”
Jason pressed to accept the call. “West.”
“Agent West, I was, erm, expecting to hear from you before now. What is the status?”
Hadn’t they only spoken the day before? Jason said cautiously, “The status, sir?”
“Are we or are we not looking for a copycat killer in Kingsfield?”
Copycat killer in Kingsfield. Try saying that three times fast. Jason replied, “It’s still too early to draw any conclusions. The last victim isn’t able to speak yet. We’ll know more when we can interview her.”
“Diplomatic,” Kennedy commented.
Jason frowned at him.
“I watch the news, Agent West.”
“Sir?”
Manning said, “All I want to know is did Kennedy put the wrong, erm, man in prison ten years ago?”
Jason stared at the rows of old houses and tidy gardens gliding past. “No. Absolutely not.”
“I’m not looking for an, erm, whitewash job, Agent West. I—we—want the truth. We need the truth.”
No, what Manning wanted was corroboration. Justification for going after Kennedy. This wasn’t about “we” or the Bureau. It was about Manning and Kennedy. This was a long-running feud. And Jason was now caught in the middle of it.
“Sir, Martin Pink is the Huntsman. I interviewed Pink myself three days ago, and I’m confident we got the right man.”
Manning said shortly, “I’m glad you’re so certain, West. But as I said, I watch the, erm, news, and it sounds to me like not everyone is, erm, convinced on that point.”
“Well, I don’t believe it’s possible to get unanimous consent on any point, sir.”
Kennedy gave a quiet laugh and turned into the parking lot behind the police station.
“Indeed,” Manning said. “Keep in mind why you’ve been assigned to this case, West. I want regular updates. I want daily updates.” He hung up noisily.
Daily? Why stop there? How about hourly?
Jason clicked off and glanced at Kennedy. Kennedy seemed to have nothing more on his mind than angling the car into one of those too-small painted slots.
They parked and got out of the car without further conversation.
Jason’s phone rang as they walked around the side of the building.
“And another thing,” Kennedy murmured.
Jason threw him a harassed look, but it was not SAC Manning this time. It was one of Jason’s dealer contacts. Priya Ort-Rossington ran an upscale folk art gallery in New York specializing in woodcarving and sculpture.
“Agent West, what a nice surprise to hear from you. Gerda and I heard about your being shot. Oh my God. So awful. We were in shock. We’re so glad you’re back.”
Jason relaxed. He had history with Priya and her partner—business and romantic partner—Gerda Ort. Two years ago art thieves had used their gallery to fence stolen Haida argillite artifacts. Jason had managed to apprehend the thieves and recover the carvings, while keeping the gallery’s name out of the press—thereby earning Priya and Gerda’s undying gratitude.
“Thanks,” Jason said. “It’s good to be back.”
“As it turns out, I actually have information for you on the artist you were inquiring after.”
Jason stopped walking. “You know who the artist is?”
“I’m almost positive I do. In fact—this is what’s so bizarre—Gerda and I were discussing him a few days ago, wondering whatever happened to him.”
“What’s the name of this artist?”
“Kyser. Jeremy Kyser. What’s so interesting about him is he was actually a doctor. A psychologist, I think. He did these wonderful, detailed carvings in his spare time.”
Kennedy walked back to where Jason stood. He watched Jason closely.
“Dr. Jeremy Kyser,” Jason repeated. He nodded at Kennedy.
Kennedy’s expression changed.
“Yes. I don’t think he had any expectation of becoming a professional artist. He said his work was very stressful, and he found carving a way of relaxing, of centering his mind. You saw the work. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were traditional netsuke. A very gifted amateur artist.”
“Do you have contact information on Kyser?”
“Yes, I do, but it might be out of date. As I said, we haven’t heard from him in years. For a while he used to regularly bring us his carvings, and they always sold very well. Then all at once he stopped. He didn’t respond to phone calls or emails. That’s the artistic temperament for you, though usually when artists are selling they don’t wander off without a word.”
“No,” Jason said. “They don’t. What was that contact info?”
Rustling sounds on the other end of the line. “Here we go. Dr. Jeremy Kyser. He’s in Massachusetts. Or used to be. I remember he lived in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. A place called Old Mill Pond.”
“In Hampden County?” He couldn’t believe it.
Priya laughed. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know that.” She rattled off the address, and Jason typed it into his notes.
“This is very helpful. Thank you, Priya.”
“Oh, our pleasure. We’re so happy to help. When do you think you’ll be in New York again?”
