by Josh Lanyon
“Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense. The Havemeyer case may not be closed, but it’s stone cold. I’m having trouble coming up with reasons why it would suddenly be crucial to shut up a remaining witness.”
“Then all I can say is you lack imagination.”
Ouch. This was a less likable side of Shipka. Sure, no one liked having their pet theories challenged, but it should be possible to debate an idea without getting personal. Then again, maybe Jason sounded more dismissive than he meant to.
He said neutrally, “That could be. How about this. Send me what you have. I promise to look at it with an open mind.”
Shipka’s face twisted. “Okay. Fair enough. I realize this isn’t really your area of expertise. But you were involved in that murder case in Massachusetts, and you seem to be part of this taskforce.”
“There is no taskforce. The BAU is working directly with Santa Monica PD on the Kerk homicide. I was brought in for about five minutes’ worth of consulting.” He was briefly tempted to share with Shipka the real problem with his theory: the fact that Kerk’s death was part of a definite pattern that did not seem likely to dovetail with the Havemeyer case. But Kerk’s homicide was part of Sam’s case, and no way in hell would Sam be okay with sharing any such information with the press.
It must have been obvious he was holding something back, because Shipka’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a two-way street, West.”
“I’m not part of any taskforce,” Jason said.
Shipka said with sudden shrewdness, “There is no taskforce, or you’re not part of any taskforce? Which?”
Well, hell.
Jason was forced to admit, “I’m not part of any taskforce.”
“Ah-ha.” Shipka grinned. “I thought so.”
Jason refused the bait. He said, “There’s something I wanted to ask you about a comment you made regarding Gil Hickok. You said—implied, anyway—he might not be entirely impartial in any investigation into the business dealings of Fletcher-Durrand.”
The sour expression sat awkwardly on Shipka’s normally good-natured features. “Are you telling me you never noticed how good old Hick always manages to get himself invited to all these premier art shows and exhibitions? He likes hobnobbing with the rich and famous a little too much.”
“Is that your opinion, or do you have some basis for saying so?”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t do his job—he’s happy enough to go after street artists or small fry like your protégé Lux—but he’s not looking for a reason to get kicked off the Getty’s guest list.”
The Getty being one institution with past problems purchasing works of dubious provenance?
“My protégé?”
“That’s what Lux is, isn’t he? A little flexing of the noblesse oblige?”
Jason let that pass. “It wouldn’t be useful getting kicked off anybody’s guest list.” He considered Shipka’s flushed face and heated tone. “Did you bring your theories on the Havemeyer case to Hickok?”
“Yep. I sure did. Right after Phil died. Hickok wasn’t interested. Said there was nothing there, and even if there was, it was out of his jurisdiction.”
“It is out of his jurisdiction.”
“Whatever. He basically warned me off.”
“When you say ‘warned you off’…”
“Just that. He told me not to waste my time, said it wouldn’t be smart.” Reading Jason’s expression correctly, Shipka said, “Sure, he did it like he was offering friendly advice, but I know a threat when I hear one.”
“Hm.” Jason was unconvinced. There were non-sinister reasons for Hick to warn off Shipka, including the fact that Shipka could be a little overzealous in his pursuit of a story—case in point, sneaking into the Hotel Casa del Mar.
And as far as the events at the Hotel Casa del Mar… Hick hadn’t given any sign that he knew Shipka. Maybe he didn’t remember him, in which case there couldn’t have been much behind the warning off. Maybe he remembered him but dismissed him as that same pesky reporter, in which case—again—there couldn’t have been much behind the so-called warning off.
Hick would regard Shipka as a not always necessary nuisance, which is how most law enforcement—including Jason—regarded the news media.
Shipka said, “Yeah, the thin blue line. I know.”
“I’m not a cop,” Jason said. “I’m not going to turn a blind eye to police wrongdoing, but so far all I see is you think Hick enjoys the perks of his job a little too much and several years ago he told you he couldn’t investigate a missing person case in New York. That’s not grounds for involving IA.”
He didn’t like the disappointment in Shipka’s eyes, but he was being honest. The fact that they’d slept together didn’t mean he’d suddenly lost his objectivity—any more than Shipka had lost his. Or maybe that was the problem. Maybe Shipka had held an idealized image of Jason, and now he was confronted with the reality of plain old puts-his-jeans-on-one-leg-at-a-time Jason.
“What I’m saying is don’t trust him.”
Jason said, “I don’t trust anyone.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mrs. Merriam was ready for Jason.
“Mr. Durrand is out walking,” she announced defiantly. “He likes to take a walk after lunch.”
Jason smiled. This was actually the good news. Barnaby was back. He’d been right to follow his instincts and head over to the estate early. “Great,” he said. “Which direction did he go?”
She did not like his smile. “I have no idea,” she said stiffly.
What was it about the Barnabys of the world that made the Merriams and Keatings so ready and willing to jump in front of a firing squad for them?
“Where does he usually like to walk?”
“I have no i—”
Jason said gently, “Maybe Mrs. Durrand might have an idea where her son likes to walk.”
It wasn’t subtle.
