The Monet Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  He ascended a broad flight of steps to a terrace pockmarked with missing stones and littered with broken slats and shingles. He gazed upward.

  When whole, the clock tower had probably served as both a landmark and a beacon for miles and miles. The great tower still dominated the scene, rising from a massive stone base toward the clouds. There was something almost shocking about the giant black hole at the summit where the clock face had formerly rested, but it had probably been a wise idea to take the thing down when they had. The wooden framework showed a number of alarming gaps in its trunk. Birds, large and small, flew in and out of the openings.

  He walked around the smaller corner tower, to find himself at the true front of the house, and started toward the massive arched entrance—stopping dead when someone shouted, “Hey! What are you doing?”

  Jason glanced around. A man was approaching from the other side of the terrace. He wore a red and black plaid hunting jacket, dirty jeans, and a formidable scowl.

  “Mr. Greenleaf?” Jason asked.

  “I asked what you’re doing here.”

  Greenleaf—if this was indeed Greenleaf—was a big man. It wasn’t all muscle, but there was enough muscle to pose a threat—assuming he knew how to handle himself. His hair was yellow-blond; long, but balding on top. A look only legendary rock stars could pull off. His eyes were close set and brown, a shade so dark they looked black.

  “I was admiring your clock tower,” Jason replied. His curiosity was aroused by the other man’s instant hostility. Not that people weren’t hostile for all kinds of reasons, but an antisocial attitude just naturally caught Jason’s interest.

  “Didn’t you see the sign? Private property. No trespassing.”

  “I did. Yeah.” Jason offered his ID. “Federal agent Jason West. You’re Eric Greenleaf?”

  “FBI?” Greenleaf scrutinized the badge. It was not the cursory look most people gave official ID. His black gaze raised to study Jason. “Jason West.” He sounded like he was committing it to memory.

  “That’s right. Do you live here alone, sir?”

  Greenleaf nodded. A man of few words, or experience with the legal system?

  “I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your neighbors. The Durrands.”

  Greenleaf’s look of distrust deepened. “What about them?”

  “Well, to start with, how well do you know them?”

  He shook his head. Shrugged.

  “You’ve lived on the island your entire life?”

  “Off and on.”

  “Did you know the Durrand brothers when you were growing up?”

  “Sure.”

  Greenleaf was about the age of the Durrands. The Durrands had spent summers on the island—and Greenleaf was their closest neighbor. It seemed likely the boys would have gravitated toward each other.

  “Would you say you were friendly with the Durrand brothers?”

  Greenleaf’s smile was humorless. “I knew them.”

  “What were they like?”

  “Spoiled rich kids.”

  Jason glanced instinctively at the crumbling structure behind Greenleaf. “Not like you?”

  “Depends who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  The black look that flittered behind Greenleaf’s pale gaze prickled the hair at the back of Jason’s neck. Yeah, there was something about this guy…

  That didn’t mean Greenleaf had anything to do with the Durrands and Jason’s case. Not everybody loved law enforcement or the federal government. It would still be a good idea to stay sharp while in Mr. Greenleaf’s presence.

  “I work for a living,” Greenleaf said. “I’m an underwriter for Cape Vincent Savings Bank.”

  “I see. Then you’re able to work from home?”

  “Why are you so interested?”

  Jason wasn’t particularly interested—this had been purely a fishing expedition—but Greenleaf’s hostile and defensive attitude continued to raise flags.

  “When was the last time you spoke to Barnaby Durrand?” he asked.

  “Barnaby? Years. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in probably twenty years.”

  “Do you keep in touch with Shepherd Durrand?”

  Greenleaf snarled, “I told you we’re not friends! Now unless you have a warrant, get off my property.”

  Whoa. Jason considered Greenleaf’s flushed and angry face. Here was a guy who believed he had something to hide. That didn’t mean what he had to hide was any concern of Jason’s. People could behave strangely and unpredictably for reasons of their own, reasons that would not make sense to anyone else.

