The Monet Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  It wasn’t right. It wasn’t okay. But it was the way things were too often handled—and, unfortunately, that still held true.

  After the rain and fog of the day before, the boat trip to the island was unexpectedly sunny and beautiful.

  Jason and Kennedy got the complete rundown from Bram on the Who’s Who at the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. “Rundown” being the correct word for it.

  Kennedy said little, leaving it to Jason to keep feeding Bram the “oh yeahs” and “is that sos.”

  As they drew close to the dock near the lodge, they could see several black and gold Jefferson County patrol boats moored along the shoreline. The cottage was a hive of activity, with uniformed officers swarming the crime scene.

  Bram’s eyes lit up with enjoyment, and he offered to wait to motor them back.

  “Not necessary,” Jason said. “I can bring us back on one of the boats.”

  “It’s easier this way.” Bram grinned his wide, mischevious grin. “Besides, I want to see what the cops are up to.”

  Ah, yes. The Cape Vincent rumor mill needed a steady supply of grist to stay operational.

  Jason glanced at Kennedy, who was watching Bram with a thoughtful expression. Feeling Jason’s gaze, Kennedy raised his brows in inquiry.

  Jason casually asked Bram, “What would you like me to do with the dirty towels and sheets?”

  Bram shrugged, still eyeing the cottage next door. “Just throw them in the machine.”

  Jason didn’t have to look at Kennedy to know his expression would be disapproving.

  They landed, disembarked, and Bram took himself off to get a closer view of what the sheriff deputies were up to.

  Jason preceded Kennedy up the walk to the lodge. It seemed to Jason that there was something censorious in the bite of Kennedy’s heels on stone.

  Jason looked over his shoulder.

  “Again, it’s not evidence. I’m not involved. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “Everybody’s got something to hide.”

  “Even you?”

  Kennedy gave him an oddly resolute look from beneath the blond line of his brows. “Of course.”

  His answer took Jason aback. Or rather, not the answer, but the honesty of the answer.

  “It’s about the first forty-eight. If the sheriff department focuses on me, they’re losing valuable time in the first hours of the investigation.”

  Kennedy said, “I’m not arguing with you.”

  “But you disapprove.”

  To his surprise—maybe to both their surprise—Kennedy gave a funny laugh. “Yes. I disapprove. But maybe what I really…”

  Kennedy didn’t finish the thought, but Jason’s heart leaped at that rueful half-admission.

  They reached the lodge. Jason unlocked the door, and they went inside.

  Jason headed straight for the bedroom and quickly stripped the bed.

  “It didn’t take you long to get friendly with Shipka,” Kennedy said from the doorway.

  Jason shot back, “It didn’t take me long to get friendly with you.”

  Kennedy nodded as though conceding a point, but Jason already regretted the comment. His relationship with Kennedy had been completely different from his relationship with Shipka. Although maybe not from Kennedy’s standpoint.

  “I was tired and depressed. Half a bottle of wine helped.” He shrugged. “Or didn’t help.”

  “You don’t have to explain your choices to me.”

  “No. I don’t.” Jason bundled up the sheets with the towels from the bathroom and carried them through to the small laundry area. He stuffed them in the machine, added soap, and turned the machine on.

  When he went into the kitchen, he found Kennedy searching the utensil drawers.

  His heart stopped. “What are you doing?”

  Kennedy didn’t bother to glance up. “Making sure the murder weapon wasn’t planted in here while you were gone.”

  Jason’s lips parted, but it took him a few seconds to come up with anything to say. “The doors and windows were locked.”

  “Yep.” Kennedy shut the drawer and moved to the next one. “But this is a rental property, and over the years, hundreds of people have had the opportunity to make duplicate keys.”

  After a stunned moment, Jason began to search the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen. “Then you do believe I was locked up in that mausoleum so I wouldn’t have an alibi for Shipka’s murder?”

  The first cabinet contained empty tins, nothing more.

