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Jason bestowed his clipboard on Boxner, who gave him another one of those narrow looks—did he really not remember Jason at all?—and followed Gervase and Kennedy to the chief’s SUV.
The chief’s radio was buzzing with updates as they climbed inside. The interior of the vehicle smelled of the little fake pine tree deodorizer hanging from the rearview mirror.
“I don’t believe we’re looking at the end result of a lover’s quarrel,” Gervase told them as he started the SUV’s engine. “I admit I’m curious as to why young McEnroe isn’t out here with the rest of us.”
Maybe because he knows everyone will be watching him, speculating, whispering. Jason didn’t say it aloud. He gazed out the window at the tangle of maple, birch, and oak trees, giant ferns, and flowering vines lining the roadside. You could wander a few steps from the road and lose all sense of direction in no time. However, Rebecca wasn’t a small child. She hadn’t wandered away from home and gotten lost.
“I saw you finally solved that case in Wisconsin,” Gervase said as the SUV bumped off the grass and onto the paved road. “Did you really throw the sheriff out the window?”
Kennedy said, “No. I thought about it plenty.”
Gervase laughed. “Well, I guess you’ll weather that okay. Your record ought to speak for itself.”
Kennedy didn’t respond, perhaps because he was conscious of Jason sitting behind them, SAC Manning’s eyes and ears. Not so much. Jason wasn’t going to let Kennedy throw anyone out a window, but he also didn’t plan on reporting back to Manning with a transcript of everything Kennedy said and did.
The towering trees overhanging the rural road diffused the bright sunlight, creating a hazy, almost surreal effect. Tonalism. It reminded him of Whistler’s nocturne painting, those dreamy, pensive landscapes. In fact, Whistler had been born in Massachusetts.
Through the fretwork of leaves he spotted the distinctive black hump of a familiar hillside outcropping. Memory slithered down his spine.
“Our boy lives a ways out,” Gervase was saying apologetically. “Come to think of it, here we all live a ways out.”
“Isn’t this near Martin Pink’s property?” Jason asked.
Kennedy’s head turned his way. Sunglasses met sunglasses.
“I guess you’ve done your homework,” Gervase said. “Yep. Pink lived over that ridge to your right. Lived there with his crazy old mother and his pothead brother. They’re all gone now. Even the house is falling down. Of course, it always was.”
The car hit a pothole.
“How long has McEnroe lived in the area?” Kennedy asked.
“Four or five years. Unfortunately.”
Same length of time as the Madigans, Jason noted. Which meant…probably zilch. Despite the sincere efforts of Hollywood writers to prove otherwise, there were actually a lot of meaningless coincidences in crime investigation.
Kennedy had turned that appraising stare on Gervase. “Trouble?”
Gervase dipped his head from side to side in a sort of noncommittal way. “We’ve got an ongoing situation regarding a little patch of so-called medicinal marijuana he’s cultivating on his property.”
At the lack of response from either agent, Gervase said, “McEnroe is twenty-two. Rebecca is seventeen. So yes, there is always going to be trouble in that kind of situation.”
They passed a stand of battered mailboxes and turned down another dirt road. The tattered green canopy of trees created the illusion it was much later than it was, that the afternoon was growing darker and chillier as shadows lengthened, reached out. The light had a tired, watery look to it.
Jason became aware Kennedy was watching him in the side mirror. The sunglasses made it hard to be sure, but he could feel that steady regard, even if he couldn’t see it.
He was newly, uncomfortably aware of how he must have come across earlier. Brash. Cocky. Contentious. Partly he had been reacting to Kennedy’s not even pretending to consult with him. Partly…he had been irritated with himself for not having the gumption to refuse Manning’s request. You didn’t earn promotions by refusing favors to head honchos—however ill-thought-out those requests might be. His irritation, impatience with the situation, had been acerbated by Kennedy’s obvious displeasure at being partnered with him. But why wouldn’t Kennedy be displeased at being saddled with what amounted to a handler?
A handler with a fraction of his experience with violent crime.
Jason winced inwardly. He didn’t like thinking he had been playing the role of company stooge. That was not who he was. Though very likely that was what SAC Manning was looking for from him. And it was probably how he appeared to Kennedy.
Well, you only had one chance to make a first impression and…no. So moving forward, he would try not to be such a prick. And maybe Kennedy, who was almost certainly a congenital prick, would stop treating him like the enemy. It would make the job easier for both of them—and allow them to better serve the people they were there to help.
The road jogged to the left, and they pulled through a gate that looked more like a car had busted a wide hole in the sagging fence. The dwelling was a single-story ranch style painted a dusty red. The doors and shutters were an equally faded blue.
The chief parked next to a white pickup truck, and they climbed out.
It was the kind of place where you expected to be greeted by a barking dog, but there was no dog. No sign of any life. Jason felt an uneasy prickle between his shoulder blades.
