The Monet Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  “Yes. He’d run into Shepherd a few times, which is why he figured there might be truth to the rumors. But here’s where it gets interesting. When he asked for the go-ahead to pursue the story, he was told no. When he decided to follow it on his own time, he got canned.”

  “He was fired from his paper for pursuing the story on his own dime?”

  “Yep. He sure was. Phil always believed it was because of the family connection. The Durrands were related through marriage to the owners of the Times-Herald Observer.”

  Jason said skeptically, “Belichick could have taken the story elsewhere.”

  “Nobody wanted to touch it.”

  “Maybe because there was nothing there.” But there was no denying this account raised some intriguing possibilities. The scenario Shipka described was plausible. Up to a point.

  “Rich people stick together,” Shipka said.

  Jason retorted, “Any group sticks together when the perception is it’s us against them.” He studied Shipka. “I’ll give you that it’s an interesting story, but what it comes down to is, although your former professor believed the Durrands had something to do with the kid’s disappearance, he had no proof. Which means you don’t have any evidence either.”

  “Right. I mean, there’s circumstantial evidence.”

  “Not really. Not if all you have is that this kid partied with Shepherd a few times.”

  “But I think Kerk’s murder is evidence.”

  Now they were getting down to it.

  Jason shook his head. “Because Kerk was German and Havemeyer was German? You’ll need more of a connection than that. Havemeyer disappeared twenty years ago.”

  “Because Kerk was one of the last people to see Havemeyer alive. He reported him missing. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “It could be. Absolutely it could be.”

  Shipka’s face was flushed, his eyes bright. Partly that was the wine—they had killed the bottle in record time—and partly that was passion for his cause. Jason recognized a crusading spirit when he saw one. Frankly, that passion was one of the most attractive things about Shipka.

  “But they were both part of that scene,” Shipka said. “Kerk was part of that scene. Now, after all these years, he comes back into the Durrands’ orbit, and he’s murdered.”

  Jason said, “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. We don’t know that Havemeyer didn’t return to Germany where he’s been living happily for twenty years.” Shipka started to object, and Jason added, “But okay, let that go for now. Let’s say Havemeyer is dead. Why wait twenty years to get rid of Kerk? You’re assuming Kerk wasn’t in contact with the Durrands, but according to Shepherd, they’ve never been out of contact. In fact, they all met up ten years ago. So why didn’t they knock him off then?”

  Shipka thought it over, frowning. “Obviously something changed.”

  That held either way. Jason was silent, thinking. It wasn’t simply the facts of the case. It was that the facts had caught the attention of two crusading reporters. He respected that instinct. So while he might question, he couldn’t outright dismiss their interest in the case.

  He said, “You speculated in your article for the Valley Voice that Kerk’s death was part of a larger pattern.”

  “Sam Kennedy is a BAU Chief, so yeah, obviously, I’m not the only one who thinks Kerk’s death is part of a pattern.” At Jason’s expression, Shipka added, “Google Image Search.”

  It was a given Shipka would figure out who Kennedy was before long. He wouldn’t be much of a reporter if he couldn’t manage that. He didn’t seem to have made the connection to the the Earnst and Lapham slayings yet.

  Shipka said, “If these two deaths are connected, then for sure there are more.”

  Probably. Kennedy seemed to think so, and how often was he wrong about this kind of thing? Rarely, if ever. Kerk’s death was unquestionably connected to the Earnst and Lapham killings. The method of execution and the creepy, fake Monets proved that. The fact that the first two killings had taken place on the East Coast meant nothing. The Durrands traveled across the country on a regular basis. The world was their playground. Logistics was not an issue in this case.

  Kerk’s connection to Havemeyer was the tricky part. It was difficult to believe three people had been knocked off because of a twenty-year-old cold case. But if Kerk’s death was somehow connected to Havemeyer’s disappearance—if it was not simply a gruesome coincidence—then it would seem to follow that Earnst and Lapham’s deaths were also connected.