  He said, “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”

  Greenleaf stared at him without answering. His demeanor set off alarm bells for Jason. Again, it didn’t mean he had any connection to Jason’s investigation.

  And it didn’t mean he didn’t have any connection…

  Chapter Ten

  There really was—or at least had been—a Paris Havemeyer.

  The nineteen-year-old German exchange student had been working as a model and taking classes at the Art Institute of New York when he’d disappeared twenty years earlier.

  Jason blew on his steaming mug of Campbell’s tomato soup and studied Havemeyer’s black and white photo. Several square-jawed images of the kid popped up in a Google search, though they all seemed to originate from one photo shoot. Havemeyer wore the same bulky wool sweater and retro Jheri Curl do in all five photos. His hair looked white blond in the pics, and his eyes were that colorless glitter that usually indicated blue.

  Bad hair decisions aside, there was no question he had been a very handsome—even beautiful—young man.

  And after several hours of searching, that was the extent of what Jason knew about Paris Havemeyer. He had existed, and he had disappeared without a trace—if internet forums were to be believed.

  ASK SHEPHERD DURRAND!!! an anonymous poster advised in one such forum.

  Whose Shepherd Durrand? came an ungrammatical and equally anonymous reply.

  Anonymous #1 responded with a link to the Durrand gallery in New York and the comment THIS MAN IS A MURDERER!!!

  Art should be free. This gallery sucks! riposted commenter “donuts.”

  That was the extent of the exchange. As leads went, it wasn’t much.

  Presumably Chris Shipka had more—a lot more than this. What was his connection to the case, given that he’d have been about ten at the time of Havemeyer’s disappearance? Further, this seemed to be an East Coast incident, and Shipka’s crime beat was the West Coast. California’s Southland, to be precise.

  The more Jason looked into Havemeyer’s supposed disappearance, the more curious he grew about Chris Shipka.

  He swallowed a mouthful of soup and considered.

  A few finger taps brought up a heart-stopping list of bylines on stories featuring yours truly, intrepid FBI agent Jason West. Shipka was the crime reporter for the Valley Voice, so he wrote about other cases and ongoing investigations—he was energetic in his pursuit and prolific in his output—and it was abundantly, embarrassingly clear to Jason that a lot, certainly some of the most favorable press he received over the past couple of years, had been coming from one source: Chris Shipka.

  It’s the president of your fan club, Hickok had joked, and that was maybe a little too close to the truth for comfort.

  A lot of Shipka’s investigations seemed to revolve around the art world, so fair enough, but he wasn’t writing about Hickok’s clearance rate, and in his own unassuming way, Hickok was a legend.

  Maybe FBI agents made for better headlines. Or maybe it had to do with Jason’s orientation. Maybe it had to do with something else. He’d felt a connection…no, that was the wrong word. He’d sensed Shipka’s…awareness. Yes. That was it. He’d picked up signs of interest from Shipka. So maybe it was that simple. Shipka personally found him appealing, maybe even attractive.

  Or maybe it was something else.

  Or maybe Jas
on was getting paranoid in his old age. Spending too much time with a guy like Sam Kennedy would make anyone start to see the dark side of every human interaction.

  Other than a preoccupation with Jason’s investigations, there seemed nothing remotely sinister about Shipka. His life appeared to be an open book. Or at least an open internet article.

  He had graduated from San Diego State University’s School of Journalism and Media Studies and landed his first job at the San Diego Reader. From there he had worked his way to the Voice of San Diego and then the San Diego Union-Tribune. After the Union-Tribune, he had moved north and taken the job at the Valley Voice. Since the Valley Voice was a smaller and less prestigious paper, maybe there was something there. Or maybe Shipka had liked being a big fish in a little pond. There was no difficulty getting bylines at the Valley Voice.

