The Monet Murders Read online

  “It’s okay,” he said flatly. “You’re right.”

  He felt Kennedy look at him, but he kept staring straight ahead. He shrugged.

  “I should have told you sooner,” Kennedy said. “Made my position clear.” Had it been anyone but Sam Kennedy, Jason would have said there was guilt—regret?—in his tone. “But I like talking to you.”

  “Yeah. Well.” He was relieved his voice had steadied again, because inside he was a churning mess of confused emotion. Mostly pain. “I liked talking to you too.”

  Neither of them had anything to say after that, and the nearby crush and crash of broken cement filled the distance between them.

  Chapter Five

  Per usual, Barnaby Durrand was not taking Jason’s calls.

  After the morning he’d had, Jason was not taking any more crap from anyone, and the minute he finished lunch—or, more exactly, finished the remaining half of a stale Kind bar while typing up a list of hundreds of Native American artifacts recovered in a raid on a local Van Nuys residence to send to a professor of anthropology and museum studies over at USC—he headed straight out to the gallery in Downey.

  Traffic was moderate on the I-105 East, and he made the drive in just under forty minutes, pulling into the small parking lot behind the pink and white pseudo-Empire style structure.

  In continuous operation since 1903, Fletcher-Durrand was technically the oldest art gallery in Los Angeles. A second branch had opened in New York in 1938, but the California gallery and Fletcher-Durrand’s early support and patronage of the Plein-Air and Modernist California School was what had established the company’s brand and reputation. Currently they specialized in 19th and 20th century European and American paintings of “investment quality.”

  That said, the building looked more like a hair salon with a high-end security system than a reputable art gallery. Jason had been to the New York gallery once or twice, and that building was far more impressive. But despite its humble, even tawdry appearance, Jason remained convinced the Los Angeles office was where the real action was.

  He got out of his car, crossed the cracked and broken asphalt lot empty of all but a large blue Dumpster and a small red Toyota, and went around to the front of the building.

  “Special Agent Jason West to see Ms. Keating,” he said into the intercom and held up his badge to the security camera over the gated front door.

  There was no answer, but he did not have long to wait before a tall, red-haired woman of about thirty came to unlock the door.

  “Agent West, I told you this morning Mr. Durrand was not in the office today,” the woman protested as she pushed aside the security gate.

  “Yes, you did, Ms. Keating,” Jason said.

  “Well then…but…I really can’t help you, Agent West.” All the same, she stood back and allowed him to enter the building. It was very difficult for normally law-abiding citizens to tell law enforcement officers no, especially when the LEO in question was smiling and rueful and clearly taking it for granted he was coming in.

  Keating was nearly as tall as Jason and could have modeled for one of Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres’ odalisques. Creamy skin, doe eyes, and voluptuous build. She favored prim white blouses and dark-colored pencil skirts that somehow only served to emphasize that repressed sexiness. Jason suspected she had watched one too many of those 1950s office romances. The ones where the mousy and devoted secretary whipped off her spectacles, was revealed to be a raving beauty, whereupon the big boss instantly fell for her and, following a few comical misunderstandings, proposed marriage.

  “So where is Mr. Durrand today?” Jason asked.

  “I thought I— He had to fly back East this morning.”

  Jason said lightly, “That’s the third time he’s canceled on me. I’m beginning to think he has something to hide.”

  Keating could not take that impugning of her god lying down. She began to protest.

  “It’s nothing to do with the…the investigation. It’s personal business. A family matter. His mother’s not well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  And Mrs. Durrand would probably be feeling less well once her son was indicted for first and second degree grand larceny—in addition to other charges.

  Two months earlier Durrand had been accused by married clients Hank and Roslyn Ontario of secretly selling off three Picassos, a Monet, and a Cézanne that he was supposed to be holding for them—and then keeping the profits for himself. Since then, another client had come forward with similar claims.