“It’s hard to say.” Jason chitchatted with Priya for another minute or two, tongue on automatic pilot, eyes on Kennedy. His mind raced ahead. All this time he was right under our noses.
At last he was able to disconnect.
“And?” Kennedy demanded.
Jason said, “Dr. Jeremy Kyser lives—or at least used to live—less than thirteen miles from here.”
Chapter Seven
teen
“You don’t look any the worse for wear, Agent West,” Chief Gervase greeted Jason. “Glad to see you back on the job.”
“That’s youth for you,” Kennedy said.
Gervase grinned. “That’s exactly what I used to think about you, Agent Kennedy.”
Kennedy snorted.
“It’s been an interesting twenty-four hours,” Gervase said, leading the way back to his office. “We’ve had some developments you’ll want to hear about.” He called toward the direction of the front desk, “Could we get coffee, Officer Courtney?”
“Coming, Chief!”
Boxner was already in Gervase’s office going through his file cabinet. He jumped guiltily at their arrival, and Gervase said, “How many times have I told you to ask before you start pawing through my files? This isn’t your office yet, Boyd.” He sounded more resigned than annoyed.
Boxner, face red, leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “I just wanted to double-check something.”
“What?”
“It’ll keep.”
Gervase sighed and shook his head. He took the chair behind his desk. “First things first. Tony McEnroe has no alibi for the night Candy Davies was abducted.” He directed a challenging look at Kennedy.
“McEnroe is not our unsub.” Kennedy was uncompromising as usual.
Gervase’s face tightened, his eyes hardened. Jason sighed inwardly. He agreed with Kennedy, but would it kill him to occasionally soften his delivery, at least pretend he didn’t think he had all the answers?
Gervase leaned back in his chair. “Then do enlighten us, Special Agent Kennedy.” He nodded in curt thanks to Officer Courtney who had appeared with a tray of steaming coffee mugs.
Kennedy said, “West has developed a promising lead on the artist who carved the original mermaid charms. It turns out he lives locally.”
Gervase took a cup from the tray and threw Jason a startled look. “Is that so?”
Jason said, “Yes. Dr. Jeremy Kyser is one of Pink’s two permitted outside contacts. He’s supposed to be working on a book about serial killers. But as it happens, he’s also a talented amateur artist. We—I believe—we’ve got verification that he carved the mermaid charms.”
“That’s what I call a big coincidence,” Gervase said.
“What are we waiting for?” Boxner stepped away from the wall. “I’ll go talk to him right now.”
Jason opened his mouth to object. He had uncovered this lead, and this was by rights his line of inquiry.
Except…the FBI was there at the invitation of Kingsfield PD. They couldn’t take over the investigation, couldn’t even insist on conducting interviews of suspects without the permission of local law enforcement. Technically, they were there to advise and assist.
“Okay, slow down,” Gervase said. “We need to understand what we’re dealing with. Kyser’s name never came up in the original investigation.”
“But that’s it; that’s what this is about,” Boxner said, and as much as Jason disliked Boxner, he couldn’t help sounding his agreement and approval.
“Now hold on, you two,” Gervase said. “If these charms had been produced by Acme Corporation, we wouldn’t be considering Acme Corporation a suspect. Let’s not confuse cause and effect. The Corrigan girl had that mermaid for months before her death. Pink didn’t plant it on her.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” Boxner said, and once again Jason was in agreement. The charms were not mass produced. They were the work of a local artist. That personal connection could not be ignored.
Kennedy said, “The Corrigan girl was the first victim. Everything that happened in her case set the pattern for the subsequent killings. It’s very possible Pink bought the other charms to match Honey’s.”
“So what?” Boxner said. “We’ve got the man who made the charms. That’s a lead.”
“Yes, it is, and I think you and West should follow it up together,” Kennedy said. He ignored Jason’s startled look. “I’m not arguing with you. I agree that this is a line of inquiry that needs to be pursued. Before you pursue it, though, we need to keep in mind a couple of facts. The first one being, that as sinister as his emergence in this case might look, so far Kyser’s involvement is tangential. Assuming he is the artist—and we’ve yet to confirm that—” He shot Jason a cool look. “He may have become interested in Pink’s case partly because Pink used Kyser’s own creations in his crimes. That is certainly going to get someone’s attention.”
“Yes, but how would Kyser know that when it wasn’t publicized in the media?” Jason objected.
“It’s possible Pink contacted him after the fact with that information. Actually, for all we know, Pink may have chosen those charms for that very reason: he wanted Kyser’s attention. We don’t yet know the extent of, or his history with, Kyser.”
