The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

“Not particularly flexible,” Jason said. “Not for a place like Stripes. They’ve got a decent-sized staff. If someone called in sick, they ought to be able to cover.”

Kennedy nodded thoughtfully. “This is the gallery where the James who phoned Farrell with the news of Kerk’s death works?”

“Correct. James T. Sterling. ‘Stripes’ to his friends. He’s like the CNN of this community. If there’s news, James knows it first. He’s the most trusted name in gossip.”

Kennedy’s mouth twitched. “I see. Well, we certainly must have a chat with Stripes.”

They were blocking the sidewalk on this already busy morning. The tide of people lugging shopping bags, peering at smartphones, slurping coffees and smoothies, dragging tiny, yappy dogs parted around them and rushed on. Jason glanced at his watch and was startled to see that it was already eleven thirty. Where the hell had the last hours gone?

There were still two more galleries on Kerk’s list, including Fletcher-Durrand, which Jason was going to stall visiting as long as possible.

“It’s about an hour’s drive to Baus Wirther & Kimmel,” he said. “You want to head out that way now?” He added unwillingly, “Or do you want to stop for lunch?”

Jason did not want to have lunch with Kennedy. The idea was enough to choke him. The chauffeur gig was bad enough.

Kennedy checked his own watch and shook his head. “No. We should head back. I’ve got a meeting with ADC Ritchie.”

“Right.” There was no hiding his relief.

Kennedy’s glance was wry. He sighed. It was an unexpectedly weary sound. “It looks like I’m going to have to fly up north, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to finish the interviews on your own.”

Jason threw him a disbelieving look. If he wouldn’t mind? Was Kennedy being sarcastic?

Nope. Kennedy seemed perfectly serious.

“Of course,” Jason replied.

“You can send Jonnie your report. CC me.”

“All right.”

It wasn’t until they were once more in the car and heading back toward Wilshire that Jason asked hesitantly, “Are you—will you be—flying back down after your trip north?”

Kennedy had once more returned to checking messages on his phone. He raised his head. His blue eyes met Jason’s, and it was like getting kicked in the chest. He could feel that look in his heart.

He wasn’t imagining it. There was still some link between them. Something crackled as bright and hot as an energy field. Maybe it was nothing more than sexual awareness. But there it was, and it was real.

Kennedy broke the connection. He turned his head to stare out the window. “No.” He sounded…removed, distant. “I don’t think it’ll be necessary. You’ll get me what I need.”

Probably not intended to be a compliment.

Or maybe it was. Who could tell with Kennedy?

“All right,” Jason said. “Er…thanks.”

For a time he was occupied in playing shuffleboard with the buses and delivery trucks and taxis clogging the crowded streets, but inevitably his thoughts circled back to the passenger in the seat beside him.

Given how irate Jason had been at being conscripted into Kennedy’s investigation, it was odd that what he mostly felt now was a sense of letdown, even disappointment, that Kennedy would not be returning.

But wasn’t it normal that his feelings should be confused? The situation was just…so strange. All those months. And when they finally did get together…

Nothing.

Worse than nothing. It was like they had never met. Never made lov— Oh, hell no. Not that. Never had sex. That’s what he meant.

His anger faded, leaving him depressed, disheartened. What the hell had happened to change everything? He just couldn’t understand it. He was baffled.

Yeah. Baffled.