“Gemini Earnst. Art critic.”
“Ah. Okay. I know the name. I’ve never dealt with her.”
“Well, you missed your chance. Three months ago her body was found floating in the fountain in the Stuyvesant Town Oval. Someone jabbed a tool, likely an ice pick, into the base of her skull.”
“Ouch,” Jason said automatically. Why the idea of an ice pick was more disturbing than an ordinary knife, he couldn’t say, but it definitely sent a chill down his spine. “Was a fake Monet found at the scene?”
Kennedy’s gaze was one of tacit approval. “No. At least, not initially. The painting showed up three days later. It was still tacky.”
“Still tacky?” Proof of the distracting effect Kennedy had on him, it took Jason a second or two to realize Kennedy was referring to the oils not being cured rather than the gaucheness of leaving bad art at a crime scene.
Kennedy seemed to be waiting for more. Jason said, “So the unsub decided to try to stage the scene after the fact?”
“Correct.”
“Which means…” Jason thought it over while Kennedy waited. “Unlike Kerk, Earnst’s death wasn’t planned in advance?”
“Among other things? Yeah. Maybe. Earnst’s may have been a crime of opportunity. Or the offender was still evolving, still formulating his ritual. Earnst may have been our unsub’s first victim, though I’m not convinced of that.”
If anyone would know, it was Kennedy. He’d spent nearly eighteen years hunting monsters. He’d literally written the book on them.
“Last night you mentioned three homicides.” And thirty seconds later Jason had been chasing down Chris Shipka. Which reminded him of the radio news report he’d heard on his way into the office. He was not looking forward to sharing that bit of information with Kennedy.
“Our second known victim.” Kennedy slid another photo across the desk.
Jason picked up the photo, examined it. The image was of a man in his early forties. Multiracial and strikingly attractive with pale, pale blue eyes and bronze dreadlocks.
Jason shook his head. “I don’t know him.”
On the surface there did not appear to be a lot connecting these three victims. Different gender, different race, different age, even different nationality.
“Wilson Lapham.”
“Never heard of him.”
“What about the Lapham Foundation?”
Jason considered. “Nope.”
“Bettina and John Lapham are wealthy art collectors. Wilson was their oldest son. He taught art and supposedly dabbled with painting on the weekends. That’s the only art connection we’ve found so far.”
The word ‘dabbled’ sounded weird on Kennedy’s tongue. But then he was not a man with much patience for dabblers in any arena.
“An art teacher, an art critic, and an art buyer?”
“Correct.”
“Is there anything else that connects them?”
“We’ve uncovered nothing so far.”
Jason nodded. He thought over Kennedy’s previous statement. “You said we.”
“The special agent I’ve assigned to this case is a friend of yours. Jonnie Gould.”
Jonnie. Right. She’d resigned from the Bureau following her marriage to a fellow agent, but after Chris had been posted to Quantico, Kennedy had made Jonnie an offer it seemed she couldn’t refuse. You could take the girl out of the Bureau, but you couldn’t take the Bureau out of the girl.
Jason stared down again at the photo of Wilson Lapham. “You said his parents collect art? How big is this Lapham Foundation?”