The Monet Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  As you may know, Aquarians are the natural detectives of the zodiac—although they hate to have their own secrets probed. I am curious about your secrets. I sensed a natural affinity at our first meeting. My own sun sign is Leo. A fire sign. This places us in harmony. Air makes fire burn more brightly. Ours is the 7-7 sun sign pattern. Like you, I am working to build a Utopia. I will contact you soon to explain how we may work together to bring this about.

  With admiration and affection,

  Jeremy Kyser

  Jason closed the card to once more examine the chaos on the front. He tossed the card to the table and leaned back on the sofa, staring at the Redmond painting.

  He did not want to overreact.

  Was this a troubling overture? Yes. Did it concern him that Kyser had taken the trouble to find out where he lived? Yes. Did the grandiose and sort of incoherent tone of the communication worry him? Yes.

  But. It was only a birthday card and only the second communication in nearly a year. There was no specific nor even vaguely implied threat. On the contrary, Kyser was friendly and complimentary.

  He hadn’t even used Jason’s first name, so it was sort of difficult to accuse him of being overly familiar.

  He leaned forward and picked up the envelope. No return address. The postmark was Virginia. So Kyser was on the other side of the country, not lurking on Jason’s patio, waiting to pounce. He glanced instinctively at the windows and the vine-shrouded pergola beyond—and was annoyed with himself.

  He could not hope to hang on to any credibility as an FBI agent if he freaked out over something this nebulous.

  It would have been nice to be able to talk it over with Kennedy, but that was out. The last thing he wanted was to look like he couldn’t handle himself—or, worse, that he was coming up with lame reasons to stay in contact.

  Goddamn it, Sam.

  Jason’s heart—hell, his whole chest—ached at the memory of that conversation in the car.

  Just like that? It was over?

  Why? What had he done?

  Nothing, according to Kennedy.

  It isn’t you. It’s nothing you’ve done or didn’t do.

  Which really didn’t help.

  What would help? Anger. Anger would help. But could you be legitimately angry at someone for changing their mind about wanting a relationship with you? Sure, people did rage over that—even kill each other over that. But not sane people. Not reasonable, grown-up people.

  It was worrying how much this hurt. Way too much for what it was. It felt like a huge weight had landed on him last night, and it had been all he could do to keep upright and moving through the day while that weight got heavier and heavier and heavier.

  But he had made it through today. And he would make it through tomorrow, and all the tomorrows that followed, and eventually the casual mention of BAU Chief Sam Kennedy would not trip his heart in his chest or cause him to lean in to listen to other people’s conversations.

  He swallowed the last mouthful of water and was trying to decide whether a second whisky would be a bad idea on an empty stomach, when someone knocked on his side door.

  He couldn’t help that surge of hope—though he knew it was ridiculous—even before he peered out the side window and spotted…

  Wait.

  The hell? Was that— That could not be—

  Jason yanked the door open, and Chris Shipka, minus his hoodie and camera equipment, gazed nervously back at him.

  At Jason’s glare, Shipka faltered, “Uh…hi, Special Agent West.”

  “No comment.” Jason moved to close the door.

  Shipka jammed his foot in the doorway in a move time-honored by reporters and door-to-door salesmen alike.

  “No, wait, man,” he pleaded. “I’m not here to interview you.”

  Jason said stonily, “Right. You’re just selling subscriptions to the Valley Voice. How did you find out where I live?”

  Shipka’s expression was a mix of apology and pride. “Hello? How much of a reporter would I be if I couldn’t find out where somebody lives?”

  Fair enough. Whatever else he was, Shipka did seem to be a pretty diligent reporter.

  “Okay,” Jason said. “You found me. Now get lost. This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”

  He was not jumpy by nature, but he couldn’t deny that Shipka’s appearance, following on the heels of the card from Kyser, was unsettling.

  Shipka kept his foot planted and his hand braced on the red surface of Jason’s door. He was smiling, but it was a pained effort. “Wait a minute. Don’t be so hostile, West. This isn’t— I’m not— I’ve got information for you.”

