by Josh Lanyon
Jason sat up. “You have a line on him?”
Hickok gave a sour laugh. “I do, yeah. In fact, I can take you to him.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The house was a yellow and white ranch style on a quiet street in Van Nuys. High concrete walls lined the property. A tall concrete block wall lined one side of the property, and tall hedges lined the other. The lawn was dead and the roses in the concrete planters were fading fast.
According to Hickok, Doody’s girlfriend owned the house, but it did not look like anyone was home.
In fact, it did not look like anyone had been home for a long time.
Jason met Hickok on the curb in front of the house and they walked up the cement driveway together.
“He’s been working as my informant for the past four years,” Hick had said on the phone. “If he’s playing me, I want to know.”
After eight months’ acquaintance with Sam Kennedy, it did go through Jason’s brain that this might be some kind of elaborate trap, but Hickok seemed his normal self—possibly a little cooler than usual, but there was nothing like the insinuation you might be capable of murder to put a crimp in a friendship—and the street had Neighborhood Watch notices posted every few yards. Not a likely place for an ambush.
Jason and Hickok reached the brick door stoop. The front door screen was plastered with real estate flyers, business cards, pizza delivery door hangers.
Hickok said wearily, “Goddamn it.”
Jason turned back to study the dying yard. “If the grass is dead in February, they’ve been gone a while. At least a month.”
“Here’s a gas shut-off notice,” Hickok muttered. “And here’s another for the water.”
“They’re not planning on coming back.”
Hickok swore again and led the way through the side gate and around to the back yard. The grass and roses were in the same state of neglect. A rusted patio set and a broken barbecue sat on a cement slab. Jason went to the sliding glass doors, cupped his hands and peered inside.
He could see a large empty room with a fireplace at one end. A single furry yellow slipper and a long cardboard tube, as used for wrapping paper, were the only signs anyone had ever lived there.
“Well, hell,” Jason said.
That was putting it mildly. Not only was his grand larceny case on life support, it looked like his forgery case was DOA as well.
“They won’t go far,” Hickok said. “Not for long, anyway. All her family’s here.” He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “I wonder what spooked him.”
“At a guess? An FBI investigation.”
“You don’t know he’s your forger,” Hickok said. “Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Sure.”
“But I will say this, Doody’s got the chops. He’s the real deal. As good or better than your boy, Lux.”
“Good enough to copy a Reuven Rubin?” Jason asked.
Hickok gave an acrid laugh. “Are you kidding me? He specialized in Eretz-Yisrael style. That’s what got him into trouble on Ebay.”
“What about Monet?”
Hickok shook his head. “Doody didn’t paint that piece of crap. He may be a criminal, but he’s not a monster.”
Jason snorted. “Yeah. Well.”
Hickok eyed him for a moment. “You win some, you lose some, Prince Charming. Cases like this can take years to wrap up. You know that. Or you should. Though you’ve been pretty damned lucky so far.”
“I know.” It wasn’t just the thought of all those months of work going down the drain, it was the thought that Shipka’s work on the Havemeyer case would go with them. Maybe not. Maybe Sam would solve that one too on his way to solving the Monet murders. It wasn’t as comforting a thought as it should have been. Jason felt like he owed Shipka one.
That one, in particular.
* * * * *
Special Agent J.J. Russell barreled out of George’s office as Jason was about to knock.
Russell glared at Jason, and swept past.
“What’s his problem?” Jason asked, continuing into George’s office.
George looked up, still rubbing his temples, and sighed. “Maybe I should have a revolving door put in.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t take long,” Jason promised.
George shook his head in resignation, and pointed at one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Let’s hear it.”
“I want to fly back to New York. If I fill out the travel request, could you sign it tonight?”
George cupped a hand to his right ear. “I think my hearing’s going. I thought you said you wanted to fly back to New York.”
“I do. Tomorrow morning, if I can’t get a flight tonight.”
“For the love of God, why?”
This was the tricky part. Jason did not want to lie to George, but no way in hell would telling the complete truth get him the permission he needed. “I discovered a short while ago that a witness crucial to my case is actually living in Watertown. He doesn’t have a landline, and if he’s got a cell phone number, I can’t locate it. He doesn’t seem to have an email address.”
“Jason, you can’t go flying back and forth across the country every time you want to interview someone. Send your questions to the New York office and let them handle the damned interview.”
Jason resorted to entreaty. “My case is falling apart, George. This witness is my last shot at saving it. I can’t trust this interview to anyone else.”
“For God’s sake, they’ve got two special agents on their ACT.”
“I’ve got to look this guy in the eyes. Besides, you know how it is. Sometimes you don’t even know what questions to ask until you’ve been talking to the witness for a while.”
George looked doubtful as he studied Jason’s face. He said in a fatherly tone, “Jason, you can’t take every case this much to heart. I know you put a lot into Fletcher-Durrand, but if we don’t get them this time around, we’ll get them the next.”
“One last shot,” Jason pressed. “If the interview doesn’t pan out, okay. But at least I know I gave it everything.”
George studied him. He studied the file on his desk. He studied the framed photos of his wife and kids. He studied Jason again—and groaned. “I know I’m going to regret this. I can feel it in my bones. Okay.”
Jason just managed not to fist pump. “Yes. Thank you, George.”
“But. This time you’re taking a partner.”
Jason’s relief changed to wariness. “What? A partner? Who?”
George smiled an evil smile. “J.J. Russell.”
“Russell?”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Yeah, but Russell?”
“If you’d had a partner the last time, none of what happened to you would have happened. Correct?”
There was no arguing with that, and though George was too kind to say it aloud, they both knew that had Jason had a partner with him on Camden Island, Chris Shipka might still be alive.
Jason subsided. “Okay, you’re right. But does it have to be Russell?”
“Yes, it has to be Russell. We’re understaffed and you’re both short a partner. Besides, I want him out of the office until he cools off.” George’s normally pleasant features were adamantine. “We’ll call it a trade-off.”
Jason grimaced. “If that’s what it takes. Will you break the news to Russell or do I?”
“As tempting as the thought is, I’ll tell him,” George said. “Get the travel request form on my desk before five. I’m leaving on time tonight.”
* * * * *
“…your sisters permission to throw you a party at Capo Restaurant? Because that seems to be the plan for your birthday, and I distinctly remember you saying you didn’t want a fuss this year.”
Jason could hear the cool, patrician tones of his mother’s voice as he let himself in his front door. He set down his carryall, stepped over the pile of mail in front of the door
, and grabbed for the phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Jason dear. You’re there. Good. Charlotte said you were out of town again.” Ariadne Harley-West was known for three things: her impeccable breeding, her exquisite sense of style, and her superhuman ability to tune-out that which did not please her. The only time her superpowers had failed her was when she had found herself pregnant at forty-seven, having already raised—and successfully married off—two daughters.
She viewed Jason with slightly bemused, detached affection and had supervised his rearing with scrupulous attention to detail. Jason viewed her in much the same light, and tried to live up to familial expectation as the only son and heir.
“I just got in,” Jason said. “I’m flying out again tomorrow morning. Yes, I did tell Sophie a very small, private party would maybe be okay.”
“Ah.” There was a volume of subtext in that contemplative syllable. “I haven’t been consulted, but ‘small and private’ doesn’t seem to have registered.”
“Great.”
“If you’d like me to have your father put the, er, kibosh on the whole affair—”
“No, that’s okay. If it means that much to them. It’s just a couple of hours.”
“Very well, dear. How was your trip?”
Jason had no idea how to answer that. His mother considered all newspapers “tabloid,” and rarely watched television. Even so, he was a little surprised she hadn’t heard about his recent misadventures, if only because his father and sisters did pay close attention to world events. He had the increasingly concerned voice mails to prove it. But maybe Jason held for questioning in a murder investigation was one of the things his mother preferred to tune-out.
“Interesting,” he answered.
They chatted briefly, which was typical of their conversations. Only when his mother was reminiscing about her father, Emerson Harley, did Jason feel like they really, truly communicated. Ariadne had idolized her father and believed he was the finest role model a boy could have.
“Please remember to be careful, dear,” she said in parting.
“Always,” Jason replied.
He hung up, gathered the mail from the floor and sorted it quickly. Happily, there were no additional communications from Dr. Jeremy Kyser. Everything else could wait. He made a mental note to find Kyser’s previous cards to send Sam, but that could wait too.
He went to the fridge to see if there was anything still edible, and glumly considered a dozen eggs, a carton of half-and-half (soured), and a jar of tapas someone had sent him in a Christmas gift basket.
He was pouring the spoiled half-and-half down the sink when his cell phone rang.
The image of Harry Callahan glaring down his .44 Magnum popped up, and Jason answered. “Hey. I was just thinking about you.”
“I figured. Jonnie tells me you’re afraid we’re going to yank your case out from under you.” Sam sounded resigned.
Jason mentally consigned Jonnie to hell. “No. I know you’re not interested in the fraud, larceny and forgery aspects of my case—which is falling apart anyway.”
“Is it?”
“Yep,” Jason tried to be stoic. “Pretty much. The Durrands are making noises like they’re going to settle with the complainants. I have another victim, but she’s been dragging her feet about actually filing charges, and now she’s not answering my phone calls. Shipka told me there were other victims out there, but he wouldn’t give me his source, so that avenue is also closed. At least for now.”
“I’m sorry.” Sam sounded sincere. “I know you worked your ass off on this one.”
“Yeah, well. I know even solid cases can crumble. And I know that building a case like this can take years, and just because we couldn’t nail Fletcher-Durrand this time doesn’t mean we won’t get them the next.”
Sam said, “That’s all true. It still hurts like hell when you have to shelve a case you’ve put your heart and soul into.”
“Yeah.” Sympathy from Sam somehow made it worse. “Have you heard from Detective O’Neill? He’s not taking my calls.”
Sam said gravely, “No? And you two hit it off so well. Yes, I’ve heard from O’Neill. What is it you want to know? The ME determined that Shipka was killed with an ax.”
“An ax.”
“Yes. Wielded by a right-handed assailant who was taller and considerably stronger than Shipka. Time of death was likely between one and four-thirty.”
“Taller and considerably stronger than Shipka wouldn’t be Shepherd or Barnaby. Is O’Neill still—”
“Looking at you? No. He’s convinced you’re hiding something, but he suspects it has to do with your investigation. Which irritates him all the more.” Kennedy hesitated. “Look, if we do uncover anything that relates to your case, you’ll have that evidence.”
“Thanks. I know. Did they determine whether Shipka ever interviewed the Patricks? That might narrow down time of death.”
“No. He did not interview the neighbors. It sounds like he never left the cottage after the two of you parted ways.”
Jason opened his mouth to say something that might move the conversation into more personal channels, but Kennedy spoke first.
“That’s not the only reason I called. I want to pick your brain about those paintings.”
“Which paintings? The fake Monets?”
“That’s right. What do you think of them?”
“It’s funny you ask. I was looking at the photos of them right before I left the office. They’re really bad.”
“Which means what?” Kennedy sounded alert.
“Well, they’re almost too bad to be real. What I mean is, they’re bad, but they’re still an accurate representation of Monet’s technique. It’s hard to explain. It takes a certain amount of skill—as well as knowledge—to be able to copy someone else’s style. But then the execution is terrible. Almost too terrible.”
How do you mean?
“Deliberately terrible,” Jason said. “Like a caricature. Like someone painted them as a joke. Except for the fact that they represent murder scenes.”
“Yeah.” There was satisfaction in Kennedy’s tone. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. That’s what I hoped you’d see.”
“There’s a sense of humor at work, but it’s…malevolent.”
“A malevolent sense of humor.” Kennedy seemed to be turning the words over in his mind. “Yes. That syncs.”
Did it?
Jason said slowly, “You think these paintings were intended to throw you off the trail.”
“That’s good, West. Yes. Something like that. I think we’re meant to interpret those paintings as the outward expression of a violently deranged mind—the signature of a classic serial killer. But, in fact, I believe they’re a distraction devised by a cold, calculating and absolutely methodical brain. The paintings are intended to obscure what’s really going on.”
“What’s really going on?” Jason considered. “The victims were all connected to Fletcher-Durrand, so…you’re saying there is no serial killer? The Monets were painted to disguise the real motive behind these murders?”
“Oh, there’s a serial killer. He’s pretending to be a different kind of serial killer, that’s all. And that’s pretty fucking clever, even for your average sociopath.”
Jason said, “That’s why you think Shipka was killed by your unsub. It doesn’t matter that the MO doesn’t match. The MO was always stagecraft.”
“Exactly. That’s exactly right.”
Which was kind of terrifying, really. Because the murderous rage expended on Shipka had been the real thing, the real face of this unsub. Ruthless, reckless, relentless.
“Who are you looking at?” Jason asked.
Sam did not answer directly. “Do you think Barnaby or Shepherd Durrand could have painted those Monets?”
“Barnaby attended Cooper Union. I’m not aware he ever did any real painting. He may be a closet artist. Shepherd did not attend art school. He went to USC and majored i
n business. I’ve never heard anyone mention he painted.”
“I see.”
“It might be Shepherd’s sense of humor,” Jason said slowly. “Not Barnaby’s.”
Sam made another of those noncommittal noises.
Jason waited.
Sure enough, after a moment or two Sam asked, “What did you make of Bramwell Stockton?”
“Who?”
“The owner of the boat rental place. Seaport Sloops.”
That seemed straight out of left field. “Bram? I didn’t really think much about him.”
“No? I felt like he was making an effort to insert himself into the investigation. He was just a little too interested. A little too interested in serial killers, in general. Also, he went out of his way to throw suspicion on his neighbor, Eric Greenleaf.”
Jason said, “Maybe he thinks Greenleaf is the most likely candidate. By all accounts—including my own—Greenleaf’s a strange guy.”
“Maybe,” Sam agreed. “I had Jonnie do some checking on Stockton. He travels around the country quite a bit to do repairs on antique and classic boats.”
Okay, that was starting to sound like maybe the beginning of a case against Mr. Seaport Sloops. Still. Bram? Jason was willing to bow to Sam’s experience, but personally, he hadn’t picked up any particularly hinky vibes. On the other hand, if he’d learned anything from Kennedy, it was that the image of a serial killer as a weird and isolated loner was a myth propagated by the media. An alarming number of serial offenders were completely integrated into their community, even pillars of that community.
Jason asked, “Is he an amateur painter as well?”
“Unknown. We’re still fine-combing Stockton’s background. Anyway,” Sam’s tone changed, grew brisk. “They’re calling my flight.”
Was he ever not flying somewhere?
“Right,” Jason said. He wanted to ask, well, a lot of things—none of them relevant to what was on Sam’s mind. He was very conscious of everything Sam had said in Cape Vincent about being a distraction and always having to come second, so he said with equal briskness, “Safe travels.”
There was a funny hesitation, while both of them waited for the other to hang-up.