The Monet Murders Read online

  His attention was caught by movement on the other side of the French doors leading onto the room’s private patio. Wind shaking the topiaries? A ghostly hand picking at the folds of a collapsed umbrella? He looked more closely, but it still took a disbelieving second or two to recognize the outline as human. A silhouette. Someone stood on the other side of the glass, watching them.

  “What the hell?” Jason brushed past Sam. He reached the French doors, unlocking and throwing them open as the figure on the patio turned, shoving through the wrought-iron gate, which clanged noisily behind him.

  Jason drew his weapon. “FBI. Stop right there,” he yelled.

  The dark-clad figure did not stop. The gate bounced open with the force of his exit.

  Jason followed, pushing through the gate, which clanged loudly again.

  The figure sprinted across the terrace, past the blue oblong of the brightly lit pool, heading for the taller fence at the end of the courtyard.

  Good luck with that. Did he not realize the pool terrace was a couple of stories up?

  Jason called back to Sam and Hickok, who had also drawn their weapons, “He’ll have to try for the elevators. We can cut him off.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. There wasn’t time for discussion. He gave chase. In fact, it was a relief to act, to have something that required his immediate and full attention—and a relief to get away from Sam. Fueled by adrenaline, he hit the terrace running, racing across the bricks about the same time the figure in black realized his miscalculation.

  He turned, keeping the lounge chairs and potted palms between himself and Jason as he traveled the length of the stone deck, making for the steps leading down to the elevators.

  He—the build was definitely male—was about Jason’s height. Stocky. He wore black jeans, a black hoodie, and a backpack. The amber glow of the heater lamps illuminated glimpses of pale skin and Caucasian features.

  “Hold it right there,” Jason ordered, leveling his weapon as he kept pace with the suspect. Unfortunately, you could not shoot someone for spying on you, or fleeing from you, or even appearing on the scene at the very moment you were getting dumped by your sort-of-boyfriend. And anyway, Jason had no desire to shoot if it was at all possible to avoid it.

  He also had no desire to be shot. Been there and done that. The suspect did not appear to be armed. He was certainly not brandishing a weapon. That didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying. That didn’t mean at any moment this unsub wouldn’t make a fast and fatal reach.

  Stay alert. Stay alive. Like the old training films used to say. Jason’s heart pounded, and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He watched the other’s hands every second.

  Lights blinked on in surrounding hotel rooms. Curtains slid back, shutters flashed wide, glass doors opened.

  Shit.

  Stay inside, people. And for the love of God, no posting to YouTube.

  Out of his peripheral, he could see Sam already in position, blocking access to the elevators. Hickok was closing in from the other side, completing the pincer movement. This was over. The suspect just didn’t know it yet.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Jason called. “Drop the bag.”

  The suspect looked to the elevators and then back at Hickok.

  Jason repeated, “Drop the bag. Get on the ground.”

  The suspect hesitated. Was he just stupid? Or really stupid? Did he have a weapon? Jason’s hand tightened on the Glock’s grip. Sweat prickled his hairline.

  “You. On the ground. Facedown on the ground.”

  “Okay! Okay!” The suspect showed his palms. A blur of white. No gloves. No weapon. “I’m with the press.”

  “On. The. Fucking. Ground.”

  The suspect complied, dropping to his knees, still protesting. “I’m with the press. Chris Shipka. You know me.”

  Maybe yes, maybe no. Still, Jason’s tension eased a fraction. Their unsub was exhibiting the right mix of alarm and indignation you’d expect from a citizen who felt he was being unjustly accused. “Arms spread to your side. Palms up.”

  “Lie down and shut up.” Hickok came up behind the suspect, planting a foot in his backpack and knocking him prone. “Arms outstretched.”

  “Watch my camera!”

  “Don’t move a muscle, asshole.”

  Shipka continued to protest as Hickok patted him down with rough efficiency.

  Jason kept his pistol trained unwaveringly on Shipka. His heart was still pounding hard. But hey, compared to eight months ago? When having to pull his weapon had practically triggered an anxiety attack? Here was progress.

