“After last night, that doesn’t reassure me.”
Kennedy continued to eye him in that steady, unimpressed way. Jason drew a sharp breath. “Okay. Yes. There’s a…potential problem.”
Kennedy’s eyes looked gray, almost colorless. “What kind of potential problem?”
“Depending on how bad JC’s Sheriff’s Department wants me for this, there’s physical evidence at the lodge where I was staying. Evidence that might be open to interpretation.”
Kennedy considered him for a moment. “All evidence is open to interpretation. Go on.”
“Sheets in the master bedroom. Shipka and I had sex the night before last.”
Kennedy didn’t move a muscle.
Or did Jason imagine that almost eerie stillness? Because Kennedy’s voice sounded normal enough when, after a moment, he said, “I thought you didn’t know Shipka.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t remember him, anyway. But we’ve been in communication since Monday evening.” He resented feeling like he had to explain or defend his choice to have sex with Shipka. And he really resented that nebulous feeling of guilt. Kennedy had dumped him. He had nothing to explain or feel guilty about.
And maybe Kennedy agreed, because he was immediately back on point. “Right. A sexual relationship certainly presents more possibilities for a fatal feud. Not to mention the fact there’s always a chance gay relationships might be viewed through the homophobic perspective of the rural socio-political mind-set.”
Not that Jason wanted to make Kennedy jealous, but that response seemed to verge on clinical. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.
“Yes. There’s always that.”
“Running out there to destroy physical evidence doesn’t exactly bolster your claim of innocence.”
“I’m not destroying physical evidence. I didn’t have anything to do with Shipka’s death. It’s reasonable that I would go back and retrieve my stuff. And it’s also reasonable that while I’m there I’d clean up, because that’s what I would do in normal circumstances.”
Kennedy stared out the windshield at the ships moving slowly up the St. Lawrence. “You want my opinion? I think the smartest thing for you to do would be to get on a plane to LA ASAP.”
Jason stared. “Wait a minute. You don’t— I’m not— I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I realize that. But your—”
“Do you realize that?” Jason broke in. “Because I didn’t do it, Sam. You can’t think I did. That I-I killed him.” He couldn’t hide his reaction, embarrassing and painful as it was. Hopefully Kennedy would put it down to exhaustion and not hurt that Kennedy could think such a thing of him.
He was exhausted. But also it was the strain and shock of the night before, and yes, the grief. He hadn’t loved Chris Shipka, wasn’t even on a first-name basis with him, but they had connected, they had shared something. There was a reason sex was called “being intimate.” Jason was stricken by what had happened to Shipka. Nobody should die like that. Certainly not a guy like Shipka whose only crime had turned out to be caring too much. Caring about cases everyone else had forgotten, caring about people who just didn’t feel the same. Jason wasn’t crying, but it was close. The struggle to keep his breathing quiet and his face blank was probably as revealing as the expression of emotion would have been. His throat had locked so fiercely that further words were impossible.
He thought Kennedy leaned toward him, but that must have been the sudden blur in his eyes, because when Jason hastily wiped his face on his shoulder, Kennedy was still sitting behind the wheel. Unmoving and probably unmoved. His gaze was as bright and sharp as surgical steel.
“No, Jason. I don’t think you killed him. But your effectiveness here is at an end. And I have to get back to Oregon. I’ve got an injured agent and an investigation to wind up. I can’t run interference for you if the sheriff does decide to haul you in again.”
That was flaying an already open wound. Jason snapped out, “I don’t need you to run interference!”
Kennedy laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “You don’t think so? The sheriff’s department doesn’t have a lot of suspects for the Shipka slaying. In fact, I’m guessing they have exactly one. You. You’re the only person in the entire county who knew Shipka, you had sex with him the night before he died, and you’re the guy who discovered the body. Your alibi is that you were locked up all day in a crypt on a nearby graveyard but, conveniently, were released in time to discover Shipka had been slaughtered. Right there, that’s enough circumstantial evidence for plenty of DAs.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s too ridiculous to be anything other than the truth,” Sam said. “Which doesn’t change the fact that you wouldn’t be the first guilty person to cook up some laughable excuse of an alibi.”
“But it is an alibi, and Barnaby Durrand can confirm it.”
“He can confirm he let you out of the crypt. How would he know how long you were locked up inside? Unless he’s going to admit to locking you in. A halfway competent prosecutor could argue that you killed Shipka and then locked yourself in the crypt in an attempt to concoct some cockamamy defense.”
“Then how would he have known to come back and let me out?”
“Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe it went down exactly as he said. He was out for a walk, and the dog tracked you to the crypt.”
Jason shook his head. He was too tired. The effort to marshal an argument that would stand up against Kennedy’s line of attack was like trying to push a car out of quicksand. Not happening. He said, mo