The Monet Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  Sam said, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” and disconnected.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  If planes came equipped with ejector seats, Jason would have pressed the button on Special Agent J.J. Russell somewhere over Nevada.

  Russell was smart and ambitious. Also, tall, dark and good-looking. Just the way Sam liked them, though he had not liked Russell.

  Jason had never liked the guy either, and he was pretty sure that by the time they reached Watertown, he would actively hate him. Russell probably felt the same, but he had to vent to someone, and Jason was the only one around.

  Some of it, Jason sympathized with. Having to catch a six-a.m. flight on a Saturday morning was not anyone’s idea of a good time. Russell had had a rough week. He needed a day off. Clearly. The rest of it…Jason knew Sam was not universally beloved, but listening to Russell bitch about what an arrogant, smug, pompous prick he was tested his patience.

  He said finally, mildly, “Really? I kind of enjoyed working with him.” Was eight-thirty in the morning too early to order a Kamikaze? It was eleven-thirty New York time. True, they were still five hours away from New York.

  “Why not? You got a commendation out of it,” Russell said bitterly. “And so will Darling although he’s the biggest screw-up I ever worked with.” He was off and running once more.

  Jason checked his messages and did his best to ignore the diatribe next door. He’d have preferred the screaming baby four rows back as a traveling companion.

  Lux was still not returning his phone calls. Jason sighed. Something was up with the kid. Meanwhile, he and Stripes were still playing phone tag. Did it matter now? It seemed like Sam would be wrapping up his case any minute. He was not asking for any additional info or follow-up from Jason.

  In fact, this trip to interview Rodney Berguan was probably unnecessary. A waste of taxpayer time and money as Jason tried to expunge his guilt over what had happened to Shipka? Jonnie had phoned to let him know Sam had arranged for an Evidence Response Team to examine the three graveyards on Camden Island.

  “If your missing art student is there, we’ll find him,” she promised.

  If Paris Havemeyer belonged to anyone, it was Chris Shipka, but Jason understood from Jonnie’s conciliatory tone that this was another gesture from Sam. Reassurance that he was not forgetting the work Jason had already put in. Not that Jason had thought he would. Sam had his own reasons for wanting Havemeyer’s body found on that island.

  “I’m a team player,” Russell was saying. “What’s good for the team is good for all the players. But what’s good for all the players is not necessarily good for the team…”

  Yeah, whatever. Blah, blah, blah. Russell was still so green, he had moss between his ears.

  There were several returned calls relating to various other cases, a couple of texts from his sisters regarding birthday party details he did not want to know about, and a message from Hickok.

  “Just giving you a heads-up.” Hickok’s normally jovial tone was flat. “No word yet on where Doody might have disappeared to, but I just learned Shepherd Durrand left for Paris last night. One way ticket.”

  * * * * *

  Though it was three forty-five in the afternoon by the time they landed on his doorstep, Rodney Berguan was not dressed for receiving visitors. He answered the door in a silky green paisley dressing gown, sagging white briefs, and tennis socks.

  Berguan looked Jason and Russell up and down, propped a freckled hand on his hip, and drawled, “Whatever church you’re selling, sign me up, boys. Hallelujah!”

  He was older than Jason expected. Closer to sixty than forty, and he looked like he’d had a tough life, though it didn’t seem to have dampened his spirits any.

  Jason and Russell showed their creds and Berguan seemed astonished and flattered that it was no mistake. They were, in fact, there to see him.

  He led the way through a hoarder’s paradise to a small, surprisingly cozy kitchen. A giant white Persian cat crouched on the table lapping liquid from a pink teacup. Berguan did not seem to notice, gesturing Jason and Russell to sit down.

  After declining offers of coffee, tea, and, finally, gin and tonic, Jason was finally able to turn Berguan’s attention to the night Paris Havemeyer had disappeared.

  Berguan propped his chin in his palm and gazed dreamily into space. “Sure, I remember. Klaus and I were ready to call it a night, but the kid still wanted to party.”

  “Klaus?” Jason asked quickly. Was this a new player?

