The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

“He didn’t know what he wanted,” Rodell told Jason and Kennedy, once Jason had explained the reason for the visit. “Which is not at all typical of our German clients.”

She was in her twenties, a very thin, milky-skinned woman with severely bobbed hair that had been acid-washed silver gray. Her eyes were also gray—either naturally or thanks to contacts—and the whole effect, down to her sparkly silver fingertips, was gorgeously spectral.

“What day was that?”

Rodell said, “Wednesday.”

“Did he buy anything?” Jason asked.

“No.”

Jason glanced at Kennedy, expecting him to take charge of the interview, but Kennedy was studying the cloud of metal and glass mobiles hanging from the black ceiling. Stars, bees, miniature suns and satellites, winged horses, and ghosts twinkled and glittered in the long room.

Jason turned back to Rodell. “How did Kerk seem? Distracted? Worried? Uneasy?”

“It’s hard to say. I’d never met him before,” Rodell said. “He seemed cool to me. Upbeat. Energized. Like he was having a great time. We talked about his gallery and some of his artists. Maybe doing a house collaboration one of these days. He was interested in how we handle our openings. And everybody loves our gift shop.”

“Did he drop names? Was he interested in any particular artists or works?”

“No. He just…browsed. Like I said, I don’t think he knew what he wanted. Or maybe he just wanted everything. And nothing. The package but not the product? We’re…pretty subversive, you know? Like, his idea of edgy and our idea of edgy would not be the same thing.”

“No?”

“Well,” Rodell said reasonably, “I mean, he was older. Like forty at least.”

“Ah.” Jason made an effort not to look at Kennedy. “Right.”

She shrugged. “He liked what we’re doing. But he wasn’t going to buy anything. I think he was just enjoying the vibe. It’s really sad. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would get murdered.”

“How long did he stay?”

“He was here for about an hour, I’d say. I know he planned on seeing Paul Farrell at 30303.”

“‘Maybe he just wanted everything. And nothing,’” Kennedy murmured, once they were back in the car. His tone was ironic.

Jason’s lip curled. “Yeah. But I know what she meant. Sort of.”

Kennedy smiled at him. “Of course, West. That’s why I wanted you along.” He was teasing Jason, but it was friendly teasing.

Jason smiled obligingly, but his heart wasn’t in it. He found Kennedy’s efforts at friendliness as bewildering as his withdrawal from anything more.

Jason said, “I don’t know if this is relevant or not, but Monet’s work—certainly his iconic Water Lilies—is some of the most overexposed and commercialized out there. Those images turn up on chocolate boxes, bubble bath, puzzles, shopping bags, scarves, T-shirts, posters, notebook covers. I’ve even seen tablecloths and bath mats with them. Could that have any bearing?”

“It’s too early to know what might be relevant or have bearing,” Kennedy said. “Which is why your thoughts, your insights are helpful.”

Jason’s heart dropped. Plummeted, in fact. If Kennedy was being kind to him… It actually made him feel a little sick.

He said nothing, and Kennedy got back to returning phone calls on the ten-minute drive to their next stop.

Paul Farrell at 30303 Art Gallery and Lounge greeted them politely—and curiously—but had nothing useful in the way of information.

In fact, according to Farrell, Kerk had canceled—or, more accurately—rescheduled his appointment.

“For when?” Jason asked.

“For today,” Farrell admitted. “For this afternoon. I couldn’t believe it this morning when I found out he’d been killed over the weekend.” Farrell had a soft, high voice at odds with his size and rough-hewn appearance. His wild and woolly black beard, combined with the flannel shirts and jeans he favored, made him look more like a lumberjack than the owner of a highly successful art gallery.

“How did you find out?” Kennedy asked, showing a sudden interest.