The Monet Murders (The Art of Murder 2)

“Yes. Very.”

“I think I fell in love with it because it looks like Northern California. You’re…an art collector?”

“I can’t afford much of a collection on my salary. I’m with the Art Crime Team.”

“Oh. Right.” Durrand’s smile fell. His brown eyes were earnest. “This situation with the Ontarios and Barnaby is absurd. We’re all sick about it. You have to understand something. The lawyers are telling Barnaby not to speak with law enforcement. It’s not that he’s trying to hide anything. We have every intention of fighting these allegations in court. If it really does come to that. But our lawyers are telling us not to talk, and we pay them good money for that advice.”

“That’s the advice lawyers usually give,” Jason said. “But I can tell you right now that cooperation in the early stages of an investigation can go a long way to smoothing the journey in the final stretch.”

“There isn’t going to be a final stretch.” Durrand looked unexpectedly grim. “You can’t imagine how painful this situation is. Ros and Hank were close friends. They were like family. That they would do this to Barnaby… It’s beyond belief.”

“I’d love to hear your side of it,” Jason said. “If there’s a simple explanation—”

“The explanation is Ros and Hank told us to sell those paintings and authorized us to accept payment in installments.” He hurried to add, “And before you say it, no, there was nothing in writing. No written instructions to liquidate the collection—just as there were no written instructions to take the collection in the first place. We were friends. Then. We didn’t realize a time would come when we’d need a paper trail.”

Jason tried to look suitably sympathetic. “And was an initial payment made to the Ontarios?”

“Yes.” An expression of discomfort fleeted across Durrand’s face. “To the best of my knowledge, yes. But there’s where you do have to talk to Barnaby. That’s all his…realm.”

“I’d like nothing better.” Jason’s smile was quizzical. “Did he really fly back to New York?”

“Yes. He really did. This morning. Our mother isn’t well. Barnaby is her favorite, so he’s usually the one who makes the trip. My sense of humor gets the better of me sometimes. Of course he’s not on the lam. When he gets back to town, he’ll meet with you. The lawyers will be with him, but you’ll have your meeting.”

“Okay. I look forward to that.” Jason rose.

Durrand stood as well. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Agent…? I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your name. I have a horrible memory.”

“West.” Jason clasped the hand Durrand offered. “Actually, there is something. Did you have a meeting with Donald Kerk last week?”

Durrand’s hand tightened instinctively on Jason’s. “God. I can’t believe it. Yes. Or no. Not a meeting. We had dinner Friday night. He’s a friend. Was a friend. I just got the news a few hours ago.” He shook his head.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jason said. “Then Kerk didn’t come to the gallery?”

“Well, yes. He did come to the gallery. But that was on…Wednesday, I think. Tuesday? No, Wednesday.”

“What was the purpose of that visit?”

Durrand’s brows rose. “Er…of course, we are an art gallery, and Don was in the art-buying business.”

“Did he purchase any works?”

“No.” Although the suggestion had been his, Durrand now seemed amused at the very idea. “We’re far too 20th century for Don. Mostly he came by to see the gallery and say hello. The three of us went to lunch afterward.”

“The three of you?”

“Me, Barnaby, and Don. At one time we were quite close. Barnaby— Well, anyway.”

Jason raised his brows in inquiry, but Durrand shook his head. Question mark beside the equation of Don and Barnaby, then.

“Would you say you knew Kerk well?”

Durrand sighed. “As I said, at one time, yes. But people change. We—I—hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years. Ten years is a long time.”

“Sure. How had Kerk changed?”

Durrand gave another of those sighs. “He’s—was—a lot more successful now. I’m not saying he was arrogant, but he wasn’t the shy, reticent boy I used to know.”

Ten years earlier Kerk would have been in his thirties, so he hadn’t been any kind of boy, as far as Jason could tell.