The Monet Murders Read online

  “That’s right,” Wheat said. “How could I forget?”

  “When did you want to get going?” Jason asked Kennedy, equally cordial. If there was one game he knew how to play, it was that of social nicety.

  “Whenever is convenient for you, Special Agent West,” Kennedy said in a smooth tone that sounded mocking to Jason—but obviously not to SAC Wheat, who beamed as though he could think of nothing more delightful than his two favorite people in the world going off to fight crime together.

  “No time like the present.”

  Kennedy nodded and rose. Wheat rose too. They shook hands. Kennedy followed Jason down the blue-carpeted hall and into the elevator.

  As the elevator doors closed, Jason braced for sarcastic commentary, but Kennedy spent the ride down to the lobby checking messages on his cell, and the walk across the parking lot to Jason’s car, returning phone calls.

  Nothing was required of Jason. Which—go on, admit it—was a little bit of a letdown.

  Kennedy was taking the high road. He’d won this battle hands down, but there was no hint of gloating. Jason remembered that from Kingsfield. Kennedy could be polite and professional, or not so polite and professional, but he was never petty.

  Right now he was polite and professional, and that was a relief.

  Or should have been.

  “Where did you want to start?” Jason asked as they buckled up.

  Kennedy looked up briefly. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  Okay, so a concession to Jason’s “area of expertise,” or did he really not care? Jason started the engine of the unmarked 2014 Dodge Charger—only on TV did the FBI get to drive around in cool cars—and glanced at Kennedy.

  Kennedy’s call had gone through. He said in a hard, flat voice, “Agent Russell? This is Sam Kennedy. What information do you think you have for me that can’t wait until I’m back in my office?”

  Okaaay. That was the other part of the job Kennedy didn’t care for. People. But managing human resources was part of his job description now. A big part of it.

  Jason backed out of his parking slot, trying not to listen to Kennedy slicing and dicing the unfortunate Agent Russell.

  * * * * *

  According to Anna Rodell at Bergamot Station, murder victim Donald Kerk had been charming but difficult to please.

  Founded in Winter 2003, Bergamot Station referred to itself as a “virtual think-tank, simmering and boiling with creativity, always on the sharpest point of the cutting edge.” To mix a metaphor or three. They featured five local artists a month, owned two full galleries, and employed twenty-five “full-time creatives,” who were kept busy producing items for the large and lucrative gift store. It was one of the longest-standing galleries on the Downtown Art Walk and served as a hub within the art community.

  “He didn’t know what he wanted,” Rodell told Jason and Kennedy, once Jason had explained the reason for the visit. “Which is not at all typical of our German clients.”

  She was in her twenties, a very thin, milky-skinned woman with severely bobbed hair that had been acid-washed silver gray. Her eyes were also gray—either naturally or thanks to contacts—and the whole effect, down to her sparkly silver fingertips, was gorgeously spectral.

  “What day was that?”

  Rodell said, “Wednesday.”

  “Did he buy anything?” Jason asked.

  “No.”

  Jason glanced at Kennedy, expecting him to take charge of the interview, but Kennedy was studying the cloud of metal and glass mobiles hanging from the black ceiling. Stars, bees, miniature suns and satellites, winged horses, and ghosts twinkled and glittered in the long room.

  Jason turned back to Rodell. “How did Kerk seem? Distracted? Worried? Uneasy?”

  “It’s hard to say. I’d never met him before,” Rodell said. “He seemed cool to me. Upbeat. Energized. Like he was having a great time. We talked about his gallery and some of his artists. Maybe doing a house collaboration one of these days. He was interested in how we handle our openings. And everybody loves our gift shop.”

  “Did he drop names? Was he interested in any particular artists or works?”

  “No. He just…browsed. Like I said, I don’t think he knew what he wanted. Or maybe he just wanted everything. And nothing. The package but not the product? We’re…pretty subversive, you know? Like, his idea of edgy and our idea of edgy would not be the same thing.”

  “No?”

  “Well,” Rodell said reasonably, “I mean, he was older. Like forty at least.”

