by Josh Lanyon
But the clock was ticking.
Jason had used his phone call to notify George, and George had instructed him to hang tight. That had been over six hours ago, and Jason’s anxiety had ratcheted up several notches. He knew the Bureau would be working behind the scenes to secure his release, but they would also take pains to be completely transparent and cooperative in their interactions with the Sheriff’s Office. That was how these situations—not that there were so many of these situations—were handled. The proper channels would be followed. There could be no appearance of throwing the weight of the federal government around.
Intellectually, Jason understood all that. But he was still exhausted and emotionally wrung out. He told himself he was not worried, but he knew innocent people did sometimes get charged, convicted, and imprisoned. He was hoping this was not one of those times.
“I didn’t take Shipka’s laptop,” Jason said again. “I have nothing to gain by interfering with your investigation. We’d already discussed where we thought our cases intersected. If you’re asking me, I think there’s every indication Shipka’s killer took his laptop.”
“Exactly,” O’Neill said. Maybe he was just being an asshole. Maybe he could sense Jason was hiding something. If so, he continued to bark up the wrong tree.
Meeting his smug look, Jason’s lip curled. “Give me a break,” he said, forgetting his resolution not to do anything to further annoy and antagonize.
The interrogation room door opened. Jason sat back in his chair, swallowing the rest of what he’d been about to say. O’Neill swung around in his chair and glared.
A deputy sheriff who looked like a stunt double for The Rock said, “His boss is here.”
“Goddamn it, Harris. Do you mind not announcing—never mind.” O’Neill threw Jason a this isn’t over look, shoved back his chair, and left the room. The heavy door swung shut.
Jason scrubbed his face with his hands and sat up straight, waiting for the next development. He was relieved someone had shown up. It wouldn’t be George. It would be someone from the Albany field office. Either way, news of reinforcements was a relief.
On the wall across from him a placard read:
We operate with the desire to enhance the quality of life and maintain a pleasant experience for our residents and visitors. Our officers understand the importance of community involvement through community policing and work diligently to foster good working relationships with its residents. The agency works for a successful conclusion of every incident, balancing the outcome based on the need of the community.
Jason rolled his eyes.
O’Neill was back in a couple of minutes, his expression noticeably bleaker. “You’re free to go for now, Agent West. We’ll be in touch.”
Jason rose without a word and walked past O’Neill who stared stonily straight ahead as though this escape was the final proof of Jason’s malfeasance.
The industrial-sized deputy led Jason down a couple of narrow hallways lined with bulletin boards and wanted posters to an office where his coat, wallet, cell phone, and holstered weapon were returned to him. A side door opened, and he was facing Sam Kennedy.
Kennedy was dressed as though he’d come straight from a search-and-rescue op. Jeans, a white cable knit sweater, and his blue and gold FBI jacket. But casual dress or no, he looked like the guy in charge. Of everything. Everywhere.
“Agent West.”
“Sir.”
Jason’s heart was thudding with astonished, even joyful relief. He had no idea why Kennedy was the one to show up, but he was passionately grateful he had.
Kennedy nodded curtly to the deputy sheriff who scrambled to get the glass front door open and see them out. Whatever had transpired in the minutes previous to Jason’s release had not been pleasant, and clearly the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department could not wait to see the back of Jason—or, more likely, the back of his “boss.”
Sparkling sunshine and fresh air came as a surprise. The breeze carried the scent of the ocean, though it was actually the St. Lawrence river, a glittering band of blue beyond the faded buildings of the ferry depot. The seagulls circling the boats in the harbor didn’t seem to know the difference.
Jason drew in a deep lungful of clean, crisp morning—he felt like he’d been holding his breath since he’d been taken into custody.
“All right?” Kennedy asked quietly. Behind the shades, his face was inscrutable. A sphinx in Foster Grants.
“I’ve been better.”
He was surprised when Kennedy dropped a firm hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick squeeze. “The car’s this way.”
Now that Jason had a chance to really look, he could see Kennedy looked bone-weary. Maybe it was the light, but his skin had a sallow undertone. Lines of fatigue were carved into his face. What the hell was happening in Oregon to make him look like that? And why had George sent Kennedy of all people?
No, that made no sense. George wouldn’t—couldn’t—ask a BAU chief to step in. Jason had to be even more tired than he knew because he just couldn’t seem to work it out.
Neither said anything else until they were inside the black rental sedan neatly parked between two blue and white SUVs lining the white street.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Kennedy asked. He made no move to start the car. He took his sunglasses off as though to better scrutinize Jason.
“Call you? For one thing, I don’t work for you. For another—” He’d been about to say what could you do? But that was a silly question. Jason said instead, honestly, “It never occurred to me.”
Kennedy threw him a quick, disbelieving look, but it was the truth. It had never crossed Jason’s mind to call for Kennedy. Frankly, he’d have gone to jail for a thousand years before asking Kennedy’s help. Not that he wasn’t sincerely grateful that Kennedy had stepped in. “Did George ask you to come? How did you find out what was happening?”
Kennedy said dryly, “I phoned you last night. A deputy sheriff from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Cape Vincent Station was monitoring your cell phone calls, so I heard the whole story.”
