by Josh Lanyon
Jason spluttered, “You didn’t… What?”
Sam pulled him over, settling Jason’s head on his chest. “And when I realized it did…there was still nothing I could do about it. I still feel the same about this. Being involved is not going to be good for either of us.”
“But we are involved, Sam. You can call it what you want. Friends or fuck buddies. But if you’re going to keep phoning me up—”
“We can call it what it is,” Sam said. “It’s not the word I’m afraid of. I love you. I’ve known for sure since Christmas when I couldn’t stop myself from calling.” He said self-mockingly, “I just had to hear your voice.”
Jason remembered that phone call. Somehow it had been more painful than no call at all. Or maybe not.
Sam said, “But I meant what I said at dinner. I do want some kind of relationship with you. I want you in my life. Watching you walk away on Monday…I couldn’t do it. I felt like I’d made a mistake there was no coming back from. And hearing you’d slept with Shipka. No.” He was silent again. “I guess it depends on what you want.”
Jason shook his head. How was he supposed to answer that? He said, “I want what we talked about in Massachusetts. I want to try.”
Sam shook his head. “I know who I am. I am the job. Work will always come first for me. That means I’m not going to be there for dinner with the folks or Christmas or romantic getaways. I don’t remember birthdays or anniversaries.”
You would have been there for Ethan. You would have remembered for Ethan.
But Jason banished that thought. That way lay madness. It wasn’t even necessarily true.
Instead, he said lightly, “Maybe you should wait until I propose before you start planning how you’re going to leave me standing at the altar.”
But Sam was not in a joking mood. “Whatever it is you need, Jason, I’m probably not that guy.”
“Probably not,” Jason conceded wearily. “And I can’t promise that that doesn’t matter or that I’ll hang in there through thick and thin no matter how big an asshole you are. I don’t know how high my tolerance for pain is. I just know I’m not ready to say goodbye.”
Sam muttered, “It would kill me to say goodbye now.”
It went a long way to assuaging the hurt of the past few days.
“We’ve still got—” Jason broke off to peer at the clock. “Hours till the next goodbye.”
They kissed.
“See?” Jason murmured. “That didn’t hurt so much, did it?”
“Not yet,” Sam said quietly. “It will.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jason was still trying to track down Rabab Doody when his cell phone rang and Sam’s ID flashed up.
Come to think of it, he needed to change that ID photo. In a mood of smart-assery, he’d attached a photo of Harry Callahan, AKA Dirty Harry, to Sam’s contact info.
“Hi,” Jason said. He couldn’t help the note of warmth that crept into his voice. He thought of that quick, awkward goodbye kiss at Watertown International Airport that morning. Quick, awkward, but heartfelt.
Sam was brisk and businesslike. “I can’t talk, but I wanted to remind you to send me those cards from Kyser. The actual cards. Not copies. Envelopes too, if you’ve still got them.”
“The cards are at home. I’m at the office. I’ll mail them out tomorrow.”
“Good. Don’t forget.”
“No, sir!” Jason did his best marine corps recruit imitation. “I won’t forget, sir.”
Sam disconnected without comment. Or maybe that was his comment.
Jason shook his head and went back to the task of locating the elusive Mr. Doody. He was reluctant to tap Lux again so soon, though he was going to have to talk to the kid eventually.
Thanks to the time difference, he’d arrived in LA at ten thirty in the morning, and after a disconcertingly congenial meeting with George Potts and SAC Robert Wheat in Wheat’s office, phoned Washington DC for a lengthy call with Karan Kapszukiewicz.
“So F-D is going to settle,” Karan said, once he’d filled her in on the events of the last three days. “Damn.”
“It sounds like they’ve decided to settle with the Ontarios. That doesn’t mean the Ontarios will go for it.”
“They’ll go for it,” Karan said gloomily. “From the first, they said they didn’t want to go to court, if at all avoidable.”
“Even so, the Durrands don’t yet know about Ursula Martin. She’s not going to settle.”
