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“Shepherd?” Keating said warily. “No. He doesn’t come in on Mondays.”
Or any other day as far as Jason could determine. He said, “Then I guess you’re my last hope, Ms. Keating.”
He could be reasonably charming when called upon, but Keating was made of stern stuff. She straightened her spine. “I’m sorry, Agent West, but my attorneys have ordered me not to answer any more questions unless they’re present.”
Well, hell. She had finally lawyered up. Definitely not his day. Not personally and not professionally.
“That’s good advice,” Jason said. “But actually I’m just checking up on whether Donald Kerk visited the gallery last week.”
“No,” she said without hesitation.
“You don’t want to check your—”
“No,” she repeated firmly.
“Hm. Okay. Well.”
“If there’s nothing else—” She was interrupted by a loud buzzer, and an expression that seemed to be a mix of alarm and frustration crossed her face.
Jason glanced over his shoulder at the front door, but no one stood outside the glass.
“If that’s all,” Keating said desperately. She actually made a little shooing motion toward the door. Jason grinned at her.
He suspected Barnaby was catching a later flight than he’d been led to believe. Or maybe Barnaby wasn’t on his way out of town at all.
But the man who rounded the corner and stopped in surprise when he spotted Jason and Ms. Keating was not Barnaby Durrand.
He was shorter, stockier, younger, and better looking than Barnaby. There was a strong family resemblance, however, and Jason knew this had to be the younger brother. The rarely seen Shepherd.
“Oh!” Shepherd Durrand said. His dark eyebrows shot up, and he stopped in his t
racks. He was probably in his mid-forties but looked very fit and well kept. He looked like a guy who got regular manicures and facials. Which Jason knew something about since his brother-in-law the congressman was a guy who got regular manicures and facials.
“This is the FBI,” Keating said quickly, as though she feared Durrand was going to launch into some incriminating statement.
“Well, not the entire operation,” Jason said. “Just one of the cogs in the wheel. Special Agent West.”
Durrand chuckled and moved forward to shake hands. “I thought that Dodge parked out back looked like an unmarked police car.” He had a firm grip and a pleasant, light voice. “I guess you’re closing in on poor old Barnaby.”
“Mr. Durrand!” protested Keating. She threw Jason a horrified look.
Durrand was sizing Jason up with a knowledgeable eye, and as their glances caught, it occurred to Jason that Shepherd might be gay. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on, but he felt an almost instant recognition.
“Not at all,” Jason said easily. “In fact, I’m here on a completely different matter.”
“Well, you’ve got my interest,” Durrand said meaningfully, and if Jason still had any doubts as to Durrand’s sexuality, that mischievous pucker of a smile put them to rest. “Why don’t you come back to my office?”
Keating began, “But—”
Durrand ignored her, and Jason followed him through a rabbit warren of narrow white halls to a small office in the back of the building.
It was instantly obvious that Durrand did indeed work there and was not, as Jason had suspected, a partner in name only. A Mac computer sat on the desk. Art books and catalogs were jammed in the crowded shelves. The “incoming” file tray on the desk was empty, and the “outgoing” tray held a stack of neatly printed and signed documents.
What really caught Jason’s attention was the large wood-framed oil on canvas landscape that hung behind the desk. Muted earth tones of sage and sand, a style vaguely reminiscent of Chagall or maybe Klimt, but the subject matter…
“Is that a Reuven Rubin?” he asked.
Durrand’s smile indicated surprise. “Very good. I’m impressed. Yes. That’s a Rubin. Hills of Galilee. Beautiful, isn’t it.”