  “What information?”

  Shipka recognized Jason’s hesitation and said quickly, “Information you’ll need for your Fletcher-Durrand investigation.”

  “Then you need to come down to my office and file a complaint tomorrow—or actually, on Friday when I get back. I’m out of town for the next couple of days.”

  Shipka’s eyes narrowed. “No way. I’m not filing a complaint. I’m not reporting a crime. I can’t do that.”

  Jason asked, “Why’s that?”

  Shipka’s expression twisted into a grimace. His eyes were hazel. More green than brown. His features were blunt, not unattractive. He had a dimple in his chin and a tiny scar over his lip. His hair was brown and curly. He was nice-looking. Not handsome—not the kind of looks that won TV anchor slots—but appealing.

  “Because for one thing, how much credibility would I have if I was shown to be working with law enforcement? People are going to think I betrayed my source.”

  Jason was unimpressed. “Are you about to betray a source?”

  “Of course not. But who’s going to believe that? It’s my job to report on your investigation. Not become part of it.”

  “Then what are you doing here blocking my doorway and insisting I talk to you?”

  Shipka snapped, “Because these are fucking dangerous people.” He seemed…genuine. About that, anyway.

  Jason asked, “Who are? The Durrands?”

  “Yes. Well. Yes.” Shipka threw an uneasy look over his shoulder. “Look, West, can I come in or not?”

  Jason hesitated. This was a breach of protocol, and he was not comfortable with it. Especially after the card from Kyser. One stalker per customer.

  At the same time, he was not picking up a particularly…hinky vibe from Shipka. Working in law enforcement, you did develop a sense for when people were not on the up-and-up. Shipka seemed almost desperately sincere. And if he did have information? Making him wait until Jason got back from his trip to New York meant risking Shipka changing his mind about coming forward.

  Jason pulled the door wide, stepping back, and Shipka came inside, looking around with unconcealed curiosity at the weathered floorboards and vintage-looking appliances.

  “Wow. This is…very Town & Country.”

  Jason led the way through to the miniature living room. “But you’re not here for an interview, so don’t bother taking notes.”

  “I’m not making notes. Anyway, it’s nice,” Shipka said. “I just didn’t figure you for a guy who would go in for chandeliers and sideboards.” They both studied the vintage coffee urn with its spill of pastel silk flowers, which sat on the peeling and battered table.

  Jason admitted unwillingly, “My sister is an interior decorator.”

  “Right. Charlotte Baldwin. She owns Le Cottage Bleu.” Shipka smiled at him.

  This reminder of Shipka’s nosiness into things that did not—should not—concern him refreshed Jason’s hostility.

  He said coldly, “Do you have information for me or not?”

  The smile faded from Shipka’s face. “Jeez, West. You could offer me a seat at least. We’re on the same side.”

  Doubtful. But okay. Maybe. Maybe Jason was a little touchy. Maybe he had reason. Maybe he didn’t. In either case… He sighed and pointed at the overstuffed white sofa. “Sit.”

  Shipka laug
hed. He seemed unoffended. “I will. I’ve been on my feet all day chasing down leads.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Shipka laughed again, and…frankly, there was something unexpectedly engaging about his easygoing acceptance of Jason’s lack of welcome. Something unexpectedly engaging about someone who wasn’t fifty shades of grim.

  Shipka sat down, looking relieved when the sofa frame didn’t crack or the mounds of cushions try to swallow him whole. He wore jeans and a perfectly respectable sport shirt in a baby blue and white check. Jason said, reluctantly, “Did you want a drink?”

  Shipka brightened. “Thanks.” His gaze fell on Jason’s tumbler. “Beer. If you’ve got it.”

  Jason poured himself another Canadian Club, got a Mass Riot IPA from the fridge and a mug from the freezer. He poured the beer into the frosty mug, carried it into the front room. As his fingers brushed Shipka’s, there was a snap of electricity. Shipka gave another of those quick laughs. He looked up into Jason’s eyes.

