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“They would have to be fairly desperate to liquidate their art collection,” Barnaby retorted, “but that’s what they instructed us to do. And that is what we did.”
“These instructions were put into writing?”
“No. Hank phoned me up in May of last year and said he and Ros had decided to sell their collection.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“He was vague. He spoke of financial pressures, which I think we can all understand. I told him we would do the best we could. I specifically asked if they were willing to take payment in installments, and Hank agreed.”
“So…nothing in writing.”
“Nothing. Unless you count the check we wrote as the first installment on the Monet. The Ontarios were friends as well as clients. We were used to communicating by phone.”
The sudden mention of Monet gave Jason a moment’s pause. Unexpectedly, he was in excellent position to pursue Kennedy’s—the BAU’s—investigation.
“Can you provide a copy of that check, sir?”
“Of course I can.”
“Were other payments made to the Ontarios?”
“Only the first installment is due at this time.”
“On the Monet? But according to the Ontarios, the gallery also sold three Picassos and a Cézanne that were being held for them.”
“And your point is?”
“Are you saying you don’t recall the sale of these highly valuable works?”
“Highly valuable?” Barnaby said scathingly, “What do you imagine we are? Art.com? All we sell are highly valuable works. Do you know how many paintings we’ve sold in the past six months?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“Enough that I don’t know off the top of my head where we are with every single payment on every single transaction.”
This was good. Barnaby was on defense, beginning to bluster, starting to dissemble.
Jason said pleasantly, “I realize that, sir. I merely thought that since the Ontarios had filed charges, you might be a little more familiar with the status of their particular collection.”
Barnaby glared. “Then you’re doomed to disappointment, Agent West. We’ve sold many, many valuable and significant works. Works far more important than anything belonging to the Ontarios.”
Riiiight. So many Picassos, so little time!
“Just one more question, sir. I believe you had lunch with Donald Kerk last Wednesday. Did he give any indication that he was in fear for his life?”
Barnaby looked confused. “Don? In fear for his life? Of course not.” His expression changed. “Why?”
Shit. This was not feigning ignorance. Barnaby really didn’t know Kerk was dead. Unbelievably, Shepherd had not informed his brother that their old friend had been slaughtered on Santa Monica beach.
Which left it to Jason to break the bad news.
Happily, there wasn’t a lot of talking to bereaved loved ones on the ACT. True, the loss of a priceless painting was no laughing matter, but it still wasn’t like losing a child or a beloved spouse. Especially now days when so many people bought art strictly for investment purposes—sometimes not even bothering to take their acquisitions out of storage.
Jason said in that wooden tone they all got when they had to deliver the worst possible news—basically bracing against someone else’s pain, “I’m very sorry to inform you, sir, that Donald Kerk was murdered Sunday night.”
He knew it was crucial to observe and memorize every detail of Barnaby’s reaction. It wouldn’t be difficult, because Barnaby was stricken and silent. No automatic denial, no emotional outburst. He stood perfectly still, staring into the distance as though watching a train wreck from…not far enough away. He seemed mesmerized.
“How?” he asked finally.