  “Don.” Berguan winked at him. “I used to call him Klaus. He liked it.”

  Jason didn’t dare look at Russell, but he could hear what he was thinking. “Why did Havemeyer leave the party at the gallery, if he wasn’t ready to go home?”

  “Who knows.” Berguan thought it over. “I think Klaus dragged him out. The kid was, well, a little the worse for wear. If you know what I mean. We all were, but he was a goer. And…sometimes those after-party parties could get a little rough.”

  “A little rough how?”

  Berguan made an AC/DC gesture.

  “I’m not sure what that means,” Jason said.

  Berguan’s brows shot up. “You really are a choir boy!”

  “No, I mean in this particular context.”

  “Have you ever met Shepherd Durrand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should understand. Shep could be very charming. And he could be the cruelest motherfucker you ever wanted to avoid meeting. He liked his boys bruised and bloody, and that’s not an exaggeration. There were the things we saw and rumors of things nobody was meant to see. Klaus was crazy about Shepherd, but I think he felt a little loyalty to a fellow countryman.” Berguan laughed and shook his head. “But you can’t protect someone who doesn’t want to be protected.”

  “You think Havemeyer went back to the gallery after you and Kerk let him off at his apartment?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Berguan shook his head. He picked his teacup up and sipped. Jason glanced at Russell. He was holding the white Persian. The front of his suitcoat was covered in white fur. His expression was that of one suffering the tortures of the damned. He glared at Jason.

  Berguan said finally, “I can’t see that it matters now. Especially if Klaus is dead.” He set his teacup down. “No. It wouldn’t have happened at the gallery. I know the police searched the gallery, but that was a waste of time. He’d have sent the car.”

  “The car? Which car?” Jason asked. “Who would have sent the car?”

  “Back then, he had a 1950s maroon Daimler,” Berguan said. “He loved that car. Loved swanning around in it. He had—”

  “Who?” Jason demanded.

  Berguan looked taken aback. “Shepherd. That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it? He used to send that car for his conquests. Send the car and his driver to pick them up. They’d go back to his apartment, or, if they were someone he considered really special, he’d take them out to the island. Have you been to that island?”

  “Yes.”

  “Back then we used to call it Fantasy Island.” Berguan shuddered. “It’s like one giant graveyard.” He leaned over to the cat and said, “Would you like more tea, sweetie?”

  The cat closed its eyes and began to purr.

  Jason said, “You think Shepherd took the Havemeyer kid to Camden Island?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why didn’t you report that to the police?”

  Berguan sat up straight. “Klaus. He was adamant it couldn’t be true. And I didn’t have any proof. It would have been my word against theirs—and against Klaus’s. The Durrands were important people. Still are. And I’m…me.”

  “Did Havemeyer say anything to indicate he believed Shepherd was coming for him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember that. He was giggling, silly, stoned. He was acting like someone with a special secret. You know how it is.”

  Jason remembered being nineteen. He thought abou
t the police report Berguan had filed with Kerk. “The last time you saw Havemeyer, was he going into his apartment or headed toward the street?”

  “He was just standing on the front steps, waving goodbye to us.”

  So really…nothing tangible. No actual proof of anything.

  Watching him, Berguan said suddenly, “I’ll tell you why I thought Shepherd must have done it. As our taxi was turning the corner, I glanced back and I thought I saw that big maroon Daimler gliding up the street toward Havemeyer’s place. I even told Klaus. It seemed kind of funny at the time.” Berguan shrugged. “Not so funny later. But I couldn’t have sworn to it, you see. I wasn’t sure what I saw. Not sure enough to get up in court.”

  Jason nodded.

  “Suspecting what you did, can I ask why you moved here, sir? So close to the Durrands?”

  Berguan frowned. “They’re not the mafia, for God’s sake. They’re not the CIA. My mother lives next door. She’s lived in this town her entire life. I grew up here.”

  Sometimes it really was that simple.

  Russell put the cat down and gave him a pointed look. Jason nodded, and rose. But memory niggled at him. There had been something, a point he meant to follow up on. What?