“Martin still hasn’t formally filed charges. That’s the sticking point for a lot of victims. Actually going to court. I’ve got to tell you, Jason, my gut feeling is this one is starting to slip through our fingers.”
Jason felt a flash of alarm. “I don’t think it’s as bad as all that. According to one of my sources, there are a number of other clients in similar circumstances to the Ontarios. They can’t settle with everyone. If they had those kinds of financial resources, they wouldn’t be secretly selling off clients’ collections.”
“Is this the source that’s now deceased? The reporter?”
“Chris Shipka, yes.”
“Who was unwilling to reveal his source to you.”
Jason confirmed reluctantly.
“What about the forgery angle? Any progress there?”
“Nothing yet,” Jason had to admit. “It’s still early days.”
Karan made a discontented “Mm,” sound.
“I’m still pursuing leads. An informant gave up the name Rabab Doody. We don’t have much on him, but what there is looks promising. In 2003 we arrested him for selling fake Joseph Zaritskys paintings privately and on eBay. He moved more than 60 pieces for almost $1.9 million. His story was in 1999 he’d discovered a cache of Pollocks while cleaning out a Hancock Park man’s basement. Doody did five years in federal prison.”
“What’s he been up to since he got out?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Karan said, “That sounds promising, but.”
But. There was always a but. Jason waited.
“I don’t have to remind you, you’ve got a case load as tall as your desk. You want to think about how to prioritize your time and resources. Just because we don’t nail F-D this time around, doesn’t mean they get away for good. We’ll get them eventually.”
“I know,” Jason said. “I understand.”
“I know it’s disappointing.” Karan’s sympathy was genuine. “You’ve put a lot of time and effort into this one. But I’ve been doing this a long time, and I see all the signs of a case that’s collapsing in on itself. Not for any lack of effort on your part. Sometimes the stars don’t align.”
“Right. Okay.”
He toyed with the thought of bringing up the Paris Havemeyer missing person case, but he already knew what Karan’s response would be. Too thin. Not enough to go on. Not when resources were so limited. Even if she did decide the Havemeyer case should be followed up on, she’d hand it off to Violent Crimes.
He was disappointed, but he understood her reservations. Despite the very dramatic events of the past days, he really wasn’t one hell of a whole lot ahead of where he’d been on Monday when he’d first spotted that fake hanging in Shepherd Durrand’s office. Nothing illegal there. It wasn’t like Shepherd had tried to sell him the fake.
In fact, aside from the cursory interview with Barnaby, which had gone pretty much as he’d imagined, everything he had learned on Camden Island seemed to dovetail with the BAU’s investigation rather than his own.
He spoke with Karan for a few minutes more then began to weed through his email. He hadn’t missed that gentle hint about his caseload, and it was true that his other investigations had suffered this week. All the same, when he came to Shipka’s email he stopped to read through his notes on the Havemeyer case.
Shipka had been a good reporter. He kept detailed records of his interviews, and his notes were thorough. It looked like he had tried on several occasions to talk to Donald Kerk,
but Kerk had insisted there was no story to tell. He knew nothing about what had happened to Paris Havemeyer, and declined to speculate.
Not totally surprising, given that Kerk had remained friends with the Durrands.
Rodney Berguan had simply refused to talk to Shipka.
After doing a little digging, Jason suspected one reason Berguan might have chosen to keep quiet was that he now lived in Watertown, New York. Right in the Durrands’ backyard, as it were.
Jason considered that piece of information.
Over twenty-seven thousand people lived in Watertown, so there was no reason Rodney Berguan shouldn’t. Presumably, he wasn’t living in fear of the Durrand brothers if he’d chosen to move within a stone’s throw of their family estate. It was interesting—potentially—that Berguan had refused to speak to Shipka rather than simply do as Kerk had and insist he knew nothing. But not everyone loved the press. Maybe Shipka had rubbed him the wrong way. It was hard to know without talking to Berguan.
Talking to Berguan.
Well, why not? Maybe Berguan really didn’t have anything to say, in which case he could say so to the FBI. Right?
