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But why would anyone lock Jason in? Looking at it from that angle, Shipka was as likely a suspect as anyone.
Barnaby was speaking in a nervous, huffy voice—as though he feared they were being overheard? “This kind of intrusion is absolutely intolerable. My lawyers will be contacting your supervisor in Los Angeles.”
“That’s certainly your prerogative.” Jason added a belated, “Sir.”
Barnaby had turned away, but the flashlight beam pinned Jason once more. “Furthermore, I’d suggest you don’t continue to wander around this island in the dark, young man. This can be a very dangerous place.”
Without further comment, he strode off through the gravestones. The dog, Ambrose, abandoned whatever he was grubbing for in the stand of nearby bushes to streak after him.
Watching the pale blur of the dog, the hair on the back of Jason’s neck rose. Ambrose had been snuffling around the bushes earlier that afternoon. Had someone hidden out there spying on Jason? Someone familiar to Ambrose and Barnaby?
Was that person watching him now?
Chapter Fifteen
“Hey. Just touching base,” Kennedy’s recorded voice said. “Wondering how your interview with Durrand went.”
Standing in the kitchen at the lodge, Jason listened to the messages which had stacked up in his voicemail over the course of the afternoon, and contemplated the dark windows of the cottage next door.
Kennedy made a sound that might have been an abbreviated laugh. “I’m taking it for granted you managed to corral him.” There was a pause as though he didn’t know how to end the message, and then he disconnected.
Jason glanced down at his phone. That was just…weird.
That was all too much like it had been back when they were whatever they were. Kennedy couldn’t think they were going to continue on as pals? Right? Mr. Hot and Cold couldn’t be that oblivious. That, well, insensitive.
Yeah, he could.
He was.
From Kennedy’s point of view, there was no logical reason they couldn’t be friends. At the very least, they could be friendly. Kennedy, by his own admission, liked talking to Jason, and surprisingly, until the past week, they did always somehow seem to have a lot to talk about. Jason had enjoyed their discussions and occasional debates. He had liked Sam in addition to being attracted to him. He had not imagined that he really understood him, and he sure as hell didn’t understand him now.
It was just not possible for Jason to switch his feelings on and off like that. Not this fast. Maybe at some point down the line, but not now. Now he was still hurt and disappointed and a little angry. And maybe it wasn’t logical—maybe it was even emotionally immature—but that’s how it was.
He could—and would—work with Kennedy, but he did not want to be friends. Scroll left, Jason.
He turned his attention back to the cottage behind the hedge. Not a single window was lit. Not one. Was Shipka napping? Was he still out interviewing the Patricks? Had he left the island?
It was odd.
He listened to the next voicemail message.
George simply confirming he’d received Jason’s message from the previous evening that he needed to stay over in New York another day.
Two messages from his sisters—double-teaming him. The message after those was from James T. Sterling, known to his friends as “Stripes,” returning Jason’s earlier call.
“Hi, Jay.” Stripes and Jason had gone to high school together. Although they’d ended up sharing every available art class at Beverly Hills High School—back then they’d both dreamed of earning their living as artists—they were never close. Stripes regularly made a point of letting Jason know he had “sold out” by working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Got your message. Not sure what you’re really after. You can call me back.”
Click.
“Ass,” Jason muttered.
He didn’t think Stripes was going to be able to offer any real information or insight into Kerk’s death, but there was something uncanny about the way he always seemed to know all the juicy gossip before anyone else in town. One thing about Stripes, he was a good listener.
Jason listened to the rest of his messages, all having to do with other cases he was working.
He thought Shipka might have left word, but there was no message.
He glanced out the kitchen window again, but there was still no sign of life at the other cottage.
