This time of month the tide would be surging back in around eleven thirty, so the forensics team would have to move fast.

As Jason drew nearer, he became self-consciously aware of a tall blond figure in a blue windbreaker with gold FBI letters across his wide back.

And he somehow knew—though Sam was not looking his way, was turned away from him—that Sam was aware he was on approach.

How did that work? Extrasexual perception?

Anyway, it made a nice distraction from what was coming. Not that Jason was squeamish, but no one liked homicide scenes. It was the part that came after—the puzzle, the challenge, the race to stop the unsub from striking again—that he liked.

He reached the small circle silently observing the forensic specialists at work. Gil Hickok acknowledged him first.

He said, “Here’s West,” and Sam turned.

Even in the dark, where he was more shadow than flesh and bone, Sam Kennedy made an imposing figure. It was something that went beyond his height or the breadth of his shoulders or that imperious, not-quite-handsome profile. Sheer force of personality. That was probably a lot of it.

Also a lot of aftershave.

“Agent West.” It was strange to hear Sam in person again after all those months of phone calls. His voice was deep and held a suggestion of his Wyoming boyhood. His expression was unreadable in the flickering light, but then Sam’s expression was usually unreadable, day or night.

Jason nodded hello. They might have been meeting for the first time. Well, no, because the first time they’d met, they’d disliked each other at first sight. So compared to that, this was downright cozy.

Hickok took in Jason’s black tie and patent leather kicks, drawling, “You didn’t have to dress up. It’s a casual-wear homicide.”

Hickok—Hick to his friends—was in his late fifties. Portly, genial, and perpetually grizzled. He wore a rumpled raincoat, rain or shine, smelled like pipe tobacco, and collected corny jokes, which he delighted in sharing with bewildered suspects during interrogations. They’d worked together several times over the past year. Jason liked him.

“‘You can never be overdressed or overeducated,’” he quoted.

“Says the overdressed, overeducated guy.” Hick chuckled and shook hands with him.

Sam did not shake hands. Jason met his eyes, but again it was too dark to interpret that gleam. Hopefully there was nothing in his own expression either. He prided himself on his professionalism, and there was no greater test of professionalism than being able to keep your love life out of your work life.

Not that he and Sam were in love. It was hard to define what they were—and getting harder by the minute.

Hickok pointed out the homicide detectives who had caught the case. Diaz and Norquiss were already busy interviewing the clusters of potential witnesses, so Jason really was last to arrive.

“What have we got?” he asked. The real question was what am I doing here? But presumably that would be explained. His gaze went automatically to the victim. The combination of harsh lamplight and deep shade created a chiaroscuro effect around the sprawled figure.

The deceased was about forty. Caucasian. A large man. Not fat, but soft. Doughy. His hair was blond and chin length, his eyes blue and glazing over. His mouth was slack with surprise. The combination of dramatic lighting and that particular expression was reminiscent of some of Goya’s works. People in Goya’s paintings so often wore that same look of shock as horrific events overtook them.

He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt that read I Heart Santa Monica.

Sadly, the sentiment had not been reciprocated. A dark shadow formed an aureole beneath the victim’s head, but it wasn’t a lot of blood. He bore no obvious signs of having been shot or stabbed or strangled or even bludgeoned.

But if it was a simple case of homicide, Sam wouldn’t be here. Though he traveled more than typical BAU chiefs—or agents—even he didn’t turn up at common crime scenes.

“Do you know him?” Sam asked.

“Me?” Jason glanced at him. “No.”

“You’ve never dealt with him in a professional context?”

“I’ve never dealt with him in any context. Who is he?”

Hick said, “Donald Kerk. A German national, according to his passport. He was the art

buyer for Nacht Galerie in Berlin.”

The Nacht Galerie was known for its collection of street culture: paintings by hip young artists on the cusp of real fame, and avant-garde photography. They specialized in light installation and graphic design. Not Jason’s area of expertise.

Tags: Josh Lanyon The Art of Murder Mystery
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