  “Maybe. Maybe to keep you from interfering. Maybe locking you up was an impulse, and the decision to kill Shipka grew out of that opportunity.”

  Decision sounded too rational for the mayhem that had been inflicted on Shipka.

  “Whoever killed Shipka would have been covered in blood. There would be forensic evidence all over this place,” Jason pointed out.

  “You want to take that chance?”

  “No.”

  They continued to search in silence.

  When they’d finished with the kitchen, Kennedy said, “Detective O’Neill is smart enough to realize the thermostat at the cottage was cranked up to help confuse time of death. That works both for and against you. He believes an FBI agent is more likely to think of that than the average person.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “I believe people love watching those CSI shows.” Kennedy added, “I’m going to take the living room. You take the bedroom and bath.”

  “Right.”

  They searched the lodge top to bottom, from the sleeping porch to the fireplace chimney. No weapon was hidden on the premises.

  “That’s a relief,” Jason said at the end of their hunt.

  “Yes.” Kennedy looked thoughtful.

  “No?”

  Kennedy said, “Now the question becomes why wasn’t the weapon hidden here?”

  “Because there wasn’t time? Because he couldn’t get in? Because he had to leave the island?”

  Kennedy nodded, but it was more acknowledgment that Jason was speaking than agreement. He said abruptly, “I’m going to see how they’re doing processing the crime scene.”

  “Okay.” They were going to love that.

  “Give a shout when you’re ready to go.”

  Jason nodded.

  It didn’t take long to gather his belongings. He washed the juice glasses, plate, and coffee cups he and Shipka had used, then sat down to wait for the washing machine to finish its rinse and spin cycle. When the buzzer went off, he tossed the linens in the dryer and hit the button. He picked up his bag and walked out to the front yard of the lodge.

  Across the expanse of winter grass and rock, Kennedy was talking to the officer in charge. He spotted Jason, spoke a final word to the man in uniform, and started across the grass. He stopped, put his fingers to his mouth and gave a sharp, clear whistle like a cowboy trying to get the attention of a lost little dogie.

  And sure enough, Bram stepped out from behind the dividing hedge and jogged over to join them as they walked down to the harbor.

  “Can you believe it? They told me I couldn’t watch them working the crime scene. They’re marching around on my property too!”

  Jason nodded vaguely. He wanted to hear what Kennedy had learned, but conscious of Bram’s eager listening silence, restrained himself from asking the dozen questions on the tip of his tongue.

  “They’re doing a decent job processing the crime scene,” Kennedy remarked, which was possibly code. If so, as usual when it came to Kennedy, one Jason didn’t understand.

  “Do they have the autopsy results yet?”

  “No. But going by the evidence of blood loss and the bloodstain patterns, the theory is Shipka was whacked with something very large and sharp. A scythe. An ax. I’d concur with that.”

  “Eric Greenleaf,” Jason said. “He’s got an ax—and the attitude to go with it.”

  He’d spoken automatically and winced when Bram said, “Eric? Eric’s a
suspect?”

  “No,” Jason said quickly. “That was thinking out loud, not an actual suggestion. He’s an interesting guy, though.”

  “Hey, I can see Eric killing someone before I could see Shep. Although if Eric was going to kill anyone, it would be his ex. No love lost there, I can tell you.”

  “Who’s Eric Greenleaf?” Kennedy asked.

  “The owner of that.” Jason pointed to Camden Castle, a black silhouette against the sky.

  Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. “Quaint,” he observed after a moment.

  That little drawl was so Kennedy. Jason laughed.

  Kennedy’s mouth curved in answer.

  The adrenaline that had kept Jason moving at top speed while cleaning up the lodge and making sure he hadn’t been framed, drained away on the short boat trip back to Cape Vincent. He had that weird hollow feeling again. He was cold and depressed and more confused than he liked to admit.

  What now? He had no idea.