  “Ah.” Jason made an effort not to look at Kennedy. “Right.”

  She shrugged. “He liked what we’re doing. But he wasn’t going to buy anything. I think he was just enjoying the vibe. It’s really sad. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would get murdered.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “He was here for about an hour, I’d say. I know he planned on seeing Paul Farrell at 30303.”

  “‘Maybe he just wanted everything. And nothing,’” Kennedy murmured, once they were back in the car. His tone was ironic.

  Jason’s lip curled. “Yeah. But I know what she meant. Sort of.”

  Kennedy smiled at him. “Of course, West. That’s why I wanted you along.” He was teasing Jason, but it was friendly teasing.

  Jason smiled obligingly, but his heart wasn’t in it. He found Kennedy’s efforts at friendliness as bewildering as his withdrawal from anything more.

  Jason said, “I don’t know if this is relevant or not, but Monet’s work—certainly his iconic Water Lilies—is some of the most overexposed and commercialized out there. Those images turn up on chocolate boxes, bubble bath, puzzles, shopping bags, scarves, T-shirts, posters, notebook covers. I’ve even seen tablecloths and bath mats with them. Could that have any bearing?”

  “It’s too early to know what might be relevant or have bearing,” Kennedy said. “Which is why your thoughts, your insights are helpful.”

  Jason’s heart dropped. Plummeted, in fact. If Kennedy was being kind to him… It actually made him feel a little sick.

  He said nothing, and Kennedy got back to returning phone calls on the ten-minute drive to their next stop.

  Paul Farrell at 30303 Art Gallery and Lounge greeted them politely—and curiously—but had nothing useful in the way of information.

  In fact, according to Farrell, Kerk had canceled—or, more accurately—rescheduled his appointment.

  “For when?” Jason asked.

  “For today,” Farrell admitted. “For this afternoon. I couldn’t believe it this morning when I found out he’d been killed over the weekend.” Farrell had a soft, high voice at odds with his size and rough-hewn appearance. His wild and woolly black beard, combined with the flannel shirts and jeans he favored, made him look more like a lumberjack than the owner of a highly successful art gallery.

  “How did you find out?” Kennedy asked, showing a sudden interest.

  “Oh. Uh, James at Stripes phoned to ask if I’d heard the news.”

  “Did Kerk give any reason for canceling?” Jason asked.

  “I don’t think so. I have to admit, I was right in the middle of arguing with a vendor, so the conversation was brief. We’d never met, and I wasn’t even familiar with his gallery until I looked it up online this morning.”

  In Jason’s opinion this was heading nowhere fast. He looked in inquiry to Kennedy.

  Farrell said suddenly, “Yes. He did say, come to think of it.”

  “He did say what?” Jason asked.

  “He said an old friend was in town. Or he’d run into an old friend while he was in town. Anyway, that’s why he decided to cancel. They were having lunch.” Farrell beamed, clearly pleased with his newly found powers of recollection.

  “And this was on Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Kerk indicate whether the friend was male or female?” Kennedy asked.

  Farrell started to answer, but then frowned. “Well, I
assumed female. Now I’m not sure if he actually said she. But he had that note in his voice.”

  “What note?” Kennedy asked.

  Farrell grinned. “The note of a guy who thinks he’s going to get lucky.”

  “I don’t know how much we can rely on that,” Jason said as they walked back to where he’d parked on the street.

  “No. The only thing we know for sure is Kerk canceled his appointment with Farrell in order to have lunch with an old friend. The lunch date wasn’t in his day planner.”

  “Spur of the moment?”

  “Very possible.”

  Jason glanced at Kennedy. “Are you theorizing that your unsub is flying back and forth across the country picking off members of the art world?” He couldn’t help the note of skepticism that crept into his voice.

  “I don’t have a theory yet.”

  That would be the day.

  “Sure. The unsub could be female, I guess. It doesn’t take a huge amount of strength to wield an ice pick. You just need knowledge of basic anatomy—and have the ability to get close to your victim without raising his suspicions.”

  “True.”