“Wait a minute,” Jason said. “So you’re suggesting that Pink may have hit on the mermaid theme because Kyser carved some mermaid charms? And if Kyser had carved rabbit charms or leprechaun charms, Pink would have gone with that?”
Kennedy sighed. “I’m suggesting that we don’t know. I’m suggesting that we don’t assume. Let’s keep an open mind.”
“We do know that the mermaid theme is central to this case. Aside from the fact that mermaid charms were found at nearly all the crime scenes—in the victims’ mouths—the victims themselves could be viewed as mermaids. They were all taken from aquatic venues, most of them were in bathing suits, and they were all females of a certain physical type and age. So I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Gervase answered before Kennedy could respond. “If the suggestion is that Kyser is still providing someone with mermaid charms, that’s not going to work. There was no charm found with Candy.”
“Yes, there was,” Jason said. “I picked it up and put it in my pocket, but I guess it fell out when the floor gave way. Anyway, somehow I lost it.”
“You lost it?” Kennedy, Gervase, and Boxner all repeated at the same time.
Jason said with asperity, “Yes. I lost it. While I was plunging fifty feet to the flooded room below.”
“Maybe twenty,” Kennedy said. “Still. Fair enough.”
Gervase sighed. “That’s too damn bad. We’ll never find it now. That place is a deathtrap. I guess one mermaid more or less doesn’t really make a difference.”
Jason grimaced. He already felt bad enough about dropping the charm without them trying to be understanding.
Abruptly he remembered that sense of recognition when he’d picked up the charm. The certainty that he knew it.
Well, that he recognized a copy of an original he knew well.
Except…no. For one strange moment, he had believed he was holding the original.
Yes. That was it. He’d felt the shock of recognition. Then the next instant, Candy had opened her eyes, and he’d forgotten all about the charm until he’d searched his pockets for it when he was receiving medical attention some hours later. That had been a sickening moment.
The phone on Gervase’s desk suddenly rang, buzzing loudly in the small office, and Jason jumped.
Kennedy threw him a curious look.
Gervase’s face changed as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. “Is she?” he said. “Well, thank God for that. When can we talk to her?”
More silent listening from the chief. More frowning.
Kennedy continued to study Jason. Jason met his gaze. Kennedy smiled faintly. Was something funny? Jason didn’t get the joke.
He glanced at Boxner who was watching him and Kennedy with narrow-eyed suspicion.
Great.
“We’re not going to interrogate her,” Gervase said into the phone. “We just want to ask her a few questions. We’ll be just as quick and careful as we can. It might end up saving someone else’s life.”
Buzzing on the other end.
“Well—”
“But—”
The chief’s eyes lightened. H
e looked at Kennedy and nodded. “So you think today for sure?”
A few more words were exchanged, and Gervase hung up the phone.
“Candy Davies regained consciousness about half an hour ago. She’s pretty groggy, but the doctor thinks she might be able to give her statement as early as this afternoon.”
“That’s good,” Kennedy said. “That’s very good news.”
Gervase nodded in grim agreement. “What do you think about heading out to Boston now? I don’t want to waste any time. That girl won’t be really safe until she gives her statement.”
“I agree,” Kennedy said. “And I’m all for driving to Boston immediately.”
Gervase rose. “Boyd, you take West with you and interview this Dr. Kyser. But go easy, for God’s sake. We don’t need someone else threatening us with a lawsuit.”
“Who else is threatening legal action?” Kennedy asked.
“The Madigans. They believe releasing McEnroe was an act of criminal stupidity. They think we’re deliberately dragging our feet bringing their daughter’s killer to justice.”
Kennedy shrugged. “It takes how long it takes.”
“It’s nice you can get some emotional distance,” Gervase said sourly. “Boyd and I don’t have that luxury. We have to live with these folks. They’re frightened and angry, and they want answers.”
“Maybe after we talk to the Davies girl we’ll have some for them.”
When Kennedy and Jason were alone in their office, Kennedy said, “Watch yourself.” His eyes were grave.
“I plan on it.” Jason checked his weapon. He popped the magazine, reaffirmed he had plenty of ammo. Which…since he had not fired a single shot since his last session on the target range should not be a surprise. He replaced the magazine.
When he looked at Kennedy, Kennedy was still regarding him intently. There was something odd about his expression. As though he wanted to say more but couldn’t decide whether to speak.
“Do you think the unsub is going to go after Candy?” Jason asked.
Kennedy said. “Desperate people are dangerous.”