  “He’s unarmed,” Hickok informed Jason. He yanked open Shipka’s backpack and swore. “Unless you count this.” He held up a Nikon camera in one hand and a telephoto lens in the other.

  “Be careful with that! For fuck’s sake,” Shipka protested. “Haven’t you Nazis heard of freedom of the press?”

  Shit. Shit. And triple shit. Speaking of YouTube videos.

  Jason slowly lowered his pistol. Sam reached them, holstering his own weapon. He took in the camera Hickok held aloft and swore. “That’s just goddamned great. ID?”

  Hickok pulled out a wallet, thumbed through the contents, and said morosely, “Christopher Shipka, age 35, lives in Van Nuys.” He looked up at Jason and Sam. “He’s got a press card. He works for the Valley Voice.”

  “I told you.” Shipka’s muffled voice sounded incensed. “Can I get up now?”

  “No. You sure as hell can’t,” Hickok snapped.

  “What the hell were you doing outside that hotel room?” Jason asked.

  “I followed you.” Shipka raised his head to peer at Jason. “I followed you from the museum.”

  “Me?” Alarm washed through Jason. “What are you talking about? You followed—you did what?” He could feel both Sam and Hickok staring at him.

  “I’m the one writing those stories about you,” Shipka said. He sounded sort of sheepish and sort of defiant.

  “Christ,” Hickok said. “It’s the president of your fan club.”

  Jason stared at Hickok and then at Shipka’s pale face once more. He did look…not familiar exactly. But not unfamiliar. His features were ordinary, nondescript. Not handsome. Not unattractive. He looked like a million other guys. Just another face in the crowd.

  Jason’s bewilderment must have shown because Shipka said, “I’ve been writing articles about you for the last two years. Don’t tell me you never noticed. I’ve covered all your big cases.”

  “All my…”

  Sam swore. The words were soft but savage, and Jason couldn’t help feeling they were directed at him as much as Shipka.

  He was not unaware that he’d occasionally received some favorable mentions in the local papers. Stories of stolen paintings safely restored to their rightful owners made a nice change from car accidents and home invasions, plus Jason’s family was politically connected, so yes. He knew—and his supervisors knew—that he sometimes garnered the right kind of attention for the LA field office.

  He had never paid attention to the bylines of those articles. Hadn’t kept his press clippings. He wasn’t in this for accolades or attaboys, but he couldn’t help remembering something Sam had said early in their relationship.

  And in return, you’ll be the guy who gets to pose in front of the cameras…

  Was this unfair idea of who Jason was and what he wanted part of what had gone wrong between them? He had no idea. And he did not know what to say. Could not even look at Sam. Somehow this felt like his fault, but it wasn’t like he had done anything to bring it on. He’d been doing his job. Like everybody else on this terrace.

  Hickok said something under his breath and got heavily to his feet. Shipka sat up. He was looking at Jason expectantly. And Jason had no idea what to say to him either.

  Sam knew what to say, though. Sam always knew what to say.

  “All right, Mr. Shipka,” he drawled. “You can get up now. And you can start talking. Make it goo
d.”

  Chapter Three

  When the alarm went off at six the next morning, Jason didn’t move. He’d been awake for the last three hours, which he’d spent staring unseeingly at the dim outline of the white crossbeams overhead.

  It didn’t matter. It was only about a twenty-minute drive from his bungalow on Carroll Canal to the Federal Building on Wilshire, though depending on what was happening with workday traffic, that commute could take double the time. Usually Jason liked to get into the office early. Early in and late out. It wasn’t just ambition. He loved his job.

  Usually. Today…not so much.

  Granted, he hadn’t had much of a night’s sleep—he hadn’t made it home until after one in the morning—and then he had tossed and turned for a couple of hours. He did not feel refreshed.

  He felt…numb.

  Twenty-four hours earlier he’d been content with his life. Even happy.

  Now?