Jason gaped. He latched on to the one piece of information he could understand. “Monitoring my calls? They can’t do that.”
“Small town PDs have their own way of policing.”
“I wasn’t under arrest. And even if I had been, they have zero legal right.” It was outrageous, but given everything else that happened, Jason was having trouble drumming up the energy for suitable protest.
“What the hell went down on that island?”
Jason gave the bare bones, and Kennedy’s frown grew blacker and blacker.
“Jesus Christ.” Kennedy was silent for a moment after Jason finished his recital. “You should have called for backup, West. You had no idea what you were walking into. You could have b—” He broke off.
Jason gave him a quick, disbelieving look. “Really? You think I should have called the sheriffs to see whether Shipka had left the island? Because for all I knew, that was the case.”
Kennedy gave him a dark look, but they both knew Jason was right. He had no reason to expect the worst, and once he understood what the worst was, he was already on scene and committed.
Typically, Kennedy wasted no additional time on debate—let alone sympathy. It probably didn’t occur to him Jason might have found the events of the previous night extraordinarily stressful. “Why didn’t they question you at the scene?”
“They did.”
“Then why were you taken into custody?”
“The suspicion that I was out here conducting an investigation without letting local PD know what was happening on their home front?”
“A turf war?”
“I’m not sure. Another possibility is someone phoned Barnaby Durrand, and he told them to keep me on ice.”
Kennedy’s brows rose in not-so-polite skepticism. “You think Durrand is behind this?”
“I told you Shipka believed the Durrands were behind the disappearance
of Paris Havemeyer. I’m not sure how Shipka spent the day, but I know he planned on interviewing at least one resident. Maybe Durrand got wind of his investigation.”
It sounded unlikely even to Jason’s ears, and Kennedy looked equally unconvinced. “The real threat to Durrand would be the FBI’s investigation, so why take out Shipka and not you?”
Jason shook his head. “I’ll tell you one thing. I think whoever locked me in that crypt went after Shipka.”
Kennedy grunted noncommittally.
The problem was, Jason couldn’t really picture Barnaby going after someone with a machete or whatever weapon had been used on Shipka either. Besides, he’d been horrified at the news of Kerk’s death. Horrified and…flabbergasted. Yeah, he’d been genuinely shocked to learn of Kerk’s murder. It was hard to believe he’d have turned around and vented homicidal rage on Shipka.
“No,” Kennedy said, coming to his own conclusion. “They took you into custody because you’re the most likely suspect.”
“What? How do you figure that? What the hell is my motive?”
Kennedy’s glance was impatient. “You know cases aren’t built on motive. Motive is icing on the cake. The cake is opportunity and means. You were staying next door to Shipka in a rental cottage full, I’m guessing, of knives and other suitable weapons. There’s your opportunity and means.”
Jason had already worked all this out for himself, and yet he still felt outraged at the idea that anyone could seriously suspect him of homicide.
“Why wouldn’t I just shoot him?”
“With your own service weapon?” Kennedy shook his head. “Add in the fact that you’re the only person who knew Shipka, and it’s pretty obvious why you were taken into custody.” As though that finalized it, he turned the key in the ignition, and the sedan returned to life with an impatient roar.
They drove, unspeaking, down a couple of shady blocks. Kennedy was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and Jason was simply numb. But when they pulled into the parking lot of a small hotel facing the water, he said, “I’ve got to get out to that island.”
Meeting Kennedy’s gaze, he said, “All my stuff is out there. My laptop. Which contains my case notes on Fletcher-Durrand.”
“If you’re worried about Durrand’s interference, the area will be crawling with sheriff deputies. If you’re worried about the sheriff’s office, even these yahoos know that laptop is the property of the federal government.”
“After last night, that doesn’t reassure me.”
Kennedy continued to eye him in that steady, unimpressed way. Jason drew a sharp breath. “Okay. Yes. There’s a…potential problem.”
Kennedy’s eyes looked gray, almost colorless. “What kind of potential problem?”
“Depending on how bad JC’s Sheriff’s Department wants me for this, there’s physical evidence at the lodge where I was staying. Evidence that might be open to interpretation.”
Kennedy considered him for a moment. “All evidence is open to interpretation. Go on.”
“Sheets in the master bedroom. Shipka and I had sex the night before last.”
Kennedy didn’t move a muscle.
Or did Jason imagine that almost eerie stillness? Because Kennedy’s voice sounded normal enough when, after a moment, he said, “I thought you didn’t know Shipka.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t remember him, anyway. But we’ve been in communication since Monday evening.” He resented feeling like he had to explain or defend his choice to have sex with Shipka. And he really resented that nebulous feeling of guilt. Kennedy had dumped him. He had nothing to explain or feel guilty about.
And maybe Kennedy agreed, because he was immediately back on point. “Right. A sexual relationship certainly presents more possibilities for a fatal feud. Not to mention the fact there’s always a chance gay relationships might be viewed through the homophobic perspective of the rural socio-political mind-set.”