  Jason believed there were more victims out there. He also believed many of those missing works had been stored and eventually sold through the Los Angeles gallery. But it had not been easy to build a case—a watertight case—against Durrand. Not all of Durrand’s clients kept accurate records. Further, although it was possible in the Ontarios’ case to prove Durrand had possession of the art, it was not possible to track down where it had disappeared to. A lot of business in the art world was still conducted with handshakes and notes on cocktail napkins.

  It didn’t help that Fletcher-Durrand had been around longer than the FBI—or that they had a sterling reputation in the art world. At least for now. The problem with the contemporary art scene was there was more money to go around than art. A lack of supply was not good for business. And when business was bad, it led people into temptation. Jason’s gut told him the rot at Fletcher-Durrand went deeper than selling off collections and forgetting to pay clients, but so far he’d been unable to find proof of anything.

  He’d tried hard to roll Keating, tried to impress upon her that as things stood, she was in very real danger of taking the fall for the gallery when the case eventually went to court, but either she couldn’t see her jeopardy, or her faith in the Durrands was stronger than her survival instinct.

  Maybe she was counting on the case never making it to court. And fair enough. Jason figured there was a good chance the Durrands would settle with the Ontarios, though so far they were hanging tough.

  “What about Shepherd Durrand? Is he available?”

  Shepherd was Barnaby’s younger brother and the junior—so junior as to be all but nonexistent—partner at the gallery.

  “Shepherd?” Keating said warily. “No. He doesn’t come in on Mondays.”

  Or any other day as far as Jason could determine. He said, “Then I guess you’re my last hope, Ms. Keating.”

  He could be reasonably charming when called upon, but Keating was made of stern stuff. She straightened her spine. “I’m sorry, Agent West, but my attorneys have ordered me not to answer any more questions unless they’re present.”

  Well, hell. She had finally lawyered up. Definitely not his day. Not personally and not professionally.

  “That’s good advice,” Jason said. “But actually I’m just checking up on whether Donald Kerk visited the gallery last week.”

  “No,” she said without hesitation.

  “You don’t want to check your—”

  “No,” she repeated firmly.

  “Hm. Okay. Well.”

  “If there’s nothing else—” She was interrupted by a loud buzzer, and an expression that seemed to be a mix of alarm and frustration crossed her face.

  Jason glanced over his shoulder at the front door, but no one stood outside the glass.

  “If that’s all,” Keating said desperately. She actually made a little shooing motion toward the door. Jason grinned at her.

  He suspected Barnaby was catching a later flight than he’d been led to believe. Or maybe Barnaby wasn’t on his way out of town at all.

  But the man who rounded the corner and stopped in surprise when he spotted Jason and Ms. Keating was not Barnaby Durrand.

  He was shorter, stockier, younger, and better looking than Barnaby. There was a strong family resemblance, however, and Jason knew this had to be the younger brother. The rarely seen Shepherd.

  “Oh!” Shepherd Durrand said. His dark eyebrows shot up, and he stopped in his t
racks. He was probably in his mid-forties but looked very fit and well kept. He looked like a guy who got regular manicures and facials. Which Jason knew something about since his brother-in-law the congressman was a guy who got regular manicures and facials.

  “This is the FBI,” Keating said quickly, as though she feared Durrand was going to launch into some incriminating statement.

  “Well, not the entire operation,” Jason said. “Just one of the cogs in the wheel. Special Agent West.”

  Durrand chuckled and moved forward to shake hands. “I thought that Dodge parked out back looked like an unmarked police car.” He had a firm grip and a pleasant, light voice. “I guess you’re closing in on poor old Barnaby.”

  “Mr. Durrand!” protested Keating. She threw Jason a horrified look.

  Durrand was sizing Jason up with a knowledgeable eye, and as their glances caught, it occurred to Jason that Shepherd might be gay. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on, but he felt an almost instant recognition.

  “Not at all,” Jason said easily. “In fact, I’m here on a completely different matter.”