  But? Jason didn’t ask, though. It wasn’t his case, and if Kennedy didn’t feel like further discussion? Fine by Jason.

  They got into the car, Jason started the engine, and Kennedy phoned Jonnie. He spent the thirty-minute drive from 30303 to Stripes speaking to her.

  If things had still been what they were forty-eight hours earlier, Jason would have told Kennedy to say hi for him. That kind of casual camaraderie seemed unimaginable now.

  Still, he had to give Kennedy credit. He did the upper-management thing very well. Hard to believe he had ever been a simple field agent. Of course, to be accurate, Kennedy hadn’t been a simple field agent for many years. He’d been a legend and law unto himself even when he’d been working cases in the field. Now? He had a dozen irons in the fire and seemed to be keeping a very close watch on every single one.

  Of course, another name for that was micromanaging. Kennedy would not like being told he was a micromanager, but it sounded a bit that way to Jason. And he was guessing it felt that way to experienced agents like Jonnie.

  When they reached Stripes, they found the gallery unexpectedly closed.

  Kennedy considered the CLOSED sign on the door and asked Jason, “How flexible are gallery hours?”

  “Not particularly flexible,” Jason said. “Not for a place like Stripes. They’ve got a decent-sized staff. If someone called in sick, they ought to be able to cover.”

  Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. “This is the gallery where the James who phoned Farrell with the news of Kerk’s death works?”

  “Correct. James T. Sterling. ‘Stripes’ to his friends. He’s like the CNN of this community. If there’s news, James knows it first. He’s the most trusted name in gossip.”

  Kennedy’s mouth twitched. “I see. Well, we certainly must have a chat with Stripes.”

  They were blocking the sidewalk on this already busy morning. The tide of people lugging shopping bags, peering at smartphones, slurping coffees and smoothies, dragging tiny, yappy dogs parted around them and rushed on. Jason glanced at his watch and was startled to see that it was already eleven thirty. Where the hell had the last hours gone?

  There were still two more galleries on Kerk’s list, including Fletcher-Durrand, which Jason was going to stall visiting as long as possible.

  “It’s about an hour’s drive to Baus Wirther & Kimmel,” he said. “You want to head out that way now?” He added unwillingly, “Or do you want to stop for lunch?”

  Jason did not want to have lunch with Kennedy. The idea was enough to choke him. The chauffeur gig was bad enough.

  Kennedy checked his own watch and shook his head. “No. We should head back. I’ve got a meeting with ADC Ritchie.”

  “Right.” There was no hiding his relief.

  Kennedy’s glance was wry. He sighed. It was an unexpectedly weary sound. “It looks like I’m going to have to fly up north, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to finish the interviews on your own.”

  Jason threw him a disbelieving look. If he wouldn’t mind? Was Kennedy being sarcastic?

  Nope. Kennedy seemed perfectly serious.

  “Of course,” Jason replied.

  “You can send Jonnie your report. CC me.”

  “All right.”

  It wasn’t until they were once more in the car and heading back toward Wilshire that Jason asked hesitantly, “Are you—will you be—flying back down after your trip north?”

  Kennedy had once more returned to checking messages on his phone. He raised his head. His blue eyes met Jason’s, and it was like getting kicked in the chest. He could feel that look in his heart.

  He wasn’t imagining it. There was still some link between them. Something crackled as bright and hot as an energy field. Maybe it was nothing more than sexual awareness. But there it was, and it was real.

  Kennedy broke the connection. He turned his head to stare out the window. “No.” He sounded…removed, distant. “I don’t think it’ll be necessary. You’ll get me what I need.”

  Probably not intended to be a compliment.

  Or maybe it was. Who could tell with Kennedy?

  “All right,” Jason said. “Er…thanks.”

  For a time he was occupied in playing shuffleboard with the buses and delivery trucks and taxis clogging the crowded streets, but inevitably his thoughts circled back to the passenger in the seat beside him.

  Given how irate Jason had been at being conscripted into Kennedy’s investigation, it was odd that what he mostly felt now was a sense of letdown, even disappointment, that Kennedy would not be returning.