Jason was searching for contact information on Berguan—his phone number was unlisted—when Jonnie rang.
“Hey! I heard about what happened in New York. How are you doing?” Jonnie Gould had the professional misfortune of being blessed with Malibu Barbie prettiness. When she had been partnered with Adam Darling, they had been nicknamed Barbie and Ken. But though Jonnie looked like a dumb beach bunny, she was a sharp and savvy agent—as well as being one of the nicest people Jason had ever met. He’d been sorry when she retired after her marriage to another agent—and sorrier when Sam had recruited her.
“I’m fine. How are you? How’s Adam?”
“I’m tired. Looking forward to going home. I don’t know how the hell Kennedy does it. He hasn’t had a sick day in his entire career with the Bureau.”
“He’s a machine.” Jason wasn’t sure he was kidding.
“Adam’s already on his way back to LA, I think. He’ll be on sick leave for a few days, if he’s got any sense. Kennedy’s offered him a spot on the squad.”
“You’ll get to work together again.”
“Yeah.” Jonnie sounded doubtful. “I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s really what he wants.”
“He sure as hell can’t want to stay on morgue patrol.”
“That’s all over. He’ll get a gold star out of this one.” “Gold star” being Bu-ease for a formal commendation. The pathway to promotion. “He met a guy up here.”
“Adam met a guy?” Jason was partly joking, partly not. No one was more focused on his career than Adam Darling. Dedication, or possibly ambition, had already cost him one long-term relationship. No wonder Kennedy thought he was the ideal candidate.
“I know. Anyway, I’m calling because Kennedy is requesting copies of your case notes on Fletcher-Durrand. Also, he’d like you to forward whatever information that reporter, Chris Shipka, sent you.”
“Why?” Jason felt a flare of unease.
“I’ve been searching for connections between our victims and the Durrands, and it looks like we’ve got a couple of hits. Our first victim, the art critic Gemini Earnst, was both a long-time client and close friend of Barnaby Durrand.”
“What about the second victim, the art teacher?”
“Wilson Lapham was also a painter and protégé of Shepherd Durrand.”
“Protégé?”
“Exactly.”
“Actually, I’m questioning what that means,” Jason said. “I mean, I get that there was a personal and probably sexual relationship. Shepherd will reportedly slam anything with a pulse. Was there some kind of professional relationship?”
“The promise of an exhibition.”
Jason said, “An exhibition of Lapham’s works?”
“It sure sounds that way. You’re the expert. What are the chances that exhibition would have ever materialized?”
“Zero to none.” He amended, “In fairness, I haven’t seen Lapham’s work. Maybe he was a genius, but Fletcher-Durrand doesn’t do one-man shows. Ever. They do themes, decades, schools. The idea of F-D hosting an exhibition of an unknown artist…I don’t buy it.”
“Interesting.”
He braced himself to ask—suspecting this was why Kennedy had Jonnie phone rather than doing it himself, “Are you jerking my case out from under me?” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but Jonnie knew it was no laughing matter.
“Not at all. You’re working your angle and we’re working ours. We’re all part of the same team.”
“Sure.” Sort of not really. They were all part of the same organization, yes. Same team? No.
Jonnie said with determined cheerfulness, “So long as the bad guys get taken down, does it matter who makes the tackle?”
“I want to say no,” Jason said. “I’m pretty sure that’s the right answer.”
Jonnie’s chuckle was sympathetic. “Hey, if it helps, so far Shepherd Durrand has an alibi for Earnst, Kerk and the reporter’s death. Big Brother Barnaby has an alibi for Lapham and Kerk. So maybe they’re both in the clear. Maybe the connection is coincidence. You’ve often said the art world is small and incestuous.”
“I have?”
“Also that you believe Warhol is overrated and the best cure for a hangover is a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich. Preferably sausage.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll tell Kennedy you—”
“No,” Jason said quickly. “Just…keep me in the loop.”
“If it helps, he said to be tactful with you. I’ve never heard Kennedy show any concern for anyone’s feelings before, so there’s that.”