  It came to him. “The driver. You said Shepherd would send the car and a driver for his conquests?”

  Berguan was tying his robe shut in a belated attempt at modesty. “Yep. He had a chauffeur. Well, really, it was only that cousin of his. What a weirdo he was. Another art student, of course. We were all art students back then. He had that Peter Frampton Botticelli angel hair. Twenty years too late, I might add.”

  “His cousin?” Jason asked sharply. “What was the cousin’s name?”

  “The cousin? Let me think. They had a love-hate relationship, those two. Of course, the Durrands were the ones with all the money. Not the recipe for domestic bliss, let me tell you. Aaron, was it? No. Eric. That’s it. I remember because his family lived on that island too, and I thought the name was appropriate. Greenleaf. Eric Greenleaf.”

  * * * * *

  Sam’s calls were going straight to message.

  Jesus Christ. He was always on the phone, why the hell was he not picking up?

  Jason tried again, and this time left a terse message. “Call me. It’s urgent. Please call me.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do in Cape Vincent?” Russell was asking, over the prim voice of the GPS.

  “Just drive.”

  The rental car swerved. “You’re not my boss, West. You don’t get to give me sweeping commands like you’re goddamned Sam Kennedy.”

  Jason barely heard, busy phoning Jonnie.

  Please pick up. God. God. Please. Pick up the fucking phone, Jonnie.

  “Hey,” Jonnie said cheerfully. “What’s up?”

  “Where are you? Are you with Sam?”

  “Um, no. I’m back in Virginia. I’m having lunch with my darling husband on my day off.”

  “That Evidence Response Team. Are they on the island now? Is Sam with them?”

  “Yes. They should be on the island by now. Why?” Jonnie’s voice grew concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Eric Greenleaf is the unsub.”

  “Who?”

  “Sam’s not answering my calls. Can you try to get hold of him? Can you tell him, his unsub is Eric Greenleaf. He’s a neighbor and cousin of the Durrands. Sam will know who I mean.”

  “Jason.” Jonnie made a faint sound of exasperation. “Our guy is Bram Stockton. He owns a boat rental and repair service. Sam and I—”

  “No. I’m telling you, it’s not Stockton. It’s Greenleaf. You’ve got to take my word for it. I worked this too, and this is where our cases intersect. The unsub is Greenleaf, and he’s a raving psychopath. He’s probably got an arsenal of weapons in that castle of his, and he’s crazy enough to try to take out the entire ERT.”

  Jonnie was silent for a moment. “Okay. I’ll see if I can get hold of Sam. He said cell phone reception is sketchy out there.”

  The relief was huge. And fleeting. Even with Jonnie’s buy-in, there was no guarantee of reinforcements reaching the island in time. Jason said, “It is sketchy. I’m calling the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department now.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Russell and I are on our way to Cape Vincent. We’ll try to get a boat out to the island.”

  “We’ll what?” Russell threw alarmed looks Jason’s way. “What did you say?”

  “All right. I’m on it. I’ll get hold of somebody on that island,” Jonnie said. “Be careful out there.”

  Jason clicked off and tried ringing the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department.

  “We’re going out to that island?” Russell asked. “Are you kidding?”

  Pick up. Will you please pick up?

  “Are you listening to me, West?”

  Detective O’Neill was also not taking Jason’s phone calls.

  “Look, Agent West, he’s in the middle of an interrogation right now. He’ll call you back,” the desk sergeant told Jason. He sounded defensive. Jason had made quite an impression on the Jefferson County SD.

  “It can’t wait,” Jason insisted. “This is a matter of life or death. And by the way, if he’s interviewing Bram Stockton, that interview can wait. He’s got the wrong guy.”

  “Not according to your boss, he doesn’t. Your boss is why we brought Stockton in.”

  “Look, please. I’m not exaggerating. This is life or death. I’ve got to talk to O’Neill. There is the very real threat of an active shooter incident on that island.”

  Russell said, “Goddamn, West. If you’re wrong about this, it’s your job. And maybe mine too.”

