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In fact, it did not look like anyone had been home for a long time.
Jason met Hickok on the curb in front of the house and they walked up the cement driveway together.
“He’s been working as my informant for the past four years,” Hick had said on the phone. “If he’s playing me, I want to know.”
After eight months’ acquaintance with Sam Kennedy, it did go through Jason’s brain that this might be some kind of elaborate trap, but Hickok seemed his normal self—possibly a little cooler than usual, but there was nothing like the insinuation you might be capable of murder to put a crimp in a friendship—and the street had Neighborhood Watch notices posted every few yards. Not a likely place for an ambush.
Jason and Hickok reached the brick door stoop. The front door screen was plastered with real estate flyers, business cards, pizza delivery door hangers.
Hickok said wearily, “Goddamn it.”
Jason turned back to study the dying yard. “If the grass is dead in February, they’ve been gone a while. At least a month.”
“Here’s a gas shut-off notice,” Hickok muttered. “And here’s another for the water.”
“They’re not planning on coming back.”
Hickok swore again and led the way through the side gate and around to the back yard. The grass and roses were in the same state of neglect. A rusted patio set and a broken barbecue sat on a cement slab. Jason went to the sliding glass doors, cupped his hands and peered inside.
He could see a large empty room with a fireplace at one end. A single furry yellow slipper and a long cardboard tube, as used for wrapping paper, were the only signs anyone had ever lived there.
“Well, hell,” Jason said.
That was putting it mildly. Not only was his grand larceny case on life support, it looked like his forgery case was DOA as well.
“They won’t go far,” Hickok said. “Not for long, anyway. All her family’s here.” He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “I wonder what spooked him.”
“At a guess? An FBI investigation.”
“You don’t know he’s your forger,” Hickok said. “Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Sure.”
“But I will say this, Doody’s got the chops. He’s the real deal. As good or better than your boy, Lux.”
“Good enough to copy a Reuven Rubin?” Jason asked.
Hickok gave an acrid laugh. “Are you kidding me? He specialized in Eretz-Yisrael style. That’s what got him into trouble on Ebay.”
“What about Monet?”
Hickok shook his head. “Doody didn’t paint that piece of crap. He may be a criminal, but he’s not a monster.”
Jason snorted. “Yeah. Well.”
Hickok eyed him for a moment. “You win some, you lose some, Prince Charming. Cases like this can take years to wrap up. You know that. Or you should. Though you’ve been pretty damned lucky so far.”
“I know.” It wasn’t just the thought of all those months of work going down the drain, it was the thought that Shipka’s work on the Havemeyer case would go with them. Maybe not. Maybe Sam would solve that one too on his way to solving the Monet murders. It wasn’t as comforting a thought as it should have been. Jason felt like he owed Shipka one.
That one, in particular.
* * * * *
Special Agent J.J. Russell barreled out of George’s office as Jason was about to knock.
Russell glared at Jason, and swept past.
“What’s his problem?” Jason asked, continuing into George’s office.
