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They parked and got out of the car without further conversation.
Jason’s phone rang as they walked around the side of the building.
“And another thing,” Kennedy murmured.
Jason threw him a harassed look, but it was not SAC Manning this time. It was one of Jason’s dealer contacts. Priya Ort-Rossington ran an upscale folk art gallery in New York specializing in woodcarving and sculpture.
“Agent West, what a nice surprise to hear from you. Gerda and I heard about your being shot. Oh my God. So awful. We were in shock. We’re so glad you’re back.”
Jason relaxed. He had history with Priya and her partner—business and romantic partner—Gerda Ort. Two years ago art thieves had used their gallery to fence stolen Haida argillite artifacts. Jason had managed to apprehend the thieves and recover the carvings, while keeping the gallery’s name out of the press—thereby earning Priya and Gerda’s undying gratitude.
“Thanks,” Jason said. “It’s good to be back.”
“As it turns out, I actually have information for you on the artist you were inquiring after.”
Jason stopped walking. “You know who the artist is?”
“I’m almost positive I do. In fact—this is what’s so bizarre—Gerda and I were discussing him a few days ago, wondering whatever happened to him.”
“What’s the name of this artist?”
“Kyser. Jeremy Kyser. What’s so interesting about him is he was actually a doctor. A psychologist, I think. He did these wonderful, detailed carvings in his spare time.”
Kennedy walked back to where Jason stood. He watched Jason closely.
“Dr. Jeremy Kyser,” Jason repeated. He nodded at Kennedy.
Kennedy’s expression changed.
“Yes. I don’t think he had any expectation of becoming a professional artist. He said his work was very stressful, and he found carving a way of relaxing, of centering his mind. You saw the work. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were traditional netsuke. A very gifted amateur artist.”
“Do you have contact information on Kyser?”
“Yes, I do, but it might be out of date. As I said, we haven’t heard from him in years. For a while he used to regularly bring us his carvings, and they always sold very well. Then all at once he stopped. He didn’t respond to phone calls or emails. That’s the artistic temperament for you, though usually when artists are selling they don’t wander off without a word.”
“No,” Jason said. “They don’t. What was that contact info?”
Rustling sounds on the other end of the line. “Here we go. Dr. Jeremy Kyser. He’s in Massachusetts. Or used to be. I remember he lived in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. A place called Old Mill Pond.”
“In Hampden County?” He couldn’t believe it.
Priya laughed. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know that.” She rattled off the address, and Jason typed it into his notes.
“This is very helpful. Thank you, Priya.”
“Oh, our pleasure. We’re so happy to help. When do you think you’ll be in New York again?”
“It’s hard to say.” Jason chitchatted with Priya for another minute or two, tongue on automatic pilot, eyes on Kennedy. His mind raced ahead. All this time he was right under our noses.
At last he was able to disconnect.
“And?” Kennedy demanded.
Jason said, “Dr. Jeremy Kyser lives—or at least used to live—less than thirteen miles from here.”
Chapter Seven
teen
