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Kennedy stared back at him. He wore a black suit paired with a crisp white shirt and a gray silk tie. It was the first time Jason had ever seen him in the traditional FBI uniform of power suit and tie, and the effect was pretty devastating. Nothing like the combo of rugged masculinity and top notch tailoring to weaken your resolve.
Even more devastating was the way Kennedy’s blue eyes seemed to light for a moment as though the unexpected sight of Jason gave him pleasure—before his expression returned to its usual impassivity.
I’ll be remembering what it feels like to touch you this way every time I see you tomorrow.
No. Do not start that.
Jason nodded curtly. He was struggling with how to address Kennedy now. “Sir” stuck in his throat, and “Sam” belonged to a past that increasingly felt like it had occurred in an alternate universe.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” Kennedy said. He was his normal, brusque self, so Jason had surely imagined that fleeting warmth in his gaze.
“Oh yeah?” Jason returned politely. He sounded as enthusiastic as he felt, but Kennedy gave no sign he noticed.
“Grab a cup of coffee, and meet me in your office. I want to go over a couple of things with you.”
Now here was something troubling. If Jason’s immediate boss, George Potts, or SAC Robert Wheat, or ADC Danielle Ritchie, or, frankly, any of his superiors had taken that high-handed tone with him, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. In fact, if eight months ago Kennedy had taken that high-handed tone with him—and he had, on a regular basis—Jason wouldn’t have thought much about it.
Now it raised his hackles.
That was illogical and unprofessional. This hostile reaction was nothing more than hurt pride, and it made Jason impatient and angry with himself.
So he gave another one of those tight nods and went to get himself a cup of coffee he didn’t want.
When he reached his office, Kennedy had removed the copy of Monet or The Triumph of Impressionism from Jason’s bookshelf and was glancing through it. He looked up at Jason’s entrance.
“This is nice.” His nod seemed to indicate Jason’s office rather than the book. Jason did have more artwork on his walls than agents typically bothered with. In fact, one of his favorite paintings—a fake William Wendt by Lucius Lux—hung behind his desk. The painting had been a thank-you to Jason for keeping Lux out of jail. That had been a good decision on Jason’s part because over the years Lux had developed into a useful informant.
Although he’d been suspiciously silent on the topic of Fletcher-Durrand.
“Thanks.”
Jason had only once known Kennedy to be ill at ease. That had been in Kingsfield when he’d come to say good-bye—the good-bye that had turned into hello to the possibility of something more. Something real. He was not ill at ease now, but he was not entirely comfortable either. He was watching Jason closely—Jason could feel his gaze even as he did his best to ignore it.
Kennedy replaced the book, taking a moment to study one of the framed photos on Jason’s bookshelf, and said, “This is the grandfather who had a museum wing dedicated to him last night?”
Not much of a guess given the World War Two Naval Reserve uniform.
“That’s right.” Jason sipped his coffee. He stayed on the far side of his desk, resting his hip on the flattop surface rather than taking his chair. He didn’t want to sit while Kennedy stood over him. Which was silly. They weren’t adversaries, after all. And yet, Jason definitely felt on defense.
“And that’s where you developed your passion for preserving and protecting art?” Kennedy asked.
Okay. Jason appreciated the effort at cordiality or whatever this was supposed to be, but enough was enough.
“I take it I’m off the taskforce?”
Kennedy’s brows drew together. “If you mean the investigation into Kerk’s death, there is no taskforce.”
“I see.”
Actually, he did not see.
Kennedy pulled out the hard plastic chair in front of Jason’s desk and sat down, facing Jason. “I’d like to get your thoughts, though.” He opened a manila file and slid a photo across the desk.
Jason set down his coffee cup and picked up the photo. He studied it.
Female, African-American, mid-to-late fifties, and—judging by the clothes and oversize jewelry she wore in the photograph—both arty and affluent.
He looked in inquiry to Kennedy.
