“Nothing?” Hickok asked.
“Not so far. We’re waiting on the night manager to show up and open the room safe.”
If there was anything more than cash or maybe traveler’s checks in that safe, Jason would be very surprised. But then it was a night for surprises.
Sam appeared around the corner, carrying Kerk’s brown leather day planner. “According to this, Kerk was at Bergamot Station, Baus Wirther & Kimmel, Stripes, Fletcher-Durrand Gallery, and 30303 Art Gallery and Lounge this week.” He looked in inquiry at Jason and Hickok.
Hickok whistled. “Heavy hitters all of them.” He glanced at Jason. “Aren’t you guys investigating Fletcher-Durrand?”
Jason nodded. In answer to Sam’s look, he said, “We’re looking into customer allegations of fraud and forgery. It’s early days, though, and we’re talking about the oldest and still one of the most prestigious galleries in California.”
“That’s interesting,” Sam said, “but I doubt this homicide has anything to do with fraud or forgery. Do any of these museums handle or specialize in Monet?”
“Galleries,” Jason said. “And no.”
Sam eyed him for a moment and then nodded as though duly noting the correction.
“What makes you think this is the work of a serial killer? What is it you’re not telling us?” Hickok asked.
“Besides everything,” Jason put in.
That sounded more waspish than he’d intended, and it drew another of those thoughtful looks from Sam before he answered.
“This is the third homicide of someone involved in the art world where the unsub has left a painting in the style—general style,” he amended, apparently for Jason’s benefit, “of Monet. A painting which seems to depict the murder.”
“That painting wasn’t just dry, it was cured,” Hickok said. “That means it was painted days ago. Maybe a week ago.”
Jason’s scalp prickled with unease. He asked, “Who were the other victims?”
But he didn’t hear Sam’s answer.
His attention was caught by movement on the other side of the French doors leading onto the room’s private patio. Wind shaking the topiaries? A ghostly hand picking at the folds of a collapsed umbrella? He looked more closely, but it still took a disbelieving second or two to recognize the outline as human. A silhouette. Someone stood on the other side of the glass, watching them.
“What the hell?” Jason brushed past Sam. He reached the French doors, unlocking and throwing them open as the figure on the patio turned, shoving through the wrought-iron gate, which clanged noisily behind him.
Jason drew his weapon. “FBI. Stop right there,” he yelled.
The dark-clad figure did not stop. The gate bounced open with the force of his exit.
Jason followed, pushing through the gate, which clanged loudly again.
The figure sprinted across the terrace, past the blue oblong of the brightly lit pool, heading for the taller fence at the end of the courtyard.
Good luck with that. Did he not realize the pool terrace was a couple of stories up?
Jason called back to Sam and Hickok, who had also drawn their weapons, “He’ll have to try for the elevators. We can cut him off.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. There wasn’t time for discussion. He gave chase. In fact, it was a relief to act, to have something that required his immediate and full attention—and a relief to get away from Sam. Fueled by adrenaline, he hit the terrace running, racing across the bricks about the same time the figure in black realized his miscalculation.
He turned, keeping the lounge chairs and potted palms between himself and Jason as he traveled the length of the stone deck, making for the steps leading down to the elevators.
He—the build was definitely male—was about Jason’s height. Stocky. He wore black jeans, a black hoodie, and a backpack. The amber glow of the heater lamps illuminated glimpses of pale skin and Caucasian features.
“Hold it right there,” Jason ordered, leveling his weapon as he kept pace with the suspect. Unfortunately, you could not shoot someone for spying on you, or fleeing from you, or even appearing on the scene at the very moment you were getting dumped by your sort-of-boyfriend. And anyway, Jason had no desire to shoot if it was at all possible to avoid it.
He also had no desire to be shot. Been there and done that. The suspect did not appear to be armed. He was certainly not brandishing a weapon. That didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying. That didn’t mean at any moment this unsub wouldn’t make a fast and fatal reach.
Stay alert. Stay alive. Like the old training films used to say. Jason’s heart pounded, and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He watched the other’s hands every second.