  The wind had kicked up, and the water was choppy. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of the sun and spray on his face.

  “Seasick?” Kennedy asked suddenly.

  Jason looked up in surprise. “Me? No.”

  Kennedy’s brows drew together. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  His voice was low, but Bram heard him. “Put your head over the side of the boat,” he told Jason.

  Jason said irritably, “I’m not going to get sick. I grew up on boats.”

  Bram looked skeptical.

  Jason said to Kennedy, “I’m fine. Tired, that’s all.”

  Kennedy didn’t say anything, just continued to watch him in that steady, serious way.

  Jason really wished he wouldn’t. That kindness and evident concern just made it harder.

  Bram, still apparently mulling over Jason’s earlier comment, said, “Everyone on the island has an ax. There’s an ax in the toolshed of the lodge.”

  If it wasn’t already in the custody of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department.

  “That was a random remark,” Jason said. “Greenleaf was rude and uncooperative, which was why he came to mind. I have no reason to suspect him of any crime. Seriously. Forget I said anything.”

  “No, but you got me thinking. Remembering.”

  “Got you thinking what?” Kennedy asked.

  “Eric is a really weird guy. All the Greenleafs were crazy as hoot owls. If there’s a homicidal maniac on the island, he’d be my first pick.”

  “Has Greenleaf ever threatened anyone? Attacked anyone?”

  “He’s always threatening people. Especially his ex. Maybe he finally snapped.”

  “Why would he kill a total stranger?” Jason objected. “Why wouldn’t he kill his former girlfriend?”

  Bram shrugged. “Maybe he wasn’t a stranger. That reporter has been out here a couple of times asking questions about the Durrands and about what happened all those years ago. Maybe he asked one too many questions. Maybe he got on the wrong side of Eric. It’s easy to do.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Kennedy said. “We’ll look into it.”

  Bram offered his wide, cheerful smile. “Glad to help.”

  On the drive back to the hotel, Kennedy said, “If you’re still worried about being a suspect in Shipka’s homicide, don’t be. I think you’re off the hook.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “I dropped a few hints as to the likelihood that Shipka’s death will fall under the Bureau’s purview, as part of my own interstate investigation.”

  Jason threw him a startled look. “Do you think Shipka was killed by your unsub? The MO is completely different.”

  “It’s one hell of a coincidence if he wasn’t.” Kennedy’s expression was bleak.

  “It’s one hell of a coincidence if he was, too.”

  “My point is you can stop worrying about being arrested for your boyfriend’s murder.”

  Jason went very still. “My boyfriend?”

  “Forget it.”

  “He wasn’t my boyfriend. I knew him all of four days.” How long had he and Kennedy been thrown together in Massachusetts? “If anyone was my boyfr—” Jason stopped. That was embarrassing. He said instead, striving to sound completely dispassionate, “That would mean your unsub followed Shipka to the island. Or he lives on the island. Isn’t that kind of unlikely?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then?”

  “Either way you look at it, there are one too many coincidences here. Unlikely or not, these cases do seem to intersect.” Kennedy glanced at Jason. His mouth curved. “Which means it’s very likely our cases intersect.”

  Jason had no response to that. The best he could manage was a weak, “Ha.”

  Kennedy said with a rare flash of humor, “Just what I said, Agent West.”

  A few minutes later they pulled into the mostly empty hotel parking lot, and Kennedy turned off the engine. For a moment or two, they sat gazing at the sparkling blue of the St. Lawrence.

  Kennedy took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, I’m tired,” he muttered.

  Jason looked at him in surprise. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever heard Kennedy acknowledge any human frailty, including fatigue. At forty-six, he was still eleven years from mandatory retirement age, and he worked overtime to prove he was every bit as fit and energetic as agents half his age.

  “Are we still flying out tonight?”

  “Up to you. I think a good night’s sleep won’t do either of us any harm.” He glanced briefly at Jason. “Have you called your office?”