  Talk about circumstantial. Still. Once the circumstantial evidence piled high enough, it became too compelling to ignore.

  “Now I’ve got your attention,” Shipka said softly.

  Jason glanced up in surprise. Well, semi-surprise. He’d been aware that Shipka had gradually closed the counter distance between them and was starting to crowd Jason’s space. Okay, it was more lurking on the perimeter than an actual intrusion, but…he was there, gazing into Jason’s eyes with that mix of hope and recognition.

  What about it? Chris Shipka was not really his type—did he have a type? Tonight his type was anyone who was not Sam Kennedy. There was something sort of rumpled and comfortable about Shipka. His eyes were warm and intelligent. Even his hair seemed to crackle with energy. He smelled like soap and a woodsy aftershave. Pleasant. His jacket carried the scent of the damp night.

  Jason smiled. Shipka’s eyes lit, although there was a trace of doubt in his expression.

  “That you have,” Jason said. And when Shipka continued to eye him with that mix of wary longing, he reached for Shipka’s belt and drew him in.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You’re wonderful,” Shipka whispered, breaking off his sucking and licking to find Jason’s mouth.

  Jason smiled bleakly and returned the kiss, tasting himself on Shipka’s lips. Well, that was fitting. If “wonderful” meant lying there and accepting the attention Shipka was lavishing on him, yes, he was Mr. Wonderful personified.

  They had moved to the bedroom, neutral territory for both of them, and the darkness made it easier. Easier to be selfish.

  In fairness, he had tried not to be selfish, tried to give as well as receive. But Shipka was a man on a mission, and that mission was to woo and win Jason with his sexual prowess.

  Shipka’s mouth brushed his Adam’s apple, nuzzled Jason’s ear till he shivered, traveled pleasurably, deliberately down the length of Jason’s body until it closed once again on the head of Jason’s cock. He sucked strongly, wetly, hotly, and Jason groaned his appreciation.

  Better than doing it himself, that was for damned sure. The tight, tight knot of tension in the pit of his belly eased. They were both getting what they wanted, right?

  Or maybe not. What Shipka wanted probably didn’t exist. And what Jason wanted… Well, it wasn’t that Jason wanted this so much as he didn’t want to keep hurting over what he couldn’t have. He needed to stop wanting Kennedy. Needed to stop missing him. How the hell could you miss what you had never really even had?

  This was about exorcising a ghost.

  Besides, it was nice to be wanted again.

  Very nice…

  Shipka’s mouth moved hotly down the length of Jason’s cock, nosed and nuzzled his balls. Jason lifted his hips, closed his eyes, though it was too dark to see anything really. The occasional gleam of eyes or teeth or pale skin. The room smelled of musty sheets and musky sweat. Familiar and unfamiliar.

  Hot sweat prickled all over his body, his heart thundered in his ears. Flashpoint. His eyes opened to stare into the void as orgasm drew up, poised to strike.

  “Going to come,” he warned, and Shipka mumbled acknowledgment and withdrew to courteous if not safe distance.

  They definitely did not know each other well enough to exchange body fluids. The fact that they were not using protection didn’t change that. That was about not being prepared rather than intimacy.

  Orgasm was simple biology, a release that was almost convulsiv
e, a huge, wet stream over his belly. Afterward he felt weirdly emotional, trembling and hollow, but better. Right?

  Sex had to be pretty damned awful not to feel good at all. This felt great compared to lying awake all night. Even after orgasm, Shipka continued to be appreciative and attentive. There was nothing to not like here.

  Except that Chris Shipka wasn’t Sam Kennedy.

  He did not sleep well.

  He was out of the habit of sharing a bed with a stranger. Not that there had been any understanding with Sam about seeing or not seeing other people. No promises. No commitment. But somehow Jason had stopped finding time for other possibilities.

  Last night’s sex had been good—especially good after eight months of nothing but his own right hand for company—but somewhere along the line he had lost the ability to fall into deep sleep beside someone he didn’t know and didn’t trust.

