“Correct. And there’s more. Kerk was also at that party. In fact, he was one of the last two people to see the kid alive. He filed the MPR.”
“I see. You’re taking it for granted this missing art student is dead?”
“Well, yes,” said Jason. “I do think he’s dead.”
“Meanwhile, you believe that the Durrands are guilty of fraud and grand larceny, and you’re working to build a case against them that will hold up in court.”
It wasn’t a question, but Jason answered, “Also correct.”
Another pause while Kennedy considered. He said finally, neutrally, “You might be onto something.”
It was a relief to know he wasn’t blowing a couple of weird parallels out of proportion. Jason admitted, “It could just be a coincidence.”
“Sure. It could. Life is full of coincidence. Or we might be looking at the faint outline of an actual pattern. It’s too soon to know.”
“How did you want to proceed?” Nothing Jason had discovered that day helped his own case. He did not want to lose control of his investigation, but inevitably BAU’s claims would take precedence.
To his surprise, Kennedy said, “Continue to pursue your line of investigation, and keep me posted on your progress. I’m reassigning Agent Gould for the time being.”
“Right. Okay,” Jason said, doubtfully. Just what he did not want and did not need—staying in regular contact with Kennedy.
In response to whatever he heard in Jason’s tone, Kennedy said, “The situation up here is more complicated than I anticipated. And since I can’t be everywhere at once—”
“Since when?” It popped out, a leftover reflex from their previous interactions.
Kennedy laughed, which was unexpected. As was the way Jason’s heart lifted. He had liked knowing he could make Kennedy laugh. Liked the fact that Kennedy let down his guard with him. He still liked it—and that was just sad.
“I’ve got to go,” he said.
“Right. I’ll talk to you later.”
Not if I can help it, Jason thought, and disconnected. These days, email was about as close as he wanted to get to BAU Chief Sam Kennedy.
It was past five o’clock, and he was researching everything he could find on the provenance of Paul-César Helleu’s Lady with a White Umbrella—he had to start somewhere in tracking down these alleged multiple shareholders in the painting—when Jason caught the faint buzz of an approaching motorboat.
He rose from the table in the dining area and went to the window facing the mist-shrouded dock. In the purple-gray twilight he could just make out the swift approaching outline of a white cruiser.
Barnaby Durrand arriving home early? But no. Barnaby would land at his own private dock. As would any of the island’s residents. So…a stray vacationer renting an off-season cottage?
He swallowed a mouthful of coffee, watching as the boat drew up at the dock. There were two men aboard. Jason set his coffee cup down, frowning, and peered more closely through the gently misting glass.
He didn’t recognize the man at the helm, but the passenger was Chris Shipka.
Chapter Eleven
“Hey!” Shipka called in greeting as he spotted Jason striding down the hillside toward the deck. His smile slipped at the noticeable lack of welcome on Jason’s face.
Shipka turned to wave to the boat’s captain. The captain raised a hand in answer and called something, lost beneath the rumble of the boat’s motor. Shipka picked up his bags.
The captain goosed the engine, doing a back and fill maneuver to rotate the cruiser from the dock. The water churned green and foamy, slopping over the boards, turning the faded posts dark.
“This is a surprise.” Jason reached the end of the dock at the same time as Shipka.
Shipka called back, “I know. Look. Before you get too worked up, this was my story first. I have every right to be here.”
“And I have every right to have your ass thrown in jail if you interfere in my investigation.”
Shipka gave him another of those pained looks. “I’m not going to interfere. I’m trying to help you.”