by Josh Lanyon
“I didn’t thank you,” Jason said. “For springing me. Thanks. I mean that.”
Sam’s mouth twisted. “Call it an early birthday present.”
Right. In some forgotten corner of the universe life was going on as normal. His sisters were plotting a birthday party he didn’t want, his parents were comfortably unaware their only son was a suspect in a murder case, and George Potts was probably typing up his formal discharge papers right now.
“Does George—my SAC—know what’s going on?”
“This wasn’t a rogue operation. I spoke to Potts before I left Medford.”
Jason nodded.
Once again, he could see Kennedy wanted to say something. Frankly, sympathy from Kennedy was even worse than when he was being a dick.
Jason nodded again politely, stepped inside the room, and let the door swing shut.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
But like Kennedy said, one thing at a time. He was out of the slammer. That was something—and he’d back Kennedy over Detective O’Neill any day of the week. Suppose Kennedy was right and Jason was genuinely under suspicion, the case was entirely circumstantial. Even if he couldn’t get out to the island in time to dispose of physical evidence that he and Shipka had, if only once, done more than collaborate on a case, it was all circumstantial.
He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, then filled one of the glasses and drank a couple of glasses of hose-flavored water.
According to the clock by the bed it was now nine o’clock. Six o’clock in the morning Los Angeles time. He tried George at home and was informed by his wife that George was on the other line, but she’d let him know Jason had phoned.
Conference calls before the official work-day began? Never a good sign.
Well, there wasn’t a hell of a lot he could do about it from here.
He phoned George’s extension at the office and left a message explaining that he was out of jail, planning to get over to the island that afternoon to retrieve his laptop and belongings, and hoped to catch a plane home that evening.
He began to scroll through his email and texts, waiting for George to phone back, but his cell remained stubbornly silently.
As promised, Shipka had sent his notes on his investigation into Paris Havemeyer’s disappearance. The email read: Even The Man does not live by blueberry muffins alone. Dinner at my place. Five o’clock.
Jason stared at it for a long time.
There had been no chance that he’d conveniently transfer his affections from Sam to Chris Shipka, but he wished they’d had that dinner. He wished he had been there to stop the attack on Shipka.
He was almost convinced he had been locked up in order to ensure two things: that he would be unable to interfere in the attack on Shipka and that he would have no alibi for Shipka’s murder. Almost. The problem with that theory was it entailed both foreknowledge and a plan—premeditation—on someone’s part.
Foreknowledge that included knowing who both Jason and Shipka were and that they were working together. That wasn’t impossible. Barnaby’s entire household probably knew who Jason was and why he was on the island. And Shipka had been to Cape Vincent a couple of times previously, asking questions.
The real hitch was the plan to get rid of Shipka. Nobody could know that Jason and Shipka would go their separate ways that day or that Jason would walk into that crypt like a complete dumbass.
The only way that scenario worked was if Kennedy’s unsub had tracked either Jason or Shipka to the island—and in either case that meant the unsub was someone closely following the investigation. All three investigations, in fact. Jason’s investigation into Fletcher-Durrand, the BAU’s investigation into the Monet murders, and Shipka’s private crusade to find out what had happened to Paris Havemeyer.
That was pretty hard to believe. For one thing, the MO was completely different. No fake Monet with a death scene. No clean, cold, merciless ice pick to the back of the brain. Whoever had gone after Shipka had done so in a frenzy of rage.
That said, it was even harder to believe Shipka had fallen victim to some random homicidal maniac.
Jason glanced at the bedside clock. George had still not called back.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything. George might still be talking to the SAC, or the ADC, or even Karan Kapszukiewicz in DC. Come to think of it, Jason should give Karan a call as well and update her on everything that had happened.
But later.
Kennedy was correct about this too. Right now, what Jason needed more than anything was sleep.
He fell back on the pillows, closed his eyes, and was instantly out.
