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“Because I just had a Colt semiautomatic aimed at my chest! Anyway, it’s not necessary. I’m not even going to be here while I’m working this case.”
“Then it doesn’t do any harm to have Horace there, does it? It’s not as though we’re asking you to pay his salary. This is our gift to you. A gift we’re also giving to ourselves so we don’t have to worry so much about you. Think of Dad. Think of the Duchess. The constant worry is so hard on them.”
The Duchess was Charlie’s nickname for their somewhat formidable mother, Ariadne Harley-West. A woman whose superpower was complete immunity to worry, constant or otherwise.
“Oh boy. Turn the screws a little tighter, why don’t you?” Jason continued to argue as he emptied his bags and sorted through what he’d need over the coming week. The problem was, he didn’t have infinite time to spend squabbling with his overprotective family. He had a laundry list of things he needed to get done, including, yes, laundry.
He bundled his dirty clothes and carried them to the washing machine in the little back porch. “Fine,” he said at last, curtly, peeling off his T-shirt and tossing that too into the washer. He slammed shut the lid. “But Horace needs to be gone when I get back.”
“Of course,” Charlie soothed. “Of course, we can talk about it then.”
While Jason’s laundry ran through the washer cycles, he made himself a slightly stale cheese and pickle sandwich and phoned his partner, Special Agent J.J. Russell. Russell would be working the Ono case from the LA Field Office while Jason pursued the investigation on-site at UCLA.
“Yo. You’re back. It’s about time.”
Jason snorted. “I missed you too, Russell.”
“Yeah, but seriously. What a time to take a vacation.”
“It wasn’t exactly a vacation.”
Russell sighed. “Right. How was Holland? How was de Haan’s girlfriend?”
“Holland is beautiful. Crooked houses. Cobblestone streets. Canals and courtyards and coffeehouses.” Jason stared out the window at Horace, who had wandered down the stone steps to stare into the canal. What the hell was he doing down there? Fishing? “The girlfriend is heartbroken.”
“Yeah, well. De Haan should have thought of her before he went breaking and entering in the dark of night.”
Not exactly the warm and fuzzy type, Russell, although Jason wasn’t going to forget Russell had—in his own way—stood up for him.
“Well, we all make mistakes.”
“Tell me about it,” Russell said grimly. “Speaking of which, now that you’re back maybe you can let Shane Donovan know we do occasionally handle non-art-related cases.”
Special Agent Shane Donovan was Jason’s Northern California counterpart. Despite the fact that illegal activity in the high-end art market left the $50 billion industry vulnerable to numerous financial abuses, including money laundering and funding terrorism, there were still only twenty-five full-time agents on the entire Art Crime Team. The DOJ’s official view was that regulatory issues needed to remain the Bureau’s higher priority. Russell, for example, though partnered with Jason, was not technically a full-time member of the Art Crime Team.
“What’s up with Donovan?”
“Don’t get excited. Nothing to do with Fletcher-Durrand.”
Jason’s rocketing hopes fizzled. “Damn.”
The disintegration five months earlier of the case Jason and Shane had painstakingly built against the Fletcher-Durrand art gallery still stung. Jason had put his heart and soul into constructing a prosecutable case of fraud, grand larceny, and forgery, only to see the result of all that effort melt away like a sand castle at high tide.
Worse, one Durrand brother, if not both, was implicated in a series of gruesome torture slayings spanning decades, culminating in the death of a Los Angeles reporter. Their prime suspect, Shepherd Durrand, had fled to France on a one-way ticket before he could be arrested and officially charged.
J.J. added, “Though I’ve got to say, I still don’t see how this case falls under the Bureau’s purview. I don’t see how it’s even a case. If the family’s unhappy with the conclusion of the police investigation, they should hire a private investigator.”
Jason quoted, “The FBI may engage in undercover activities and undercover operations that are appropriate to carry out its law enforcement responsibilities, including the conduct of preliminary inquiries, general crimes investigations, and criminal intelligence investigations.”
“George already read me the Attorney General’s Guidelines, AKA the riot act.”
“In preliminary inquiries, these methods may be used to further the objective of inquiry into possible criminal activities by individuals or groups to determine whether a full investigation is warranted.”
“Did you memorize that on the flight? I’m just saying, I don’t see the point. There was already a full investigation. Did you look over the files I sent?”
“I’m still going through everything. But that reminds me. Can we get one of our own forensic pathologists to take a look at that autopsy report?”
“I’ll run it past George, but he’s going to say the same thing I’m going to say: wouldn’t it make more sense for the family to pay for their own autopsy review?”
“Maybe. I’d prefer to get a completely objective outside analysis.”
J.J. let out a long breath. “Okay. Whatever. But listen, West. I know this isn’t what the family wants to hear, but I think there’s a strong argument to be made that the professor offed herself.”
Jason frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“To start with, she had a girlfriend, a boyfriend, and wasn’t getting along with either of them.”
“Okay. She had a complicated personal life.”
“You have a complicated personal life. She was living out a soap opera.”
“She taught film studies; maybe she thrived on drama.”
“She was in debt.”
Jason thought of next month’s credit card bill. “Who isn’t?”
“Seriously in debt. She’d maxed out all her cards—and she had a lot of cards.”
“Financial strain. Fair enough.”
“Her book deal fell through.”
“She was writing a book?”