“There’s always that,” Jason agreed.
Rodney Berguan did not have a landline, either listed or unlisted. If he had a cell phone number, Jason was unable to find it through the usual—and unusual—channels. He did have a current address, however, and it was still in Watertown.
He was weighing different possible excuses for a return trip to New York when Hickok phoned.
“What the hell, West. I read the Valley Voice story on that poor bastard Chris Shipka. He was murdered next door to you?”
Right. The Valley Voice. Reporters had called twice asking for an interview. Their calls were no longer being put through to Jason. Sometimes “official channels” were a lifesaver. Even so, how long before one of the national papers picked up the story? He’d be having reporters show up at his front door.
Again.
“Yes. I wasn’t there when it happened. But yes. Someone broke in and stabbed him to death.” Stabbed? Try hacked to death. Had Sam heard back from the Jefferson County Medical Examiner yet? Would he let Jason know if he did?
“What the fuck. What was he doing out there with you?”
“He wasn’t with me. He was following a story. Our paths just happened to cross.”
Hick sounded genuinely shocked. “I didn’t like the guy, but… Maybe his crazy conspiracy stories weren’t so crazy after all.”
“Maybe not.” Jason couldn’t help remembering Shipka’s claim that Hickok had brushed him off when he’d tried to get his help investigating Havemeyer’s disappearance. No, more than that. Shipka had suspected, hinted anyway, that Hick might even be involved, at least peripherally. And, in fairness to Shipka, Hick was someone acquainted with all three concurrent investigations. Hick not only knew where the intersections were, he had a copy of the traffic map.
“Speaking of conspiracy theories. Hick, did Shipka ever come to you about a missing art student?”
Hickok made an exasperated sound. “The New York thing. Right? The German kid who disappeared after a party at Fletcher-Durrand New York. Yes, he approached me a couple of years back. Maybe two years ago. He wanted me to look into the case.”
“What happened?”
“Let me guess,” Hick said. “He told you I refused to investigate because I’m buddy-buddy with the
Durrands. Is that about right?”
“I’m asking, that’s all. The guy died pursuing this case—”
Hickok was generally such a relaxed and genial guy, it was startling to hear his angry, “Do you know that for a fact? He was a crime reporter. He poked his nose into a lot of cases and a lot of investigations. Maybe one of those cases caught up with him.”
Maybe Hick was feeling guilty he hadn’t taken Shipka seriously. Or maybe something else was going on. Jason kept his own tone unemotional. “What happened when Shipka asked for your help?”
“I told him it was not only a cold case, it was a cold case in New York, which is not my jurisdiction. I told him what he needed was a private detective or a good investigative reporter.” Hick sighed. “I didn’t like the guy. I didn’t like the stories he wrote about LAPD. We didn’t get the kind of star-struck treatment you did, West. He rode our ass all the time. I admit, I could have been nicer, but what I told him was the truth. A missing person case in New York was out of my reach.”
Fair enough. Shipka believed that the possible involvement of Shepherd Durrand put the case back in reach, but Jason understood Hickok’s reasoning. LAPD was not the FBI.
“Did you believe him?” Jason asked.
Hickok made a dismissive sound, but said reluctantly, “I don’t know. He believed he was onto something. I could see that. It doesn’t mean he was right.”
“You didn’t seem to recognize him the night at the Hotel Casa del Mar.”
“I didn’t recognize him at first. Not until I saw his ID. He looked older. He’d put on weight. And, of course, he was dressed like a goddamned burglar.”
There was that.
Hickok said reluctantly, “And then when I did recognize him, well, I didn’t feel any obligation to rush to his aid. He had no business on that terrace. I didn’t like the guy, but I didn’t fly across the country to kill him, and that’s easily verified.”
“It’s pretty hard to imagine,” Jason agreed.
“Thanks for nothing.” Hickok sounded a little disgruntled. “Anyway, the reason I called is to find out if you’re still looking for Rabab Doody?”