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Jason opened his mouth—and Shipka rushed on. “I’m suggesting we work together.”
As the roar of the cruiser’s engine faded into the twilight, Jason was able to answer in normal tones. “No, you’re not.”
“I am. Really. I think it’s a great idea.”
“It’s not a great idea. It’s fu—” Jason tempered his original thought. “Impossible. For one thing, we work for two different and occasionally adversarial organizations. For another we’re not the-the goddamned Hardy Boys.”
Shipka frowned, seeming genuinely taken aback. “Since when am I an adversary? You’ve only gotten good press from me. And okay, yes, we work for two different organizations, but ultimately, we’re just different branches of truth seekers. Right? We both want the same thing. We can make that happen if we pool our resources.”
This was ridiculous. Maybe funny on some level, but mostly exasperating. Jason could not have—sure as hell did not intend to have—Shipka looking over his shoulder while he worked this case, even if he did appreciate the tip he’d been given.
He said, striving for patience, “First of all, who says we want the same thing? Secondly, I work for the FBI. I have all the resources I need. Thirdly, what happened to worrying about your credibility if word got out you were working with law enforcement?”
Shipka’s jaw took on a pugnacious slant. “I’ll take that chance.”
“I won’t.”
Shipka stared into Jason’s eyes. “That’s disappointing.” His tone was flat. He shrugged. “But suit yourself.” He nodded to the small white cottage a few yards down, partially concealed behind hedges and trees. “That’s where I’m staying if you change your mind.”
“Shipka, I’m dead serious about arresting you if you interfere with my investigation.”
Sh
ipka met his stare without blinking. “And I’m dead serious about this being my story first. You don’t want to team up, fine. Your loss. But I’ve been working this case for nearly two years. I’m not backing off now.”
Great. The thing was, Shipka had been helpful. His tip regarding Paris Havemeyer’s disappearance might even prove to be crucial in breaking the case. It was too soon to know.
Also unknown was the extent of Shipka’s personal involvement. There were too many question marks when it came to Chris Shipka.
Jason nodded curtly. Shipka turned, shoulders squared, and marched off down the rocky beach. Jason watched him for a moment—hard to retreat with dignity when you were slip-sliding over rocks and mushy grass—then returned to the lodge. He phoned Bernadette at ITB once more.
“Anything on Shipka yet?”
She responded testily, “Heck no. You know how many requests I have ahead of yours? You didn’t say it was a priority.”
“Didn’t I? Can I upgrade my request with a pretty please on it?”
She groaned. “Give me a break, West.” But he could hear a speedy click-clickety-click in the background. She muttered, “All right. Hang on.”
He hung on, watching through the window as lights went on in the cottage across the way.
After a couple of minutes Bernadette said in a different tone of voice, “Oh. This is interesting.”
Jason felt a flash of alarm. “What?” he demanded.
“No results.”
Jason leaned back against the wall, happy no one was around to see his expression. “Funny.”
“I thought so.” Bernadette was still laughing when she hung up.
Jason was trying to decide between the second can of Campbell’s soup and the frozen beef stroganoff when he spotted Shipka leaving his cottage to begin the trek across the grassy divide to the lodge.
In the gloom, Shipka was no more than a swiftly moving bulky shadow, and Jason felt a little too much like Chandler Bing spying on Ugly Naked Guy, watching his progress through the kitchen window.
After all, Jason was the one running computer checks and doing internet searches on a guy who had so far only been helpful to his investigation—although, in all likelihood, Shipka was already done with the internet and computer searches.
He went to answer the knock-knock-knock at his front door, pistol jammed in the back of his waistband.
