The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)
* * * * *
“…your sisters permission to throw you a party at Capo Restaurant? Because that seems to be the plan for your birthday, and I distinctly remember you saying you didn’t want a fuss this year.”
Jason could hear the cool, patrician tones of his mother’s voice as he let himself in his front door. He set down his carryall, stepped over the pile of mail in front of the door
, and grabbed for the phone.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Jason dear. You’re there. Good. Charlotte said you were out of town again.” Ariadne Harley-West was known for three things: her impeccable breeding, her exquisite sense of style, and her superhuman ability to tune-out that which did not please her. The only time her superpowers had failed her was when she had found herself pregnant at forty-seven, having already raised—and successfully married off—two daughters.
She viewed Jason with slightly bemused, detached affection and had supervised his rearing with scrupulous attention to detail. Jason viewed her in much the same light, and tried to live up to familial expectation as the only son and heir.
“I just got in,” Jason said. “I’m flying out again tomorrow morning. Yes, I did tell Sophie a very small, private party would maybe be okay.”
“Ah.” There was a volume of subtext in that contemplative syllable. “I haven’t been consulted, but ‘small and private’ doesn’t seem to have registered.”
“Great.”
“If you’d like me to have your father put the, er, kibosh on the whole affair—”
“No, that’s okay. If it means that much to them. It’s just a couple of hours.”
“Very well, dear. How was your trip?”
Jason had no idea how to answer that. His mother considered all newspapers “tabloid,” and rarely watched television. Even so, he was a little surprised she hadn’t heard about his recent misadventures, if only because his father and sisters did pay close attention to world events. He had the increasingly concerned voice mails to prove it. But maybe Jason held for questioning in a murder investigation was one of the things his mother preferred to tune-out.
“Interesting,” he answered.
They chatted briefly, which was typical of their conversations. Only when his mother was reminiscing about her father, Emerson Harley, did Jason feel like they really, truly communicated. Ariadne had idolized her father and believed he was the finest role model a boy could have.
“Please remember to be careful, dear,” she said in parting.
“Always,” Jason replied.
He hung up, gathered the mail from the floor and sorted it quickly. Happily, there were no additional communications from Dr. Jeremy Kyser. Everything else could wait. He made a mental note to find Kyser’s previous cards to send Sam, but that could wait too.
He went to the fridge to see if there was anything still edible, and glumly considered a dozen eggs, a carton of half-and-half (soured), and a jar of tapas someone had sent him in a Christmas gift basket.
He was pouring the spoiled half-and-half down the sink when his cell phone rang.
The image of Harry Callahan glaring down his .44 Magnum popped up, and Jason answered. “Hey. I was just thinking about you.”
“I figured. Jonnie tells me you’re afraid we’re going to yank your case out from under you.” Sam sounded resigned.
Jason mentally consigned Jonnie to hell. “No. I know you’re not interested in the fraud, larceny and forgery aspects of my case—which is falling apart anyway.”
“Is it?”
“Yep,” Jason tried to be stoic. “Pretty much. The Durrands are making noises like they’re going to settle with the complainants. I have another victim, but she’s been dragging her feet about actually filing charges, and now she’s not answering my phone calls. Shipka told me there were other victims out there, but he wouldn’t give me his source, so that avenue is also closed. At least for now.”
“I’m sorry.” Sam sounded sincere. “I know you worked your ass off on this one.”
“Yeah, well. I know even solid cases can crumble. And I know that building a case like this can take years, and just because we couldn’t nail Fletcher-Durrand this time doesn’t mean we won’t get them the next.”
Sam said, “That’s all true. It still hurts like hell when you have to shelve a case you’ve put your heart and soul into.”
“Yeah.” Sympathy from Sam somehow made it worse. “Have you heard from Detective O’Neill? He’s not taking my calls.”