  “Well, you’ve got my interest,” Durrand said meaningfully, and if Jason still had any doubts as to Durrand’s sexuality, that mischievous pucker of a smile put them to rest. “Why don’t you come back to my office?”

  Keating began, “But—”

  Durrand ignored her, and Jason followed him through a rabbit warren of narrow white halls to a small office in the back of the building.

  It was instantly obvious that Durrand did indeed work there and was not, as Jason had suspected, a partner in name only. A Mac computer sat on the desk. Art books and catalogs were jammed in the crowded shelves. The “incoming” file tray on the desk was empty, and the “outgoing” tray held a stack of neatly printed and signed documents.

  What really caught Jason’s attention was the large wood-framed oil on canvas landscape that hung behind the desk. Muted earth tones of sage and sand, a style vaguely reminiscent of Chagall or maybe Klimt, but the subject matter…

  “Is that a Reuven Rubin?” he asked.

  Durrand’s smile indicated surprise. “Very good. I’m impressed. Yes. That’s a Rubin. Hills of Galilee. Beautiful, isn’t it.”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “I think I fell in love with it because it looks like Northern California. You’re…an art collector?”

  “I can’t afford much of a collection on my salary. I’m with the Art Crime Team.”

  “Oh. Right.” Durrand’s smile fell. His brown eyes were earnest. “This situation with the Ontarios and Barnaby is absurd. We’re all sick about it. You have to understand something. The lawyers are telling Barnaby not to speak with law enforcement. It’s not that he’s trying to hide anything. We have every intention of fighting these allegations in court. If it really does come to that. But our lawyers are telling us not to talk, and we pay them good money for that advice.”

  “That’s the advice lawyers usually give,” Jason said. “But I can tell you right now that cooperation in the early stages of an investigation can go a long way to smoothing the journey in the final stretch.”

  “There isn’t going to be a final stretch.” Durrand looked unexpectedly grim. “You can’t imagine how painful this situation is. Ros and Hank were close friends. They were like family. That they would do this to Barnaby… It’s beyond belief.”

  “I’d love to hear your side of it,” Jason said. “If there’s a simple explanation—”

  “The explanation is Ros and Hank told us to sell those paintings and authorized us to accept payment in installments.” He hurried to add, “And before you say it, no, there was nothing in writing. No written instructions to liquidate the collection—just as there were no written instructions to take the collection in the first place. We were friends. Then. We didn’t realize a time would come when we’d need a paper trail.”

  Jason tried to look suitably sympathetic. “And was an initial payment made to the Ontarios?”

  “Yes.” An expression of discomfort fleeted across Durrand’s face. “To the best of my knowledge, yes. But there’s where you do have to talk to Barnaby. That’s all his…realm.”

  “I’d like nothing better.” Jason’s smile was quizzical. “Did he really fly back to New York?”

  “Yes. He really did. This morning. Our mother isn’t well. Barnaby is her favorite, so he’s usually the one who makes the trip. My sense of humor gets the better of me sometimes. Of course he’s not on the lam. When he gets back to town, he’ll meet with you. The lawyers will be with him, but you’ll have your meeting.”

  “Okay. I look forward to that.” Jason rose.

  Durrand stood as well. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Agent…? I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name. I have a horrible memory.”

  “West.” Jason clasped the hand Durrand offered. “Actually, there is something. Did you have a meeting with Donald Kerk last week?”

  Durrand’s hand tightened instinctively on Jason’s. “God. I can’t believe it. Yes. Or no. Not a meeting. We had dinner Friday night. He’s a friend. Was a friend. I just got the news a few hours ago.” He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Jason said. “Then Kerk didn’t come to the gallery?”

  “Well, yes. He did come to the gallery. But that was on…Wednesday, I think. Tuesday? No, Wednesday.”

  “What was the purpose of that visit?”

  Durrand’s brows rose. “Er…of course, we are an art gallery, and Don was in the art-buying business.”