  He was awake before Shipka, showering while the coffee heated, and drinking his first cup while staring out the dining room window, watching a red fox hunting along the hedge that separated this property from its neighbor.

  There were no messages on his phone. He was three hours ahead of the West Coast and had not expected to hear from Kennedy in any case, so in that he was not disappointed.

  When he heard sounds of stirring from the bedroom, Jason popped the mini blueberry muffins in the microwave.

  Shipka finally appeared, rumpled and unkempt in jeans and unbuttoned flannel shirt. He was barefoot, and his curly, brown hair stood on end. He was smiling and cheerful, exuding a surprisingly sexy contentment.

  “Morning. How’d you sleep?”

  “Okay,” Jason said with unnecessary briskness. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Cream. Two sugars.”

  “I’m not sure why I asked. I don’t have anything but milk and coffee.”

  Shipka laughed. “That’s okay. Milk is fine.”

  Jason poured the coffee, splashed in a little milk, and handed the steaming mug to Shipka.

  Shipka took it, smiling. “Last night was great,” he said.

  Jason’s face warmed, but that was guilt, not embarrassment. “Yeah. It was,” he admitted. And why wouldn’t it be, since he’d basically lain there and let Shipka do all the work. And a very nice performance it had been. Shipka deserved a better audience. Honesty compelled him to try to clarify his position. “I don’t usually—”

  “Good,” Shipka said.

  No, not good. Not good if Shipka thought last night had been about anything more than being in the right place at the right time.

  “What are your plans for the day?” Jason asked.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to try to talk to Barnaby before you. I’m going to have another crack at the neighbors. The Patricks were away the last time I visited.”

  Jason’s brows drew together. “The Patricks?”

  “I’ve been able to verify they were on the island that weekend.”

  “Okay, but why are you interviewing any of the neighbors?” The penny dropped. “You think Havemeyer came here?”

  Shipka looked surprised. “Of course. I thought you understood that. It didn’t happen in New York. It didn’t happen at the gallery. The police searched the gallery. That’s the one thing they did do.”

  “I don’t see any ‘of course’ about it. The last time anyone saw Havemeyer, he was standing on his front doorstep in New York City. How do you get him from there to here?”

  “I think he either went back to the party at the gallery or Shepherd came looking for him.”

  “Neither scenario explains how he ended up over three hundred miles away on an island in the St. Lawrence river. That’s almost a six-hour drive. Are you suggesting—”

  “It was a Friday night. What do people do on Friday nights?”

  “Work,” Jason replied. “Sleep.”

  Shipka grinned. “We have to change that, West. But no, most people, and for sure people like the Durrands, go out of town for the weekend. And back then ‘out of town’ for the Durrands meant this island. They spent a lot of time here. It was the perfect place to party, and they had a lot of parties. Lots of drugs and sex and skinny-dipping.”

  Jason managed not to choke on his coffee at that casual “we.” He said more crisply than ever, “Do you actually have some evidence Havemeyer came to the island, or is this just more speculation?”

  “It’s a logical deduction. Do I have proof Shepherd brought Havemeyer here? Not yet. But I do have evidence of a precedent.”

  “Go on.” Jason remembered he’d zapped the blueberry muffins to warm them. He opened the microwave and set the steaming plate on the counter.

  Shipka brightened. “And breakfast too.” He picked up one of the mini muffins, peeled the paper, and popped it into his apparently asbestos-lined mouth. Through a spray of blue crumbs, he said, “Eleven months before Havemeyer disappeared, Shepherd was charged with kidnapping and raping a young man who he allegedly lured to the New York gallery with the promise of sex and drugs.” He washed the muffin down with a gulp of coffee. “Now that’s a matter of record. Not legal record, because the charges were dismissed and the whole thing was hushed up, but you can find it if you know where to look—and I know you do.”

  “The charges were dismissed?” They had to have been more than dismissed because none of this had come up in Jason’s delving into the Durrands’ background. This was more like erasure. Jason shook his head. “Then you’ve got nothing.”