Mrs. Merriam flushed. “I think he was headed toward the old fort. He sometimes goes in that direction.”
“I’ll have a look. Thank y—”
The door banged shut.
The woods smelled wet, dank and earthy, like a newly dug grave.
Full moons, thunder and lightning, dark and stormy nights were the staples of both thriller and horror films, but in Jason’s opinion there was nothing more mysterious or eerie than fog winding its silent, sinuous way through the woods, smothering sight and sound in a soft white shroud.
He found himself walking more quietly, carefully down the uneven trail. He was not trying to sneak up on Barnaby. The idea of Barnaby running from him was kind of funny. Barnaby was far too dignified to flee or skulk behind bushes. He might walk away briskly, but that would be about it. Still, Jason couldn’t shake the feeling of, well, foreboding.
Every snap of a branch stopped him in his tracks, eyes scanning the tree-punctured gloom. It was so quiet that every drip, drip, drip of moisture off pine needles seemed magnified. He could hear a dog barking clear on the other side of the island.
It would be way too easy to lose direction in this murky soup of trees and mist. Better to take his time.
About ten minutes or half a mile from the Hovey mansion, Jason heard a man speaking. He couldn’t make out the words. He drew closer and almost fell over a short iron fence.
He looked beyond the fence and could just make out moss-covered headstones and a tilted cross. A graveyard.
He stepped over the low fence and took a look at some of the gravestones. Marble stones carved with the image of an urn and/or weeping willows were typical of the early-to-mid-1800s. Sure enough.
Hirah Kelley
was drowned
off North Bay
Nov. 8, 1834
aged 34 Years
The next stone read:
In Memory of
MARY GAGE
Daughter of
ELI &
CAROLINE HINCKLEY
died July 2, 1860
aged 1 year 10 months
This would be the civilian burial ground.
What had Bram said? The civilian graveyard was slightly to the east of the old fort?
“Ambrose, put that down!”
Jason looked up, trying to see through the lazily shifting mist. The voice came from a short distance away. Despite the words, the tone was calm, even exasperated. This was confirmed by the short, excited bark of a dog.
The voice said, “You’re too old to chase sticks, and I’m too old to throw them.”
Jason followed the sound of the voice through the length of the graveyard and up a steep embankment. A man in a green hunting jacket and a tweed cap stood near the ruins of a tall stone fireplace.
He turned in surprise at the sound of Jason’s approach. The dog, a springer spaniel, changed barks and ran toward Jason.
“No, Ambrose. Come,” the man called. “Come here!”
Ambrose’s ears twitched acknowledgment. He did not come, but his tail began to wag. He advanced on Jason with friendly snuffling curiosity.
“Mr. Durrand?” Jason closed the gap between himself and Barnaby.
Barnaby’s face immediately closed down. “Special Agent West, I presume?”
“That’s right, sir.” Jason offered his ID. Barnaby did not deign to glance at it.
He looked like an older and more refined version of Shepherd. His hair had been allowed to go silver. His features were sharper, more patrician. He was the physical type companies such as Barbour and Morgan Stanley chose to star in their advertisements. Shepherd was the type who showed up in commercials for Club Med.
“My lawyers have ordered me not to speak with you.”
Jason smiled. “Mr. Durrand, your lawyers work for you. They don’t give you orders, they give you advice, and they’re giving you the advice lawyers usually give clients in your situation. But you should be aware that your cooperation now could make all the difference later on. Could determine whether there is a later on. No decision to prosecute has been made yet. There’s still room for discussion, for negotiation, for deals.”
Barnaby stared down his long, elegant nose. His eyes were the shade of hazel that could appear almost yellow, but doubt lingered in those wolfish depths.
“According to your brother, this is all one big misunderstanding,” Jason added.
Barnaby frowned. “When did you speak to Shepherd?”
“Monday morning at the Downey gallery. I also spoke to Ms. Keating.”
Barnaby pursed his lips—or maybe that was a tight little smile. “Ms. Keating has retained her own legal counsel.”
Jason smiled again. “Yes, she has.”
Barnaby’s gaze sharpened. He scanned Jason’s face for further hints as to his meaning, but didn’t break down and ask what Keating had said.
“Shepherd is correct. This is not going to end up in court. Though I’m not sure it’s a misunderstanding so much as financial desperation on the part of former friends.”
“The Ontarios would have to be fairly desperate to file federal charges.”
“They would have to be fairly desperate to liquidate their art collection,” Barnaby retorted, “but that’s what they instructed us to do. And that is what we did.”
“These instructions were put into writing?”
“No. Hank phoned me up in May of last year and said he and Ros had decided to sell their collection.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“He was vague. He spoke of financial pressures, which I think we can all understand. I told him we would do the best we could. I specifically asked if they were willing to take payment in installments, and Hank agreed.”
“So…nothing in writing.”
“Nothing. Unless you count the check we wrote as the first installment on the Monet. The Ontarios were friends as well as clients. We were used to communicating by phone.”
The sudden mention of Monet gave Jason a moment’s pause. Unexpectedly, he was in excellent position to pursue Kennedy’s—the BAU’s—investigation.