Chapter Seventeen
Blood pooled from beneath the bottom of the door.
Dark and glossy as crimson. You could almost mistake it for oil paint, if not for the smell.
He knew what lay behind that door and knew he had to open it. But sick dread paralyzed him. He couldn’t make himself reach for the handle. Couldn’t walk away either. Then from inside the closet, Shipka began to pound on the door, louder and louder—
With a gasp, Jason sat up, heart in his mouth, hair in his eyes. It took him a bewildered moment to realize someone was pounding. Banging on the hotel room door. He jumped off the bed and stumbled to the door.
Kennedy stood in the hallway, scowling ferociously. The ferocity faded as he took in Jason’s sleep-dazed appearance.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Kennedy was still frowning, studying him closely. “I’ve been out here knocking for almost a full minute.”
“I was just…out. I’m fine. Have you heard anything?”
It didn’t look like Kennedy had slept. In fact, Kennedy didn’t appear to have even taken his jacket off since they’d arrived. Had he been on the phone the whole time?
“We’ve got the all-clear to head out to the island.”
That dispelled the lingering cobwebs. “Great. Let me get my shoes on.”
Kennedy held the door as Jason grabbed his boots, fastened his holster, and reached for his jacket. “We can hire a boat at Seaport Sloops. I wanted to talk to the owner anyway.”
“Okay. Let’s get this done.”
At the stern note in Kennedy’s voice, Jason looked up quickly. “You don’t have to be involved in this. It’s my mess. I can clean it up on my own.” As a matter of fact, he’d prefer to do it on his own.
“I’m coming,” Kennedy said. “I want to see this island for myself.”
“There’s something strange about it,” Jason admitted. “It’s got an atmosphere I can’t explain. Somewhere between peaceful and sinister.”
Kennedy gave a brief laugh.
“I know. But that’s the truth. I felt uneasy all the time I was there.”
“With good reason.”
“Yes. Shipka was convinced the Havemeyer kid was killed on the island.”
“Based on?”
“Not a lot. Largely the alleged rape and kidnapping of another young man the year before. But as a point of interest, there are three separate graveyards, including Native American burial grounds. Plenty of places to conceal a body.”
“You don’t need a graveyard to get rid of a body,” Kennedy said.
And recalling those dark woods and rocky coastlines, Jason had to agree.
On the drive to Seaport Sloops, Kennedy requested Jason bring him up to speed on everything Shipka had shared. Jason related the story about Marco Poveda and the dropped rape charges as well as the other various rumors surrounding Shepherd Durrand.
At the end of it, Kennedy said, “It would be interesting to know where Shepherd Durrand was yesterday, but your guy is the older brother. Barnaby. Correct?”
“I’m not ruling Shepherd’s participation out. But yes, Barnaby is the complainee in the charges filed against the gallery. He hasn’t denied selling the paintings either. That said, there are no rumors about Barnaby. Which is to say, not like there are about Shepherd.
Even before Shipka contacted me, I’d heard the whispers about drugs, rough sex and S&M clubs. He has a reputation for spending money like water. He’s a playboy. In fact, I’d say he takes pride in that reputation. What nobody ever whispered was that he has a head for business. But I saw his office. I spoke to him. I think he’s a lot sharper than people give him credit for. I think he’s full-fledged partner in that gallery. The question is not does Shepherd know everything Barnaby is up to. I’d say the question is does Barnaby know everything Shepherd is up to.”
“What do you think? Does he?”
“I don’t know yet. But I plan to,” Jason said.
“While we’re on the topic of Barnaby, your pal Detective O’Neill informed me that Durrand left the island at the crack of dawn this morning.”
“Before he could be questioned about my alibi?” Jason demanded.
“Yes.”
“Goddamn it. That’s not a coincidence.”
“Probably not.”
“Are they going to pursue this? They’re not just going to let this go, are they? Where is he headed? Do they know?”
