by Josh Lanyon
Was he hoping for further interaction with Kennedy? If so, that was just embarrassing.
At three forty-five his cell rang. Kennedy’s number flashed up, and Jason’s heart seemed to light up with it.
“West,” Jason answered stiffly, formally, as if he didn’t know who was on the other end of the call—but assumed the worst.
Kennedy said crisply, “Sorry for the delay. I was in a meeting.”
This uncharacteristically courteous response had the reverse effect of further unsettling Jason. Since when did Kennedy concern himself with inconveniencing or irritating others—including Jason?
He said automatically, forgetting for a moment they were no longer on such casually intimate terms, “Right. How’s it going up there?”
“The situation is not what I was led to believe.” Judging by Kennedy’s implacable tone, someone would pay for that. “What have you got?”
“A tenuous connection. And I do mean tenuous. In fact, I’m not sure I should have brought it to your attention. Not yet anyway.”
Kennedy said—his tone unnervingly tolerant, “Noted. Let’s hear what you’ve got, West.”
“Mostly a rumor the Durrands may be behind the disappearance of a German art student twenty years ago. The kid disappeared after a private party at the Fletcher-Durrand gallery.”
Kennedy was a silent for a moment. “You got this lead from the reporter who’s making a career out of covering your cases?”
“Chris Shipka at the Valley Voice tipped me off, yes. But I’ve seen the missing person report.”
“I see.”
“I know what you’re thinking, and again, I realize the link is—”
Kennedy said crisply, “We’ve got a dead German art dealer who met with—and had a long-standing connection with—two American art dealers who may be implicated in the earlier disappearance of another German, also involved in the art scene. Is that correct?”
Nice to know his emails were not going unread. As usual Jason was impressed with Kennedy’s swift and concise assessment of the pertinent facts.
“Correct. And there’s more. Kerk was also at that party. In fact, he was one of the last two people to see the kid alive. He filed the MPR.”
“I see. You’re taking it for granted this missing art student is dead?”
“Well, yes,” said Jason. “I do think he’s dead.”
“Meanwhile, you believe that the Durrands are guilty of fraud and grand larceny, and you’re working to build a case against them that will hold up in court.”
It wasn’t a question, but Jason answered, “Also correct.”
Another pause while Kennedy considered. He said finally, neutrally, “You might be onto something.”
It was a relief to know he wasn’t blowing a couple of weird parallels out of proportion. Jason admitted, “It could just be a coincidence.”
“Sure. It could. Life is full of coincidence. Or we might be looking at the faint outline of an actual pattern. It’s too soon to know.”
“How did you want to proceed?” Nothing Jason had discovered that day helped his own case. He did not want to lose control of his investigation, but inevitably BAU’s claims would take precedence.
To his surprise, Kennedy said, “Continue to pursue your line of investigation, and keep me posted on your progress. I’m reassigning Agent Gould for the time being.”
“Right. Okay,” Jason said, doubtfully. Just what he did not want and did not need—staying in regular contact with Kennedy.
In response to whatever he heard in Jason’s tone, Kennedy said, “The situation up here is more complicated than I anticipated. And since I can’t be everywhere at once—”
“Since when?” It popped out, a leftover reflex from their previous interactions.
Kennedy laughed, which was unexpected. As was the way Jason’s heart lifted. He had liked knowing he could make Kennedy laugh. Liked the fact that Kennedy let down his guard with him. He still liked it—and that was just sad.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
“Right. I’ll talk to you later.”
Not if I can help it, Jason thought, and disconnected. These days, email was about as close as he wanted to get to BAU Chief Sam Kennedy.
It was past five o’clock, and he was researching everything he could find on the provenance of Paul-César Helleu’s Lady with a White Umbrella—he had to start somewhere in tracking down these alleged multiple shareholders in the painting—when Jason caught the faint buzz of an approaching motorboat.
He rose from the table in the dining area and went to the window facing the mist-shrouded dock. In the purple-gray twilight he could just make out the swift approaching outline of a white cruiser.
