Chapter Eighteen
Jason had only met Shepherd Durrand once.
The meeting had taken place back in February at the Fletcher-Durrand gallery, and had only lasted about ten minutes. Given that Jason had looked quite different—well, hell, they had both looked quite different—he was pretty sure Durrand didn’t recognize him.
Pretty sure, but not certain, and for a few seconds, his heart pounded as he calculated what, if discovered, his move should be.
Hell, if not discovered, what should his next move be?
Durrand was wanted for questioning in New York, but no warrant had been issued. Partly, that had to do with the wealth and influence of the Durrand family. Partly, it had to do with the fact that criminal charges had yet to be filed. The evidence against Durrand was largely circumstantial, barring the accusations of a confessed murderer looking to cut a deal. Cape Vincent Police had declined to file charges until they could question Durrand. Durrand had managed to avoid questioning, ostensibly on advice of his legal counsel, then later because he’d left the country.
Now he was back. The platinum dye job and Hail Caesar haircut pointed to Durrand’s concern a warrant might be issued once law enforcement realized he had returned to base, but Jason’s case had fallen apart and Durrand’s most serious crimes had occurred in New York.
Jason smiled, shook hands, and following the old adage that the best defense was a good offense, cocked his head and asked, “Have we met?”
Durrand hesitated, admitted, “You do look rather familiar.”
Jason preened. “I do a lot of modeling.”
“I believe that!” Durrand responded with automatic gallantry.
Humphrey watched their exchange with a tolerant smile, but Jason couldn’t help thinking that despite the Uncle Wiggily overtone, there was something hard in his eyes. Granted, after the experience with Georgette Ono, he was probably wary of guests of guests.
The four of them chatted pointlessly for another minute, and then Alex said, “Come meet the others before dinner.” He drew Jason away. “What’s going on?” he asked under his breath as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Shepherd Durrand. How well do you know him?”
“Not well. I know of him. He doesn’t come that often.”
“He’s wanted for questioning in connection with several murders.”
Alex stopped walking. “Shep?”
Jason warned, “Don’t turn around.”
“That can’t be right. Shepherd Durrand? Of Fletcher-Durrand?”
“Crazy, I know. He’s a complete psychopath. Don’t ever let him get you alone. I’m serious. Now, forget about that for a—”
“Forget that? You’re kidding.”
“No. I’m not. I don’t want to spook him. Introduce me to the rest of the gang. When I can, I’m going to slip away to make some phone calls.”
Alex shook his head in disbelief. “Also, you should have warned me ahead of time you planned on using a stage name.”
“I didn’t plan on it.” Jason grinned widely at a short, stolid-looking man in his thirties who seemed to be glaring at them. “Jack Danto, how’re you doing?”
“Kurt Forbes.” Kurt shook hands briefly. He scowled at Alex. “I see how it is.”
Alex’s, “Kurt,” sounded pained.
“Actually, we’re just good friends,” Jason said.
Kurt turned his back on them.
“Oops,” Jack Danto said. Jason grimaced in apology. Alex shook his head.
“What’s the story with Kurt?” Jason asked as they moved away. “Should I ask?”
“We went out a couple of times. End of story. For me. For Kurt, it was the start of something big.”
Jason nodded absently. He felt a little sorry for Kurt. There was nothing more painful than not having your feelings returned. Then he remembered that Sam was actually in Los Angeles, having dinner with his taskforce at this very minute, and that in a few hours they’d be together again.
Aside from the misstep with Kurt, the rest of the cinephile supper club members were perfectly friendly and welcoming. Jason chatted with Steve Dugan about tennis, talked baseball and Shohei Ohtani with an elderly ex-cop named Riley Linnetz, and regretted Bardolf’s absence with acting coach Oliver Salah. He listened to all of them talk movies. New movies. Old movies. Bad movies. Good movies. People talking during movies. Especially people talking on their phones during movies.
He remembered what Alex had said about “something being off,” but as far as he could tell, there was nothing remotely sinister about any of these guys. Not including Durrand and Humphrey.
In fairness, there was nothing overtly sinister about Durrand and Humphrey either. Yes, Durrand was a psychopath, but he didn’t read psychopath. He read charming, wealthy ne’er-do-well. And sure, Durrand and Humphrey kept mostly to themselves, and there seemed to be a lot of whispering going on, but that could just be two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a while. There wasn’t anything Jason could really put his finger on. He was going by instinct.
Instinct told him, yes, something was up with those two. Maybe it had to do with him. Maybe Durrand had recognized him? Maybe Humphrey had heard something through the grapevine? Maybe Alex hadn’t been able to cut Bardolf off in time?
Or maybe they too had good instincts.
When Jason could finally slip away, he headed straight for the lavishly appointed guest bathroom on the first floor. He flipped on the sink taps, phoned Hick’s work number—and got his answering machine.
Seven fifty-five on a Friday evening. Even someone as dedicated as Hickok had to give up and go home sometimes.
Jason scrolled through his contacts. He thought he had Hick’s home phone somewhere, but it didn’t seem to be in his cell phone’s address book. He felt for his wallet and realized, to his irritation, that he’d left it locked in the desk drawer at his office. He tried Hick’s work number again, and this time left a message.
“It’s 7:57 on Friday. On the off-chance you get this, Shepherd Durrand is back in town. He’s currently at Eli Humphrey’s. I’m going to try to contact Cape Vincent PD, but no way are they ready to rumble. The strongest evidence against Durrand is the Kerk homicide. I don’t know if the DA is still hesitant to file charges, but Durrand has changed his appearance, so he thinks charges are pending.”
Maybe, hopefully, Hick would remotely check his messages one last time that evening, but would he be persuaded to act? That was the question.
Jason turned off the water and returned to the patio.
Alex gave him a look of inquiry. Jason shrugged.
After the drinks tray made a second round, the party moved to a vine-covered pavilion on the far side of the pool. Dinner was served on a long rustic table illuminated by bronze lanterns. The meal, which was very good, consisted of spicy corn carbonara paired with zucchini ricotta galette, roasted artichoke salad, and a lot of wine.
The conversation returned to films, and Jason listened absently. Now and then he could feel Durrand looking his way, but he was careful not to return Durrand’s attention. Durrand didn’t seem nervous or uneasy. He seemed to be enjoying every minute of his evening.
After dessert—a decadent concoction of lavender ice cream, palm seeds, sweetened red beans, shaved ice, fresh strawberries, and toasted coconut flakes in a tall glass—they moved as a group to Humphrey’s home theater to watch the 1932 Sherlock Holmes film The Missing Rembrandt.
The film was not quite ninety minutes long and was the second in the Holmes series starring Arthur Wontner as the sleuth of Baker Street. The plot revolved around the theft of a Rembrandt painting by a drug-addict artist, and it was pretty convoluted. Sadly, from Jason’s perspective, it had a lot more to do with blackmail and lost love letters than the recovery of a lost Rembrandt.
About ten minutes into the film, Humphrey and Durrand silently left the theater.
Jason weighed whether to follow. His desire to know what they were up to warred with his fear of alerting Durrand to the fact that law enforcement had noted his return.
After all, there was no reason to suppose Humphrey and Durrand were “up to” anything besides needing a break from dialog like: