The Monet Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  Jason related his interview with Shepherd Durrand.

  George heard him out. “Interesting. What do you think? Is it all just a big misunderstanding?”

  “No.” Jason shook his head. “No way. Shepherd tells a pretty good story, but I’m not buying it. The Ontarios are very credible witnesses. I didn’t share with Shepherd that we’ve got Ursula Martin waiting in the wings with her own complaint.”

  “Still not enough for the US Attorney’s Office to file charges,” George reminded him.

  “I know. I’ll get what we need.”

  “Okay.” George glanced at the clock behind Jason. “Safe travels.”

  Back in his own office, Jason placed a couple of phone calls to contacts within the art community, booked a midnight flight for New York, and then phoned Karan Kapszukiewicz, chief of the Major Theft Unit of the Criminal Investigative Division. Karan oversaw the Art Crime Team agents from her Washington DC office.

  Though it was after hours on the East Coast, Karan still picked up.

  Jason filled her in on how the Fletcher-Durrand case was developing and his plans to travel to New York to force an interview with Barnaby Durrand.

  “We’re walking a fine line,” Kapszukiewicz commented. “Are you sure this is where we want to focus our resources? Especially if the gallery is going to end up settling out of court?”

  “I do, yeah. My gut tells me there’s more here. I think we’re just seeing the tip of the iceberg. Shepherd Durrand has a Reuven Rubin hanging in his office that, as far as I know, should be on display at MoMA.”

  “It’s not illegal to purchase or display a copy of a valuable painting in your work space.”

  “I know. But it’s unusual for an art gallery to hang a copy. And I think it’s interesting Durrand didn’t mention it was a copy.”

  “I think you’re stretching,” Kapszukiewicz said. There was a smile in her voice, though. Jason was one of her protégés, and they both knew she was going to extend him latitude. “But if your instinct is telling you to keep digging, then keep digging.”

  “Thanks, Karan,” Jason said—and meant it. “I’ll send my reports as soon as they’re processed.”

  “Good deal. Have a pleasant evening.” Kapszukiewicz’s attention had already moved on to bigger and more important things.

  Jason hung up and settled down to type up his notes on his interview with Durrand. He started an email to Jonnie—weirdly formal in tone because of Kennedy’s name in the CC field—attached his notes, and sent it off.

  Mission accomplished.

  He glanced at the clock. It was after five by then, and the building was getting that quiet, creaky sound even skyscrapers had after they emptied for the day.

  He was supposed to drive out to Diamond Bar to pick up a painting he’d purchased on eBay. The impressionist work of the rain swept Catalina coast by Granville Redmond was a birthday present to himself. The current owner would not be home until seven thirty, so Jason figured he’d work until about half past five.

  Something else he and Sam had shared: a love of Granville Redmond’s work. That was the kind of pointless synchronicity that could fool you into thinking there might be grounds for a relationship. So there you go. Two workaholics who traveled all the time and liked early California Impressionism. A match made in heaven.

  Only not.

  Jason sighed and decided to give Baus Wirther & Kimmel a call on the off chance Sabine Baus was still there. They’d been pals since their years as art history majors at UCLA.

  His luck was in. Sabine verified that Kerk had been to the gallery on Thursday, had purchased three paintings, and had been in excellent spirits.

  “You didn’t happen to know him from before, did you?”

  “From before what?” Sabine inquired.

  “From before you met him on Thursday.”

  “Sure. I met him the last time I was in Germany. That gallery is amazing. Don was a character. He wore his hair in this Little Dutch Boy cut, and his voice was very high and airy. He had a really silly sense of humor. I liked him a lot. You’d have liked him too. It’s horrible what happened to him.”

  “Yeah. We’ll get the guy.”

  “Or gal, you chauvinist.”

  “Right. Or gal.”

  “Oy! I’ve got a question for you. Is it true Fletcher-Durrand has reached a settlement in their lawsuit?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  Sabine snorted. “That was very FBI-ish, West. I heard through the grapevine they were settling.”

  “News to me,” Jason said. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Where else. Stripes.”

  “Right,” he said thoughtfully.

  “So when are you taking me to dinner again?”

  “It’s your turn to take me to dinner, you chauvinist.”

  Sabine laughed. “True. How about next week. Maybe Thursday?”

  “It’s my birthday. I think I’m booked at Stately West Manor.”

  “Friday?”

  “Friday. It’s a date.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something pretty.”

  Jason snorted and hung up. His amusement faded at the unexpected and jarring sight of Sam Kennedy standing in his office doorway.

  “Knock, knock,” Kennedy said.

  “Thanks, I’ve had mine for the day,” Jason returned. He was still smiling, but it was a curve of mouth and nothing more. He did not like the way his pulse jumped and fluttered just because Kennedy suddenly popped up again.

  And, oddly, Kennedy’s return smile was equally unamused.

  “Something tells me you’ll survive.”

  Jason’s heart gave another unpleasant leap, and his temper rose with it. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  He opened his mouth to ask, but Kennedy cut him off with a neutral, “You’re here late.”

  “So are you. I thought you’d be on your way north by now.”

  Kennedy’s smile was sardonic. “Disappointed?”

  Jason didn’t bother to answer. He closed his laptop.

  Kennedy showed no sign of being in a hurry. He folded his arms, leaning back against the door frame and studying Jason.

  The steady appraisal made Jason uneasy, though he wasn’t sure why. He said at random, “I sent you my notes from my interview at Fletcher-Durrand Gallery.”

  “I saw that,” Kennedy said. “Thanks. What can you tell me about Special Agent J.J. Russell?”

  Now there was a change of subject. “Russell?” Jason thought back with surprise to Sam’s phone conversations in the car. That Russell? The LA Field Office’s Russell? He said neutrally, “Competent. Ambitious. He’s still pretty green.”

  “You’re being diplomatic. This is between you and me. It goes no further.”

  Jason remembered that not overly pleasant smile. He suspected Kennedy had already formed an opinion on Russell.

  “Yeah? Okay, then. I think he’s a homophobic prick. And I would not trust him to guard my back. Or resist sticking his own knife in.”

  Kennedy looked thoughtful. “And what about Special Agent Adam Darling?”

  Jason couldn’t help a faint grin. “Best name I ever heard for an FBI agent.”

  Kennedy’s mouth curved in answer, but he said gravely, “Aside from that.”

  “You can ask Jonnie. She was partnered with him for about a year.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know him well. He’s a little standoffish. Reserved. Obsessive about the job—like someone else I know. What happened to him last year was bullshit.”

  “What happened to him?” Kennedy asked.

  Jason filled him in on the history of Special Agent Adam Darling—when bad things happen to good agents—and Kennedy listened without comment.

  “I see,” he said noncommittally at the end of Jason’s recital. “Thanks.”

  Jason nodded. He shoved his laptop into his computer bag, grabbed his keys, and rose.

  Kennedy said slowly, �
��So Friday’s your birthday?”

  Like you fucking care? Kennedy probably did care. Kennedy had said he liked him, and Jason believed him. In fact, he knew Kennedy liked him. Knew Kennedy was still attracted to him. Kennedy was every bit as aware of Jason as Jason was Kennedy. Besides. You didn’t spend hours on the phone late at night with someone you didn’t like. So why Kennedy’s question made him so angry was hard to say.

  “Thursday after next.” He glanced at his watch. “Is that it? I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  Kennedy’s brows rose. “That’s it.”

  As Jason headed for the door, Kennedy straightened and stepped into the hallway. He waited silently as Jason closed his office door.

  What the hell was he waiting for? Jason gave him a look of polite, cool inquiry.

  “Have a good evening,” Kennedy said.

  Jason turned away. It was not easy. Not when this might be the last time they ever spoke in private. Certainly it was the last time they would ever speak as anything more than work colleagues.

  He couldn’t help glancing back—and surprised an unexpectedly bleak expression on Kennedy’s face.

  It smoothed out almost at once. It was Kennedy’s turn to offer a look of cool inquiry.

  “Take care of yourself, Sam.” Jason’s voice was just about right. Maybe a little huskier than he’d have liked, but for a time Sam Kennedy had mattered to him. A lot. Still did, in a troubling way.

  There it was again. A flash of something startlingly close to pain. But Kennedy’s voice was brisk. “You too, Jason.”

  Jason turned and walked away. He did not look back until he reached the elevator. He punched the button, glanced back. The hall was empty.

  The elevator doors opened. Jason stepped inside. The elevator doors closed. Jason leaned back against the wall and watched the numbers swiftly count down to nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s not like Mom and Dad are getting any younger. How many more birthdays will we all get to spend together?”

  “Jesus, Sophie.” Jason awkwardly tried to balance his phone while shifting his computer case and the oversize painting he held. He managed to shove his key in the lock of his front—well, actually side—door. The house did not technically have a front door. There was a side door accessible through a wooden gate. The only other exit was a pair of large French doors leading into the backyard and facing the canal. “Will you stop saying things like that?”

  The door swung silently open on a kitchen as quaintly cozy as one of his eldest sister Charlotte’s store layouts. Because it was one of her store layouts.

  “I’m being realistic,” Sophie said. “Dad’s eighty-five. Mom’s eighty.”

  “I know that.” Jason stepped over the scattering of mail that had been deposited through the mail slot. He went through to the main room, put down his briefcase, and leaned the painting against the wall. “I just— I’m not in a big celebratory mood this year.”

  To put it mildly.

  “That’s silly.” It wasn’t that Sophie was insensitive—well, maybe it was—but mostly other people’s anxieties made her feel helpless. Sophie was a born fixer. She did not like feeling helpless. “And even if it was true, that’s all the more reason to celebrate.”

  Jason hung on to his patience. He knew from long experience there was no outarguing her. “I don’t mind getting together for dinner, just the family, but I don’t want to go out. No Melisse. No Spago. I don’t want my birthday to turn into a photo op.”

  A photo op for Clark was what he meant, but he managed to stop himself from saying so.

  Sophie laughed. “Look who’s talking! You’re practically a celebrity. That photo of you at Santa Monica Pier—you can’t buy publicity like that.”

  “I don’t want publicity,” Jason said. “That’s the last thing I need.”

  “That’s how you get promoted.”

  “Or shot.”

  That gave her a moment’s pause. But it was only a moment. “Which is why you need to get promoted. So you don’t get shot again. Anyway, this will just be something small and private at Capo Restaurant. That’s practically next door to you. Just family and a few close friends.”

  Jason stopped, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. Finally he managed a semi-pleasant, “When did you say you guys were heading back to Washington?”

  “Next week. After your birthday party.”

  “Okay, well, I might have to work late that night, so take that into account for any plans you’re making.”

  She made a tsk-tsk sound and promised to be in touch.

  Jason clicked off. He was tired, hungry, and depressed, but no one had shot at him that day. Not even with a camera. So there was a bright side.

  He went up the two stairs that led to the master bedroom, cool and green-shadowed as the garden on the other side of the French doors slid into darkness. He unfastened his hip holster and tucked gun and holster in the bedside drawer. He slipped off his Ralph Lauren navy two-button suit jacket, pulled off his tie, and glanced at himself in the trumeau mirror. He was startled at how stern he looked.

  Eyes shadowy, mouth tight. For God’s sake. It wasn’t like…

  Wasn’t it?

  He swore again, quietly, changed his shirt and trousers for ripped jeans and a black T-shirt with the silver MoMA logo.

  A drink, a decent dinner, and a good night’s sleep, and he’d be fine again. Not that he’d be getting a decent dinner or a good night’s sleep. He’d need to be at the airport by eleven to catch that flight back East. That was okay. He could sleep on the plane.

  Anyway, there was a lot to be happy about. Nobody but Sophie had mentioned that article in the Valley Voice to him. That was a big happy thing right there. Tomorrow he would, by God, talk to Barnaby Durrand or die trying. That was going to be very satisfying. And finally, he had just bought himself a fantastic birthday gift for which he had been saving up for months. So…woohoo! As his fourteen-year-old niece, Nora, would say. Woo-fucking-hoo. Right?

  To hell with Sam Kennedy and his mixed messages, phoned in and otherwise. That had always been a bad idea, and Jason had known it was a bad idea, so this was actually more good news, if he would just make the effort to recognize it as such.

  Padding into the kitchen with its oak cabinets and red tile floor, Jason poured himself a shot of Canadian Club, which he kept on hand because Sam had once revealed he preferred his whisky sours made with Canadian Club.

  He knocked back the whisky, shuddered—really, Sam? Canadian Club?—but did feel almost instantly better. Well, warmer.

  He went to examine his birthday gift, cutting away the string and brown paper, carefully removing the bubble wrap, and lifting out the seascape. The wooden frame was dinged and peeling, but the canvas itself was in wonderful shape. Those colors. Gorgeous. Shimmering turquoise and dazzling ultramarine. He could practically hear the sound of the waves and the cries of the gulls, smell the salty air, feel the sunlight on his face.

  Jason lifted down the painting currently hanging over the fireplace—a gilt-framed study of a basket of roses and peonies on loan from Charlotte’s shop—and replaced it with the Redmond, standing back to have a good look at it.

  Yeah. Really beautiful and it suited the room perfectly. And it suited him. His spirits rose. At least this part of his life was coming together.

  His eldest sister, Charlotte, had decorated the house, mostly pulling stock from her floor rooms at Charlotte’s Le Cottage Bleu because by the time he’d bought the house, Jason’s financial resources had been depleted.

  Charlotte’s sensibility ran to shabby chic, but she had tried to take Jason’s taste into account—at least once he had complained about the lack of sturdy chairs and the abundance of floral arrangements. He’d appreciated her help, though. Even if he’d had the money, he didn’t have time to furnish the place. The truth was, he traveled nearly as much as Kennedy.

  He poured himself a tall glass of water, gathered the mail up from the floor, and s
at down on the sofa next to the distressed library table that served as his coffee table. He began to go through his mail. Bills, junk mail—mostly art catalogs—and a large envelope that looked like a birthday card.

  He tore open the envelope and sure enough. It was a hand-designed card. For a second he thought it must be from his niece. Nora was the artist of the family. But this ink and watercolor effort was a bit sophisticated for Nora. He stared at the detailed jumble of blue and green. What was it supposed to be? A mermaid and water and fish and…vines and leaves. Or was that seaweed?

  Nice work, even beautiful, but something about it made him uneasy. He opened the card, and his unease increased as he studied the tiny, cramped handwriting centered on the middle of the stiff paper.

  He glanced down at the signature and saw he’d guessed correctly.

  Dr. Jeremy Kyser had contacted him for the second time since Kingsfield.

  Jason took a slow, thoughtful swallow of water.

  Not grounds for alarm. Necessarily. But it didn’t make him happy either.

  The first note—a Halloween card—had come to the FBI field office. He didn’t like the fact that Kyser now knew where he lived. He didn’t like the fact that Kyser was reaching out to him.

  In fairness, Kyser had not been involved in the events of the previous summer, and he was not currently a person of interest. In fact, he was a respected psychiatrist and author of several books on aberrant psychology.

  He was also a very weird guy, in Jason’s opinion, and he did not want Kyser sending him greeting cards.

  Dear Agent West,

  I was very pleased though not surprised to discover that you were born under the sign of Aquarius. I suspected this from our first meeting, as you possess the physical attributes of this air sign: good looks, beautiful eyes, angular face, and thin build.

  Jason’s unease mounted.

  He had been afraid of this. Well, not this. But the Halloween card had seemed to be an indication of personal and unwelcome interest on the part of Kyser. Jason had meant to talk to Kennedy about this development, but their own communications had grown so infrequent—and Kyser had not contacted him again—that he’d eventually forgotten about it.