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“That’s not my”—at the last second he managed to switch job for—“area of expertise.”
“I’m well aware of your abilities,” Kennedy said, still infuriatingly cool and calm. “Your background and your contacts within the art world are exactly what I require at this time. And we both know you’re a fully trained and experienced field agent able to step in and assist other units when and if needed.”
He didn’t bother—maybe he was being tactful—to remind Jason that the Art Crime Team was still largely viewed as nonessential, even superfluous, by many who believed those resources could be better used elsewhere. Members of the ACT were subject to being reassigned to other squads and units as deemed necessary. And without warning—let alone debate.
So it was really just stubbornness—possibly tinged with bravado—when Jason said, “No. No fucking way.”
For a split second Kennedy looked startled. Then his eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “Excuse me?”
Jason had just enough control not to say what he was thinking, which was I’m not working with you again. “My case is at a critical juncture. I’m not jeopardizing it because you think your investigation takes precedence.”
That at least was safely familiar territory and something they’d argued numerous times during those late night phone calls.
If you could save a dozen people or one masterpiece, which would it be?
Jason always came back to which masterpiece and who are the people? Which amused Kennedy, although his answer had been a categorical people over paintings.
Okay, what about sculpture? Jason had countered.
That debate, and similar arguments, had been friendly and philosophical. This felt like a declaration of war.
Kennedy’s pale brows rose—and that derisive half smile was pure déjà vu. He said almost gently, “No? Well, I suggest you have a word with Supervisory Special Agent George Potts.”
“You’re damned right I will.”
Kennedy didn’t bother to respond. He opened Jason’s office door, stepped into the hall, and closed the door quietly, with great finality, behind him.
Chapter Four
“For the love of God, Jason, why are you making this so hard on both of us?”
George Potts was about Sam Kennedy’s age, but they could have been two different species. Or two different geographic features. Whereas Kennedy was like Mont Blanc—all high altitude, treacherous routes, and severe weather changes—George was like…a bunny slope. He kind of even looked like a rabbit with his pale skin and pale eyes and pale, thinning hair.
He had been a mediocre field agent but was actually an excellent supervisor. Jason liked him a lot. George was hardworking, fair-minded, and paid attention to details. In fact, sometimes—like now—Jason wished George would pay less attention to details.
“I’m not,” Jason argued. “I’m just pointing out that Gil Hickok can get Kennedy anything he needs.”
“Why the hell should a BAU chief have to go to LAPD for help when we’ve got our own resources right here?”
A perfectly legitimate question.
“Because my investigation into Fletcher-Durrand is at a—a critical juncture. Showing up with Kennedy on a completely different matter is going to complicate everything. It’s liable to derail my own avenue of inquiry.”
“Come off it.” George sounded pained. He liked Jason too, but…
Jason leaned forward in his intensity. “I’m serious. I’m already having trouble getting access to Barnaby Durrand. If I show up there with Kennedy talking about serial killers and fake Monets—”
“Look, it’s only a day or two. I agree it might be a little awkward at Fletcher-Durrand, but you know as well as I do you’re the obvious and best person to accompany Kennedy to these galleries since he’s so god-awful determined to visit them himself.”
“Hickok has more experience than—”
Abruptly, George lost patience. “I don’t want to hear it. I realize you don’t want to work with the guy—”
Jason sat up straight. “I didn’t say that.”
George looked heavenward. “You don’t have to. I get it. His reputation precedes him. Four minutes of him was enough for me. But it didn’t go so badly the last time. Right? He even made sure you got a commendation for the Kingsfield case.” George added doubtfully, apologetically, “I think he maybe even sort of likes you. In his own antisocial way.”
That was almost funny, though Jason didn’t feel like laughing.
