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Jason wasn’t particularly interested—this had been purely a fishing expedition—but Greenleaf’s hostile and defensive attitude continued to raise flags.
“When was the last time you spoke to Barnaby Durrand?” he asked.
“Barnaby? Years. I haven’t seen or spoken to him in probably twenty years.”
“Do you keep in touch with Shepherd Durrand?”
Greenleaf snarled, “I told you we’re not friends! Now unless you have a warrant, get off my property.”
Whoa. Jason considered Greenleaf’s flushed and angry face. Here was a guy who believed he had something to hide. That didn’t mean what he had to hide was any concern of Jason’s. People could behave strangely and unpredictably for reasons of their own, reasons that would not make sense to anyone else.
He said, “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”
Greenleaf stared at him without answering. His demeanor set off alarm bells for Jason. Again, it didn’t mean he had any connection to Jason’s investigation.
And it didn’t mean he didn’t have any connection…
Chapter Ten
There really was—or at least had been—a Paris Havemeyer.
The nineteen-year-old German exchange student had been working as a model and taking classes at the Art Institute of New York when he’d disappeared twenty years earlier.
Jason blew on his steaming mug of Campbell’s tomato soup and studied Havemeyer’s black and white photo. Several square-jawed images of the kid popped up in a Google search, though they all seemed to originate from one photo shoot. Havemeyer wore the same bulky wool sweater and retro Jheri Curl do in all five photos. His hair looked white blond in the pics, and his eyes were that colorless glitter that usually indicated blue.
Bad hair decisions aside, there was no question he had been a very handsome—even beautiful—young man.
And after several hours of searching, that was the extent of what Jason knew about Paris Havemeyer. He had existed, and he had disappeared without a trace—if internet forums were to be believed.
ASK SHEPHERD DURRAND!!! an anonymous poster advised in one such forum.
Whose Shepherd Durrand? came an ungrammatical and equally anonymous reply.
Anonymous #1 responded with a link to the Durrand gallery in New York and the comment THIS MAN IS A MURDERER!!!
Art should be free. This gallery sucks! riposted commenter “donuts.”
That was the extent of the exchange. As leads went, it wasn’t much.
Presumably Chris Shipka had more—a lot more than this. What was his connection to the case, given that he’d have been about ten at the time of Havemeyer’s disappearance? Further, this seemed to be an East Coast incident, and Shipka’s crime beat was the West Coast. California’s Southland, to be precise.
The more Jason looked into Havemeyer’s supposed disappearance, the more curious he grew about Chris Shipka.
He swallowed a mouthful of soup and considered.
A few finger taps brought up a heart-stopping list of bylines on stories featuring yours truly, intrepid FBI agent Jason West. Shipka was the crime reporter for the Valley Voice, so he wrote about other cases and ongoing investigations—he was energetic in his pursuit and prolific in his output—and it was abundantly, embarrassingly clear to Jason that a lot, certainly some of the most favorable press he received over the past couple of years, had been coming from one source: Chris Shipka.
It’s the president of your fan club, Hickok had joked, and that was maybe a little too close to the truth for comfort.
A lot of Shipka’s investigations seemed to revolve around the art world, so fair enough, but he wasn’t writing about Hickok’s clearance rate, and in his own unassuming way, Hickok was a legend.
Maybe FBI agents made for better headlines. Or maybe it had to do with Jason’s orientation. Maybe it had to do with something else. He’d felt a connection…no, that was the wrong word. He’d sensed Shipka’s…awareness. Yes. That was it. He’d picked up signs of interest from Shipka. So maybe it was that simple. Shipka personally found him appealing, maybe even attractive.
Or maybe it was something else.
Or maybe Jas
on was getting paranoid in his old age. Spending too much time with a guy like Sam Kennedy would make anyone start to see the dark side of every human interaction.