“Can you provide a copy of that check, sir?”
“Of course I can.”
“Were other payments made to the Ontarios?”
“Only the first installment is due at this time.”
“On the Monet? But according to the Ontarios, the gallery also sold three Picassos and a Cézanne that were being held for them.”
“And your point is?”
“Are you saying you don’t recall the sale of these highly valuable works?”
“Highly valuable?” Barnaby said scathingly, “What do you imagine we are? Art.com? All we sell are highly valuable works. Do you know how many paintings we’ve sold in the past six months?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“Enough that I don’t know off the top of my head where we are with every single payment on every single transaction.”
This was good. Barnaby was on defense, beginning to bluster, starting to dissemble.
Jason said pleasantly, “I realize that, sir. I merely thought that since the Ontarios had filed charges, you might be a little more familiar with the status of their particular collection.”
Barnaby glared. “Then you’re doomed to disappointment, Agent West. We’ve sold many, many valuable and significant works. Works far more important than anything belonging to the Ontarios.”
Riiiight. So many Picassos, so little time!
“Just one more question, sir. I believe you had lunch with Donald Kerk last Wednesday. Did he give any indication that he was in fear for his life?”
Barnaby looked confused. “Don? In fear for his life? Of course not.” His expression changed. “Why?”
Shit. This was not feigning ignorance. Barnaby really didn’t know Kerk was dead. Unbelievably, Shepherd had not informed his brother that their old friend had been slaughtered on Santa Monica beach.
Which left it to Jason to break the bad news.
Happily, there wasn’t a lot of talking to bereaved loved ones on the ACT. True, the loss of a priceless painting was no laughing matter, but it still wasn’t like losing a child or a beloved spouse. Especially now days when so many people bought art strictly for investment purposes—sometimes not even bothering to take their acquisitions out of storage.
Jason said in that wooden tone they all got when they had to deliver the worst possible news—basically bracing against someone else’s pain, “I’m very sorry to inform you, sir, that Donald Kerk was murdered Sunday night.”
He knew it was crucial to observe and memorize every detail of Barnaby’s reaction. It wouldn’t be difficult, because Barnaby was stricken and silent. No automatic denial, no emotional outburst. He stood perfectly still, staring into the distance as though watching a train wreck from…not far enough away. He seemed mesmerized.
“How?” he asked finally.
“I can’t share the details, only that his death is being investigated as a homicide.”
Life came back into Barnaby’s face. “You can’t share the details? Why for God’s sake? Was he robbed? Was he shot? Was he— Do they have anyone in custody? Is there a suspect?”
“No one is in custody. The investigation is ongoing.”
Barnaby’s brows drew together. “Why is the FBI involved?”
Kennedy had given no directive on how he wanted this handled. Everyone they had interviewed together had already heard about Kerk’s death. No one had questioned the FBI’s involvement, but it was a good question. And the fact that Barnaby thought to ask it was probably indicative. But indicative of what?
Jason said reluctantly, “There are indications Kerk’s death may be part of a larger pattern.”
Barnaby stared at Jason as though he couldn’t quite hear him. “Does Shepherd know?” he asked.
Again, not the question Jason anticipated. He replied, “Yes. Your brother was already aware of Mr. Kerk’s homicide when I spoke to him.”
Barnaby muttered something, whistled for the dog which had wandered off, and sai
d to Jason, “I’ve told you everything. If you have more questions, you’ll have to direct them to our attorney. I’m quite confident the matter with Ros and Hank will be resolved without further legal action, but if the federal government wants to waste additional taxpayer time and money on harassing me and my family, well, we’ll see where that leads.”
He stalked off, whistling again for the dog, which burst out of the undergrowth like it thought a bear was after it.
Jason watched man and dog until they reached the top of the trail and vanished into the fog.
Barnaby had not known Kerk was dead. That, Jason would stake his career on. But from the point he had learned of Kerk’s death, his reactions became hard to read. He had been shocked, upset. That was to be expected. But he had also seemed to experience a light-bulb moment. That gazing into space as though transfixed? That had been an instant of horrible recognition.
But what or whom had he recognized? That was the question.
Does Shepherd know?
Clearly he did not think his brother had killed Kerk.
And beyond that? He was difficult to scan, but Jason thought Barnaby had seemed more angry than afraid.
He had been a little afraid, though, and that was interesting.
Jason walked down the hillside and glanced around the lonely graveyard.
Where better to hide a body?
Might as well have a look. He started up the nearest crooked row of graves, studying the weather-beaten markers.
A number of sunburst-style headstones. Those would be from the 1800s. Those coy half-suns peeking over the horizon could be interpreted two ways: the setting sun of an ended life or the rising sun of the eternal hereafter.
In memory of
Emeline Cook dau’r of
Jesse & Thankful Cook
she died March 14
1811
Aged 11 mos
A lot of babies and small children.
A lot of Hoveys and Greenleafs too.
Everybody seemed present and accounted for. No graves missing markers. No new- looking headstones. In fact, the most recent headstone was 1953. A large hollow-metal monument of a beautiful white bronze decorated with anchors and chains.