  Yeah, more green than brown in those eyes.

  Jason scowled, but that was because he did not want to like Shipka, let alone notice the color of his eyes. He took the matching overstuffed chair across from the sofa and said curtly, “Well?”

  Shipka started to put his mug down, but then paused to look for a coaster.

  Unwillingly, Jason was disarmed. After watching Shipka for a second or two, he said, “It doesn’t matter. Just set it down. Apparently the table is supposed to look like a piece of junk.”

  Shipka grinned and set the mug on some of the scattered fake flower petals.

  “So, listen, West. I’m going to put my cards on the table, but you’ve got to promise I get the exclusive on this when the case breaks open.”

  “I’m not promising anything.” Honesty compelled Jason to add, “At least until I hear what you’ve got.”

  Shipka took a moment to think it over. He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll meet you halfway. You’re after Fletcher-Durrand for fraud and grand larceny.”

  Jason’s interest sparked. He said steadily, “No comment.”

  “I know you are.”

  “Then I don’t need to confirm or deny, do I?”

  “It’s bigger than you think. It’s not just one or two clients. And it’s not just that the Durrands are dragging their feet on paying the owners for paintings they’ve sold, ostensibly, on their behalf. Whole lots of paintings left in Barnaby’s supposed safekeeping have disappeared. There are people out there who don’t even know their entire art collections are gone.”

  Say what? Did Shipka actually have something here?

  Jason managed to conceal his surprised interest. He raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

  “I’m taking that as confirmation. You know it goes way beyond Barnaby?”

  Jason continued to stare at Shipka.

  Shipka said earnestly, “Okay, okay. But you need to look beyond Barnaby. You need to look at Shepherd.”

  “What would we do without the press?” Jason said. Tell me you’ve got some evidence? Some kind of proof? Please don’t be playing me.

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic. If you hadn’t got that far, there was no point me telling you the rest.”

  “What is the rest?”

  “A missing model and art student by the name of Paris Havemeyer.”

  “A missing model?” Jason’s wariness returned. “What are you talking about? What does that mean?”

  “Just exactly that,” Shipka said earnestly. “Twenty years ago Havemeyer disappeared and has never been seen since.”

  “And this relates to my case how?”

  “You care about murder, right?”

  Jason said, “I repeat. How does this relate to my case?”

  “I don’t know. But it does. Kerk’s murder proves that.”

  “You’re going to have to start at the beginning because I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I only know that either Barnaby or Shepherd killed Havemeyer. I’m assuming Shepherd.”

  “Killed him how? When? Where? Do you have any proof of this?”

  “Anything I have would be circumstantial. It’s your job to get real evidence.”

  Jason’s laugh was disbelieving. He shook his head, finished his drink, and set it on the table. “Right. Okay. Well, I appreciate your stopping by this evening, Mr. Ship—”

  He started to rise, but Shipka said quickly, “Okay! Yes, the Havemeyer thing is kind of an art-world legend, but I believe those stories.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the source.”

  Jason was starting to get exasperated, but he said with reasonable—he thought—patience, “The source you refuse to reveal?”

  “Look.” Shipka stopped. Seemed to struggle inwardly. “You’re gay, right?”

  Suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “I knew it. I’m gay too.” Shipka was gazing at him with meaningful, even hopeful intensity.

  “So what?”

  “So Shepherd Durrand is gay. The kind of gay our daddies used to warn us about.” By “daddies” Shipka was not referring to Shipka senior or Peter West. That much was obvious.

  Jason started to speak, but Shipka hurried on, “Havemeyer was part of that whole arty scene back in New York. He was part of that circle. When Fletcher-Durrand was the biggest name in art. And Donald Kerk was there too.”

  Donald Kerk. Was there a connection? Maybe Jason’s face revealed more than he imagined, because Shipka said hastily, “And yes, I know this is all before your time. Mine too. I know it sounds like a-a—”

  “Don’t say fairy tale.”