“Slow down,” Kennedy told him. “Durrand is back in Los Angeles. I’ve already received confirmation on that. And no, according to Detective O’Neill, they’re not going to just let this go.”
“The Durrands own that town and everyone in it.”
“Whoa,” Kennedy said. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? I spoke directly to O’Neill. I don’t think he’s a fan of the Durrands.”
“He’s not a fan of mine either.”
“No, but I believe he’ll do his job. I believe he’ll show due diligence.”
Jason glowered out the window.
Kennedy glanced at him. There was the faintest note of humor in his voice as he said, “Anyway, you’ve still got a couple of things working in your favor. First, nobody at the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office is going to leap to the conclusion you’re gay, so the idea that you had a relationship with Shipka is not likely to occur.”
“It wasn’t a relationship. We had sex. One time,” Jason said. Why did he feel the need to make that point? Oh, right. Because it was the truth.
Kennedy’s gaze did not leave the road ahead. “Secondly, you’re a special agent with the FBI, and most people outside the bureau can’t picture an FBI agent having sex with anyone.”
Jason snorted. Now there was the truth. He’d certainly never pictured Sam having sex—until Sam had propositioned him.
* * * * *
“We were wondering if you were going to show up today. It’s all anyone in the village can talk about.” Mrs. Seaport Sloop—whose first name turned out to be Daisy—greeted them. She finished ringing up the rental shop’s only other customer, a stooped, elderly man in a pea coat and navy toque.
Bram came out of the back office, saying cheerfully, “To think you were right there. The FBI was right next door when it happened. That’s crazy.”
Yep. Not exactly a career booster.
“The sheriff’s department was asking for permission to search the lodge,” Daisy said. Her gaze, meeting Jason’s, was speculative.
“Standard practice,” Jason said. “I found the victim, so.” He shrugged and glanced at Kennedy, who was watching him with a curious expression. “This is my, er, boss. Unit Chief Sam Kennedy.”
“Don’t worry,” Bram said. “We told them to get a search warrant. I don’t like Jefferson County poking their nose in. I guess you want to go back to the island?” He looked from Jason to Kennedy—and then back to Kennedy. Kennedy tended to have that effect on people.
Jason said, “Just to pick up my gear.”
“There you go, Mr. Bundy,” Daisy said brightly. “You have a nice day!”
Mr. Bundy gathered his bag of chocolate milk, mini donuts, and cigarettes, and departed reluctantly, with several curious glances over his shoulder.
Bram muttered, “That old busybody. Now it’s going to be all over town. Is it true the sheriffs arrested you?”
“No,” Jason said. “They questioned me. Of course.”
“Well, yeah. You were right there.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t you,” Daisy said. “If there’s a maniac on that island…” She looked at Bram.
He gave her a warning glance.
Now that was an odd little exchange, but it gave Jason the opening he’d been looking for. “I understand Mr. Shipka questioned you about an incident on the island that happened about twenty years ago? Someone from Seaport Sloops picked up a young man who claimed he’d been held prisoner on the island?”
“Oh my God,” Daisy exclaimed. “Was that the same guy? That reporter?”
“I don’t know why he wanted to bring that whole situation up.” Bram seemed to be in no doubt as to who Shipka was. “It’s decades ago. What good was going to come out of it? The guy’s dead.”
“How’d you know Poveda was dead?” Jason asked.
Bram looked blank for an instant. “Oh. The reporter told us. When he was trying to get us to talk. Said the guy was dead now, so he needed someone to corroborate his statement.”
Right. Of course. Obviously.
Kennedy said, “Maybe what happened last night is why it matters.”
The Seaport Sloops looked as startled as if one of the bilge pumps had spoken up. “No,” Bram said. “That was a different kind of thing. That was Shep.”
“Bram,” his wife said in alarm.
“Allegedly Shep,” Bram corrected, proving that he had been paying attention while watching all those FBI movies.