Barnaby Durrand arriving home early? But no. Barnaby would land at his own private dock. As would any of the island’s residents. So…a stray vacationer renting an off-season cottage?
He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, watching as the boat drew up at the dock. There were two men aboard. Jason set his coffee cup down, frowning, and peered more closely through the gently misting glass.
He didn’t recognize the man at the helm, but the passenger was Chris Shipka.
Chapter Eleven
“Hey!” Shipka called in greeting as he spotted Jason striding down the hillside toward the deck. His smile slipped at the noticeable lack of welcome on Jason’s face.
Shipka turned to wave to the boat’s captain. The captain raised a hand in answer and called something, lost beneath the rumble of the boat’s motor. Shipka picked up his bags.
The captain goosed the engine, doing a back and fill maneuver to rotate the cruiser from the dock. The water churned green and foamy, slopping over the boards, turning the faded posts dark.
“This is a surprise.” Jason reached the end of the dock at the same time as Shipka.
Shipka called back, “I know. Look. Before you get too worked up, this was my story first. I have every right to be here.”
“And I have every right to have your ass thrown in jail if you interfere in my investigation.”
Shipka gave him another of those pained looks. “I’m not going to interfere. I’m trying to help you.”
Jason opened his mouth—and Shipka rushed on. “I’m suggesting we work together.”
As the roar of the cruiser’s engine faded into the twilight, Jason was able to answer in normal tones. “No, you’re not.”
“I am. Really. I think it’s a great idea.”
“It’s not a great idea. It’s fu—” Jason tempered his original thought. “Impossible. For one thing, we work for two different and occasionally adversarial organizations. For another we’re not the-the goddamned Hardy Boys.”
Shipka frowned, seeming genuinely taken aback. “Since when am I an adversary? You’ve only gotten good press from me. And okay, yes, we work for two different organizations, but ultimately, we’re just different branches of truth seekers. Right? We both want the same thing. We can make that happen if we pool our resources.”
This was ridiculous. Maybe funny on some level, but mostly exasperating. Jason could not have—sure as hell did not intend to have—Shipka looking over his shoulder while he worked this case, even if he did appreciate the tip he’d been given.
He said, striving for patience, “First of all, who says we want the same thing? Secondly, I work for the FBI. I have all the resources I need. Thirdly, what happened to worrying about your credibility if word got out you were working with law enforcement?”
Shipka’s jaw took on a pugnacious slant. “I’ll take that chance.”
“I won’t.”
Shipka stared into Jason’s eyes. “That’s disappointing.” His tone was flat. He shrugged. “But suit yourself.” He nodded to the small white cottage a few yards down, partially concealed behind hedges and trees. “That’s where I’m staying if you change your mind.”
“Shipka, I’m dead serious about arresting you if you interfere with my investigation.”
Sh
ipka met his stare without blinking. “And I’m dead serious about this being my story first. You don’t want to team up, fine. Your loss. But I’ve been working this case for nearly two years. I’m not backing off now.”
Great. The thing was, Shipka had been helpful. His tip regarding Paris Havemeyer’s disappearance might even prove to be crucial in breaking the case. It was too soon to know.
Also unknown was the extent of Shipka’s personal involvement. There were too many question marks when it came to Chris Shipka.
Jason nodded curtly. Shipka turned, shoulders squared, and marched off down the rocky beach. Jason watched him for a moment—hard to retreat with dignity when you were slip-sliding over rocks and mushy grass—then returned to the lodge. He phoned Bernadette at ITB once more.
“Anything on Shipka yet?”
She responded testily, “Heck no. You know how many requests I have ahead of yours? You didn’t say it was a priority.”
“Didn’t I? Can I upgrade my request with a pretty please on it?”
She groaned. “Give me a break, West.” But he could hear a speedy click-clickety-click in the background. She muttered, “All right. Hang on.”
He hung on, watching through the window as lights went on in the cottage across the way.
After a couple of minutes Bernadette said in a different tone of voice, “Oh. This is interesting.”
Jason felt a flash of alarm. “What?” he demanded.
“No results.”
Jason leaned back against the wall, happy no one was around to see his expression. “Funny.”
“I thought so.” Bernadette was still laughing when she hung up.
Jason was trying to decide between the second can of Campbell’s soup and the frozen beef stroganoff when he spotted Shipka leaving his cottage to begin the trek across the grassy divide to the lodge.
In the gloom, Shipka was no more than a swiftly moving bulky shadow, and Jason felt a little too much like Chandler Bing spying on Ugly Naked Guy, watching his progress through the kitchen window.
After all, Jason was the one running computer checks and doing internet searches on a guy who had so far only been helpful to his investigation—although, in all likelihood, Shipka was already done with the internet and computer searches.
He went to answer the knock-knock-knock at his front door, pistol jammed in the back of his waistband.
He flipped on the porch light and opened the door. Shipka held up a bottle of wine. His eyes were shining. He had shaved, but the damp was causing his hair to frizz in a wild halo about his face. “Peace offering, neighbor.” He smiled, his cheeks pink with the cold.
It was the dimple that undermined Jason’s resolve. Shipka looked hopeful and boyish and uncomplicated.
Wouldn’t uncomplicated be a nice change?
Plus it was hard to stay mad at someone who had written so many nice things about you.
Jason sighed. He felt like a jerk. He probably was a jerk. It didn’t change the fact that this was an odd situation. “Look,” he began.
Shipka said earnestly, “No. It’s okay. I get it. You think this is just about me getting an exclusive. You don’t trust me not to run my story before you’ve closed the case.”
Partly, yes. Shipka struck him as ambitious and aggressive in his pursuit of the truth—and they were liable to trip over each other. But partly…he’d have to be blind not to notice Shipka was interested in him. Too interested. So, uncomplicated was already wishful thinking.
On the other hand, Shipka had already proved a useful resource.
Jason stepped back, opening the door. “Okay. Truce.”
“Were you able to talk to Barnaby?” Shipka said as Jason waved him ahead to the kitchen.
“No.”
“No surprise there.”
“He had to return to the mainland. He’s supposed to be back tomorrow afternoon.”
Shipka glanced around the kitchen with automatic interest—probably thinking how he would describe the room in whatever article was simmering in the back of his brain. “Not if he hears from Mrs. Merriam first. Do you have a corkscrew?”
“A— I don’t know.” Jason opened one of the counter drawers, considering the fact that Shipka knew the name of the Durrands’ housekeeper.
“I forgot my cottage doesn’t have one.”
“Your cottage? You’ve been out here before?”
“Yep. Six months ago I tried to interview Barnaby. And got about as far as you did.”
“I’m not giving up yet.”
“No. That’s why you’re so good at what you do.” Shipka was smiling, seemingly sincere, and again Jason felt that flicker of discomfort. Not that he didn’t like compliments, but—this was probably unfair—that much admiration was off-putting. Or maybe it only seemed like undue admiration in comparison to Kennedy, who offered praise like he was spilling his life’s blood. The thing was, when Kennedy did break down and give a compliment, you damn well knew you deserved it.
Jason rifled through the utensils drawer and then the silverware drawer. No corkscrew. “Plan B.” He reached in his jeans, pulled out his pocketknife, and flicked open the flimsy corkscrew tool.
Shipka laughed. “Former boy scout?”
“Not me. I thought the Boy Scouts were very uncool.”
“They were. Back then.”
Their glances caught, and Jason knew Shipka was also thinking of the Scouts’ recent decision to accept transgender boys into the ranks.
It was a nice moment. Jason looked away first. “There are glasses in one of these cupboards.” He pried out the rubber cork while Shipka hunted for glasses.
No wineglasses being found, they settled for plastic juice glasses. Jason poured the Merlot.
