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As promised, Shipka had sent his notes on his investigation into Paris Havemeyer’s disappearance. The email read: Even The Man does not live by blueberry muffins alone. Dinner at my place. Five o’clock.
Jason stared at it for a long time.
There had been no chance that he’d conveniently transfer his affections from Sam to Chris Shipka, but he wished they’d had that dinner. He wished he had been there to stop the attack on Shipka.
He was almost convinced he had been locked up in order to ensure two things: that he would be unable to interfere in the attack on Shipka and that he would have no alibi for Shipka’s murder. Almost. The problem with that theory was it entailed both foreknowledge and a plan—premeditation—on someone’s part.
Foreknowledge that included knowing who both Jason and Shipka were and that they were working together. That wasn’t impossible. Barnaby’s entire household probably knew who Jason was and why he was on the island. And Shipka had been to Cape Vincent a couple of times previously, asking questions.
The real hitch was the plan to get rid of Shipka. Nobody could know that Jason and Shipka would go their separate ways that day or that Jason would walk into that crypt like a complete dumbass.
The only way that scenario worked was if Kennedy’s unsub had tracked either Jason or Shipka to the island—and in either case that meant the unsub was someone closely following the investigation. All three investigations, in fact. Jason’s investigation into Fletcher-Durrand, the BAU’s investigation into the Monet murders, and Shipka’s private crusade to find out what had happened to Paris Havemeyer.
That was pretty hard to believe. For one thing, the MO was completely different. No fake Monet with a death scene. No clean, cold, merciless ice pick to the back of the brain. Whoever had gone after Shipka had done so in a frenzy of rage.
That said, it was even harder to believe Shipka had fallen victim to some random homicidal maniac.
Jason glanced at the bedside clock. George had still not called back.
It didn’t necessarily mean anything. George might still be talking to the SAC, or the ADC, or even Karan Kapszukiewicz in DC. Come to think of it, Jason should give Karan a call as well and update her on everything that had happened.
But later.
Kennedy was correct about this too. Right now, what Jason needed more than anything was sleep.
He fell back on the pillows, closed his eyes, and was instantly out.
Chapter Seventeen
Blood pooled from beneath the bottom of the door.
Dark and glossy as crimson. You could almost mistake it for oil paint, if not for the smell.
He knew what lay behind that door and knew he had to open it. But sick dread paralyzed him. He couldn’t make himself reach for the handle. Couldn’t walk away either. Then from inside the closet, Shipka began to pound on the door, louder and louder—
With a gasp, Jason sat up, heart in his mouth, hair in his eyes. It took him a bewildered moment to realize someone was pounding. Banging on the hotel room door. He jumped off the bed and stumbled to the door.
Kennedy stood in the hallway, scowling ferociously. The ferocity faded as he took in Jason’s sleep-dazed appearance.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Kennedy was still frowning, studying him closely. “I’ve been out here knocking for almost a full minute.”
“I was just…out. I’m fine. Have you heard anything?”
It didn’t look like Kennedy had slept. In fact, Kennedy didn’t appear to have even taken his jacket off since they’d arrived. Had he been on the phone the whole time?
“We’ve got the all-clear to head out to the island.”
That dispelled the lingering cobwebs. “Great. Let me get my shoes on.”
Kennedy held the door as Jason grabbed his boots, fastened his holster, and reached for his jacket. “We can hire a boat at Seaport Sloops. I wanted to talk to the owner anyway.”
“Okay. Let’s get this done.”
At the stern note in Kennedy’s voice, Jason looked up quickly. “You don’t have to be involved in this. It’s my mess. I can clean it up on my own.” As a matter of fact, he’d prefer to do it on his own.