  Putting aside the thing with Sam, which he did not understand and did not want to think about, but which hurt like hell—so much for not thinking about it—he had apparently picked up his own press corps. It was more than embarrassing. It was a genuine problem. He could not work undercover if his face kept showing up in the newspapers, and his job required a fair bit of undercover work. Even if it didn’t, having a reporter tagging along and publicly speculating on what he was working next—which was what would be happening in this morning’s edition of the Valley Voice—was a disaster.

  Sam thought it was a disaster, and he ought to know, being a guy who got plenty of unwanted attention from the press himself.

  So there was that. And there was the thing with Sam that he wasn’t going to let himself think about.

  On the bright side, he had not experienced a panic attack when he had to draw his weapon. True, he had not been under fire. Still. Mark that one in the victory column. The very short victory column.

  Was he still part of the investigation into the Kerk homicide? He didn’t know. It had not been clear at the end of the evening. Sam had questioned Shipka, who had defiantly informed them that cued by his police scanner, he had deduced Jason being called away from a museum wing being dedicated to his grandfather meant he was about to join a high profile homicide investigation with ties to the Los Angeles art community.

  Not a direct hit, but too close for comfort.

  The only bright spot was that Shipka hadn’t recognized Sam. Didn’t know that Sam headed up one of the BAUs—or that would have been in the morning paper too: a serial killer on the loose in Los Angeles.

  Great.

  No question now of what Sam knew or didn’t know about Jason’s background. He’d stood there and listened, unmoved, as Shipka babbled on about Grandpa Harley being one of the original Monuments Men, and Great-Great-Great Grandpa West being oh yeah, that Thomas West. The former governor of California. And about Jason’s sister being married to Congressman Clark Vincent, whose politics, by the way—not that anyone was asking—were diametrically opposed to Jason’s. In short, Sam now knew everything about Jason that made him both an asset and a liability on any case he worked and, in Chris Shipka’s opinion, news.

  Basically Jason’s family was everything Sam seemed to scorn. Not that it mattered, since…they weren’t whatever they had been, or whatever Jason imagined they had been, twenty-four hours earlier.

  Anyway, it wasn’t like Jason had ever been looking for romance or a relationship. The connection with Sam—Kennedy—had been unexpected and unneeded. Yeah, the last thing he needed. From that perspective, this shift was not only inevitable, it was preferable.

  So why did he feel so…empty? Hollow. Bereft. Now there was a good old-timey word to explain feeling like the world had kicked you in the guts.

  “To hell with it,” Jason muttered, and threw back the white duvet.

  The pale, painted floorboards were cold. He padded past the French doors—offering a view of the garden and the green-blue of the canal—the picture window, the giant trumeau mirror leaning against the wall, the claw-foot tub beneath more windows. Master bedroom and bathroom were just one long room, which worked fine for a guy living on his own, but did not afford a lot of privacy should he ever have company again.

  Which felt increasingly unlikely.

  He brushed his teeth, stepped into the giant shower with its clear glass walls and white glass subway tile, and turned the taps on full. The blast of cold water made him yelp, but it woke him up too. He reached for the soap.

  He’d moved into the house five months earlier. His first real home. Up until he’d purchased the tiny 1924 charmer with its blue shake siding, angled rooms, sloping ceilings, and overabundance of windows offering a premium view of the canal, he’d always lived in low-maintenance apartments and condominiums. The privacy and comfort of an actual house with a small but mature garden still felt luxurious.

  He’d talked quite a bit about this house to Sam—and had looked forward to showing him around eventually.

  And he really, really needed to stop thinking about Kennedy.

  The shower helped some, and a cup of scalding black coffee helped more.

  By the time Jason forced his way into the river of traffic merging onto the Santa Monica Freeway, he had managed to reach a certain state of detachment.

  Realistically, the situation between himself and Kennedy was always going to end like this. So why the drama? Kennedy was a professional, and Jason was a professional.

  Anyway, for all he knew, Kennedy could already be on his way back to Quantico. And if he wasn’t? Well, so what if he didn’t want Jason on his taskforce? The last thing Jason needed was to get swept up in another serial-killer investigation.

