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Jason pulled out his pistol, rest it on his knee, and prepared to wait.
All you need is a fresh perspective.
That was a little Art Crime Team joke.
It was also the truth.
As frustrated and angry as Jason was—in addition to being curious about whatever the end game was—it was surprisingly useful having time to do nothing but think.
First there was Kennedy’s—or rather, the BAU’s—case. A series of gruesome homicides by an unsub able to travel across the country. An ice pick had been the murder weapon in all three cases. The victims were all members of the art world, though possibly—probably? —another connection existed. Depictions of the murders, painted in the style of Monet, had been left at each crime scene—indicating premeditation. But more than that. The paintings, bad though they were, indicated a genuine interest in, and likely strong ties to, the art world. That shouldn’t be discounted.
Kennedy had not yet identified a main suspect—or at least had not shared that information with Jason—but the offender was organized, disciplined, and evolving. Motive unknown. There did not appear to be a sexual element to the crimes.
Shipka’s investigation potentially connected to Kennedy’s in that Kennedy’s latest victim, Donald Kerk, was one of Shipka’s witnesses. Shipka was looking into the twenty-year- old cold case disappearance of a German art student. Paris Havemeyer had last been seen alive by Donald Kerk and Rodney Berguan.
Had Shipka managed to interview Kerk or Berguan? He hadn’t said, and now that Jason thought about it, it was an odd oversight.
Shipka’s working theory was that Havemeyer had been killed by Shepherd Durrand at the Durrands’ remote family estate. There was very likely a sexual element to this crime—if there was, in fact, a crime. That was the first problem with Shipka’s case. There were any number of things that might happen to a young, sexually active gay man looking for a good time in 1990s New York City.
As a suspect, Shepherd Durrand did not, in Jason’s opinion, fit the profile of an organized, disciplined, and steadily evolving serial killer. But Jason would also be the first to admit serial killers were not his area of expertise. Shepherd seemed organized enough in his professional life. And he had previously been accused of kidnapping, torture, and rape, but those charges had been dropped. Still.
Shepherd’s movements at the time of Kennedy’s three serial killings needed to be tracked to see if he had an alibi for any or all of the slayings. If so, he could be quickly eliminated as a suspect, and the connection between Shipka’s investigation and Kennedy’s could be dismissed as pure, if tragic, coincidence.
Which still left a connection between Jason’s case and Shipka’s investigation.
Jason was investigating charges of fraud and first and second degree grand larceny against the Fletcher-Durrand gallery co-owned and operated by Barnaby and Shepherd Durrand. The motive here was plain and simple. Financial gain. Millions of dollars were at stake.
The complainants had specifically named Barnaby in their filing, but in Jason’s opinion, Shepherd was as good or even better a candidate for the defrauding of Fletcher-Durrand clients. Although Barnaby had certainly reacted with guilty knowledge when questioned.
Jason also suspected Shepherd of commissioning and selling forged paintings, though so far that was only a suspicion. He had absolutely no proof besides a single faked painting, the odd, edgy behavior of a trusted informant, and his own gut instinct.
Donald Kerk again provided a connection, this time between Jason’s case and the BAU’s, in that he had seen the Durrand brothers—or at least Shepherd—twice in the days before his death.
In conclusion?
All three cases revolved around the art world.
The Durrands, through their connection to Donald Kerk, seemed at least peripherally attached to all three cases.
What else?
Sitting here locked in a fucking mausoleum was not getting him any further ahead in his investigation.
His jacket and jeans, though plenty warm when he was hiking through the woods, was not heavy enough for sitting in a stone cell in winter.
He was starving. He would kill for one of those shriveled, dried-out petroleum-based blueberry muffins now.
Sam Kennedy—
No. Do not go there.
By five o’clock Jason was ready to commit a murder of his own.
He had now been imprisoned for over four hours, and he was just about ready to try shooting the lock off the gate. Just about. He still vividly recalled what it felt like to be shot, and that was a real disincentive. A ricochet in a small enclosed stone space was a high possibility, and even if he was ready to gamble on his own safety, he couldn’t risk that Tiffany window.
Repeated efforts to use his phone had failed.
The good news was the fog had dissipated. The bad news was it had started to rain.