  “No. Look, West, I know what you think, and it is mostly rumor and speculation. Okay. I admit that. But I’ve got an instinct for this kind of thing. Just like you do for your kind of thing. But you don’t believe me; fine. I can continue to work that angle on my own. Although I don’t have your resources. I can’t force anyone to talk to me.”

  Join the club. But Jason kept the thought to himself.

  “What is not speculation is that Durrand is selling multiple percentages in paintings in order to finance more acquisitions.”

  “That’s not against the law,” Jason said impatiently. “That’s standard practice for operations like Fletcher-Durrand. It’s extremely expensive to purchase some of these 19th and 20th century masterpieces, so they get investors to put up the cash, and then—ideally—everybody makes a healthy profit when the work is sold.”

  “That’s the theory,” Shipka agreed. “But suppose Durrand is selling more shares than there is art?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that he’s sold more than two hundred percent worth of shares in a couple of paintings currently up for sale.”

  “‘He’ being…?”

  “Barnaby. I think.”

  “You think.” Jason frowned, thinking. “What are the paintings? Do you know?”

  Shipka smiled. “That I can help you with. Paul-César Helleu’s Lady with a White Umbrella. However you say that in French. I guess it’s a lot like a picture by Monet? And a 1950 painting by Toyen from his Neither Wings nor Stones series. Both paintings have investors holding over two hundred percent shares worth of painting.”

  “Can you give me the name of one of these investors?”

  Shipka finished his beer and set the mug down. “Not without putting my source in jeopardy.”

  “Seriously?” Jason asked. Insiders joked that the art market was even less regulated than gun running and drug smuggling. The only real law was discretion.

  Shipka rose. “Yes, I am serious. If I’m correct in my suspicions, these are very dangerous people. Maybe you haven’t heard the rumors about Barnaby back in the day. Not to mention Shepherd. But I have. And before you blow me off as a conspiracy theorist or some other kind of nut, maybe you should do a little more poking around.”

  Jason rose too. “Have I blown you off?�
��

  “No. Not completely. But you don’t believe me about Havemeyer.”

  “Believe what? You said yourself that as far as you could tell, it—whatever it is supposed to be—was rumor and speculation.”

  “Murder is what it’s supposed to be,” Shipka said bluntly. “Cold-blooded murder.”

  Jason was silent. Shipka might have his facts wrong, but he believed what he was saying. You didn’t have to be a BAU profiler to see that much. And there was no question that where there was a lot of money involved, dangerous people could always be found. The nerves in Jason’s shoulder tingled in unhappy muscle memory.

  “I plan on interviewing Barnaby Durrand tomorrow,” he said, by way of concession.

  Shipka’s brows rose skeptically. “Good luck with that. He’s in New York.”

  “I know. I’m flying out tonight.”

  “Well, now. A sign of initiative,” Shipka murmured.

  “Go to hell,” Jason returned also under his breath.

  Shipka laughed, unoffended, and headed for the kitchen door. Jason followed him, switching on the outside light. The night air smelled of smog and the dank smell of the canal drifting from the back of the house.

  As Shipka stepped out into the artificial yellow haze, he said, “One other thing. Just a… heads-up. You know who also used to party with that arty-farty crowd? Detective Gil Hickok at LAPD.”

  Chapter Eight

  One little thing Jason failed to take into account.

  The Durrands’ upstate family estate was way upstate. As in Jefferson County upstate. On Camden Island in the St. Lawrence River, to be precise—and the only way to get there was by boat.

  Meaning a private boat rental. Not a ferry. Once upon a time there had been ferry service to the island, but that was one hell of a long time ago, and since only private residences and a few vacation cottages remained on the island, who needed ferry service anyway? Anyone who could afford to live on an island could afford their own boat.

  This time of year there wasn’t even, at least officially, water-taxi service. Though once Jason had offered his ID—the “Big Initials” as Gil Hickok once joked—the owner of Seaport Sloops agreed to throw in a complimentary boat ride on the even off-season gulp-inducing cottage rental rate.