  After some background commotion, Detective O’Neill came on the line.

  “Special Agent, West? What do you mean we’ve got an active shooter on Camden Island?”

  Jason drew in a breath. This had to be concise and to the point because he could feel O’Neill dying for an excuse to hang-up on him. “Eric Greenleaf is your unsub. Your perp. He helped Shepherd Durrand abduct and murder a German art student in 1998. And I doubt if that art student was the only victim. In fact, I know he wasn’t. A young man by the name of Marco Poveda filed charges against Durrand the year before the Havemeyer kid disappeared. I believe Greenleaf has been part of some kind of ongoing art forgery scam with Durrand, and when it looked like Chris Shipka was getting close to uncovering their operation, he murdered him.”

  “What the hell…” O’Neill sounded winded. “You’ve got proof of all this?”

  No way was there time for that explanation. Jason rushed on. “There’s an FBI Evidence Recovery Team on that island right now searching for Havemeyer’s body.”

  “I know that. They’ve gone through the proper channels, and we’ve been cooper—”

  “If you know anything about Greenleaf at all, and I’m guessing you must, you have to know that’s going to create an extremely volatile situation. If Greenleaf was willing to attack Chris Shipka, possibly in broad daylight, I believe he’s crazy enough to open fire on that team. If he feels he’s got nothing left to lose…”

  There was a short, sharp silence on the other end of the phone.

  “You know what,” Detective O’Neill said. “This is one time I think you could be right.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Are you sure this is a good idea,” Daisy was saying uneasily, as they rounded the point and headed toward the old dock and ruined boat houses behind Camden Castle.

  “No.” Russell soberly checked his weapon. He swore as spray shot up, hitting him in the face. The bow of the boat crashed down in the gray-blue water. The water was rough. A storm was blowing in from Canada. And probably not the only one.

  Jason had already checked his weapon three times. It was compulsive. A tic he had developed after the shooting in Miami. Even though his being shot had absolutely nothing to do with the state of his own weapon.

  “He may not recognize th
e ERT for what it is,” Jason said. He was trying to convince himself of this scenario. “He may mistake them for crime scene personnel following up on Shipka’s murder. He may still be holed up in his lair. That would be the best-case scenario. In that case, we can just hold him in place and wait for reinforcements.”

  Russell shot him a look of disbelief. “With FBI initials plastered all over their jackets and gear?”

  Oh yeah. That.

  “Patrol boats coming in from the west,” Daisy reported, shading her eyes. “The island will be crawling with cops before long.”

  “Thank God for that,” Russell muttered, and Jason silently agreed.

  He had still received no response from Sam. No word from Jonnie either. It worried him, even though he knew reception could be tricky on the island. There was no sound of gunfire drifting from the interior, so that was a good sign. Shots would carry on a day like this.

  In fact, the silence was almost eerie.

  “Greenleaf must have a boat?” Jason asked Daisy, to distract himself.

  She nodded. “He keeps it in the skiff house.” She pointed at the large, green and white building coming up on their port side.

  As the wind-scoured shoreline grew closer, Daisy said, “I don’t know if that dock is safe. It’s liable to collapse under you.”

  “Bring us in as close as you can,” Jason said. “We’ll swim the rest of the way.”

  Russell gaped at him. “Uh no, Rambo. I’ll take my chances with the dock, if you don’t mind.”

  In the end, with some skilled seamanship on Daisy’s part, they managed to dock and disembark safely.

  “Should I wait for you?” Daisy called, as Jason and Russell pulled their weapons and jogged down the splintered wooded walkway.

  “No,” Jason called back. “Stay safe. Get back to the marina.”

  She waved acknowledgment, and gunned the motor.

  It took Jason and Russell four nerve-wracking minutes to cross the rocky beach of the small harbor and scramble up the winter-bare hillside to the back of the ruined mansion. They stuck to cover where they could, but there was not much of it. A few boulders, the occasional evergreen. It was more a test of nerve than endurance. Every minute Jason expected to hear a shot ring out.