  But wasn’t it normal that his feelings should be confused? The situation was just…so strange. All those months. And when they finally did get together…

  Nothing.

  Worse than nothing. It was like they had never met. Never made lov— Oh, hell no. Not that. Never had sex. That’s what he meant.

  His anger faded, leaving him depressed, disheartened. What the hell had happened to change everything? He just couldn’t understand it. He was baffled.

  Yeah. Baffled.

  The traffic lurched to a sudden standstill. Jason’s phone vibrated. He ignored it. Around them, a few impatient drivers vented their frustration with honks, but the seconds continued to tick by. Pedestrians in every size, shape, and color crowded the sidewalk beside them, darting around the cones and sawhorses and hoses of the workmen tearing up the pavement with jackhammers. The pound of the pneumatic drills was not as loud as the silence stretching between himself and Kennedy.

  In disbelief, Jason heard his own voice—hesitant, slightly strained—break the silence.

  “Look. Did I…do something?”

  “No,” Kennedy said at once. And that was a relief. A relief that Kennedy did him the courtesy of not pretending he didn’t understand. In fact, it was as if he had been sitting there thinking the same thing as Jason. “It isn’t you. It’s nothing you’ve done or didn’t do.”

  He didn’t elaborate, though, so Jason—who already felt like he was out on a very flimsy limb—had to stretch still further.

  “Because I don’t understand.” Excruciating to have to put this into words. His face felt hot, and his heart was pounding as though this was a high-risk situation. He was not used to it. Not used to…caring so much. It wasn’t that he’d never been turned down before or even been dumped. It always stung, but it hadn’t hurt. Not really. Not like this.

  Kennedy didn’t answer immediately, and Jason couldn’t bear the silence.

  “Is it the promotion? Are you thinking that I would somehow trade on our friendship? Or that other people might think I was trading on our friendship?”

  “No,” Kennedy said, again adamant. “I don’t think that. And I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.”

  So what the hell was it? Because he was not wrong, not imagining thing
s. Kennedy was confirming it was over. But he wasn’t telling him why, and that really was the part Jason needed to understand. They’d talked two weeks ago, and there had been no hint that everything was not…

  Was not what?

  Okay? Fine? Normal? None of that applied. They’d had a long-distance relationship that was more like phone tag. In other words, they’d had nothing.

  And kudos to Kennedy for recognizing that fact and breaking it off.

  Although this was more like passive resistance than breaking it off. But whatever. Over. Done. Finito. Let it go, West. It only gets more embarrassing from here.

  A couple of excruciatingly long seconds passed while he tried to think of a way to change the subject, scrabble to the solid ground of…anything, for the love of God. How about them Cubs?

  The traffic ahead of them crept forward, and Jason eased off the brake, letting the Dodge roll a couple of inches.

  Because I care about you, Jason. More than I thought I could.

  His eyes blurred.

  Jesus Fucking Christ. Was he about to cr—tear up over this? No way. And sure as hell not when Kennedy was sitting right beside him. For God’s sake.

  Kennedy said suddenly, “I…like you. Nothing has changed.”

  Right. Except everything.

  Jason made a sound in the back of his throat that was supposed to be…not what it sounded like. Which made him angry and enabled him to get out a terse, “Right.”

  “But it isn’t…practical to try to…” Kennedy was picking words as painstakingly as somebody gathering shards of glass. “It’s not enough to…build on.”

  Wow. Maybe he was misremembering, but getting shot three times hadn’t hurt this much. And anyway, what the hell did that mean? It’s not like Jason had been pushing for more. He had accepted Sam’s terms. Not that Sam had really given him terms.

  He wanted to say something to the effect of what he had said in Kingsfield: Whatever. It was just supposed to be a fucking date.

  But of course it wasn’t just a date. Not anymore. Somehow they had managed to move beyond that never-to-be date to something more. Something deeper. And yet less concrete than even a date.

  It made no sense for him to sit here like his heart was breaking when they didn’t even know each other. It was ridiculous. Pathetic.