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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.
