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on…and a feeling in his bones that there was something to the whispers. Call it gut instinct—that was what Sam had called it when they’d talked about hunches and intuition and that sixth sense the best law enforcement officers developed over the years.
“Always go with your gut,” Sam had advised. “Better red than dead.”
Well, Jason’s gut was telling him that there was something here, something not right, something that needed to be, at the least, followed up on.
Before he could change his mind, he phoned Kennedy’s cell, hearing out the familiar message with a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Hi.” Once again he was confronted with the difficulty of what to call his former…friend. “It’s me.”
In a way this was worse, given that the phone had been their direct line of communication. Once upon a time he had been comfortable in the knowledge that if he called, sooner or later Kennedy was going to call back. And that however lousy Jason’s day, he would be smiling by the end of that conversation.
Jesus. Get over it, West.
He said briskly, “I’m in upstate New York—on Camden Island near Cape Vincent—to interview Barnaby Durrand, the primary suspect in my fraud case. Anyway, I’ve been following up a couple of leads, and I think it’s possible our two investigations may intersect. I spoke to that reporter from the Valley Voice before I left LA, and Shipka believes one or both of the Durrands may be involved in the cold case disappearance of a German art student about twenty years ago. I’ve come across information that might support that theory. It’s a tenuous connection, but I still think it’s worth pursuing.”
God. He was starting to ramble.
“Obviously, that’s your call.”
Worse, maybe it sounded like he was hoping for continued interaction? He wasn’t. He didn’t want anything. Except to do his job to the best of his ability.
Jason concluded formally, idiotically, “Thank you,” and disconnected.
That was at three thirty.
By three thirty-one he was questioning why he had not phoned Jonnie with his information, given that Kennedy had told him she was taking point on the case.
Was he hoping for further interaction with Kennedy? If so, that was just embarrassing.
At three forty-five his cell rang. Kennedy’s number flashed up, and Jason’s heart seemed to light up with it.
“West,” Jason answered stiffly, formally, as if he didn’t know who was on the other end of the call—but assumed the worst.
Kennedy said crisply, “Sorry for the delay. I was in a meeting.”
This uncharacteristically courteous response had the reverse effect of further unsettling Jason. Since when did Kennedy concern himself with inconveniencing or irritating others—including Jason?
He said automatically, forgetting for a moment they were no longer on such casually intimate terms, “Right. How’s it going up there?”
“The situation is not what I was led to believe.” Judging by Kennedy’s implacable tone, someone would pay for that. “What have you got?”
“A tenuous connection. And I do mean tenuous. In fact, I’m not sure I should have brought it to your attention. Not yet anyway.”
Kennedy said—his tone unnervingly tolerant, “Noted. Let’s hear what you’ve got, West.”
“Mostly a rumor the Durrands may be behind the disappearance of a German art student twenty years ago. The kid disappeared after a private party at the Fletcher-Durrand gallery.”
Kennedy was a silent for a moment. “You got this lead from the reporter who’s making a career out of covering your cases?”
“Chris Shipka at the Valley Voice tipped me off, yes. But I’ve seen the missing person report.”
“I see.”
“I know what you’re thinking, and again, I realize the link is—”
Kennedy said crisply, “We’ve got a dead German art dealer who met with—and had a long-standing connection with—two American art dealers who may be implicated in the earlier disappearance of another German, also involved in the art scene. Is that correct?”
Nice to know his emails were not going unread. As usual Jason was impressed with Kennedy’s swift and concise assessment of the pertinent facts.