  “We’ve got precedent. The first victim was hushed up. Bought off. The next guy wasn’t so lucky.”

  “There is no precedent without proof.”

  “The hell!”

  Jason tried again. “Do you have any hard evidence that this alleged victim was paid to go away?”

  “No. If I had hard evidence, I’d have written the story, not come to you for help. Why are you in such a hurry to sweep all my work on this case under the rug?”

  I’d have written the story, not come to you.

  That was the simple, unadorned truth and the reason why journalists and law enforcement agents made uneasy bedfellows. Literally.

  “I’m not dismissing your work, let alone trying to sweep it under the rug—and, by the way, that’s a pretty damned offensive thing to say.” Jason kept his voice even, although he was, no lie, pretty damned offended. “It does seem to me that you’ve already got your mind made up about what happened to the Havemeyer kid, and that means you’re liable to conflate the facts that support your theory and ignore those that don’t.”

  Shipka glowered at him. “You don’t know me at all.”

  “No, that’s right. I don’t. I met you two days ago. I think we’re on the same side—you seemed to think we’re on the same side—but I’m being honest when I say I’m not one hundred percent convinced you’re on the right track. Isn’t it far more likely the Havemeyer kid went out for a drink at one of the bars and clubs near where he lived, and either hooked up with the wrong guy or got mugged on his way home?”

  “Then where’s the body?”

  “Buried in someone’s basement. He could have ended up in a Dumpster and then in a landfill. People disappear in the city as easily as the country. I know it and you know it.”

  “And what about Donald Kerk winding up dead in Santa Monica? Is that supposed to be a coincidence?”

  “It could be a coincidence. You have to at least consider the possibility.”

  “I’ll leave you to consider that possibility,” Shipka said shortly. “The Durrands’ first victim—although who’s to say he was the first?—went by the name of Marco Poveda. He was an artist who met Shepherd at the gallery where they did a lot of coke and had, by all accounts, some very freaky sex. Shepherd talked him into going back to the island for the weekend. Poveda agreed. But when the weekend was over, Shepherd wouldn’t let him leave. Poveda claimed Shepherd kept him locked up in a crypt on the family estate for another three days. He finally escaped back to the mainland where he fil
ed charges with the Cape Vincent Police. Who promptly notified the Durrands’ family lawyer.” Shipka shrugged.

  None of this had anything to do with his own case, but despite the hard line he was taking with Shipka regarding real and solid evidence, Jason remained interested in this particular line of investigation. He didn’t want to pin too much on it, but he did think Shipka was onto something.

  “Did the case ever come to trial?”

  “No. All charges were dropped.”

  Jason grimaced.

  “The Durrands paid him off,” Shipka said.

  “Again. Do you have any proof of that?”

  “Poveda told friends that’s what happened.”

  “That’s hearsay. Is Poveda still around? Can he be questioned?”

  “No. He died two years ago.”

  Jason sighed.

  “Look, that’s the breaks.” Shipka shrugged, picked up another muffin. “Sometimes witnesses die. I can forward you my interview notes with him and the copy of the police report he originally filed. I found his story compelling. Your mileage may differ.” He downed the muffin in one bite.

  “Sure. Send it. How did Poveda get off the island?”

  “Grabbed a ride on one of the water taxis. It was July. Summer vacation for a lot of people. Most of the cottages were rented. There was a lot of coming and going.”

  Jason asked, “Which water taxi service?”

  Shipka’s lip curled. “Seaport Sloops. I tried to talk to them, but nobody remembered anything. Which is not surprising given the stranglehold the Durrands have on this community.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Jason cradled his coffee cup in his hands. “And I realize how much work you’ve put into this, and I’m not saying that your theory isn’t plausible. Even if you’re right about Shepherd Durrand murdering the Havemeyer kid…why wait twenty years to kill a possible witness to that crime? That’s your theory, right? Your theory is that Kerk was killed because he knows something about the Havemeyer kid’s disappearance?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Shipka snagged another muffin.