  “I wasn’t able to speak to George. I had to leave a message. I’ll try again when I get back to my room.”

  His unease must have shown because Kennedy’s lip curled. “Don’t worry, West. As far as anyone at the LA office knows, you were swept up as part of an interagency pissing match. Your rung on the ladder of success is still safe.”

  Kennedy’s fluctuation between concern and those little aggressive digs was unsettling. Jason said, “You know, I didn’t see you turning down promotion when it was offered.”

  “No. I couldn’t afford to. I’d made too many enemies. I had to either move out of range or try to do my job the best I could as a moving target. I figured I’d be more effective if I took the promotion.”

  Jason had suspected something like that, but it was the first time Kennedy had come right out and said so.

  Unwillingly, he asked, “Do you have any regrets?”

  “Sure,” Kennedy said. “I have plenty of regrets. About all kinds of things.” He opened his car door. “If I had to do it all again, I’d make the same choices.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Of course, he didn’t need to stay over just because Kennedy was choosing to. But the fact was, Jason was still worn out physically, mentally, and emotionally. The idea of eight hours of undisturbed sleep sounded like heaven. He needed to be sharp when he finally confronted his superiors back in LA.

  At least he hoped that was what motivated his decision to stay. He hoped it was not the desire to spend additional time in Kennedy’s company.

  He booked his flight for the following morning and checked his messages—when he saw the state of his inbox, he wished he hadn’t. Nothing from George, though. No phone call, no email, no text. His stomach knotted with anxiety.

  Jesus. Was he going to be fired? Without warning? Without a hearing?

  He glanced at the bedside clock. Four thirty. Which meant it was one thirty in Los Angeles. George might be at lunch. Or he might not. He might be sitting at his desk wondering why his errant ACT agent wasn’t checking in.

  If he was about to be canned, it would be better to know now. Jason phoned George—and ended up on hold where he spent the next eight minutes gnawing on his lip and staring out the window at the fishing boats.

  George came on the line. “The prodigal son. I was just about to call you.” He sounded… Actually, he sounded pretty much as usual. Cheerful, friendly, relaxed.
“You okay?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  “I figured. I figured if anybody could get you out of the pokey fast, it would be Mr. Personality.”

  “You phoned Kennedy?” Jason couldn’t hide his amazement.

  George’s laugh was more of a hoot. “Me phone him? That’d be the day.”

  “But how did Kennedy get stuck with bailing me out?”

  “Uh, you’re kidding about being out on bail, right? You weren’t formally charged?”

  “Yes. I’m kidding.”

  George was abruptly serious. “It was Kennedy’s choice, believe me. He phoned me not long after you did. Said he was already on his way to New York. That since you were following up several lines of inquiry at his request, he felt it was his responsibility to see you didn’t take the heat for a job that rightly should have fallen to his team.”

  “That was…”

  A load of bullshit, frankly.

  “Not what I’d have expected,” George agreed. “I told you he likes you. Plus, there must be some reason agents fight tooth and nail to get into his unit.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yeah. According to Jonnie, they do. Did you get your interview with Durrand?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. I look forward to reading your report.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  George laughed. “You’re flying back when?”

  “Tomorrow morning. My plane leaves at seven.”

  “Travel safe. No more falling afoul of local law enforcement, okay?”

  “I’ll try. No promises.”

  George chuckled again and hung up.

  Jason stared at his phone in disbelief.

  What the hell had Kennedy told George? Because, far from getting ready to fire him, George had sounded almost jovial. Like Jason had done something particularly amusing by getting dragged in for questioning.

  Had he taken this whole thing way too seriously?

  No. Kennedy wouldn’t have dropped his own investigation to fly to Jason’s rescue if it hadn’t been pretty damned serious. It seemed to Jason the most likely reason his running afoul of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department was being treated like a boyish escapade and not an interagency FUBAR was whatever spin Kennedy had managed to put on the situation for Jason’s superiors.