  Glancing over Shipka’s online articles, Jason was disconcerted to realize that on several occasions Shipka had contacted him directly for comments or to confirm facts. Yet on Sunday night, Jason would have sworn he had no prior contact with Shipka. Partly that was because it was routine to now and again confirm or deny facts for various news media outlets. Evidently his occasional interactions with Shipka had triggered no alarms.

  As for the stories themselves, Jason had kind of a…not exactly antipathy, but a determined disinterest in any attention from the press. Maybe it had to do with growing up never quite sure if he was being singled out for his own achievements or those of his family.

  And in return you’ll be the guy who gets to pose in front of the cameras…

  Kennedy had unknowingly struck a nerve eight months ago.

  Jason was ambitious and had been aware of receiving favorable press, but it was a point of pride not to read that stuff. It was enough to know he was getting the right kind of attention for his work. Had he bothered to read Shipka’s stories, he’d have likely recognized him at the museum wing dedication—he’d have likely been aware of Shipka long before that.

  But other than being a little obsessive about his job—gee, who did that remind him of?—Shipka seemed normal enough, at least on cursory examination. Jason intended to dig deeper, of course. Whether he’d intended to or not, Shipka had made himself part of the investigation by coming forward. Inevitably his motives and possible connection to the Durrand case had to be evaluated.

  Jason swallowed the last mouthful of soup and checked his messages and email. He’d received an automated response from Jonnie regarding the interview notes he’d sent on the Kerk investigation. No word from Kennedy, of course. Nor was he expecting one.

  After answering the most urgent of his email, he phoned the Information Technology Branch and asked Bernadette to run a basic wants and warrants on Shipka. Then he phoned The New York State Missing Persons Clearinghouse to see if any official investigation had been initiated into Havemeyer’s disappearance.

  Though originally created to provide assistance to law enforcement handling cases involving missing children under the age of eighteen, in 1999 the Clearinghouse had expanded their purview to include college students of any age. Unfortunately, Havemeyer had disappeared in ’98, and Jason drew a blank. That did not necessarily mean no report had been filed, just that Havemeyer’s case had never been kicked upstairs.

  Jason went back to the beginning and phoned NYPD’s Missing Persons Squad, which had its own cold case unit. It took some time, but at last he got the information he was seeking. A missing person report had been filed four days after Havemeyer disappeared. The case was still open, but that was a technicality. Nobody had given a thought to Paris Havemeyer in a very long time.

  Understandable, given that hundreds of thousands of people across the country were reported missing every year. About 87 percent of those cases resolved within 30 days. The remaining 13 percent—more than 84,000 people in 2016—became long-term missing persons cases. Unsolved—hell, unidentified—homicides in most cases. And if that wasn’t depressing enough, the DOJ estimated that there were more than 40,000 sets of unclaimed human remains in medical examiner or coroner offices—with several hundred new cases reported annually.

  The facts of this case were few. Paris Havemeyer had last been seen entering his apartment house on West 26th Street at 1:30 a.m. on June 22. He was with two friends—the friends who would later report him missing—and the three men had just returned from a private party at the Fletcher-Durrand gallery. Havemeyer had informed his companions he wanted to keep partying. He had given no indication of where he intended to find this next party. His friends had continued on to their own apartment several blocks away.

  Jason told himself not to make too much of this tenuous, highly circumstantial connection to the Durrands, but it offered insight into Shipka’s insistence that Barnaby and Shepherd were dangerous to know.

  It had taken a couple of days for Havemeyer’s friends to determine that he really was unaccounted for. Because he was a young sexually active gay male—and an art student to boot—the police had not broken down any doors looking for him. In fact, listening between the lines, it sounded to Jason like no real investigation had taken place. The prevailing theory was that he had returned to Germany.

  Times had changed, and that was a good thing. Twenty years ago, the circumstances surrounding Havemeyer’s case were such that it was unlikely any other police department in the country would have handled anything differently.

  “Could you email me a copy of that MP report?” Jason asked Lt. Hanna, head of the Missing Persons Squad.