“Skol.” Shipka pushed his glass against Jason’s, and the plastic bent inward. Shipka laughed. He seemed to laugh easily, and that was kind of nice too.
“Skol.” Jason sampled the wine. It seemed like a decent vintage. He was no expert, although everybody else in his family considered themselves to be. He preferred beer or, if he was looking to get drunk, Kamikazes.
Shipka swished his wine around like mouthwash and swallowed with a satisfied sigh. “Ye gods. That was a hella long trip. Even before my connection flight was canceled.”
“Kind of a sudden decision, wasn’t it? You didn’t say anything about flying back here last night.” Was it only last night that Shipka had stopped by his place? It seemed like a week ago. Jason’s own trip—or the not sleeping for two nights—was catching up with him.
“It was spur of the moment, yeah.” Shipka’s warm hazel gaze met Jason’s. “I realized it was a chance to talk to you on neutral ground.”
“Neutral ground? Now there’s a concept.” Was that what they called it nowadays? Jason swallowed another mouthful of wine. He knew if he raised his lashes, he’d find Shipka still watching him with smiling approval.
Well? What about it?
Since when was someone finding him attractive a problem for Jason?
Since Sam Kennedy.
But Sam Kennedy was no longer a factor. And the sooner he accepted that and moved on, the better.
Shipka was nice-looking. They had a lot in common. He was also, unofficially, a complainant in Jason’s case. But then Jason wasn’t planning on starting a relationship.
Actually, he wasn’t planning on anything. He set his plastic cup on the granite countertop and leaned back against the sink.
Shipka said, “Did you always want to be an FBI agent?”
“Nope. I thought the FBI was as uncool as the Boy Scouts. I wanted to be Indiana Jones. And paint.”
“I wanted to be Clark Kent,” Shipka volunteered.
“And instead you turned out to be Superman.”
Shipka laughed—and flushed. The flush was…endearing.
“I’ve got to ask,” Jason said. He was surprised at how reluctant he was to break the relaxed mood between them. “What’s your connection to Paris Havemeyer?”
Shipka was immediately serious. “There’s no personal connection, if that’s what you think.” He held Jason’s gaze. “My old journalism professor, the guy I consider to be my mentor, was Phil Belichick.”
“And Phil Belichick is…?”
“Have you ever heard of Jimmy Breslin?”
“Sure. Famous New York columnist. He chronicled the Son of Sam murders.”
Shipka made a face. “He wrote about a lot more than serial killers, but yeah. Okay. David Berkowitz sent him letters and because he published parts of them, Breslin was accused by the FBI of promoting and publicizing the slayings. My point is, Phil was San Diego’s Jimmy Breslin.”
“I don’t think I like where this is headed.”
Shipka refilled his glass and topped up Jason’s. “No, you’ve got it wrong. Phil was one of the best crime reporters on the West Coast, maybe in the country. He was even nominated for a Pulitzer prize.”
Jason took another swallow of wine. “What does a San Diego crime writer have to do with a German exchange student who went missing in New York twenty years ago?”
“Twenty years ago, Phil was hired by the Times-Herald Observer to be their Jimmy Breslin. He moved to New York and set about building a network of sources and informants like he had in San Diego. That’s how he first heard about this missing kid, a German art student who had disappeared after spending the weekend with an infamous pair of brothers well known to the New York art scene.”
“Go on.” Already the story was verging from the police report, but okay. That happened.
Shipka leaned toward Jason in his earnestness. “Phil believed what he was hearing from his informants. There were a lot of rumors about the Durrands. A number of people corroborated that Shepherd had been pursuing Havemeyer all over the club scene.”
“The Havemeyer kid was gay?”
“Yes. That’s part of what caught Phil’s attention. What drew his sympathy.”
Naturally. And part of what had caught Shipka’s attention and sympathy—it was part of what was now tickling Jason’s interest.
“Belichick was also gay?” Jason was just verifying, getting everything clear in his mind.