  Thanks, but no thanks. As one of the only two ACT members on the West Coast, it wasn’t like he didn’t already have his hands full. Especially with Shane Donovan, his NorCal counterpart, away on vacation, treasure hunting off the coast of Vietnam.

  There might not even be a taskforce. And if there was, it was likely Kennedy would monitor long distance as he did with the Roadside Ripper.

  But really, as far as Jason could tell, there was no reason Santa Monica PD shouldn’t hang on to their own dead German tourist.

  He was about to change the steady stream of bad news on the radio for Grant-Lee Phillips—which was a mistake because Phillips’ music inevitably reminded him of Sam—when the way-too-cheerful newscaster announced, “A local paper is reporting the FBI may have joined Los Angeles law enforcement in the hunt for a possible serial killer targeting wealthy art patrons in the Southland.”

  “No,” Jason groaned. “No, you did not…” Eyes on the sudden bulwark of red brake lights materializing in front of him, he reached for the volume.

  “According to Christopher Shipka, a reporter for the Valley Voice, agents from the FBI’s Los Angeles field office as well as a leading profiler on loan from Quantico are working in conjunction with LAPD to solve the brutal slaying of German art dealer Donald Kerk.”

  Jason swore. Yeah, just when he thought it couldn’t get much worse. Although the description of Sam—no, Kennedy—as a “leading profiler on loan” was sort of amusing. If Shipka only knew.

  Well, he probably did. Or would. Soon enough. He’d been a busy guy last night after being released from custody.

  The announcer continued to boom his bad news like he was reading advertising copy for a President’s Day appliance sale. “Kerk’s body was found yesterday evening beneath the Santa Monica pier. Though the Department of the Medical Examiner has not yet released the official cause of death, sources at LAPD reveal that Kerk is the latest victim in what is believed to be a series of homicides over the past months.”

  “Past months where?” Jason demanded. “Says who?”

  But the announcer had already moved on to more death and disaster in the Southland.

  The federal building on Wilshire was—Jason not being a fan of Corporate Late Modernism—about as ugly a piece of 1960s architecture as you could hope to
find in the city. Dominating the fortress-like complex was the imposing white concrete, tinted glass, and metal monolith which at various times in its history housed everything from the IRS, the audit division of NASA, the US Weather Bureau, to, of course, the FBI. No lie about politics making for strange bedfellows.

  Jason parked in the still mostly empty staff lot, went through the employee entrance, and took a high-speed elevator to his office on the seventeenth floor. As the floor numbers flew by, he tried again to reassure himself that Kennedy was probably already on his way back to Quantico—and that he was glad about it.

  It really was for the best. Best case scenario for everyone involved, although the idea was weirdly depressing too.

  The elevator doors slid silently open, revealing blue carpet, white walls, and—Jason’s heart sank—BAU Chief Sam Kennedy.

  For the craziest moment Jason couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Kennedy stared back at him. He wore a black suit paired with a crisp white shirt and a gray silk tie. It was the first time Jason had ever seen him in the traditional FBI uniform of power suit and tie, and the effect was pretty devastating. Nothing like the combo of rugged masculinity and top notch tailoring to weaken your resolve.

  Even more devastating was the way Kennedy’s blue eyes seemed to light for a moment as though the unexpected sight of Jason gave him pleasure—before his expression returned to its usual impassivity.

  I’ll be remembering what it feels like to touch you this way every time I see you tomorrow.

  No. Do not start that.

  Jason nodded curtly. He was struggling with how to address Kennedy now. “Sir” stuck in his throat, and “Sam” belonged to a past that increasingly felt like it had occurred in an alternate universe.

  “Just the man I wanted to see,” Kennedy said. He was his normal, brusque self, so Jason had surely imagined that fleeting warmth in his gaze.

  “Oh yeah?” Jason returned politely. He sounded as enthusiastic as he felt, but Kennedy gave no sign he noticed.

  “Grab a cup of coffee, and meet me in your office. I want to go over a couple of things with you.”