  “You bet,” she said. “Knock yourself out. The sad truth is we have more of these cases than we could solve if the entire NYPD devoted itself to nothing but missing persons.”

  She was a woman of her word. The missing person report on Havemeyer landed in Jason’s inbox ten minutes later. He glanced it over, not expecting to find anything ground-breaking, but one of the names of Havemeyer’s companions on the night in question jumped out at him.

  Donald Kerk.

  The buyer for the Nacht Galerie in Berlin who had turned up dead beneath Santa Monica pier on Sunday appeared to be the same person who, twenty years earlier, had been one of the last people to see Paris Havemeyer alive.

  Now that was some coincidence.

  Jason glanced at the name of Havemeyer’s second companion. The name Rodney Berguan rang no bells, but it would be interesting to have a word with this witness, if he could be located after so much time had passed. Jason made a note of Berguan’s then-address.

  Despite access to NCIC and all the other resources available to him, it would take some time before he had any answers. Even when you worked for the FBI, everything took longer than it did on TV, and a twenty-year-old missing person case was not anyone’s priority. It was somebody’s tragedy, though, and he felt initiating the first steps of a genuine investigation into Havemeyer’s disappearance was the right thing to have done.

  He was going to have to push Shipka on the link between Havemeyer and Durrand, as well as the name of his mysterious source. Was the party at the gallery the sole basis for Shipka’s claims, or did he have something more concrete? Jason assumed Shipka had managed to access the missing person report on Havemeyer, which would explain why he’d been so sure Paris Havemeyer’s disappearance would prove relevant to Jason’s investigation into Fletcher-Durrand.

  Regardless of what Shipka knew or didn’t know, Jason needed more to go on than a couple of pieces of highly circumstantial evidence and an unsubstantiated claim from a source who was, so far, an unknown quantity.

  The pressing question was should he bring this nebulous connection between Kennedy’s hunt for a serial killer targeting members of the art world and his own investigation into the potentially shady dealings of the Durrand brothers, to Kennedy’s attention? Given that what he’d uncovered seemed to spin the case in Kennedy’s direction.

  Or did he wait to see how these various and disparate leads developed? Leads? More like rumors and speculation.

  Rumors, speculati
on…and a feeling in his bones that there was something to the whispers. Call it gut instinct—that was what Sam had called it when they’d talked about hunches and intuition and that sixth sense the best law enforcement officers developed over the years.

  “Always go with your gut,” Sam had advised. “Better red than dead.”

  Well, Jason’s gut was telling him that there was something here, something not right, something that needed to be, at the least, followed up on.

  Before he could change his mind, he phoned Kennedy’s cell, hearing out the familiar message with a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Hi.” Once again he was confronted with the difficulty of what to call his former…friend. “It’s me.”

  In a way this was worse, given that the phone had been their direct line of communication. Once upon a time he had been comfortable in the knowledge that if he called, sooner or later Kennedy was going to call back. And that however lousy Jason’s day, he would be smiling by the end of that conversation.

  Jesus. Get over it, West.

  He said briskly, “I’m in upstate New York—on Camden Island near Cape Vincent—to interview Barnaby Durrand, the primary suspect in my fraud case. Anyway, I’ve been following up a couple of leads, and I think it’s possible our two investigations may intersect. I spoke to that reporter from the Valley Voice before I left LA, and Shipka believes one or both of the Durrands may be involved in the cold case disappearance of a German art student about twenty years ago. I’ve come across information that might support that theory. It’s a tenuous connection, but I still think it’s worth pursuing.”

  God. He was starting to ramble.

  “Obviously, that’s your call.”

  Worse, maybe it sounded like he was hoping for continued interaction? He wasn’t. He didn’t want anything. Except to do his job to the best of his ability.

  Jason concluded formally, idiotically, “Thank you,” and disconnected.

  That was at three thirty.

  By three thirty-one he was questioning why he had not phoned Jonnie with his information, given that Kennedy had told him she was taking point on the case.