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“George—”
“No, Jason.” George was regretful but adamant. “No more discussion. You can’t seriously think I’m going to tell a BAU chief to go ask LAPD for help. Suck it up, buddy.”
Jason found Kennedy in SAC Robert Wheat’s office.
Wheat was fifty-three and gravely handsome in the style of golden age TV doctors. He looked kindly, wise, and sort of noble seated behind an impressive mahogany desk complete with fluted pilasters featuring acanthus leaf accents. The desktop was littered with framed photos of Wheat posing with various politicians and influential people. A large gold-framed portrait of J. Edgar Hoover looking uncharacteristically benign hung on the wall behind him.
The backchannel chatter was Wheat had set his sights on Ritchie’s position as Assistant Director in Charge and planned to be in her office by next December. Jason had no strong feelings on the power struggle either way. He made it a point to steer clear of office politics. God knew, he had enough of politics and power struggles both in his non-professional life.
Kennedy sat in one of the two wingback leather chairs facing the desk. His body language was relaxed. His expression, as he listened to Wheat, was attentive. Knowing how Kennedy privately felt about guys like Wheat, Jason felt a flicker of sardonic humor.
Kennedy glanced his way, and once again Jason had that odd impression of something lurking in the back of Kennedy’s eyes, some shadowy, unreadable emotion. In this case, probably gratitude for any interruption.
“Ah, West,” Wheat said with genuine pleasure. “Come in. Come in.” The SAC liked Jason and made no secret of it. Or, more exactly, he liked what Jason represented in his mind. Old money and useful political connections.
“I see you made the papers again.” Wheat chuckled at Jason’s pained expression. He said to Kennedy, “Young West here is one of our rising stars.”
“I know,” Kennedy said. Both his tone and his expression were cordial. As if schmoozing was second nature by now. Jason happened to know that was not the case. Kennedy hated that part of the job. “I had the pleasure of working with Special Agent West in Massachusetts.”
“That’s right,” Wheat said. “How could I forget?”
“When did you want to get going?” Jason asked Kennedy, equally cordial. If there was one game he knew how to play, it was that of social nicety.
“Whenever is convenient for you, Special Agent West,” Kennedy said in a smooth tone that sounded mocking to Jason—but obviously not to SAC Wheat, who beamed as though he could think of nothing more delightful than his two favorite people in the world going off to fight crime together.
“No time like the present.”
Kennedy nodded and rose. Wheat rose too. They shook hands. Kennedy followed Jason down the blue-carpeted hall and into the elevator.
As the elevator doors closed, Jason braced for sarcastic commentary, but Kennedy spent the ride down to the lobby checking messages on his cell, and the walk across the parking lot to Jason’s car, returning phone calls.
Nothing was required of Jason. Which—go on, admit it—was a little bit of a letdown.
Kennedy was taking the high road. He’d won this battle hands down, but there was no hint of gloating. Jason remembered that from Kingsfield. Kennedy could be polite and professional, or not so polite and professional, but he was never petty.
Right now he was polite and professional, and that was a relief.
Or should have been.
“Where did you want to start?” Jason asked as they buckled up.
Kennedy looked up briefly. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
Okay, so a concession to Jason’s “area of expertise,” or did he really not care? Jason started the engine of the unmarked 2014 Dodge Charger—only on TV did the FBI get to drive around in cool cars—and glanced at Kennedy.
Kennedy’s call had gone through. He said in a hard, flat voice, “Agent Russell? This is Sam Kennedy. What information do you think you have for me that can’t wait until I’m back in my office?”
Okaaay. That was the other part of the job Kennedy didn’t care for. People. But managing human resources was part of his job description now. A big part of it.
Jason backed out of his parking slot, trying not to listen to Kennedy slicing and dicing the unfortunate Agent Russell.
* * * * *
According to Anna Rodell at Bergamot Station, murder victim Donald Kerk had been charming but difficult to please.
Founded in Winter 2003, Bergamot Station referred to itself as a “virtual think-tank, simmering and boiling with creativity, always on the sharpest point of the cutting edge.” To mix a metaphor or three. They featured five local artists a month, owned two full galleries, and employed twenty-five “full-time creatives,” who were kept busy producing items for the large and lucrative gift store. It was one of the longest-standing galleries on the Downtown Art Walk and served as a hub within the art community.