  “Did he purchase any works?”

  “No.” Although the suggestion had been his, Durrand now seemed amused at the very idea. “We’re far too 20th century for Don. Mostly he came by to see the gallery and say hello. The three of us went to lunch afterward.”

  “The three of you?”

  “Me, Barnaby, and Don. At one time we were quite close. Barnaby— Well, anyway.”

  Jason raised his brows in inquiry, but Durrand shook his head. Question mark beside the equation of Don and Barnaby, then.

  “Would you say you knew Kerk well?”

  Durrand sighed. “As I said, at one time, yes. But people change. We—I—hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years. Ten years is a long time.”

  “Sure. How had Kerk changed?”

  Durrand gave another of those sighs. “He’s—was—a lot more successful now. I’m not saying he was arrogant, but he wasn’t the shy, reticent boy I used to know.”

  Ten years earlier Kerk would have been in his thirties, so he hadn’t been any kind of boy, as far as Jason could tell.

  Durrand added, “Also, his partner passed away nine months ago. I think he was missing Klaus and feeling retrospective.”

  So…pushy and lonely? According to Anna Rodell, earlier in the day Kerk had been upbeat and happy and “enjoying the vibe.” Had something happened between the visit to Bergamot Station and Fletcher-Durrand?

  “Partner,” Jason repeated. “Was Kerk gay?”

  “Bisexual, actually.” Durrand smiled meaningfully at Jason.

  So. Okay. That made Paul Farrell’s comment about Kerk sounding like he expected to get lucky all the more interesting.

  “Do you know who Kerk had lunch with earlier that day?” Jason asked.

  Durrand shook his head. “No idea.”

  “We know he was supposed to fly out of LAX tomorrow. Would you happen to know what his plans were for the rest of the week? Whether he was meeting with other old friends?”

  “No. I really don’t know. He was in good spirits on Friday. He didn’t mention his plans for the rest of his stay. We talked art. You know how it is.”

  Yes, Jason knew how it was. And he thought it strange and unlikely that Kerk wouldn’t have discussed his itinerary at all. He also thought Durrand had a way of offering and retracting information in almost the same breath.

  “I see. Thank you for your help,” he said. “If you should think of anything else, you can r
each me here.” He handed over one of his cards.

  “You never know, do you?” Durrand winked at him. Jason was a winker himself, but the open invitation of that deliberate flick of eyelid surprised him.

  “Uh, no. You don’t.”

  Still smiling broadly, Durrand tucked the card in his shirt pocket and patted it as though for safekeeping.

  Chapter Six

  “Here comes trouble,” George said with resignation as Jason strolled into his office later that afternoon.

  Jason dropped into the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of George’s desk and crossed one ankle over his knee. “Admit it. You’re living vicariously through me, George.”

  George rolled his eyes. “Yes. I confess. I secretly dream of being a workaholic single guy reading art books and eating TV dinners alone every evening.”

  “They don’t call them TV dinners anymore, FYI. Anyway, sometimes I splurge and get fast food. Hey, I want to fly to New York tonight. I think I might be able to corner Barnaby Durrand at the family estate.”

  George sat back, looking skeptical. “Is this your way of getting out of working with Kennedy?”

  “Hell no. Anyway, Kennedy’s gone.”

  “Oh? I didn’t realize.”

  “Something came up. He’s on his way north. He asked me to finish the interviews and send him my report.”

  George said in a fatherly tone, “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “No.”

  George grinned at Jason’s grudging admission. “Okay. Fill out the travel request, leave it on my desk, and I’ll sign it first thing tomorrow. How long are you planning to be gone?”

  “Three days including travel time ought to be more than enough.”

  “You don’t want to take someone with you?”

  Like every other field office in the country, they were suffering a personnel crunch, and ACT investigations were low priority at the best of times.

  “Not necessary. Durrand will either talk to me or he won’t.”