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“I don’t know if it’s of national importance, but apparently it’s a big deal in New England. Lapham was found six weeks ago, floating in the ornamental lake on his parents’ Connecticut estate. Same MO. An ice pick or similar weapon forcibly penetrating the brain tissue beneath the base of the skull. A painting which seemed to depict the crime scene was found beside the lake.”
Kennedy slid another couple of photographs his way. One showed the crime scene, and one seemed to show a painting depicting the crime scene. Jason studied both images, paying close attention to the portrait of the crime scene. Despite the bogus signature and ersatz brushstrokes, this was not Monet. But it was not a generic lake either. The painting captured the same fountain of four herons spouting water from their long bills as graced the photograph of the Laphams’ real-life water feature.
Kennedy commented, “This time the painting was completely cured.”
Jason absorbed that. “Premeditation. Obviously. Also access. The unsub was familiar with both the victim’s schedule and environment.”
“Yes. Good.”
Don’t patronize me, Jason thought bitterly. He could feel Kennedy willing him to look up and meet his gaze. Jason co
ntinued to study the photos. One thing you learned in the Bureau was how to hide your feelings.
After a moment Kennedy said, “My question for you is why Monet?”
And my question for you is why me? Not like there weren’t ACT members closer to home. The entire operation was based out of DC, so it wasn’t as if Kennedy couldn’t consult with agents every bit as—or more—experienced in art and art-related crimes as Jason.
“You want a disquisition on Impressionism in general or Claude Monet in particular?” Jason asked.
“Disquisition,” Kennedy said thoughtfully. “I might have to look that one up.”
Yeah. Not really. Despite the occasional drawl and cowboy-up attitude, Kennedy held a Masters in Criminal Psychology.
“Did the Laphams collect Monet? Was Earnst an expert on Monet? I can tell you that the Nacht Galerie doesn’t specialize in 19th century art. You won’t find Monet in any of their collections. They’re all about street culture and the avant-garde.”
“Go on.”
“Go on?” Jason uttered a short, slightly exasperated laugh. “I’d be guessing. Maybe you’re looking for a Monet wannabe. Maybe the unsub is hostile to the revival in figurative painting as exemplified by Neo Rauch and the New Leipzig school. Maybe the Laphams made fun of one of his paintings. Maybe Earnst wrote a bad review of his last exhibit.”
“That sounds a little too much like bad TV.”
Did Kennedy watch TV? Not that Jason had ever noticed.
“In this case, maybe The X-Files. What I’m saying is I find it difficult to believe Monet plays a significant role in your investigation.”
“Would those paintings merit an exhibition or a showing?”
“God, no. They’re bad. As in dreadful.” Jason made the mistake of glancing up. Kennedy was still watching him, and their gazes collided, steadied, locked on. The intensity of that hard blue stare felt almost physical. It made Jason’s chest ache.
And it made him angry because why was he feeling so much when Kennedy clearly felt nothing? Didn’t even seem to remember that there might be anything to feel.
“By the way,” Jason said. “Chris Shipka and the Valley Voice are reporting that agents from this office as well as a leading profiler on loan from Quantico are working in conjunction with LAPD to catch a serial killer targeting Southern California art patrons.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Kennedy sounded mostly disgusted. “I should have dropped that idiot off the terrace last night.”
“Just like old times,” Jason muttered.
To his surprise, Kennedy laughed. He shuffled his photos back into his file folder. “Speaking of old times, I’d like you to accompany me to the galleries Kerk visited during the past week.”
“Wait. What? Why?” That time Jason didn’t bother to hide his consternation. Spending a day or two driving around town—stuck in the close confines of a car—with Sam Kennedy? No thanks.
Kennedy said coolly, “Because I think it will be helpful, Agent West.”
Jason stood. Kennedy rose too, which did nothing to ease Jason’s feeling of being cornered.
“I don’t— I’m not— I’ve got a full caseload. I’m the only ACT agent on the West Coast right now, and I’m already spearheading the investigation into Fletcher-Durrand. That’s a major case. We may be filing charges. It’s…big.”
“I appreciate that,” Kennedy said smoothly. “But I think you’ll agree stopping a serial killer is also big.”
