“Kind of a sudden decision, wasn’t it? You didn’t say anything about flying back here last night.” Was it only last night that Shipka had stopped by his place? It seemed like a week ago. Jason’s own trip—or the not sleeping for two nights—was catching up with him.
“It was spur of the moment, yeah.” Shipka’s warm hazel gaze met Jason’s. “I realized it was a chance to talk to you on neutral ground.”
“Neutral ground? Now there’s a concept.” Was that what they called it nowadays? Jason swallowed another mouthful of wine. He knew if he raised his lashes, he’d find Shipka still watching him with smiling approval.
Well? What about it?
Since when was someone finding him attractive a problem for Jason?
Since Sam Kennedy.
But Sam Kennedy was no longer a factor. And the sooner he accepted that and moved on, the better.
Shipka was nice-looking. They had a lot in common. He was also, unofficially, a complainant in Jason’s case. But then Jason wasn’t planning on starting a relationship.
Actually, he wasn’t planning on anything. He set his plastic cup on the granite countertop and leaned back against the sink.
Shipka said, “Did you always want to be an FBI agent?”
“Nope. I thought the FBI was as uncool as the Boy Scouts. I wanted to be Indiana Jones. And paint.”
“I wanted to be Clark Kent,” Shipka volunteered.
“And instead you turned out to be Superman.”
Shipka laughed—and flushed. The flush was…endearing.
“I’ve got to ask,” Jason said. He was surprised at how reluctant he was to break the relaxed mood between them. “What’s your connection to Paris Havemeyer?”
Shipka was immediately serious. “There’s no personal connection, if that’s what you think.” He held Jason’s gaze. “My old journalism professor, the guy I consider to be my mentor, was Phil Belichick.”
“And Phil Belichick is…?”
“Have you ever heard of Jimmy Breslin?”
“Sure. Famous New York columnist. He chronicled the Son of Sam murders.”
Shipka made a face. “He wrote about a lot more than serial killers, but yeah. Okay. David Berkowitz sent him letters and because he published parts of them, Breslin was accused by the FBI of promoting and publicizing the slayings. My point is, Phil was San Diego’s Jimmy Breslin.”
“I don’t think I like where this is headed.”
Shipka refilled his glass and topped up Jason’s. “No, you’ve got it wrong. Phil was one of the best crime reporters on the West Coast, maybe in the country. He was even nominated for a Pulitzer prize.”
Jason took another swallow of wine. “What does a San Diego crime writer have to do with a German exchange student who went missing in New York twenty years ago?”
“Twenty years ago, Phil was hired by the Times-Herald Observer to be their Jimmy Breslin. He moved to New York and set about building a network of sources and informants like he had in San Diego. That’s how he first heard about this missing kid, a German art student who had disappeared after spending the weekend with an infamous pair of brothers well known to the New York art scene.”
“Go on.” Already the story was verging from the police report, but okay. That happened.
Shipka leaned toward Jason in his earnestness. “Phil believed what he was hearing from his informants. There were a lot of rumors about the Durrands. A number of people corroborated that Shepherd had been pursuing Havemeyer all over the club scene.”
“The Havemeyer kid was gay?”
“Yes. That’s part of what caught Phil’s attention. What drew his sympathy.”
Naturally. And part of what had caught Shipka’s attention and sympathy—it was part of what was now tickling Jason’s interest.
“Belichick was also gay?” Jason was just verifying, getting everything clear in his mind.