“Are you the one who transported Mr. Poveda from the island?” Jason asked. Twenty years ago Bram would have been in his late teens, early twenties. Not much more than a kid himself.
Bram hesitated. “No.”
“I know it’s awkward,” Jason said. “The Durrands are important people around here. But what if these two crimes are connected? That’s something law enforcement needs to know. It’s too late to pursue the first case. You’re not going to get dragged into a courtroom.”
“They’re not connected,” Bram said.
“You can’t know that. At this juncture—”
Kennedy interrupted, “You’re the one who picked up Poveda. Correct?” He was talking to Daisy.
Daisy’s brown eyes opened wide in alarm. She looked at Bram, her expression guilty.
Bram rolled his eyes. “Hell,” he said. “Go ahead, Miss Chatterbox. I don’t see what the point is now, but go ahead and tell them.”
“There isn’t a lot to tell,” Daisy admitted. “I took a group of tourists over to see the old fort. They were going to have lunch and explore the island. That’s typical of our summer business. A boy about my age came bursting out of the bushes. He was stark naked, holding a branch in front of his crotch like he thought it was a fig leaf.” She gave a nervous giggle. “He claimed he’d been locked up in the Durrand family’s crypt for days and that he’d been, um, molested.”
“Molested?” Jason repeated.
“Raped. He claimed he was being held prisoner. A sexual slave. By Shepherd.”
“There were other witnesses to this claim?” Kennedy asked.
“No. It was just me by then. He’d waited until everyone was gone, and then he ran down to the dock as I was about to set sail. He said he believed they were going to kill him—”
“They?” Jason questioned.
“Shepherd and whoever. Barnaby, I guess. He begged me to take him with me—the kid, that is—and I did.” The look she threw Bram was slightly defiant. “I believed him.”
“If he was locked inside the crypt, how did he explain getting free?” Jason asked.
“He said someone opened the door. He couldn’t see who. He thought it was a trap at first, and he was afraid to come out. Like in the Dangerous Game.”
“Huh?” Bram said.
“Like the story. Or maybe he watched the movie. We read it in high school.”
Bram
shook his head.
“Yes. We read it in Mrs. De Haan’s English class.”
Bram shook his head again.
“Yes. We did. You loved that story!”
Kennedy sighed.
Jason prompted, “Poveda thought the open door might be a trap?”
Daisy nodded eagerly. “Right. But finally he realized it might be his only chance to get away, and he ran into the woods.”
“He didn’t say who opened the door?”
“He didn’t see. He figured it was one of the servants at the house. Someone who couldn’t go along with murder. But he didn’t know. I can tell you one thing, he was scared to death. He wasn’t faking that.”
Bram made a face.
“Why was he so sure he was going to be murdered?” Jason asked.
“He said Shepherd told him they would have to kill him. That he couldn’t trust him not to tell what happened.”
Sam said, “They again.”
Daisy looked apologetic. “It was a long time ago. I think he said they, but I don’t remember word for word. I had the impression he thought there was someone else besides Shepherd, but he never said another name. I’d have remembered that.”
“Yes,” Bram said. “She’d have remembered.”
“What happened after you reached Cape Vincent?”
“Nothing. I mean, I’d given him some old clothes that were on the boat to wear. He didn’t have any money or anything. No ID. He was still slightly stoned; he said Shep was feeding him drugs. Anyway, he thanked me, and then he went to talk to the police.”
Where, according to Shipka, the Durrands had been immediately notified that the houseguest from hell had escaped.
Poveda’s mistake was understandable. He had no way of knowing that the Cape Vincent Police Department was a part-time agency. Or that their so-called mission statement read in part: Balancing the outcome based on the need of the community.
Right. In other words, don’t call us, we’ll call you.
Major crime was handled by Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, and it was unfortunate that no one at CVPD had seen fit to escalate Poveda’s complaint to that agency. But it was also easy to see how the wild accusations of a slightly stoned outsider against one of the community’s leading families might be dismissed.