“Sir, you need someone here from the BAU. You need someone who can really assist Kennedy—not that he needs it—and I need to get back to my own team. My own duties.”
“I can’t trust anyone from the BAU,” Manning said. “No one in the BAU is going to report back to me if Kennedy, erm, steps out of line. No one in the BAU is going to help me build a case for, erm, disciplinary action against Kennedy.”
Neither am I.
Jason didn’t say it. Part of being a team player was knowing when to keep your mouth shut. In any case, Manning was still talking. As the Mannings of the world were wont to do.
“Besides which, West, you know as well as I do that all members of the, erm, ACT are subject to being, erm, moved to other units when and as needed. It’s part of your, erm, brief.”
Yes. That was true. As understaffed as the Art Crimes Team was, and as important as their work was, they were widely viewed as desk jockeys who could be shuffled from department to department as needed. Cogs in the wheel.
“How long before the case wraps up?” Manning asked briskly into Jason’s silence.
“There’s no way of knowing, sir. It could be weeks. The unsub is out there. He could strike again. It’s not like we’re closing in on him.”
“Good,” Manning said. “The longer you work with Kennedy, the more potential, erm, documentation. Documentation is everything. Remember that. You’re smart, you’re ambitious, West. You’re going places. And I’m going to owe you a favor after this. Now I’m afraid I’m running late for a, erm, meeting. I thank you for this, erm, update.”
And with that, Manning rang off.
Good? Manning considered a serial killer running loose good news because it afforded more opportunity to build a case against one of the Bureau’s most effective agents?
Jason tossed the rest of his sandwich in the trash and walked back to the police station.
When he reached the office he was sharing with Kennedy, Kennedy glanced at him and frowned. “Everything okay?”
Three days ago this much indication of interest or even awareness would never have happened.
“Yeah.” Jason sat down. “I want to look at the original crime scene photos.”
Kennedy’s brows rose. “Do you?”
What was that careful tone supposed to mean?
Well, okay, maybe Jason knew what it meant. It meant Kennedy was vaguely aware of Jason’s sensibilities. And so what?
Jason said, “The mermaids. I want to see what I can find on them. There’s got to be an angle there.”
&nbs
p; “I agree. We were never able to find it.”
“This is what I do. This is my turf.”
Kennedy went swiftly through the crime scene photos and handed over a stack. Jason accepted them without comment. He got it—and appreciated that Kennedy was sparing him from seeing what had been done to Honey. It didn’t matter how hardened you were, how jaded you grew, it was always different—always going to be terrible—seeing someone you knew as the victim of violence.
He found a magnifying glass in desk drawer and began to go over the photos of Rebecca’s crime scene with careful, painstaking attention, focusing on every detail of the mermaid charm.
Round, three-dimensional, highly polished…no more than two inches tall. He reached for one of the older photos.
He felt a jolt as he studied the small, pale, circular carving. He knew this one. Recognized it as the charm that had hung from Honey’s key ring. Remembered it so vividly, he could almost feel the delicate cut of the tiny fish scales beneath his fingertips.
He closed his eyes. Opened them. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by memory or emotion. He reached for the next photo. This mermaid was a fraction smaller and carved from a darker material. The shape was more oval than round. The style was the same, but the face and the scales on the tail were slightly different from Honey’s mermaid and slightly different from Rebecca’s.
Not mass produced then. Hand carved.
He laid all six photos in a row before him. Yes, they were different, but not that different. And as far as the naked eye could tell, these were by the same artist.
The hair on the back of his neck rose.