Not that Jason wanted to make Kennedy jealous, but that response seemed to verge on clinical. Dōmo arigatō, Mr. Roboto.
“Yes. There’s always that.”
“Running out there to destroy physical evidence doesn’t exactly bolster your claim of innocence.”
“I’m not destroying physical evidence. I didn’t have anything to do with Shipka’s death. It’s reasonable that I would go back and retrieve my stuff. And it’s also reasonable that while I’m there I’d clean up, because that’s what I would do in normal circumstances.”
Kennedy stared out the windshield at the ships moving slowly up the St. Lawrence. “You want my opinion? I think the smartest thing for you to do would be to get on a plane to LA ASAP.”
Jason stared. “Wait a minute. You don’t— I’m not— I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I realize that. But your—”
“Do you realize that?” Jason broke in. “Because I didn’t do it, Sam. You can’t think I did. That I-I killed him.” He couldn’t hide his reaction, embarrassing and painful as it was. Hopefully Kennedy would put it down to exhaustion and not hurt that Kennedy could think such a thing of him.
He was exhausted. But also it was the strain and shock of the night before, and yes, the grief. He hadn’t loved Chris Shipka, wasn’t even on a first-name basis with him, but they had connected, they had shared something. There was a reason sex was called “being intimate.” Jason was stricken by what had happened to Shipka. Nobody should die like that. Certainly not a guy like Shipka whose only crime had turned out to be caring too much. Caring about cases everyone else had forgotten, caring about people who just didn’t feel the same. Jason wasn’t crying, but it was close. The struggle to keep his breathing quiet and his face blank was probably as revealing as the expression of emotion would have been. His throat had locked so fiercely that further words were impossible.
He thought Kennedy leaned toward him, but that must have been the sudden blur in his eyes, because when Jason hastily wiped his face on his shoulder, Kennedy was still sitting behind the wheel. Unmoving and probably unmoved. His gaze was as bright and sharp as surgical steel.
“No, Jason. I don’t think you killed him. But your effectiveness here is at an end. And I have to get back to Oregon. I’ve got an injured agent and an investigation to wind up. I can’t run interference for you if the sheriff does decide to haul you in again.”
That was flaying an already open wound. Jason snapped out, “I don’t need you to run interference!”
Kennedy laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “You don’t think so? The sheriff’s department doesn’t have a lot of suspects for the Shipka slaying. In fact, I’m guessing they have exactly one. You. You’re the only person in the entire county who knew Shipka, you had sex with him the night before he died, and you’re the guy who discovered the body. Your alibi is that you were locked up all day in a crypt on a nearby graveyard but, conveniently, were released in time to discover Shipka had been slaughtered. Right there, that’s enough circumstantial evidence for plenty of DAs.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s too ridiculous to be anything other than the truth,” Sam said. “Which doesn’t change the fact that you wouldn’t be the first guilty person to cook up some laughable excuse of an alibi.”
“But it is an alibi, and Barnaby Durrand can confirm it.”
“He can confirm he let you out of the crypt. How would he know how long you were locked up inside? Unless he’s going to admit to locking you in. A halfway competent prosecutor could argue that you killed Shipka and then locked yourself in the crypt in an attempt to concoct some cockamamy defense.”
“Then how would he have known to come back and let me out?”
“Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe it went down exactly as he said. He was out for a walk, and the dog tracked you to the crypt.”
Jason shook his head. He was too tired. The effort to marshal an argument that would stand up against Kennedy’s line of attack was like trying to push a car out of quicksand. Not happening. He said, mo
stly out of stubbornness, “I’ve got to go back. It will look more suspicious if I don’t go back.”
Kennedy sighed. It was a very weary sound. “We should have access to the island either late today or early tomorrow. That’s the best we can hope for. Pushing for immediate access is going to raise questions. We’ll wait for clearance. Then, after we…retrieve your belongings, we both need to catch planes.”
Jason nodded.
“You need to be aware they may have already got a search warrant for your lodge. In fact, all they really need is permission from the owner to look around.”
“I know.”
Kennedy studied him for a long moment.
“Look, Jason,” he said in a different voice. “You need sleep. You’re dead on your feet. And I’ve got a conference call in eighteen minutes.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Seventeen minutes. I’ve booked us rooms here.”
Jason nodded again. He didn’t trust his voice.
Kennedy started to speak, stopped. He said instead, “One thing at a time, okay?”
“Yep,” Jason said.
They got out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the two-story hotel. The Buccaneer’s Cove was a pink and white clapboard building, which had probably begun life in a spiffy, eye-catching pirate red. Surrounded by tall trees and shady lawns. A pirate flag and an American flag hung side by side. Green Adirondack chairs and large pots of dead or dormant flowers were strategically placed around the building.
Inside it was…dated. Not as far back as the days of buccaneers. More like the days of shag carpeting and crocheted couch covers. The décor leaned starboard. Vintage life preservers, porthole art, and seascapes by, presumably, local artists.
The check-in process was quick and painless, which probably indicated the hotel did not do a lot of trade off-season.
Their rooms were next door to each other on the ground floor. Jason unlocked his room and glanced over at Sam, who was doing the same, a few feet away.